The English Teacher (14 page)

When the movie was over, Fran studied his profile. “You have
that funny kind of earlobe. The kind that sticks to the skin on your face, like webbed feet.”

Peter didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Look.” She batted her mobile lobe. “We all have the dangly kind.”

Later, he looked at his ears in the mirror. He looked at his mother’s at dinner. It was true. Neither of them had the dangly Belou earlobes.

Before dinner, Tom took him aside and scolded him: the wood box had been empty for several days now. Keeping the box full was one of Peter’s chores, but he didn’t like it because it meant going down to the basement alone. Mrs. Belou’s things were down there, in boxes and garment bags, crouching in the corner.

He couldn’t explain that to Tom, so he apologized and picked up the canvas carrier. Halfway down the stairs he saw Caleb in the yellow and blue dress, zipping Fran into the red and white one. Their backs were to him. Fran’s bra strap was beige. He didn’t want to see them in their mother’s dresses. Before he even registered what he was doing he was back in the living room empty-handed. Tom shook his head and took the carrier from him.

Within seconds Tom returned.

“I apologize, Peter,” he said formally, as if they had just met. “I didn’t know they were playing with”—he paused—“costumes.” He sat down on a hard chair in the corner that no one ever used, and looked at his feet.

It was the pale-eyed girl who came late that night. After Stuart had gone to her, Peter got up and eavesdropped through the front door. They were on the steps as usual, arguing about Christ. Peter was disappointed; he wanted Stuart to be talking about him.

“But why isn’t there any documentation of the thirty-two
previous years if on the night of his birth the North Star led everyone to his cradle and they celebrated the arrival of the king of kings? If all this Christmas crap actually happened, why do we know so little about his life? Why was he a poor carpenter instead of a beleaguered messiah?”

Peter could only hear a whiny murmur.

“They’re feeding you lies, Diane. You’re like some peasant in the Soviet Union who believes Lenin is still alive. You’re like …” and his monologue went on until Peter was certain she was crying.

But she was back again the next night, and Peter heard Stuart telling her about that trip to California. “We rented this convertible in San Francisco. Mom refused to let me drive up all those hills because it was a standard, but she was hopeless. It was like she’d forgotten how to drive. We kept rolling down backwards and stalling and going down one-way streets, the whole town honking at us. One time there was this poor guy on a bike and our car rolled down straight toward him and he had to lift his bike up onto someone’s porch to avoid being killed. She kept forgetting where our hotel was. God, we bickered the whole time, more like brother and sister than mother and son. It was really funny.”

“My father and I went on a trip like that once—”

“But what was really funny is that we had this one day when we didn’t speak. Not a syllable. She was mad, I was mad, and we were both too stubborn to give in. And I had my interview at Berkeley that day. She came with me and after the interview the admissions lady gave us this tour of the place and we all ate together at this fancy dining hall but Mom and I never looked or spoke to each other the whole time. That lady must have thought we were a really screwed-up family. Maybe that’s why I got in. Mom was stubborn as a goddamn mule sometimes.”

Peter moved quietly away from the door. He wasn’t sleepy, but he didn’t want to hear any more. He was starting to know more about Mrs. Belou than he knew about his own mother.

Mom wore lipstick called Desert Rose. Mom told me cotton candy was made of ghosts. Mom broke her ankle when when she was eight months pregnant with me. Mom knew French. Mom helped raise four thousand dollars for the public library. Mom hated Spiro Agnew almost as much as Nixon. Mom gave dad a black eye once when they were having sex. With her elbow. She didn’t mean to. That’s not true! Yes it is, Fran. Remember how she used to say “Holy mackerel?” “Holy mackerel, you look lovely.” “Holy mackerel, he’s a pig.” Mom loved birch trees best of all.

Your mother, they always said in a completely different tone of voice. They never said Vida. Your mother needs a new pair of shoes. Your mother’s so bony. Your mother said she’s going to replace the rug in here.

Your mother, they always said, as if they were trying to give her back.

On the way to school the following Monday, his mother gave him a lecture in the car. His grades, she said, were abysmal. He had to start trying or he’d flunk out.

“I do try, Ma. I try hard.”

“You need to work something out with Stuart. You can’t talk to him and do your homework at the same time.”

“I like talking to him.”

“Fine. But after you’ve done your work. Should I have a word with him?”

“No.”

“Don’t start thinking about throwing
your
future away, too.”

“He hasn’t thrown anything away.”

“He’s a dropout.”

“He didn’t
drop out.
He finished and he got into a really good college.”

“But he didn’t go. I call that dropping out.”

“He’s going next year.”

“Right.”

“He is, Ma. He told me. He wants to learn Chinese.”

“Chinese,” his mother said, threading her cigarette stub through the crack in the window. “And what’s this ‘Ma’ business?”

When he got home that night, Stuart was waiting for him.

“Hello, Mole.”

Peter dumped his books out on the bed. Huge French test tomorrow. He’d have to tell him he needed to study.

“How was your day, Mole?” Stuart was lying on his back with his legs straight up and his fingers laced through his toes.

“All right. How was yours?”

“Do you know what ‘mole’ means, Mole?” He was using a tone he usually used on Fran.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think you do. Otherwise you’d already be apologizing profusely for having told my father my plans for next year.”

“I never told him,” Peter said, indignant, the truth on his side.

“But you told your mother.”

Had he? He had. “I—”
was defending you,
he wanted to say.

