Edge (4 page)

THE AUTHOR

B
efore the author comes to school, we all have to write him, saying we are glad he is coming and we like his books.

That is Ms. Terripelli's idea. She is our English teacher and she was the one who first got the idea to have real, live authors visit Leighton Middle School.

She wants the author to feel welcome.

You are my favorite author,
I write.

I have never read anything he's written.

Please send me an autographed picture,
I write. I am sure this will raise my English grade, something I need desperately, since it is not one of my best subjects.

The truth is: I have best friends and best clothes and best times, but not best subjects.

I am going to be an author, too, someday,
I write, surprised to see the words pop up on the screen. But I am writing on the computer in the school library and there is something wonderful about the way any old thought can become little green letters in seconds, which you can erase with one touch of your finger.

I don't push WordEraser, however.

I like writing that I am going to be an author.

The person I am writing to is Peter Sand.

My name happens to be Peter too.

Peter Sangetti.

I
might shorten my name to Peter Sang, when I become an author,
I write.
Then maybe people will buy my books by mistake, thinking they are getting yours. (Ha! Ha!)

Well,
I write,
before this turns into a book and you sell it for money, I will sign off, but I will be looking for you when you show up at our school.

I sign it
Sincerely,
although that's not exactly true.

The night before the author visit, my dad comes over to see me. My stepfather and my mother have gone off to see my stepbrother, Tom, in Leighton High School's version of
The Sound of Music.

To myself, and sometimes to my mother, I call him Tom Terrific. Naturally, he has the lead in the musical. He is Captain Von Trapp. If they ever make the Bible into a play, he will be God.

I like him all right, but I am tired of playing second fiddle to him always. He is older, smarter, and better looking, and his last name is Prince. Really.

I can't compete with him.

It's funny, because the first words out of my dad's mouth that night are, “I can't compete with that.”

He is admiring the new CD audio system my stepfather had ordered from the Sharper Image catalog. It is an Aiwa with built-in BBE sound.

“It's really for Tom Terrific,” I say, but it is in the living room, not Tom's bedroom, and Dad knows my CD collection is my pride and joy.

I suppose just as I try to compete with Tom Terrific, my dad tries to compete with Thomas Prince, Sr. … Both of us are losing the game, it seems. My dad is even out of work just now, although it is our secret … not to be shared with my mom or stepfather.

The plant where he worked was closed. He'd have to move out of the state to find the same kind of job he had there, and he doesn't want to leave me.

“I'm not worried about you,” I lie. And then I hurry to change the subject, and tell him about the author's visit, next day.

He smiles and shakes his head. “Funny. I once wanted to be a writer.”

“I never knew that.”

“Sure. One time I got this idea for a story about our cat. She was always sitting in the window of our apartment building, looking out. She could never get out, but she'd sit there, and I'd think it'd be her dream come true if she could see a little of the world! Know what I mean, Pete?”

“Sure I do.” I also know my dad always wished he could travel. He is the only person I've ever known who actually reads
National Geographic.

He laughs. “So I invented a story about the day she got out. Here was her big chance to run around the block!”

“What happened?”

“A paper bag fell from one of the apartments above ours. It landed right on Petunia's head. She ran around the block, all right, but she didn't see a thing.”

Both of us roar at the idea, but deep down I don't think it is that hilarious, considering it is my dad who dreamed it up.

What's he think—that he'll never see the world? Never have his dreams come true?

“Hey, what's the matter?” he says. “You look down in the dumps suddenly.”

“Not me,” I say.

“Aw, that was a dumb story,” he says. “Stupid!”

“It was fine,” I say.

“No, it wasn't,” he says. “I come over here and say things to spoil your evening. You'd rather hear your music.”

“No, I wouldn't,” I say, but he is getting up to go.

We are losing touch not living in the same house anymore.

