Still Life with Tornado (20 page)

My home.
I live in ruins. I have always lived in ruins, but I only found out today.
“I missed you,” I say. I say this because I realize Bruce is probably the only person who ever really saw what I am. I am a human being. I am sixteen years old.

“I wish I could go back six years and change everything,” he says.

I consider telling him about ten-year-old Sarah, but I don't.

But I decide they should meet.

I can't figure out how I'm supposed to look my parents in the face today. How do I do that? How do I look at them? Two chefs who made this lie-stew I've been simmering in for sixteen years.

The clock says 6:55 a.m. I don't hear anyone awake in the house. I slept in my clothes again. I get up and pull my hair into a braid and tiptoe out the front door to find ten-year-old Sarah.

•   •   •

I walk around the block a few times. I walk to Broad so I can sit in a bus shelter. I loop back through Rittenhouse Square. I can't find ten-year-old Sarah anywhere.

I lose my breath thinking about never talking to her again. I don't know where to find her. She can't just leave.

“I'm not going anywhere,” ten-year-old Sarah says.

I am so elated, I hug her. She's not fond of hugs. I know this because I'm not fond of hugs. She squirms a little until I let her go.

“I want to see Bruce.”

“You can't see him yet. But maybe later. Tonight.”

“Why'd you hug me so hard?”

“Because I thought you were gone.”

“What do you care if I'm gone?”

“I don't know,” I say, but I think about it for a few steps. “I guess because I wouldn't have remembered anything about when I was you. And I wouldn't have figured out what was wrong with me.”

“There's nothing wrong with you,” she says.

“There's a lot wrong with me,” I say. “And you know it.”

“Does this mean you'll go back to school and not throw our future down the toilet?”

“Not going back to school until summer,” I say.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

I stop walking. I sit on the sidewalk with my back to the side of a building and she sits down next to me and I tell her the whole stupid story.

“Sounds like some asshole was jealous.”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like that whole art club is full of bitches.”

“Carmen is nice,” I say.

“Carmen didn't have your back, though. Did she?”

I look at her and try to figure out how she's so honest and how she's me but not me. I remember being honest. I can't remember when I stopped.

“Do you remember Bruce getting hit?” I ask.

“How could I not remember that? It was a month ago. Dad knocked his tooth out.”

“I mean before then.”

“No. I do remember Dad being nasty, though. To Bruce, I mean.”

“And Mom.”

“And Mom,” she says.

“I have to get home,” I say. “See you later?”

“I can't wait to see Bruce.”

I say, “He can't wait to see you, either.”

•   •   •

When I get home, Dad is locked in his room and Mom is up and doing things. She says, “There you are!” She looks so happy to see me. Looking her in the face isn't as hard as I thought it would be.

I say, “Want to go for a walk?”

She says, “Fun! Yes!”

When we get outside, she says, “I want to see—um—the other Sarah. You know what I mean.”

“Later,” I say. “She's busy.”

Mom looks concerned. “How do you know?”

“She's me.”

“This is very hard to take in, you know.”

“It's easier than some stuff I can think of,” I say. “It's easier than a lot of stuff, really.” I'm cranky. I want to call her a liar. I want to ask what Tiffany the palm reader said to her yesterday. I want to forgive her.

She doesn't say anything. We just walk. I wonder can she see I've been through the meat grinder. I wonder can she feel Bruce four blocks away. I wonder if she knows that ten-year-old Sarah is about to save our lives.

Somehow, I know this.

Mom and I take a left up 15th Street. When we round the corner onto Spruce, I see Alleged Earl drawing on one of the plywood rectangles covering the window above where he sleeps. He's using oil crayons. Mom sees him, too. I stop and watch. He's in some sort of trance and I remember that trance. I remember weaving the headpiece that way. It was tedious work. Tiny, thin strands of wire in and out and in and out of the spokes.

“That's Earl!” Mom says.

I look at her. “You know him?”

“Yeah. He comes into the ER some nights. I haven't seen him in years, though.”

“His name is really Earl?”

“Did you think it was something else?”

“I don't know,” I say.

“I bet he's hungry,” she says, and crosses Spruce to talk to him.

I follow her a few seconds later because I have no idea why.

Mom has a quick conversation with Earl. He looks over at me. I wave in my circular me-wave. He puts his oil pastel in his coat pocket.

Mom says, “Earl, this is my daughter, Sarah. Sarah, this is my friend, Earl.”

“We finally meet,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“You stopped hanging around,” he says. “I kinda missed you.”

“I kinda missed you, too.”

Mom says she's going to the pizza place for a few slices for us. She crosses the street and leaves me standing here with Earl. No longer alleged. No longer painting on the plywood. No longer jumping up and down or throwing imaginary fruit.

“Your brother is in town, eh?” he asks.

I say, “Mom doesn't know.”

He looks at me sideways.

“My parents don't talk to Bruce anymore,” I say. “So his visit is a secret.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah.”

“That's uncomfortable, I bet.”

“Not as uncomfortable as sleeping in that hard doorway every night,” I say.

He doesn't say anything.

“There has to be a better place to go,” I say.

“I like to be where the action is.”

“But in winter, you could die.”

“I haven't yet.”

“But there's no action here. It's all just the same old thing. Nothing ever really happens.”

