Dear Life, You Suck (26 page)

Why do I keep the ring?

He told me I was brave.

Why do I think about that day so often?

He was proud of me.

In my younger years, I thought the ring had magic powers. I’d aim it at my head and memories would disappear. I’d aim it at people and they’d avoid me. I’d aim it at my opponents and they’d collapse. BC. Brave Cricket.

As I got older, the ring lost its magic powers. Memories returned. People persisted. Opponents fought back.

Why do I still believe that ring can protect me?

Compared to knives, what can fists do?

I need to find a new source of magic.

I put my pen down, grab my thermos, and walk to the edge of the cliff. The sky is dark, the ocean wild. I take a long swig.

A memory of Dad’s ugly face yelling “Fuck you” at the drug dealers flashes in my mind.

He chose drugs over me
.

I look at my ring.
BC. Broken Cricket
.

My head swells, but no tears drip out. Only sadness. Hate. Confusion.

Maybe I kept the ring to distract myself from the real scars I got that day.

I gaze at the endless sea. Churning, churning, churning. Forever and ever and ever. That sea will never stop churning. No amount of magic will ever stop that sea from churning.

I look at my ring.
BC.

I look at the sky.
Believe, Cricket
.

I step closer to the edge of the cliff and throw my ring into the ocean.

Mother Mary’s on her knees in the second pew with her forehead on the seatback and her palms up like she’s catching rainwater. I sit in my usual place in the last row and watch her boulder-like body heave in supplication. I wonder if her prayers will be answered. I wonder if they already have. What in the world possesses a woman to become a nun? I mean, jeez, of all the shit you could do. I’d rather follow a circus elephant around with a pooper-scooper.

I remember the first time I saw her praying like this, slumped over, all still and silent. I thought she was dead. It was when I first got here, and I ran to my room and hid under my cot on account of I figured I’d get blamed.

I lie down on the unforgiving wood, rest my feet on a stack of hymnals, and close my eyes. I think about Apollo Zipper. I wonder if the ending I told the Little Ones was the right ending. I wonder what will really happen to Apollo in his new world. I wonder if he’ll really grow up now that he’s living in the sunshine. I wonder if he and Wanony will really fall in love. I wonder if she’ll outgrow him the moment the sun strikes her pretty face. I wonder what she’ll do when she grows up. I wonder what Apollo will do. Maybe he’ll write a novel about his tragic oceanic adventure and smuggle the manuscript to a civilized city where people hurl words instead of fists. Maybe he’ll have an epiphany about the ferry tragedy freeing him into the arms of a long and happy Down East life.

“An interesting position of beseechment, Mr. Cherpin.” Mother Mary looms over me like an enormous storm cloud.

I pull myself up. “Sorry.”

“
No worries, mate
. Besides, it looks comfortable. I’d try it myself if I thought I could fit.”

I follow her to her office.

She steps to the window and opens the drapes.

It’s dark outside. There’s moonlight, so I can see the ocean in the distance. And myself, closer. My reflection in the window is faint. I can’t see my scar.

“I was wondering why . . . in the hospital . . .” I can’t finish the sentence.

Her reflection comes into focus, beside me, hovering over the desert of black.

“I made a choice years ago, Cricket. Just like you will make a choice soon. I chose to give my life to God. I knew what the sacrifice entailed. As a woman, I knew.” She puts her hand on the glass like she’s trying to touch some faraway thing. “The extraordinary thing is that God figured out a way to bless me with what I sacrificed. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay Him. Of course, I know I can’t. None of us can. But I’d like to. I often wonder if that’s what Jesus meant when he said we must lose ourselves to gain ourselves. That we must give up everything to gain everything.”

I look at the back of Mother Mary’s hand. At the veins and wrinkles. Something about her powerful hand makes me feel less confused. I don’t know why. It’s as if her hand is covering up a confusion keyhole.

I think about Mother Mary reading Bible verses to me in the hospital. I wonder if she was doing that as a way of trying to repay God for what He gave her. “What did God give you?”

Mother Mary turns. “He gave me a son, Cricket.”

My eyes swell. I want to look away, but Mother Mary hasn’t, so I can’t. If I look away first, I’ll lose. I’ll really lose.

She walks to her desk. “Principal LaChance called me today.”

“What the hell? I haven’t even been in school!”

She smiles. “He didn’t call to reprimand you.”

I flash her a crooked glare.

“Have you been coaching the Little Ones about ways to deal with bullies at school?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“There was an incident today.”

Oh, shit.

Mother Mary lifts a piece of paper off her desk and looks at it. “There is a new senior at school named Ezekiel Turgeon. They call him Zeke T. Apparently, he’s even more obnoxious than Buster Pitswaller, if you can believe that.”

“Impossible.”

“He was picking on Gregory Bullivant in the courtyard before school, and our little Charlie led a gang of Little Ones in revolt.”

“No shit.”

“During the confrontation, a senior named Madison Connors came to their aid and verbally accosted Zeke T. with such . . . unladylike . . . language that she earned herself an after-school detention.”

“Good for her,” I say, smirking. Madison Connors sits in front of me in English class. She’s a spindly redhead who always wears tight jeans and tall black boots. She smiles at me sometimes, but we’ve never spoken. I’m glad she stepped in to help the Little Ones.

She waves the piece of paper at me. “What’s this all about, Cricket?”

“I don’t know. I guess the Little Ones just decided to take matters into their own hands.”

