Fish in the Sky (14 page)

Suddenly I feel unwelcome in here, like I’ve intruded. This is her sanctuary. I’m no longer a child — she’s always saying that — and I shouldn’t be here, cuddled up under her comforter. Maybe she’s waiting impatiently for me to move out. I have to become an adult soon and put an end to this pathetic nonexistence, become big, bigger, biggest as soon as possible. I dry my nose and stumble out of bed, into the hall — small, smaller, smallest.

I get dressed and shoulder my schoolbag and walk out, avoiding the busy roads and sneaking through yards and alleys instead until I’m down by the steelworks. I run across the street, pass the gas station and behind the fishing sheds, and then I’m out of sight and my wall of rocks appears. I jump from stone to stone until I’ve reach my rock, and I stand there for a while, watching the blue bay.

Musky gray clouds are slowly torn apart; it’s windy, but the air is warm. Everything is gray and wet. The sun is cold, distant and transparent when briefly visible between the passing clouds. I hold the strap of my schoolbag and start to swing it around above my head until it’s spinning as fast as a helicopter blade. Then I let go, throwing it out over the ocean, and with it everything that is conscientious, scrupulous, obedient, and submissive. The gulls look over, and for a while they stop fighting at the sewage outlet and follow this unidentified flying object. Then they start the chase, snow-white and greedy. The bag hangs in the air. The strap, which has been weighing heavily on me all my life, sways and waves like an arm trying hopelessly to grab hold of something in thin air, until finally the bag hits the water and floats for a short while. The gulls circle above it, probably hoping it’s something edible, but when it sinks, they give up and turn lazily back to the sewage, which is their daily feast.

I’m free. The spell is broken. I am a true man. A man who looks life in the eye and sees it as it is and is not afraid.

When I’ve made myself comfortable in my little hollow, I take my writing pad out of my pocket, place the point of the pen on the page, and think about Clara. Is she wondering if something has happened to me? I fill up with a tremendous sense of regret. I see her face before me; she tries to be joyful, to hide her sorrow, but it’s obvious that she is suffering; the world has been cruel to both of us.

I fold the letter to the headmaster so that the writing is on one side and the other side is blank. I fold a few pieces of paper in the same way and put them all together like a book.

Mom is sewing in the living room and doesn’t even look up when I approach her.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“You have to write your signature on these pieces of paper.”

“Huh?”

“Your signature. Here and here,” I say, and leaf through the pieces of paper.

She looks at me over the brim of her sewing glasses, the machine stops humming, and then she looks at the paper in my hands.

“Why?”

“It’s a project in English. Everybody has to bring their parents’ handwriting. Then we’re supposed to investigate how different people write, or something.”

“That’s interesting,” she says, and smiles. “Where shall I sign?”

“There.”

“On each piece?”

“Yes, but just on this side,” I say, and hand her a pen.

This is the crucial moment when I could be exposed, but I’m cool as ice; I can’t really believe how easy this is. She takes the folded sheets from my hand, places them on the sewing machine, takes the pen, and starts to sign:
Elizabeth Stephenson.

“A little higher, perhaps,” I say. “And farther left.”

And she does exactly what I say:
Elizabeth Stephenson, Elizabeth Stephenson, Elizabeth Stephenson,
on every piece.

“There,” she says, and hands me the paper, smiling.

“Thanks,” I say, and turn and try to walk casually out of the living room. I’m almost there, almost at the door.

“Josh?” she says.

I turn quickly and stare at the wall behind her, because I can’t look her in the eye.

“What?”

She looks over the brim of her sewing glasses, staring, reading me like an open book.

“Your pen,” she says, and stretches her hand out.

I feel the blood boil in my cheeks as she lays the pen in the palm of my hand. Then she gives me the strangest look.

The sheets of paper fall to the floor.

“What?” I say.

“I was just going to ask if you and your cousin are getting along OK,” she says. “Don’t you think this will work out fine, at least till spring?”

“Yes,” I say, bending down fast, picking up the sheets, making sure the letter is hidden in the middle of the bundle. I stand up again, drying the sweat from my forehead.

“All right, dear,” she says, folding the material lying under the needle. “I just wanted to make sure,” she adds, and presses the foot pedal. The needle starts hacking away, leaving its zigzag teeth marks in the fabric.

I see her lost in her own thoughts again, all the things she isn’t happy about; as long as I’m happy, she doesn’t have to worry about me too. And she doesn’t. I have a signed letter for my unlimited freedom.

I sit at my desk, reading the letter once over, admiring Mom’s signature, in exactly the right place. Then I put the letter in an envelope, lick the glue on the edge, and seal it.

There’s whispering outside my window, and a soft cracking sound, like the sound of my cousin’s leather jacket. I peek out and notice that somebody has parked a motorcycle by the wall right under my window. This somebody is sitting on the bike, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, with Gertrude, astride the bike in front of him, and they’re eating each other’s faces. The boy is holding her butt so tight it looks like he’s about to rip it off. I could call Mom, and Gertrude would be sent home immediately; I’d be rid of her once and for all. I could pull the curtains and surprise them by knocking on the window. I’d really like to see that. But then I could just go on watching this spectacle like any other wildlife show on the TV. I can’t deny it’s quite interesting to watch. Finally they take a break to catch their breath.

