Quaking (13 page)

“No, no, not forced community service. Repairing houses for the elderly. Working in the drug rehab clinic. He also reads to prisoners. He volunteers because he wants to help our community.”

“Oh, you mean because he cannot get a real job?”

Her pink face is turning red now. “He’s working on his GED.”

“He never even finished high school?” I am surprised. Sam is definitely not stupid. I know that now. He probably knows more about what is going on in the Middle East than Mr. Warhead, for God’s sake.

Her mouth is closing into a tight-lipped line.The pot on the stove starts to bubble over.The liquid hisses as it hits the burner and cooktop. Jessica turns a knob on the stove and grabs a napkin—blue-flowered—again, they clash with the décor. She dabs at the spilled mess. Not very successfully, I might add.

Her voice is shaky, like she is trying to rein in her words so they will not come out screaming. She stares at the pot on the stove and stirs it deliberately. “You know, Sam had a lot of people depending on him from the time he was a young boy. His father died when he was only five, and he was the oldest of three kids. By the time he was eight, he was mowing lawns, raking leaves, shoveling snow, anything to make money. Because he was so responsible, he started babysitting when he was eleven.As a teenager, he didn’t have time to focus on school. . . .”

The Blob is grabbing for me and I slide across the floor. He slides after me.When did he get to be so quick? He does not crawl but sits on his butt and yanks on chair legs or anything handy to pull himself along. His hands reach out to me, opening and closing rapidly. I decide to stand up. In time to hear Jessica say, “So he’s going to be a substitute bus driver.”

Excuse me? Is this Sam’s new job that Jessica is all excited about? I review the school hierarchy in my head:

“Substitute bus driver?” I ask. On what bus? The Bus from Hell?

Jessica smiles at me like I am finally seeing the light.“Yes. He even gets to start tomorrow because he already has a bus license from driving a bus for special-needs kids last summer. Now there’ll be two lunch bags in the fridge, so I’ll put an
M
on yours and an
S
on his, okay?”

She is way too excited. I think about my bus ride home. I need to set her straight. “It is not a nice job, Jessica.”

Her smile disappears.

“Someone should inform Sam so he is not completely humiliated.”

Jessica does not appear receptive to my help. In fact, her narrow face gets even tighter as she sucks her cheeks in. She slams the spoon on the rim of the pot and stares at me with squinty eyes.

I am startled.

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that about him! He’s a very sweet, caring person.” She is breathing heavily and her face is blotchy red. “And what’s more, Sam really
cares
about you!”

She turns away and looks at the pot, stirring furiously.

I turn away, too, but I have nothing to look at and nothing I can do. I want to tell her that I was not intending to be obnoxious. I am only trying to help. Now I am too stunned to say anything. I go upstairs to my room and ponder her statement.
“Sam really cares about you!”
Is she sure? I cannot decide if I want her to be right or wrong. It is so unnerving when someone cares. So complicated. It is almost easier if no one cares.

I slump down on the sofa bed and drag the sheet over my head. I pull the LifeSavers out of the inside zipper pocket of my backpack. I finger the roll. Amazingly, no LifeSavers feel broken. It is not a weakness to carry them with me. Some people carry dead animal parts, politely referred to as a rabbit’s foot. That is disgusting. LifeSavers are normal.

I refuse to chew them up and watch them spark, like Sam said, however. That is not normal. And my LifeSavers would be gone.

I hear Sam come in. Jessica and Sam whisper downstairs for a long time.

“No, I’ll go talk with her,” Jessica finally says.

I hear her footsteps coming up the stairs and I put the LifeSavers away in their home.

She knocks at my door.

“Yes?”

“Um, it’s Jessica. Can I come in?”

I pull the sheet off my head and shrug.Then I realize she cannot see me. “All right.”

She opens the door slowly, as if I might throw something at her. Her eyes are red. “I’m sorry I lost my temper—”

“It does not matter.”