“Bullspit.” She glares.

“I just told them that they might have better luck dealing with bullies as a group instead of one on one.”

She tosses the paper on her desk. “I see. So you suggested that they confront their problems as brothers instead of fighters.”

“Yeah, sorta.”

She taps her chin with her fingertips. “Well, good for you, Cricket. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She smiles.

We make two cups of tea in the kitchen and carry them outside. We don’t talk for the longest time. We just walk the trails and listen to the wind whistling through the tree branches and the waves crashing on the rocky shore. Mother Mary takes a break on one of the prayer benches in the rose garden.

There’s a ton of shit I want to say to her, but every time the words slip from my brain to my tongue, they bottleneck. It doesn’t matter. She knows what I want to say. She always knows.

I finally break the silence. “I think God paid me a visit while I was snoozadoozing in the hospital.”

“Oh, really? Did He have anything interesting to say?”

“Well, not in words exactly. But I think He told me that what happened to my baby brother wasn’t my fault. That it’s not one kid’s fault what the mom does to the other kid no matter what the first kid did on account of he’s just a kid.”

She looks at me. Her face is calm. Calmer than I’ve ever seen it. “King Solomon couldn’t have said it better himself, Cricket.”

“I don’t feel so guilty about it now.”

“Good. Guilt sucks. And you certainly have no reason to harbor guilt over that tragedy.”

“I always knew in my head it wasn’t my fault, but I could never convince my heart.”

“Unfortunately, that’s where guilt roots the deepest.”

“I guess God did some weeding or something.”

Mother Mary doesn’t respond. Well, that’s not exactly true. She says a lot with her eyes. The way she’s staring makes me realize she’s never looked at my scar. Not once in all these years. Like it’s invisible to her.

I grab a thick limb on the maple tree and dangle my lanky legs. “Moxie Lord thinks I might be able to get into college for my writing.”

Mother Mary nods.

“Not that I could friggin’ pay for it.”

“Don’t look at me, Cricket. I took a vow of poverty a long time ago.”

“Maybe I could ask the pope for a loan.”

She blows out a loud
puuuuugh
. “Yeah, right. Get in line.” She slaps her hand to her mouth. “Whoopsadaisy.” She crosses herself and kisses her fingertips.

We leave our empty teacups on a bench and walk to the cliffs. It’s windy and cold. I watch the ocean churn. Something’s missing.

“Goodness, the tide’s high,” Mother Mary says, peering over the edge.

I gaze at my Silky Jets and realize what’s missing. My jetty is completely submerged. “Jeez, it sure is. I ain’t never seen it this high.”

“That’s one thing you can always count on in this place. High highs and low lows. No way around that.”

A strong onshore wind blasts my face as if the ocean agrees.

“It’s on account of the full moon,” I say. “Did you see it last night?”

“No, I missed it. Us old fogies don’t stay up as late as you, Cricket.”

“What are you talking about? My curfew’s ten.”

Mother Mary blasts out another
puuuuugh
.

“What?”

“Oh, please. That fire escape’s seen more late-night action than Mary Magdalene after a Sadducee bake sale.”

I chuckle and step closer to the edge.

“Be careful, Cricket.”

The ocean is stunning. Crystal reflections dance on the surface. I gaze up at their source. The sky’s plastered with a zillion sparkling stars. Wispy clouds decorate the foreground. Like a baby’s been finger-painting on God’s blank canvas.

“Full moons push and pull the tides much more powerfully than at other times,” I say.

“That they do,” she says quietly.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Mother Mary pats my back, resting her hand there for the briefest moment. Long enough, though.

“We going to Salivating Arny’s tomorrow to get the Little Ones some new duds?” I ask.

“That we are.”

I know I’m gonna walk tall on that sidewalk tomorrow. For Mother Mary. And the Little Ones. And me. The thought makes me smile.

I turn to ask what time we’re going, but she’s gone. She’s walking away from the cliffs with her arms extended, her palms up, and her head tilted back. Somehow I know she has her eyes closed. She sees better that way.

Thank You

In Order of Appearance

(What can I say? I like old movies.)

Mom

For brainwashing me into believing I can do anything I set my mind to.

Family and friends
For love, support, laughs.

Liz Bicknell
For having a sense of humor.

Carter Hasegawa

For advice and critique (without a contract) that was instrumental in taking the manuscript to the next level.

Lisa Borders

For book doctoring that healed gaping wounds.

Critique Group Cohorts

Michelle, Kristy, Peter, and Frank. For encouragement and harsh words delicately delivered.

Michelle Cusolito

For being an optimistic and insightful writing ally and seeing beneath Cricket’s scars very early on.

Rubin Pfeffer

For guidance, wisdom, and honesty. For being an exceptional agent, but more important, an exceptional person.

Jeannette E. Larson

For taking on a diamond in the extreme rough.

Adah Nuchi

For lifting Cricket out of the slush and falling in love with him from page one. For passion, patience, vision, and calm, despite my constant objections and whining. For helping me make the story everything you always knew it could be, so much more than I ever imagined. And most important, for your gentle stubbornness when you knew you were right, which was pretty much most of the time.

S
COTT
B
LAGDEN
grew up in Foxborough, Massachusetts, and now makes his home on the coast near Cape Cod, where he enjoys being a dad to his teenage twins. In addition to writing, he has been self-employed in real estate for thirty years.
Dear Life, You Suck
is his first novel.