Husky (16 page)

The strange thing about the morning after a fight, a super fight, is that you expect everything to be broken. Plates shattered all over the floor or windows busted in, something to show that things aren't right, that something is terribly wrong.

And it's all your fault.

But it doesn't happen like that. And the things that are really broken are usually not stuff that lies around on the floor, or that you can cover with an old pizza box so the rain doesn't come in. The stuff that really gets broken is stuff you don't see. I get up slowly, and walk quietly, trying to see who is still around. On Sunday mornings it's always a guess. Mom has an early morning, but on some Sundays, she lets Paolo take the morning prep and stays
home till twelve. I don't think she will stay home today. But I don't want to find out just yet if she is.

Nanny is always up, banging around, and getting ready to go to church with the Mrs., who come over early for coffee and cake and at least by this time are laughing loudly in the kitchen. But there is not a sound in the whole house. Maybe I got left for real. Or maybe they are all being as quiet as me because none of us want to see one another. I tiptoe to the bathroom to brush my teeth and it isn't until I turn on the water that I hear a single sound. In an old house like ours, you always know if someone else is there, the house lets you know. Creaks and bangs, even just a gush of wind, if you listen hard enough, can let you know who is home and what sort of mood they are in.

At first I think the sound is just the pipe getting water ready for me. But then the three that follow let me know that Nanny is in the living room and waiting for me. She's pacing, 'cause the creak in the middle floorboard is going
creak
,
creak
,
creak
right along with her. I quickly turn off the water, thinking that even though I hear her, maybe she hasn't heard me. But that would never happen. Never
Not Ever. I stand very still and just look in the mirror, wondering what I am going to do. What am I going to say? What is she going to say? I'm almost expecting her to yell up to me and start the whole stupid thing all over again.

But nothing.

Just the creak-pace.

Creak-pace.

Creak-pace.

Why won't she say anything at all? She usually yells up about whatever she wants. Whatever. Nice things, bad things, anything and in any mood, there is no thing she won't yell. So why not now? Why just the pacing now? How bad is this going to be?

I turn the doorknob slowly, thinking maybe if I could just get back to my room, I could get back into bed and not deal with whatever this new silent mood of Nanny's is and find a silent mood all my own, but two steps into that hallway and:

“Davis? Are you awake?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Good. Get dressed and come down. And bring your phone money. You and I are going to lunch.”

I want to say,
Oh, I'm fine. I'm not hungry. It's too early to eat. I can just stay home and make a peanut butter sandwich
. She's taking my phone money. I want to get angry and fight back, but I can't. I can't fight anymore.

When I get down to the living room, Nanny is in her chair with her pocketbook.

“You're to take me and that money, and you are to buy me a new television,” she says, not looking at me.

“Yes, Nanny,” I say. I want to fight and cry and tell her no, and tell her she doesn't know how much I need a phone, but I can't. There's none of that that makes any sense right now.

“C'mon, we've got to get the train,” Nanny says, about ten steps in front of me, still not looking at me.

We don't say anything for a long time. But when we approach the subway, I finally ask, “Which way are we going?” I ask in a nice but scared sort of way that lets her know its hers to decide. I won't put up a fight. She won't get another
no
from me.

Nanny walks faster and faster, so fast that even when I do try to actually keep up with her, I can't. At the train station, she's already through the gate before I get in the door. She's through and up the stairs before I even get out my MetroCard.

“Did you bring your MetroCard?” she yells from inside the gate.

I check my pocket, and no. Of course not. Now she can genuinely kill me, because I never remember it, even though she nags me and nags me and now this final time, I have pushed her over the edge. But when I look up, she is standing at the turnstile and swiping me in.

“I'm sorry, I forgot,” I try to say.

But she doesn't answer. She just turns around and walks back up the steps.

Nanny goes up the stairs to the train, and I start to think of all the things I forgot to do on my last day in Brooklyn. Because I know I am going to die on this trip. Easily. She may actually just throw me on the tracks now. She hates me that much. I should have said good-bye to my street and my records. Should have called Ellen.
Signed good-bye to Hannah. I should have sent Sophie something, today's her actual birthday. I don't know what, but some sort of good-bye, something trying to be nice, but at the same time maybe telling her there's still time to save me from the horrible smiling Irish woman who is walking me toward my death on the F train. But also something to remind her of us being friends.

