Husky (13 page)

“Your mom's even making the red velvet for me. The night before we go to school. That's my actual day,” Sophie says.

“Well, when were you going to ask me?” I ask, my face so sour total strangers walking by know we're having a fight.

“I'm asking you now,” Sophie says, trying to smile. I don't even try.

“Because Ellen told you I was mad,” I answer back. I don't want to yell, and I don't want to fight, but I have to, I have to, because I have to have the truth said at least once this whole afternoon.

“No,” says Sophie.

“Yes,” I say. “This whole thing is just a setup, because you all think I'm being a brat about not getting to go on the girlie afternoon with a girl who doesn't even like me?”

“Who are you talking about? Allegra?” Sophie asks.

“She's the one who is so weird about me. I have been nothing but nice to her. Like, nothing but nice,” I say, and I know I'm sort of yelling, but I don't care.

“That's not true. You, like, make a face at her all the time,” Sophie says, starting to yell back.

“She's the one that makes a face. She's the one who says things, like ‘Opera, isn't that for fat people?'” And I do a voice there that totally sounds like Allegra, but I never knew I was doing an impression of her. But I totally am, and I love it, because I may be the mean one now, but at least I'm funny at it.

“She just didn't know anything about it. It's not a normal thing,” Sophie says. And she stops herself, because she knows I heard what she just said, and she knows how angry I am already, and she knows what I'm going to say even before I say it. She knows me.

“I guess I'm not normal, then. You like how we're different, but I'm not normal? Good, at least I know!” I want to say more, I'm screaming in my head so much more, but I can't. I start to cry a little. And I hate that more than I hate this, and all I want to do is just get away. So I stomp off with Sophie yelling after me to stop and that she didn't mean it, but she's muffled like I'm in the shower again. The tears are dripping down my face, but I keep walking faster and faster, almost running until I leave her far behind me and try to get home.

It's stupid to try to run away from Sophie, since we both live on the same block. Even if she didn't want to follow me home, she still has to come this way to go home. But I get to my gate first, just as she turns the corner of the block. She starts down fast after me again, but I get through the gate and the bottom door, slamming them both to make it clear she should stay away. I hope she does. I know she will.

Nanny yells from the kitchen, “Who's this slamming now?” At first I don't answer her. I don't want to say anything because tears are still stuck in my voice and if I make a sound now, I'll have to answer a million questions that won't change anything and will only make me feel worse. So I stand really still and wait for a minute. Hoping
that the stillness will go unnoticed. But I hear steps coming down the stairs and chairs moving in the kitchen. Mom says as she comes over, “Hey, buddy, everything okay?”

I don't want to answer, so I run to the bathroom. It's the only place I can, like, hide for a minute. They're nosy, but they're not nosy about that, especially if I light a match.

The bathroom downstairs is a place I run to a lot, more than I ever have to go. It's this small pink room right off the kitchen that can fit only one person, and I love it for that. It's small, bright and covered in plastic flowers that I think Nanny thinks will remind you of spring and meadows as you poop. I rarely ever do that in here. I usually come in here to think. Or to get away. When Nanny's yelling, or when Mom can't be home when she says she will, and the dinner is just going to get cold. Or when school is rotten and awful. Or even after a good day. It's a place to get it together. The only problem is there's a time limit. After a few minutes, Nanny usually bangs on the door asking if I'm all right, and hopefully by then, I am.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I look terrible. My face is red and sweaty. My eyes are puffy from crying, and my hair is a mess. I was outside like this for a while. And that only makes me want to cry more. Why am I like this? Why does any of this matter? It's just a stupid makeover thing, why do I need to yell? And make people I love hate me?

I hate being this person. With no music. With only the sounds of the angry voices in my head. I sit on the toilet and think for a long time. The screaming's still going on in my head, and I'm squeezing the bottle of cherry soda so hard I think it will break. I want to stay in here and figure it out, or try, but I don't even know what it is or where to start. Whatever this is, I don't know how to fix it. I need to at least stop crying. At least that.

Just that.

I'm scared.

And angry. And sad about that too.

What if it's always like this? What if I can never find anywhere to be? What if person after person leaves me alone, like Sophie, now. Or Ellen, later. She doesn't have
her braces anymore, who knows what will happen with her. And I don't get boys. Ryan and Brian are terrible. Charlie seems nice, but he just smiles at me—what am I supposed to do with that? And Nanny likes me only sometimes. Mom's never home, which means she's mostly with Paolo. There's nowhere for me, and now, there's no Jock here to tell me where that is. What if everyone and everything changes, and I just can't or won't? I don't even know what I'll be then. I'll just have to be here, in this little room, all alone and not normal as they all leave me again and again because I don't know how to be anything else. I need to be made over, because this, whatever this thing is that's me, isn't working.

