The Tragic Age (19 page)

When they finish the sprinting, even from a distance, I can see that Gretchen's entire body is flushed pink, which is the way it always is after we've had sex. This makes me wonder if running wouldn't be another fun thing Gretchen and I could do together, and so, at my suggestion, we go to the track one evening and, wearing shorts and sneakers, I run with her. I last for about three laps and, as opposed to fun, all I feel is the urge to fall into the high jump pit, puke and die.

So much for that.

The other thing I really like is when Gretchen has an actual track meet. They save the fifteen hundred meters for toward the end because it's a big deal and I start getting nervous even before Gretchen and the other runners come to the starting line. They stand there, all of them different sizes but all of them in really great shape, and then all of a sudden they're off and running in this closely bunched pack. They're all elbowing and pushing and jockeying for position. They're going stupid fast and you know they haven't even warmed up yet. After a couple of laps it usually comes down to Gretchen and two other girls, and by the time they're into the last lap I'm on my feet, screaming like some idiot, because I want her to win so much. In the last ten yards or so she usually does.

After Gretchen has walked around for a while and caught her breath, she'll look up in the stands for me, and when she sees me she'll give me this huge wave and big smile like she's totally thrilled and it's made her day that I'm there. And I'll be smiling and waving back at her because I'm thrilled too.

That's the best part. This is the worst part.

When I'm doing all this insane stuff, every now and then, I sort of experience what I assume is a feeling of unexpected joy and happiness. The world suddenly seems like it has the potential to be an okay place. And this bothers me because I know deep inside the world isn't and never will be. I know this relationship is not going to last forever, that like with Dorie, like with what's happening to Mom and Dad, it's going to wither and die and I am going to miss it
so much
when it's gone.

Still.

For the time being it's as good a reason as any not to get into trouble.

 

50

“I asked for the transcripts of your SATs.”

This is the Tuesday morning in March when I've been called into the guidance office by Miss Barber. I assume it's going to be about more applying-to-college stuff and it is. Sort of.

“Math is 610, writing 620, critical reading 590,” Miss Barber says. “Middle of the pack.”

She's holding the printed transcript out to me as if she thinks I want to take it and look at it. I don't. She pulls it back.

“What I find interesting, though,” Miss Barber says, turning the page, “is the unscored variable section.” She looks at me. “The part that's used to try out new questions for future SATs?”

My stomach sinks. I know where this is going now.

“Almost 800 on a critical reading section,” Miss Barber says, “which would put you in the ninety-ninth percentile. On a section that's probably more difficult than the SAT itself.”

I'm such an idiot. You're not supposed to know which is the experimental stuff but it's so obvious. For some stupid reason, I thought it'd be interesting to give it a real go. It never occurred to me anybody was going to grade me on it.

“That's really hard to believe,” I say. “Because I was just fooling around.”

From the way Miss Barber looks at me, I can tell she doesn't buy it. “What is going on with you, Billy? What's going through that brain of yours? I know you have one.”

I don't know what to say to that so I don't say anything.

“I'm going to recommend,” says Miss Barber, “that you see a school-appointed psychologist.”

 

51

“Billy's school guidance counselor thinks it would be a good idea for him to see a psychologist,” Mom says quietly.

It's a beautiful evening and we're having dinner outdoors on the back patio. It's Dad's favorite, filet mignon, baked potatoes, and a lettuce wedge with Roquefort dressing, but I can tell he's all of a sudden expecting serious indigestion.

“I thought we were over that,” he says, dumping a thick wad of butter into his potato.

By “over that,” Dad is referring to the fact that a year after Dorie died, I was still feeling sad on occasion and Mom thought it would be a good idea for me to see a psychologist for evaluation. Dad was against it.

“It's four hundred bucks an hour,” said Dad.

“We can afford it,” said Mom.

“You sure the kid's not just feeling sorry for himself?” said Dad.

“He's not,” said Mom.

“Yeah, well, what are people going to think?”

“I don't
care
what they think. I think we
all
should be seeing someone.”