I should have hugged Mom and told her to be happy. With Paolo, if she had to be.

But there was no time.

And now it's all over.

By the time I get to the top of the stairs, Nanny is sitting on the bench and waiting for the train. She pats the seat next to her, the seat of my death.

We sit silently waiting for the train. Neither of us says anything, which for me is not strange but for her, for Nanny, it's a sign of the apocalypse. Something is seriously wrong. I'm definitely going to die.

I want to talk to her. Or I want her to just yell at me, or be mad or something, anything, because this silence with the patting and the perky waiting is not okay. Not
okay at all, I want the old Nanny back, even if the old Nanny is going to eat my brains or throw me under the F train. She's so quiet now, she doesn't give me a chance. Until finally she does.

“You were cruel last night, Ducks,” Nanny says.

“I know,” I say.

“No you don't. I'm telling you. You were cruel and nasty and I was ashamed of you. I am ashamed of you,” Nanny says.

“I'm sorry,” I say. Now I can't look at her.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to be happy in this world? And to find that happiness with another person? Do you?” Nanny says. “And your mother, God bless her, deserves that. She more than most. And you were selfish and rotten to your core. And I raised you better than that. She and I both did.”

“I know.”

“And for you to say
hate
! Hate's never a thing been used on you. Never! And to that poor woman. Why would you do such a thing? Why?”

“I don't know,” I say, and I start to cry.

“So you're wicked? So you break something up, just to see that you can?”

“I didn't want to.”

“You did. And you knew you would. Don't cry to me now about it,” Nanny yells back to me. “You owe her everything. You owed it to her to sit there and eat your food and be happy that someone loves her.”

“But I love her,” I say.

“You've a nice way of showing it,” Nanny says. “Jock had to stop you before you went any further. You know that, don't you? He was looking down, hearing you, and even he was disappointed in you. He had to shut you up. So he did.”

“I'm sorry, Nanny, about the TV,” I cry back.

“Ducks, there's more to the world than you see. And there's more to the world than you know. The worst thing God ever did was give us all eyes of our very own. We see what we see and we think that's all there is. We're blind and we don't even know it. I know you not to be a cruel boy. I know you not to be spiteful and wicked. But the more you keep in that head of yours and not out here with
the rest of us, the worse off you'll be.”

And then, right at the edge of the platform, a seagull lands.

And Nanny despite herself laughs, her little
would you look at that
laugh. And she hits my arm lightly and says, “Lookit.” The bird is so white and perky, he's looking around to see how he got this lost. I know how he feels, because I don't know which way is the right way either.

“That's just the sum of it, isn't it?” says Nanny.

“What?” I ask. Totally confused.

“Here we are, in Brooklyn, in the Brooklyn we know, or we think we know, and right over there, right over there, just beyond where we can see, is the ocean. It's a whole different world. You should remember that.” And Nanny gets up and walks down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” I say, running after.

“The ocean,” says Nanny.

We go to the other side of the platform and we ride the F train all the way to the last stop in Brooklyn. We ride out most of the way again without talking much, but for some reason, I don't notice it as much as I did before.
I watch the houses go by from parts of Brooklyn that I've never really seen before. House-y parts with people with carports, all different kinds of families getting on and off the train, as the ocean slowly creeps along the side of us.

And then we're there. Coney Island.

It's strange being at an amusement park and feeling awful. Luckily Coney Island isn't just that. It has rides, and the oldest roller coaster I think in the world, and Nathan's hot dogs, which are famous for being really good. So there's lots to distract you. There are tons of people headed to the beach looking happy and summery. And then there's Nanny and me. Barely talking.

