A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (69 page)

then afterward she would sigh, breathing heavily and say Oh that
’
s funny. God, that
’
s funny. That
’
s what she would say, and she would say something like that as the church walls disappeared and the nave evaporated and the angels flew faster, elliptically around her and we would all be feeling vibrations from it all, or they were all inside us, too, moving elliptically, or through our blood and there would be music, ELO maybe,
Xanadu
maybe, did she really like it or just tolerate it for our sake? She would hum along a little, move her fingers back and forth a bit and Oh we would have such a time! Then she would have to go. She would have to leave but not before saying goodbye,
See yoooo!
she would say, raising the last part, a high note, faux formality, and then turning from us to touch the small golden cheek of that golden, broken, and crucified Jesus, suspended in the air—the nave gone but it still floating, the golden thing, she would touch it gently with the back of her tanned, ringed hand, that lucky bastard, and then she would be gone, and we would all collapse right there, in the opened church, and sleep for weeks and weeks, dreaming of her. Oh it would be something, something fitting, proportionate, appropriate, gorgeous and lasting.

I stand up and walk to the podium—it was a hundred steps that day but now only two. Then I had a piece of paper, I had brought it, the one from under the couch—I had tried to recopy it onto a better sheet of paper then ran out of time—and I put the piece of paper on the podium and looked up and over the—

Where were the people? It was not a crowd. It was a scattered thing, a few here, a few there. Everyone loved her; where were they? Everyone of course knew and loved my mother, everyone, but where were they? This could not be, would not do, a life and then this, this forty people. Where
’
s the woman who cut her hair— Laura? Was she there? Is she here? All the volleyball women? Did they come? There
’
s one, Candy, but— Where is her family? Where are her sisters? There is only Uncle Dan, who has come, he says,
“
to represent the family.
”
And the cousins? Her friends?

There are some here, but my God there were so many more! This is the crowd that was at my
father
’
s.
It should not be the same crowd, the same number! They were not the same, these two lives. Where are the people from town? Where are the parents of her former students? Where are my friends? Where are the world
’
s people to honor her passing? Was it too gruesome? Are we too vulgar? What is happening? All she put in, all she gave for you people, she gave everything for you people and this is— She fought for so long for all you people, she fought every day, she fought everything, fought for every breath until the last, sucking everything she could out of the air in that brown living room, gasped again and again, it was unbelievable, yes, she grabbed at the air, grabbed for us and for you, and where are you?

Where are you motherfucking assholes?

XI.

Black Sands Beach is only ten minutes from San Francisco. It depends where you leave from, of course, but from anywhere near the Golden Gate Bridge, it
’
s ten minutes, maybe fifteen, which is weird, considering how raw and remote-seeming the place is, exotic even, its sand actually black, about five hundred yards of it, from one bracketing cliffrock to the other.

On the bridge, Toph is making cow sounds at the people walking, because it brings us both to tears. He is leaning out his window mooing.

“
Mooo.
”

He has the window all the way down.

“
Mooooooo.
”

The tourists are not hearing, it doesn
’
t seem, because the wind coming over the bridge from the Pacific is wicked and relentless, as it always is, and the tourists, couples and families, all under-dressed in T-shirts and shorts, are being abused by the gusts, are barely staying upright.

“
Moooooooooo.
”

Toph
’
s not even trying to make it sound cowlike. He
’
s just
saying the word—it
’
s just a person saying Moo. He does a few where he kind of barks it, angry-like, but in monotone.

“
Moo! Moo!
”

It
’
s hard to convey why this is funny. Maybe this isn
’
t funny, but we
’
re dying. I can barely see; it
’
s killing us. I try to drive straight, wiping my eyes. Wispy clouds hurtle over us, cotton pulled apart by children. For the last group of tourists, he does a little stutter thing with the mooing.

“
I say, I say, I say,
”
he says,
“
I say, I say, I say
”
—he pauses for a second, then does a quick
“
Uuuh,
”
then:

“
Moooooooooooooo.
”

The bridge ends, the torn-cotton clouds breaking up immediately, then it
’
s clear, Easter blue, and we
’
re on 101, but just for a second—two exits and then we get off at Alexander, then come back under 101 and up the Headlands drive. As we climb with the road, right away above the Golden Gate, the clouds are suddenly below us, rolling through the bridge, fleece pulled through a harp.

