The Wisdom of Perversity (30 page)

His mother was sitting up at the foot of the bed, not on the side like usual. Her back, neck, and head were thrust straight up by the neck brace. She was staring in his direction but not at him, as if he were invisible. Then he noticed his fitted bottom bedsheet was on her lap, folded up like a flag.

For the rest of his life Jeff could recall perfectly the still image of his mother in this pose. At first, he was baffled by why she was holding his bedsheet. He also remembered this sensation for the rest of his life, a spooky lack of unawareness of danger at the very height of being in danger. “What do you want, Ma?”

She unfolded his bedsheet. There were three pale, round red stains and a fourth paler, thinner, just a streak. “Jeff . . .” she began in a quiet voice, unlike herself, and unlike herself she didn't go on. He had not noticed the stains when he woke up and immediately wondered what he could have done to hide them if he had. She lifted the bloody sheet. Underneath was a pair of his Jockeys, not the one he threw out, this one was from Monday, after his Sunday with Cousin Richard. He had rolled that into a ball and shoved it deep in the hamper because it was a little poopy. She turned it inside out, tilting it at him. Beside the brown stain there was a deeper color, a crescent of red he hadn't seen. He looked at the floor.

“Is your tushy bleeding when you go to the bathroom?” she asked.

“I don't know.” One of the oak boards was two shades darker than the others. Its edge was splintered.

“Are you bleeding today?”

He shook his head. He counted seven-and-one-half floorboards until Mom's bedspread shadowed the rest.

Her voice was gentle and strangely calm. It scared him. “Go to your room, Jeffrey, take off your clothes, put on your bathrobe and bring me the underpants you're wearing.”

He shook his head.

“Jeffrey, I'm not angry. If you're bleeding from your tushy, that's very serious. I have to check.”

“Hattie,” he mumbled.

“She's cleaning in the kitchen. She won't come back here until I call her.”

His robe was on the hook in the bathroom so he undressed there. His Jockeys were clean, white and perfect. He felt more confident there was nothing really wrong as he returned to his mother's bedroom.

She had put the dirty sheets and underpants on the floor all balled up so you couldn't see the yucky parts. “Give them to me,” she said.

He handed over today's Jockeys. She turned them inside out and brought them closer to her bedside lamp. Because of the neck brace she had to move her entire upper torso, moving stiffly like Frankenstein. She put them aside and returned to him.

“When did you start bleeding, Jeffy?”

He looked at her knees, following a blue vein running along one side and down her calf. He shrugged.

“Sunday? After your day with Cousin Richard?” Now she sounded like herself—angry.

“Ma, can I go now?”

She put her open hand on his cheek. He flinched, but it was a caress. Her palm lingered. He glanced up. She was all teary. He looked down at her knees. “It's okay, sweetie,” she said, leaning close. The hard plastic of her brace bumped his shoulder. “I need to check your tushy,” she whispered, then tugged at the robe's belt, undoing it. “Lie facedown on the bed, sweetie. I have to make sure it's stopped.”

Putting his face on the scratchy afghan blanket, he smelled potatoes. She lifted his robe. The air was cool on his behind. He clenched. “It's okay, Jeffy. I'm just going to make sure you're not hurt,” Ma said. Two warm hands landed on each cheek. They parted him gently. His legs shot out, knees locked, toes pointed. “Relax, honey,” she said. Her hands tugged him apart. “I need to make sure you're okay.” He dug the edges of his top front teeth onto the bottoms so hard they hurt. He opened his lips and champed down even harder. The edge of the scratchy afghan slid into his mouth. “Relax, sweetie. Please. I'm just going to look.”

He stopped pointing his feet, unstrung his calves, bent his knees, let his belly sag. He took a deep breath of the potato blanket.

The cool air touched him there. The itchiness got worse, just for a second. He felt her lean in to look. She moved his cheeks a little up, a little down, to one side, the other. Then she let go and covered his behind with the robe. “Okay, sweetie. You can get up.”

Back on his feet, he kept his head down. He tried to figure out why the blanket smelled of potatoes.

“Did Cousin Richard hurt your tushy, baby?” she asked in that weird, kind voice.

He nodded up and down, eyes focused on pale oak floorboards.

“On Sunday?”

He nodded. “Can I go?” he asked.

“In a second. At his apartment?”

He could look up now. Ma's eyes were squinting still but no longer wet. Her painted brows were in an angry line. They were above where her real eyebrows should be. He wondered whether her real eyebrows would have made a line. He nodded.

“Wasn't Sam also there?” she asked irritably.

That pushed his face back down to his toes on the oak. He nodded.

“The whole time?”

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut. “Can I go?”

The gentle hand returned, caressing his cheek. “I love you, Jeffy.”

He nodded and kept his eyes squeezed shut.

