Paint Me a Monster (14 page)

Mom promises me everything will be OK. Mom says she wants to take me to a special restaurant for lunch—to celebrate our trip. I feel happy. The host leads us to our table. Waiting for us is Carl. I’m not a travel companion at all. I’m an excuse to travel.

Mom smiles at Carl and tilts her head enough that I notice she’s doing what I do when I’m flirting. Carl pulls out her chair, winks, and gives me a big grin and an extended hand. It’s oddly clean, no paint under his nails, or in the creases of his palm.

Carl orders a milkshake, extra thick. “Hey,” he says, “What did the teacher say to the kids who were slow learners?”

I pause.

“Ketchup,” he says before I can even figure out why he’s asking. “What school do you go to, to learn to greet people?” This time he waits.

“Hi-school?” I say.

“They’re teachin’ you good at that school,” he smiles. “Still liking the flowers I painted on the doors of your bedroom closet? They came out pretty darn good for a first try,” he says. “It’s a big change from painting walls.”

“They’re very pretty,” I say.

Mom changes the subject and tells Carl how happy she is to see him. Carl tells us about his cowboy adventure on horseback yesterday. Mom rotates the conversation from herself to Carl and back again while we eat until the waitress brings the check.

I guess Carl’s not so bad. He’s easygoing, a jokester, nice to me. On the other hand, he isn’t as well educated as my family. He smells like whiskey, and he has a wife and kids in Kentucky. Carl has a feel for people, though, and keeps Mom off my back. When she’s with him, I may as well be on Mars.

This time is no different. After lunch, we take the Pike’s Peak Cog Railway to the top of the mountain.

Carl pulls a cigarette from his shirt pocket and pokes it between his lips and says, as well as he can, “Why don’t you run to that boulder over there?”

“OK,” I say and wonder why he wants me to do that. I take off. By the time I reach the boulder, I have to hang my head between my legs.

“The air is so thin up here it grabs the air right outta ya, eh peaches,” Carl says.

“Yeah,” I gasp. When I look up, a guy in uniform stands above me smiling.

“You must be a flatlander,” he says. “Me, too. I’m stationed at Fort Carson now.” I don’t know what he’s talking about and he can tell. “Fort Carson, the army base,” he says, his voice rising, “But I’m an Okie through and through.”

He shows me a wavy blue rectangle on his arm. Centered on it is a brown circular shape and arrows and a branch with leaves.

“This little beauty is a tattoo of the Oklahoma state flag. Yes ma’am. I’m an Okie through and through. And a gentleman,” he adds. “Do you need a hand up?”

“I’ve got it,” I say. His outstretched hand is smooth, but calloused and doesn’t look like it belongs to such a boyish face.

Carl must think I need a playmate and invites the Okie along for the day. When he accepts, I’m surprised Mom allows an older guy, and a stranger, to be my companion, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I run my fingers comb-like through my hair to make it look better and thank myself for shaving my legs that morning and putting on makeup. We tour a cave, drive through the Garden of the Gods, and climb among Indian ruins. All the while, I’m ma’amed and complimented. Before dinner, we stop at the two-bedroom, out-of-the-way cottage Mom says she’s paid for. Mom and Carl go into one room, and the Okie and I are left to talk in the other.

He wants to do other things. In half a giggle, he’s on top of me. I struggle to stop him from undressing me. His belt buckle presses into the space between my pelvic bones.

“Help!” My voice shakes. “Help!”

Carl darts from the other room, wrestles the Okie off me, and pushes him toward the door. The soldier looks like a little boy: huge eyes, dropped jaw, bewildered. He tugs up his pants, jabs the air with his middle finger, snatches his jacket off the floor, and stumbles into the driveway yelling. He’s not ma’aming me now.

“Let’s go to dinner,” Carl says, with an “Ahem.” Mom picks up her purse and jean jacket, glances at me, gives Carl the car keys, and they are out the door.

I rearrange myself, tuck my flannel shirt into my jeans, finger brush my hair, and leave the cottage. There is no conversation about the Okie.

The next day, Mom and I move to a regular hotel with a lobby for talking. Our room has twin beds and light green walls. It’s pretty. There is a desk and a cow-skin covered chair across from my bed. Along another wall is a window with curtains that match the bedspread. The window is open to the Colorado sky. Today, we ate breakfast at a historic hotel and drove to the Royal Gorge in Canon City. The second-highest suspension bridge in the world crosses the gorge. I looked down and spit. Now it’s night and constellations fill our window. There’s a crescent moon. Its curve is perfect to hang a wish on. It has been a good day, just Mom and me. Now it is time to get a good rest.

