The Great Perhaps (16 page)

A. Beginning that Monday, Madeline follows the cloud in her Volvo every day after work
. The cloud seems to follow the same general route, stepping northeast toward the open expanse of the dark blue lake, standing in the air for an hour or more. Madeline will park in the emergency lane to watch it, listening to NPR or the Beatles. Then the cloud will start moving north toward downtown, like some celestial commuter, momentarily disappearing in the windows of the highest skyscrapers, then reappearing, silently circling back to its spot just above the family’s garage. Perhaps it is waiting for something. Madeline does not know. Sometimes the cloud-figure will veer from its normal path, heading way off course to the north, stopping over a particular row of trees along the lake. It is in these moments, uncertain as to where the cloud-figure might be going, that she feels strangely content, suddenly sure of life, of everything, the front seat littered with Diet Coke cans and candy bar wrappers, the Volvo swift and unsteady, swerving happily in and out of traffic.

B. Madeline decides to make a map of the cloud-figure’s movement in one of her research notebooks.
The map, drawn in erasable black pen, describes a large ellipse, a flattened-out circle. The cloud always heads northeast, then north, then west, then south, ending in Madeline’s backyard. Madeline does not think about anything while she is driving, not Jonathan, not his father, not her awful failing experiment—the birds are still murdering each other—not her daughters, who have become distant and obnoxious, not the incident between her and Eric, the other researcher, not the war in Iraq, not the president, not the poor captured soldier who is waiting to see if he will lose his head, not anything other than the cloud-figure itself.

C. Night after night, Madeline hurries home from work, rushes into her backyard, and begins the long circuitous path through the city, wondering exactly where the cloud will go next, following the cloud-figure late into the evening.
In the backseat of the Volvo, Madeline has even packed a suitcase with a few days’ worth of clothing: work attire and makeup and even a toothbrush. She has slept in the car these last few nights—following the cloud to where it hovers doubtfully above the lake—parking in one of the lakefront lots and climbing into the station wagon’s backseat to try and get some sleep.

Tonight Madeline listens to the radio while she sits in the driver’s seat, waiting there alone in the dark, parked near the great blue lake. It is already one o’clock in the morning. The cloud-figure has not moved for the last two hours, drifting along an empty span of gray water and black rocks. Bored, Madeline switches the radio on, tuning it in to NPR. In the darkness, she hears a rebroadcast of the third and final presidential debate between George Bush and John Kerry, their voices distant and trebly. Bob Schieffer, the moderator, asks, “Will our children and grandchildren ever live in a world as safe and secure as the world in which we grew up?”

John Kerry responds: “I believe that this president, regrettably, rushed us into a war, made decisions about foreign policy, pushed alliances away. And, as a result, America is now bearing this extraordinary burden where we are not as safe as we ought to be.”

George Bush: “Yes, we can be safe and secure, if we stay on the offense against the terrorists and if we spread freedom and liberty around the world.”

Switching the radio off, Madeline then climbs into the backseat. She lies down on top of the uncomfortable vinyl and folds her arms under her head, staring out the windows at the nighttime sky, thinking,
When did we get so used to having to always fight somebody? When did we get so used to the idea of war? How come no one’s really talking about how terrible the idea really is? How come no one’s asking any questions? And how come there are no protests? How come there’s no rationing? No rubber drives? How did war become such a distant, everyday thing?
She thinks of what her parents had to go through during World War Two, and what it was like growing up during Vietnam, she can still remember girls in her class crying during the Pledge of Allegiance each morning. She remembers her older brother shouting at her father, and a few friends and boyfriends her own age hoping the war would end before they would be eligible for the draft. She remembers watching a protest, somewhere downtown, and all the people involved were all just kids, only a few years older than she was.
How come my own girls aren’t more upset by what’s happening? Why doesn’t it seem more important to anybody? And how come no one’s affected by anything like they used to be?

