My Mother Got Married (8 page)

A bad day? Was that the understatement of the year or what?

I rolled my eyes. “Losing your favorite pencil is a bad day, Mother,” I interrupted. “Puking in a trash can is just a little more serious.”

My mother knows when she’s licked. She didn’t bother making any more excuses. Instead, she just sat there quietly while I ate my soup.

Ben and Lydia called her. She shouted, “Be there in a minute!” but she didn’t go right away.

For a little while, it was just her and me.

(eight)

I

SPENT the weekend at my dad’s. I still wasn’t feeling great, but anything was better than being home with Thomas. At least my father didn’t keep coming into my room saying “Pretend that I’m a doctor and my name is Carl and I get to give you a shot.”

My dad tried to understand what I was going through. Even when I was sick and grouchy he was pretty patient with me.

“I hate it there. I hate it,” I complained again and again. “Living with the Russos is like living in a loony bin. Thomas is actually a man named Carl and Lydia has a phone growing out of her ear.”

Dad surprised me. Ordinarily he would have put his hand on my shoulder and said something like, “Oh, come on, son, it’s not that bad.” Or, “Just give it a few weeks, it’ll get better.” But this time he really caught me off guard.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If I could have you here with me, I would. I hope you know that.”

For a split second my whole world lit up. Just the thought of it was enough to change my mood.

“Dad! That’s it! Of course! That’s the answer to my problems! I’ll come here and live with you! Just you and me. It’ll be great! Why didn’t we think of this before?”

Dad looked puzzled. “We did, Charlie. We talked about it with your mom before this all happened. You said you didn’t want to leave your old neighborhood or change schools or stay with a baby-sitter when I’m out of town.”

He paused a second, as if he was trying to recall something else. “Oh yeah, and you weren’t too crazy about the idea of sleeping in the living room forever either. Don’t you remember that? It wasn’t even that long ago.”

Suddenly my world crashed back in on top of me again.

“Yeah … I remember,” I said, glumly staring at his pull-out couch. “I just forgot for a second, but I remember now.”

It was pretty obvious that I was disappointed. Dad reached over and gave me a quick hug.

“Never any easy answers, are there, son?” he asked sympathetically.

I shook my head no. Not anymore, I thought sadly. Not since last year when you left.

I
DIDN’T
go home until four o’clock on Sunday. I would have stayed at Dad’s for dinner, but he was having shrimp egg rolls, beets, and stewed tomatoes. Men eat like that when they’re alone.

When I walked into the living room that afternoon, Mom and Ben were sitting on the couch. Thomas and Lydia were stretched out on the floor in front of them. Seeing them like that sort of took me by surprise. They just looked so much like a normal family without me there.

I stood in the doorway with my suitcase. The extra son with the extra father.

“Oh, good, Charlie!” my mother exclaimed when she saw me. She hurried over and gave me a hug.

In her hand was a magazine. “There’s a great article in here. I found it in the dentist’s office yesterday and I’ve been waiting for you to get home so I could read it to everyone.”

I didn’t bother to argue. My mother takes her magazine articles very seriously.

She clicked off the TV and looked around. “Is everybody listening? It’s called ‘Bonding with Your Stepchildren.’ ”

Thomas bolted up. He’d been watching some wildlife show and was pretty annoyed that Mom had just clicked it off.

“Hey! What happened to the snakes?” he hollered.

My mother smiled.

“In a minute, Thomas. Right now this is more important. The doctor who wrote this is a psychiatrist with five stepchildren. He’s had a lot of experience with families like ours—you know, stepfamilies—and he’s made some suggestions that I thought might be good to try.”

Ben shifted uneasily in his seat.

“I’d rather watch the snakes,” whined Thomas.

“Shh,” shushed my mother, and she began to read.

“ ‘It’s a good idea for each parent to spend time alone with his or her new stepchild. This should be quality time set aside for just the two of them. By joining in a favorite activity together, they can get to know each other away from the pressures of the family. They can learn to confide in each other. Learn to trust. And it’s through this trust that the bonding process can begin.…’ ”

When she had finished, Mom looked up from the magazine and beamed proudly. I’m not kidding. It was like she wrote it herself or something.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

Ben was still fidgeting. Slowly he shook his head. “I don’t know, Janet. I think we’re doing fine the way we are. Isn’t it better to learn to blend together as a family than to split everybody up?” he asked.