My time in the bathroom is up when Nanny yells, “Are you all right in there, boy-o?” That's the signal to be quick about it or Nanny will embarrass you with poop talk at the table. I wipe my eyes to get them to look less red. The sweat I can deal with. I wash my face with a lot of water and stare into the mirror, trying to remember what my regular face looks like.

When I do make it out, I feel okay, just okay though,
and I see that Mom and Nanny are sitting at the table, waiting for me. “You okay, buddy? Is your stomach upset?” Mom asks, looking up.

“What did you eat?” Nanny yells. “Junk food, I'll wager.”

I say I'm fine, and Mom tells me to sit down. Nanny turns off Jock's TV, so now I know I'm in trouble, they both want me to hear exactly how much.

Nanny tells Mom about my not coming home and not calling to tell her where I was the other day and how she left me here, and sort of makes out like I ruined the dinner with the Mrs., which makes me want to fight back or at least say something, but I don't. It's not worth it.

“I know you're getting older, buddy, but you can't just go off by yourself and not tell anybody,” Mom says, touching my arm, and that is exactly what I want to do. I want to leave here and Brooklyn and go off completely alone, because the real truth is, that's where I'll get left anyway.

“Do you know how I worry?” Nanny says, softly, which means she's sad, it's the only time she doesn't shake the windows. Any other time I would care, and I would
say sorry, but I can't tonight. I just can't. I can't even look up, really.

“If you don't want to come to Sweet Jane or go out with the Mrs., that's fine, you're old enough to stay home alone,” Mom says.

“You even washed your dishes, which surprised us both,” Nanny chimes in.

“But you have to tell us and you have to be where you are supposed to be. Do you understand?” Mom asks.

“Yes,” I say, but the truth is I have no idea where or what that is.

“You've upset Mrs. Martinez to no end. Tomorrow you'll go to her and you'll make yourself useful to her. You lift whatever she needs lifted, and you'll spend the day with her. So no grumping about it and no lolling about. You're up and out the door tomorrow. Early. No guff. You're to be there by ten, and I'll be calling after you to make sure,” Nanny says, scowling after me. “You have to start getting up earlier anyhow. School's next week, I won't be screaming up the stairs after you.”

Even in the worst of all of this, that's the biggest lie
I've heard today. Mom sort of laughs, and Nanny smiles and says, “Well, I will, but I don't want to have to.”

We all laugh at that. I don't want to, but I do. Mom tells me to go upstairs and lie down before dinner because I look clammy. It's probably still the water from the bathroom. I get to my bedroom and close the door quickly, flopping into my bed almost as soon as I get into the room. I should have stayed here from the beginning.

Nanny comes up the stairs and wakes me up at eight thirty the next day, but not by banging on the door or yelling up to me like every other day. Today she knocks and almost whispers. Already this day is going to be like nothing I know anything about. When Nanny comes in and is trying to be quiet, it's real strange, because I don't think she knows how. She sits on the side of my bed and tries to talk quietly to me, but her version of “quietly” is just normal for the subway. “Ducks, are you awake?”

I slowly open my eyes a little to look at her, and she looks worried. Or upset, like something bad has happened or is going to and she doesn't know how to tell me. I sit up a little and look at her, trying to guess, but I can't. I don't know why she's acting like this. She's also not dressed yet.
Her curlers are still in her hair and it's all still wrapped in plastic. She's still in her pajamas, which is so not the regular thing, outside of Christmas morning. What is going on?

“Good, you need to get up. And with school coming and all, this'll be good for you.” Nanny smiles, but the smile is just something she does to let me know not to be too afraid. “Though for school you've got to get up earlier than this, practically with your mother to get there and what with the breakfast and the like.”

I nod at her a little and lie back down on the pillow. I figure whatever she needs to tell me she will, if the bakery was on fire or something worse, she'd be yelling. This is some sort of a sad emergency I guess, not a terrible one. I stretch a little and try to roll over, thinking maybe that the looking at her isn't letting her tell me. Maybe it's like confession, which she goes to every week with the Mrs. Confession's where you go into this tiny closety box thing, and you kneel and tell the priest through a screen everything you've done wrong. You don't have to look at him, so you can sort of say whatever you want. Maybe not looking at her will help.

