Danny's Mom (4 page)

“But you can't fault them for that.”

“I know, but it made me feel… I don't know… strange. Like everyone was treating me like a child. Like the teachers were patting me on the head saying
There, there now. Everything's gonna be fine.
But everything's not gonna be fine. And the students somehow know that. So they didn't lie like the staff did, telling me they know how I must feel, that they hurt for me when they're really just glad it was my child and not theirs.”

“You know why adults are like that, don't you?” I couldn't come up with anything so my father continued: “I think we're like that because we want to believe, or need to believe, that if we say everything's okay, then it really will be—as if we have some control over what happens to us.” He stopped for a moment. I imagined my father dunking his tea bag, looking in his mug for a clearer explanation. “And kids know they don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Kids know they don't control anything. They have no power over what happens. So they know how to act when a friend's hurting. They just act like themselves. Maybe more sympathetic, but they don't say much because… well, I suppose kids know their words don't count.” Dad paused. “Remember when Danny sprained his ankle and you thought it was broken?”

“Sure. That time I rushed him to the emergency room and he ended up with those crutches he never used.”

“Right. And what'd you tell him?”

“He'd be good as new in no time.”

“But that didn't help.”

“No. Guess not.” I closed my eyes to see Danny standing in the kitchen, balanced against a chair and looking at the soft cast on his ankle. Crutches lean against the wall. I didn't know which hurt more then, the sprain or what the doctor told him: No sports for a month.

“You tried to talk away his sadness, Beth, but you couldn't.”

“Right. And then Noah came over. And five minutes later I heard the boys laughing in Danny's room.”

“See, honey. Noah helped just by being there, and adults forget how to do that. We try so hard to say the right thing, and sometimes that makes it worse. So don't be angry with the teachers who want to make you feel better. They offered sympathetic words 'cause that's all they know to do.”

“You know what I think, Dad? I think the wrong one of us became a counselor.”

“Oh, don't say that. You're a wonderful counselor. They're lucky to have you.” Then he asked what time Joe would be home.

I wouldn't accept Dad's offer to have dinner with me. Monday was his poker night. My father would be at Saul's house, where Saul's wife, Martha, put out the best spread. Although Dad didn't tell me, I assumed Saul and Martha had invited him for dinner before the game. And I wanted him to go. He needed them the way I needed him and Callie then, to keep me upright as I stumbled through grief. There was no soft cast for my heart; it was too soon to lean my crutches by the wall. I couldn't ask Dad to let go of his either. He was grieving too. Saul and Martha kept him standing.

Yet when I hung up the phone, the stillness made me shudder. No dinner to prepare. No footsteps in the hall. And no muddy sneakers, dirty socks, wet towels on the floor. How I missed those little annoyances.

Though this wasn't the first night Joe hadn't come home to eat, it was the first I would be alone. Sitting in the silent kitchen, I thought about those times Danny and I chose Chinese food when Joe had evening meetings with clients or architects. Joe didn't eat what he couldn't recognize: vegetables diced and foreign; sauces other than tomato or Worcestershire. When we were dating, Joe's favorite restaurant was The T-Bone, named for his favorite food.

Sometimes when Joe worked late, Danny and I took Noah to China King with us. So on that day I went back to work, I called
Noah. Maybe he'd like to join me for Chinese. But I slammed the phone down before anyone answered. Though Noah had come to visit a few times since the funeral, no seventeen-year-old would want dinner with his dead friend's mother. I knew that, even then. And anyhow, I had no appetite.

Moose studied me for his cue as his tail thumped the floor. “You know what, old boy? Think we'll take a nap.” I guzzled the rest of my coffee and put the mug in the sink by the one I had used that morning, the Mom mug. Moose followed me upstairs, stopping short of my room to hunker down by Danny's door.

In the king-size bed Joe and I still shared, I yanked the sheet up high. Soothed by the spring smell of fabric softener, I tucked the ivory down comforter under my chin and fingered the soft, familiar cotton. Ann Richardson's face gleamed in my mind, but it was my father's voice I heard:
Kids know they don't control anything. They have no power. They know how to act.
Wrong, Dad, I thought, while the picture changed. The sign Callie told me about came into focus: D
YKES SHOULD DIE
! R
EAD THE
B
IBLE
, Ms. R
ICHARDSON
. Some kids
do
control things, I said to myself. Some kids
do
have power. And some kids
don't
know how to act.