Mom arrives back with three slices on paper plates. The grease is seeping through them already.

“Nothing ever really happens?” Earl says. He laughs a little.

“Not around here, no,” I say.

“You know Sarah is an artist,” Mom says. “Just like you.”

I say, “See? That's the problem. I'm
not
an artist. And I'm
not
like him.”

“I got three sodas. What kind do you want?” Mom says, holding up three cans.

“I'll take the cola,” he says. “Thank you.” He turns to me. I finally get to see his eyes. They're brown.

“You know the truth will set you free, right?” Earl says.

“That's why I was following you,” I say.

“I don't have your truth!” he says and laughs again.

“You're a real artist,” I say. “I want to be like you.” I don't tell Earl he is Spain. I don't tell Earl he is Macedonia.

“You see me in the art museum?”

I shake my head while taking a bite out of my slice.

“You see me at the art sales? With the college kids? Up in the galleries in Old City?”

I shake my head again.

“You know what art is?” he asks. “Art is the truth. Maybe you don't feel like an artist because of, because of”—he swirls his hands around—“because of all this.”

All this.

My life.

Mom is completely lost because she doesn't know what Earl is talking about. Earl is trying to wipe a drip of greasy cheese out of his dusty beard and Mom holds his Coke can for him.

“I can't say I miss you in the ER, Earl, but I worry about you.”

“My son's up at Drexel now. He's doing great.”

“College already?” Mom says. “My God. It's been a long time.”

“He's going to be a teacher,” Earl says. “Just like his old man.”

“You're a teacher?” I ask.

“I was. Twenty-five years. Taught middle school.”

“An art teacher?” I ask, thinking of Miss Smith. Thinking of how much I want Earl to be my art teacher.

“History,” he says. Then he turns to Mom. “Helen, you know I think I saw your boy down on Pine Street? He looks good!”

Mom stops eating her pizza. I stop eating my pizza.

Earl keeps going. “He filled out. Last I saw him he was scrawny. How old is he now?”

It's like they're two old friends. I ask, “How long have you guys known each other?”

Mom says, “Bruce lives in Oregon now. You must have seen his double.”

Earl looks at me. I can't say anything. I take a bite of pizza. Earl takes a bite of pizza but he keeps looking at me. Mom's frown is deep in her forehead. It looks like a scar between her eyebrows.

Earl says, “The first time I met your mom you probably weren't even born.”

Mom says, “You had pneumonia. You let it go too long.”

“Your mom saved my life,” he says.

“She saved your life?”

“Saved my life,” he says.

Mom eats her pizza. She knows Bruce is in town; I can feel it. Maybe mothers have an extra sense or something. Maybe they can tell when their son is in town and no one has told them.

Earl looks back at me. “I'd be dead.”

“You
were
dead,” Mom says.

“That's when I saw the light. When I got my calling.”

Mom nods. “Thank God I walked in. That other nurse had no idea you were about to tank.” I think about this. I wonder if Mom has noticed that I'm tanking. I don't think she does.

“So, you were a history teacher,” I say. “So how'd you end up—um—here?” Mom and Earl look at me funny. I add, “If you don't mind my asking.”

“I gave up all my possessions. I freed myself from all my responsibilities.”

“Oh,” I say.

“I got laid off. I sold everything I had to pay hospital bills.”

“The other way you said it sounded nicer,” I say.

“The truth will set you free,” he says again.

“But aren't there places that could help you? You could totally get a job at one of those learning centers,” I say.

“I have a job,” he says. “You know I have a job. You've been following me around watching me do it.”

“You've been following Earl?” Mom says.

“Her and her sister. I didn't know you had another one,” he says.

I look at Mom. “Ten-year-old Sarah.”

She goes to say something but she just eats another bite of pizza instead. Earl does, too. I pick my slice up and am about to shove the crust into my mouth but I say, “Mom, Bruce is here. He's staying at a B and B. I had dinner with him last night. Sorry I lied. I just didn't want to make you angry.”

I don't know why I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm scared to make my mother angry. My emotions are smaller than they should be. I'm the one who should be angry, but I'm
cranky
or
upset.
As if a sixteen-year-old can't be angry for real.

A tear crawls down Mom's cheek. It moves so slowly I can't figure if it will drip onto her pizza or if it will be absorbed into her skin before it does.

Mom says, “So while you're skipping school, you follow Earl around?”

“Just for a few days.”

“Other days she goes up to places she shouldn't,” Earl says. He looks at me. “That's a dangerous place, that old school.”

Mom is entirely confused.

“It's better than real school.”

Earl chews and thinks on this a minute.

Mom says, “Something happened in school and she won't tell me.”

They both look at me. I shove the crust into my mouth and when I'm done chewing, I say, “There is no such thing as an original idea.”

Earl says, “Who told you that?”

“My art teacher.”

He shakes his head. “Is she an artist?”

I never thought about this before. I've never seen anything she made. Mom goes back to eating her pizza. I want to tell Earl everything. Instead I just answer his question.

“I don't think so, no,” I say.

He nods, slowly.

Mom says, “How long has Bruce been in town?”

“Yesterday.” Earl and I say this in unison. He says it calmly. I say it with anger. He looks at me and smiles and I have no idea why. It doesn't make me any less angry. I wonder if Earl was following me and not the other way around. And this is art. Everything is art.