Hard Love (18 page)

I lay back on my bed, exhausted by the whole conversation. “I don’t know. I guess he likes somebody now.”

“Well, he likes the
wrong
person. Look, Gio, either we go to the conference together, or we don’t see each other at all. That’s the choice.”

Neither of us said anything for quite a while. I thought about just hanging up on her but couldn’t make myself do it.

“That’s not really a choice then, is it?” I said finally.

“Meet me at South Station Friday afternoon. The bus leaves at four thirty.”

“Is Birdie coming?” I had to ask.

“No, he hates zines. Just you and me. One more time.”

Chapter Fourteen

I was sure I was going to miss the bus. I’d told Mom the night before I was taking the commuter train into Boston because Dad had a long meeting and couldn’t come out to get me. I’d done that before, so I knew it wouldn’t set off any alarm bells. I figured if Brian gave me a ride home from school, I could grab my pack and make it to the three o’clock train before Mom even got home from work.

I could have told her about the conference. She probably would have let me go (though she’d have made a big deal about it, calling the bus station, wanting to know when I’d be home, making me promise to stick to some 1950s rules she thought would protect me from life), but leaving without telling her fed into the fantasy I had going that I was running away with Marisol, and might not be back.

I’d told Dad, in the briefest phone conversation on record, that I had to stay in Darlington again this week because Brian’s new girlfriend had set me up with a date. The thing Dad found hardest to swallow was that Brian had a girlfriend. Of course, he was ecstatically happy to be off the hook for another weekend, though he made a meager effort not to show it. It was right after this phone call that I addressed the envelope to Marlborough Street and folded my Dear Dad letter into it. I figured he’d get it when he got home from work Friday night, or at least by Saturday, when I’d be long gone.

I probably would never have given Mom her letter if it hadn’t been for the honey jar incident. I couldn’t get it out of my mind; her straining to get away from me, the look of fear on her face, like I was going to turn around and sting her. I left the letter lying on a pillow in her bedroom and rationalized that, though I was lying to them now to make my getaway, soon enough they’d have to contend with more of my honest emotions than they ever wanted to. I think it was giving out the letters that, more than anything, convinced me I wouldn’t be coming back.

I was in the kitchen stuffing an apple into my backpack when Mom came in the back door; I guess I jumped.

“What’s the matter?” she said. “Did I scare you?”

“No, you’re just home early is all.”

“I’ve got a headache; I didn’t stick around today.”

If you think you’ve got a headache
now
, I thought. I had to get out of there before she went up to her room.

“Well, see you later,” I said, and headed for the door.

“Wait a minute! You don’t have to go already, do you? If your father’s in a meeting anyway?”

“I want to get into town. There are some things I want to do. …”

She looked at her watch. “You could take the three-thirty train, couldn’t you? I thought we’d talk.”

Now
she wanted to talk! The three-thirty train would barely get me there on time; I’d have to race from the subway to the bus station. But what was my choice?

“Let me just go upstairs and get my slippers,” she said.

Out of the question. She’d see the letter the minute she walked into her bedroom. “I’ll get them!” I said. “I forgot something upstairs anyway. My … notebook.” It never hurt to have an extra notebook.

She was looking at the pack lying on the floor. “It looks like you’re taking enough to hike Everest as it is. Don’t you have lots of stuff at your dad’s already? Why are you taking your sleeping bag? Doesn’t he have one?”

Maybe it wasn’t so bad those years she was semi-comatose. At least she didn’t notice every little thing I did. I was down again with the slippers and notebook in record time.

“I guess he lent his to some friend or something. I like sleeping in a bag; it’s easier than making up the bed.” Natural born liar strikes again. I promised myself I’d stop just as soon as I cleared things up with Marisol and could start being myself, my
real
self, whoever that might be.

Mom shook her head. “I can just imagine the slovenly bachelor lifestyle you and your father lead together on
weekends.” Right. I could just imagine what
she
imagined: The two of us, twin playboys, lounging on sofas with scantily clad young women, champagne corks whizzing around the room.

