A Different Kind of Normal (33 page)

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Authors: Cathy Lamb

BOOK: A Different Kind of Normal
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“What?”
He stuck a banana in there, too, and muttered something else.
“Now, Tate. What’s the number?”
“One hundred and twelve kids.”
 
Brooke had to stay in Los Angeles until her face lost the purple/blue/green colors from the bruising, that was a given. I could not have Tate traumatized by her most recent beating, but I told him he could call her at my mom’s house in the Hollywood Hills if he wanted.
After basketball practice, lasagna, and a huge piece of chocolate cake with peppermint ice cream, I said, “Are you sure you want to call her?” I was sickly nervous.
“Yeah, Boss Mom, I am.”
“Okay, son.” It felt like I was pushing my son to the edge of a cliff and we didn’t know if there was a parachute attached to his back.
“She’s my Other Mother. I’ve never talked to her. I want to hear her voice. I want to know something about her that I don’t already know. It’s weird to worry about someone you’ve never met, and I know she doesn’t deserve for me to worry over her but I do. I want to know about her, who she is, so I know more about myself and our whole family. I’ve heard a lot of stories about Faith and Grace, but not a lot about her. It doesn’t make sense, I know, but I can’t get this out of my head.”
“Here’s the number, sweets.” I bent over as my stomach cramped and I envisioned Tate’s toes edging over the side of that cliff.
The clock ticked loud in my kitchen. The kettle whistled next to the tiles painted with red poppies. I was making black tea.
My sister knew that Tate was going to call tonight. I hoped she answered. I hoped she didn’t.
“Hi,” I heard Tate say. “Uh . . . this is Tate.”
I waited for a minute, listening carefully, feeling my stomach sink, my hands sweat, my mind a swirling mass of emotions. I couldn’t tell if Tate was going over the cliff with a parachute or in free fall.
“Oh no. You’re crying, aren’t you?” Tate said into the phone. “I’m sorry! No, okay, I won’t be sorry. . . . I don’t want to make you cry. . . . They’re happy tears? . . . I know you’re sorry . . . I know.... General Noggin and I aren’t mad. . . . General Noggin is my head.... Mom told you that already? We’ve had a cool life.... Yeah, Boss Mom is rockin’. . . . We all make bad choices, Brooke. Is that okay to call you Brooke? . . . You’ve always loved me? You have?”
I drank my tea, then ate four red cinnamon Gummi Bears. Only in the future would I know if Tate had that parachute on.
15
T
ate’s team played Sunrise, our school’s closest rival, on Friday night. They were a good team, but there was one kid on the team, TJ Hooks, who was a beast. I knew TJ Hooks because I knew his father.
Martin Hooks and I were the same year in high school. He was madly obsessed with Brooke. She turned him down, she was not attracted to beefy football players who weren’t that bright and had faces scrunched up like warthogs, but he would not take no for an answer. My mother had to call the police so he would quit pestering her.
About a year later, Martin moved on to me, asking me out, calling. I refused. Again, my mother had to call the police on him because he would not quit driving by our house, coming to our door, and calling. I do not say this lightly, but the man truly does have a violent personality disorder. There is something insidious, something truly off about him.
Martin Hooks was currently a “businessman” who owned a gun shop in the city, and we all hated him. He had been married to TJ’s mother, Joyce, for five years, but she left him and took custody of TJ, partly because Martin threatened her with a gun.
It turned out that Joyce Hooks, who had been a meek, homely, and intensely shy mouse of a woman when she first married Martin, was having an affair. It is the only time I have heard of someone having an affair and
no one
blamed the spouse for cheating.
“I would cheat if I was married to him, too,” Caden said. “I want him to hit me one day, then I could put him in a headlock until he begged for breath.”
“I wouldn’t cheat. I’d poison him,” my mother said. “Use the secret family combo of death-killing herbs and set that dog right down.”
The man Joyce was having an affair with was a rather nerdy, but kind, college professor. Joyce had gone back to school. As soon as the class term ended, her English professor and she started meeting for coffee, then lunch, and fell in love over gourmet pizza. He told her one month into it to leave Martin or lose him, Mr. Professor.
Joyce made the right choice. She told me later it took less than one second. She went home after the pizza, packed up, took half their savings, left, rented an apartment, and started a new life.
Martin, however, had a fit. It was ugly. It was public. He rammed his car into the professor’s. He started stalking both the professor and Joyce. He went to Joyce’s classes at the college and sat in back of her, kicking her chair, until she called campus security and they took care of that right quick.
