Authors: Jenny Han
“You’ll understand one day, loving somebody so much you just want to be near them ’cause they make you feel so good.” Celia sits up and hugs her knees to her chest. She looks about six years old. “He makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.”
“He loves you, Celia.”
She looks so pleased, I feel like Cruella DeVille for trying to steal that look in her eyes. “You really think so?”
“Yeah.” Of this, I am certain. Who could know my sister and not love her?
In the middle of the night I wake up to hear Mama and Daddy fighting. I try to fall back to sleep, but it’s useless. I get up instead. I make my way through the darkness, and it’s Mama’s voice that guides me. When I get to the stairs, I stop and rest my head against the wall. It sounds like the same old fight.
“I work, Gracie, that’s what I do.”
“Work, work, work. That’s all you ever do, right, Billy?”
“Darlin’, one of us has to.”
“And just what do you think I do?”
“You turn the TV off and on at a nursing home.”
“Damn you! Who do you think keeps this family together while you’re gone
workin’
?”
“To be honest, I don’t really see you overtaxin’ yourself. You let both of those girls run wild while you lay around like the Queen of friggin’ Sheba. Lord only knows where Celia spends her nights, and Annemarie never even leaves the house.”
This stings. I didn’t think anyone had noticed the way I was always at home. I can’t help it if everyone I know has taken up arms in the sexual revolution. You’d think he’d be relieved, grateful even.
Mama laughs bitterly. “Oh, please. It’s a little late for you to be taking an interest in the girls. Pardon me, Billy, it’s a little late for you to be taking an interest in
our
girls. Other girls, you’ve got interest aplenty. Why, you’ve got interest just shootin’ right out of you—”
“I’m not having this conversation with you, Gracie.”
“Oh yes, you are,” Mama hisses. Her voice drops low, and I can’t hear what she says next.
Then he says, “Frankly, I’m surprised you even noticed.” His voice is so cold I don’t recognize it as my daddy’s. “I’m surprised you were sober enough to notice anything at all.”
The sound of Mama’s hand across Daddy’s cheek slices through the air. It’s loud enough to make me jump.
“Don’t do that again, Gracie.” The quiet warning in his voice silences the whole house. So does the door he slams.
I hear the car start, drive away. And then all I hear is Mama crying. My shoulders feel tight, and I just want to go back to sleep.
It wasn’t fair of Daddy to say that about Mama never being sober. Plenty of people drink. That doesn’t make them alcoholics. If that were true, Clementon would just be one big AA meeting. And it’s not like she drinks all the time. There’ll be times when she won’t drink anything for days. Mama will go to work and then she’ll come home, and sometimes she’ll even make supper. Or she’ll go out with Gail, or help me with my homework. I don’t really need her help anymore, but it’s nice to work together on something. It’s nice to have her help me. To sit with her in the dining room and have her hair fall across my cheek and breathe in her perfume. It’s like she’s a real mom.
And then Daddy will call and ruin everything. He’ll say he’s not coming home that weekend, or he
will
come home and they’ll fight the way they always do. Then she’ll drink. Sometimes it’s like there’s this well of sadness inside her, and she has to drink to fill it up. And then sometimes it’s like there’s a monster inside of her, and drinking’s the only thing that will calm it down. And sometimes she drinks just because.
When I was little, it wasn’t so bad. Or maybe it was and
I just didn’t notice. It didn’t occur to me to wonder why she woke Celia and me up in the middle of the night to make strawberry sundaes. Or why we were the only kids I knew who didn’t have a bedtime. Or why we were allowed to eat whatever we wanted whenever we wanted. I could have sour cream and onion chips for dinner and Mama wouldn’t bat an eyelash.
That’s probably why I like vegetables so much. The other kids used to be so jealous when I’d pull a bag of chips and a box of cookies out of my lunchbox, but what I wouldn’t do for a Ziploc bag of cut celery or baby carrots. I used to trade Mark my chips for his fruit. Most times it was sliced apples or a banana, but on lucky days there was a kiwi or a tangerine.
When you’re little, lots of things slip past you. Not anymore. I’m old enough to know that not everybody’s mama drinks and not everybody’s daddy is never home. Some daddys are home for dinner every night, like Mr. Findley. Not my daddy, though.