“Not some quack of a shrink!” Still a blue-collar laborer at heart, Dad thought the whole idea of therapy was bogus.

And it was.

On the moron scale, Dr. Belafonte, who wasn't even a doctor, just a Ph.D. and who left magazines like
Car and Driver
and
Road and Track
in the waiting room for his whacked-out patients, was a possible twelve. About the only thing he assessed was that I was possibly an apopheniac, which meant I had, depending on your definition, either a talent or a psychosis for formulating meaningful connections out of random data. At that point Dad, who equated weird behavior with his mother, said enough was enough, and despite Mom's protests, that was it for Dr. Belafonte.

Until now.

“We
are
over it,” I say. “Really, I'm fine. Really. I'm really fine. Miss Barber's making a big thing out of nothing.” Even though I'm not crazy about steak, I take a big bite and chew it to show how healthy my appetite is.

“She says she doesn't think Billy is trying in school,” Mom says. “She says he's too smart to be getting the grades he's been getting.”

“What? He's not failing,” says Dad. He takes a suspicious swallow of wine. “Is he?”

“No,”
Mom says. You can tell she wants to remind him that there
are
such things as report cards and there
are
parents who occasionally look at them.

“Then what's the big deal?” says Dad. “School's overrated anyway.”

“Gordon, it is
not
. It's important.”

“So what's a shrink going to do, take his tests for him?”

Shaking her head, Mom pushes some meat around her plate with a fork. She's not really eating, just cutting her food into smaller and smaller bites. “I can't believe I wasn't paying attention to this. You and your sister always got such wonderful grades.”

“Aw, if you're going to start
blaming
yourself again,” says Dad, tossing his napkin down on the table.

Mistake. They glare at one another. It suddenly has the potential to get very ugly and so I jump in. “It's no one's fault,” I say. “I'm trying. I really am. Really. But it's hard.”

Mom turns to me. “The guidance counselor says you haven't even been applying to colleges. Why did you tell us you were?”

Shit. This is true. I even gave them a fake list. “I didn't want you to worry about me,” I say. This is also true. Not to mention, I didn't feel like having to talk about it.

“Oh, honey,” says Mom, concerned now. Which is the last thing I want.

“But I thought I'd apply to college next year,” I say. “When I have a better idea what I really want to do in life.”

“I think a job would teach you a thing or two about life,” says Dad. You just know he's going to start his “when I was a kid” spiel any second. Mom cuts him off.

“You're not having trouble sleeping again, are you, honey?”

This is the
very
last place I want to go. “No,” I say to her. “I'm sleeping well all the time. I really am. Really.”

“I don't know,” says Mom. “Maybe we
should
see Dr. Belafonte again.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” says Dad.

“Stop it!”
shouts Mom.

Dad should really shut up now if he knows what's good for him. But Dad doesn't know what's good for anybody anymore.

“
What
? We do it
your
way? Like always? That does a lot!”

Mom's eyes are closed now. She might be softly humming to herself. The look on Dad's face says he knows he's gone way too far but it's too late to go back. Dad never cries but right now it looks like he could.

“I wish you'd let Miss Barber handle it,” I finally say. “I really think she knows what she's doing.”

It's what we do. It's easy, it takes them off the hook, and it's something they can both agree on without fighting.

Question.

Does loving someone give you permission to be furious with them? Or are you furious with them because you're no longer in love?

 

52

High School Highville South is a beach community of college students and young families, also old surf vagabonds who spend the mornings sitting in front of Denny's and the afternoons getting stoned or drunk and sleeping on the beach. There are bars and inexpensive restaurants and bike and surf shops and clothing stores. There are a lot of modest houses, condos, and apartment buildings. Miss Barber lives in a nondescript building about a half mile from the ocean. Ephraim has found the address by accessing the school's private directory.

It's a Friday. I'm skipping school.