That afternoon I dreamed that Callie dragged me to the gym—not in Meadow Brook but in Bay View High, Danny's school. A large sign hangs on the door to the phys ed office: I
T'S
NOT RIGHT
! I
T'S NOT POPULAR
! L
ESBIANS SHOULD DIE
! “Do something, Beth,” Callie says. “You're the guidance counselor.” I tear the message down and pull the door open. Danny lies on the floor. Broken glass blankets his body. A huge rat sits by his head. The rat's tail whacks glass fragments on Danny's eyes.

The telephone's ring mixed with squeaky rat sounds. I welcomed Callie's voice. The dream was so fresh I shared it raw, the image unedited.

“I'm glad I called,” Callie said. “So what's up with dinner?” I told her Joe was eating at Mike's. “Well, the girls want pizza and
they want to see you. So you're having dinner with us. Just tell me what you want on your pie and if Tom should come by for you on his way back from Pizza Time.”

“Cal, I'm not even hungry. Maybe it'd be good for me to have a night alone.”

“Not a chance. So tell me what you want or you'll be stuck with pepperoni and olives. And should Tom pick you up, or do you want to take the new car?”

I pictured the Camry, which Joe had bought the week before, in the garage where my Buick used to be. Nausea rose in my throat when I told Callie I'd drive myself.

Callie's daughters greeted me at the door. Tom came in right behind. “One pepperoni and olives, and one pepperoni and mushrooms,” he announced as he whizzed by to put the pies in the kitchen. “That's what you like. Right, Beth?”

Tom's hearty voice, along with his muscles, seemed more suited to a construction worker than to an accountant. He backtracked to hug me hard. I couldn't remember the last time Joe had held me tight like that.

No one mentioned Danny while we ate, but he stayed with me as I walked to the bathroom, through Callie's house filled with girl things: a pink sock with tiny white hearts on the arm of the sofa; a bottle of perfume on top of
Teen
magazine in the bathroom. How different from my house, where tennis racquets used to hog the landing and
Sports Illustrated
decorated the bathroom vanity.

After dinner, Tom had an appointment with a couple who had started a home business and thought they could write off everything. Tom went on about how he had met with them twice already, and they still didn't understand why they couldn't deduct their entire electric bill. Tom stuffed papers into his briefcase and snapped it shut. He went over to Callie, who stood by the sink. When he
grabbed her from behind and kissed her head, jealousy gnawed at my heart. “Love you, honey,” Tom told her. “I won't be late.”

He snatched a plate from my hands, put it on the counter, and hugged me again. “Good night, Beth. And thanks for joining us tonight.”

“No, Tom. Thank
you
for having me.”

He stepped back, placing his hands on my shoulders, his grip firm and strong. “Listen, you and Callie are like sisters, and that makes us family. You never need an invitation.”

“I know. Thanks. I couldn't get through this without you two.” He dropped his arms and looked at me. “Tough day, huh?” I nodded. “Well, you tell that no-good husband of yours he should be taking better care of you. No more hanging out with Mike. Joe should be home. Especially now.”

“It's all right. Really.” I hoped I had just told my last lie—at least for the day.

At the front door, Tom called upstairs to the girls: “Good night, ladies! And don't give Mom any trouble. You hear?”

Callie loaded the dishwasher while we talked about school. “Know what I think?” she said. “You've got enough going on without getting involved in Ann Richardson's problems. I didn't tell you about that sign so you'd do something. I only told you so you'd understand the gossip.”

“This isn't just about Ann. Ann's an adult. She can handle it herself. But what about the kids?”

“What kids?”

“Kids like Donna Walker. You remember her, don't you?”

“Sure. The one everyone called Donald. High school must've been hell for her.”

“It was. Did I ever tell you about the time she came to see me when there was a sub in physics? The kids didn't stop picking on Donna, telling the sub to call her Donald and poking fun at her clothes. Donna showed up at my office at the end of the period. That
was the only time she talked about anything other than college plans, and the only time I saw her cry.”