“You're doing a good thing this morning, you know that, Ducks. A very good thing. Mrs. Martinez loves you very much and I know you love her right back. But you have to take a little care while you're there, all right?” Nanny says, sort of looking at her hands.

“What do you mean?” I ask, still trying not to look at her.

“Well, you know she's very sad since her son passed on. Well, sometimes she gets upset and needs you to hold her hand or to give her a squeezing.”

“I know, I've seen you do it.”

“I know you have, and I know you'd do it yourself too, if need be. I know that. But sometimes, and this is the bit you have to be very careful about, she gets too sad. So very sad, that there's not a squeeze in the world that will fix it. And if that happens, I want you to call me. Will you promise me you'll do that? Will you?” Nanny turns to me and asks this part looking me right in the face. I promise I will.

Nanny looks very sad as she looks at me, so sad I want to hug her, but so sad I don't know if it will help. Is this the look Mrs. Martinez will have? Nanny gets up from the
bed and goes to the door, and when she grabs the handle, she says, “It's a terrible thing in the world to lose someone you love very much. That's why I get so upset with you when you don't tell me where you are. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”

“I do, Nanny. I'm sorry,” I say.

“You're a good lad, Davis, love, a very good boy for what you're doing and what you've done. Now get in the shower, I'll make you some cereal or something before you go,” Nanny says as she leaves the room without looking at me.

I take a long shower and head down in something nice. I know it sounds silly, but I actually thought about wearing a tie. I have a clip-on from a school picture Nanny wanted me to get so we could send it to her cousin in Galway, but then I thought if I'm lifting boxes or cleaning things all day, that might just be silly. I did wear a button-down and tucked it into my shorts, which looked a little too much like a duck.

By the time I come down the steps to the kitchen, Nanny's all dressed and unwrapped and making coffee,
with the sound of Jock's TV blasting for the day. “Well now, don't you look nice, a perfect little man, aren't you? Sit, and I'll get the Cheerios.”

They aren't Cheerios. Nanny buys only old-people cereal. She just calls all cereal Cheerios. She refuses to buy anything with a marshmallow or a cocoa anything or even just a prize at the bottom. There's only Fiber. That's all. And she barely allows you to put milk on it, so you have to sit there and chew hard. She says that the point of breakfast is not to drink it: “What's the point of cold soup?” The point of breakfast to Nanny is to chew and chew hard so you wake up your mouth and that wakes up your brain. So she passes me the brick of shredded wheat and sits down with her coffee.

After I finish two bites, I beg to be done. Nanny's nice about it today and takes the bowl and pours the rest I left back into the box. It'll be there tomorrow, or the next day, or next year really. It never goes bad. How could it get any worse? “Now, do you know where you're going?” Nanny asks me from the counter.

“Yes, Mrs. Martinez's house,” I answer back.

“But you've the address? I'm asking you. I wrote it down for you on the table,” Nanny says, pointing to the little card she's left out for me. Mrs. Martinez lives about fifteen blocks away in an apartment on 4th Avenue. I could take the subway there, but it's going to be so hot, and underground will be worse, I figure I might as well walk.

“That'll be good for you. Get some air in you before you get over there.” Nanny smiles and pats me twice on the head, telling me again what a good thing I'm doing. If I walk, I also get to listen to music, and it'll take me a little longer to walk over there. I don't know why, but Nanny's making me a little nervous about it all.

“I'm going to call, to make sure you get there, so don't dawdle around,” Nanny says loudly.

“I won't,” I say loudly over the weatherman on Jock's TV saying today is going to be too hot to go out. Stay home if you can, he says. But I can't. I have to go, and the button-down may have been a very bad choice.

It's hot, but since it's still early, it's not as hot as it's going to get. The air is heavy, and like the shredded wheat brick, you almost have to chew it. Maybe that's
why Nanny gave me cereal, so I would be ready. I put on
Così fan tutte
by Mozart. It's a happy opera, one of the few I guess, but I figure I need all the help I can get today.

