Thirty-three

“What do you kids want today?” the man behind the counter said. He gave Cary a big smile. It was a hot day, but cool and white inside the ice cream shop. I stared at the garish red, purple, and pink posters of ice cream sundaes and sodas over the counter. Unreal. Everything seemed unreal to me, even being with Cary.

“I really want to go to your uncle’s play,” Cary said as we sat down in a booth with our ice cream.

The play! I almost smiled. It was so far away from me. “You’ve got time, it’s running for another two weeks.”

“Let’s go together. You wouldn’t mind seeing it again, would you?”

“I don’t know, Cary, I’m not sure what my plans are …”

“What do you mean?”

“My mother—did you see the article?”

She nodded. “After you told me about it, I got the newspaper and read it. It said she was in prison.”

“She is. Did you tell your parents anything about it?”

“No, Pete, are you kidding? They wouldn’t—you know, if they knew, they wouldn’t even want me to talk to you on the phone.”

“And what about you—how do you feel?”

“Well … it’s not a total shock.”

“But it is a shock, right? That my mother’s in prison.” It wasn’t easy to say that, but if I couldn’t say it to Cary—

“It’s just—When you told me about her and your father, Pete, it was more like—a story. Do you know what I mean?” She leaned toward me. “I don’t mean I didn’t believe you. It just wasn’t—it wasn’t entirely real to me. I met your uncle and—to tell the truth, I sort of let the whole thing about your parents go out of my mind.”

I knew what she meant. She’d told me all that stuff about her foster homes, but what was vivid and real to me was the Yancey family. I’d forgotten most of the details of her foster homes.

“My mother wants me to come live near her. She’s got it all arranged, these friends of hers in the city—”

“New York City? That’s a long way away.” Cary looked remote, brooding.

A silence fell. We were right next to each other, but very far apart. I didn’t have the energy even to try to break through to Cary. I sat there, tapping the spoon against the dish, trying to think clearly about Laura’s letters, but I didn’t have the energy for that either. What was the matter with me? Why wasn’t I clicking my heels and shouting hallelujah? Mother and son reunion coming up just over the horizon. From now on, no more secrets, the clouds lifted, the sun-son shining forever. Only one little flaw: she was in prison (although not forever). No, two little flaws: no father in the rosy dawn. Laura and Hal were no longer Laura-and-Hal. They were Laura. And Hal. I got the feeling Laura told me about her and Hal, let out a big sigh of relief, and figured I’d be, well, not glad, but understanding. I wasn’t understanding. I didn’t understand, I didn’t want to understand. Goddamn it! First I had no mother and no father, and now I had a mother in jail and still no father.

I scraped up the last of the ice cream. “If I do go, Cary, I’ll come to see you every weekend.”

“No you won’t!” She shrugged and said flatly, “People don’t come back.”

“My mother did. Eight years … and she came back.”

“Is that how long I’m going to have to wait to see you again, Pete?”

“It was just an example.”

“You’re going there to her, aren’t you? I know you are.”

“I don’t even know it myself yet.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? You’ll go. To see your mother? You will.” She flung out her arm as if she wanted to hit me, then said very clearly, “Don’t think your parents are any better than mine, Pete.”

“What? … I don’t—”

“Oh, come on! You think they’re superior. Superior moral beings! I’ve heard you talk about them—‘Everything they’ve ever done, Cary, is for their principles, not for selfish reasons.’”

Was that how I sounded—pompous and self-important? “Cary, just because I said those things—”

The man behind the counter looked over at us. “Everything okay, kids?”

“Wonderful,” I said.

Cary put her face close to mine. “My parents were pretty cruddy, but don’t forget—your mother killed two people.”

My hand ached, I wanted so much to slap her.

I pushed my dish aside. “Well, this is a real nice time we’re having. It’s so nice I guess I’ll go home.” I threw a couple of dollars down on the table and walked out.

Cary’s words came with me. Your mother killed two people. Laura had said it in her letters too, but in other words … two lives sacrificed … grief for the loss of life … Cary had not been so polite.

Your mother killed two people. Killed, as in murdered. The knowledge had always been there in the back of my mind, but I had thrown up a wall against it, built the wall high, pretended that behind it there was nothing, except perhaps other words. The wall had been shaky for a long time, but now it was tumbling, bricks and boards battered me. Two real people with real names and real bodies and real families were dead. Had been dead for eight years. Laura hadn’t shot them, strangled them, stabbed them. She hadn’t wanted to hurt them … but they were still dead. Bodies exploded, an arm flew across the room, a leg lay twisted under a table, fingers and toes, bloody little body flowers, were scattered in the rubble. My mother killed two people.

“Pete …” Cary ran up to me.

I stared at her. You’re right, Cary, my parents are no better than your parents. Worse, actually. Your parents never hurt anybody but themselves—and you.

“Pete, I don’t know why I said that, it just—it just came out.” She pulled at the string of coral around her neck.

We crossed the street. I wondered who else thought about the bodies. Gene? Cary? Martha?

