The Distance Between Us (26 page)

“My blood pressure will be just fine when you stop being a fool,” I snapped. “You’re going to get frostbite.”

He bent forward and put his hands on his knees to peer into my eyes. “It’s no good, Mother. I can’t bear it any longer.”

The forced jollity was gone from his tone, replaced by something distant and lonely. My heart twisted in response.

“Bear what?” I whispered.

“This.” He made a circling gesture with his hands, indicating who knows what. “All of it. I mean, what’s the point?”

He cleared his throat and fought to control his trembling lips. “Day in and day out, it’s the same thing. For all of us.” He played with a button on his shirt. “Do you see what I mean? We get up, we go to work, we make music or whatnot, we interact with other people. Then we come home, watch the news, read a book, stare at the television, whatever—then we go to bed, either alone or with someone else, and we dream, and the next day it starts all over again.”

He shrugged, thinking. “And that’s it, really. That’s all there is. I mean, sure, we do other things, too. We sweat, we shower. We eat and shit. We fall in and out of love. We swear at the mailman for dropping our magazines in the snow, and we hug the kids for doing their chores, and we argue about where we should eat for lunch on Fridays. We whack off or hump our brains out when we’re horny, we drink booze when we’re edgy, and some of us even pray before we fall asleep at night, even though most of us know for a fact it doesn’t do a damn bit of good.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he wasn’t finished.

“Just hear me out, okay, Hester?” He waited for my nod. “It’s not bad, but it’s not good, either. There’s joy sometimes, but it’s always, always unclean, muddied up by pain and waste and grief. And today I woke up, and realized that I’ve had thirty-three years of that sort of thing, and I don’t want to play anymore, that’s all.” He sniffed. “It’s a stupid game, with no rules and no referee. And no matter what I do, it’s going to end the same way, so why bother playing at all?”

My tongue felt numb in my mouth. “Tell me what happened today, son.”

He shrugged. “Nothing, really. Shanda Cartwright threw a little
hissy fit this morning in rehearsal that pissed me off royally, but it wasn’t a big deal by itself.”

Shanda was the flute instructor at Carson, and she had the brains of a toadstool.

“You let Shanda put you in this kind of a snit?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. I couldn’t care less about her. But while she was going off about this and that petty irritation, it suddenly occurred to me she was just a symptom of something much, much worse.”

The sun was almost to the horizon, now; it looked as if it were caught in the upper branches of an oak tree across the street. It was orange and red and stunning, and I watched it for a moment, distracted and moved—in spite of where we were—by how beautiful it was.

My nose was running and I swiped at it with a hanky I had in my coat. “What was she a symptom of, dear?” I had to keep him talking, it was the only thing that ever calmed him down.

“Futility. Stupidity.” He searched for more words. “Blind, unthinking existence, I suppose.” He straightened. “Take your pick, but it wasn’t pretty.”

“Oh, God,” I sighed, relieved to be back on familiar ground. “In other words, you’re complaining about having too much talent and brains again?” I slapped the windowsill for emphasis. “When in God’s name are you going to grow up?”

Every other time we’d done this routine, this strategy had brought him back to himself. I would simply shame him into seeing how childish he was being, and the crisis would be averted, yet again. I had no reason to believe this time would be any different.

But this day, he didn’t get angry, or defensive. He didn’t flinch, or stiffen, or show any outward sign of resentment or embarrassment. He just smiled at me.

Did I mention he had dimples on his cheeks when he smiled? They were small and tight, like two little staples, one on each side of his mouth.

“Oh, Hester,” he said. “My problem isn’t a lack of maturity. It really isn’t.” He paused. “It’s cowardice.”

I shivered. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple, really.” He took a small step backward, closer to the edge. He was only about a foot away from it now. “I want out, but I don’t have the balls to do it myself.” He locked eyes with me. “So will you help me, Mother?”

My blood was ice. My skin was the same temperature as the wind, my face was as blank and immobile as St. Booger’s.

“I will not.” I forced the words out past frozen lips. “Come inside this instant, and stop talking nonsense.”