Her eyes look even more pained and she closes the door behind her, leaning against it. “Yes, it does. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

It is something to talk about other than “caring,” so I go with it.“I thought Quakers were not supposed to get hostile.”

Jessica sighs.“I’m not a natural at this, okay? I wasn’t born a Quaker. Sam was. He never seems to react with hostility. He rarely even raises his voice.”

“He is an odd man, that Sam.”

She takes a deep breath.

“But not in a bad way,” I add quickly.

She smiles and sits down on the sofa bed next to me. “He’s a real sweetheart.” She starts grinning like the girls at school when anyone of the Blond Male persuasion looks at them. Her cheeks are even getting pink. She looks at me, losing the girlish grin. “And he really does care about you, Matt.”

The
C
word again. I squirm.

“He wants us to be a family.”

I am picking so hard at the chenille loops on my bedspread, I am surprised they are staying intact. I blink and swallow hard. And I change the subject. “So, how did you guys meet?” Women always like to tell the story of when they first met their man.

“At the legal aid clinic.”

My eyes are open wide and I sit up straight. “Which one of you was in trouble?”

She smiles. “Neither of us. I’m a lawyer, remember? I work there, usually from home now, because of Rory. Anyway, Sam came in for some advice on a project he was handling.”

“Oh, right. Lawyer.” Now I remember.

“I did tell you.”

“True, but I was no doubt ignoring you.”

She squishes her lips into a pout but her eyes are smiling. “No doubt.”

There is an awkward pause. I do not know what to say so I go back to picking at the loops on the chenille bedspread.

“Matt?”

I look at her.

“We really want you to be happy here with us. We—we’ve tried to have children, but I keep having miscarriages.”

“Perhaps it is a sign from God that you are not meant to have children.” It sounds nasty, which I do not mean. I am so bad at this. She is blinking hard, so I explain, “Children are a hassle. Maybe God is saving you the trouble.”

“Or maybe it’s a message that we’re supposed to take care of the children who are already here.” She smiles at me.

I look away again.

There is a knock at my door and I jump. My heart races.

Sam’s voice says, “Is everything all right in there?”

Jessica turns to the door. “Yes, honey.”

My heart is still pounding. I am thinking of the times my mother and I sat on the bed like this with the door closed. And the chest of drawers shoved against the door.While we held each other. Listening to the banging on the door. Hoping that my father would not break through.

More knocking.

I jump again. My breathing is fast and loud. I cannot help myself.This is the part where my mother helps me scramble under the bed.

“Hey, guys,” Sam says,“I got some ice cream at the store.”

Jessica smiles, closes her eyes, and shakes her head.

“It’s raspberry ripple.”

Jessica is still shaking her head.

Another knock.

I cannot stand it anymore.“Will you stop banging on the door, for God’s sake?” It comes out loud and screamy. That is not how I mean it.

Jessica’s mouth drops open. Her forehead is pinched and she is staring at me.

“S-sorry,” says Sam slowly, sounding like a hurt little kid.

This is what always happens. People do not understand my behavior.Then they get hurt and confused. But why can they not see it from my standpoint? The creature on the other side of the door was always a Beast. All of a sudden, now he is supposedly a man who Cares? How can I click so quickly to a new reality? And truly believe it is real? And believe that it will stay real?

Late that night, I still cannot get to sleep. I keep playing with my knickknack thingy, taking the lid off, looking at the LifeSaver, putting the lid back on with a
swoosh-crunch,
then lifting it again to see if the LifeSaver is still there.

Finally, I get up and sneak down to the fridge. There are two brown paper lunch bags inside, one with an
M
and one with an
S
. The
M
bag is already obviously smaller than the
S
. Still, I open up
M,
take out the Ziploc bag with my hunk of cheese, and put it in
S
.

