Imaginary Enemy (4 page)

I pretended confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Elliot’s gardens.”

“Sharp was really dumb to do that,” I said casually.

“Yeah. But now he’s busted and you’re in the clear. Don’t you feel guilty?”

“Why should I?” I responded defiantly. I refused to meet his eyes though I could feel them on my face.

“I saw you, Janie.”

“Saw me what?”

“Saw you with the dishwashing soap. You and Sharp together. Course I didn’t know what you were doing…just thought it was another of your goofy games. I was sitting on the back porch with Banjo.”

I raked my fork across the plate. “Mind your own business,” I muttered.

“Peggy told Dad it’ll take years to replace those plants. And Elliot’s been babying them forever.”

“Plants die.”

“Those had a little help. A lot, actually.”

“Shut up, Luke. I didn’t do anything.”

“It’ll be expensive, too, to replace them. Apparently plants cost a lot. Specially water lilies and stuff like that.”

“Bug off,” I snapped.

“Your dirty little secret’s safe with me,” he said, walking away.

My plate was empty. My stomach was full. But I didn’t feel satisfied. I felt something else—something uncomfortable that I wanted to avoid. Something that made me turn away from the mirror when I went indoors to use the bathroom. It made me glad that, because of his punishment, I wouldn’t have to face Sharp for a while.

Dear Bubba,

Is it my fault Sharp was so stupid as to leave evidence of his crime? I was smart enough to erase all traces of my involvement, and he should have done the same. Someone that clueless deserves to get caught.

In the clear,
Gabriel

I Spy

S
harp sat beside me and smiled. “Elliot’s right.”

“About what?”

“Water.”

I looked at him as if he was speaking Sanskrit. His face was serious and his tone of voice indicated that he believed this information was of extreme importance. He patiently explained that he’d spent several weeks carefully listening and observing. “Elliot says faucet water and nature water sound different. Since a sprinkler is a machine, it has a constant rhythm. You can alter the rhythm by changing the water pressure or adjusting the settings, but its rhythm is still a static thing.

“But rain rhythms are controlled by the energies of the universe—by wind and the earth’s rotation and the size of the water droplets, stuff like that. And it can change from instant to instant. It’s much more lyrical. Much freer.

“The same goes for running water. The faucet produces a constant flow, but a river slips and slides to the sea at a rate that changes with every stone or curve.”

“You’re weird,” I said.

“But you get it, don’t you? And it makes perfect sense.”

“You’re weird,” I repeated.

But I did get it, and it did make sense. I just wondered why normal people would worry about such things. Sometimes I was frightened by Sharp’s ideas and his assumption that other people pondered the same bizarre stuff he did.

“Jazz and Zander were wrestling in the house,” said Carmella, hands on her hips and head cocked slightly to the side. “That’s against the rules.”

“And Banjo was going crazy,” added Harmony. “Running in circles and barking like mad.”

“They knocked Mom’s African violet off the table.”

“We saw them.”

“There was dirt all over the place.”

“Then they stuffed the plant back in the pot, but it’s all smashed looking. It’s a mess like you wouldn’t believe.” Carmella looked smug.

“Wait till your parents see it.” Harmony shook her head.

“Guess what else?” said Carmella.

I looked at the two six-year-old tattlers and said nothing.

“You won’t believe it,” she added, hoping to suck me into their psychotic game.

Still I didn’t reply.

Harmony and Carmella leaned close to me, like we were all coconspirators in the same secret plot. “The Blackshires’ dog got picked up by the dogcatcher,” reported Carmella. Mr. Blackshire and his son, Jason, a classmate of Carmella and Harmony’s, lived in the green house on the corner.

“So?” I responded.

“You wanna know why?”

“Not really, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Jason forgot to close the gate, and Tag got away, and Mrs. Thomson called the dogcatcher because Tag dug up her tomato plants.”

Harmony joined in. “Jason has to do jobs to help pay the fine. We heard Mr. Blackshire say so. He’s gotta rake the yard and wash the car and stuff.”

“He’s really mad at Mrs. Thomson. Calls her the mustard witch because of that yucky jogging suit she always wears.”

“Tell me…do you two little snoops report my private happenings to everyone else?”

“Oh no,” said Carmella as she and Harmony shook their heads, but they looked as guilty as cats pawing at a fishbowl.

