The Song Reader (12 page)

I didn’t know what to say. I was impressed with his self-knowledge—most boys seemed to have no idea why they did things, certainly no idea why they showed off. I also felt sorry for him, and especially for his mom, but I was put off by the enormous chip on his shoulder. After all, it wasn’t as though he was the only kid in the world with problems. For months after Mom’s car accident, almost everybody avoided me; I told Mary Beth it was as if whenever they looked at me, all they saw was The One Whose Mother Died. And as far as reputation at school was concerned, obviously I had my problems there, too. Kyle was still spreading rumors about me, maybe because his parents had refused to get his car fixed, or maybe because he was back with Amanda, his cheerleader girlfriend, and she hated my guts for “coming between them” last year. A few weeks ago, I’d even discovered my name written in permanent red marker on the back of the bleachers in the gym, along with the brilliant conclusion: “whore.”

When Mike finally finished eating, he asked what I was thinking about. I told him, “Nothing,” but when he said sarcastically, “Go ahead and tell me. I’m used to being misunderstood,” I couldn’t hold back any longer.

“You’re not the center of the universe. Believe it or not, I wasn’t thinking about you at all.” I crossed one foot over the other knee, and began tearing at the rubber of my tennis shoes. “I have my own things to worry about. My own life.”

“Sorry,” he said. I thought he meant it, until I realized he was trying not to laugh.

I turned around. “What?”

“I
am
sorry,” he repeated, grinning. “It’s just that it’s hard to buy you having any problems. Little miss popular who only dates big jocks like the star of the basketball team.” He laughed. “But I guess it’s rougher than I realized, huh? Going out with morons?”

“Take me home,” I whispered. “Now.”

He glanced at me. “Wait. I’m sorry. It’s just that your life seems so perfect and—”

“Right. I have such a perfect life. My mom is dead, my dad is gone, and me and my sister live in a tiny apartment in somebody else’s house.” I smirked at him, all the while reminding myself this was common knowledge; it was no big deal I’d blurted it out. “But my life is so wonderful.”

He didn’t say anything, but he put the truck in reverse. I let out a sigh of relief as we finally left the damn Taco Bell parking lot.

On the way to my house, Mike mentioned that he didn’t know about my parents and mumbled a vague apology. I asked if we could just drop this topic and he did. It wasn’t until he pulled on to my street that he said he wanted me to know why he’d assumed my life was so great.

“I don’t care,” I said. “Whatever you think about me is your business.”

“I told you I’m sorry.” He parked against the curb. “It was really stupid. But I thought you had to be happy because in English class, I can’t stop staring at you.” He glanced at me, and then at his hands. “Because you’re so pretty.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please.”

“No, I mean it.” He grew quiet. “I think you’re beautiful.”

“You do?” I was unable to keep the surprise out of my voice; no one had ever said anything like this before. Kyle had praised some things about me: the individual pieces, you could call them, but it was clear he’d have been just as satisfied if I’d had a bag over my head. And in my family, it was Mary Beth who got all the attention for being attractive. My only claim to fame was “pretty eyes,” which was often thrown in as an afterthought by someone who’d just complimented my sister.

He scooted over so we were sitting right next to each other in the truck. I could hear him breathing; I knew he was working up the guts to kiss me. And I was thinking I might let him, until he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered, “I think you’re the sexiest girl in school.”

“You jerk!” I pushed his hand off and moved until I was up against the passenger door.

“What?”

“Here you are bitching at me about believing rumors!”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh right. You don’t know. You were at the stinking party!”

“I really don’t remember—”

“Okay, but are you telling me you don’t take gym? Or is it that you can’t read?”

When he didn’t even attempt to deny it, my face got so hot I pressed my cheek against the cold passenger window for relief. And the worst part, I could feel tears standing in my eyes.

“Leeann, listen.” Mike cleared his throat. “I told you, I don’t pay attention to gossip. I think it’s ugly and wrong.”

“Good for you.” I reached for the door handle. I had to get out of this truck, now.

“I mean it. Remember that poem we read last week in English? When the guy said you should look at everything for yourself and decide what you really think. I really believe that.”

He was talking about Walt Whitman’s
Song of Myself.
It was one of my favorite things we’d read so far this year, although I didn’t bother to argue when the Ds claimed it was long, boring, and a waste of time.

I was still holding the door handle, but I took a breath and listened as he recited parts of the poem. He’d memorized some of the really good lines, or at least the ones I thought were really good. When I asked him if it took a lot of work to remember all this, he said no. “It’s a skill I have.” He sounded shy, but proud. “Words stick with me.” He paused for a moment. “You want another example?”