There was compassion in his expression. He was examining my features closely, as if he hadn’t seen me in a very long time. “I want you to know this has nothing to do with you. Or anybody else, for that matter. It’s just life I’m tired of. That’s all.” He cocked his head at me. “Can you please help me out?”

I put my foot up on the chair next to the window in the kitchen and began to climb out on the roof. He took another step backward, but I didn’t stop. I had been overtaken by a sense of urgency, and I knew I had to get to him right away.

He was only inches from the edge when I cleared the window and had both of my knees on the roof.

He smiled again. “That’s my girl,” he said. “I knew I could count on you.”

I rose to my feet, knees popping. The wind blew my hair around like a fan, and I blinked away tears from the coldness of it. “I want you to come inside with me, son,” I whispered.

He sighed. “No can do.” He put his hands in his pants pockets. “All I need is a little nudge, okay?”

I was about five feet away, and I took a step toward him to close the gap.

He watched my slow progress, unconcerned. “Do you remember the Chopin piece I always asked you to play for me when I was a kid?” he asked, for no reason I could think of.

His voice was wistful, and warm, and I hesitated.

“Of course I do,” I answered. “How could I forget? You made me play it for you nearly every day.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I did, didn’t I?” All of a sudden, he was crying. His shoulders were shaking and his breath was coming in hitches. “Well, that’s the way I thought life was supposed to be. Like in the
music, I mean. Full of longing and pain, too, of course, but in the end, more about glory than anything else.” He fought to control his voice. “Not the other way around. Do you see, Hester? Tell me you see that.”

I could barely understand him through his sobs.

I took another step forward, and held my arms out to him. “Come inside, Jeremy. Come back where it’s safe.”

He didn’t seem to notice me getting closer. He just wept, and let his head fall forward on his chest.

“Oh, Mother,” he said. “You always made it seem so beautiful.”

I was weeping, too. I wanted nothing more than to hold him next to me, and he was almost in reach. I opened my arms to gather him in, and I took the final step.

And so did he.

“A
lex? Are you awake yet?”

I hear light footsteps in the hall above my head and he leans over the banister, dressed in nothing but a pair of dark green boxer shorts. “Yeah. Sort of.”

I smile up at him from the landing by Arthur’s old studio. “Did someone steal your clothes, child?”

In spite of the anxiety he must be feeling about the day ahead of him, he manages to grin back at me. He seems even more vulnerable than usual in his bare skin.

“Nah,” he answers. “In fact, I was thinking of starting a nudist colony up here.” He yawns and smooths his tangled red hair with his fingers. “Can I put an ad in the newspaper?”

He’s begun teasing me a great deal lately.

“I’d rather you didn’t. Anybody who answers such an advertisement in this town is likely to be somewhat alarming.” I yawn, too; I’ve only been up for a few minutes. “You’re still planning on going to school today, aren’t you?”

He hasn’t attended his classes at Pritchard for well over a week, ever since his fight with Eric. He’s terrified of seeing him again.

Near-panic crosses his features, but he controls it with an effort. “Yeah. I’m gonna take a shower in a minute and then head out.”

We had another long talk last night, and I believe I finally convinced him of the necessity of returning to his normal routine, in spite of his skittishness. But it was a hard sell. He wasn’t just worried
about facing Eric; he was also concerned Eric may have blabbed to other people, and the news would be “all over campus.”

“It’s exactly what happened at Buckland last semester, with Wei-shan,” he said. “Everybody started looking at me like I was a rapist or something, after Thanksgiving.” He stared at his hands on the kitchen table. “What if that shit happens here, too?”

I tried to calm him. “I’m sure you’re just imagining what people were thinking of you.” I managed to sound far more certain than I felt. “Besides, Eric isn’t Wei-shan, and a university like Pritchard is far less prone to rumor-mongering than a tiny school like Buckland. You’re worrying over nothing.”

He blinked back tears. “It wasn’t my imagination, Hester. Everybody knew.” He stared over at the stove. “But then again, I guess it wasn’t Wei-shan who said something back home, so maybe you’re right. Maybe Eric won’t tell, either.”

That surprised me. “What do you mean, it wasn’t Wei-shan who said something?”

“It was my mom.” He shrugged. “At least I’m pretty sure it was. I suppose it could have been one of my sisters, instead, but I don’t think so.”