She put the slippers on and leaned back into the couch. I perched on the arm, ready to leap up and go. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

“Do you like Al, Johnny? Not as a father, just as a man.”

This was what we had to talk about
now
, when there was a bus to catch? I groaned. “I told you, he’s all right. I don’t know him that well.”

“Of course I love Al, but sometimes I get a little … afraid.” She drew imaginary circles with her finger on her skirt. “You don’t think he’d do what your father did, do you?”

Oh, Jesus. “Mom, how would I know something like that?”

“You know your father. You’re a man now. You know how men act.”

I was astounded. “Just because I’m a male you expect me to answer for the entire species? Are all women just alike?”

“No, but, men are more … I don’t know.” She sighed. “The truth is, I find it hard to trust men. Since your father.”

No kidding. “Look,” I said, “Al seems okay to me, but I can’t predict the future. I think you’re just going to have to get over this fear thing. It’s not exactly fair to Al that he has to take the heat forever because Dad walked out. If you
want to have a decent marriage this time around, I don’t think Al’s the only one who’ll have to work at it.”

I can’t explain the look on her face. It was like she recognized me for the first time. “You’re right, John. You’re right. Your father’s not part of this relationship. How’d you get so smart when I wasn’t looking?”

I felt like saying something mean like, “You haven’t been looking for six years, Mom,” but she was smiling at me so nicely I didn’t do it. All of a sudden I started thinking about her reading the letter, how her face would crumple up. Better not trust me anymore either.

“I’ve gotta run, Mom. I don’t want to miss the three-thirty train too.” I grabbed the pack and was out the door before she could get to her feet.

“Have fun, Sweetie. I’ll see you Sunday afternoon!” she called after me.

Sweetie? When had she last used a word like that to refer to me? I stopped for just a second while the endearment caught up to me and burned its way into my ears, scalded my brain. Then I started running.

*   *   *

Marisol was standing on the steps of our bus when I came around the corner, her black hair standing out around her head like Liberty’s crown.

“Gio! Here! I’ve got your ticket already!” she yelled to me.

I jumped on, and the driver immediately closed the door behind me and started up the engine. “I wouldn’t have
given you another thirty seconds, Buddy,” he told me. “I got a schedule to keep, no matter what your girlfriend thinks.”

Marisol x-rayed his brain with a glare, then led me back to the seat she’d saved for us. I threw my pack up on the overhead shelf and flopped down.

“How come you’re so late? I’ve been fast-talking that creepy driver for ten minutes.”

“My mother wanted to have a chat. And since I didn’t want to tell her where I was going, I couldn’t say I
had
to leave.”

“I didn’t tell my parents either. I figure they’ll call Birdie as soon as they get worried. He’ll tell them I went to a conference, but he doesn’t know where it is. That way they won’t have coronaries, but they won’t find me either.”

“Sounds a little bit like a lie.”

“Not technically. Birdie doesn’t know
exactly
where we are, just the town.” I gave her a look. “I know. I feel bad about it, but it had to be done. Escape velocity, you know. They never let me get up any speed.”

So Marisol was running away too! Maybe it wasn’t a hopeless situation. “Did you think I’d stood you up?” I asked her.

“No. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

I laughed. “Don’t be so sure. As we speak, my mother’s worst suspicions are probably being confirmed: like all men, her son cannot be trusted.”

“Why?”

“I left her the letter. And I mailed the other one to my
father. So, the cord is cut. I’m free.” Just saying it made me feel like I was floating through space, dizzy from the slow spin, trying to keep my mind off the ground below.

“You gave them those letters?” Marisol asked. “You said they were mean.”

“They are. Cruel even.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Gio. You aren’t cruel.”

Where did she get off telling me what I was and what I wasn’t? I gave a dark, cruel laugh. “It was
honest
, Marisol. I told them the truth for the first time. Isn’t that what I was supposed to do?”

“There are different ways to tell the truth, Gio. If you care about people …”

“I don’t care about them. Haven’t you been listening to me?” Man, I felt as crusty as an old barnacle. Who the hell was she to sit here and lecture me about telling the truth? A lot of good it had done me to tell her the truth. I guess all of a sudden I knew for a fact I wasn’t running away with Marisol.