She held his chin and leaned close. She kissed his cheek so softly it was like the wind was kissing him. “No one will ever love you more,” she whispered. “You're the whole world to me.”

“I love you, Mommy,” he whispered back, still blinded.

She let him go. “Close the door and play in your room until I call for you. Don't worry about your tushy. It'll feel better soon.”

He shut his door but didn't lock it. He got started on rebuilding New Athens. Hattie hadn't vacuumed, but he was sure Ma wouldn't make him take it apart again.

All his worries fell away while he worked. Until he heard the doorbell ring and knew it was Cousin Richard. But he didn't worry about him for long because the reconstruction was going great. He was sure he could remember how to fix all of it. His confidence remained high until he did something wrong with the underpass entrance to the Hall of Government. He couldn't make a smooth circle. It kept breaking. Probably Brian would remember. He never forgot anything.

Jeff went to work on the other side, where the outer buildings were easy to do. He was almost done with them when Ma knocked and opened his door. Her neck brace was off. She was wearing a dark blue and white patterned dress she usually wore to temple. Cousin Richard was behind her, hanging back in the hallway.

“Hi, Jeffrey,” Cousin Richard called. “I have to go right now, but this weekend I'll take you and Brian to a Yankees game. I can get us seats right behind home plate. Maybe get Mickey Mantle's autograph. Okay? Bye for now!” He left.

Ma stayed. She stared hard at the wooden blocks, LEGOs and Matchbox cars. One cheek twitched uncontrollably, as if only that piece of her skin were angry. “You're putting it back together,” she said.

His stomach got tight and hard. Was she really going to make him take it apart again?

“Sweetie,” she continued in a very angry voice, “I had a long talk with Cousin Richard. He is very sorry he bothered you. He promised me it will never happen again. He's going to make it up to you.”

He thought about the Land Camera. If he had had one today, he would be able to fix New Athens all by himself.

“And that . . .” She paused for a second, then went on. “That Sam, he won't come here anymore. You will never have to see Sam again.”

He nodded. That was really good news.

“From now on, sweetie, I'll tell you the day before Cousin Richard wants to visit you. And when Cousin Richard is going to be coming over, I want you to make sure Brian will be here. The whole time. Okay?”

He pushed the Matchbox English taxi down a ramp. It skidded, got stuck. “Brian doesn't like Cousin Richard,” he said.

“That's not your problem,” she snapped. She was back to normal, annoyed at him. “Promise me you'll make sure Brian is here when Cousin Richard comes.”

He nodded.

“Say it out loud. I really want you to promise me that you'll make sure Brian is here when Cousin Richard comes over.”

“I promise,” he said. Then she left him alone.

Jeff tried to repair the central tower, but Hattie had taken the tin pan and Heinz baked beans cans back to the kitchen. Anyway, it made more sense to wait for Brian's help tomorrow. Together they could make it right.

Cleaning Up

February 2008

THE BATHROOM HAD
been swept. Still needed to be vacuumed to make sure every shard of glass had been cleared, and mopped to soak up every mite of makeup powder from the tile's grouting. That took only twenty minutes, so Julie continued cleaning while waiting to tell her husband she wanted a divorce. She made the bed, puffed up couch pillows, carried a half mug of caramelized coffee from Gary's study to the kitchen, left it soaking in the sink.

She decided against straightening the mess in Zack's room. She stood at the doorsill, nearly gagging at the musk of male adolescence, and chose not to cross into his swamp: crumpled boxers; soggy towels twisted into agonized abstract sculptures; T-shirts tortured, expiring inside out, sometimes housed within a similarly mangled sweater, stitching and labels exposed. Also scattered on floor, desk, and bookshelves were crumpled papers that she knew if investigated would turn out to contain a hurt teacher's complaints that Zack's paper showed little effort. Or, more painful, that he had at long last lived up to his potential and thrilled with his insight into Oedipus or the causes of the French Revolution, soon to be followed by other papers with comments lamenting that recent progress hadn't been sustained. He was as careless of praise and success as he was indifferent to advice and criticism. Gary was right about their son. He was determined to fail in order to annoy his father. Her love, her support—they counted for nothing.

That's his problem, she decided. If he wanted to live like a pig as a rebuke to her, that was his prerogative. If he wanted to squander his talents to insult his father, also his mess to make. What she had realized in these past few, tumultuous days is that she could provide an example of something much more useful than cleaning up after yourself: to be honest, no matter how painful; to be who you are, no matter how scary.

Still, the boys were astonishingly sloppy. After rinsing the coffee mug, she discovered the dishwasher was loaded sloppily, bowls upside down, all the silverware in a single compartment, and the dishes had been left overnight, food becoming encrusted. She took the worst examples out and rinsed them thoroughly before neatly stacking them back in proper positions.