I gaped at him, indignant. “Surely you’re mistaken. Surely your own mother wouldn’t have broadcasted something like that about you?”

He tried to smile. “Families sure get fucked up fast, don’t they?” He ran a finger through the water ring his glass had left on the table. “Did I tell you I spent Christmas in a Motel 8 outside of Chicago? I tried to go to a cousin’s house, first, and my grandma’s, too, but Mom had called around and warned all the relatives to not let me stay with them.” The smile faltered. “It wasn’t so bad, though. I watched
It’s a Wonderful Life
on the tube, and got majorly stoned.”

When he saw the look in my eyes, he leaned forward as if it were me who needed consolation. “It’s okay, Hester. Seriously. I’m over it.” He hesitated. “But I don’t want to put myself through something like that again if I don’t have to. Know what I mean? Especially not so soon after last time.”

My heart went out to him, but I couldn’t stay silent. “I’m afraid
you’re going to have to, my dear. And it needs to be sooner rather than later. I wish you could hide here with me forever, but you can’t. You’ve already got a great deal of catching up to do in your classes, and each day you stay away from school is just making things worse for you. Surely you see that?”

He’d looked as if I were force-feeding him a dead rat, but he eventually nodded, and agreed to return to Pritchard.

What I didn’t tell him is he’ll likely be so far behind in Caitlin’s courses already—she piles on a stupefying amount of homework, each and every class period—that I fear she may indeed carry out her threat to revoke his scholarship.

Which would leave him with no other choice than to drop out of school immediately.

“Good for you,” I say now, pushing aside my worries for his future. I study him. “You’re not intending to smoke marijuana before you go, are you?”

He blinks. “Yeah, I am, as a matter of fact. Want some?”

I cringe. “Good God, no.”

He grimaces at my expression. “You’re getting ready to tell me I’m an idiot, aren’t you?”

That tickles me, for some reason. “It would seem I no longer need to.” I cock my head at him. “Alex, dear. Think for a moment, please. You’ll need all your wits about you today, don’t you agree?”

He doesn’t like being mothered, and I can tell he’s annoyed at me for saying this. But in the end he sighs and nods his head.

“Okay, okay,” he mumbles. “I won’t smoke.”

I reward him with another smile. “Don’t mumble, please.”

He sighs again, and repeats—in a louder, more exasperated voice—his pledge not to smoke.

I nod, satisfied. “Good. Hurry up and shower, then come down and have a quick breakfast with me. I’m warming up some frozen cinnamon rolls from the bakery.”

He cranes his neck toward his living room, presumably looking at the clock on the wall in there. “I don’t have time for breakfast, Hester. Not if I’m going to walk.”

I start down the stairs. “You have time. I’ll drive you.”

He steps into the kitchen a few minutes later with wet hair and clean clothes. As he pulls out his chair, I set a plate with a cinnamon roll the size of a grapefruit on the table in front of him, next to a glass of orange juice and a steaming mug of hot tea. The roll is fresh from the oven, and the smell of cinnamon and sugar is filling the room. Ordinarily he’d wolf down a treat like this, but today he just stares at his plate as if he’s contemplating throwing up on it.

“That’s huge,” he grunts. “I can’t eat it.” He sinks heavily in his chair.

I sit across from him and butter my own roll, which is quite a bit smaller. “Have a bite or two, then,” I tell him. “The rest will keep.”

He’s miserable. His lower lip is trembling, and he’s pale and withdrawn. I observe him from the corner of my eye, knowing there’s not much I can do for him at the moment, no matter how much I’d like to help. Guilt and worry and fear are circling around him like large, hungry buzzards, and nothing I can say will change the truth of that. I know these predatory birds all too well, and they are impervious to reason, deaf to supplication, and fully armored against all conventional weapons.

But you have to try to beat them back, anyway.

“It will be all right, Alex.” My voice is quiet. “You’ll get through this day.”

He raises his head and stares into my eyes. “Are you sure about that?” He looks away and bites his lip. “I keep going over and over in my mind what I can say to Eric to get him to forgive me, but everything I think of sounds stupid.”

He pushes back from the table and gets up, unable to sit still.