Thank you, Ben, I thought secretly. Thank you for wanting to spend quality time alone with me.

Meanwhile, my mother looked up at the ceiling and grimaced.

“Spending time alone with each child is not splitting everybody up, Ben. If Thomas and I spend some time alone and we get to know each other better, how can that possibly split things up?”

Mom looked at Lydia and me. “What do you two think? Lydia? Charlie?”

Lydia shrugged. She was right in the middle of pulling one of her rubber bands out of her head.

I just stared blankly into space. Maybe sleeping on the couch at Dad’s wouldn’t be so bad after all. At least my father didn’t need to be forced to love me.

Suddenly Thomas got up off the floor and stormed over to where my mother was sitting. Then he leaned right into her face.

“I said I want to watch the snakes, dammit!”

Hearing him swear took all of us by surprise. A big hush settled over the room and my mother’s mouth dropped open. So did mine.

I tried to keep from laughing, but it wasn’t easy. Especially when Ben grabbed Thomas by the arm and marched him up the stairs. Thomas knew he was in big trouble. The whole way to his room he kept saying, “I don’t
have
to watch the snakes, Dad. Let’s be friends. Do you want to be friends, Dad?”

When Ben finally came back downstairs, he walked over to my mother and put his arms around her. He did it right in front of Lydia and me.

“Looks like maybe we’d better give this guy’s idea a try,” he said, picking up the magazine.

Mom rested her head on his shoulder and whispered, “Thanks.”

I left the room. It bothered me to see the two of them hug. I wouldn’t have minded if Ben had given her a hearty slap on the back once in a while, but soft whispering and hugging—well, it just got to me, that’s all.

T
HEY SET
it up for Saturday. Ben and I would go fishing and Mom would take Lydia shopping and out to lunch. Thomas would go to his friend Jeffrey Pete’s house. His turn would come next.

The more I thought about it, the less I wanted to go. What kind of personal junk was I supposed to learn about Ben, anyway? That he liked to stomp around in nature in a flannel shirt and eat Hungry Jack pancakes? That he went outside every night after dinner and watched the sun set? Okay, fine. So what?

And what about me? Was I actually supposed to confess my true feelings about his family? Should I tell him that I thought his son was a mental case, or that sometimes Lydia was unbelievably selfish? Would that “bond” Ben and me together?

Or how about this one? Would it help if I told Ben that sometimes when no one was around I went up to the attic and pulled out the box of pictures my mother had put away? The ones of her and Dad and me. And that I stared at them and tried to remember.

And that sometimes my eyes clouded up. Not often, but it still happened. Should I tell him that, too?

B
EN HONKED
his horn. Reluctantly I walked downstairs and closed the front door behind me.

I got into the truck. Ben leaned over and gave me a pat on the knee.

I forced a smile, but it wasn’t easy. The thing is, I don’t even
like
fishing. It was Ben’s idea. I know this doesn’t make me seem like much of an outdoorsman, but it’s true. The first time I ever went fishing I hooked my father in the neck and he took my pole away. The second time I caught a pair of boxer shorts and a plastic bag.

Ben pulled out of the driveway and turned on the radio. “Thought we’d go to Lake Murky,” he said. “Ever been there?”

I nodded. Lake Murky. That’s where I had caught my boxer shorts.

It wasn’t a very long drive, but the two of us didn’t talk much. Ben and I never do. My mother says he’s not much of a talker, but I couldn’t help wondering if he just didn’t like me. Once the two of us were stuck in the car while Mom ran into the grocery store. Ben cleared his throat twice. It was one of our best conversations.

When we finally got to the lake, we unloaded the fishing gear from the back of the truck. Then we walked down to the boathouse. Ben bought some sandwiches and other stuff from the cooler and then rented a small motorboat.