Whenever I go over to his apartment, he spends a lot of time apologizing for it. It is too small. It isn't very cheerful. It needs a woman's touch. I want to tell him that if he'd just stop pointing out all the things wrong with it, I'd like it fine … but it is turning out that we aren't great talkers anymore. I don't say everything on my mind anymore.

He shoots me a mock punch at the door and tells me that next week he'll get some tickets to a hockey game. Okay with me? I say he doesn't have to, thinking of the money, and he says I know it's not like going to the World Series or anything. I'd gone to the World Series the year before with my stepfather.

“Let up,” I mumble.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

He says, “I heard you, Pete. You're right. You're right.”

Next day, waiting for me out front is Ms. Terripelli.

“He asked for you, Pete! You're going to be Mr. Sand's guide for the day.”

“Why me?” I ask.

“Because you want to be a writer?” She looks at me and I look at her.

“Oh, that,” I say.

“You never told the class that,” she says.

“It's too personal.”

“Do you write in secret, Pete?”

“I have a lot of ideas,” I say.

“Good for you!” says Ms. Terripelli, and she hands me a photograph of Peter Sand. It is autographed. It also has written on it, “Maybe someday I'll be asking for yours, so don't change your name. Make me wish it was mine, instead.”

“What does all that mean?” Ms. Terripelli asks me.

“Just author stuff,” I say.

I put the picture in my locker and go to the faculty lounge to meet him.

He is short and plump, with a mustache. He looks like a little colonel of some sort, because he has this booming voice and a way about him that makes you feel he knows his stuff.

“I never write fantasy,” he says. “I write close to home. When you read my books, you're reading about something that happened to me! … Some authors write both fantasy and reality!”

At the end of his talks he answers all these questions about his books and he autographs paperback copies.

I hang out with him the whole time.

We don't get to say much to each other until lunch.

The school doesn't dare serve him what we get in the cafeteria, so they send out for heros, and set up a little party for him in the lounge.

The principal shows up, and some librarians from the Leighton Town Library.

When we do get a few minutes to talk he asks me what I am writing.

I say, “We had this cat, Petunia, who was always looking out the window …”

He is looking right into my eyes as though he is fascinated, and I finish the story.

“Wow!” he says. “Wow!”

“It's sort of sad,” I say.

“It has heart and it has humor, Pete,” he says. “The best stories always do.”

His last session is in the school library, and members of the town are invited.

About fifty people show up.

He talks about his books for a while, and then he starts talking about me.

He tells the story about Petunia. He called it wistful and amusing, and he says anyone who can think up a story like that knows a lot about the world already.

I get a lot of pats on the back afterward, and Ms. Terripelli says, “Well, you've had quite a day for yourself, Pete.”

By this time I am having trouble looking her in the eye.

Things are a little out of hand, but what the heck—he is on his way to the airport and back to Maine, where he lives. What did it hurt that I told a few fibs?

Next day, the
Leighton Lamplighter
has the whole story. I hadn't even known there was a reporter present. There is the same photograph Peter Sand has given to me, and there is my name in the article about the author visit.

My name. Dad's story of Petunia, with no mention of Dad.

“Neat story!” says Tom Terrific.

My stepfather says if I show him a short story all finished and ready to send out somewhere, he'll think about getting me a word processor.

“I don't write for gain,” I say.

Mom giggles. “You're a wiseguy, Pete.”

“Among other things,” I say.

Like a liar, I am thinking. Like a liar and a cheat.

When Dad calls, I am waiting for the tirade.

He has a bad temper. He is the type who leaves nothing unsaid when he blows. I expect him to blow blue: he does when he loses his temper. He comes up with slang that would knock the socks off the Marine Corps.

“Hey, Pete,” he says, “you really liked my story, didn't you?”

“Too much, I guess. That's why you didn't get any credit.”

“What's mine is yours, kid. I've always told you that.”

“I went off the deep end, I guess, telling him I want to be a writer.”

