A Plague Year (8 page)

She looked at the group. “Who can give us an example of a powerful trigger? Okay, Ben?”

“War!”

Everyone waited for more. Arthur asked him, “War what, dude? You mean like the Civil War? World War Two? Vietnam?”

“No. Like going to war.”

Catherine intervened. “Certainly. People who go to war are under tremendous stress, as are their family members. What are some others? What are some triggers that happen in your lives?”

A senior girl, who I had never heard speak before, suddenly blurted out, “Abuse.”

“Yes. Abuse at home causes tremendous stress.”

Ben asked her, “Do you mean getting hit by your parents? Like a punishment?”

There was a pause. I didn’t think she was going to respond, but then she did. “No. I mean sexual abuse.”

Everybody froze, including Mrs. Lyle. Then she picked up the silver pen and wrote something in her notebook. After a few more seconds of silence, she said quietly, “That is a very powerful trigger, yes.” She looked at the girl. “We should talk more about it.”

Then she looked at the rest of us, “Okay. Can we name any other triggers?”

No one could, until Lilly raised one finger. “What about just … boredom?”

Mrs. Lyle seemed relieved to have a safer topic. “Yes! Boredom can be a trigger. And some people turn to drugs when they are bored. But that doesn’t work, does it? So what are some things that
do
work against boredom? Let’s hear some ideas.”

Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Jenny finally came up with one. “Jesus?”

“Okay. Good.”

Arthur suggested, “Football.”

“Yes. Those are two.” Catherine Lyle waited for a third, but it wasn’t coming. She finally took it upon herself to add, “Okay. What about dance? Or horseback riding? Or martial arts training, like tai chi or tae kwon do? What about learning how to play a musical instrument? Or taking up painting, or sculpture, or pottery?”

Arthur laughed ruefully. He spoke for the group. “We don’t have a lot of that stuff around here.”

Catherine Lyle didn’t understand. “What stuff?”

“Any of the things you said. We got, basically, football and bowling.”

That got a small laugh. He added, “And Jesus,” and got a bigger laugh.

But not from Catherine Lyle. She replied seriously, “Oh, I’m sure there are many things to do if you look. There certainly are things to do up by the university.”

She stopped there. I could tell by her face that she finally got it. She wasn’t “up by the university” now. She was twenty miles, and a whole world, away.

So she moved on. “Ben, as you suggested, one major trigger is a catastrophe, like a war. Or like what happened on September eleventh. Many people are still very stressed about the events of that day, especially the events that happened near here.”

She placed a blank sheet of paper on the table. “As a result, I have organized a field trip to the flight ninety-three crash site in Somerset County. If you would like to see that site—perhaps to pay your respects, perhaps to face your fears—please sign up for the trip. It will be after school on Wednesday.”

We then broke into our small groups. Wendy looked at me and smiled. “We’re going in my dad’s Suburban. That holds, like, twelve people. Do you want to come?”

“Sure.”

“How about you, Lilly?”

Lilly shook her head. “No. I have to work.”

Wendy moved on. “How about you Arthur? I know your stepfather will be going.”

“Yeah? How do you know that?”

Wendy answered simply, “My stepmom told me.”

Arthur challenged her. “But isn’t she forbidden, by a strict code of confidentiality, from talking about what a client says?”

Wendy was ready for him. “Yes, she is forbidden. Unless the client releases her from that, which your stepfather has done.”

Arthur looked doubtful. “He’s released her? He didn’t mention releasing anybody to me.”

“Well, ask him about it. He also gave her permission to discuss his fears in group.”

Arthur might have responded, but he got distracted.

We all did.

Rick Dorfman opened the door and looked inside. He spotted Catherine Lyle and walked up to her. He said in a low, miserable voice, “I guess I’m supposed to come here.”

Catherine Lyle whispered, “Are you the one Officer O’Dell told me about?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, is this a court-ordered case?”

