When I walked in the front door carrying my clarinet case in one hand and the glockenspiel in the other, my mother was sitting in the living room, watching TV and folding laundry. She looked up with a smile on her face, then saw what I was carrying.
“What in the world is that?”
“A glockenspiel.”
“Oh, that’s what a glockenspiel is. And why do you have it?”
I hate it when my parents don’t notice my mood, or do notice and ignore it. If I’m sullen and uncommunicative and, well, acting like a sulky teenager, and they’re all happy and smiley and chatty, it just pisses me off more. But I’d learned, with her, I’d better not just blow her off, so I answered, even if I was terse. “I’m going to play it in marching band.” I had already set the thing down in the entryway. It had become heavy after carrying it only one of the couple miles I had to walk to get home from school. The second mile was a real nuisance. When I was on the football field with it, most of the weight would be carried on both my shoulders. Carrying it home, even though I had switched back and forth between what hand I was holding it with, the entire weight of the damn thing at any one time was always on just one arm and shoulder, and after walking only half way home I was wondering if I should have suggested to Mr. Tollini that I play a piccolo instead. You can hear that over everything else, too. And it weighs about what the glockenspiel mallet weighs. I couldn’t play a piccolo, but then I couldn’t play this, either.
“Why are you going to play that instead of the clarinet?” She was folding a pair of my boxers when
she asked that.
“Mom, I’ve got a lot of homework to do, I didn’t do any last night, now I had to go to band
practice tonight so will have to start late, and probably stay up late to get it all done, I’ll be beat all
day tomorrow in school and probably fall asleep in class and miss most of what the teachers say, and I don’t
have time to talk. Okay?” I didn’t wait for her to answer and just started walking toward my room. I
caught a quick glimpse of her face as I moved to the stairs. She looked pissed. And here I’d been hoping for
guilt or compassion. Well, pissed worked for me too.
“We’re going to talk, buster. Don’t think we’re all done with everything. We have several things to talk about,” she shouted after me as I made good my getaway.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said back, my voice ringing with sarcasm. Of course, it was ringing very softly; I said it way under my breath so I was sure she wouldn’t be able to hear me.
◊ ◊
The next day at school I was assigned a research paper in history, and we were all given the rest of the period in the library to start in on our topics. I’d set my stuff on a table there and was in the stacks, looking for a couple of books on the period just after the end of the American Revolutionary War. Mr. Bellands always likes us to use several sources for our papers. I think he likes to assign papers and research projects because then he can send us out of his room to work on them while he sits back with his feet on his desk and doesn’t have to teach as we go about the task he’s given us. He says he does it to prepare us for college papers we’ll have to write, but I think that’s just a sort of apology he uses to cover up his real intent. In fact, he goofs off, we do all the hard word, then he takes the papers home one night and grades them while watching TV and drinking beer. Pretty easy for him.
I’d found two books that sounded like they’d have some stuff I could use and was walking back out of that row of shelves when I heard a thud. It came from the next aisle over, and I stuck my head around the corner to see what it was. I saw Kevin standing there with one book in his hand, sort of juggling it, and another lying open on the floor. The one on the floor was a large book, and my immediate thought was, that must have been heavy.
I glanced up at Kevin’s face and saw a look of utter frustration on it. He hadn’t seen me and probably thought he was alone. Only my head was looking around the corner. While I was watching, he lost his grip on the other book he was still bobbling in his hand, and it fell to the floor, too.
“Shit!” he said, sort of under his breath. He just stood there for a moment, then reached back and kicked at the smaller book that was lying there, sending it crashing into the bottom of the rack.
After that, he moved over to where it lay, stooped down close to it and then just squatted there for a moment before picking it up. Then he grabbed it and got up and went to the other book, the larger one, stooped down again, set the book he was carrying on the floor, closed the larger one, picked up the smaller one and laid it on top of the larger one, then tried to pick up both books at once.
