Tiger, Tiger (24 page)
I felt like saying that Peter always walked us home, but I thought better of it. I knew I had better just go along. Still, less time with Peter combined with the thought of having to listen to Poppa’s dinnertime rages made me feel sick inside. He saw my head drooping and lifted my chin.
“Your skin . . . I think I see a pimple starting on your left cheek. I can get the loupe . . .”
“No. I mean, no thanks. I feel really tired right now.”
He nodded and I started to walk away. I sensed him staring and I turned around. He looked at me with an odd expression.
“You are getting taller. I just noticed that right now.” He quickly turned away.
“He’s in there and he’s got guns!”
My mother wasn’t just saying this. She was standing in the middle of the street across from the beige-and-red house, shouting it.
“Mommy,” I said. “He’s not home from work yet. He’s not in there. Let’s just go back to Peter’s. If we run, maybe we can even catch up with him and Paws. Let’s go back.”
“He wants us home, remember? Home for dinner. So he can scream and bitch and complain about my sister and the dishes and how I’m a sick woman and how he’s so
burdened
. I know that man is in there. He calls me
that woman
! Well, I call him
that man
! That man! That man! That man!”
“Poppa’s not in there, Mommy,” I said. “It’s dark in the house. He’s at the bar.”
She ignored me. Her face was all lit up, as though she were having a religious experience. She started to shout again and I pushed all my long hair in front of my face to hide who I was. In Union City, whenever there was a fight, a fire, or some other unusual occurrence, an audience gathered. Elderly women with rouged cheeks, mothers with baby carriages, old Cuban men in hats, teenage boys in do-rags and chain-link necklaces wearing Nike and Adidas windbreakers, now they were all looking at us.
“Everybody listen! My husband is crazy! He has guns! He’s going to kill me! He’s a drunk! He’s hiding in there; he doesn’t want to be seen! He’s in there with his guns! If we go in there, he’ll kill us!” My mother’s voice seemed like it was coming from a loudspeaker overhead and the people kept collecting the way Canada geese meet in the sky, forming their ominous V. “Someone, call the police!” my mother yelled. Nobody moved. Her face looked like a coal that burned so brightly it had turned into a chunk of white ash. “Somebody help us! My daughter can testify. She’s right here! Tell these people, Margaux! Tell them what your father’s like! Tell them he has guns!”
All the neighborhood dogs began to bark at once. They howled behind fences and gates; they moaned inside cages at vets and animal shelters; they wailed in doghouses all over Union City, Weehawken, North Bergen, and West New York. Usually, they could only hear one another, this network of dogs that started way back in the single-digit streets and traveled all the way to Ninetieth Street, but now I could hear them, barking in unison. I started to run.
“Margaux, Margaux, come back!”
I felt freedom blooming in my limbs; I was running faster than anyone’s eyes could follow. I sped past Heaven on Earth Flowers, past St. Augustine’s Church, past the Chinese restaurant and the video store. Yes, I was fast. Almost there. Almost to Weehawken. To Peter’s house. Up ahead, the police station came into view. I thought of stopping there, telling them about my mother. No, Peter didn’t like police. Neither did I.
I crossed the street, walking past the bushes that grew poisonous ground cherries. I felt a pain in my side and a burn in my throat. The slower I walked, the more lost I felt; it seemed that as long as I was running I knew where I was going. But now that I had slowed, everything looked unfamiliar and I wasn’t sure if I was in Weehawken or Union City. I couldn’t figure out where Peter’s house was.
It was garbage night and black Hefty bags sat in front of all the houses. I kept feeling like I was passing the same set of three bags, shiny and tied at their tops like sausages. After a while, I realized I was circling the same block over and over again. I decided to find a pay phone. I didn’t have a quarter, so I called Peter collect and described my general whereabouts. Then I curled up on the hood of a car and waited.
I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to Peter’s arms rousing me. The bike was making its usual crackling and spitting noises, heat lifting from its engine. Peter draped one of Inès’s multicolored shawls over my shoulders.
“Hug it around your coat,” he said. “It’s always chillier on the bike.”
Then he put my own silver helmet on my head, clasped the lock under my chin. In our helmets I felt like we were astronauts.