He parked in front of the professor’s house and repeatedly tried to get Joyce to come out and talk to him, yelling, “You cheating scum whore!” until the police came. He attacked the professor once, swinging a huge fist at him, but the rather thin, nerdy professor had a black belt in karate and was also a marathon runner, and Martin ended up beat to crap and left prone and groaning on the sidewalk.
Martin had vowed to get Joyce back, “that cunt.” He had been absolutely stunned when she’d left him, “that whore.” I knew because he’d called here looking for her as Joyce and I are friends. “You tell that bitch to get her ass back home before I—”
“Shut up, Martin,” I said.
“What?”
“Shut up. I’m not going to tell Joyce anything except, ‘Why didn’t you leave him sooner?’ ”
“What?”
“Quit harassing her. She’s in love with someone else and doesn’t want to be with you.”
“In love?” he sputtered. “What do you mean?”
As if “in love” was a foreign concept. “As in, she’s not in love with you.”
“Yes, she is!”
“Why do you think that? What on earth did you do to keep your wife in love with you?”
“I . . . I . . .” he blustered. “I bought the house.”
“You
both
bought the house. She put down half.”
“I worked!”
“She did, too, and all you did was make her life miserable. Leave Joyce alone. She finally has her brains growing straight in her head and took off. Good-bye, Martin.”
“You bitch, Jaden—”
I hung up.
There was no love lost between Martin and me. He was a tall, overweight white guy who resembled a sausage with shark eyes. He had a bulging stomach.
His son, TJ, was tall and lean, and overwhelmed by his father, who always stood on the sidelines of any game TJ was playing in. Martin would open his foul mouth, a gaping garbage disposal, and didn’t shut up ’til the bell rang. He would be verbally abusive to the coaches and referees, too, and was often banned from games.
Martin Hooks is the type of arrogant, blind parent who believes, erroneously, that his son is bound for college basketball greatness. The truth is, TJ is a solid player, one of the top three scorers for his team, which, on a team of twelve, in a small town, isn’t saying a ton. He is nowhere near strong enough for a college scholarship, but his father is delusional enough to think that he is.
The whistles blew the night of our game against Sunrise, the ref lowered the ball, then tossed it up for the tip-off. I could already hear Martin Hooks screaming, “Get in there, TJ, come on, move it, move your butt!”
The tip-off went straight to Tate.
“For God’s sake, TJ!” Martin’s voice zinged around that gym. “Don’t let the Mongloid get it.”
I exchanged a searing glance with my mother. Her eyelids lowered in disdain.
Martin shot me a dirty, victorious look across the gym as in,
I’ll call your son whatever I want and you can’t stop me.
“I believe I’m going to beat the shit out of Martin,” Caden told me, matter-of-factly. “It’ll be after the game. You’ll have to keep Damini and the triplets with you. Don’t lose Harvey. He’s dressed as an explorer tonight and he might wander off and you know Hazel always follows him. I’m going to lead a cheer now.”
“Ohh! Can I watch the pummeling?” My mother clapped her hands. “I love a fist-punching fight. Will there be squirting blood? Mangled bones?”
“It will depend on my mood, Mom, and what Martin says to me, but you can watch if Jaden agrees to watch the kids.”
“I’m going with you, Daddy!” Damini said. “I’m not gonna miss this.”
“Ha ha! Jaden, you babysit! I’m going to the match!” My mother tapped my knee. “I will relish the moment and tell you all about it later so you can live it vicariously.”
“But I want to see the pummeling—”
“Too bad! I’m older, I’m first. And”—she poked a finger in the air—“I’ll have to protect Caden if he gets hurt.”
It was so ludicrous to think of Martin hurting Caden it set off a giggle stint.
I will, again, not do a play-by-play of the game, but suffice it to say that Tate had four three-pointers right off the top. TJ Hooks was guarding Tate, and I could see his increasing frustration.
In a quieter moment I heard Martin shout, “It’s called defense, TJ. You know what that is, right? Block the retard.... The space alien kid gets another basket? Hell, TJ, you can’t do better? Are you even alive out there?”
“I think I will go after Martin myself,” I said. “Then Caden can finish the job.”
My mother cackled, then said, “Ohhh! I’ll watch that, too. Caden babysits first while I watch you, then you babysit while I watch Caden!”
Martin peered with his beady eyes at my mother and me at that moment and tipped his mouth up at the corners in a creepy smirk. I did not hide the disgust on my face. My mother didn’t, either. She flipped him off with both hands. She does not worry about someone taking photos of her and posting them on YouTube. She is too cool for that and too entrenched in Hollywood. Plus, many people in Tillamina grew up with her, they knew her parents and grandparents, they do not ever gush over her, and they proudly protect her privacy.