You could tell he’d done a lot of fishing up there. Once we were in the boat, he knew right where to go. He drove to this little cove about ten minutes from the dock and turned off the engine.

“Best fishing spot on the lake,” he informed me as he handed me a pole. Then he reached into the bait box and pulled out a fat wiggly red earthworm. It was the slimy kind that are squished all over the sidewalk after a hard rain.

“Here you go,” he said.

I felt myself start to sweat. There aren’t a lot of guys who will admit this, but worms sort of turn my stomach. I think it has something to do with them not having arms, legs, or a neck.

For a second or two I didn’t know what to do. I tried to hold out my hand, but it just stayed tucked under my arm in a tight little fist. Meanwhile, Ben kept stretching his arm farther and farther for me to take it.

Finally I shook my head. “Er, no thanks. I, uh, don’t use worms. I usually just use … well, uh, I just use …”

Geez, why couldn’t I say it?

Curiously, Ben raised his eyebrows. He was waiting.

I ducked my head down and mumbled “Bologna” as quietly as I could into my sleeve.

Ben stared at me a second. “Bologna?” he repeated loudly. I’m not kidding. The word
bologna
echoed all over the lake.

I could feel my face turning red. What was the big deal, anyway? Last year Martin Oates caught a sea bass with a Vienna sausage.

Ben looked at me funny but he didn’t laugh. “Sorry. No bologna. Try this.”

He tossed me a fudge brownie that he’d bought at the boathouse. I tore off a small piece and rolled it into a ball. Then I put it on the end of my hook. I felt like I was fishing for Betty Crocker.

For the next two hours the two of us just sat there with our poles in the water. Some fun. Most of the time I think Ben was practically asleep. Once in a while, when my bobber would move, he’d open his eyes and say, “Got a nibble?” But it didn’t actually make me feel bonded to him or anything.

Ben was the first to get a bite. As soon as he felt the tug on the line he sat up and began reeling it in—steady and calm like you’re supposed to.

But even though he wasn’t jumping up and down, you could tell he was getting a kick out of it. The whole time he was pulling it in, he kept whispering “Come to Papa, come to Papa.”

“Get the net, Charlie,” he ordered. “Quick! Scoop him in.”

I leaned over and caught the fish in the net. It was flopping around like crazy.

I cringed when I saw the hook. “Gross,” I said. “Right through the lip.”

Ben took the fish and tried to twist the hook out of its mouth. Suddenly I felt queasy.

He looked up and saw my expression. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt him.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

Ben just kept twisting.

I covered my eyes with my hands. “It’s kind of hard not to feel a hook through your mouth, don’t you think?”

Ben didn’t answer.

“I even feel it when I’ve got a crumb on my lip.”

After a minute I peeked through my fingers. “Sure looks like it hurts, doesn’t it? The way it keeps flopping around like that.”

I leaned closer. “Oh geez, it’s bleeding.”

Seeing the blood made things even worse.

“What’s the difference between fishing and murder, do you think?” I wondered out loud. “Do you think just because you eat it, it’s not murder?”

Ben stopped what he was doing and stared at me. He didn’t say anything. He just stared.

Finally the hook came out. “My guess would be that you won’t be wanting to take this home and eat it, is that correct?” he asked, sounding a little exasperated.

I made a face at the thought of it. “You mean with that lip of his and everything?”

Ben threw it back. Then for the next few minutes he just sat there looking out over the water.

I guess I shouldn’t have made him throw it back. I guess we should have taken it home and eaten it. I probably wouldn’t have had to eat the lips.

Hoping to make things better, I cast my brownie back into the lake. Five minutes later I caught a Huggies diaper.

Ben started the outboard motor. We left.

On the way home the silence was louder than ever.

(nine)

T

HE LAST straw. That’s what they call it when you run out of patience. I never used to understand why they called it that, but I do now. It’s like if you’re a camel and you have to carry a bunch of straw to market. And everyone thinks you’re real strong, so they just keep piling more and more straws on your back. And even though your load keeps getting heavier and heavier and your legs start buckling underneath you, you just put up with it, because that’s what they expect you to do.