Tiger, Tiger (12 page)

This year, I’d be taking First Communion; I told Peter on one of our strolls at Hudson Park to see the leaves changing. I couldn’t wait to receive the flesh of Jesus and be part of God. Some kids didn’t understand Communion, though; they just thought that the whole thing was gross, and they even wondered why they couldn’t chew the host.

“Idiots,” I said, tearing a brownish green leaf off a nearby sycamore. “They think they can bite into the host like it’s a wad of old bubble gum or something. This terrible boy in my class even said he was going to bite it on purpose. But the girls in my class are even dumber than the boys. We have to watch movies, sometimes, where Jesus dies, on the cross, and there’s this moronic bunch of girls who always carry packets of tissues. And when Jesus is crucified, they all just start wiping their eyes as though they’re sad.”

“Your mother told me the other day that she thinks I was Jesus in another life.”

“I know, she’s always saying that.”

We sat under a weeping willow and Peter put his arm around me. The air here smelled so sweet and different from the city.

“You know, my birthday’s coming up. I know you don’t have any money—you shouldn’t worry about buying me anything. Have you thought about what you’d like to give me?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s good to talk about presents beforehand,” I said, thinking of the new ladybug play set I was working on at home. “It ruins the surprise.”

“I agree. But can I give you a hint on what I might want?”

“Okay. Give me hints, if you want, but I already have ideas about what I want to give you, ’kay? So if it’s not exactly what you want, you can’t be disappointed?”

“Of course not. How could I be disappointed in you, sweetheart?” He lit a cigarette. He tended to smoke more when my mother wasn’t around to see him. “Okay, first clue: it doesn’t cost anything. Not a single nickel.”

“Okay . . . it’s free. Next clue.”

“Well, it’s something I’ve been wanting for a while. It’s something special and nice. It’s something that people who are in love, like you are with me, people who are going to get married someday, it’s something they do together as a show of love.”

“Peter, do you want me to do that thing?” I said. It seemed easier to just ask and get it over with.

“Only if you want to and only if you’re ready.”

“I’d have to think, Peter. About whether I’m ready yet or not.”

“No pressure. Only if you want to, sweetheart. No pressure.”

9

“IT’S NOT WRONG TO LOVE YOU”

T
he night before Peter’s birthday, I accidentally ripped a ladybug in half while trying to dress it in a sweater. I would never be done with this new set in time! Never! With my arm, I swept all my newly created ladybugs off the table, and then I started pounding my fists against the wood. Suddenly, I sensed something and turned around. Poppa was behind me in his white undershirt and boxers.

“What are you doing? What the hell is this noise! Look at the floor! What the hell is this noise at this time of night! I have to get up for work, don’t you understand! You are an animal! Get up! Get out of that chair!”

“No!”

“Get up so I can sweep! Look at what you did! Look at this! Are you proud? Get up!”

“No! Let go of my arm!”

“I have to clean this mess you made! Look at this! What is this paper?”

“Those are my ladybugs!”

I saw him glance at the ladybug house and then at the floor. “Why are they on the floor? Why? You tell me!”

“Sweep them! Go ahead! Sweep them! Throw them away; I don’t care!”

“Pick them up! It is not up to me to clean your mess! Pick them up; put them back where they came from!”

“No, you sweep them! You sweep them!”

“I have to go to work, you understand! I have to work, you understand me! I work a ten-hour shift, goddamn it! I work six days a week sometimes! Nobody appreciates that I work! Everyone is a bloodsucker around here! Everyone is feeding off me like a parasite! I break my back to cook, to clean up after you people! I break my back!” As he yelled, he got the broom and swept the fallen ladybugs and their accessories into a dustpan. When he was done, he picked each item out of the dustpan, one by one, from the snarls of dust and crumbs, making an expression that was beyond disgust. Then he placed them on the table.

“Here are your things! Don’t put them on the floor again! Show some respect next time for your own things; your own things at least, even if you have no respect for anyone else’s things! I take care of my things; that is why my things last! Next time control your temper! I am going back to bed! I have to work! I have trouble sleeping as it is. There is no reason to keep me awake; shame on you! You are nothing but a selfish brat in your own world! Learn to think of other people, their needs, for once, for once!” He went back up the stairs slowly, eyeing me all the way.

Once he was out of sight, I dusted the ladybugs off and put them into the new ladybug house, another milk carton. Then I put the milk carton in my toy box with the rest of my stuff. Peter had been right; it was better that I keep the ladybugs at home—this way Karen couldn’t tear them up—besides, he was a grown man, and I was starting to doubt he would play with them when I wasn’t around.