And the cabinet doors! Half of them were open as if raided by starving cats. Shutting them, she spied all the items Gary insisted she keep stocked for him: pretzels and Orville Redenbacher's light-butter popcorn; in the freezer were Skinny Cow fudge bars and in the fridge no-fat Swiss Miss chocolate puddings. Gary seemed to think
no fat
meant no calories. Whenever she “forgot” to buy one of these favorite items, in the hopes of reducing his girth, he would demand restocking. Looking at his supplies, she felt pity, not the usual disgust.
Of course, he fills himself, because I can't. He's trapped in a bulimic marriage.

Her despair over her shortcomings was so complete she didn't hear him tumble the locks, didn't realize he was home until the door shut behind him. She rushed to hallway to ask, “How's your eye?” when she saw the surrounding tissue had faded to a tinge of purple. The brilliant eye of Satan was gone, although there were still a few lightning bolts of red.

“I'm just fucking great,” he said. He took off his Burberry and slung it on a hanger casually. The trench coat immediately slid off, onto the closet floor. Gary stared at it, then left it there. “We have to talk,” he said before she could. He nodded at Zack's door. “Is he here?”

“No,” she said.

“Good,” Gary said. “Let's talk before he gets home.” He announced, “I'm hungry. Is there anything to eat?”

She offered to make him a dinner out of what they had: spaghetti with clam sauce, microwave defrost and broil a steak, or a favorite impromptu meal of his, a Nova and onion omelet. He listened thoughtfully as if she were a waitress listing the specials and announced, “I'll have a PB&J.”

“Let me make you a real meal,” she pleaded.

He ignored her, removing chunky Skippy from a cabinet door he left open, jerking the fridge door, rattling its metal rack as he dragged out a jar of Sarabeth's strawberry preserves. He pulled apart, rather than untied, an Arnold's rye, nabbing six slices. He nodded toward the hall where he had left his computer bag. “I've got copies of the retracted statements from the Huck Finn boys. And two other statements accusing Klein the press knows nothing about.” He spun the Skippy lid with a finger. It soared off the jar, crashed on the counter. He jerked open the cutlery drawer, removed a knife, and bumped it closed with his stomach. “I got them out of my source after swearing on Zack's life that they would remain private, and even that wasn't good enough until I explained about you.” He plunged the knife into the peanut butter as if stabbing a villain's heart.

“Explained about me?” she repeated, appalled he had exposed her.

“Yeah, I couldn't get them to let me have copies of the sworn statements until I explained I had a personal stake in their confidentiality. To do that, I had to explain about you.”

“You told somebody in the DA's office about me?” She wasn't really surprised, but she was outraged.

He pulled out the knife with an effort, bringing along a rock-sized lump of Skippy. “Not the DA's office,” he said. “The state attorney general's office. They have broader powers than a DA, and that's important. They can subpoena all kinds of things a DA can't. Klein, Rydel, Jeff, or whoever can buy off witnesses, but he can't stop the state attorney general from subpoenaing documents that might lead them to more boys or families that he's bought off, and maybe, just maybe, one of them will regret having agreed to keep quiet.” He tried to slide excess peanut butter off the knife back into the jar. It remained glued on.

She said, “Let me do it.” He surrendered the jar and knife. “How could you tell them about me, Gary?” she asked, then proceeded to make his sandwich.

“Not
them.
I told David Sirck, the assistant AG—”

“And he's going to tell his boss, his wife, his best friend, and they'll each tell three people they trust. Jesus, Gary, I'm not that naive. I can't believe you are.”

“Listen to me!” he pleaded, voice quavering. “I'm trying to help you. I really am, Jules.”

“How?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “How are you helping me?” She handed him the PB&J.

Gary took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and then said, “Your story isn't evidence of a crime because the statute of limitations has run out on all aspects of it. Klein can't be charged. Rydel was a minor at the time, probably couldn't be charged because of that, but even if he didn't have use of the excuse that he was acting under the influence of Klein, the statute of limitations has run out on him too.” He didn't finish. He added quickly, as if she were about to hurl something at him, “It shouldn't, there shouldn't be a limitation on molesting a child, but there is.”

That dispelled her anger at his meddling. For Gary to say the law was wrong was unprecedented—and not convincing. Obviously he was conceding that out of consideration for her.
He still loves me?
she wondered. On second thought, she marveled at another, impossible possibility:
He feels compassion for me?

“Does it help,” she asked, “if I went public about it with some others who saw it happen?”

“Others?” He frowned. “You mean Jeff?”