His hand wasn’t quite large enough to handle the thickness and weight of both books at once, and maybe he wasn’t strong enough to pick them both up either using only one hand, and it was apparent having one arm in a sling while he was stooped down was affecting his balance. He almost made it with the books, and he tried hard; I could see him gritting his teeth. But just as he had them up past his waist, just when he was about to press them into his stomach, he started to lose them. They wobbled, he fought it, but before I could even think to move to help him, the larger one slipped out of his grasp, and then they both crashed back to the floor.
“Damn!” he said this time, and louder. His face was red now. He slumped back against the shelves behind him. He was obviously upset.
I stepped around the corner and was in his aisle with him. There were just the two of us.
He saw me and immediately stood back upright again. “What do you want?” His eyes blazed at me. I could readily see he was transferring his annoyance with the books to me, but didn’t think I’d discuss that with him at the moment.
“Let me get the books for you. I’ll take them out and put them wherever you’re sitting.” I smiled tentatively at him.
He didn’t smile back. “I told you to stay away from me. I meant it. Just go away.”
“Kevin, please. I want . . .”
“I don’t give a goddamn what you want,” he said, interrupting me, hostility coloring his
voice. “Just go away. I don’t need your help.”
“But those books are too heavy for you! Come on, I’ll help.”
“Don’t you speak English? Are you hard of hearing? Go away. Goooo aaaaaa waaaaaayy!”
I just looked at him, not knowing what more to say. He stared back, then picked up just the larger book. All by itself it was a something of a problem for him, but he managed to get it up to his chest, then pressed it against that and moved his hand so it was under it. With it firmly in his control, he took two steps toward the main aisle, then stopped and turned back to me.
“Don’t you dare pick up that other book. I’m coming back for it. Just leave it there.” His face was flushed and his voice was hot.
He turned back, but I spoke before he could leave. “But why, Kevin? Why won’t you let me help?”
Without turning back to look at me, he replied. It confused me, what he said. It was the same thing he’d said right after the accident. He said it again, now. “I thought you were someone else. You aren’t. I don’t want anything to do with you. Leave me alone.” The thing was, now, he didn’t sound angry. He sounded, well, I guess he sounded defeated.
And with that, he walked to the end of the aisle we were in, turned the corner, and was gone.
I wanted to run after him, grab him, and ask him just what the hell he was talking about. It didn’t make any sense. I was the same as always. I hadn’t changed at all. He had! He’d been this smart-assed little kid always hanging around, always on my case one way or another, embarrassing me or pissing me off for no reason I could see, other than maybe his own amusement. Now he was still a little kid but he’d lost the twinkle in his eye, and his sassiness had changed to frustration and anger.
He still pissed me off, though. That hadn’t changed.
I left the other book lying on the floor. I walked to the main area of the library, out of the stacks, to where the tables were all located, with the large librarian’s desk in front by the door. Kevin was walking back toward me, having dumped the big book on one of the tables. He didn’t look at me. He just walked up to me and past. I turned to watch him. He didn’t turn to look at me, just walked to the aisle we’d been in and entered it.
I just left. I had work to do there, but I just left. I still had school, so couldn’t go home. I walked down the hall till I saw an empty classroom, then went into it and sat down at an empty desk where I couldn’t be seen from the doorway. I just sat down, then tried to figure out what I was feeling.
I wasn’t sure what it was, but it wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.
◊ ◊
I slammed the door when I came in after school. I dropped my backpack in the entryway and stormed into the kitchen. My mom was busy measuring coffee into the coffeemaker for her and Dad’s after-dinner coffee. She looked up at me and started to speak. I cut her off.
“I’m not in the mood for it! I’m just getting a drink and going up to my room.” I glared at her, as if daring her to speak.
Now you have to know my mom. I sometimes wish I did, but I sure don’t because I can’t predict what I’ll get from her, ever. And I’ve lived with her all my life! When I really wanted someone to confide in, to bring my troubles to who’d pat me on the head or squeeze me to her chest and smother me in compassion while she let me pour out my woes, what I usually got was a blistering attack about feeling sorry for myself and to suck it up and get with the program, kid. When I was feeling touchy and bristling a bit, ready to tangle with her or anyone else, likely as not that’s when she’d call me over and give me a hug. But neither of those reactions could be taken for granted. You just never knew what to expect, or what you’d get.