Peter’s birthday fell on a Wednesday, so we would be going to his house on a day we wouldn’t normally. I should have been glad to be seeing him three days this week instead of the usual two, but instead I woke up with a terrible stomachache. Mommy decided that I was too sick for school and fed me a bowl of Campbell’s chicken soup and saltine crackers in bed, while she debated whether we should still go to Peter’s in the afternoon.

“We can’t go if you’re sick, you understand that, don’t you?” Mommy said. “Peter will have to understand that. We can always celebrate on Friday.”

“I think I’m not really all that sick. I think I’m more worried than anything.”

“About what? What are you worried about?”

“I don’t want to go to Peter’s house without a present. But we don’t have any money. Couldn’t you have asked Poppa for money? Couldn’t you have explained that it was for Peter’s birthday?”

“You know how your father is. He’s not too keen on Peter right now. Maybe your father is a bit jealous of Peter.”

“Jealous of what?” I smirked.

“Your attention. Your father is a very jealous man. He likes to be everyone’s favorite. At the bars, he spends money buying drinks for people, just to be popular. That’s your father for you.”

“He doesn’t care about me. Did you hear him screaming at me last night?”

“I was asleep. The sleep drugs put me in the land of the dead. He didn’t hit you, did he?”

“No. But he yelled really bad, and all because I dropped some paper on the floor.”

“Paper on the floor? He shouldn’t be walking around at night. He should be in bed, sleeping like a normal person. That man should be on tranquilizers like I am. He really should.” She paused. “Is this why you’re sick? Are you upset because he yelled at you?”

“No! He always yells. I don’t care if he yells.” I turned away from her, irritated. “I
told
you why.”

We were silent, and then my mother said, “I have twenty dollars’ emergency money. I could spend that; then later I could make up an excuse. Okay?”

I didn’t say anything at first. “I don’t know what Peter would want. I have no idea what people his age like. Maybe we should just stay home—you can call him and say I’m sick.”

“Do you want me to do that? I can call right now.”

“No, wait a second. Can you think of anything? Something that he would really like?”

“What about we get him a nice birthday cake? He has a real sweet tooth. We’ll go to Sugarman’s bakery and get him a nice chocolate cake with strawberry filling. We can have them write ‘Happy Birthday, Peter, we love you’ in red icing.”

“Pink icing. Peter likes pink.”

Mommy laughed. “Pink icing, then.”

After Peter’s birthday party was over, Karen wanted to watch
E.T.
, so we went into the living room and Peter popped it into the VCR. Inès, Miguel, and Ricky watched it with us to be polite, I think; and then, one by one, they slipped off. Karen lay on her stomach, ankles crossed, and I lay beside her for a while; she put her foot over mine. Mommy was perched on her usual red velvet chair; she loved
E.T
.

Peter motioned for me to climb onto the couch with him and I did. The blank feelings were coming over me again, but something else was mixed with them—a kind of raw energy. Peter had told me to wink at him, a code that we should go to the basement. But I had forgotten the difference between a wink and a blink. I heard low humming, and I looked at the red velvet curtains. The humming seemed to emanate from there, but it also seemed to come from Peter. For some reason, I thought of that purple comb. Then I thought of Poppa, the hairdresser’s scissors, him saying he would hate me, too.

“Peter, I don’t want to see this part coming up. The part where they stuff E.T. in that zippered body bag. I remember getting scared when I saw it at the theater.” I winked at Peter, finally remembering how.

Peter asked Mommy to watch the rest of the movie with Karen; we were going downstairs for a second to give the cats some kibble and play marbles with them for a short while, since I didn’t want to watch the movie anymore.

“I want to go, too!” Karen said, but Peter said, “I don’t want you tripping on those basement stairs. You’ll break your neck.” He handed Mommy
Lady and the Tramp
. “If she gets bored with
E.T.
, put this one in.” Karen pouted, but Peter gave her a stern, you-better-not-start look, so she settled down. Ever since Peter had spanked her, it seemed like she respected him more.

I was the first to descend the red-carpeted stairs; I led Peter by the hand. When we got to the wooden door by the first-floor apartment, he looked nervous. “Are you sure? Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. We can go back. We don’t have to go.”

“It’s your birthday. This is my present to you.”

For the first time, I didn’t feel afraid descending the soft wooden steps. It was like there was nothing in me: no fear, no energy, nothing. Peter kept asking if I was okay. I nodded. As soon as Peter turned on the bulb, a few cats raced out of the shadows, mewing for kibble. Peter shoveled some Meow Mix from a giant bag into their ceramic bowl. I stood there, perfectly still, waiting for the tingles and prickles that meant my body was falling asleep.