I wake to squeaks and movement from Mom’s bed. It’s dark and impossible to see, but I can feel. Something isn’t right. Someone is in bed with Mom. I hear groaning. The blanket moves up and down rhythmically. They are doing something I don’t want to know about. I grab a robe from the end of my bed and steal out of the room. My stomach’s queasy. The elevator takes me to the lobby. There, I use an empty armchair for a bed. I fold my legs up to my chin and rest my head on my knees. It’s quiet.

In the morning, Mom shakes me awake. She doesn’t ask why I left the room. She doesn’t say a thing.

I hate them. I want to be another person in any other place.

“You’re losing Evan, you know.”

Mom tells me to be quiet. “There was no reason for you to leave the room last night.”

She’s angry and doesn’t care that I hate her not caring. Carl’s disappeared. He left after our “night together.” Two days pass. We haven’t seen Carl. When she isn’t on the phone, or at the hotel, Mom drives around and drags me in and out of bars looking for him. One bar is like another, dim and smelly. Sunlight turns to moonlight.

A car with bright lights pulls into the parking lot of the bar behind us. A man and woman are in the car. Carl wobbles out. He’s drunk, and he smells. Mom runs to him. She yells and begs him to stay with her. I call to her but she doesn’t answer. She grabs for Carl. He hits Mom, knocking her to the ground. I am scared and run to help.

“Mom, are you OK, are you OK?” I cry, stroking her forehead.

She bats her arm at me.

“Go away,” she says. “Leave me alone. Go away.”

Where am I to go?

Dinner was a disaster. Mom is out again. I ate standing over the sink: Three grapes, five nibbles of salmon (one ounce?), five artichoke leaves, bowl of lettuce with sliced cucumber and green pepper, four green olives, one quarter slice corned beef, two teaspoons jam—from the jar, big gulp milk, one sugar-free frozen yogurt bar, two bites spinach casserole (egg whites, spinach, salt, parmesan cheese), two salted almonds, and two raisins. I’m glad it’s time to go to sleep. No more food. I swear I’ll do better tomorrow.

“If Carl calls, remember, don’t tell your grandfather,” Mom says. “It’s very important you don’t tell Pop Pop. Rinnie, do you hear me?”

“Yes,” I drawl, not looking up. I go back to reading about the fall of the Roman Empire in my world history book.

The phone rings. “Hello? This is Rinnie.”

“It’s Michael Seiden. Is your mother there?”

It’s Mom’s lawyer, again. Does Mom tell Michael that Carl calls her? I want to tell him Carl calls, but this is legal stuff—big stuff—and I’m not supposed to get involved. I hand the phone to Mom.

“Yes. No. I haven’t talked to anyone,” she says.

Her fingers move up and down dusting the air. She wants me to leave and close the door to the den.

There’s nothing I want to hear. I already know too much. Carl has moved into my mom’s life, and Dad Barry has moved out.

It’s strange not having Dad Barry here, to ask if I need help in math, to lose to in gin rummy, and to run interference between Mom and me. I miss his big grin and droopy nose. I miss the face that echoes Grandma Sher.

It’s strange not hearing Dad Barry and Pop Pop talk business on Monday nights when we eat at my grandparent’s house. Dad Barry never liked working for Pop Pop. He’s an accountant at heart, not a distributor of restaurant and kitchen equipment. My father left big shoes to fill when he stopped working for Pop Pop. And Pop Pop begged him to stay.

“It’s difficult to find a vice president with your father’s work ethic, intelligence, charisma, and foresight,” Pop Pop told us after the divorce.

Poor Barry.

The tinkle of crystal beads drifts from the dining room. Someone must be moving the candleholders. The tinkling sounds like the swing of charms on my mother’s gold bracelet. The prettiest charm is the circle of flowers dotted with a ruby, an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond. Dad Barry gave it to Mom on their first wedding anniversary. Tiny letters engraved on the back of the charm say, “For Rose, the loveliest bloom of all.” I remember Dad Barry’s face, all shiny, eyes crinkly, when he gave her the gift box.

Now he’s moved away. I was just getting to know him. I just started calling him Dad.