I didn’t want to fuss with her now. I just wanted her to leave me alone. And was giving her that message as clearly as I could.
She looked at me with that expression she gets, sort of like I’m a lab rat and she needs to get a fresh sample of testicle tissue and I’d be a good one to get it from and when better than now, and said to me, “Un uh. We’re going to talk. Get your drink and join me in my study.”
Oh no, she wasn’t getting away with that! Not now. Her study was where she analyzed all these sickos that needed shrinking badly enough they had to pay someone to do it. I’d had some conversations in that room I didn’t like to remember, and wasn’t planning to go in there today, no way Jose, not the mood I was in. I was going up to my room to deliberate on my crapola life, and lying in bed was what I’d been looking forward to since I’d been in the library today. That’s where I was going. I was going to lie down, sink my face in my pillow, and just relax and think. Maybe bad thoughts, but I was going to think them there. I needed that. I didn’t need someone analyzing my feelings or talking things through with me. So screw her. I was going upstairs.
When we’d gotten that all hashed out and I was sitting on the couch in her study, I was a little surprised
when she sat down on the couch next to me instead of behind her desk. When she had patients, she either sat down
behind her desk or took a chair next to them. I didn’t think she ever sat on the couch with them.
“Okay, Matt. What’s going on with you? You’ve been upset the past couple of days. Your dad has
heard from several of your teachers that you haven’t been applying yourself this semester. You broke down the
other night after that incident with that boy, Kevin. You’ve been speaking sharply to me or just walking
away. You wouldn’t talk to your dad this morning. You’re bothered by something or some things, and you
know I’m not going to let you get away without discussing them. That’s what we do. We’re not one
of those families where the kids go their way and the parents go theirs and the communication is limited to,
‘Pass the butter,’ and ‘Could you get me the remote while you’re up?’
“Matt, we care about you more than anything else. You know that. If you’re hurting, if you’re troubled about something, we want to know. I’ve given you some space recently, this whole semester in fact, but that isn’t working as well as I’d hoped it would. Now it’s time to talk. We, your dad and I, want to help if we can, but in any case, we need to know what’s going on. I know teens become uncommunicative with their parents, and I know why, and I certainly respect your privacy and your feelings, but I have to know what’s going on. Your dad does, too.”
She stopped then, and reached over with one arm and pulled me to her and held me. I wish she hadn’t done that. I really do. I was in a mercurial mood, brittle and unstable and touchy and out of control. She hugged me, and I started crying.
I didn’t feel like crying, I hadn’t felt like crying, I’d been upset but hadn’t felt the slightest bit like crying, and it surprised me as much as it did her. Well, I imagined it surprised her. You never could tell a damn thing about her. I read somewhere once about someone calling something an enigma wrapped in a mystery, or a mystery wrapped in an enigma or something like that. I don’t know quite what they were talking about, but I remembered the words, sort of, and felt they were appropriate: they described my mother.
I cried a while and she held me. She didn’t say anything, none of these, “There, theres,” or, “it’ll be okay, honeys” you read about, so at least I was able to retain some dignity. I finally stopped, and she got up and got me a couple Kleenexes. There were always lots of boxes of Kleenex in her office.
When she sat down after handing me the Kleenex, it was with a little space between us. I appreciated that.
“Okay,” she said, a little less assertively, settling back and getting comfortable. “I already knew you were upset, so this doesn’t change anything at all. Unless it’ll help, because perhaps you won’t try so vigorously to deny that things are bothering you now. So, Matt, what can you tell me?”
What could I tell her? That was an interesting question, something I wished I had some time to muse over. She was looking at me expectantly, however, so I knew I didn’t have time to do that.
“I haven’t really figured that out myself, Mom. That’s part of why I’m upset. I don’t really understand it myself.”