Dorfman twitched uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

She asked him patiently, “Did a judge, as a condition of probation, require you to join this substance-abuse group?”

Dorfman looked around at anyone within earshot, including me. He answered angrily, “Yes.”

Arthur whispered, “Not surprising. Dork-man’s a big ’roids user. Everybody knows that.”

“What?”

“ ’Roids! To bulk up for football, you know.”

Lilly asked, “What are ’roids?”

“Steroids—HGH, progesterone. They bulk you up. Without them, Dork-man’s really, like, five foot two and ninety pounds.”

I laughed, which I probably should not have done. Dorfman turned and glared at me.

Catherine Lyle told him, “Welcome to the group.”

He growled, “Just tell me what I gotta do.”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Dorfman’s mouth curled up into a menacing smile. I had seen that smile before, and I started to worry. He said, “Look, lady, why don’t you stop busting my balls and tell me what to do?”

Arthur reacted immediately. He pushed his chair back, like he might have to move fast. Rick Dorfman saw that.

Catherine Lyle remained calm. “As I told you, you are welcome here. You may join any group you like. You are welcome to take part or not, as you see fit.”

But Dorfman was already moving back toward the exit. He held out the middle finger on each hand to the group. And after suggesting that Catherine Lyle do something that was anatomically impossible, he stomped out of the room.

Arthur rose up out of his chair. He seemed on the verge of going after him, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “Are you okay, Mrs. Lyle?”

She seemed surprised by the question. “Why, yes, Arthur. Thank you.”

Then she turned the incident into some counseling. “Let’s take a moment to analyze what just happened here. Obscene language and physical intimidation are two elements of abuse. How do we deal with that? By turning to drugs? Or alcohol? Does that really deal with it?”

She stopped so we could shake our heads or mutter no.

“No. Because that’s not dealing with it. Is it?”

Lilly had been tapping her pencil nervously on the table. She stopped and asked, “So what about a nasty jerk like that? I get them at work sometimes. What should I do?”

“In a situation like that, you should always ask yourself, Who owns this problem? In this case, that young man clearly owns the
problem, not me. He is going to have to figure out how to solve it. The problem was not mine when he walked in, and it is not mine now that he has walked out, no matter what crude thing he has said or done to try to make it mine. He still owns it.”

Lilly said, “That’s good advice. I’m gonna use that.”

Mrs. Lyle gave her a big smile, and the meeting broke up on that positive note.

When I arrived at the Food Giant, Bobby was at register one, bagging groceries for Marsha.

As always, he was bagging them quickly and efficiently. He wasn’t saying a word, either to her or to the customers. He never did, except when there was a new bag boy to train. Then he delivered a pitch that came word for word from the Food Giant training tapes. Stuff like “Tell a customer there is no tipping, and that loading bags is a courtesy. Do not mix a package of frozen food with a box of cereal. The customer will get home with a wet box, and they won’t be happy with us. Push no more than five carts at a time. Otherwise, you might damage the carts, or a customer’s vehicle, or yourself.”

This could get annoying, especially on the third or fourth recitation. I think we lost a few bag boys because of it.

As I grabbed my green slicker, it occurred to me that there had been
no
new bag boys for quite a while. Or new cashiers. Or new assistants behind the customer-service desk, or the meat or bakery counters. None.

Why wasn’t Dad hiring anybody? Why was he working double shifts, and adding hours for Lilly and me, without pay? (I should say that, technically, we do get paid. Dad and Mom put money into our college funds, but still …)

I had just stepped outside when I heard shouting by the back spaces. Bobby was pointing at the bottom of a man’s cart, so I ran out to see what was going on.

The man was short, stocky, and balding. And he was quite indignant, claiming, “I didn’t know anything was under there! I didn’t see anything.”

Bobby countered with, “What do you mean you didn’t see anything? It’s right there. You had to see it.”

“Somebody else left these,” the guy insisted. “I was just getting a cart to go in the store!”