It's all about these two guys who love these two girls, but they don't know if the two girls love them back, so they decide to pretend to go off to war and tell the girls to wait for them while they're away. The girls promise they'll wait. But the shaky part is, the boys don't actually leave. They just pretend and they come back in disguise as new people to trick the girls to fall in love with them. It's a creepy thing to do, because even if it works or it doesn't, nobody wins. There's a song in
Così fan tutte
—when the girls say good-bye to the boys for the first time—that is called “
Soave sia il vento
,” and it sounds like a perfect good-bye should sound. At the end, when they're almost gone, the music does this thing where it keeps calling, repeating to the people leaving, saying good-bye over and over again, until the last one, the one which the characters might think,
Oh, they can't hear me anymore
, instead of getting quieter, it gets louder to make them hear. I love it, but then I remember that's it a lie. The boys are faking it, and they
will be back in a few minutes to do something terrible. But the girls don't know that yet, so at least they mean it. It must count. Sometimes I guess it's better not knowing. Maybe. Or maybe sometimes, people come back?

When I get to Mrs. Martinez's, I ring her apartment buzzer and wait. She doesn't answer at first, so I give her a minute. Then another. Then another. And buzz again. Still nothing. Did she forget I was coming? I buzz again, a real long buzz to make sure she hears me and loudly, over the buzz, I hear, “Yes? Who's it?”

“Mrs. Martinez, it's me, Davis. My nanny told me—” Before I can get the words out I hear her loud-buzz the door open, and I go through. She lives on the third floor in a pretty old building, so I have to take the stairs. By the time I get up there, I know I'm going to be a puddle. My armpits are already soaked from the outside. This might be just the beginning of a very wet day.

When I get to the third floor, I'm huffing a bit, so I try to walk slower till I get to Mrs. Martinez's apartment. I hate huffing to catch my breath more than anything else. I guess
it means that I'm not in shape, and I guess I'm not, but I hate the sound of it, I hate feeling like I can't breathe and everyone else knowing it too. I just don't want it to be obvious and especially after only three flights. So I take my time.

Mrs. Martinez is standing in her doorway holding a baby and smiling so big that the baby is trying to grab both ends of it. “
Querido!
You came to see us! Yes, he did, José. Look. Who is that come to see us?
Quién
es?
Quién es
?
” Mrs. Martinez keeps asking the baby who I am, but he doesn't know, and I don't know him either. I think it's cool that he speaks Spanish already though.

When I get closer, Mrs. Martinez and the baby give me a big hug, and Mrs. Martinez makes the baby kiss me, which takes a long time, since we don't know each other. He doesn't really kiss me, but sort of bumps my face. Mrs. Martinez is so happy with that, we can finally go inside.

The air conditioner isn't on, I can't tell if there is one at all. So the apartment is just hot. It smells like something too, but nothing I can really name. It's not a food smell, or an old-person smell, or even a baby smell. It's lonely. That's the only name I can put on it. It smells like lonely,
like when you've been sitting in your room all by yourself for a long time, and you haven't changed the sheets or even opened the window because it's just you, and that's it. It's just you. Alone. It's a lonely smell, and it smells that way because you are.

It's cleaner than I thought it would be, like, a lot cleaner. I figured with all the stuff she always has in her pocket, and the way she always looks a little frazzled when I see her, her house would be like that too. But it isn't at all. It's almost all white, pearly white, with just spots of color where her furniture is bright. There's nothing out of place.

Mrs. Martinez takes me into the living room to put the baby down on the blanket on the floor. She has one of those big old TVs that looks like it comes with a chest of drawers, but the screen is really small. It doesn't make any sense and it must weigh a ton. I hope I don't have to move that. On top of the TV is a picture of her son, Gustavo the soldier, who died. He's there just looking out at something, all dressed up in his uniform, like a stamp. The picture isn't that big, but without anything around it, it looks really huge. Also, she's attached palm strips from
Palm Sunday masses—and they stick out in all directions—and rosary beads on the corners of the frame. It sort of looks out of place, because he's there in the frame looking so put together but everything around him is leaves and beads.

“Do you need something to eat,
mi amor
? I have so much food here, I can make you whatever you like.”

“I already ate this morning. Thanks,” I say.

“What did she feed you?” Mrs. Martinez smiles back at me.

“Just cereal.”

“Is that all she gives you? Out of a box? And she expect you to come here and work all day? You can't do nothing on just that. No. I got to make you something.” Mrs. Martinez gets up and goes to the kitchen. “You stay there and watch José,
mi amor
, he loves you so much already, he'll be a good boy for you. Won't you, José?”

I look at José and José looks back. I say, “Hola.” I don't know what else to say. I hope he understands.