Mean Season (17 page)

I felt bad. I wondered if Joshua ever got good mail. I knew he didn't get many phone calls—maybe because his cell phone didn't work in our house—and most were from Judy or Lars. And he never talked about his family. I realized that if I'd been in his shoes, I probably would have wanted to meet new people, too—even if I'd have gone about it differently.

I turned off the light and the computer, and went back upstairs. This time, it was Joshua who couldn't sleep, but I didn't figure that a mug of coleslaw would do the trick. He
was sitting on the long couch, flipping through our five channels, over and over.

“Nothing on?” I asked him.

“Are you kidding?”

The channels continued to cycle by. We got a lot of static channels, too. I hadn't realized just how many empty spaces there were.

“Listen, I saw that article in
People,
” I said. “The one about Elise, where she says—”

“I know the one,” Joshua said.

“You know, you can't let those get you down. They don't know you.”

“I know they don't,” he said. He still hadn't looked at me.

“I've got piles of articles saying what a great actor you are—you've seen them.”

“I know you do.” He just sat there, the channels still cycling by.

“Is it that she's dating Clayton Crawford? He's a good actor, but you're at least that good.”

Joshua finally looked over at me. “What are you doing?” he asked me, his voice sharp.

“Cheering you up,” I said. “Or trying.”

“Don't. I don't need it.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“I'm the one who's stuck here.”

I didn't say anything.

“It's driving me fucking crazy!” he said. I hoped Beau Ray was asleep. “Why doesn't it drive you crazy? How can you be so complacent? How can you just live here, day after day, just live here? How do you not get totally sick of it?”

“I do,” I said. “But at this point—”

“Jesus, who's in charge anyhow? Your mom? That guy Vince who left? Your dad? He's dead.”

“In charge of what?” I asked.

“You.” Joshua spat that out like it should have been obvious.

“I am,” I said, but I could hear that I didn't sound sure.

“Oh, please.”

“I
am.
”

“You do exactly what people expect you to do. You're like the perfect little Nazi. Plod, plod, plod.”

“That's not fair,” I said.

“Oh, right. I'm not fair. The rest of this sorry-ass setup is just fine, but
I'm
not fair. Don't you see
anything?
Go to bed.”

“It's not that simple,” I said. “You don't know.”

“I don't
care.
” His jaw was clenched. So was mine.

“You want to tell me what about me bugs the shit out of you? Because let me tell you, I'm not trying to bug you. This is just the way I am.”

“Whatever you say,” Joshua muttered.

I got up and walked halfway up the stairs, then came back down. “You know—” I started, but he cut me off.

“Go to bed,” Joshua said. “Go to bed, work your little job, get yourself a little local boyfriend to marry and never leave this shithole little town.”

“You think you know everything. You think your way is the only way that's worth anything. You don't know a thing. Elise was right to dump you. Anyone would be better off without you.”

I like to think that he started to say something but couldn't think of a comeback. But I'll never know for sure. I turned back around before he had the chance to speak, and I stomped back up the stairs.

The Truth of It

T
wo days later was another open AA session. Grant Pearson had called to remind me, and since he used to be my teacher, I felt some weird obligation to attend. Joshua and I hadn't spoken since our exchange the night of the barbecue, and we didn't speak on the way to the meeting. We didn't speak during the meeting either, though others got up and told plenty of stories. Homer recounted the same tale as before, but if he were still trying to figure how he knew Joshua, he didn't say.

Near the end, Grant Pearson stood at the microphone. He said that all holidays can be a tough time, that they brought up both family memories and family stress. I thought about Fourth of Julys as a kid with my mother and father and Tommy and Susan and Vince and Beau Ray. We were our own little army. “The Gitlin Gang,” my dad called us. I remembered him buying a huge submarine sandwich, setting it out on the dining room table, and letting all us kids take
a bite at the same time. I remember laughing so hard I sucked lettuce up my nose.