“Can’t we go inside?” the guy whispers.

“The old bag is home, and the kid as well,” Gertrude says.

“Damn. When?”

“Don’t know. Soon.”

“Kiss me.”

“I have to go now.”

“Come here, you.”

They go for each other’s mouths like wolves gobbling up a carcass. Then Gertrude suddenly breaks free from his grip and jumps off the bike.

“That’s it, Mike. I have to go now,” she says, panting.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

She goes to him again, hugs him briefly, gives him a short kiss on the mouth.

“See you tomorrow,” she says.

“Uh-huh,” he replies.

“Don’t start the bike till you’re out on the street,” she says.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

She runs around the corner, and I hear the front door open; Mike fastens his pants and pushes the bike alongside the house and out onto the street, where he starts it with a sudden jerk. The motor roars a couple of times before the bike flies up the street with a high-pitched shriek.

When Gertrude comes in, the noise from the bike is a low hum in the distance. She calls out, “Hello,” and goes into the living room to explain to Mom why she’s so late. I sneak down the stairs and overhear Gertrude saying she was with a school friend, a girl in her class, studying with her because she has better notes.

“Well, that’s nice,” Mom says. “But you have to let me know if you don’t come straight home from school, just so I know where you are.”

“Yes, of course,” Gertrude promises.

I hear her come into the hallway, so I jump into the kitchen, whistling innocently so she won’t suspect that I know she’s been lying. Oh, yes, dear cousin, the ignoramus isn’t quite the dimwit you thought he was. Now I really have you under my thumb. You just behave now, or I’ll expose you and your lies.

I grin at my image in the window. Then the phone on the table in the hall rings loudly, and my grin freezes. Before the first ring has stopped, I’ve grabbed the phone off the hook. It’s Peter.

“Are you sick?” he asks.

“Yes. It’s some kind of a flu,” I whisper.

“Who’s on the phone?” Mom calls from the living room.

“Just Peter,” I say.

“Is it infectious?” he asks.

“Don’t know. Think so.”

“Is it chicken pox?”

“Why?”

“Mom said that if it was chicken pox, then I should come over. To get infected, you see.”

“Why?”

“It’s better to have it before you grow up, apparently.”

“Nobody knows what this is,” I say.

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“I’m having some tests,” I say, starting to believe my own lies, feeling dizzy and quite weak.

“Really?” he says.

“Yes,” I say.

We say good-bye, and I put the phone down, looking sheepishly around me. But there’s nothing to worry about; nobody heard the conversation. The sewing machine hums in the living room, and when I go back up to my room, the music is blaring from Gertrude’s room.

The envelope with the letter to the headmaster is lying on my desk, snow-white and clean, innocence itself. Of course, everything in the letter is true; I can’t go to school — that’s the truth. I neither can nor want to. The only lie is that it wasn’t Mom who wrote the letter. But nobody would pay any attention to what I have to say anyway. This is the only way to get some peace, buy me some time to think things over. That’s all. Maybe I’ll go back to school one day, and then the letter will be long forgotten and Mom will never have to know about it. I haven’t lied to anyone, except to Peter on the phone. But he will never find out the truth if I’m careful enough. And then no real harm is done.

“Where’s your schoolbag?” Mom asks, holding a foil-wrapped sandwich in her hand. It takes me a second to think where I put it, when I remember that it’s lying at the bottom of the sea.

“It’s in my room. I’ll take it,” I say, and grab the sandwich from her hands.

“Don’t forget to put it in your bag, and don’t be late,” she says while putting on her coat and going.

Gertrude and I are sitting by the kitchen table, and the clock is ticking.

“Aren’t you leaving?” I ask.

“Not until half past eight today,” she says, yawning over the paper.

If she’s leaving late, I’ll have to come up with something. But actually I’m not really worried if she discovers my secret; in fact, I can’t wait to show her that the fool, her cousin, actually holds her fate in his hands.

“So you have a boyfriend,” I say in an indifferent manner, so she doesn’t think that I just found out about it. The newspaper lowers slowly, revealing the turnip-white face of my cousin.

“W-Why do you say that?” she stutters, clearly trying to make her voice sound as if this is a ridiculous statement.

“Because I saw,” I say.

“Saw what?” she asks in an unbelieving tone but still with the faint shadow of terrible suspicion. She thinks I’m lying. I look straight at her and start to giggle.

“Everything. More or less,” I say, and pretend I’m holding the handlebars of a motorcycle, moving my knuckles, making the engine roar. Now she understands that I am no foolish kid. I can be a dangerous enemy if she’s going to play tough. She starts to bite the nails on her left hand, stands up, and starts walking in circles, staring at me, her voice the sweetest plea I ever heard.

“Josh, don’t tell your mom. Huh?”

I’m covering my face with my hands, giggling. She takes my hands and kneels in front of me, her brown eyes praying for mercy.

“Josh, huh? Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Tell your mom. She’ll kill me. And if my dad hears about this, he’ll kill me too. I’ll be killed. Understand?”