Tiger, Tiger (33 page)

One evening we were fighting again about Peter going out with Inès on Sundays. He shoved a pillow over my face after I threatened to tell Inès the truth about our relationship. Every time I tried to scream he pressed the pillow harder, whispering, “You bitch! You bitch! You bitch!” I could hear barking; then I felt something soft wriggling against my arm. When Peter lifted the pillow I saw that Paws had jumped up on the bed and was clutching Peter’s arm in his mouth. Peter began to cry, petting the big dog in rough strokes. “Thank you, thank you, you’re my best friend,” he said to Paws as he went out of the room.

He came back with a butcher knife, which he handed to me, then fell to his knees while saying that I should kill him.

“Put it right here,” he said, and I held the knife to his Adam’s apple. “Do you forgive me? If you can’t, maybe you should slit my throat. I deserve it.”

I couldn’t speak, or I didn’t want to. I started to put the knife down.

“Do you forgive me?” he said again, firmly clutching my wrist.

I managed a nod and he released my hand. I rested the knife beside his cigarette pack. I was so relieved to be rid of it. The plant lights seemed so white that they were almost blue. I felt a strange calm that bordered on euphoria. It was a feeling I got a lot after we fought like this.

“Sweetheart,” he said, still on his knees. “I used to make you smile. You used to laugh. How can I make you happy again?”

I didn’t answer. I stared at my hands, then at my long, tapered fingers that were spread out to expose the webs in between. Peter had once remarked that I had a pianist’s hands. I examined my left palm, remembering how Grace had once told me that if the lines formed an “M,” it meant the Mother Mary was protecting you. I found the “M,” and hoped to God it was true.

When Ricky and Richard moved out that summer, I took it as more proof that people had to be willing to take huge risks and make radical changes. Ricky decided to live with his girlfriend, Gretchen; Peter didn’t like her although she seemed more stable than Ricky’s previous girlfriend, Audra. One day, Miguel had rushed home to get Peter, saying Audra was fighting with Ricky and she had a pocketknife. I’d gone with them. By the time we got there, Audra was threatening to cut her throat in front of the large crowd that had gathered to watch. Ricky tried to wrench the knife away from her and somehow she slashed his hand. After that, the two made up, as though it took the sight of blood to remind them of how much they actually loved each other.

When Ricky moved out (an end at last to the shame and torment I felt every time I saw him), the attic became as quiet as a crypt. His new girlfriend, Gretchen, was a Cuban Goth chick who wore only black except, Peter said, for funerals, to which she would wear white; she also wore wigs though her hair was perfectly fine, which Peter didn’t understand. He sarcastically referred to her as the “wig witch.” She had a three-year-old son her parents helped her support (they also paid for her apartment). Early in their relationship, she’d insisted that Ricky spend nights at her place. I sensed that there was some kind of bad blood between Peter and Gretchen, but I wasn’t sure how they could have even managed to interact without me knowing about it. As for me, I’d talked to her a couple of times and found that she was as sweet as any of the other attic girls.

Richard had moved into a tent at Bear Mountain State Park, hoping nature would cure his coke addiction. He’d been going downhill for a while—hanging around the house shirtless with a Charles Manson beard, army pants, and a necklace made of eagle talons. He had gotten into Native American spirituality of late, had stopped taking baths and talked about searching for his spirit animal. His final move had been to pitch a tent at a camping ground with loads of canned goods and a pair of binoculars to catch the sight of a red-tailed hawk or double-crested cormorant. I wished him well. Inès occasionally went away on weekends to stay in the tent with him, always looking flushed and happy when she returned. Peter said that no one could make Inès feel joy the way Richard could; he was her drug, just as Ricky was Gretchen’s; just as I was his drug and he was mine.

Miguel remained by himself in the attic. Every time I saw him he seemed quieter and paler. He no longer wore his hair long and came downstairs only to eat or to go to his job at Circle Cycle. Whenever I passed him, he would utter a low hi or offer a solemn wave that was almost like a salute. I was grateful to him for that.

