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CHAPTER FIVE

The last day of school came. Couldn’t believe it. Anticipation ran through me. Freedom. And Debbie Burnside.

            I sat with her at lunch. We held hands under the table. Something romantic about eating a baloney sandwich with one hand. It was the best last day of school I ever had.

            For the ninth-grade commencement that night, our choir sang “Born Free” and “The Impossible Dream.” We wore purple robes and gold sashes. There was no breeze, and the sun was still high and hot at 6 o’clock. We were all sweating pretty bad. Most of the 40 or 50 graduates were bored silly, making faces at us. During the first song there was a pause after the first line of the chorus, Born free..., and one of them sang, “Daddy’s a doctor!” Those smart enough to get it, laughed. Some of the parents thought it was cute. But it screwed us up. The tenors hesitated. The sopranos jumped a beat. The basses snickered. I’m proud to say the altos stayed groovy, didn’t miss a beat and pulled the rest of them back into it by the next measure.

            After singing, we returned to our seats beside the band at the rear of the gymnasium. I had no intention of sitting through the commencement. I nudged Debbie. “Let’s go,” I whispered, as the Principal introduced the Valedictorian. “Let’s get out of here,” I said and tugged on the front of my robe to let air down the front of it.

            Debbie hesitated, leaned forward. Miss Roberts sat at the end of our row, hands folded in her lap, head cocked to one side as she listened to the Valedictorian begin to say something about the future of the universe.

            “She’ll see us.”

            “So? We don’t have to sit here. School’s over.”

            Debbie thought about it. “My parents’ll be here at seven.”

            “Gives us an hour.”

            She hesitated, and then stood. I got up and led the way, squeezing past the rest of the altos. Some of  them “oohed” and “aaahed.”   I waited for Debbie at the end of the aisle, while Miss Roberts watched me. Debbie’s parents had nixed the singing tour, so I told her my Dad wouldn’t let me go. It was a lie; Dad hadn’t brought up Haiti again. Debbie and I had the whole summer together.

            Up in the air-conditioned choir room, we hung up our robes in the big walk-in closet. The sweat cooled on my face and body the instant the robe was off. Debbie suddenly turned from the rack of spare robes, threw her arms around my neck and looked into my eyes. I put my hands on her waist.

            “Close the door,” she said.

            I closed it with my foot, never taking my eyes off hers. What was I going to do? This was a closet. No lock on the door. No experience at making out. Do I kiss her or does she kiss me? Eyes closed or open? To tongue or not to tongue, that was the question.

            Her mouth parted as she came nearer to my face. I kept my eyes open until hers closed, then I closed mine. Our mouths missed. Hers got my chin, mine smooched her nose. Our eyes opened. My lips found her lips. We closed our eyes. This was harder than I thought it would be. Since I thought there was more kissing in the dark than anywhere else, I guessed it was best to learn to do it with your eyes closed. But I thought that watching what I was doing also made sense, realizing that the more senses I used, the more exciting things were. Try holding your nose and eating a great meal.  There’s practically no taste.

            I’m thinking about holding my nose and Debbie’s tongue slipped through my lips and did a wet tumble in my mouth. She tasted like gum. All I could think about was: What do I taste like? Not the grilled cheese I had for dinner, I hope, or the French fries and catsup. Wish I’d brushed my teeth.

            The kiss lasted a long time. I started to relax. My hands pulled her closer to me. Her hands slid off my shoulders, followed the sides down to my butt. There, her hands stopped, gripped. My buddy down below got into the act, and I figured Debbie could feel him separating us.

            I stopped kissing her. “We better stop,” I said.

            “Stop what?”

            “This.”

            She glanced down at my buddy. Her breath came fast. She gulped air, swallowed hard. When I was done noticing her reaction, I noticed my own. I was panting, sweating. The cool closet was getting warmer.

            “Maybe we should.”

            “You’re beautiful,” I said. “Drive me crazy.”

            “Do I?”

            I nodded. “Can I ask you something?”

            She put her arms around me. “Anything.”

            Her dark brown eyes barely showed from under her eyelids. Was this what happened when girls got excited? Their eyes go droopy? If so, it sure worked.

            “Are you...have you ever....?”

            “What do you think?”

            I was smart enough not to answer that one. I shrugged.

            She shook her head. “What about you?”

            I shook my head, glanced down at her breasts, which were pretty developed for her age, pressing against me, exciting me again. She noticed me looking, stepped back slightly. Then she took my hand, staring into my eyes, slid it up the outside of her blouse to her breast.

            Trumpets blared!  It felt wonderfully soft—and spongy. Not at all what I expected. Looked like it would feel like fat. I massaged her breast lightly and kissed her again, our mouths slopping back and forth, hands groping breasts and butts and...and without warning, Debbie’s hand found my buddy and gave him a soft squeeze.