W
ITH THE BLACK BERET ATOP HER HEAD, HER WEEK
and a half of suspension served, Amelia walks into school that Monday morning dressed as a cloud. The cloud outfit is made out of cardboard and has been painted shiny black and gray. Amelia waits to be sure her mother is gone and her father has left for school before she carries it out of her room, through the kitchen, and out the front door. Amelia has come up with a new plan for her history project: she will prevent the further spread of capitalism by making the world aware of how far-reaching the influence of soulless corporations already extends.

During her lunch period, Amelia takes a confident position in front of the Coca-Cola machine in one of the corners of the cafeteria. She holds her hands out when a young freshman tries to get herself a soda pop, bravely announcing:

“Do you have any idea of how many third world workers have died just so you can have a can of Coke? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Do you know Coke has its own death squads in Central America? Do you know they won’t let their workers in Colombia have a union?”

The girl, shy, with enormous silver braces, shakes her head. “I didn’t know,” she says.

“The storm cloud of capitalism casts its shadow over everything,” Amelia declares. “But communism is on the march. We can overcome corporate greed if we all just work together.”

The girl nods and stumbles off, unsure of what has just happened, staring down at the unspent change in her palm. A few minutes later, another student, a lanky boy wearing silver headphones, approaches the soda machine, counting out the shiny quarters in his hand. Amelia leaps in front of him, her cloud costume awkwardly chafing her neck.

“Did you know that last year an independent study was conducted by the Center for Science and Environment in India and they found that Coke had thirty times the legal amount of pesticides in their drinks, pesticides which lead to cancer and totally destroy the immune system?”

The boy is silent, trying to understand what she is asking.

“Did you also know that Coca-Cola is made with high fructose corn syrup, which has links to obesity and type two diabetes, and that Coca-Cola knowingly uses this ingredient instead of something else because it’s a lot cheaper?”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” the boy asks, looking from the sparkling change in his hand up to Amelia’s shiny face.

“I’m telling you all of this because I’m trying to keep you from making a terrible mistake.”

“Don’t you have something better to do?” the boy asks quietly. He forces his change into the pop machine, grabs his Coke, and then walks off without glancing back.

A few minutes later, a third student, a surly-looking senior with a wadded-up dollar bill in his fist, approaches the soda machine. He pushes past Amelia with such force that he bends a large corner of the cloud outfit. “Nice potato costume,” the large boy mutters, quickly inserting his dollar bill.

“Excuse me?” Amelia asks.

“I said nice potato costume.”

“It’s supposed to be a cloud, dipshit.”

Amelia sneers at him, but the boy ignores her, snatching his can of soda pop, happily strolling away.

After an hour of this, of the self-centered guffaws, of the mediocre wisecracks, of the unintelligent answers, Amelia gives up and finally removes the cloud outfit. She forces it inside her locker, irreparably crushing it—the cloud now looking more like a misshapen fruit or malformed rock—before she rushes off to her English class.

W
HEN
A
MELIA STRIDES
into the school newspaper’s office after fifth period, she expects to be greeted as a journalistic hero, like Woodward or Bernstein, or like somebody else famous for standing up for something, but instead she finds she has been summarily demoted to “Culture Vulture,” the lowest of the student newspaper’s ranks. Mr. Wick tells her this without looking her in the eyes once.

“I think, with your intelligence, you will be able to add a new level of scrutiny to the assignment.”

“What am I supposed to be covering, Mr. Wick? Football games? Pep rallies?”

“Well, there’s popular music. And also television.”

“Television? Are you serious?”

“You might find it a great challenge.”

“Well, who’s going to be the paper’s editor if I’m not?”

“Well, Mr. Stuart, he, well, he insisted on finding someone that better represented the personality of the school.”

“Who? Who is it?”

“William Banning.”

“William Banning? He’s the president of student council. How can he be the editor of the school paper? Don’t you understand anything about checks and balances?”

“Amelia, I know you’re upset, but you have to understand this is only a small school paper, after all.”