Peter came over and faced me. “You are beautiful, you know that?”

I nodded, watching the cats eat.

“Do you love me?”

I nodded again.

“Can you say it?”

“I love you.”

“You’re not cold, are you?”

I shook my head, though it was slightly chilly.

“Maybe we should go back up,” Peter said. “You don’t look very happy. You’re not smiling.”

I shrugged.

“I mean, you don’t have to do anything. Just being with you is enough. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I still didn’t say anything. I concentrated on trying to look happy and relaxed.

“I mean: what would you like to do? Anything in particular?”

“You tell me. I’ll do whatever you want. It’s your birthday and I’ll do anything.” I paused. “Happy birthday!”

He hugged me suddenly, almost too tightly. “I love you so much. Margaux, you don’t understand. Margaux, Margaux. There is nobody else like you. No one in existence. You were made for me. You’re my guardian angel. You’re my love. It’s not wrong to love you, not when it is so beautiful to be in love. It’s not wrong to love someone so beautiful. We were made for each other; forget what the world says. Forget everything; we are the only two people that matter in this world: you and me.”

I kissed him then, putting my tongue in his mouth. We kissed for a while. Then I put my hand on the crotch of his sweatpants.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

I shook my head.

“I’m in love with you. There is nobody else, Margaux. Nobody can make me feel this way. I love you unconditionally. You have great power, unbelievable power over me and I trust you. I trust you with my life.”

I pulled down his pants; the sudden motion seemed to surprise him. His penis didn’t look as scary and gross as it had before. It was a natural body part, not shameful at all; I knew that now. I touched it and it started to increase in size; Peter said not to be afraid—this was supposed to happen. The skin got tauter, the veins more rigid, those veins reminding me of terrarium plants, only blue. The hairy sac beneath it seemed tauter, too; I touched that and it squished in my hand like a bowl of refrigerated Jell-O. But what I couldn’t believe was the other thing, which kept magically growing. I thought of Alice in Wonderland and her magic potion bottles and magic mints and mushrooms. Certain potions made her bigger; others reduced her size. She could be as small as my pinkie finger, or as big as Godzilla or King Kong. Peter’s penis wasn’t controlled by mints or mushrooms—I understood now that
I
controlled it. I knew enough now about how things worked to know that if I wasn’t here, it wouldn’t have gotten bigger.

I looked at the bright naked bulb. A fly was crawling on it. “Do you want me to kiss you there, Peter? For your birthday?”

“I would like that very much, sweetheart.”

I kissed him where the sewn-up eye was. There was no pee there, no pee was coming out. Peter had told me no pee could come out while it was hard. No pee is coming, I told myself, as I kissed it several times, no pee, no pee. No blood, no blood. No wax or mucus, no sweat. Nothing could come from here.

“Can you suck on it? Like you would a lollipop?”

There was a story in an antique book my mother had when she was a child called
The Tall Book of Fairy Tales
; now it was my book. The tale I was thinking of was called “The Everlasting Lollipop”; it was about a boy, Johnny, who keeps licking a lollipop until it gets so big it’s bigger than he is. The giant lollipop is used to decorate the street, since it’s now the size of a lamppost.

I sucked on Peter’s penis, still thinking of the stories in the book. There was another one called “Bad Mousie.” Bad Mousie is the little girl Donnica’s friend; he’s a nice mouse, except he can’t help but be bad and destroy things in the house. So Donnica’s mother tries to kill him; she tries drowning him in a cardboard box, but the box melts and he swims out. She tries flying him away on a hang glider. She ties him up outside for an owl to eat. No matter how many times she tries to get rid of him, he keeps coming back. After a while, he decides that he wants to be good. He starts doing what he’s told. He cleans the dinner dishes; he says his prayers. Maybe he drinks a glass of milk like the one my mother gave me for vitamin D every night. I wasn’t sure if I was a mouse drinking milk out of the cat’s bowl on the basement floor. I wasn’t sure if I was a baby having a bottle or whether I was really upstairs having some milk and Oreos with Karen. Was I upstairs or downstairs? That was the first thing to concentrate on. Whether I was upstairs or downstairs. Or whether I lived now in the apartment on Thirty-second Street or in Poppa’s new house. How old I was and what day of the week it was. Whether I was Karen upstairs drinking from a glass of milk or Margaux downstairs lapping from the cat’s bowl. Suddenly, I felt like I was the size of a thumbnail. Then I realized I was looking at a thumbnail. Peter’s thumbnail. Then I realized I was looking up at Peter’s face. As soon as I looked at him he patted my head.