I glanced over at Joshua and saw him roll his eyes and suddenly all my anger was sitting there between us. He thought he knew so much, but he didn't know squat, not about me or my family at least. Not enough to play judge like he'd been playing. Grant Pearson paused for a moment and looked around the room. I felt myself stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Joshua look over at me, but I kept staring ahead. I didn't walk to the microphone, just started talking where I stood.

“My name is Leanne,” I said. I didn't wait for the room to say “hi, Leanne,” like they always did when people introduced themselves. I just barreled into it. “When I was fourteen, a drunk driver killed my father,” I said. I could feel everyone's eyes on me. I kept talking.

“My brother Vince, he'd just gotten his license, so my dad was letting him drive back from a football game Vince had played in over in Charles Town. Vince said that Dad had been telling him how he should…how he should slow down before green lights just a little, you know, in case someone wasn't stopping from the other direction. And he did, Vince did slow down, you know, at that light at Main and Bunting.”

I took a breath. I could feel a choke starting in my voice.

“But then he forgot…he forgot to slow a little before that light by the post office.” I remembered Vince telling me that. “He said there was a song on that he liked, and he just forgot—you know, God, he was only sixteen. What sixteen-year-old boy remembers anything? But there was this guy—he ran the light and he hit the passenger side of our car, where my dad was sitting.”

I heard a woman behind me start to cry, but I kept talking because I knew if I didn't say it all then, I never would.

“We heard later how the guy, he'd been laid off that day. He'd been in a bad mood, so he'd been drinking. And he'd
gotten into a fight with one of his friends, and stormed out, and I guess he just didn't stop storming. I don't know if he saw the red light or not. He never braked. He died, too, like a week later. Vince, he didn't see anything coming. I don't know if Dad did or not. Dad died right away. Before they even got him out of the car. Vince had this big bruise and a cut on his head, but that's all. You know, physically.”

I felt the whole room looking at me. I saw Grant Pearson looking at me. He nodded, like I should feel free to keep going.

“I know accidents happen. They do. That's why it's a cliché—accidents happen—because it's true. And I'm sure the guy, he didn't mean to. He didn't get in his car thinking that he might kill someone, or himself. But that mood of his—that single bad mood of his, it changed my life. It really messed things up and a lot of my plans. You know, why couldn't he just…deal? I mean, I deal. I deal every day.”

I had to wipe my eyes at that point. I thought either I was going to make it through or I'd never make it anywhere. So I had to make it through.

“I came back from a movie with my friend Sandy and there were two police cars in our driveway. And Momma told me my dad was dead. And maybe three months later, Vince was gone, just up and left. I was fourteen. Did I say that already?” I sat back down.

No one said anything for a while. Finally, Grant Pearson cleared his throat, and since he was at the microphone, everyone heard it and turned back to look at him.

“We're a small community,” Mr. Pearson said. “I know that some of you already knew Leanne's story. Some of you knew Tom. And Vince.”

I winced hearing my brother's name. It was easier to speak about him than to hear him be spoken about, especially when it was put in the past tense.

“And for some of you, that was new, and maybe hard to hear.” Someone behind me blew his nose. “But all of you
here deserve our thanks, because you are trying, one step at a time, one day at a time, so that you don't become part of a story like that. God bless and good night.”

With that, the meeting was over.

 

Joshua said nothing as we walked to the car. We got in and as soon as he'd closed the door, he turned to me.

“You must hate me,” he said.

“You didn't kill anyone,” I said. “What you did—it was selfish and careless, but you didn't kill anyone.”

“I could have hurt Beau Ray. And I almost killed a cow,” he said, then he laughed. “I don't mean it like that.” He paused. “I'm really sorry, Leanne.”

“It was a long time back,” I said.

“No. Not that. Not just that,” Joshua said. “I'm sorry I didn't ask before now. Here, I've been living in your house. I should have known. I should have asked.”