“Maybe to you. But I don’t believe there’s such a thing as a small revolution. You fired me and put someone totally unqualified in my place. And now you want me to write about TV shows. This, this is a complete joke. William Banning? You got to be fucking kidding me,” she shouts, storming out of the
Midway
’s office, her neck turning red, a prickly sensation beginning to rise. She can feel it happening, the intolerable itching, a formation of pinkish hives spreading all along her bare arms, her neck, her wrists. Amelia tosses her books on the ground, holding her speckled hands over her face. Two seniors, Bret Standler and Mickey Dupre, stare at Amelia as they pass. One of them whispers what Amelia thinks she hears as “Lezbo.” Amelia glances up at them and hisses, “I will fucking destroy you!” The surprised boys, like two frightened animals, quickly hurry off.

H
AVING SKIPPED
lunch in order to challenge the empire of American capitalism, Amelia decides to ditch her sixth-period class so she can buy an enchilada. She sits alone in the rear of the rectangular cafeteria with the wormy little freshmen. As she’s unhappily eating, someone takes a seat beside her. It is a boy, a tall, skinny boy with blond hair, wearing a blue sweater. Amelia glances at him out of the corners of her eyes and feels her whole body tighten. It is William Banning, the student council president, the new editor of the school paper, and her greatest arch-nemesis of all time.

“Amelia?”

She ignores him.

“I just…I just wanted to say how awesome it’s going to be working with you. I think…I think your stories are really good. I mean, the last one…the one about the lunch ladies—”

“Cafeteria workers,” she corrects, still refusing to look his way.

“Right, the cafeteria workers, well, that was, I mean, that was really insightful and like everyone was talking about how great it was.”

“Wonderful,” she hisses, shoving another forkful of enchilada in her mouth.

“And, well, I thought…I was hoping, you know, that it would be cool…I mean, I’m really excited to have…the opportunity to be working with you.”

Amelia slams down her fork and faces him. His nose is crooked, she realizes. His eyes are gray and he is not as handsome as she had thought he was. She stares at him, narrowing her eyes and clenching her teeth. “The only reason they asked you to be editor of the paper is because this school is just like this country. It’s full of cowards. You and I are not going to be friends or buddies or whatever you had planned. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t even exist. And if you even try editing my work, I will totally emasculate you.” She sighs, then turns again, lifting up her fork.

“Oh…okay, well…I just wanted to…I just wanted to try and make sure things were, you know, cool.”

“William. I think you are a total imbecile. Someday soon, like in college, or whatever, you’re going to find that nobody cares that you were a track star or were on the stupid student council. This place, this place has nothing to do with the real world. Until then, just leave me alone, okay?”

“You really don’t like yourself very much, do you?” William asks, then stands and quickly walks off. Amelia sets down her fork and stares down at the miserable food on her plate, then throws it in the trash with an inaudible scream. As she does this, she sees the backs of her hands are now covered in bright red spots.

A
MELIA DITCHES MOST
of her last-period class and heads over to the university to find Professor Dobbs. She waits at the back of the lecture hall, a gaggle of bright-eyed girls surrounding him, batting their stupid eyelashes, gushing like cheerleaders. Professor Dobbs, seeing Amelia there, smiles, and in one silent move he winks his eye at her, revealing his disdain for the noisy, girlish exuberance around him. Finally they are alone, and, placing his hand on her shoulder, he says, feigning disappointment, “Amelia, I would love to spend a few moments with you but I’ve got a four o’clock meeting with the dean. Maybe sometime later this week?”

Amelia nods, looking away, “Sure, I mean, it’s not like…a big deal. I just thought…”

Professor Dobbs checks his watch and then, glancing around, he leans close and says, “Okay. We’ve got ten minutes.”

A
MELIA FINDS HER FACE
in Professor Dobbs’s lap again. In the faculty parking lot, behind the questionable cover of the Saab’s tinted windows, Amelia sighs, closing her eyes, bobbing her head up and down. She hides her spotted skin from him, gently pushing his hands away from the hives that have appeared all over her body. When he ejaculates, it ruins her dark gray blouse.

