The Brutal Language of Love (17 page)

“Is that where he comes in?” Farrell asks, pointing to the set of doors along the glass wall bordering the waiting area.

I nod. Each door leads outside to one of several diagonal parking bays, where already two buses rest, chugging gas so the passengers aboard can enjoy some air-conditioning in the offensive May heat. “That one,” I say, pointing to empty Bay 6.

Farrell nods and checks his watch. “We have a few minutes. You hungry?”

“I'm always hungry, Farrell,” I say, laying a hand on the baby.

We trek over to the counter and order two burgers each, along with french fries and soft drinks. “Make sure they're well done, now,” Farrell tells the young woman cooking our food. “We've got a pregnant lady here.”

She nods fearfully as she pulls on her food-service gloves. Inside them her fingernails are long and pink, while under her hair net I sense a meticulously styled 'do just waiting to escape. “Don't say things like that to young people, Farrell,” I tell him. “You'll frighten them.”

“Ever heard of
E. coli
?” he counters. “You'll thank me when you don't have the shits tonight.” He persists in keeping an eye on the food preparation, while I keep an eye on him, watching for signs of the red face or sweaty temples that indicate his internal rage is not far from the surface. Aside from the tense muscles in his neck, however, he's clean.

Farrell insists on paying, after which we sit down with our meals, squeezing plastic pouches of ketchup and mustard indiscriminately over everything. “So what do we do when he gets here?” Farrell asks, eating roughly one-third of his burger in the first bite.

“
If
he's on the bus,” I say, licking grease from my fingers, “I plan to get my pictures and leave.”

Farrell affects a warbly falsetto meant to be an imitation of my mother. “You mean you're not going to counsel him about careers?”

I laugh and pop a fry into my mouth. “I don't think so.”

“Here's the thing,” Farrell says. “I'm already here. I've got some time.”

“So?” I say.

“Maybe I'll counsel him.”

“About what?”

“Careers. I'm an accomplished meteorologist. I have a lot to offer a kid.”

“We'll just get the pictures and leave,” I say.

“We'll get the pictures and see what happens. Leave our options open.” He shoves the last of his second burger in his mouth, then reaches for my second burger, which I have not yet started. “Can I have this?” he asks, and I nod.

“He probably won't even be on the bus,” I say, and suddenly I feel tears coming to my eyes. “My baby pictures are probably lying in a ditch somewhere on the Jersey Turnpike.”

“What does this kid look like anyway?”

“Mom says he's rail-thin and wears a jean jacket. She thinks he seems a little bit gay.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Farrell says.

I sigh. “She says his hair is shiny and clean and he seems to know a lot about hair-care products.”

“That stereotypical bitch.”

“I really wish you would stop saying that.”

“What?”

“Bitch.”

“Why?”

“It's offensive. It offends me. What if someone called me or Double X a bitch? How would you like that?”

“But they wouldn't call you that.”

“Sure they would.”

“Not in front of me. They'd be too scared.”

“So as long as you don't know about it, it's all right?”

“Joyce,” he says plaintively, “that's the only word I have to describe Mom. I don't know any other words.”

He looks slightly panicked and I decide to lay off him. We load up all the trash on our orange plastic trays, dump it, then go stand in front of Bay 6, where the bus from Jacksonville is just pulling in, and a young man with shiny black hair is the first person to descend the Greyhound's grooved, metal steps.

“mrs. marquette!” Ellsworth yells as he bursts
through the glass door and into the bus station. I assume my mother has told him of my pregnancy and that this is how he is able to identify me so quickly. “I'm so pleased to finally meet you,” he says now, coming toward me with an outstretched hand. I'm momentarily surprised, as none of the kids I counsel seem to have been taught this simple gesture by their parents. I take Ellsworth's hand and shake it, and as soon as we're finished, he reaches into a tote bag reading
I LOVE NY
and whips out the album containing my baby pictures. “First of all,” he says, his breath a sweet mixture of chocolate and pot, “let me give you this. I'm sure you've been pretty worried about it. I told your mother not to give it to me just in case anything happened, but she said she trusted me like a son, so here you go!”

“She said what?” Farrell says. He's beginning to go a little bit red now, and I understand that soon I will not be able to make him hear me on any subject.

“Ellsworth,” I say, tucking the photo album under my arm, “this is my brother, Farrell.”

“Oh,” Ellsworth says, and his face drops a little, which tells me my mother has been very busy indeed. Still, he holds out his hand and says, “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Farrell takes Ellsworth's hand and squeezes it hard, so that after they let go, Ellsworth places the hand behind his back, as if hiding it might erase his discomfort. “So she trusts you like a son, eh? Well, I hate to tell you, Ellsworth, but that's not a compliment.”

“Yes sir,” Ellsworth says, nodding.

“What kind of manners are those, anyway?” Farrell asks him. “I thought runaways didn't have manners.”

“It's just that my dad's in the air force, so that's where I learned it, I guess.”

Farrell nods. “You going back to your family in Tampa?”

“Yes sir,” Ellsworth says. “I had a long talk with your mother and she really thinks it's what's best for me.”

Farrell and I stare at him blankly. We are unaware of anyone who might follow Meredith's advice. Ellsworth smiles then, revealing charmingly crooked teeth that have clearly never seen braces, and frankly don't need to. Next he removes the stuffed red backpack from his shoulders and sets it on the floor beside his tote bag. In the face of our silence he finally blurts out, “Mrs. Marquette, your mother is so sweet! You must love her.”

“That's a little strong, isn't it?” Farrell asks, agitated, but Ellsworth's eyes are glued to me, waiting for my response.