She explained about Brian, including an account of their reunion, Jeff's attempt to bribe them, and the phony medical report. Gary interrupted eating his PB&J to comment, “Your friend Brian was very smart to see through that. Jeff must have gotten the idea from Rydel. Sure, since the investigation started, Rydel's been claiming Klein is suffering from severe dementia, but there was nothing about it before then—Klein was still appearing at Huck Finn and academy events. It's a typical dodge. The DA's office takes for granted any eighty-year-old accused of a crime will throw up medical excuses as to why he can't be tried.”

She resumed her account, that Jeff blew them off in spite of Brian's threat to write about it, and finally that she and Brian resolved after the disastrous Four Seasons breakfast to go public anyway, to force Jeff's hand if nothing else.

Gary had finished his PB&J by then and was washing it down with Diet Coke. He swallowed. “Don't.” He took another slug of soda and swallowed hard. “Don't go public yet. With or without this Brian guy, let's you and I go to Jeff and talk this through with him. Sounds to me like Brian blew it, got too angry at Jeff. Call Jeff. Tell him you and I want to meet with him.”

“You'll go with me?” She was surprised by his helpfulness, until she remembered he didn't know she was divorcing him. “How's that going to change Jeff's mind about covering up for Rydel?”

“I'm a lawyer. I can scare him. I've got the suppressed sworn statements of other molestations. I know the state attorney general. I can be convincing that it's all going to come out anyway and Jeff had better fess up. Call Jeff. Tell him I have info from the state AG that he needs to know about. That'll get his attention.” He crumpled the can of Diet Coke as if demonstrating his power and tossed it in the garbage.

She didn't want to threaten Jeff. She wanted him to go public voluntarily. Gary would think that naive. But she didn't want to argue with Gary. He was being sweet and chivalrous. She felt sorry for him and said the hurtful words she had to say sadly, “Gary, before you help me, there's something we really have to talk about.”

“What?”

“I can't be your wife anymore.”

Gary blinked. Stared. Blinked again. There was a long silence. Finally he said, “What?”

“I've been—it's so unfair to you—I'm sorry, but I just can't be married.” Her legs were shaking. She leaned against the counter, she was so unsteady.

“It's not me, it's you,” he mocked.

“I shouldn't be married. I'm not capable of a normal relationship.”

“With me? Or with anyone?” He was cross-examining her, arguing, not listening.

But in fact, his question was clarifying for her. At that moment she understood how much she had always wanted to be married, for the lie of her life to be true. She didn't want to say,
Not with anyone.
She couldn't give up hope. Yet she couldn't say the cruel
Only you.
She had to lie to Gary even while being honest. That was the problem: she couldn't be truthful with this man. She evaded. “Gary, I've been hiding all my life and I've hurt other people by keeping quiet. I'm responsible for what happened to those children, those poor kids. I've got to deal with that. And I can't deal with it by pretending . . .” She got stuck. Pretending what?

Gary was looking at her, but he didn't seem to be focused on her. He was staring through her. “Not wanting to be married. That's about sex, isn't it?”

Was it? It couldn't be. Was her whole emotional life colored and controlled by sex? Would she be happy with Gary if only she weren't a pervert?

“You don't enjoy sex with me?” he asked.

“I don't enjoy sex with anyone,” she said, relieved to not make it personal. “I'm sorry. What I did to you was awful. I shouldn't have married anyone. I've done a terrible thing to you. But I want to stop it. That's all I can do now. I can't change what I've done. But I can stop doing it.” Tears dripped off her chin and jaw. She hadn't felt them release, had no sense she was crying. “You don't have to give me a penny. I don't deserve anything from you. I'm sorry. I'm a terrible person.” She covered her mouth to stop the mean words.

Gary tossed his head back, throwing off a burden, and spoke in his lovely voice, the persuasive tones that had swayed juries and booked him on TV. “I don't care what you like in bed or if you don't like anything in bed, if that's what you're talking about, and I think that's what you're talking about. I love you. We can have any kind of sex you want or no sex at all. I love you, Jules. Being with you is all that matters to me.”

“You don't understand,” she said, pleading as she staggered backward into a chair, bending over, head in her hands. In her imagination, told what she had just told him, Gary was supposed to throw an angry self-righteous fit, to storm out or hit her. His offer that she didn't have to change at all and they would still be a couple was completely unexpected. It left her nowhere to go but to confess that she found him physically unattractive and intellectually unsympathetic. She had married what she wished she wanted, not what she wanted.

He knelt. He groaned at the effort of getting to his knees, but he went down in front of her, capturing her hands. He begged: “Let me help you, Jules. At least let me help you through this. Once we straighten this out with Jeff, I'll go into counseling with you, whatever you want. But let me help you through this.”

She leaned her head on his Big Brain. Once again, her timid will was defeated. That must be what had ruined her in the first place. Klein had sensed her weakness with the intuition of a predator. Now shrewd Gary was using her fear of hurting him to get his way. She was doomed. Telling the truth or living a lie she was fated never to become herself.