She turned and looked out the window. We were passing the Dorchester Gas Tanks, the dreary outskirts of a big city, nothing much to pin your hopes on.

“Well, if that’s the way you feel,” she said finally. “But nobody’s parents do it perfectly. You’re mad at everybody right now—your parents and me, too. But if you run around trying to hurt everybody back, it just makes things worse.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t write
you
a letter.” I almost wished I had written her a letter. Why shouldn’t I hurt her back? I was sick of lying in the road letting people drive
trucks over me. I was sore. If she thought she was spending the weekend with a lovesick puppy, she was wrong.

“You can write me a letter if you want … I know how to read between the lines.” She smiled her little know-it-all smile, but I turned away and pretended to look out the window across the aisle. I didn’t need her laughing at me.

She got a book out of her pack and slumped down to read it, crossing one skinny leg over the other. The bus rocked on, commuters getting off at the stations south of Boston, the sun changing from white to yellow as it descended through horse-tail clouds. By the time we rumbled up and over the Sagamore Bridge across Cape Cod Canal and onto the peninsula itself, Marisol had fallen asleep, her head resting, first lightly, then more heavily, against my shoulder. Though I tried not to admit it to myself, I would have been happy to stay on that bus forever if it meant she’d never move away from me.

Another hour passed. The trees shrank into scrubby pines; roadside motels and shabby clam shacks opened their doors to a few early season tourists. As we reached the Outer Cape, sand dunes rose up on either side of the road, threatening, it seemed, to avalanche over the concrete so one sandy side could meet up again with the other. The road curved once more, and there was a tall tower with a huge blue bay beyond it, into which an orange sun was just dipping. The end of the road: Provincetown.

“We’re here,” I whispered, hating to do it.

Marisol sat up groggily, embarrassed. “Sorry. You should have woken me. Did I dribble on your shirt?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I put my crab persona back on.

Marisol asked her pal, the driver, where to find the Bluefish Wharf, and he pointed us down Commercial Street, the main drag, which ran parallel to the bay. It was a very narrow street, busy not only with cars but lots of bicycle and pedestrian traffic too, all vying for the right of way. We passed a woman with feathers in her hair and a large snake around her shoulders, and then a bald guy in a dress. Marisol was so excited, she forgot not to touch me and grabbed my arm. I tried not to know it.

“Look at this place, Gio. Isn’t this fabulous?” It
was
kind of fabulous actually: odd and beautiful and wild all at the same time.

We trudged past one brightly painted shop after another: leather, jewelry, secondhand clothes, antiques, hats, T-shirt stores, and art galleries. There were fish restaurants and pizza places, and a number of bars that looked dark and uninhabited. And every now and then, between the buildings you could see a sliver of sandy beach, a fishing boat, an old pier, and always the water, lapping quietly at this little jut of land.

About the time the stores starting to thin out we saw the sign for the Bluefish Wharf. You could tell from a block away that something was going on; there were Christmas lights strung up all over and people were singing along with a guitar. The place itself was pretty funky, lots of little wooden cabins and rooms built one on top of another down the length of an old wharf that stuck out into the
water. Brightly painted buoys and wagon wheels hung off the edge of the deck. At the bottom of some rickety stairs leading down to the beach, the singing group was just breaking up as we arrived.

A tall guy with a scraggly beard saw us and yelled, “Hey, new arrivals! Are you zine people?” He climbed toward us.

I nodded. “I’m Gio … John Galardi, and this is Marisol Guzman. We came down from Boston.”

“Right, right. You’re the ones Diana invited. I’m Bill Murdock.” He stuck out one hand to each of us, so it was more like
holding
hands than shaking them. He was kind of an old hippie type, shaggy-haired, dressed in ratty jeans and an ancient sweatshirt.

“Welcome,” he said. “You just missed our campfire sing. We did it early tonight because everybody wanted to go into town and hit the bars. The deal is, find an empty room and throw your stuff in it. There are peanut butter sandwiches and fruit in the office over there. I’m running this thing on a shoestring, so the food is pretty basic.”