“I wanted to tell him—at the right time. I never thought you’d go scurrying to your mommy with it. He came in here tonight like I was the Second Coming. It was disgusting.”

Stuart sat up and stretched his elbows unnaturally, nearly behind his head. Peter didn’t know what to say. His heart was racing.

“If I had told my mother something like that, she never would have told my father. She would have known it was mine to tell.”

Peter left the room and found his mother dumping frozen peas into a pot.

“Why the hell did you blab to Tom about Stuart?” He’d never sworn at his mother before.

“You mean about going to college? He’s overjoyed.”

“I told you not to say anything.”

“You did?” She had her fake understanding-teacher voice, like he was telling her the dog ate it.

“I did.”

He waited for her to expose him, to give him a speech about the truth and the power of words, but all she did was pitch the pea box in the trash and take a sip of her drink. Then she said, “Let’s not get mixed up in other people’s battles.”

“Let’s not blab everything you hear.” He turned to leave but she caught him tight by the arm. He could feel her thumb pressing through his muscle to the bone. It burned.

“I’m not your whipping boy, Peter,” she whispered. “And you’re not theirs.”

He let go a few frustrated tears in the bathroom. Mrs. Belou’s smile was unsympathetic today. She wanted them out. He took the picture off the wall and put it facedown on top of the toilet so he could feel sorry for himself in peace. He stayed in there until he heard Stuart leave their room. Then he grabbed his French books and bolted down the hall to Caleb’s room. Caleb was reading a five-hundred-and-twenty-page book about horse farming.

“Have you heard the one about the horse who walks into the bar?” Peter said.

“No.”

“Horse walks into the bar and the bartender says, ‘Why the long face?’”

Caleb waited for him to go on.

“That’s it.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a short joke. I don’t remember the long ones very well.”

They both returned to their reading.

At dinner all of his stepsiblings were silent and sulky. One by one Tom tried to draw them out, but they resisted. It was Peter’s turn to do the dishes with Tom. When he was through, he found them in the living room, speaking in low voices. They stopped when he came in. He headed for his room, then paused in the hallway. They resumed.

“It’s like something out of a bad movie.”

“She’s sick.”

“Totally unsubtle.”

Peter had no idea what they were—then he knew. The picture. He’d forgotten to put it back on the wall. The realization was physical, like something shattering inside him, his skin pricked from the inside by all the shards. He’d have to explain, release his mother from blame. He’d wait and tell Stuart later; maybe he’d think it was funny that Peter talked to her sometimes.

But later Stuart did all the talking, his mind whipping around his usual topics like a race car: the body, the Tao, Eastern medicine, college….

“I’m rethinking the plan. My stomach has been sort of sinking ever since it was”—he gave Peter a forgiving smirk—“revealed. I would like to go back to California.”

“To Berkeley?”

“No. Just to live. Forget college.”

Peter felt responsible for this devastating change of heart. His stomach began to sink, too. “Why?”

“It was pretty amazing there.”

“I thought you said the water looked fake.”

“It did. Everything did. But that’s what’s cool about it. Every morning you felt like you were stepping onto a movie set, made especially for you and your day. Mom said the place made her feel twenty years younger. She must have said that twenty times. You know what it was? The place was hopeful. Full of hope.” His head
fell off his elbow, and he stared up into the swirls of plaster on the ceiling. Peter waited for him to say this place was full of death, but he didn’t. In the silence, he remembered again the misunderstanding about the picture. He didn’t want them to think his mother would do such a horrible thing, but confessing was impossible. How could he explain the disgusted look their mother had given him?

“I got mad at her for saying it so many times, that stuff about feeling younger. Because each time she said it it was like she was having the thought for the first time. The thing is, she was. She was having the thought for the first time each time. The tumor was sitting right on her temporal lobe, erasing the thought as soon as she said it. My father hadn’t wanted her to take me, but she’d insisted. I thought he was just being an asshole. And then he was calling all the time. Practically every time we went past the hotel desk there was another message from him. And then when he met us at the airport she just sort of collapsed into his arms, as if she’d just run a marathon. You’d think I could have put it all together. If it were on TV you’d be screaming at the kid: ‘She’s got a brain tumor, you moron! Can’t you see that?’” He pushed the heels of his hands hard into his eye sockets. “But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

Peter dreamed his first dream of her. The dream had no plot; it was just a moment, her in his room, his old room, in a shiny yellow raincoat. He moved toward her with no idea what he would say or do, with no idea if she was real or imagined. But when he reached her, all uncertainty was gone. He hugged her tight, so tight, and breathed her in and she smelled like flowers and old leaves, and then he was crying, aching, and she held him close until the tears running into his ears woke him up.

FIVE

MEMORY DOES ITS WORK UNDERGROUND. BENEATH CONSCIOUSNESS, A PAST
moment finds its kin all at once. Like a fish returned to its school, it frolics in remembered waters, and stirs up others. Above the surface, at first, there are only a few brief innocuous ripples which are all that you can allow yourself to know of the commotion below: a checked shirt, the white rim of a porcelain sink. The fluid sequence of moments seems, luckily, irretrievable; there is no line to follow with a finger, no story she feels able to tell. Yet even awful, unlivable memories want to be relived; the fragments yearn to be whole once more.

Vida stood immobile before the half-renovated house, its windows and doors blown out, and workmen, even today, a Saturday, running their tools within its gutted insides. All it took was this smell—the smell of a freshly built room—for the taste of his mustard breath to come into her mouth.

“It looks like they’re going to put a balcony off every bedroom,” Tom said.