“Do you think you can ride okay?” Peter asked. I nodded. “Hop on,” he said, which he always did when I got on the bike, and “Don’t go to sleep. Sing to me if you have to. Stay awake, okay?”
On Peter’s red velvet couch, I sipped Lipton tea that Inès had made for me. Paws snuggled at my feet. Peter kept talking, and at some points I understood what he was saying, but at other times he was like a TV newscast in the background that only occasionally filtered in. He’d said something about calling my house several times, and that there was no answer. He kept getting up and calling. I knew that I should be worrying about my mother right now—I should be afraid, but I’d long learned how worthless my fears were: I could never change anything.
I must have dozed off again, on the carpet next to the couch, because the next thing I knew Poppa was there. He frowned when he saw me lying with Paws, and even though he didn’t say anything, I sat up. Poppa was in a green shirt with a black tie and brown trousers.
I had a strange impulse to run into his arms, but I was afraid he would push me away. I stood up anyway, started moving toward him, then stopped and sat back down on the red velvet couch. “Would you like to sit?” Peter asked Poppa, motioning to the couch, but Poppa shook his head.
“No, no, it’s okay. I prefer to stand.” Of course he didn’t want to sit, knowing Peter got his furniture from yard sales and garbage nights. I had never expected to see Poppa in this house, and I couldn’t get over the shock of it.
“K-Keesy, your mother fainted on the street. She was looking for you. She fell; she is okay. They took her to the hospital. The people were standing around. They took her on a stretcher. She did not get hurt, so do not worry. I will tell you something, though: it was humiliating.”
“Poppa, I shouldn’t have left her. I know I was supposed to be watching her. But she was screaming in the street and there was a crowd watching.”
“I understand,” Poppa said, nodding. “Come, let’s go. Come, Keesy.” Peter led us out of the living room and to the front door, past the piano with its broken keys, past the parakeets and finches that sat on perches or fluttered around in short bursts of movement. They were twittering, and Poppa stopped to glance at them.
“What beautiful things. But no cage?”
“Well, their wings are clipped.”
“Oh! No wonder . . . Personally, I never believed in clipping the wings of birds or taking the claws from cats. I suppose I feel it is an indignity. However, maybe it is more of an indignity to be in a cage.”
“I think so,” said Peter, opening the door for Poppa and me. Poppa put his hand out; Peter took it. “I must thank you for taking my daughter off the street. My worst fears could have happened tonight: she could have been hit by a car or kidnapped by a psychopath. Her mother has no common sense. She stands in the street, yelling. Anyone would have run rather than be at the mercy of that crowd!”
“She feels guilty for leaving her mother,” Peter said, nodding. “But it’s not her fault.”
Poppa nodded, then said, “Has she ever talked about me? To you or to your . . . To Inès?” He raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t pay attention when she gets going on something. I know she’s mentally ill,” said Peter, lighting a cigarette. “What exactly is her diagnosis?”
“One doctor said schizophrenia, another bipolar, another said something about a borderline personality. Who knows? This Gurney, her psychiatrist, he writes ‘schizophrenia’ when he submits the claims to Medicare. But we don’t know for sure. We never know anything. We live our whole lives that way. We spend our lives speculating on the causes of things. It is always an empty pursuit, right? It is like the question of mercy. Is there such a thing? I thought I was being
merciful
by sparing her from that hospital. By sparing the child. In reality, I was doing the opposite of whatever mercy is.” He turned away and started down the stairs with me.
P
oppa took a few days off from work right after Mommy’s nervous breakdown. During that time, I managed to convince him not to drop me off at Rosa’s. “For one thing, I’m too old for a babysitter,” I said. We were in the kitchen; he was stirring rice in a pot. He’d been in a good mood ever since my mother had gone to the hospital. “And you’d be wasting your money. All Rosa does is leave me in front of the TV. But she doesn’t even let me watch anything. I sit around while her son plays video games. It’s so boring.”
Poppa rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What do you do at the other house?” By the other house, I knew he meant Peter’s.