He was clearly lying, and Bobby knew it. “No, you weren’t. You weren’t going
in
the store; you were coming
out
of the store.”

The guy had heard enough. “I don’t need to stand here arguing with an idiot.”

Bobby fired back, “You’re the idiot. Stealing stuff. Only an idiot steals!”

I stood close behind Bobby. The guy’s car had lettering on the back window that said
LEHIGH UNIVERSITY
. He had a bumper sticker that said
MY CHILD MADE THE DEAN’S LIST AT POTTSTOWN ELEMENTARY
. I figured that he was from eastern Pennsylvania, a long drive from here.

I examined the supplies under his cart—jugs of ammonia and rubbing alcohol, boxes of Sudafed and Actifed.

The guy threw up his hands, releasing the cart. It started to roll downhill, so I ran and grabbed it. He jumped into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and peeled out, driving way too fast.

Bobby watched him go, shaking his round head disapprovingly.

I wheeled the cart up to him. “That guy was upset, Bobby. You need to be more careful with people like that.”

“He needs to not steal!”

“True. But I don’t want you getting hurt out here. And I know my dad doesn’t, either.”

“I ain’t hurt.”

“I know. But you could have been. That guy could have pulled out a rifle.” Bobby’s eyes widened. I added, “Or a bow and arrow.”

“Yeah? Yeah. Don’t tell your dad. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Because he’ll call my mom. And she’ll come and take my blood pressure. And maybe make me go home.”

“Okay.”

I gathered two more carts, slammed them together, and pushed them toward the entrance. Suddenly I gripped the handles and pulled the train of carts to a screeching halt.

I couldn’t believe my eyes! There, just inside the glass, looking way too stylish for the Food Giant, were Catherine and Wendy Lyle.

I was thrilled. But then, just seconds later, I was horrified. I thought of my dad at the front in his white shirt and tie, and my sister at the register in her Food Giant smock, and myself running around in a green slicker. Could I look any dorkier?

I left the carts for Bobby.

I peeled off my slicker, lowered my head, and ducked inside. I scooted along the left edge of the store, not stopping until I was back in the storeroom, peeking out through its small square window. Peeking out like a stalker. Like a total loser.

But soon my desire to talk to Wendy won out over my shame. When I saw the Lyles turn down the cereal aisle, I hurried out and set myself up near the end cap, rearranging boxes on the shelf.

I heard Wendy announce in that perky TV voice, “Hey, it’s Tom!”

I turned and tried to look surprised. Catherine Lyle wheeled her cart the other way, but Wendy stayed behind. She sounded surprised. “You work here?”

“Yeah.”

“But … don’t they have, like, child labor laws here? Don’t you have to be a certain age to work?”

“Oh, yeah. I don’t work here officially. My dad’s the manager, so I work, you know, under the table. He puts money into my college fund.”

She didn’t seem to like that. She muttered noncommittally, “Oh.”

That was followed by a long, agonizing silence, during which my mind froze up. Wendy finally spoke. “Seems like we’re in a different context here, Tom.”

“What?”

“You and me. When we’re sitting in Mr. Proctor’s class, or in group, we can talk about books and drugs and all. But here”—her blue eyes darted up to the cereal boxes—“we’re just standing in front of the All-Bran with nothing to say.”

I picked up on that as best I could. I pointed to the shelf and asked her, “Did you know that Mueslix, All-Bran, and Fruit ’n Fibre are all made by the same company?”

She seemed mildly interested. “No. I didn’t.”

“So are bran flakes, Special K, and Product 19.”

“Really?”

“Yep. It’s all Kellogg’s. And”—I pointed to the next aisle—“did you know that Mountain Dew, Sierra Mist, and Slice are all made by Pepsi?” Then I pointed even farther afield. “And that
Reese’s peanut butter cups, Cadbury eggs, and Heath bars are all made by Hershey’s?”

Her pretty face oscillated back and forth slightly, indicating no.