“Better than last night.”
“Well, I can agree on that,” I say.
“That’s a start,” he says, breaking character. “That’s a start.”
I force a smile, but it’s awkward and Walt knows it.
Am I better than last night?
I dunno.
But I don’t feel angry anymore.
“You going to school today?” Walt says, just before the silence gets strange.
“I’m thinking I’ll take the day off. And I have to go home now. I haven’t been home since yesterday. I need a shower,” I say, even though I don’t really give a shit about taking a shower. “Movie later tonight?”
He flips open his Zippo with his thumb—making that scrappy clink noise—lights up a cigarette, takes a pull, and exhales his smoky words. “Sounds like the start of a beautiful friendship, Leonard. It really does.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid.”
He smiles in this really good, honest way—better than Bogie even.
I take it in and, when our smiling at each other starts to feel too awkward, I turn and walk away.
“Leonard?”
I spin around to face Walt.
“I’m glad you visited me this morning.”
As he blows another lungful of smoke at the ceiling, his eyes twinkle under his Bogart hat brighter than the orange cherry on his Pall Mall, and I get the sense that even though we just watch old Bogart movies together and never really talk about anything but Bogie-related topics, maybe Walt knows me better than anyone else in the world, as strange as that sounds. Maybe we’ve been communicating effectively through Bogart-related quotes all along. Maybe I’m better than I thought when it comes to communication, at least with people like Walt.
And maybe there are other people like Walt out there—waiting for me to find them.
Maybe.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The kitchen mirror in my house is still in pieces, so when I look into the sink a million little jagged minnows return my stare.
I open the fridge and see my hair wrapped in pink paper, and I think, What the fuck? and Who was I yesterday? and What the fuck? again.
I should clean it all up, but I simply don’t have the strength.
It’s so much easier to shut the refrigerator door, which is totally a metaphor, I realize, for my life.
Maybe I want Linda to find the wrapped-up hair and see it all—how horrible I was yesterday.
What a shitty birthday I had.
That she forgot she gave birth to me eighteen years ago.
That she is the worst mother in the world.
How much help I need.
But Linda probably wouldn’t make the connection even if she found my hair wrapped in pink paper. She’d probably think I cut my hair as a present for her.
I make my way upstairs to my bedroom.
When I empty my pockets I realize that my cell phone ran out of power some point after I left Herr Silverman’s apartment, so I plug it in.
After it loads up, the you-have-messages signal buzzes.
There’s a voice mail from Linda, who says, “What did you tell your teacher about me? What’s going on? What is it this time? I’m in the back of a car on my way home instead of attending the several extremely important meetings I had planned. What the hell is going—”
I delete before she can finish.
Then there’s a message from Herr Silverman and his voice sounds different, sort of pissed. “Leonard? Why did you leave? Where did you go? I’m worried about you. I took a risk last night and I have to say I’m disappointed in you. You shouldn’t have left. You’ve put me in an awkward position, because I promised your mother that—”
For some reason I delete him too.
Then I feel guilty and call him back, even though he’s probably in school by now, because it’s later than I thought.
The phone rings and rings and finally I get his voice mail.
“It’s me. Leonard Peacock. Thanks for coming to the bridge last night. That was really cool . . . necessary, even. I’m sorry I got you in trouble with your partner. I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole. I’m going to do the work. Don’t worry about me. I just had a bad night. I’ll be okay. But I’m taking a day off. I just had to leave this morning. Just got the urge to move. Had to greet the day, if you know what I mean. I hope your partner didn’t think I was rude. I won’t tell anyone that you’re gay. I don’t care that you’re gay. It doesn’t matter to me. That was probably a stupid thing to say, right? Because why should I care? I’d never say I don’t care that you’re black to a person of color. I’m an asshole. Sorry. Just forget about that part. See you Monday. Thanks again. And don’t worry about me! There’s nothing to worry about anymore. Nothing.” Then I just sort of hold the phone to my ear without hanging up. I listen to silence for a minute, thinking that all of what I said was just plain idiotic, and then there is a beep and this robot woman comes on and asks if I’m satisfied with my message. I don’t have the strength to answer that honestly, let alone record another, so I just hang up.
It’s so quiet in my room that I wonder if this is what being dead sounds like.
I hear Linda key into the front door and then she’s yelling, “Leo? Leo, are you here? Why didn’t you call me back?”
I hate her.
I hate her so much.
She’s so stupid it’s almost comical.
She’s such a caricature.
Such a nonperson.
What type of mother forgets her son’s eighteenth birthday?
What type of mother ignores so many warning signs?
It’s almost impossible to believe she exists.
I hear her high heels click across the hardwood floor and then I hear silence as she stops by the hallway mirror to check her makeup. No matter what Herr Silverman told her, no matter how much he sugarcoated it, whatever he said was enough to get her to drive all the way here from New York City. So you’d think she’d run up the stairs to make sure I’m okay, right? Like any rational, caring mother would. Like any HUMAN would. But you’d be wrong.
Linda can’t pass a mirror without pausing because she’s addicted to mirrors, so don’t judge her too harshly. She has issues. It doesn’t even piss me off, because that’s just Linda. I could be on fire, screaming my head off, and she’d still have to pause in front of the mirror to check her makeup before she could extinguish me. That’s my mom.
More clicking of high heels and then she’s walking up the steps, which has a runner of carpet so no clicking.
“Leo?” she says joyfully, like she’s singing, and I wonder if she’s singing because she’s hoping I’m not here—like maybe she hopes I offed myself and she’ll never have to deal with me again. “Leo, where are you?”
More clicking as she walks down the hallway, then silence as she crosses the Oriental runner that leads to my bedroom.
“Leo?” she says, and then knocks.
I stare at the door so hard, thinking of how justified I’d be if I just went off on her, listing all the ways that she’s failed me, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.
“Leo?” Linda says. “I hope you are decent. I’m coming in.”
She pushes the door open and there she is in my bedroom doorframe. She’s wearing a white jacket with some sort of fur collar—it looks like mink. Her hair is perfect as always. She’s got on a knee-length bright green wool skirt—classy and age-appropriate—and white heels. She looks amazing, as always. And it makes me laugh because her appearance suggests she’d have the perfect son—like she lives a perfect life and therefore has all the time in the world to make herself into a masterpiece of high fashion every day. People see Linda and they admire her. It’s true. You would too, if you saw her. And that’s her power.