25

THE DROPOUT

T
hat August, Peter and I made several trips to Coney Island to eat Nathan’s hot dogs, ride the Cyclone (even though for days later he would be confined to bed), and swim in the ocean. Peter said he wanted to see me ride the carousel, but I didn’t want to; didn’t he realize I was too old for that? As usual, I let him have his way because it was easier than listening to him nag. As the lighted mirrors and pastoral scenes turned under the pavilion, I hid my face in my wet hair, smelling the salt of the Atlantic in its tangled strands. I’d gotten into this habit of draping my long hair over my face like a sheepdog and wearing dark sunglasses even on overcast days.

Every time we went, Peter repeated his stories of a Brooklyn gang he’d run around with when he was fifteen. The initiation was to stand perfectly still while the gang shot at him with homemade guns that never fired straight; it was terrifying to stand with their tiny bullets whizzing all around him. He told me of how they beat him up every day until he’d agreed to join; how they robbed women walking on Mermaid or Neptune Avenues, to get money to ride the attractions at Steeplechase Park.

Once, Peter left the beach to walk to the bathrooms, and as I stood with my feet in the surf, a good-looking Hispanic boy in drenched basketball shorts came over. The ocean seemed too loud at first to talk so all I did was peek at him. As the tide churned, it sucked in the smallest grains of sand by my feet, which were tingling. The clouds were white and flimsy, almost engulfed by the enormity of the blue sky and ocean. From far behind us, we heard the rickety Cyclone climbing, plummeting.

The guy finally spoke. “I wish I hadn’t worn these,” he said, pointing to his shorts.

I could barely talk around such a cute boy, but I managed. “Why did you?”

He shrugged. “The matrix didn’t give me time to find my swimming trunks.”

“The matrix?”

“My mother.” He had no facial hair but the softest-looking peach fuzz on his upper lip that I imagined would feel good if I kissed him. I felt a bit like a mermaid who had landed on the shore by a human boy’s feet. He seemed to squint at me like he saw something that made him curious.

Ahead of us, three children dashed into the ocean, carrying pails of water to fill and bring back to their sandcastles. Seeing kids play often made me sad though I wasn’t sure why.

“What’s your name? Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked, realizing my speech sounded halting, unevenly paced.

“Danny. One brother.”

“I’m an only child.”

“Oh. You’re a princess. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.” He smiled and shook his head. “I didn’t get your name.”

“Michelle,” I said, instantly comforted by my lie.

“Oh, snap! Look at that jellyfish. That’s mad huge.”

“Where is that thing’s mouth? Does it eat through its body?” I said, unable to think of anything better.

He was looking away. “Is that guy coming over to us your dad?”

I didn’t say anything, just stared at the sand. My worst fear was that Peter would yell my real name in front of Danny.

“Your dad looks pissed. Told you you’re a princess.” Danny smiled as he darted into the ocean.

Peter drove me to the Catholic high school in the neighboring town of West New York every morning, until a winter day came when I simply refused to go there again. I was only a sophomore and fifteen was technically too young to drop out. I sat on my father’s staircase dressed in my “Beary Sleepy” nightgown and white cotton ankle socks. My mother had already been bussed to a day program for the mentally ill at Mount Carmel Guild that her psychiatrist had insisted she attend even though she said she was too depressed to leave the house for the music, art, and group therapy classes.

Poppa, dressed in his work clothes, was pacing and yelling at the bottom of the stairs when there was a knock on the door.

“Peter,” he said. “Look at her. Look at her sitting on those steps. She has gone crazy, like the mother! She will not move from that step! You take over! I cannot handle this! I am going to die of a heart attack! You convince her to go! You get her off that step, please! I cannot stand the sight of her sitting there as though she owns this place! She does not own a single part of this house!”

“Margaux,” Peter said evenly. He was dressed in his leather jacket. “I’m parked by the fire hydrant. You’ve got to let me know, are you going or not? If you’re not going, I’ll move the car.”

“Of course she is going!” Poppa charged over to the step and grabbed my arm. “Get dressed. Get dressed. I have to leave for work.”

“Leave for work, then, because I’m not going. Peter, move the car.”

“Are you sure?” said Peter.

“Yes, I’m not moving.”

“Okay,” Peter said, starting to the door.

“You! You wait!” Poppa yelled, pointing at him. “You tell her to go! You put some sense into her head; she will listen to you!”

“I can’t force her to go. Once she has an idea in her head, that’s it.”