“So what'd you do?”

“Nothing. All she wanted was for me to transfer her to another section of physics. And I didn't do it.”

“Why not?”

“It was already second semester. I would have had to change her whole schedule to put her in a different class. And Steve won't let us do that—not after first quarter. You know how firm Bob and Peter are about that. But dammit, Cal. I should have tried anyway.”

On the way home from Callie's, memories of Danny flooded my mind, washing away thoughts of Donna Walker and Ann Richardson. Danny, in those crinkled, shiny shorts he wore for tennis. He had them in every color. The fabric swooshed when he walked, the soft sound synchronized with his step.

March of sophomore year, the Bay View tennis team played without jackets, though I would toss Danny's in the car. A Mom thing—just in case. Just in case the breeze would make him shiver the way it did me.

Now I sought heat in the dashboard icons of my new Camry when a chill seeped through me as I turned onto Main Street. The village was deserted but well lit, a ghost town ready for visitors. I eased past Teddy's Stride Rite, where Danny got his first pair of shoes; The Village Greenery, where he bought a spring bouquet for my birthday; The Corner Deli, where he purchased Gatorade before Little League games; and Arnie's Athletics, where we acquired his rainbow of shorts. By the time I got home, the pain of missing him knifed through me.

I heard Moose howl and raced upstairs to see him circling by Danny's room. When I touched his head, Moose froze for an instant, then pawed at the door. He walked in ahead of me and moved
silently on the blue carpet. I lay on Danny's bed, hugging his pillow. I didn't glance up till Moose pushed his cold, soggy nose at my shoulder. And that's when he did it: Moose raised his leg and marked the perimeter of Danny's room.

I didn't try to stop him. I thought I understood: Moose finally knew that guarding Danny's spirit behind the closed door wouldn't bring him back. It was time to sanctify this territory. And just when Moose enshrined Danny's memory in the only way he could, I saw Joe in the doorway, his face twisted with anger and incredulity.

Chapter Four

“W
hat the hell’s going on here?” Joe asked. “Don’t you see what he’s doing?”

I wanted to say something but didn’t know what. “I’ll clean it,” was all I could manage.

I scrubbed Danny’s carpet, then got ready for bed while Joe watched TV in the den. When I brushed my teeth, the toothpaste stung. In the mirror I saw the frayed outline of my lower lip, bitten raw like after my mother died.

Hours later, Joe roused me when his legs found mine in the rumpled sheets. As he stroked my shin with his foot, I turned away. How could he have let Danny drive that night?

For a while after, I thought it was the accident that had rent the fabric of our marriage. But now I see what tragedy did: it pulled the loose threads we used to poke back in—little things, like forgetting to say good morning. The fabric had worn thin. Our marriage wasn’t strong enough to hold catastrophe. Yet I tried to keep it together. Though I had no appetite, I still cooked sometimes for Joe and me. The familiarity of our pots and pans, the dishes, and the stove we had replaced years ago gave me comfort. But my cooking changed. I threw away recipes, rarely reached for the salad spinner. And, often, we brought in: a pie from Pizza Time, chicken from The Roost, cold cuts from the deli. We’d sit in the kitchen and force conversation, chitchatting about safe subjects.

I hadn’t told Joe about the problems in Meadow Brook, that at the end of my first week back, two girls asked Steve to transfer them out of Ann Richardson’s class. Steve told me, in teen imitation, how they wanted a different teacher because “you know, like what if she comes into the locker room while we’re changing? I mean, like she might look at us like, you know, sexual or something.” Steve said no to the transfers, and the next week, when other girls brought letters from parents, he gave those notes to the principal.

“Steve, we need to do something,” I said. “A sensitivity training program, maybe. We can’t just keep ignoring this.”

“That’s not our decision. Bob wants to handle it himself. He and Peter are real concerned about what’s happening. And they’re determined to keep it quiet so no one gets riled up.”

“So what do you mean, Bob wants to handle it? What’s he doing? And shouldn’t we be involved?”

“Bob’s nervous, Beth. Everyone is—after Columbine. No one wants trouble now. And the superintendent told him the less we focus on this, the faster it’ll go away.”