The Meltdown

U
ntil the spring of my fifth-grade year, my family lived an existence you might see on a black-and-white television sitcom from the days of
Leave It to Beaver.
Things around my house were structured and routine for the most part. Dad went to work at the insurance company. Mom went to work at the optometrist’s office. Sometimes we’d go out to dinner on the weekend, or pack a picnic lunch and go fishing, or rent some movies. Whatever. We watched the World Series in October. We went to the Christmas parade the second Saturday in December. We attended Uncle Grayson’s annual Fourth of July barbeque and the deMichaels’ yearly summer solstice bash. Occasionally, we played a game of cards or Monopoly. Typical suburban family living the typical suburban life. Dull and reliable, but safe. No surgeon general’s warnings needed to be attached. No disclaimers. No fine print. We thought our lives were great.

Then Dad had the Meltdown.

Before the Meltdown, Dad was as predictable as the tides. He’d come home from work in the evening, give us all kisses, trade his suit and tie for jeans, and sit on the sofa in the family room to watch the news. We’d eat dinner, after which he’d help Mom with the dishes before wandering back to the TV, where he’d watch a crime drama or maybe a documentary, switching to the Weather Channel occasionally to see what conditions were predicted for the rest of the week. Sometimes his eyes would go glassy as he sighed to my mother, “It’ll be good fishing tomorrow…and it’s cobia season. Wish I didn’t have to go to work.” Later he’d send us off to bed with a goodnight kiss. Sometimes from my bedroom I’d hear him click the television off and open the front door. That usually meant he was stargazing.

Then one afternoon, Dad came home from work with a box of black plastic garbage bags in one hand and a bottle of Captain Morgan Original Spiced Rum in the other. I’ll always remember that label, on which a dashing dark-haired pirate stands straight and tall with a silver sword clasped in his right hand and his left leg propped on a wooden keg. His blue cape billows behind him as if caught in a salt-kissed sea breeze.

So there was Dad with the plastic bags and the bottle. And get this—he was singing “Satisfaction,” that Rolling Stones classic. Dad’s no Mick Jagger, but he was belting it out pretty darned good. “…’cause I try, and I try, and I try…” He paused to take a big swig of Captain Morgan’s straight from the bottle. For percussion, he beat on the box of Hefty Cinch Sak trash bags. “…can’t get no…satisfaction…” He pulled out a Hefty bag and shook it open.

Zander, Carmella, and I followed Dad down the hall to our parents’ room. “…useless information supposed to fire my imagination…” He took another hit from the bottle and flung open the closet door. The Captain Morgan’s made a dull thump when he slammed it onto the closet shelf. He snatched a handful of neckties from his tie rack and stuffed them into the bag. Zander poked me in the ribs with his elbow and raised an eyebrow (but not in the totally cool way of Mrs. Perkins, my second-grade teacher). Carmella stood there gaping. “…can’t get no…” Dad crammed a pile of his carefully laundered and pressed work shirts—hangers and all—into the bag. “…hey hey hey…that’s what I say….” He snatched the bottle of rum by the throat and tilted it to his mouth. “…can’t get no…” He pulled his dress pants out of the closet and dumped them into the bag in a big wad.

“Robert?” said Mom, who’d been gardening in the backyard and had only just appeared in the doorway. Her voice was a whisper of confusion.

“…try, and I try…” Dad removed another handful of shirts and a couple slipped like reluctant ghosts to the floor.

Mom stepped into the room “Robert, what are you doing?”

Dad danced over to her, a huge smile on his face. He wrapped her in his arms and planted a noisy kiss smack on her lips. Then he took another hit from that bottle. Zander, Carmella and I sat on the bed, transfixed. We’d never seen anything like this. Not at our house, anyway—maybe on some weird TV show, but this was real life. It was
our
father stuffing his clothing into trash bags and getting drunker by the minute.

“Robert!”

Dad yanked another bag from the box and sat on the closet floor. Shoe after shoe went into the bag—black ones, brown ones, shoes with laces, loafers. Shiny leather. Touches of suede. Spiraling dots punched into the uppers in fancy designs.

“Robert, what is going on?” This time my mother’s voice was strong. She stepped over to the closet.

Dad looked at her and laughed hysterically, clutching his sides. Tears streamed down his face.

It was weird to sit there on my parents’ bed with my father laughing and drunk on the closet floor, surrounded by the dregs of his wardrobe, while my mother stood over him. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen my dad drunk. It was scary and exciting and amusing and embarrassing all at once.

Zander started giggling, and Carmella sat beside him, big-eyed but, for once, mute. “Jane,” said my mother firmly, “take Zander and Carmella to the kitchen and make them some dinner.”

I pretended not to hear her. I didn’t want to miss the grand finale, whatever it might include.

A handful of belts went into the bag, the ends dangling from Dad’s fist like the tails of so many lizards. “…no satisfaction…” He was now dancing as he filled the bag with his remaining clothing.