            Trumpets blared again!  And again!  And again!  It was the school band playing a march for the graduating class. Which meant the commencement was over!  Which meant—

            The closet door opened. Our heads snapped around.

            “Well, well, well,” Miss Roberts said. She fanned herself. “Love is in the air, boys and girls.”

* * *

            I was glad she caught us. Debbie wasn’t, though; she was very embarrassed. She quickly said goodbye to Miss Roberts, who said goodbye back and held onto my shirt long enough at the door to whisper: “Look forward to seeing more of you in the fall.”

            Once out the door, her words struck me. More of you. What did she mean? More of you. Was it innocent? Or did she mean what I thought she meant? All I could think was, That’s fine and dandy, but I hope I grow some pubic hair over the summer.

            My Dad was waiting in front of the school in his Mustang. Debbie thought it was a cool car. I introduced her to Dad. He said all the right things and didn’t embarrass me like Mom might have done. Dad knew what a guy needed in this kind of situation. A guy needed to be treated like a man, not a boy.

            “Excuse me,” a voice said. It was Miss Roberts.

            “Dad, this is Miss Roberts, my choir teacher.”

            Dad leaned over and shook her hand. “Glad to meet you.”

            “Glad to meet you, too, reverend.”

            “Please, just John.”

            Miss Roberts was bent over, hands on her thighs looking through the passenger door. Dad’s eyes dropped for a moment. He tried to be quick about his pass at her cleavage, but I noticed it, so I knew Miss Roberts did.

            “I’m sorry Matthew can’t join us this summer.”

            Uh-oh.

            “Can’t join you where?”

            “The tour.”

            “Dad, you know? The tour that costs a hundred bucks.”

            I bulged my eyes at him, hoping he’d catch on.

            “Oh, yes, yes. Yes, we’re sorry, too. Matt has to take care of his brothers this summer. In fact, we won’t be here.”

            “Going on vacation?”

            “Missionary work, actually.”

            Boy, I thought, he’s really making it sound good.

            “Well, well. How exciting,” Miss Roberts said, leaning over more. “Where’re you going?”

            “Haiti.”

            When Dad said that, I got a sick feeling in my stomach.

            “How exciting, Matthew!  That’s wonderful!  You’ll have to tell me all about it in the fall.”

            I nodded, turned to Debbie. She had a sick look on her face. Dad said goodbye to Miss Roberts, and she walked back to her car in the teacher’s lot. I took Debbie aside so Dad couldn’t hear.

            “Can I call you?” I said to her.

            “Are there phones in Haiti?”

            “He was just saying that.”

            “He’s a preacher. Why would he lie?”

            “For me. For Miss Roberts’ sake.”

            She glanced at the car and back. “Honest?”

            “Honest.”

            “‘Cause if you go away this summer, I’m not just going to sit around the house, you know. I’ll go to the beach with...you know, other guys.”

            I tried not to show any worry. But I’ll admit, I don’t think I had ever been so worried about anything as I was about her laying on the beach in her bathing suit with some surfer’s eyes and hands all over her body. The sick feeling in my stomach rose in my throat. I thought I was going to throw up.

            “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

            The little pout on her lips was adorable. She had me. One hundred percent. But what if Dad was telling the truth? What if I was going to Haiti?

            “Pretty girl,” Dad said when I got in the car.

            “I know. We’re going to the beach this summer.” Dad glanced at me. He knew what I meant. “You weren’t telling the truth about Haiti. Tell me you were fibbing, Dad. Please.”

            Dad cleared his throat. My heart stopped between beats.

            “Thou shalt not bear false witness,” Dad said.

            “That means?”

            Dad patted my leg. “Means I didn’t lie.”

            “Dad, you can’t do this to me. I don’t want to go. You don’t understand what’s going on, Dad. I have plans. I have to take Debbie to the beach. I can stay. Mom can come home. Give her a couple of weeks; I’m sure she’ll be ready to come home.”

            At the stop light, Dad turned to me, looked at me a long time. Then he patted my leg again and said:

            “I know how you feel. I remember when I got my first girlfriend. It’s terrific. But she’ll still be here when you get back.”

            “No, Dad, you don’t understand. If I leave, I lose her. She’ll get another guy.”

            “If she’s willing to just get another boyfriend—like boyfriends are shoes—”

            “She will. I can’t go.”

            “Son. You have to go.”

            “But Mom’ll come home and—”

            “Mom isn’t coming home for awhile, Matt, and besides—”

            “By the time you’re ready to go, she’ll be better, she’ll be ready to come home!  Maybe if we visit more she’ll get better!  Maybe she just needs us to be around!  I can put up with anything she dishes out!  I’m fourteen!  It’s no big deal anymore!  Honest, Dad.”

            Dad opened the glove compartment, reached in, took out an envelope and handed it to me. West Valley Travel it read. I opened it. Airline tickets. “You boys’ passports will be ready by Tuesday. We leave Wednesday.”