We did not go to the test. An hour ago we skipped the city
’
s mandatory high school test, the one Toph had to take if he sought admission to Lowell, San Francisco
’
s vaunted public high school. A week ago we had gone to the school administration building, a white colossus on Van Ness, to sign him up.

“
I know we
’
re late but we
’
re hoping to sign up for the test.
”

“
Who are you?
”
said the woman behind the counter.

“
I
’
m his brother. His guardian.
”

“
You have guardianship papers?
”

“
Guardianship papers?
”

“
Yes, something proving you
’
re his guardian.
”

“
No. I never got any papers.
”

They needed something.

“
Like what?
”

“
Like guardianship papers.
”

“
There
’
s no such thing as guardianship papers.
”

I was guessing.

The woman sighed.

“
Well, how do we know you
’
re his guardian?
”

I tried to explain, but had nowhere to start.

“
I just am. How can I prove this?
”

“
Do you have a will?
”

“
What?
”

“
A will.
”

“
A will?
”

“
Yes, a will.
”

“
Oh Jesus. This is incredible.
”

I thought of the will. Beth had the will.

“
The will doesn
’
t stipulate anything.
”
I lied again. The problem with the will was that in the will, I wasn
’
t even listed as the guardian; Beth was. It was a technicality, something we had all decided on that winter; Beth and Bill would be the executors, be listed officially, and I wouldn
’
t have to be involved in the money, the paperwork. This had come up before, the guardianship thing, the proof—
where is the proof?
—and always I had been afraid of being found out. All this time,
a fraud!

“
Well, without guardianship papers, or a will, we can
’
t do anything.
”

I had brought all his school records, school notices to parents, letters proving our residency, both of our names above the address.
We are a team. We have been a couple for years
— The woman was unimpressed.

“
Why would I lie about this?
”

“
Listen, a lot of people from out of town want their kids to go to Lowell.
”

“
Are you kidding me? I
’
d come down here and pretend my parents were dead to get him signed up for a goddamn test?
”

Another sigh.

“
Listen,
”
she said,
“
how do we know they
’
re even dead?
”

“
Oh God. Because I
’
m standing here saying so.
”

“
Do you have death certificates?
”

“
This is disgusting,
”
I said.
“
No,
”
I said, another lie.
¹
“
Any notices, obituaries?
”

“
You want me to bring you an obituary?
”

“
Yeah, that would work. I think. Wait a second.
”
She turned and conferred with a man behind a desk. She turned back to us.

“
Yeah, that would work. Bring an obituary.
”

“
But I won
’
t have time...
”

“
For both of them.
”

Always proving this! Always reminded, never more than a few words into conversations, arguments, this fucking story— that
’
s why I lie, make things up, why at this point, when making appointments with the dentist, whoever, I just call him
“
my son,
”
as cruel as it feels coming out—

I called Beth from a pay phone. We only had twenty minutes until the office closed. Beth drove down with both the obituaries, little paragraphs about each of our parents in the
Lake Forester
, and the will, with two minutes to spare. And we placed them on the counter, on top of Toph
’
s birth certificate.

And now, a week later, on the day of the test, as hundreds of kids are scribbling graphite into meaningless ovals, we
’
re driving through the Headlands, on the way to the beach. It was only a few seconds ago that we actually realized that we were missing
it
—

“
Oh Jesus,
”
I said.

“
What?
”
he said.

“
The test!
”

He put his hand over his mouth, expecting me to turn the car around, scramble like we always scramble, think of excuses; he was so used to it by now, the rushing, me banging the steering wheel in traffic, swearing at the windshield, the knocking on windows when doors were locked, the exceptions begged—

“
Forget it,
”
I said.
“
Doesn
’
t matter now.
”

It doesn
’
t.

We
’
re leaving.

Two days ago we decided that we
’
re not staying in San Francisco, and so we won
’
t be applying to Lowell, won
’
t be needing that school, anything here, because we
’
re leaving the city, leaving the state, in August will get up and fly out of California and will go back—actually, farther, over Chicago and to New York. We
’
re leaving again, amid all the tongue-clicking and head-shaking, we have to leave even though we
’
ll see a little less of Bill and Beth, we
’
ll move again—

“
I think it
’
s good to move around, see stuff, not get stuck,
”
Toph says, and I love him for saying that. He knew I needed him to say something like that, and there isn
’
t a chance in the world I
’
ll ask him if he means it.