We walk slowly on the wooden boardwalk, each step creaking like at home, but different against the sound of the ocean. The huge brownish water that goes on and on until Europe and Africa and all the people there. It's hard to think about it or even understand, but when you do, there it is and it's amazing. Nanny sits down on a bench alone. She doesn't pat me over. I would go and sit right next to her, but I want to look at the ocean. I'm trying to understand it more. I want to try to see past what I know
is impossible, but still I want to try. And I need my own quiet now with the ocean. And I think Nanny does too. We are apart for a good, long time. And it's okay. Because the ocean is there and so are we, if not together close, at least together here.

“I used to come out here with Jock, you know,” says Nanny. “Yes, especially when we'd had a fight, which was not often but always serious enough when we did. And I would sit here with him, not talking much, like we are today, or aren't today, and look at the ocean. And it would calm me.”

“Why?” I ask her.

“Because the water does nothing but change. It can't help it. And that's what we have to do too. It's easier always to just wave the change to you, then stop.”

“I don't want to change anymore.”

“You! You've just begun. There's only more of it ahead of you.”

“I'm afraid.”

“Who isn't? You think I'm not? You think your mother isn't? But we wave it toward us, and we get on
with it. Do you know why? Because we love each other. That's the only bit that never changes. You can try all the rest. You can stomp around about a party, and be mad because the pants don't fit you right, or tie the television to the refrigerator for the love of Pete, but the truth is, it all goes. Only the love stays. Unless you break it.”

“Did I? With Mom?”

“No.”

“With you?”

“No, Ducks, you're stuck with me.”

And I sit down on the bench with her finally. I want to be close to her. I need it, I guess. And she puts out her hand and I take it.

“It's a nice thing to remember there're seagulls in Brooklyn, isn't it?”

Nanny's new TV costs $158.86. Which means I won't have a phone for a while. As the lady at the store rings it up, she keeps looking at me and trying to read why my face is so sad as I hand over all my money. I'm buying this great TV, shouldn't I be happy? I count the money really slowly, sort of waiting to see if Nanny will finally relent and let me off the hook. But she doesn't, she barely moves. And she says nothing. At all. It makes the whole thing a lot scarier than I imagined.

The whole way home on the subway, neither of us says much, but we sit very close together, with the TV resting on both of our laps. Nanny doesn't look at it. It's not like a new present to get excited about. It's something to take the place of something else that can't be replaced.
It will never be as good or work as well or even look the right way as the last one. Because the last one was Jock's, and now both he and it are gone.

We get off at the 7th Avenue stop, which is great because I have to carry the TV. Nanny walks the few blocks to home far ahead of me. She doesn't even look back once. She knows I'm there, I guess. She's not running from me or anything like before, it's just a fast walk to get back home and have it done with. The whole day. Maybe even the good part. When I turn the corner, she's almost at the gate, but as she steps through, she stops and turns to look at me. And for almost the first time today, she smiles at me.

“Come on, now. You haven't much farther,” Nanny yells. I try to hurry up the street and get to the door as she holds it open for me. “Is it heavy now, love?”

“Not too bad,” I huff back at her.

“Well, bring it and let it rest down there, now. That's a good boy,” Nanny says, rushing to the kitchen to drop her pocketbook and everything off at the table. I carry the TV to the doorway and leave it on the floor.

“You don't think it's too big for up there, do you?” Nanny says, not looking at me but washing her hands in the sink.

“No, I think it'll be fine. Do you want me to set it up for you?” I ask.

And Nanny stops. “No. Not just yet. Let's wait a minute. Maybe it'll be nice for the quiet.” Nanny doesn't turn around as she says any of this to me. I'm beginning to think she still doesn't want to look over at it.

Still looking at the sink, she says, “You've done a good thing, today, you have. You've acted the man, and I'm proud of you.” I start to say thank you, or I love you, or I don't know what when she says, “But you're not through yet. You've got to go make amends to your mother. And you've got to go now.”

“All right, Nanny,” I say in a small voice.

“Go on with you, then. She's down at the bakery,” Nanny says.

I turn around and leave Nanny facing the sink in the kitchen. She's not washing her hands anymore, and the whole house is quiet like there's nobody home. When I
get to the door, I yell back to her, “I love you.”