That was the truth, and as I’ve said before, it’s always best, with both my parents, to start there. And stay there, if I can. Sometimes I simply can’t, and if you’re a teenage boy you understand, but I’d learned to try.
I was sort of hoping she’d start talking again, but she didn’t. She just sat there waiting for me to go on. You can’t wait her out. God knows in the past I’d tried. It doesn’t work.
So I continued. “Mom, I don’t know why I pushed Kevin down, or why I wanted to, and that upsets me. I should know why I do things, why I’m feeling like I am, but I don’t.”
“And what are you feeling?”
Damn! I shouldn’t have said that! If I’d left out that part about the feeling, just spoken about
doing things, not having feelings about them, I might have been all right. This was treacherous ground, what I was
feeling and why. Still, I didn’t know what I was feeling or why. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to
explore this a little. I could always pull back into my hole if and when I needed to.
“That’s part of the problem. I don’t understand. Kevin had been bugging me, hanging around when I
didn’t want him to, and I hated it, but then, I didn’t, too. I sort of liked him there, and I
shouldn’t have. I mean I didn’t like him there. It was embarrassing, and I didn’t want anyone
else to see it. And he always looked at me with this sort of glint in his eyes that I never understood and it made
me uncomfortable. I think I was frustrated when I pushed him, though why or what I was frustrated about, I
haven’t a clue.
“And now, the past couple of days, I’ve been trying to help him and he won’t let me. And part of what upsets me, a lot, is that he doesn’t look at me the same way any more. He’s mad at me, or maybe something else too, something I don’t quite get, and his eyes sure aren’t sparkling like they used to.”
“Whoa! You’ve been trying to help him? The other night, you were all worked up about not wanting to help him, and what other kids would think if you did that. Now, you’re helping him? When did this happen? And what about all the fuss you were making about being embarrassed if anyone saw you helping him?”
“See, Mom? I told you, I don’t understand any more than you do. Yeah, I was upset that he’d page me and I’d have to run and help him, and everyone would get on me for that. But he didn’t. He hasn’t. He won’t. He hates me. I’ve tried to help him, and he hates me. I tried to help him in the cafeteria yesterday, and in the library today. He needed help, but he wouldn’t let me. And I want to, Mom! He’s so helpless, and his whole personality has changed, and it’s because of me and it’s tearing me up!”
Well, I didn’t mean to spill it all out like that. It was sort of like those dams bursting you see on TV and all. That was me. I got started and couldn’t quite stop.
She didn’t say anything. She was looking at me, then at the office, then back at me. And I suddenly had this awful feeling that while I didn’t understand any of this, she did. And while I didn’t understand quite why that should worry me, it did.
“Mom?”
“Matt, I’m very happy you’re trying to help him. That tells me something about you, something I already knew, but I’m glad anyway. Have you spoken to him at all? Have you told him you’re sorry and that you want to help? You haven’t just barged in, have you?”
“No, I’ve tried to talk to him. He won’t talk to me either. About all he says is to stay away from him. I even asked him why. He doesn’t want to talk to me, Mom.”
There had to be something in my voice when I said that, because after looking at me pensively for a moment, she did another of those looking around the office things then rather than simply answering me. Finally, though, she looked right at me again and said, “He sounds like he might be mad at you for hurting him, and this is the way he shows it. Do you think that might be true?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know! I wish I did. But I don’t think that’s it. It doesn’t seem like that. He sounded angry today, but then he didn’t. I don’t understand him, or what he’s feeling. He needs help, Mom, and he won’t take it from me, and I feel responsible for it. I wish there were something I could do for him. I think I’d feel better if I could.”
She smiled then, and patted my leg, and told me I could go upstairs now if I wanted to, and she’d think about this a little and get back to me. That’s what she said. She’d get back to me.
◊ ◊
Man, did I not want to do this. I hated this. I hated it bad. Real, real bad. I didn’t want to be here. This was wrong. Very wrong. What was my mother thinking?