“Jane.” My mother’s voice held no wiggle room.

“What am I supposed to cook?” I asked petulantly.

“Whatever you want. Now go.”

“C’mon,” I said grouchily, grabbing Carmella’s hand and dragging her from the bed. “And stop crying, you big baby. No one’s done anything to you.” I turned to glare at Zander, still sitting there watching the show. “You, too,
Lysander.
” Afterward, I berated myself for urging him away. If he’d stayed, he could have given me a play-by-play of the events that had unfolded while I’d been rummaging around in the cabinet in search of something to feed them.

Luke came in while I was making grilled cheese sandwiches (which I’ve called meltdowns ever since) and canned soup. Carmella finally unlocked her jaw and cut loose. “You won’t believe what happened. Dad came home with bags and he’s throwing away his clothes and Mom’s all bossy acting and he kept drinking right out of the bottle and—”

“Breathe, Carmella, breathe,” said Luke.

“Yeah. Hush and let me tell it. You don’t even know what he was drinking,” I said.

“Yes, I do. He had a bottle of—”

Zander clamped his hand over her mouth and he and I explained to Luke what was unraveling in the bedroom down the hall.

Needless to say, by the next day, the whole neighborhood knew about the Meltdown. Discretion is not Carmella’s strong suit.

Dad didn’t go to work anymore after that. Not in the traditional sense, anyhow.

About a week later, I came home from school to find Dad and Uncle Grayson sitting at the kitchen table, which was covered with papers and brochures. Uncle Grayson’s fingers were dancing on the keys of a calculator while he called out numbers and percentages that Dad scribbled in a notebook.

“What’s going on?” I asked as I gulped down a glass of apple juice.

“Business,” Dad replied.

“What business?” asked Zander, who stood beside me. We both knew Dad was now unemployed.

“Fishy business,” answered Uncle Grayson, and he and Dad both laughed.

“Yes,” said Dad with a wink. “There is definitely something fishy going on here.”

Dissonance

H
armony and Carmella tumbled into the family room giggling. “We saw Luke at the park,” Carmella announced.

“With a girl,” added Harmony.

“He kissed her,” Carmella said.

“On the mouth,” Harmony cooed.

“It was so gross.”

“Disgusting.” Harmony stuck her finger down her throat.

I folded my arms across my chest and bored my eyes into the two little seven-year-old snoops. Finally I spoke.

“If it was so gross and disgusting, why’d you watch?”

They looked at each other and shrugged. “We just did,” Harmony said.

“It’s not like they knew we were watching. They were sitting on the bench by the slide and we peeked through the trees,” explained Carmella, as if such behavior was perfectly acceptable.

“That’s rude,” I said.

“Yeah,” agreed Harmony. “They shouldn’t be kissing in public.”

I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t mean Luke was rude. He’s in high school. He can kiss someone if he wants. I meant you two were rude for watching.”

“We can’t help it if we see what we see,” Carmella said.

“Spying on people is offensive.”

“You’re just jealous ’cause you missed out,” taunted Carmella.

“Yeah.” Harmony nodded.

“Right. Like I’ve never seen anyone kiss.”

“We just won’t tell you next time something juicy happens if that’s the way you’re gonna act,” threatened Carmella.

“Yeah, we just won’t tell you,” echoed Harmony.

“You’re breaking my heart,” I replied.

They stomped across the room and into the kitchen, where they described, in very loud voices, everything that had transpired at the park. “I thought you weren’t going to tell me,” I called.

“We aren’t talking to you,” Carmella yelled back.

“Oh brother,” I moaned, and grabbed the remote to raise the volume on the television.

I guess having a Meltdown causes adults to make all kinds of irrational decisions regarding other people. My parents did exactly that. Concerning me.

After what Mom described as an excessive number of parent-teacher conferences addressing some minor behavioral incidents at school, the household corporate giants held a board meeting. I wasn’t invited until the end, when I was informed that they were tired of my troublemaking and believed that the discipline of music lessons might settle me down. “Then maybe middle school will be easier on you next year…or at least on us,” said my mother with a sigh.

“And,” added my father, “it will give you something special in your life. Something spiritually and emotionally enriching.”

“Put your pajamas on, you’re dreaming,” I said loftily.

“I’m not taking music lessons.”

But Mom said, “Jane, watch your smart mouth.”

And Dad said, “It has been decided. I’ve already spoken to Elliot, who said he’d be delighted to take you on as a student.”

“You want me to take lessons from Elliot? What instrument am I going to play? Raindrops? Buffalo bones?”

“The mouth, Jane. Watch the mouth.” I rolled my eyes at my mother’s warning.