“An apple never falls far from the tree, Pete. That was my ambition when I was your age.”

“Yeah, you told me. … But
me.
What do I know?”

“You have a good imagination, son. And you convinced Peter Sand what you were saying was true.”

“I'm a good liar, I guess.”

“Or a good storyteller. … Which one?”

Why does he have to say which one?

Why does he have to act so pleased to have given me something?

The story of Petunia isn't really a gift. I realize that now. It was more like a loan.

I can tell the story, just as my dad told it to me, but when I try to turn myself from a liar into a storyteller, it doesn't work on paper.

I fool around with it for a while. I try.

The thing is: fantasy is not for me.

I finally find out what is when I come up with a first sentence which begins:

Before the author comes to school, we all have to write him, saying we are glad he is coming and we like his books.

You see, I am an author who writes close to home.

WE MIGHT AS WELL ALL BE STRANGERS

“I
t was Christmas,” said my grandmother, “and I went from the boarding school in Switzerland with my roommate, to her home in Germany.

“She was afraid it would not be grand enough for me there … that because my family lived in New York, it would seem too modest, and she kept saying, ‘We live very simply,' and she kept saying, ‘Except for my uncle Karl, who pays my tuition, we are not that rich.'

“I told her no, no, this is thrilling to me, and I meant it. Everywhere there was Christmas: wreaths of
Tannenbaum
hung, the Christmas markets were still open in the little towns we passed through. Every house had its
Christbaum
—a tall evergreen with a star on top.

“I was not then a religious Jew. I was a child from a family that did not believe in religion … and what I felt was envy, and joy at the activity: the Christmas-card landscape, snow falling, smoke rising from chimneys, and villagers rushing through the streets with gift-wrapped packages, and the music of Christmas.

“Then we saw the signs outside her village.

“Juden unerwünscht.
(Jews not welcome.)

“And other, smaller signs, saying things in German like kinky hair and hooked noses not wanted here, and worse, some so vile I can't say them to you.

“‘These have nothing to do with us,' Inge said. ‘These are just political, to do with this new chancellor, Hitler. Pay no attention, Ruth.'

“I did not really even think of myself as a Jew, and while I was shocked, I did not take it personally since I was from America. We even had our own Christmas tree when I was a tiny child. … Now I was
your
age, Alison. Sixteen.

“Her parents rushed out to greet us, and welcome us. Inside there was candlelight and mistletoe and wonderful smells of food cooking, and we were hungry after the long trip. The house was filled with the family, the little children dressed up, everyone dressed up and joyous.

“We sat around a huge table, and wine was served to the adults, and Inge's mother said we girls could have half a glass ourselves. We felt grown-up. We sipped the wine and Christmas carols played over the radio, but there was so much talk, it was like a thin sound of the season with in front of us the tablecloth, best china, crystal glasses! I thought, What does she mean she lives modestly? There were servants … and it looked like a little house from the outside only. Inside it was big and lively, with presents under the tree we would open later. I was so impressed and delighted to be included.

“Then a maid appeared and in a sharp voice said, ‘Frau Kantor? There is something I must say.'

“Inge's mother looked annoyed. ‘What
is
it?'

“Then this thin woman in her crisp white uniform with the black apron said, ‘I cannot serve the food. I do not hand food to a man, woman, or child'—her eyes on me suddenly—‘of Jewish blood ever again.'”

My grandmother paused and shook her head.

I said, “What happened then?”

“Then,” my grandmother said, “we carried our plates into the kitchen and served ourselves. … All except for Inge's uncle Karl, who left because he had not known until that moment that I was Inge's
Jewish
friend from her school.”

“I never heard that you were there when all of that was going on, Grandma.”

“It was my one and only time in Germany,” she said. “So you don't have to tell me about what it feels like to be an outsider. You don't have to tell me about prejudice. But Alison, I thank you for telling me about yourself. I'm proud that you told me first.”