I hear a creaking sound from the living room, which is Jessica and Sam’s bedroom. I freeze, then frantically shut the fridge door to stop the light inside from shining up the entire kitchen. Jessica would not be happy to know that Sam is getting cheese for lunch tomorrow. But I know it is not Jessica’s cholesterol phobia I am worried about. I am worried that someone will see what I am doing. Giving something to Sam.

But then I remind myself. I am only paying him back for the LifeSavers. That is all.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

I
cannot get away from the Photo of Death. It is not only in World Civ now. It is in the library. Slapped partially across the top of the peace club sign on the conference room door. As if the photo itself is not enough of an affront, someone has scrawled words coming out of the dead marine’s mouth: Are you with us or with them? An arrow points from the words to the peace club sign.

My stomach is full of acid and I swallow hard to keep it from rising. I have some ideas who put the photo there. It is the Rat or the Wall or Mr.Warhead.They are all Beasts.The embellished photo is so sickening that I am spurred into action.

I am glad it is the weekend because I decide to write my term paper for Mr. Warhead from the Middle Eastern perspective. I am a Middle Eastern woman whose village has been bombed by the Unified Forces of Freedom and Democracy, otherwise known as the United States. The Middle Eastern me has lost her entire family. It is easy to be the Middle Eastern me. I picture the soldiers as the Rat and the American Government as Mr. Warhead. I name the Middle Eastern me Fatima. Fatima is a very angry woman. She invokes a curse on all of the Rat-soldiers for their tongues to fall out so they can no longer speak evil and for their fingers to curl up so they can no longer hold weapons. Nothing happens to their feet, however, so they are free to walk home.

I am in Fatima mode, typing my term paper, when Jessica tries to interrupt me. I am too busy to listen to her. Fatima is flattening out dough for bread and watching the fire. She throws a handful of rice in the pot of soup.While she makes dinner, she sings, thinking about the time she threw flowers at the American soldiers because, at first, she thought they were peace makers. They said they were bringing democracy. She is still waiting.The soldiers are still here, but instead of democracy there is more fighting and so many innocent people are dead, including children. Fatima’s thoughts are too important to be interrupted by a little Quaker woman who needs a gallon of milk.

“Matt, did you hear me?” It is Jessica, still trying to break through.

“Yes.” But I am more interested in what I am writing. “Milk.”

“And Rory.”

“I know.”

“Is that okay?”

“Yes.” Just go.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, then.”

“Fine.”

I hear her jangling her keys for a moment before her footsteps make it to the door and out.

Silence. Finally.

“Maaaa.”

I whip around on the swivel stool.The Blob is sitting on the floor, clenching and unclenching his fists, staring at me. I catch my breath and rely on my exoskeleton to keep me calm. “Oh. Right.You are here. She said that.”

His eyes look questioningly at me.

“Do not expect me to be a babysitter. I have no experience.” He is still looking at me.“I have never babysat before. I do not know what to do.”

“Maaaaaa!”

“She is not Ma. She is Jessica.” He should not get too attached. That would not be wise for a foster child. “And,” I add, “she is gone.”

His eyes register something. Is it confusion? Is it panic? Or is that mine?

He moans, as if he is going to start crying.

“No. Do not panic. She will be back. Soon.” I look at the clock on the stove. It is covered with crud but I can read the time—11:18. However, the crud seems to be slowing the second hand down to a crawl.

“Maaaaa!”

“Her name is Jessica. And she is not a very good house-keeper.” I pick up a napkin from the pile on the counter. It is pink. Apparently, variety is more important to Jessica than matching the décor. I start wiping the scrapple and other crap off the clock. I scrub so fast that I bang my knuckles on the stovetop. Hard.Then I scrape them on the knob next to the clock, the knob that has a broken jagged edge, so my knuckles are bleeding.

I take another pink napkin and shove my knuckles into it. The Blob is sliding himself across the floor toward me. I back away and bang into the stove. I look at the clock. It is 11:19. And 27 seconds.

The Blob is reaching for me. “Maaaaa!”