When the young guy carrying a surfboard comes out of the apartment building and trots across the lawn, I move out from between the two cars where I've been waiting. I get to the security door just before it closes and I grab it. There is a wall of anonymous-looking mailboxes just outside the door, very much like the ones at Mailboxes and More. There's a panel of call buttons. Anne Barber is in 3B. I press the call button. I know Miss Barber isn't in, but I want to make sure no one else is. I ring several times. There's no answer. I go in, shutting the security door behind me.

I take the stairs. I don't want to chance getting stuck with anyone on the elevator. When I get to 3B, I take out the EZ Snap Lock Pick Gun, insert the pick and pull the trigger twice. I open the door and I'm in.

The apartment is nothing special. It's neat. It's clean. You get the feeling Miss Barber hasn't been here long and doesn't plan on staying forever. There is a kitchen to the right as I enter. There is a toaster, a blender, and a Krups coffeemaker on the counter. There's sparkling water and nonfat yogurt in the fridge. There's an adjacent dining area to the left with a sideboard, a small table, and four chairs. On the table are place mats and two inexpensive candlesticks. The candles are burned down. There's an open bottle of red wine—Two-Buck Chuck from Trader Joe's—on the sideboard. Though he probably couldn't tell the difference in a blind tasting, Dad would not approve.

There's an alcove. It's the workspace of a teacher. A small desk. An office chair. A PC. Books and papers. Diplomas on the wall. Miss Barber has graduated from the University of Wisconsin, Madison. She's gotten a graduate degree in education from UC Santa Barbara. There are a couple of sports pennants on the wall. Wisconsin's school mascot is the badger. A badger is a vicious, short-legged weasel. SCSB's mascot is the gaucho. A gaucho is an Argentinean cowboy. An Argentinean cowboy has as much to do with the history of California as a kumquat. I have no idea what weasels have to do with the history of Wisconsin.

The living room has a couch, an apple-crate coffee table, an overstuffed chair and rug. The couch faces a wide-screen TV. There is a Blu-ray player beneath the TV. There are shelves lined with DVDs. Miss Barber is a movie buff. There is an iPod dock that connects to an AV system. The living room opens out onto a tiny deck where Miss Barber keeps a plant and a small barbecue. I pull the curtains.

In the bedroom, the queen-sized mattress is on a metal frame with a curved headboard. The duvet and pillow covers are pale blue. There's a patterned quilt at the foot of the bed.

It beckons to me. When I close my eyes to resist, I grow dizzy. How long has it been since I slept for more than an hour at a time?

I have no idea where to begin. I have no idea what I'm looking for. I decide to look at memories.

Miss Barber doesn't keep actual photographs. The albums I've found and studied in most houses are kept by predigital people brought up on twenty-four-shot film that they had to have developed. Their photos are in frames or albums or falling out of boxes in the closet.

I find Miss Barber's memories on her computer. I run a slide show of Miss Barber, her family and friends. They are in turn casual, festive, formal. The people in the photos are being silly, are smiling, making faces, are pretty, are dressed up, are wet. I up the speed of the slide show. Miss Barber's family reminds me of Gretchen's. Miss Barber has nice-looking parents. The kind they grow in Wisconsin. She has an older sister and a brother. Miss Barber was a bridesmaid at her sister's wedding. It looks like she might have caught the bouquet. I go to Hawaii with Miss Barber and some girlfriends. Tan, smiling, young women in bathing suits hold fruit drinks. They wear flowered leis around their necks. Miss Barber looks good in a bikini top and a grass skirt. Miss Barber and one of her friends go backpacking in what looks like the Yosemite Valley. Miss Barber goes to a Halloween party dressed as a freckled-face baseball player, eye black across her cheeks, her hat tipped sideways. She and her friends are a team. I check the photos to see if Dad is at the party dressed as Abraham Lincoln.

I'm getting nowhere.

I abandon the PC and go through dresser drawers and closets. Besides the usual jeans and slacks and shoes and shirts and skirts, I find Lycra shorts, sports bras, and any number of pairs of running shoes. On the dresser is a single framed photo of Miss Barber and the Yosemite friend with racing bibs on. They are smiling with exhaustion and are slick with sweat. Miss Barber is a triathlete.