“Sure,” I said, and sat back, waiting for more poetry. But instead he recited a little speech I’d given defending a short story we’d read in English class. The story was by Kafka, about a guy who purposely starves himself to death. Most of the class thought it was stupid, but I thought it was about the search for what really feeds you, what really sustains you in life.

It was the first week of class when I’d blurted this out, but Mike still remembered every word. I was blinking with surprise when I turned to look at him.

“I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

I felt myself blushing but I didn’t turn away. And I didn’t back away, a moment later, when he leaned over to kiss me.

“I’m glad I took my mom to that party,” he said, when I finally said I had to go inside.

“Me, too.”

“So do you want to go out next weekend?” he said slowly. “Like a date?”

“I’d like that,” I said, and smiled.

“Cool.” He was smiling, too. “Everything is cool now,” he said, before kissing me good-bye.

As I stood shivering in Agnes’s front yard, watching his truck disappear down the street, I found myself wondering what his mom and Mary Beth were doing. It was midnight. Where had they gone, anyway? But I wasn’t worried. Mary Beth could fix Holly’s problem, just like she had before. Everything was cool now, like Mike said. Everything was just fine.

I
t wasn’t my sister’s gift that betrayed her. In the days and weeks that followed, I kept coming back to this one fact. Song reading did not cause what happened.

She did Holly’s chart of course. It was the first thing she tried when they left Juanita’s party. She took Holly to the diner, begged her to eat and later, paid for the ham and eggs Holly barely touched, while she jotted down Holly’s songs on a napkin. None of the lines had a C by them because Holly didn’t cry at all.

There were only three songs, and all three were by new wave groups: Culture Club, The Clash, Duran Duran. Music young people liked, not women in their late thirties like Holly. Mary Beth thought Holly was probably hearing these songs because her kids had been listening to them. After thinking about it for almost an hour, she had to conclude they didn’t mean anything to Holly.

But Holly needed help. She’d come to that party just to get Mary Beth’s help. So my sister decided to take Holly to a bar over by the river. Get her loosened up enough to talk freely. Find out what was on her mind.

I thought she meant find out what her songs really were, but that wasn’t it. After they drank two beers, Mary Beth decided to ask Holly what had happened when she confronted her father, George, about what he’d done to her as a kid. My sister said as soon as she asked this question, it was like Holly’s feelings seeped out of her. She cried a noiseless, hopeless cry as she admitted she’d never confronted her father, never even told her husband Danny. “You’re the only person in the world who knows. It’s like my entire life is a lie.”

Holly said she and Danny and her kids still went to her parents’ house every Sunday afternoon for dinner. And every time she sat at that table, every time she smiled at her father and ate his food, she felt like another piece of her was being smashed to bits.

Before my sister told Holly what to do she thought hard about the problem for over an hour. Hard and long. And she remembered a radio show she’d heard on the topic of incest, and a magazine article she’d read. They both said the same thing: if you keep the secret, you’ll never be healed. So she told Holly she had to do it. Tell her husband. Confront her parents. And then Mary Beth spent the rest of the night sitting in her Ford on the banks of the river, talking to Holly, trying to give her courage. Convincing her she could do it, and moreover, she had to do it. She wouldn’t feel better unless she did.

Mary Beth got home at seven-thirty Sunday morning, just in time for Tommy to get up. She’d made him breakfast and sat with him while he watched cartoons. When I woke up at ten, she was drinking coffee and talking on the phone with Holly. Telling her again she could do this. Telling her she had to do it.

After Mary Beth hung up, she proceeded to tell me the whole story. It wasn’t until she got to the magazine part that I began to feel uneasy—this was very unlike my sister to rely on a magazine article or a radio show or anything but songs—but I forced myself not to interrupt. When she was finished, she rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Jeez, I’m tired. I keep forgetting yesterday was my birthday. I think I’m getting too old to stay up all night.”

Tommy ran into the kitchen. He wanted Mary Beth to be the bad-guy robot in his pretend game. I told her I would do it so she could get some sleep, but she waved her hand. “I’m okay.” She smiled before she walked out of the room with Tommy. “I love being the bad guy.”

I sat at the kitchen table, drinking my milk, thinking. I’d like to say I realized it was a bad idea for Holly to confront her family, but it wasn’t true. Misgivings I had, sure, but they were too vague to put my finger on. And I was busy wondering how this might affect Mike. Would he have to know, and if so, how would he handle it? How would anybody handle discovering their grandpa had done that to their mom?