A
FTER THAT,
Amelia sulks in her room, playing her French music much too loudly. She switches CD after CD, from Edith Piaf to Brigitte Fontaine to Air. Anything foreign, anything sad, anything that suits her shitty mood. After a half hour of this, her sister, Thisbe, knocks at her door. When Amelia doesn’t answer, Thisbe slowly opens it, poking her head in.

“Amelia? Hey. Um? Are you sleeping?”

“There’s a reason my door’s closed, asshole! Stay the fuck out of my room or I will waste you!”

Amelia rears up out of her bed and shoves the door against her sister’s head, locking it closed. Amelia’s hives have not gone away. She has taken like a hundred Benadryl, she has put clear calamine lotion all over her arms and neck, she has tried to lie in her stupid bed and just relax, but nothing is working. She falls back onto the mattress, closing her eyes, pulling the pillow over her head, but her sister keeps knocking. Amelia, furious now, leaps to her feet and rips the bedroom door open. Thisbe, wide-eyed, takes a step back, cowering a little.

“Why don’t you leave me the fuck alone! Or are you too stupid to understand English?”

Thisbe backs away toward the staircase, looking at her sister with trembling lips. “I didn’t do anything wrong…Dad told me to come get you…”

“What?”

“He said we’re all going to visit Grandpa now.”

“Well, tell him to fuck off. I’m not going.”

“He said we both had to go.”

Amelia slams the door, pulling at her hair, throwing herself on the bed.

“I am not fucking going,” she whispers, starting to cry, the sores on her arms beginning to shine and blister. “I refuse to fucking go. I am sick of being pushed around. I am not going to go.” She rolls over and switches the CD. Searching through her stacks of jewel cases, she finds a Sylvia Vartan album and pops it in, turning the volume up as loud as it will go.

Moments later, there is another knock. It is Thisbe again, now wearing her gray jacket. She is holding Amelia’s black coat in her hand. “Dad said to stop pouting. And he wants you to bring your radio.”

A
T THE FAR END
of her grandfather’s hospital bed, Amelia does her best to avoid his sunken face. He does not look like her grandfather anymore. He is not smiling. His eyes are weak-looking, only flicking open every few moments. His body seems to have shrunk. He looks like he is made of twigs. Finally Amelia has to look away, glancing anywhere but at his feeble shape, her eyes darting from the television set—which is on, though muted—to the plastic cafeteria tray beside her grandfather’s bed. And in doing so, Amelia catches sight of something sitting on top of her grandfather’s dresser. Almost at once, she sees it: a small silver airplane, an old metal toy, just about the size of her open hand.
Help me
, the airplane calls out to her.
I do not belong here. I could be something more than what I am. Make something useful of me.
It is perfect. It is the perfect addition to whatever it is she is supposed to be building. Amelia quietly marches over to inspect the toy plane and, looking over her shoulder to be sure her father or sister are not watching her, she stealthily slips it inside her purse.

When Amelia turns around again she sees that her stupid sister Thisbe is holding her grandfather’s hand. Thisbe is brushing his thin white hair with a black comb and kissing his forehead like a newborn baby. “There, now you look handsome,” Thisbe says. Amelia rolls her eyes. No one notices. Their father is busy plugging in Amelia’s CD player. Finding an open outlet behind the hospital bed, he turns it on, adjusting the volume carefully.

“Look what we brought you, Dad,” Amelia’s father says, placing the radio beside the old man’s bed. “Listen.” He opens the CD tray and puts in an unlabeled disc, then hits play. Immediately the tiny white-tiled room is filled with the warm swell of violins and trumpets, a slow bass beat tapping along with muted drums. Thisbe claps, then, taking her grandpa’s hands, she pretends to dance with him.

“It’s Glenn Miller, Dad. You always said you liked Glenn Miller.”

Amelia’s grandfather nods. He measures his words carefully, already down to four. “I’ll miss you all,” he says, his eyes momentarily bright again.