“Rinnie, I have to go see Michael. I’ll be back by six. Tell Evan no television until his homework is finished,” Mom says. She’s in such a rush she forgets her purse and has to come back inside. “If anyone calls—anyone, tell them I’ll be back by six.”

I nod and continue to read. Final exams are in a week. The phone rings.

“Is your mother there?’

“Carl?”

Silence. “How you doing, peaches?”

“I’m fine. Mom’s not here.”

“When will she be back?

“I’m not sure, maybe six.”

“Tell her I called.”

I stare at my book, but my mind reviews Pop Pop’s orders. “Tell me if Carl calls.” I pick up the phone then place the receiver down and squeeze my head to stop the swirling inside.

I’m the rope in tug-of-war. I don’t want to lie, and I don’t want Mom to punish me.

Pop Pop says, “Each time your mother sees or talks to Carl, she makes her situation worse. She’s complicating her divorce and hurting your grandmother. If I don’t know about the calls, I can’t do anything to help.”

Mom warns me, “If you tell your grandfather Carl called, he will be furious with me, and you’ll upset your grandmother. It will be your fault I’m in trouble.”

I want to do the right thing. The rope strangles me. What is the right thing?

Do I call Pop Pop? Do I relay Carl’s message to Mom? If I don’t and she finds out—I’ll be grounded again, or lose the phone in my room, or not get my allowance. I want to keep my plans with Jack for Saturday night. I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her after I call Pop Pop.

Everyone warns Mom: Gaga, Pop Pop, her lawyer, Liz, and me. But something didn’t click. Carl stays. Evan goes. The judge doesn’t have to rule about Liz and me. Dad thinks we should stay together. He says three more kids are too many to take. Allyson already has to drive Alana, Amy, and Jake around.

Doubleheader could describe this week. Two major events were finalized: ninth grade final exams (Latin exam was awful) and saying good-bye to Evan.

Not sure which was harder. Actually I am sure, but I don’t want to think about it.

We stand outside Dad’s house. I’m finally alone with him.

“Why didn’t you ask Liz and me to live with you?” I ask Dad. “You’re so busy. We never get to talk anymore.” It’s been nearly four months since Liz and I have been Mom’s only housemates. I miss Evan.

“Allyson and the kids need me. You have your Pop Pop to take care of you,” Dad says. “You and Liz need to stick together and be with your mom.”

I need you.
I want to say.
It’s so easy for you to rearrange your life and so hard for me to be pushed aside.

But I know there isn’t enough room between the garage and the bushy philodendron that grows on the sill of the kitchen window or any place on the planet for this conversation. If I upset Dad, he will want to spend even less time with me. Things grow here. I want to be a part of this.

Though it’s late autumn, unusually warm, and we wear shorts, I’m chilled when he speaks. My arms and legs prickle with goose bumps.

“It’s good for Evan to live with me. A son needs a father. Unfortunately, there is space for only one bedroom in the attic.”

Through the kitchen window, I see Allyson water the robust philodendron. Her white teeth glisten against her tan skin, intensifying the darkness of her eyes. Mahogany-streaked hair spills from the opening in the back of her baseball cap. No wonder Dad wants her. She’s beautiful, and Alana’s her physical clone. Dad traded Liz and me for Allyson and her kids.

“Excuse me.” I dash to the bathroom. I hate that my eyes blur and sting. I hate that Dad should see this.

When the bathroom door closes, the full-length mirror on the back of the door reflects the muted pink walls that blend into the muted pearl-colored floor. I feel as if I’m inside a giant shell. The mirror’s gold-dusted frame embraces me in its perfect rectangular world. The pastel colors join in a silent lullaby to calm me. I am protected. A miniature gold crown and a tarnished silver hand mirror rest on a plaid upholstered table. The crown belonged to Grandpa Gardener’s mother, and it’s covered with rhinestones. I place it on my head and stare into the mirror.

“The Queen is not amused,” I say. “Today, the Queen has a proclamation. I proclaim that stepchildren of the same age may not try out against each other for school teams. They are not permitted to be in the same class at school. They may not even enroll in the same school.”

What were Dad and Allyson thinking when they transferred Alana to my school? Did they think I wouldn’t notice? Did they think of me at all?

Every day of the school year, I carry more than books in my backpack. I lug extra assignments, one from Mom and one from myself. Mom’s was specific, “Be better than Alana. Dress better, look prettier, study harder, be smarter, act funnier, have more friends.” The assignment I assign myself is harder to achieve. Be perfect. Dad and Mom might want me then.