And Nanny screams back, “And I, you, Ducky. And I, you.”

Maybe it will be all right.

Sweet Jane is still open when I get there, but Paolo is outside. He's sweaty again and drinking a big bottle of water. He stops when he sees me coming. And I get sort of afraid, I mean, is he going to hit me? Or yell at me? What? He must be mad. Could I fight him off if I have to? What if he starts throwing those fake punches for real? But when he puts down the water bottle, all he does is smile.

“Hey, little man, how're you today?”

“Fine. I guess,” I answer back. I still keep a little farther off just in case he tries to attack me.

“Your mom is inside.” Paolo smiles.

“Thanks,” I say, thinking that's it and I just need to get inside and get away from him. But I stop again and turn to look at him. Paolo's nice. He's sweaty and hairy and he has the worst nicknames, like little man, and he's always trying to tell me how to get girls, but he's nice.
And he makes Mom laugh, a laugh I have never heard up until now, but maybe it's a laugh she needs. I don't want to hate him. I don't really have any reason to. And I want to tell him that, I want to say I'm sorry, and that it's okay that he's dating my mom. But I can't. Just not yet. So I smile and go inside. The rest will have to wait.

There are a few customers, so Jules is pretty distracted and doesn't really pay that much attention to me. This is a good thing, because I need all the courage I can grab at before I get back to Mom, and Jules always makes me feel really dumb. I know it's just the voice, like she's annoyed at having to make all those syllables at a single person that isn't sweating or showing a nipple. But I can't deal with that either today. I just need to get back to Mom.

I walk all the way to the way back, thinking about what I'm going to say, how sorry I need to be and how sorry I am. But before I get to Mom's office, I stop at the Blunder Wall. I want to put a big picture of myself up there. But I'm far from Blunderful. It's looking at this wall of mistakes that makes me think about how much I must have hurt Mom—by saying those things and ruining her
night, a night she was already super nervous about and got dressed up for and prepared all this food for and probably prepped Nanny for hours about, just so she wouldn't say the wrong thing, when really it would be me. I would be the mistake. But I don't belong on the wall, because you can't laugh about what I did. You just have to throw it out and start over.

Mom is sitting in her office, watching me look up at the wall. She's been watching me the whole time and not saying anything. Just letting me have a moment, just seeing me alone and how I am, and I guess wondering at me, like I did at her. When I catch her, I smile. I don't know what else to do.

And, the happiest moment of this whole day is when she smiles back.

“I'm sorry,” I say, looking at her.

“I know,” she says.

“I just get so . . .” I try to say more.

“I know. I get it,” Mom says, almost turning around. But I stop her. I walk over and I pull at her arm, not in a mean way but just in a way to grab hold of her and make
her look at me. I press my forehead right to hers, trying to get the thoughts from one head to the other, and I speak in a voice so quiet that only the two of us can hear it.

“I'm just scared, all the time.”

“Why?” Mom whispers back.

“Because nothing stays the same, and the other things never change.”

“I know, buddy.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy with you.” Mom smiles, touching my face.

“But it doesn't have to be just me. Okay?” I say, looking at her eyes so close to mine.

“Okay,” Mom says, and kisses me on the forehead.

There's lots more to say, there always is, but not tonight. For tonight, okay is perfect.

“Well, I wanted you to help me frost Sophie's cake before I run it up to them,” Mom says, getting up from her desk.

“Do you mind if I just watch?” I ask.

“Sure thing.” Mom smiles as she walks to the front.
She turns around and looks at me, expecting me to follow her. But I need a minute and I tell her so. When Mom goes up, I stay behind and look up at the Blunder Wall again. There, up in the corner, is Jock smiling and holding a burned pie. The smile is so big in the picture that I can almost hear the big laugh that must have followed right after.

And I want to tell everything to Jock, all the whys and the whats of everything that I did. But he's just smiling at me, making me laugh at the mess. Because it's funny.
It's a silly thing to cry about, Davey boy. Start over and this time get it right. There's a place for everything, it's up to you to find it.

Bread is a process.

I walk up to the front.