“By the way, who drove you home last night?” Mary Beth was back in the kitchen about fifteen minutes later. Tommy was busy lining up the robots for the next battle.

“Mike.” I forced a shrug. “You know, Holly’s son.”

“Oh, right,” she said, as she took my empty glass and sat it in the sink. “Holly adores her kids, especially Mike.” Mary Beth came over and pulled the hair off my neck. Her voice was soft. “She told me last night in the bar that she feels like they’re the only thing keeping her alive.”

When Tommy came into the kitchen, Mary Beth picked him up and hugged him hard even though he was squirming and telling her to come on, play. “Play, play, play,” she finally said, and tickled his sides. “You’d think I was another toy, rather than your mom.”

I went to take a shower, did some homework, talked on the phone with Darlene, tried to call Denise, and lay on my bed and listened to my Walkman. All my usual stuff, the only difference was I spent a lot of time thinking about what I would wear tomorrow. I had to look my best when I walked into English class and saw Mike.

It was six-thirty, already pitch-black when Mary Beth asked me if I would bike to the grocery store. She said she was too tired to drive, and I said no problem. It wasn’t that cold and all we needed was milk and lunch meat. I was standing in Nancy Lyle’s checkout line at the Kroger, wondering if I had room in my backpack for all my impulse purchases, when I overheard Nancy whispering to Raylene Grob, the owner of the dry cleaner over on Second Avenue, who was in line in front of me. They had a lot of time to whisper, since Raylene had five kids and her cart was loaded with enough food to feed an army.

Nancy had been at the party last night, Raylene hadn’t. At first, the whispering was about how bad Holly seemed at the party, and I lost interest and thumbed through a magazine, all the while thinking Mike was sure right about gossip in this town. But then I heard the words “suicide attempt” and I froze as my hands started to sweat on the shiny pages of the magazine.

“An overdose,” Nancy whispered, as she picked up a package of spaghetti. Her husband Eric was an orderly in the emergency room; he’d called to tell her they were working on Holly right now. “Supposedly, she downed enough pills to knock out the entire town.”

“Good Lord,” Raylene mumbled.

“Her whole family is in the waiting room. George and Betty. Even the kids.”

“Those poor babies.”

“Yeah. Eric said the girls can’t stop crying. But the boy and his dad are like stone.” Nancy weighed a bag of apples and shrugged. “You know how men are.”

Raylene shook her head. “Can you imagine how George and Betty must feel? Holly is the only child they really have now. Their son is in Chicago, and their other daughter is somewhere out west. They don’t visit much, don’t even call but twice a year, from what I’ve heard.”

Nancy sighed. “I don’t know what she could have been thinking, to do something like this. What with her family relying on her. I hate to say it, but it seems so selfish.”

The whole time I was listening, I kept telling myself to be calm, don’t move, don’t scream. I wanted to hear it all, and we really needed that milk. But at that point, something in me just snapped and I deserted my basket and ran over to an empty aisle and right out of the store. I had to get home and tell Mary Beth.

When I walked in the door, Tommy was yelling for her from the bathtub and she was on the phone. I had a feeling she already knew. Her chin was resting on her hand like she didn’t have the energy to hold her head up, her forehead was wrinkled as though she was trying hard to figure something out, and her eyes were closed like she wanted to hide from whatever she was hearing.

After she hung up, she went in to hand Tommy a new bar of soap. Then she nodded while I rushed through what Nancy said. “Yeah, Juanita just called. She found out from a nurse who stopped in at the restaurant.” We were standing in the living room; Mary Beth was motionless but her eyes were darting around. Finally she said, “I have to go there. As soon as she’s conscious, I have to be there for her.”

I sat down on the couch and watched as Mary Beth put her coat on. “Why’d she do this? Why would anyone?”

“I guess she just couldn’t go through with it.”

Mary Beth looked back at me. Her eyes were lined with red and it hit me she’d been up for thirty-six hours at this point. “I think I made a big mistake,” she said. “I should have offered to be there with her. Hold her hand. Then maybe she could have finally told them.”

I nodded agreement. It wasn’t until I’d checked Tommy’s ears and washed his back, given him a towel and his favorite race car pajamas, and read him four stories, that I realized Mary Beth was assuming Holly hadn’t told anyone. But of course, that had to be it. Holly had lost her nerve. And last night, Holly had been so far down, according to Mary Beth, that telling was her only hope. Obviously, Mary Beth had been right again. Holly hadn’t told, and now this terrible thing had happened. What if the doctors couldn’t revive her?