“Somewhat,” I say numbly. Try as I might, I feel incapable of putting this young man at ease or shielding him from my brother, who I can see is gearing up for something. If only we were back in my office at school, the one with the sign on the door saying my name and that I am a guidance counselor, I might know what to do. If only my secretary were here.

“She loves you, I know that,” Ellsworth says.

“What about me?” Farrell demands.

“Oh sure,” Ellsworth says, nodding eagerly at Farrell. “Anyway,” he says, “I was wondering if I could buy you guys some dinner and maybe talk a little bit about colleges with you, Mrs. Marquette. I really want to get my life back on track, you know?”

“Just for the record,” Farrell says, “who exactly is paying for this dinner?”

Ellsworth looks at Farrell, then at me, then back at Farrell. “Okay, I mean, sure, that's a good point. Because I guess your mom told you she really helped me out a lot financially, and so that's true, actually. Yeah. Technically she's the one buying the dinner.”

Farrell nods.

“Of course, in the end I'll be the one paying since I'm going to pay her back every penny. That was all I meant, I guess. About me paying.”

“Good man,” Farrell says, clapping Ellsworth on the back. “Tell it like it is!” He then picks up the boy's luggage for him and we all head back to the restaurant counter, where Farrell and I each order two hot dogs. The girl behind the counter smiles at me and we say hi. Her name tag reads
CLARICE
.

Ellsworth pays for the food as promised and leads us back to our old table, where Clarice has not yet wiped up the stray gobs of ketchup and mustard from our previous meal. “God,” Ellsworth says, using his own napkin to clean up some of the mess, “people eat like pigs!”

Behind his back, Farrell and I look at each other. My brother smiles at me serenely, for Ellsworth has just given him a gift, a reason to attack. Since he was struck by lightning I have come to imagine Farrell's brain as a complex series of wires instead of blood vessels, and now they are telegraphing a message to me:
Did you hear that? He just called us pigs!
No matter that Farrell and I really do eat like pigs. What's important now is that Ellsworth understand that the affection he shares with our mother does not make him our brother. Regrettably and quite involuntarily, I offer Farrell a wink.

We sit down. Farrell engages aggressively with his condiment packets. “Anyway, Mrs. Marquette,” Ellsworth says, trying not to look as the ketchup and mustard begin to flow, “I was telling your mother how much I like animals, and that was when she suggested I become a veterinarian.”

I wipe some of Farrell's ketchup off my drink cup and nod.

“Oh, hold on,” Farrell says, reaching into his pocket for a pen. He takes a napkin and writes
VETERINARIAN
at the top of it, then
PROS
and
CONS
beneath that, drawing a line between the two words to create columns.

“Oh,” Ellsworth says, watching him.

“What a good idea, Farrell,” I add, willing Ellsworth to believe I mean this.

Farrell says, “It's a little trick I use to help keep my brain straight.” He looks at Ellsworth then and taps the side of his head. “You know, short-term memory loss and all.”

Ellsworth clears his throat. “From when you were struck by lightning, sir?”

Farrell nods.

“May I ask what that felt like, sir?”

“Like fucking a rosebush,” Farrell says.

Ellsworth nods slowly, then takes a sip of his Coke. “Do you know anything about veterinarians, Mrs. Marquette?” he asks me after his drink goes down.

I find myself saying, “Just because you like animals doesn't mean you should be a veterinarian.”

“Oh,” he says. “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“How do you feel about blood and fecal matter?” Farrell says. “Because that's what it's really about, you know. It's a mess.”

“Hmm,” Ellsworth says.

“Same with childbirth,” I tell him. “Everyone says it's so beautiful but it's not. It's gross. I might even crap myself in the process.”

“Oh boy,” Ellsworth says.

“It's not like working in a petting zoo, for godssakes!” Farrell puts in.

“No,” Ellsworth says, “I mean, I didn't think it would be. Of course, even as a vet, you would have to pet the animals sometimes, right? To put them at ease?”

“I suppose so,” I say.

“One thing I was thinking,” Farrell begins slowly, “is about your hair. You have lovely, shiny hair, Ellsworth.”

Ellsworth touches his hair with his hand. “Thank you.”

“Did you notice my mother's hair?” I ask him.

He shakes his head.

“She uses generic conditioner. That's why it's so frizzy. She's kind of cheap.”

“Really? Hmm. I mean, I guess I thought she was pretty generous with me.”

“I object!” Farrell announces abruptly, standing up from the table. He walks over to the vending machines and begins pacing in front of them. His thin, curly hair has gotten a little wild looking, though I don't recall having seen him run his hands through it.

Ellsworth leans across the table toward me now. “Is he all right, Mrs. Marquette? I mean, I don't mean to be rude, but your mother says he's crazy. She says she had to remove his picture from her locket because it was too painful to look at him anymore, the way he used to be.”

“Here's the thing,” I say sympathetically. “I think all my brother is trying to say is, have you considered the field of hairdressing?”

“Pardon me?” Ellsworth says.

“You just strike both of us as more of a hairdresser than a veterinarian. Do you enjoy that sort of thing?”

“Well,” Ellsworth says, retreating back into his seat. “I mostly just like animals, I guess. I thought you might have some advice for me since your mom said you were a guidance counselor.”

Just then Farrell returns with packages of Oreos for each of us. “He doesn't want to be a hairdresser,” I say.

“But why!” Farrell yells. Several people in the waiting area turn to look at us, and Farrell acknowledges them by announcing, “This boy is a runaway who has finally come home!” The people see it is not wise to get involved, even if this is true, and they look away.