Forgive Me, Leonard Peacock(48)

When we arrive at his building, the cab fare is more than two hundred dollars, and I insist on paying with my credit card, even though Herr Silverman says I don’t have to. He’s a teacher, so I know that two hundred bucks is a lot for him.

My hand shakes when I extend the credit card through the little plastic window that separates the cabdriver from the passengers, but Herr Silverman doesn’t say anything about how shaky I am.

I give the cabdriver an eighty-dollar tip because f*ck Linda, who will be paying the bill, but my hand is still shaking and you can barely read the numbers I write.

“Is this okay?” I ask as we walk up the steps, and even my voice is all over the place wobbly.

“Is what okay?”

“Having a student over to your apartment.”

“Is it okay with you?”

“Yeah, but aren’t there school policies forbidding you to do this sort of thing? I mean… I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Well, I do believe this is an extenuating circumstance. And if you don’t tell anyone, no one will know.”

“Okay,” I say, and stick my shaky hands in my pockets.

If any other teacher had said this to me, I’d have thought they were executing some sort of perverted plan—but not Herr Silverman, I tell myself. You can trust him.

Outside his door as he puts the key in the lock, he says, “My roommate, Julius, is inside sleeping.”

I nod, because I realize that Julius is most likely Herr Silverman’s partner, and I wonder if Julius really is pissed about my taking up so much of Herr Silverman’s time and now invading their personal lives. Part of me starts to wish I weren’t here—that I didn’t even call my Holocaust teacher.

Herr Silverman keys into his apartment and loudly says, “Julius? I’m here with Leonard.”

No response.

“Come on in,” Herr Silverman says, and I follow him to a leather couch over which hangs a huge painting of a bare tree, which gets me thinking about the Japanese maple outside my English class and what an * I was to Mrs. Giavotella, which makes me feel depressed again.

The tree in the painting is surrounded by the decapitated heads of famous political leaders: Benito Mussolini, Joseph Stalin, Gandhi, Ronald Reagan, Winston Churchill, George Washington, Adolf Hitler, Fidel Castro, Teddy Roosevelt, Nelson Mandela, Saddam Hussein, JFK, and a dozen or so more I don’t recognize. It looks like the heads have fallen from the tree like rotten fruit. And a huge red X has been painted over the entire painting—like someone stamped it with a rejection. It’s one of the strangest artworks I have ever seen.

“Have a seat,” Herr Silverman says. “I’ll be right back.”

He opens the bedroom door a crack and slips in without letting me see what’s behind—like he sort of makes a U around the door without opening it more than ten inches and then closes it quickly.

I hear whispering, and the voice that’s not Herr Silverman’s is sort of fierce, like wind rushing through barren tree branches.

“This isn’t your job,” I hear Julius say a little more loudly.

“Shhhh,” Herr Silverman says. “He’ll hear you.”

And then they are silent for a minute before I hear the fierce whispering again.

Finally, the door opens ten inches, and Herr Silverman slips around once more before he shuts it for good.

“Your roommate is pissed that I’m here,” I say.

“He’s just tired. He has to work in the morning and he’s afraid we’ll keep him up. We’ll be quiet.”

“I heard him say this isn’t your job, and it’s not. I shouldn’t have called you. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

“It’s okay,” Herr Silverman says. “I’m glad you did. You can meet Julius in the morning. He’ll be less grumpy with a full night’s rest.”

“He’s your boyfriend, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” I say, and then feel stupid for saying okay—like Herr Silverman needs my permission or something.

“Here,” Herr Silverman says, and then holds out his hand.

There’s a small box in front of my face wrapped in white paper.

When I have it unwrapped and opened, it takes me a second to realize what’s inside.

It’s my grandfather’s Bronze Star, only it’s been covered with paper, painted, and then laminated. On the star is a bronze peace sign and on the ribbon are my initials written in fancy calligraphy swirls.

“If you don’t like it,” Herr Silverman says, “I can remove the tape and paper. The actual medal isn’t altered underneath. I was going to give it back to you tomorrow after class. Remember when you said you wanted to turn the negative connotation into a positive?”

I’m not entirely sure how to respond. It’s kind of corny on one hand, and on the other it’s an amazingly thoughtful present—plus it’s the only gift I will receive on my eighteenth birthday, which is almost over.

But for some reason, instead of saying thank you like any polite, normal person would, and maybe because I feel like it might be really important, I say, “Does Julius make you happy? I mean—do you love him? And does he love you? Is it a good relationship?”

“Why do you ask?” Herr Silverman gets this worried look on his face, like my question throws him a little.