As soon as Tommy went to sleep, I snapped on the television; I was too on edge to do anything else. When I heard the downstairs door open about a half hour later, I figured it had to be our landlady Agnes—Mary Beth couldn’t be back already. But she was, and Juanita was with her. They walked into our apartment; Juanita was standing right next to her, holding her arm. I watched, stunned, as Juanita helped my sister across the living room and placed her in the window chair like she was an invalid.

I thought Holly had to be dead. Only that could explain the look on Mary Beth’s face—beyond pain, beyond numbness even, like someone had reached right into her heart and taken away every feeling she’d ever had. I felt my eyes fill with tears for Holly and for Mike and for us, too. There was nothing I could do; it was all too familiar; my mind was going back there again, back to that summer night five years before when my sister and I were sitting right here, watching the evening news with the windows open, and we heard the sound of a car pull up outside and then a car door slam. Mary Beth looked out the front window and said, “It’s a cop.” Then she laughed. “I wonder what Agnes is afraid of now.”

Agnes called the police at least once a month, always for what she claimed were extremely dangerous situations. She’d heard a noise. She’d seen something out back. She’d received an odd phone call. She’d been positive somebody in a black car—the kind criminals drive—followed her home from the drugstore.

Both of us listened as the policeman’s slow, heavy footsteps came onto Agnes’s front porch. “Poor guy,” Mary Beth said. “No wonder he’s dreading this.”

Of course the real reason Officer Spellman was walking so slowly must have been that he didn’t want to tell us our mother had been killed. I don’t remember exactly how he said it, but I do remember the way he kept sniffing between sentences, until my sister finally asked him if he’d taken anything for that cold. He told us it was allergies; he said he was particularly sensitive to fresh cut grass. That’s when I realized the roaring I heard wasn’t in my head at all: it was old Mr. Haverly two doors down, mowing his backyard.

I was back there all right, because I could hear that roaring perfectly. I glanced at my sister and Juanita, but I was too dizzy to focus on them. I leaned back on the couch and then I did this thing I used to do a lot after my mom died, where I would close my eyes and push my fingers against the lids until I could see patterns forming. I would watch the purple and orange and green swirls until my mind went blank; it was the only way I could forget about Mom’s accident, the only way I could calm down.

“Are you all right, Leeann?” Juanita’s voice interrupted my patterns, brought me back to now. I opened my eyes and looked at Mary Beth. She was still sitting like a zombie.

Before I could ask, Juanita told me Holly wasn’t dead. She wasn’t conscious yet, but she wasn’t dead. She was in a coma, the doctors said maybe she’d come out of it later tonight, maybe even in an hour or so.

I exhaled loudly, feeling the relief all through my body. “Why didn’t you guys stay then? Until she woke up?”

Mary Beth showed no signs of having heard the question. Juanita crooked her finger to motion me into the kitchen. As soon as we got there, she put her hands on my shoulders and whispered, “This is very hard for Mary Beth. They told her to leave. To get out.”

I felt my stomach turn over. Juanita looked down at the table. “They blame her for what happened. That creep George and Betty. They have the nerve to blame Mary Beth for Holly taking them pills.”

“No way!” I couldn’t help yelling. “She tried to help Holly! She stayed up all night with her, trying to make her feel better and telling her—”

“I know.” Juanita shook her head. “But it’s gotten all screwy now. They think Mary Beth gave Holly all kinds of sicko ideas, last night and even before, when she came to her. They think Mary Beth warped Holly’s mind. Made her want to kill herself.”

I sat down at the kitchen table as it hit me what Juanita was saying. What must have happened. “So before Holly took those pills, she talked to her parents.”

Juanita sat down, too. “Yeah,” she said, grabbing her long black braid and nervously flipping it back and forth. “I don’t know what she said, but whatever it was got them all pissed off at Mary Beth.” Juanita paused for a moment. “Damn, it was ugly, Leeann. As soon as we walked into the ICU waiting room, George stood up and stuck out his fat finger at Mary Beth and called her a liar. Then he told her she didn’t belong there since it was all her doing. Mary Beth tried to talk to Danny, you know, Holly’s husband, but it was impossible ’cause George was just screaming all this shit.”

Juanita inhaled. “Your sister didn’t flinch; she just stood her ground and kept saying she was here to see Holly. But then Betty came over, bawling, and Mary Beth naturally felt sorry for her. When she reached out to hug her though, that woman slapped her across the face and called her a pervert.” Juanita shook her head. “I would have decked her, I swear to God, if she wasn’t such an old lady.”