She chuckled. “Okay, sure. I’ll stay far away from David Copperfield.”
She returned to her food, and I put the string beans in a serving bowl.
“So, you like the cooking class?”
“Love it.”
“And you’re not mad at Dad anymore?”
She stirred her simmering sauce a bit. “I wasn’t really mad at him.” She added chicken pieces to the pan—enough to feed the whole family. “I always knew your father was a better cook than me. But this kitchen was my place. I know it’s old-fashioned, but I chose it. Your aunt Mona, I don’t think she ever cooked a meal in her life. She wanted a career. Good for her—I’ve got no problem with that. But sometimes you get a career and then you suddenly realize you don’t have a life. Or if you stay at home with your family, you suddenly realize that your life is actually everyone else’s life, not your own. Either way, when you got all your eggs in one basket, the basket gets heavy. Maybe the eggs start to break.”
“So get yourself a few more baskets,” I said. “Spread ’em out.” And then I realized that’s exactly what she was doing. That’s why she was taking classes. That’s why she was getting a job. It was all about spreading out those eggs. She had to feel she had a place in her own life, or else maybe she thought she’d disappear somehow, too. Maybe not all at once like the Schwa’s mom, but a little bit every day.
The changes she was making scared me a little, though. I guess because I knew she’d be meeting new people, and I wondered if maybe those new people might be more interesting than the Vice-Vice-President of Product Development for Pisher Plastics.
“So how about the first basket?” I asked. “You think that first basket that held the eggs will be okay? I mean, you wouldn’t throw it away, right?”
She chuckled again. “When have you ever known me to throw anything away?”
I hugged her. It had been such a long time since I had really hugged her, it felt weird. Used to be I would disappear into her when she hugged me; now it was almost the other way around.
“You’re a good boy, Anthony,” she told me. “No matter what anybody says.”
16. A Late-Night Trip to the Land of Beef That Could Turn a Person into a Vegetarian
The Schwa was fading, no question about it, and it started to hit me that maybe he was right. Maybe he would sift deeper and deeper through everyone’s mind until he just dropped right out the bottom and vanished completely. I noticed him less and less in class, and when it did occur to me to look for him, I always freaked out until I located him in the classroom. It kept getting harder to remind myself to remember him. It’s like my mind was a sieve, and not its usual sieve, because there were some things I was very good at remembering, like faces, or names, or sports stats. But the Schwa, he was like history. He was like trying to remember Lewis and Clark, and Manifest Destiny—both of which I had to do oral reports on, and if you’ve ever had to do an oral report, you probably know how they make you dress up like whoever you’re doing the report on, but how was I supposed to dress up like Manifest Destiny? I got marked down because I wore jeans and a T-shirt—even though I argued that Levi Strauss was making jeans during the westward expansion, and that’s why they call them Levi’s—but what was I talking about? Oh, right. So now I had to wonder whether some kind of destiny was manifesting itself on the Schwa.
It had been a week since Lexie and I had set out on our less-than-successful attempt to track down what really happened to his mother. The Schwa still hadn’t given me any hints as to what ammunition he was going to use in his one-man war to un-Schwa himself and be noticed in a major way. I was worried about him. Really worried.
It was Tuesday. Crawley was between nurses—they never lasted in his company for more than a few days. It had become a game with him to see how quickly he could send them packing. A new, unsuspecting home-care victim was due that night, but since Lexie had an afternoon meeting of the 4-S Club, I figured I’d hang out with Crawley after I walked the dogs so he wouldn’t be alone. I brought him over some stuffed focaccia my dad made to go with Mom’s veau Marseille last night.
As I brought back the last of the dogs, I caught him in a rare moment. He was petting Charity, and talking to her gently, lovingly saying all those sweet, stupid things we say to pets when we think no one’s looking. He caught me watching him and abruptly stopped.
“Don’t you have some dogs to walk?”
“All done.”
“Then why are you still here? It’s not payday.”
I shrugged. “I thought I’d wait until the new nurse got here. Maybe eat some of my dad’s focaccia.”
“It’s gone.”
“You ate it all?”
“It was too good for you anyway,” he said. “You’d just wolf it down without tasting it.”
“Maybe we should call you Gluttony,” I said. At that, Gluttony came over to me, hope in his eyes.
He laughed. “Now he’s your problem.”
I decided to take a chance. I had seen a moment of tenderness rise to the surface a few moments ago. I thought that maybe I might be able to ask Crawley something and actually get a thoughtful answer.
“Do you remember him?” I asked.
“Remember who?”
“The Schwa.”
“Why would I want to?”
“Because,” I told him, “I really think he’s starting to disappear.
Crawley just stared at me coldly. I sighed.
“Forget it,” I said. “You probably think I’m an idiot.”
“That’s beside the point,” he said. Then he stood up out of his wheelchair and grabbed a cane that was leaning against the wall. I had never seen him get up from his wheelchair before. It was like watching one of those faith healings. Crawley strode toward me slowly, holding the cane tightly. He was taller than I realized. He took about five or six steps, then stopped right in front of me.
“I don’t recall his face,” Crawley said. “But I do remember him being here.”
He took one more step, and then had me help him sit on the sofa.
“I didn’t know you could walk.”
“As I said when you so rudely broke into my home two months ago, the wheelchair is only temporary.” He got himself comfortable on the sofa, and I sat in the plush chair across from him.
“I’m sure you think it’s a miracle that I can walk,” he said. “Well, I believe we make our own miracles.” He leaned his cane gently against the edge of the sofa. “I also believe we make our own disasters. If your friend is disappearing, as you say, then he’s doing it to himself.”
A pack of Afghans frolicked past, knocking down the cane. I picked it up and gave it to him again. “He’s trying not to. He’s trying to be visible.”
“Then he’s not trying the right way. The universe has no sympathy, and we’re never rewarded for doing things the improper way.” Prudence came over for attention, and Crawley began to scratch her behind the neck. “If your friend continues on his path of self-destructive anonymity, you should minimize your own losses. Cut him loose. Forget about him.”
“He’s my friend.”
“Spare me your sentimentality,” said Crawley. “Friends can be replaced.”
“No, they can’t!”
Instead of answering me right away, he looked down at the dog, which was so utterly content to have a fraction of his attention. “Four years ago,” he said, “Prudence was hit by a car and killed.”
He said it so bluntly, the news actually made me gasp.
“So,” he continued, “I fired my dog walker, and I contacted a breeder. Prudence was replaced within three weeks, and life went on. As I said, friends can be replaced.”