“First, though,” my mother drawled, bringing her hands down, “I will finish my spell against Martin, the man who chased Brooke, who resembles boar’s slobber.” She wiggled her fingers. I put my hand over her hands. I don’t believe in spells, but still.
She moved her hands from under mine, I grabbed them again, she moved, I grabbed. Honestly, we probably looked ridiculous. I’m trying to hold my mother’s hands and she’s pulling them away. I stopped when Caden yelled, “Stand up for the stomp cheer, folks!”
This one involved all of us parents standing up. We chanted, “Bobcats, bobcats, snarl and bite, don’t give in, we’ll fight fight fight!”
When we said “snarl,” we were supposed to make scary faces. When we said “bite,” we snapped our hands together. We fisted our hands in the air and stomped when we said, “Fight fight fight.” At the end we yelled, “Bobcats!”
The triplets love that cheer. Damini added an extra hiss at the end.
My mother ripped her hands away from mine for about ten seconds. Ten. That was all it took. She touched the cross, heart, and star charms on her necklace as I made an “I can’t believe this” sound in my throat.
I glanced over at Martin Hooks as my mother whispered a chant about stomach death. Within seconds, his mouth was shut and he was gripping that bulging stomach like he was holding a baby.
She wriggled those long fingers again. Martin bent over, then tried to straighten.
She giggled and said, “Hello, diarrhea!”
“He is diarrhea,” Damini said. “Yuck.”
I knew my mother did not cause his pain with her spell. The man was huge. He probably had a thousand farts wrapped up in that stomach, all dying to get out.
Martin tried to stand again. No go.
She giggled again. “Such power! I wish you were a spell believer, honey.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I’m a spell believer, Nana!” Damini said. “We’re witches.”
Martin remained leaning half over, his garbage disposal mouth finally shut and not insulting TJ.
Meanwhile TJ was sticking to Tate like glue, and Tate the same to TJ, but Tate’s defense was better. TJ could hardly shoot and he made few baskets. TJ was called for a technical for language and unsportsmanlike conduct against Tate. Tate shot the ball on the fouls and made the points.
Martin straightened up for a second and lambasted his son. “Get that creature! What the hell’s wrong with you! Wake up!” A second later he hobbled off the bleachers and into the hallway.
“I love that spell.” My mother sighed. “I am sooo good. I had a petticoats-on-fire problem, and I solved it.”
“You did the freeing-of-the-bowel spell, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. Freeing of the bowels is a specialty of mine, you know that.”
“You know I don’t believe in your spells of any sort.”
“I know, darling. But he won’t be back for a while, and that’s what’s important.”
Martin Hooks wasn’t back to see his son foul Tate a second and third time, but he was back to see the fourth foul.
“Are you a loser, TJ?” Martin roared at his
own son.
“You can’t even win against this stupid team?”
Tate caught a pass with one hand, dribbled outside of the three-point line, turned, and shot. TJ rushed him, and Tate was knocked to the ground. The ball zipped through the net, three-pointer. I inhaled, sharp and tight, but Tate scrambled right back up.
“Nice going, TJ!” his dad hollered, but this time Martin meant it as a compliment, as in, excellent work bashing that kid. He grinned, maniacally, up at us. Caden spread his arms out wide and yelled, “You’re still a dick, Martin.”
Martin’s face fell. There was no way he would challenge Caden. Caden would have him squirming on the ground like a pig.
Tate was called to the foul line, where he made three shots in a row.
We won by nineteen. Nineteen points. We had never beat Sunrise as far back as I could remember.
The win sent our crowd into delirium, and when the final whistle blew, kids jumped off the bleachers onto the floor. The triplets and Damini followed them down. Tate’s glorious smile told me all I needed to know.
He was safe. He was happy.
I was grateful.
My mother tapped me on the back. “Now do you believe in my spells?”
“Oh, Mom.”
“Once a witch, always a witch.” She kissed my cheek. “Let’s you, Caden, Tate, Damini, the triplets, and I go and have some wine after the pummeling.”
“The kids can’t drink wine, Mom.”
“Darn it. You’re right. I’ll make them White Russians. There’s cream in there, right?”
 
Later that night, in the parking lot, TJ Hooks leaned out the window of his team bus and yelled at Tate, “Hey, deformed, two-headed fuck, next time I will cream you into the ground and you will be a bowl of oatmeal with crooked eyes, which is what your face looks like.”
To which Tate smiled, amidst all his victorious teammates, and said, “I love oatmeal! Apple cinnamon is my favorite, followed by brown sugar, third favorite is plain. You know, nothing special. Hey—you would relate to nothing special, TJ.”

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