A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (20 page)

After about ten minutes, we
’
re bored. My main reason for coming has gone bust.

I was looking to score.

I expected flirting. I expected attractive single mothers and flirting. My goal, a goal I honestly thought was fairly realistic, was to meet an attractive single mother and have Toph befriend the mothers son so we can arrange play dates, during which the mother and I will go upstairs and screw around while the kids play outside. I expected meaningful glances and carefully worded propositions. I imagine that the world of schools and parents is oozing with intrigue and debauchery, that under its concerned and well-meaning facade, its two-parent families, conferences with teachers and thoughtful questions directed to the history teacher about Harriet Tubman, everyone is swinging.

But by and large they
’
re ugly. I scan the crowd milling in the courtyard. The parents are interesting only in their prototypical Berkeley-ness. They wear baggy tie-dyed, truly tie-dyed, pants, and do not comb their hair. Most are over forty. All of the men have beards, and are short. Many of the women are old enough to have mothered me, and look it. I am disheartened by the lack of possibility. I am closer in age to most of the children. Oh but there is one mother, a small-headed woman with long, long, straight black hair, thick and wild like a horse
’
s tail. She looks exactly like her daughter, same oval face, same sad dark eyes. I
’
ve seen her before, when I
’
ve driven Toph to school, and have guessed that she
’
s single; the father is never present.

“
I
’
m gonna ask her out,
”
I say.

“
Please, don
’
t. Please,
”
Toph says. He really thinks I might.

“
Do you like the daughter at all? This could be fun—we could double date!
”

“
Please, please don
’
t.
”

Of course I won
’
t. I have no nerve. But he does not know that yet. We walk the halls decorated with construction paper and student work. I meet Ms. Richardson, the homeroom teacher, who is tall and black and severe—with distended, angry eyes. I meet the
science teacher who looks precisely like Bill Clinton and stutters. There is a girl in Toph
’
s class who, at nine, is taller than her parents, and heavier than me. I want Toph to be her friend and make her happy.

A woman nearby is looking at us. People look at us. They look and wonder. They wonder if I am a teacher, not knowing how to place me, thinking maybe that because I have scraggly facial hair and am wearing old shoes that I will take and molest their children. I surely look threatening. The woman, this one looking at us, has long gray hair and large glasses. She is wearing a floor-length patterned skirt and sandals. She leans toward us, points her finger to me and to Toph and back, smiles. Then we find our places and read the script:

MOTHER Hi. This is your... son?

BROTHER Uh... no.

MOTHER Brother?

BROTHER

Yeah.

MOTHER

(squinting to make sure)
Oh, you can tell right away.

BROTHER

(though knowing that it is not really true, that he is old and severe-looking, and his brother glows)
Yeah, people say that.

MOTHER

Having fun?

BROTHER

Sure. Sure.

MOTHER You go to school at Cal?

BROTHER

No, no, I finished school a few years ago.

MOTHER

And you live around here?

BROTHER

Yeah, we live a few miles north. Close to Albany.

MOTHER

So you live with your folks?

BROTHER

No, just us.

MOTHER But.. .where are your parents?

BROTHER

(thinking, thinking:
“
They
’
re not here.
”
“
They couldn
’
t make it.
”
“
1 have no idea, actually; if only you knew just little idea I have. Oh it
’
s a doozy, that story. Do you know what it
’
s like, to have no idea, no idea at all of their exact whereabouts, I mean, the actual place that they are right now, as we speak? That is a weird feeling, oh man. You want to talk about it? You have a few hours?
”
)

Oh, they died a few years ago.

MOTHER
(grabbing
BROTHER
’
i/tfrazw)

Oh, I
’
m
sorry.

BROTHER

No, no, don
’
t worry.

(wanting to add, as he sometimes does,
“
It wan
’
t your fault.
”
He loves that line, especially when he tacks on:
“
Or was it?
”
)

MOTHER

So he lives with you?

BROTHER

Yeah.

MOTHER Oh, gosh. That
’
s interesting.

BROTHER

(thinking of the state of the house. It
is
interesting.)

Well, we have fun. What grade is your...

MOTHER Daughter. Fourth. Amanda. If I may, can I ask how they died?

BROTHER

(again scanning possibilities for the entertainment of him and his brother. Plane crash. Train crash. Terrorists. Wolves. He has made up things before, and he was amused, though younger brother
’
s amusement level was unclear.)

Cancer.

MOTHER

But...at the same time?

BROTHER

About five weeks apart.

MOTHER
Oh my god.

BROTHER

(with inexplicable little chuckle)
Yeah, it was weird.

MOTHER

How long ago was this?

BROTHER

A few winters ago.