They haven’t had a fight this bad in a while. I wonder if I should go down and comfort her. The thing is, I’m sick of it. I’m sick of the fighting and the crying and the drinking, and I wish I didn’t have to be a part of any of it. But I am.
When I walk into the kitchen, Mama’s standing by the sink wiping her eyes with a paper towel.
I say, “Is everything okay?”
She looks plenty sober now. Her eyeliner is smudged, and her face is red, but she’s still the most beautiful woman I know. Painting a bright smile on her face, she says, “’Course, Shug. Daddy and I just had a little fight. Go on to bed; everything’s fine now.”
“You sure?” Pretending to believe her is easier than not.
“’Course I’m sure. Git on now; scoot.”
I walk back up the stairs, but instead of returning to my room, I go to Celia’s instead. She’s asleep in her bed, and I push her over and crawl in.
My feet are cold, so I warm them up on the backs of her legs. “Annemarie,” she growls.
“Hmm?”
“Get your feet off of me before I cut them off.”
“Sheesh. Sor-ee.” She’s falling back to sleep again, and I whisper, “Celia …”
Silence. “Celia …”
“
What?
”
“Do you think Mama and Daddy are gonna get divorced?”
“No.”
“Do you think they should?”
“Go to sleep, Shug.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“Well, I am. So shut up or get out.”
I shut up.
Daddy called this morning. I picked up the phone as usual. He told me he wasn’t coming home today the way he was supposed to. Something came up at work, something real important. With Daddy, it’s always something “real important.” I asked him if he wanted to talk to Mama; he said no, he’d call back later. I used to be disappointed when he didn’t come home. Now I’m not even surprised. I’m even a little relieved. But what does surprise me is the way Mama still gets upset. You’d think she’d be used to it. But every time he does it, her face crumples for a second, like she’s breaking into little pieces. Pretty soon there’ll be nothing left of her.
This afternoon Jack left a note in my locker. It said, “Can’t tutor at my house today, I’ll be at your house at
7:30.” It’s just like him to change things up on me like that with no notice. Luckily Mama’s working tonight, and Celia’s hardly ever around anyway, so we’ll have the house to ourselves.
As soon as I get home from school, I start cleaning up the house like a madwoman. I wash the dishes that have piled up, I put away coats in the closet, I wipe down the counter, I even dust the TV. I don’t know that the TV has ever been dusted.
For dinner I fix myself two boiled hot dogs and cold baked beans. With ketchup. Plus root beer. It’s a feast fit for a king.
After I eat, I set up a workstation in the dining room. I lay out paper and mechanical pencils, and at 7:30 on the dot, the doorbell rings.
I run over to the front door, and it’s Jack. On time. I can tell that he’s just had a shower because his hair’s still wet. His hair looks so dark it’s almost black. He just stands there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Hey.”
“Uh, hey, come on in.”
Leading him through the kitchen, it hits me how weird it is to have a boy that’s not Mark in my house. It’s like on those standardized tests you take at school—which of these things does not belong? Jack Connelly, that’s what.
“You want somethin’ to drink?”
“Nah.”
“Well, let’s get to work then.”
Jack grins and salutes me. “Sir, yes sir.”
I make a face, but I’m not really mad. We sit down at the dining room table, and the two of us get straight to work.
I’m explaining what a split infinitive is when Mama waltzes into the room. She’s wearing her silky emerald green nightgown, and I already know something’s wrong. Her eyes look glassy and unfocused, and my heart almost stops when I realize she’s been drinking. Not a little, but a lot. “Mama, I thought you were at work.” My voice comes out sounding highpitched and worried.
“I wasn’t feelin’ so hot this mornin’. Can’t a girl take a sick day?” When she’s been drinking a lot, she talks extra slow. That’s how you know she’s in a bad way: She sounds like the South.
Mama zeroes in on Jack. “Hi, there. Who’s your little friend, Shug?”
“Mama, this is Jack Connelly. You’ve met him before. We go to school together.”
“Hello, Mrs. Wilcox.”
“Jack Connelly … Hi, darlin’. Your mama works at that
steak restaurant over on Clinton Boulevard, right?” She beams at him.
“Yes, ma’am.” I’ve never seen Jack so polite. He’s acting as if everything is normal. He’s acting like he’s come to pick me up for the prom and he’s tryin’ to make a good impression on my folks.