I glanced over at him. He looked very serious, and it wasn't an expression I had seen before. I put the key in the ignition.

“I should get you back,” I said. “It's nine-fifteen.” I started the car and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Is that why Vince left?” Joshua asked.

“I think so,” I said. “I think it was leave or else he would have taken his own life, and that would have killed Momma for sure. You know, so in a way, maybe it was better, him leaving. That's just a guess though.”

“Jesus,” Joshua said. “Everyone splits, don't they?”

“In one way or another, yeah. So far.”

“But you stay.”

“So far. Everyone else beat me to the door. Can I ask you something?” I asked. “Speaking of families.”

Joshua nodded. “Here it comes. You want to know about mine,” he said. “Like why haven't I called them in the past month, or why they haven't called me?”

I nodded. “Why not?”

“Which?”

“Either,” I said.

“They never call me,” he said, after a little while thinking. “That's not exactly true. My sister will, every season or so. If she needs something. But I'm sure Lars has taken care of it if she's called in the last few weeks. He usually takes care of it.”

“You don't call them?”

“Nah,” Joshua said, shaking his head. “I used to, more at least. My parents don't approve of my lifestyle. They've never been too interested in anything I've done. They never wanted to see any of my work. You know, I'd invite them, but there'd always be an excuse.”

“They've never seen you act?” I asked.

“No, they've seen me,” Joshua said. “They came to see a play that I was in, in Austin. I think a friend of theirs must have told them about it, because I never would have. It was a stretch—I was playing this gay guy, and I had to kiss one of the other actors. It was a great role, a really great play. Actually, that's the play that got me the audition for
The Young and the Restless.
It was this really strong role. I loved it. Anyway, so my parents came to see it.” Joshua took a breath. He paused for a few seconds, like he was remembering. “My father walked up to me afterward and punched me. In front of everyone. The whole cast. The director. Just clocked me. Said he'd never been so ashamed having a faggot for a son.”

“But didn't you explain—”

“What? Why?”

I didn't know what else to say. I told him that I was sorry.

“Yeah, well,” Joshua said. His composure had returned. “It's their life. But I figured that, with this house arrest thing, now probably isn't the time to make overtures, you know? The last thing I want is for my father to show up here and get to say, ‘see, I always said you were a fuckup.'”

“He wouldn't say that, would he?”

“I don't see why not,” Joshua said.

I pulled the car into the driveway, and we unbuckled our seat belts but neither one of us got out.

Joshua turned to me. “I am sorry, though,” he said. “I mean it. I'm glad that you told me about your dad.”

“I told everyone.”

“That took guts.”

“I was pissed at you,” I said. “That made it easier.”

We sat in the car, neither one of us saying anything. The motion lights had gone on when we pulled up, and a light wind was making the lawn shadows dance.

“I didn't make you steal that limo,” I said.

“Borrow,” he said. “But I know.”

“Do you?” I asked him.

“I do. You didn't. You had nothing to do with it.”

“And I didn't make you come stay here. I know I mentioned the spare room and Judge Weintraub—”

“I know. I know. None of this is your fault.”

“Because you act like you've been blaming me for it. It feels personal.”

He took a deep breath and nodded. “I don't mean—” he said, then stopped.

I waited for him to say more. I knew there must be more.

“You remind me of me, I think it is. And I guess that means Rackett and I so hated Rackett. And this house. The whole small-town thing. It's just so familiar. But that's not your fault.”

I nodded.

“So can I stay?” he asked.

I looked over at him and considered it. The motion lights flicked off and left us in darkness. “For now,” I said. I could make out a smile in the silhouette of his face.

“Are you still pissed at me?” he asked. “You have every right to be.”

“I know,” I said. But I wasn't. “Not at the moment anyway.”

“Thank God. I've got enough people in the yes column.” He paused. “Thanks again for all you've done. And letting me stay. I mean it.”

“Fifty-one more days and you're outta here,” I said.