“Whose side are you on?” Poppa said, glaring at Peter. “The side of reason and good sense or do you want this child to destroy her life? Do you want her to become like her mother? What is your motive here? Are you not out for her better interests?”

Peter was silent. Poppa turned back to me. “Listen to me, listen to your father. I will raise your allowance. You will have more money. Just be a good girl and get dressed.”

“No, I won’t. I won’t go back.”

“Why? Is it the teachers?”

“No, it’s the students. I don’t fit in. I don’t fit in anywhere I go.”

“Ignore what people say about you. Do you think it matters in the end what anyone says? In Puerto Rico, they made fun of me for my hair color. I was an outcast at school and within my own family because I was the only one with red hair. But I always did what I was told. I never created grief for my parents. Everyone goes through the ridicule of others. I have spent my life under the assault of ridicule yet I have always managed to hold my head high. I am known in this town now as the husband of the crazy woman. It never makes me hide myself. I go out more, to show them I am not beaten. Once you begin to cower from the world, it only gets worse. I want you to be educated, have a good future.”

“I don’t care about the future.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you care? You don’t love me!”

He seized my arm and shook it. “Who told you that I didn’t love you? Who told you that? You are my daughter; I have to love you! You are my blood; I have to look out for your welfare!” He turned once again to Peter. “They reserve a special place in hell for those who refuse to take a stand. You have driven my wife to the hospital and you have taken my daughter to see her many times; for that, I am thankful. You have driven my daughter to school; for that, I am thankful. But in this moment, you have shown your true colors!”

“I don’t want to argue, Louie. I want Margaux to be educated just as much as you do. But I’ve listened to her stories of what she goes through in school. I know how she’s suffering.”

“Tell me something. Are you an instigator? Did you plan this together?”

“No, I just understand how she feels.”

“I am going to make something clear right now. You are either out for her best interests or you are not. It is that simple. Perhaps if she remains stubborn, you will refuse to take her to the Big Mouth arcade. That is one of the places you go, right?”

“That’s right.”

“I know because I found a token in her pants pocket doing her laundry. I am her servant. She is fifteen and she lives like the Queen of Sheba. I wonder how she will like reform school. When I call the police and they take her to a home for juvenile delinquents—” I stood up. “Call the police! I’m sure you want everyone to see them dragging me out of the house kicking and screaming! Because I don’t care! I don’t care how we look! I’m not like you! I couldn’t give a shit about these neighbors!”

“You know what, I am going to work. I am done with you! I will leave the money on the kitchen counter and that is it! Stay out of my way from now on! I do not want to hear you at all! You tiptoe down these stairs from now on! If you talk to your mother, you whisper! If you are on the phone, you take it into the other room! I do not want to hear your voice anymore! I do not want to know that you exist! You are erased, as of now! You hear me: you are dead in my eyes!”

True to his word, Poppa wouldn’t speak to me or assist in my arrangements to be homeschooled. My mother and Peter did all of that, making the necessary calls and finally getting me diagnosed as a “school phobic,” which allowed me to be homeschooled for free by teachers from the high school. I was taught English and geometry by a married couple in their sixties. I found myself so looking forward to Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein’s visits that instead of wearing my nightgown as I did the first two times, I started to don my nicer clothes whenever they came over, even applying a fresh coat to my nails. I also wore the gray, black, and red striped dress I’d sworn I’d never wear. Catching a glimpse of myself in that dress with my hair in a ponytail, I realized that I almost looked like a very young teacher myself. I flourished under all my teachers’ individual attention, earning nearly straight As, which Mommy tried to point out to Poppa, but he only put up his hand to silence her.

Poppa still did my laundry, and if I left a dish lying on the kitchen table or bedroom floor overnight, the next morning it would be gone. If I left magazines or books on the kitchen table, he wouldn’t touch them, but would complain to my mother about it, and she’d relay the message. I started to store miscellaneous things on the living room floor: old textbooks, graded tests, paperback books, spiral notebooks containing stories or short novels, and back issues of
Cosmopolitan
. Also, I began to leave clothes on a chair in the living room. When they ended up in the wash, he would take the opportunity to fold and enclose them within drawers; but, in time, they would end up back on the chair. And he never said a word.