I’d about decided not to call her Mom any more. Doing this, well, actually, making me do this, she was acting like a mother now, not a mom. Maybe even a stepmother. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you? They’re those people who always have adjectives in front of their names, words that sort of cling there like part of the name, like they’re part of the word. Wicked or evil. Those were two of the adjectives. Wicked stepmother. Evil stepmother. That’s what my mother was acting like.
She’d got back to me all right, just like she’d said she would. I’d gone upstairs and laid down. I’d even fallen asleep for a while. My body was acting just as strangely as my brain these days. Nothing was quite right any more. But I woke up, and lay there thinking. That didn’t help much, so I fooled around with some homework, practiced some on the glockenspiel, went down into the basement and lifted weights a while, and then was practicing my clarinet when I was called to dinner.
It was at dinner that Mother dropped her bombshell. When she “got back to me.”
“Matt, I’ve thought about this, and I think I know something that would probably help. It might not seem like helping, right away, but I think it will.”
She smiled at me. How devious is that? Smiled, for God’s sake!
I looked at her questioningly, and she went on. “Looking at this situation in perspective, you hurt Kevin, sort of accidentally on purpose. He’s gone through some sort of personality upheaval because of that. You’ve made a couple honest attempts to make it up to him, and have been rejected. Am I right so far?”
“Yeah, that’s just what’s going on.”
“All right. Well, here’s what you’re going to do.”
Now stop right there for a minute. Note that she didn’t say, “Here’s what I think you should do,” or, “maybe you should consider doing this,” or even, “what would you think about doing this?” No, it was, “Here’s what you’re going to do.” She hadn’t even said what it was yet and my back was up like an angry cat’s and I was already thinking up reasons not to do it.
“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going go talk to his parents. Since the time when you’re most able to do that is after school, it’s quite likely only his mother will be home. It would be better if you could talk to his father, too, but he may not be home. You don’t think you’d like to wait for him, do you?”
“No! I’m not even going to talk to his mother!”
She was undeterred. I’d told her no before on other occasions. Never with much success.
“When you talk to his mother, I think you should apologize for accidentally hurting him. I don’t think you need to tell her you were trying to knock him down, unless you think you should. It might be better for your conscience if you did tell her that, but I’ll leave that up to you. But you should apologize, and then tell her you’re worried about Kevin, and tell her how he’s changed. She’ll probably invite you in at that point, and you can sit down and talk with her.
“What you want to happen from all this is probably what in fact will happen. She’ll probably tell Kevin to let you help him. She’s probably noticed the changes in him you’ve noticed, she’s probably concerned, and if you tell her about the problems he’s facing, about his frustrations, and your willingness to help, I think she’ll try to get him to let you. In any case, you’ll be talking about Kevin and the troubles he’s having, and that should make you feel better.
“And that’s what you want. So, tomorrow, you can go over to her house after school. It doesn’t make any difference if he’s there or not. It might be better if he is, though it would probably make the meeting more embarrassing. But you should be able to deal with a little embarrassment. You’re sixteen.”
After that, as you might imagine, things got a little hot at the dinner table. I was supposed to go to Kevin’s house? I was supposed to talk to his mother? Tell her I’d knocked her son down, bruised his face, broken his wrist? My God!
So I refused, and the talking began. Not shouting. I wasn’t allowed that luxury. I’d tried that once or twice when I was ten. I didn’t try it any more. But we talked, and I made myself very, very clear. This was simply out of the question, a non-starter from the get go.
Man, did I not want to do this. I hated this. I hated it bad. Really really bad. I didn’t want to be here. This was wrong. Very wrong. What was my mother thinking?.
I knocked on the door. I was sure this was Kevin’s house. Actually, without knowing it, I’d passed it every morning when going to school, either being driven, riding my bike or walking. I’d never seen Kevin in all those times, but freshmen come in a half hour earlier than the rest of us, and get out earlier too, so they won’t have as much contact with upper classmen as they would if all our schedules coincided. But this was his house all right. I’d looked it up in the school directory.