“Pete, I’m not telling the truth. I’m jealous. I’m jealous of you. Even though your mother’s in jail, she’s here, and you can go to her. Anytime you want to, you can go to her.”

“Oh, yes—and what if I said I was jealous of you, Cary?”

“Don’t try to make me feel better, Pete. I said a mean thing.” She put her hand on my arm. “Are we still friends?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Do you mean it?”

I looked at her, for the first time that afternoon really looked at her. “I mean it.” I leaned my forehead against hers. “Cary, I mean it, I mean it.”

“I never realized how much of a Midwest hick I am,” Martha said, “until Gene told me about all this stuff with your parents, Pete. I mean, I just couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t take it in. It was like SMERSH or James Bond or something. Pure fiction.”

“Didn’t you ever think that my parents both being dead was sort of phony?”

“No. Why? No, I believed it. I just—Once I remember thinking it was a little strange you didn’t have any pictures of your parents, but then I thought, Well, it hurts too much. Actually, I still find it hard to believe.”

“Yes. Right.” I remembered the morning in the park when I’d told Cary. She’d been no more prepared than Martha, but after the first doubts, she had believed it as completely as if she could relate to the peculiar parts of my life better than the normal parts. And she didn’t beat the subject to death the way Martha did. Martha couldn’t leave it alone.

“Your mother just left you? … A little kid of eight? … She put a bomb in that lab … but she must have known somebody could get hurt …” Every time, my stomach churned. She kept calling to chew it over. Finally, I blew.

We were in the living room waiting for Gene, waiting to go out to supper before the play. Martha started in. “But didn’t your mother think—”

“Can it! You’ve asked me the same asinine questions a thousand times.”

I saw the hurt, the surprise come over her. My temper tantrums had been reserved for Gene. Not Martha, especially not Martha.

They went out to eat without me. The next day I went by her place and apologized. She hugged me. “No, Pete, it’s my fault. You’ve got every right to be sensitive about—Look, I’m sorry.”

So we left it at that. We were friends again, but I couldn’t help wondering how much of my life would be spent answering those very same questions.

“So Laura wants you to pick up and go?” Gene snapped his fingers. “Just like that? What about school? Don’t you think you should finish the term?”

I crunched a chicken wing between my teeth. “Maybe.”

“Just one more month and then exams.”

“Uh huh.”

“Poor judgment to transfer to another school now.”

“Maybe.” I wiped my fingers down the sides of my jeans.

“Maybe, maybe! Come on, Pete, you can do better than that.” Gene’s eyes bulged. There was a sheen over his face, a greenish cast. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t eat in the living room without a tray. I’ve told you that before.”

I grabbed my plate. “It’s lousy chicken anyway. Undercooked. I think I’ll have the rest of the roast beef.”

“I ate it for lunch.”

“Thanks,” I said bitterly. I slumped back against the couch.

“So what are you going to do?” my uncle said. “I’d like to know.”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.” Gene sighed, big irritated sigh. So instead of irritating my uncle, why wasn’t I upstairs packing my things and writing letters?

First a letter to my mother.

Dear Laura, or should I call you Mom?

I noticed you signed two of your letters that way, but to be totally honest (as you said) I think of you as Laura. And what comes to mind is, Who is Laura? That’s an old song, you know, I heard it on a golden oldie program one night, Laura, Laura, who is Laura—something like that. I got sort of upset and flipped the radio off, so I might not have heard it just right. But you get the idea. Laura, Laura, who is Laura … Dear Laura, dear Mom, dear Mother, I want to come to you—I think. Total honesty, right? Something’s holding me back. Don’t know what it is. Do you? If so, let me in on the secret. Love, Pete. Pardon me, Love, Pax.

Then another letter.

Dear friends of my mother, whoever you are,

It’s wonderful (I suppose) that you’re going to take me in. There’s nothing I want more than to start living with strangers, but that sounds nasty, and actually I really appreciate your offer, at least I know my mother does, and as soon as I get myself in gear, I’ll appreciate it too, and be with you in no time flat. I can’t tell you right now when that will be, but be assured one of these days I’ll make a move. I haven’t figured out yet why I’m so slow, you might even call it reluctant; I really wonder about myself, maybe I’m a total basket case, one of those people who can’t stand getting what they want. Do you think that could be it? Eight years times fifty-two weeks times seven days equals 2,912 days. It’s possible that I wished for my parents’ return on at least 2,812 of those days. So whatsamatter with me? If you can tell me, rush your reply. Sincerely yours, Pete Greenwood, aka Pax Connors.

And finally, the last letter.

Dear Uncle Gene,

Thanks for all the help. We’ve had our ups and downs, I’ve been a nuisance, I know, and lots of times not very nice—you might even say I’ve been pretty rotten to you on occasion, and you’ve always been a gentleman about everything. So, even though you probably think I’m nothing but an ungrateful wretch, it’s been great knowing you and I’m glad for your sake that pretty soon you’re going to see the last of the great American nuisance. Ta ta, see you soon, maybe.

“Well, let me know when you make your plans,” Gene said.

I cleared my throat. “Oh, right. Absolutely. Count on it.”