“Elliot has a guitar you can use. Your first lesson is tomorrow at nine. In the morning.”

“But Dad, it’s spring break,” I protested. “I’m sleeping late.” I never went in for that “early bird gets the worm” thing. Who’d want a worm anyhow?

“Nine a.m. And you will be required to practice every day.”

“Dad,” I whined.

“That’s all. Please go feed Banjo, Jane.”

Dear Bubba,

Guitar lessons? Please! Who would design an instrument with six strings when hands only have five fingers? There is no mathematical logic to it.

Do re mi,
Gabriel

“This is a really bad idea. I’m far too lazy to play an instrument,” I told Elliot.

He laughed. “I’ve got four lazy kids, and they can all play at least one instrument.”

“But I’m
much
lazier than any of them,” I said proudly. I saw Chord and Sharp lingering in the doorway. “Right, guys?”

“She’s probably too dumb to catch on,” Chord said.

“Yeah,” agreed Sharp. “She’s pretty thick. I bet she’ll never learn to read music. She can barely read our science book.”

“I am not dumb, and I can too read the stupid science book,” I snapped. I turned to Elliot. “Let’s do it.”

“Take off, boys,” Elliot said, and I thought I saw him wink at them. He picked up an amber-colored guitar with a rosewood neck. “Now, this is called the body, and this is the sound hole,” he told me, and continued identifying all of the parts of the instrument. Then he named the strings.

“It’s easy to remember their names. E-B-G-D-A-E. Every Bunny Gets Drunk At Easter.”

I laughed. “Maybe this won’t be so awful after all.”

“I’m going out to the country to set up some equipment,” Elliot said. Chord, Sharp, Zander, Jazz, and I were shooting hoops in his driveway, and Elliot was shoving some recording stuff into the back of his van. “I’m going to need your help, boys,” he told his sons. Then he looked at Zander and me. “If you two want to come along, check with your parents.”

A few minutes later we were driving down the highway. “So where exactly are we going, Dad?” Chord asked.

“Stanfield’s blueberry farm out near Deerfoot Landing.”

“To pick blueberries?”

“Maybe. If we have time. I’m wiring the beehives for sound.”

“You’re what?” I asked, astonished.

“I’m recording the symphonies of the bees,” said Elliot, smiling.

“But what if you get stung?” I asked.

“Forget that! What if
we
get stung?” asked Chord. “No wonder you wouldn’t reveal our mission until you had successfully kidnapped us.”

Elliot laughed. “We probably won’t get stung. The farmers know how to handle the bees. They’re quite friendly, actually.”

“The farmers?” asked Jazz.

“I meant the bees, but the farmers are friendly, too.”

“Yeah, right,” said Chord.

I elbowed Sharp in the ribs. “Your dad’s way over the edge,” I whispered.

Sharp laughed. “He’s still a long way from the edge, Jane,” he said, and then I remembered Sharp telling me about sitting beneath the sprinkler to compare real rain to artificial rain, and I decided Sharp didn’t even know where the edge was.

Chord, Zander, and I watched from afar as Elliot, the farmers, Sharp, and Jazz did that Watergate thing to the beehives. Chord stubbornly refused to get near the hives, and Elliot barred Zander and me from helping (not that I would have anyway) because he didn’t want to be responsible if we got mixed up with any angry honeybees. Zander kept making annoying buzzing sounds while Chord poked me with sticks, pretending they were stingers. “You two are getting on my last nerve,” I warned, but they only laughed. We returned home hours later, laden with blueberries and honey, and, in Sharp’s case, three bee stings.

Elliot told me to practice guitar every day, saying that was the only way to master a musical instrument. The first week, I did. My fingertips got sore.

The next week I decided that holding the guitar counted as practice. I did strum it some but found that reading the notes slowed me down, so I ad-libbed.

The third week, opening the instrument case qualified as practice in my book. I did that every day. And I actually removed the guitar from the case twice (with some strong urging from Mom).

“I’m so proud of you for practicing without being told,” Dad said one rainy Saturday. “You’re sounding better all the time.”

“Thanks,” I replied, desperate to hide my confusion. I’d spent the whole morning playing video games.

“Elliot said you were progressing slowly. I’m not sure I agree. I’m no musician, but what you did today is a vast improvement over last week.”

“Thanks.” What in the world was he talking about? I hadn’t touched that guitar. I hated it! My fingers got tangled in the strings, and after a month of lessons I still couldn’t read the notes. All that line, space, sharp, flat, and eighth-note stuff rattled my brain. It amazed me when I saw Sharp and Chord brush their fingers effortlessly over the strings to fill the air with music. When I played, it sounded more like a train wreck.