(
“
brother
thinks about how much he likes the
^u
afew winters ago
”
line. It
’
s new. It sounds dramatic, vaguely poetic. For a while it was
“
last year.
”
Then it was
“
a year and a half ago.
”
Now, much to
brother
’
^
relief, it
’
s
^(l
a few years ago.
”
“
A few years ago
”
has a comfortable distance. The blood is dry, the scabs hardened, peeled. Early on was different. Shortly before leaving Chicago,
brothers
went to the barber to have
tophV
hair cut, and
brother
doesn
’
t remember how it came up, and
brother
was really hoping it wouldn
’
t come up, but when it did come up,
BROTHER
answered,
“
A few weeks ago.
“
At that the hair-cutting woman stopped, went through the antique saloon-style doors to the back room, and stayed there for a while. She came back red-eyed,
brother
felt terrible. He is always feeling terrible, when the innocent, benign questions of unsuspecting strangers yield the bizarre answer he must provide. Like someone asking about the weather and being told of nuclear winter. But it does have its advantages. In this case,
brothers
got a free haircut.)

MOTHER

(holding
brother
’
j
forearm again)

Well. Good for you! What a good brother you are!

BROTHER

(Smiling. Wonders:
What does that mean?
He is often told this. At soccer games, at school fund-raisers, at the beach, at the baseball card shows, at the pet store. Sometimes the person
telling him this knows their full biography and sometimes she or he does not.
brother
doesn
’
t understand the line, both what it means and when it became a standard sort of expression that many different people use.
What a good brother you are! brother
had never heard the saying before, but now it comes out of all kinds of people
’
s mouths, always phrased the same way, the same words, the same inflections
—
a rising sort of cadence:

What a
 
       
good bro-ther
 
         
you are!

What
does
that mean?
He smiles, and ifToph is close, he
’
ll punch him in the arm, or try to trip him
— look at us horsing around! Light as air!—
then
brother
will say the same thing he always says after they say their words, the thing that seems to deflate the mounting tension, the uncomfortable drama swelling in the conversation, while also throwing it back at the questioner, because he often wants the questioner to think about what he or she is saying. What he says, with a cute little shrug, or a sigh, is:)

Well, what are you gonna do?

(mother
smiles and squeezes
brother^
forearm one more time, then pats it.
brothers
look to
audience,
wink, and then break into a fabulous Fossean dance number, lots of kicks and high-stepping, a few throws and catches, a big sliding-across-the-stage-on-their-knees thing, then some more jumping, some strutting, and finally, a crossing-in-midair front flip via hidden trampoline, with both of them landing perfectly, just before the orchestra, on one knee, hands extended toward audience, grinning while breathing heavily. The crowd stands and thunders. The curtain falls. They thunder still.)
FIN

As the crowd stomps the floor for a curtain call, we sneak through the back door and make off like superheroes.

Oh I could be going out, sure. It
’
s Friday night and I should be out, across the Bay, I should be out every night, with the rest of the young people, fixing my hair, spilling beer, trying to get someone to touch my penis, laughing with and at people. Kirsten and I are
taking a break,
which we have done twice already and will do ten or twelve times in the future, meaning that we (ostensibly) date other people. So yes, I could be out, enjoying this freedom specifically and that of youth generally, exulting in the richness of my time and place.

But no.

I will be here, at home. Toph and I will cook, as usual—

“
Can you get the milk?
”

“
It
’
s right there.
”

“
Oh. Thanks.
”

and then we will play Ping-Pong, and then we
’
ll probably drive to that place on Solano and rent a movie, and, on the way back, buy a few push-ups at 7-Eleven. Oh I could be out, rollicking in the ripeness of my flesh and others
’
, could be drinking things and eating things and rubbing mine against theirs, speculating about this person or that, waving, indicating hello with a
sudden upward jutting of my chin, sitting in the backseat of someone else
’
s car, bumping up and down the San Francisco hills, south of Market, seeing people attack their instruments, afterward stopping at a bodega, parking, carrying the bottles in a paper bag, the glass clinking, all our faces bright, glowing under streetlamps, down the sidewalk to this or that apartment party, hi, hi, putting the bottles in the fridge, removing one for now, hating the apartment, checking the view, sitting on the arm of a couch and being told not to, and then waiting for the bathroom, staring idly at that ubiquitous Ansel Adams print, Yosemite, talking to a short-haired girl while waiting in the hallway, talking about teeth, no reason really, the train of thought unclear, asking to see her fillings, no, really, I
’
ll show you mine first, ha ha, then no, you go ahead, I
’
ll go after you, then, after using the bathroom she is still there, still in the hallway, she was waiting not just for the bathroom but for me, and so eventually we
’
ll go home together, her apartment, where she lives alone, in a wide, immaculate railroad type place, newly painted, decorated with her mother, then sleeping in her oversized, oversoft white bed, eating breakfast in her light-filled nook, then maybe to the beach for a few hours with the Sunday paper, then wandering home whenever, never—