Here So Far Away(7)
“Fair is for sports and the application of the law and not much else,” Dad said. “Life’s a bad writer, son. So this is what’s happening. I’m going to pay the bills. Your mother is going to drive me to one hospital or another—”
“Local,” Mum said. “I called the doctor again. But we’ll have to go into the city Friday afternoon.”
“I’m paying the bills. Your mother is driving me to the local ER. George is getting ready for work. And you, son, you will practice the tuba, as you always do, get ahead on your recommended reading list for school, as you always do, moonwalk through high school, graduate at the top of your class, and save us all.”
That my father talked like this about Matthew all the time, that Matthew didn’t even have a curfew because he was too reliable and socially awkward to need one, had gnawed at me forever, but for once I didn’t care. Because a Friday afternoon trip to the city meant my parents would stay over with Aunt Joanna and her offspring and her offspring’s offspring so Mum wouldn’t have to drive home in the dark. And there was already talk of a shack party next week, and I desperately needed to kiss someone to replace the memory of Joshua Spring’s tongue. And I now had a car.
Four
After I polished all the windows and threw open the wooden shutters to let in the sun that was burning off the rain clouds, I stood on the steps of the hundred-year-old lighthouse, took a cigarette pack out of my pocket, and thought about the day when my friends and I would move far away from the valley, with its pastoral, old-world charm and soul-sucking tedium.
There wasn’t a drop of water to be seen: the north mountain stood between the lighthouse and the bay. Farmland stretched in all directions, across the valley and up the slopes. It was as though the lighthouse had gotten lost on its way to the ocean, or maybe took one look at the eighty miles of volcanic range blocking its path and given up. In fact, it had been brought inland from a tiny island that was eroding. Some historian types had it taken apart and moved it to this fallow plot, then put it back together again with the help of the East Riverview shop classes. I was the keeper, the only staff member, with volunteers from the heritage society filling in the gaps.
I pulled smoke deep into my weary lungs and held it for as long as I could stand it. I’d gone overboard on my morning run, the kind of workout that turns you uniformly red from the neck up, ears and all, and you’re still dewy with sweat when you get out of the shower. I was trying to run off the seven pounds that I’d gained over the summer—the corner pockets of flesh that had appeared on the insides and outsides of my thighs, which my scrawny brother was too happy to remind me about every chance he got. I was also trying to run off the sting of what Lisa had said at the Grunt, but her words ricocheted back at me with every step: cold-blooded, cold-blooded, cold-blooded. Even for you.
It hadn’t pricked at the time, but was slowly working down like a splinter, past Joshua, past all the other disappointments with all the other boys, to a more sensitive place. Because the truth was, I didn’t miss Sid and it had been worrying me. I mean, I did, but not the way I thought I would, the way you were supposed to miss someone you’d been hanging out with since seventh grade. I missed him like my favorite TV shows in the summertime. Sure, it was better when he was around, but I knew we’d be together again, and I could go a whole day, even two, without thinking about him. I didn’t say this to the others, just nodded like a robot when they talked about missing Sid and said, “So much.”
I’d called Nat from work to ask if she thought I was cold-blooded. You had to be certain you wanted the answer when you asked her about these things because she always left you a bit clenched. “You don’t do big feelings,” she’d said. “You hate ballads, sappy movies. The last time I saw you cry, you’d caught your hand in a car door.”
“I have feelings. You’re the one who always pokes me with your bony elbows if I try to hug you.”
“Yeah, but you never lose your head. You probably need to if you’re going to fall in love.” She sighed. “Anyway, that’s what I told Lisa when she called to talk about you.”
Typical.
“What did she say?”
“She said you don’t want to be a member of a club that will have you as a member. Woody Allen.”
“Woody Allen quoting Groucho Marx.”
“Point being, if Joshua didn’t like you, you’d be all over him. You just like the chase. Oh, and Bill said—she called Bill too—he said that’s true, but no one would think it was a big deal if you were a guy and we should lay the hell off.”
The closest farm stood on a ridge above the lighthouse, and through a stream of exhaled smoke, I could see a man winding his way down from it. He drifted in one direction, then the other, occasionally ducking into the tall grass. Was he searching for something or hiding from it? I scanned the fields, but the only unusual sight was him.
As I watched this silent film, I thought again about what Nat had said. Was that my thing, catch and release? Or was I too sane for love, if that’s even possible? I took another drag from my cigarette and forced myself to remember the kiss and the moments leading up to it. Maybe Lisa was right; maybe it hadn’t been so bad. Maybe I should give Joshua another— I gagged as the memory of his tongue reached the back of my throat.