There was a short wait, and then a pleasant looking woman about my mother’s age opened the door and said, “Hi, are you looking for Kevin?”
“No, ma’am. Actually I was wanting to talk to you. About Kevin.”
“About Kevin? Who are you?” She smiled at me.
“I’m Matt. Matt Tucker. I’m the one that caused him to get hurt in gym.”
The pleasant smile on her face slowly changed into a puzzled frown. She smoothed her skirt unconsciously, then smiled again, but it was a confused smile. I had no idea what she was going to say then, and even thought she might say something rude, or just close the door, but instead she surprised me by introducing herself to me as Mrs. Ingram and asked if I’d like to come inside.
“Yes, that might be easier than talking out here. Thank you, ma’am.”
We walked into the house, and she took me into the living room. I sat down on the couch, and she took a chair that was set at a right angle to it. As soon as we sat down, she said, “I don’t understand. Kevin told me he was running in the hall at school, looking back over his shoulder when he thought he heard his name being called, and accidentally bumped into another kid, he’s not even sure who, and he fell, hurting his wrist and sliding on the floor on his face. That the nurse looked at him, and she decided he probably should get X-rays. The vice-principal called me, I went to the hospital and they treated him. That’s what happened. That’s what he told me happened. Are you telling me that isn’t right?”
Wow. This was news to me. I wondered why Kevin hadn’t told his mom what had really occurred.
“No, that’s not entirely true, Mrs. Ingram. He got hurt in gym class. We were playing Duck Duck Goose. He tagged me and I was chasing him. I went to tag him and somehow ended up pushing him instead and he fell on his wrist and face.”
Mrs. Ingram looked at me uncertainly. She thought for a minute, then said, “Well, Matt, thank you for telling me. I’ll ask Kevin about this when he comes home. He’s over at his friend’s house right now. But let me ask, just why did you come over to tell me this?”
“I wanted to apologize to you, ma’am, for hurting him. I feel awful about it.” I looked down at the floor. I could have stopped there; I’d already lived up to the letter of what my mother wanted me to do if not the spirit. But I realized there was an opportunity for me here, if I just had the gumption to take it. I realized I wanted to do that. Damn my mother; she’d been right.
Looking up at Mrs. Ingram, I continued, saying what I wanted to say. “I also wanted to tell you that I’ve been trying to help him at school. He needs help sometimes. Some things are hard to do one-handed. He tries, but gets frustrated. Not only frustrated, but angry, too. The accident seems to have changed him a little. I want to help him. I’ve tried to help him a couple times. He tells me to go away.”
I paused, my feelings about this still biting at me, still bothering me. Then I said, “Mrs. Ingram, I just wanted you to know about this, and thought maybe you could talk to him about letting me help. I’d feel better about the whole thing if I could help him, and he’d be better off, too. He wouldn’t need to get so frustrated or angry, and he’d get the help he sometimes needs, and I wouldn’t feel quite so guilty. If he’d let me help, we’d both benefit from it.”
She frowned at me then. “Matt, this doesn’t make much sense to me. You’re telling me he’s frustrated at school, and even that this has changed him? Well, I haven’t seen any of that. He’s still the same happy boy he’s always been. If he needs help with anything because of his arm, he lets me help without any problem or resistance at all. I haven’t seen any sign of frustration and certainly no anger, or anything else.”
That surprised me. The difference in his personality was as clear as the difference in night and day to me. I didn’t see how she could help but have seen it. “I’ve noticed a difference in him, Mrs. Ingram. As I said, we have gym together. I got to know him just a little in there. He doesn’t seem the same to me since the accident. Something’s bothering him, and it bothers me, too, since I’m the one that caused him to fall.”
She didn’t reply to that, just thought. Then she said, “Can you stay a few minutes, Matt?”
“For a few minutes, sure. Then I have to get home. I have dinner and band practice.”
“Good. I’ll get you something to drink. But first, I want to call Kevin and have him come home. We can all talk.”