A week later, my mother said, “Why do you have to
announce
it, Alison?”

“Is that all you're going to say?”

“No, that's first. First I'm going to say there was no need to announce it. You think I don't know what's going on with you and Laura? I don't need eyes in the back of my head to figure that out.”

“But it makes you uncomfortable to
hear
it from me, is that it?”

“I can't do anything about it, can I? I see it every time you bring her here. I would like to believe it's a stage you're going through, but from what I've read and heard, it isn't.”

“No. It isn't.”

“I can kiss grandchildren good-bye, I guess, if you persist with this choice.”

“Mom, it's not a choice. Was it a choice when you fell in love with Dad?”

“Most definitely. I chose him!”

“What I mean is—you didn't choose him over a woman.”

“I would never choose a woman, Alison! Never! Life is family. Or I
used
to think it was. Before
this
!”

“What I mean is—there were only males you were attracted to.”

“Absolutely! Where you got this—it wasn't from
me.
”

“So what if the world was different, and men loved men and women loved women, but you were still
you
? What would you do?”

My mother shrugged. “Find another world, I guess.”

“So that's what
I
did. I found another world.”

“Good! Fine! You have your world and I have mine. Mine happens to be the
real
world, but never mind. You always went your own way.”

Then she sighed and said, “I'm only glad your father's not alive to hear his favorite daughter tell him she's
gay
.”

“I was his
only
daughter, Mother.”

“All the more reason. … We dreamed of the day you'd bring our grandchildren to us.”

“That's still an option. I may bring a grandchild to you one day.”

“Don't.”

“Don't?”

“Not if it's one of those test-tube/artificial-insemination children. I'm talking about a real child, a child of our blood, with a mother
and
a father. I don't care to have one of those kids I see on Donahue who was made with a turkey baster or some other damn thing! Alison, what you've gotten yourself involved in is not just a matter of me saying Oh, so you're
gay
, fine, and then life goes on. What you've gotten yourself involved in is
serious
!”

“That's why I'm telling you about it.”

“That's not why you're telling me about it!”

“Why am I telling you about it?”

“You want me to say it's okay with me. You gays want the whole world to say it's okay to be gay!”

“And it isn't.”

“No, it is
not
! Okay? I've said how I feel! You are what you are, okay, but it is not okay with me what you are!”

“So where do we go from here?”

“I'll tell you where not to go! Don't go to the neighbors, and don't go to my friends, and don't go to your grandmother!”

“What do you think Grandmother would say?”

“When she stopped weeping?”

“You think she'd weep?”

“Alison,” my mother said, “it would
kill
your grandmother!”

“You think Grandma wouldn't understand?”

“I
know
Grandmother wouldn't understand! What is to understand? She has this grandchild who'll never bring her great-grandchildren.”

“I might bring her some straight from the Donahue show.”

“Very funny.
Very
funny,” my mother said. Then she said, “Alison, this coming-out thing isn't working. You came out to me, all right, I'm your mother and maybe you had to come out to me. But where your grandmother's concerned: Keep quiet.”

“You think she'd want that?”

“I think she doesn't even
dream
such a thing could come up! She's had enough
tsuris
in life. Back in the old country there were relatives lost in the Holocaust! Isn't that enough for one woman to suffer in a lifetime?”

“Maybe that would make her more sympathetic.”

“Don't compare gays with Jews—there's no comparison.”

“I'm both. There's prejudice against both. And I didn't choose to be either.”

“If you want to kill an old woman before her time, tell her.”

“I think you have Grandmother all wrong.”

“If I have Grandmother all wrong,” said my mother, “then I don't know her and you don't know me, and we might as well all be strangers.”

“To be continued,”
I wrote in my diary that night.

My grandmother knew … my mother knew … one day my mother would know that my grandmother knew.

All coming-out stories are a continuing process.

Strangers take a long time to become acquainted, particularly when they are from the same family.