“Lots of things. Roller-skating. Walking the dog.” I paused, and then started to lie. “During the summer, I helped Inès with the garden. We grew vegetables and sunflowers. In the fall, our zinnias bloomed; they only grow in autumn.” I’d just made up a season for the zinnias to blossom, not knowing when they actually did. Poppa seemed impressed. “Also, Inès let me use her typewriter to type up some stories I wrote and she helped me study for my history test since she knows a lot about the Civil War. And once we made stained glass animals with a kit.” As I said these things, I found myself wishing they were true. Though I mostly disliked Inès, there
was
something in me that was fascinated by her medieval-looking dresses, her books about casting Wicca spells, and the way she was always reading, writing in her diary, or clicking away at the keys of her old-fashioned black typewriter.
“She is nice,” Poppa said, nodding. “An intelligent woman. She knows history so well she could be on
Jeopardy
.” Poppa smiled. “We had a conversation in the kitchen while you were sleeping. I cannot figure out why she is with that Peter. He hardly contributed anything to the conversation! I am not sure why she keeps him around, except to work as a groundskeeper.” He smiled again, and turned off the flame. “I pity that man for many reasons. He looked so much older than he did just a few years ago!” He scooped rice, chicken, red bell peppers, and okra onto my plate. Then he served himself and sat down to eat.
“Well,” he said. “She probably needed a stable person to help with those two boys. I cannot say that he is not nice. Your mother was right about that. He goes out of his way to help people. It is a rare thing.” He chewed thoughtfully. “While I was talking to Inès she told me many things I didn’t know about this city. Its history. Do you know there are barely any elm trees in this town, almost none? Well, they all died of Dutch elm disease. I didn’t know that. Pathmark used to be a reservoir. During World War One, American soldiers made an encampment by the reservoir to protect themselves from terrorist attacks.”
He went on, “That woman is too intelligent to be stuck with someone who is so, so . . .
childish
. Does he not have a strange fixation with Christmas ornaments? Your mother mentioned that as though it was a good thing. As though being stuck in one season is not detrimental to a person’s well-being.” He shook his head. “And then he has that motorcycle! As though he is a teenager! I would have wanted a motorcycle when I was eighteen, but not now.” Poppa played with the rim of his beer bottle. “A few weeks ago, your mother said that Inès had told her Peter is unable to relate to her
as a man
. His troubles are most likely connected to that back injury he has. I feel sorry for people like that, because they are somehow reduced. No wonder he needs that motorcycle.”
Poppa paused, and when he looked at me, his expression was sheepish. “For a split second, I almost forgot who I was talking to—a little girl. A babe in the woods!”
“I’m not a child anymore, Poppa.”
He made a dismissive hand gesture. “Anyway, with those two, it is a relationship
of convenience
, I can say that much. As all relationships are. Convenience.” He laughed and drank his beer. “Except with your mother. With your mother, it is what I call a relationship of inconvenience! I am so saddled with duties and responsibilities. If I could have looked into the future as a young man, I would have moved to a mountain. I would have rather lived with the billy goats on some rocky slope. At least they would ask nothing of me!”
As Poppa talked, I made sure to eat everything on my plate, even the red bell peppers, which I didn’t like. I wanted to make sure his good mood held.
“Things are not simple, not now. Everything is a complication! I don’t even have a car anymore. I have to go back and forth to that hospital and I don’t even have a car.”
“What about the Chevy, Poppa?”
“I sold that car three months ago!” Poppa said, laughing, but then he stopped abruptly and looked into his bottle with a low smile that I couldn’t interpret. “You did not even know that.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“When can I tell you? You are never here!” He looked directly at me. I looked away. “Anyway, when my car was towed I reached my breaking point. It cost me a hundred dollars. And for what? Parking with my bumper about an inch, or two inches, maybe three inches, about this much”—he indicated the distance with his hands—“about this much my bumper was sticking into a handicapped space. You know that woman down the street who has that Cadillac? That silver Cadillac? Well, she owns the handicapped space. Not because she is handicapped but because she knows people in City Hall. I’ve seen her at the nightclubs, dancing. There is nothing wrong with that woman. Those handicapped spaces are cropping up everywhere because everybody knows somebody. And they are almost twice the length of the car they are made for!” He shook his head. “Get me another beer, Keesy.”