“Your mama and I go wayyy back. She had her eye on my Billy, you know. So did just about every girl at Clementon High School.” Mama giggles. “But I got him, yes siree. And your mama, well, she was just fit to be tied … Trish, whatever happened to her? She took up with that no-account fool Glen after graduation. And then he up and left her, didn’t he?”
“Yes, ma’am, he did.”
“I tell you, Jack, Trish is better off without a man. Men’ll just break your heart. Don’t you grow up and be a man, y’hear?”
“No, ma’am.”
In a low voice I say, “Mama, we’re trying to get some work done. Will you please just go back upstairs and leave us alone?”
“Now, Shug, don’t you go gettin’ uppity with me.” She smiles winningly at Jack. “This one over here thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba. … Are you two hungry?”
“We’re fine,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Now don’t be rude to your little friend. Jack, are you hungry, darlin’? Wouldn’t you like a ’lil snack?”
“No, thank you. I already had dinner.”
“All right then.” Her gaze wanders around the room, then refocuses on the two of us. “Are you two gonna be all right alone in here?”
Oh God, no. This is every nightmare I’ve ever had, times a million. “
Yes
, Mama.” With my eyes I beg her to leave, but she doesn’t seem to see me.
She winks at Jack. “Can I trust you alone with my Shug? I know how boys your age think.”
“We’re just friends, Mama,” I hiss. I glare at her so hard it seems to wake her up a bit.
She nods. “All right, all right. Nice to see you, Jack. Say hello to your mama for me.” She goes back upstairs without another drunken word.
For a long time neither of us say anything. Tears are pricking the backs of my eyelids, and I’m afraid to speak. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll start bawling and everything inside of me will come out.
Finally I manage to croak, “Sorry about my mother. She didn’t mean any of it. She just gets like that when she drinks.” I’ve never been able to say those words to anybody,
not even Elaine. Especially Elaine. But somehow, I knew I could say them to Jack. I sort of needed to.
Jack shrugs and grins at me. “Aw, that was nothin’. My dad could be a real asshole when he drank.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. He’d get in these tempers, throw stuff around. Once, he threw me down the stairs. That’s how come I had a cast on my leg back in fourth grade.”
“I thought you said it was ’cause you were poppin’ a wheelie on your bike.”
“Nah. I just told everybody that ’cause it sounds better than gettin’ thrown down the stairs by your drunk dad.” Jack grins again, but it’s not his usual grin, cocky and sure of himself. This grin is empty and sad. “But everybody knew anyway, right?”
I don’t say anything. All of the neighborhood kids knew that Jack’s dad knocked him around sometimes. There was getting in trouble once in a while, and then there was getting beat up, and Jack got beat up.
“Who cares. It was a long time ago. He doesn’t even live with us anymore, and he stopped drinking anyway. Well, he says he has. He says he’s changed. He goes to AA and stuff. My mom and Clarice go visit him sometimes.”
“What about you?”
“I say, once a deadbeat, always a deadbeat.” He looks away. “But maybe one day, you know? He’s been helping my mom out with bills and stuff for a while now, so maybe he really has changed. Anyway, your mom’s not so bad, Annemarie. I remember that time she was one of the chaperones for the circus field trip back in third grade. She wasn’t supposed to buy us any popcorn or cotton candy, but she did anyway.”
“Yeah, I remember.” I’d been proud of her that day. She’d worn a blue-and-white-striped sweater and blue slacks, and she’d been prettier than every other mother there.
“And she used to come to those pickup softball games in the park. She’d bring Styrofoam cups and a big jug of Kool-Aid, and she’d cheer you on.”
“I remember.”
“She’s a pretty cool lady.”
“When she isn’t drinking.”
“Yeah, well, that’s more than some people.” For someone who’s not so good with words, he knows exactly how to say the right thing. Which is a whole lot more than some people.
When I see Jack at school the next day, I’m only a little bit embarrassed. It’s like we share a secret. I know he won’t tell
anyone about Mama, and he knows I won’t say anything about his dad. When he sees me in the hallway, he says, “Hey, Einstein” and that’s it. It’s like nothing happened.
But something did happen, and part of me is glad. Part of me is relieved. Somehow, saying it out loud makes it all feel a little less terrible. I know Celia’d probably be mad at me for telling, but it’s not like I had a choice. He saw it all with his own two eyes. He was a witness, and I’m not even ashamed.