            I couldn’t think of anything to say. I stared at him. For the first time in my life, I hated my Dad. I felt like I’d lost my best friend and my girlfriend in a blink of an eye. But I didn’t blink. I stared at him. He turned to me. His hand reached out to pat my leg. I jerked it away.

* * *

            Mark and Lukey screamed and whooped. Lukey jumped up and down on the couch and Dad made him get down, but he couldn’t hold it in and ran around the house like a banshee.

            “I don’t believe it!” he screamed. “I don’t believe it!  We’re going to Hades, we’re going to Hades!”

            “Haiti,” Mark corrected. “Haiti.”

            Lukey stopped in the hall. “What’s Haiti?”

            “Where we’re going, stupid.”

            “Is it really an island?”

            “Yep.”

            “Like a treasure island?”

            “Maybe.”

            I closed my bedroom door. I didn’t want to listen to all this happiness and joy when I was feeling sad and lousy. What I wanted to do was cry. But I was fourteen—too old to cry—so I laid there thinking of Debbie. Her face, her hair. Her spongy breasts. Something had to be done. And quick. But what?

* * *

            “Hi, Mom. It’s Matthew.”

            “Oh, it’s so nice to hear your voice.”

            “I know, Mom. I like hearing your’s, too.”

            Her voice changed. “You are coming to visit tomorrow?”

            “Oh, yeah, sure.”

            She sighed. “Good. I always look forward to Tuesdays and Saturdays. You boys are all I have, you know. You’re what keep me going in here. You boys are everything to me. I don’t know how I’d get better if I didn’t have you boys.”

            “I know, Mom. We love you, too.”

            The pause lasted too long. She was wondering why I was calling. I’d never called her at the hospital before. I decided I shouldn’t screw around and make up some story and work into why I called. I thought I better be straight with her. That’s what I thought. But the Devil thought something different.

            “Mom, are you feeling better?”

            “Much better, son.”

            “We need you here, Mom. Dad’s doing a great job and everything, but he doesn’t know how to do all the things you do. You know, the cooking and cleaning and ironing.”

            “Your Dad’s doing the best he can, so you be patient with him.”

            “We are, Mom. But...but it’s just different. It’s...it’s like...not a family anymore.”

            “That’s sweet. And I know it’s hard for you boys. It’s hard on all of us. But it won’t always be like this.”

            “What can they do for you there that we can’t do for you here?”

            “It’s complicated.”

            I dug down and pulled out a little guilt in my voice. Guilt was something Mom understood.

            “You’re in there because of us, aren’t you? It’s because of us you’re sick.”

            “No, Matty, no. Not at all. Why do you think that?”

            “Otherwise you’d come home. You’ve been there for weeks, Mom. On Tuesday, you were the same as when you were home.” As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t.

            “Now, that’s not true. That’s not true and you don’t know what you’re talking about, Matthew, because I’m not anything like when I first came in here, not even a little. This place saved my life.”

            “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, trying to move away from the heavy stuff and back to where the Devil could do some good. “I meant you’re our Mom. You were Mom before you went in and you’re Mom now and you’ll be Mom when you get out of there and we need you to come home. We can help you get better. We’ll do the work.” The Devil grabbed my attention, gave me a great suggestion. “Mom, you could stay home and visit the hospital any time you want.”

            When she didn’t answer back, my hopes got bigger and bigger. She was thinking about it. It was a great idea.

            “I’ll think about it,” she said. Her tone of voice was flat, without expression. I wondered if she thought I was up to something. I couldn’t tell without seeing her face. Her face would give her away.

            “Put your Dad on,” she said. “I love you, Matty.”

            “Love you, too, Mom. Hold on.”

            I called Dad to the phone. He picked it up in his office.

            “You can hang up,” he said to me. I pushed down the buttons. The Devil said I should slowly let them up again and put my hand over the mouthpiece. He’d come up with some pretty good ideas so far, so I listened.

            “He’s practically begging me to come home, John.”

            “Rebecca, it’s not what you think.” He sighed into the phone. “I was going to tell you tomorrow, but...well, I’ll tell you now. It’s final. We fly to Miami and Friday afternoon we’ll be in Port-au-Prince.”

            “And you’re taking the boys.”

            “And I’m taking the boys, yes. What am I supposed to do?”

            “Tell them you can’t go.”

            “Rebecca, I can go. I must go. He’s commanded me to go.”

            “Who has?”

            “The Lord, Rebecca.”

            “Did He say when?”

            “Not in so many words, but they need me there now.”

            “And what about me?”

            “When you get better, I’ll send the boys home.”

            “No, John. I said: ‘What about me?’”
            “We’ll call you. We’ll write you.”

            “But I won’t see you!” she suddenly cried. “You’re taking my boys away from me!  This isn’t right!” She wept. I hung up.