Tiger Eyes (12 page)

Jane’s face is red and she is laughing and slobbering all over the place. I don’t like to see my friends drunk. Lenaya once said that if I drank myself I wouldn’t feel so uncomfortable. But I don’t like the way I feel when I drink, and I don’t like the way I feel after, either. I once drank beer until I got sick and I hated it.

When we go back outside Jane begins to sing and she spins around and around in the parking lot, her arms open wide, like a whirling dervish. I can’t believe that this is my friend, Jane, who seems shy and innocent and scared of the world.

“It’s freezing,” Ted says. “Let’s warm up in a car.”

“What car?” I ask.

“Any car,” Ted says, looking around the parking lot. “They’re all at the movies. They won’t be out until ten-thirty.” He goes from car to car, trying the doors, and on the fifth try he finds one that opens. It is a blue, four-wheel drive Subaru. Ted and Jane climb into the back seat, leaving the front for Reuben and me. I don’t like this. The owner of the car could appear at any minute and then what? We could be arrested and our parents would be called. I’d never hear the end of it from Walter and Bitsy.

“Can’t wait to take Driver’s Ed,” Reuben says. “Hitching around town is such a bitch. I live way out on Barranca.” He rubs his hands together. “Wish we had the key to the ignition … at least we could have a little heat.”

“Make your own,” Ted calls from the back seat. He and Jane laugh hysterically, then Ted rolls down the window and tosses the empty bottle of vodka into the parking lot. We hear the sound of the glass smashing.

Jane and Ted are making out. I am aware of every grunt, every sigh, and I can’t help thinking that for someone without experience Jane doesn’t seem to be having much trouble.

Reuben and I sit like zombies, frozen to our seats, and not just because it is cold. We stare straight ahead, not talking, not touching, not even glancing at each other. I know that he wishes he could be some place else, just like I do. We are both uncomfortable but don’t know how to get out of the situation. I try to block the sounds from the back seat by thinking of the canyon. But then Jane whimpers, “I’m not feeling very well … I’m feeling kind of … kind of …”

“Let her out … let her out …” Ted calls nervously, and both Reuben and I open our doors. Jane gets out just in time. She throws up all over the rear end of the Subaru.

Reuben and I are relieved. For the first time we look at each other and smile. Now we have
an excuse to go home. But Jane is really out of it and we have to half-carry, half-drag her there. When we get to her house I say goodnight to the boys. I am feeling much friendlier toward Reuben now, especially since he didn’t try anything in the car.

“See you Monday,” he says to me.

“Right … Monday,” I say.

Howard’s car is gone and the front door is unlocked. I push it open slowly. I am a wreck trying to think of what I will say to Jane’s parents. I rehearse a speech in my mind.
Jane isn’t feeling too well
, I’ll explain.
She ate a pizza downtown and it was just too much for her after your wonderful dinner, Mrs. Albertson. Actually, she got sick in the parking lot. Of course, it could be that she’s coming down with the flu. There’s a lot of it going around in school
.

Suppose her mother smells the booze and says,
You’re a liar, Davey Wexler. And you’re a bad influence on our little girl. We never should have let her invite you to spend the night
.

The house is very quiet. I hold my breath and somehow I manage to get Jane upstairs, and into her room, without her parents knowing. I remember that it is Saturday night. Jane’s mother and father are probably locked into their bedroom, making love. Or maybe they did it while we were out and now they’re sleeping. I don’t want to think about sex anymore. It was bad enough listening to Ted and Jane.

I get Jane undressed down to her shirt and her underpants, pull the covers up around her, then climb into the bedroll her mother has set out for me. I fall asleep quickly and dream about Wolf. About the two of us together in our cave.

It is not the first time I have dreamed about him.

TWENTY-TWO

The next morning, at seven-thirty, there is a knock on our door. “Rise and shine,” Jane’s mother calls. “Breakfast is ready. We have to be at church before nine.”

Jane rolls over, moans, then sits up and says, “Oh, my God … it’s Sunday.” She holds her hands to her head. “I feel terrible. I think I’m dying. Or did I die last night? What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” I say.

“I remember the Pizza Hut … and drinking all that vodka …”

“And the car … you remember the car?”

“What car?”

“In the parking lot.”

“No.”

“You and Ted were in the back seat.”

“No.”

“And then you got sick.”

“I did?”

“Come on, Jane. You must remember.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t.”

A thought pops into my mind. Jane thinks she has no experience with boys. But the truth is,
she has plenty of experience. She just doesn’t remember.

“You shouldn’t drink,” I tell her.

“I drank too much … that’s all.”

“You shouldn’t drink at all if you can’t handle it.”

“It makes me feel good. It loosens me up. Otherwise I’m shy around boys.”

“You’d never know it from last night.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you!” Jane gets out of bed. “I’ve got to take a shower. Will you come to church with us?”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Please, Davey. I can’t stand the idea of being alone with my parents this morning.”

I don’t respond.

“As a friend,” Jane says. “Do it as a friend.”

“Oh, all right,” I say.

“Thanks, I won’t forget this.”

Jane dashes down the hall to the bathroom and I begin to get dressed wondering why I am feeling so angry at her. Was it the drinking? No, I don’t think so. Then what? The making out in the back seat? Yes, maybe. But why? Because I wanted to be making out too? Because I wanted to feel strong arms around me again? Is that it?

T
here are more churches in Los Alamos than I have ever seen anywhere. There is a church on practically every corner. I don’t know if it’s because scientists pray more than other people, or
what. Maybe they have more guilt and fear. I once read an article in
Time
magazine that said organized religion is based on guilt and fear. I wouldn’t know. Both of my parents are half Jewish. For a while we went to the Unitarian Fellowship in Atlantic City, and after that we tried Temple Sinai. Now we don’t go anywhere.

T
hat afternoon I go to the canyon, hoping to find Wolf. It is cold and gray. I wait for two hours, but he doesn’t show. I ride home slowly with tears in my eyes. I can’t seem to get rid of the empty feeling that started last night and won’t go away.

TWENTY-THREE

“Do you think we’ll go home for Christmas?” I ask Mom. She is in bed, reading. She puts her book aside and makes room for me to sit on the bed, next to her. I stretch out, examine my fingernails and begin to peel off the putrid purple polish.

“I thought you understood,” Mom says.

“Understood what?”

“That we’re staying for the school year.”

“No,” I say, sitting straight up. “You never said that. Nobody ever said that.”

“I can’t go back, Davey.”

“What are you talking about … what do you mean, you can’t go back?” I drop the bits of polish that I have peeled off my nails. They scatter to the floor like tiny flowers that have died.

“I can’t go back now,” Mom says. “I’m not ready. There’s still too much to deal with. I’m just beginning to get myself together. I have a long way to go.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “All this time I’ve been thinking that we’ll be home by Christmas.”

“No, honey. That would be the worst time to
go home. Don’t you see? Besides, you’re all set in school now. It wouldn’t make sense to pull you out in the middle of the year. And Jason is happy too. This is a nice place. You like it, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. Some days I do and some days I don’t. But I never thought we were staying. Never.”

“Well, neither did I,” Mom says, “but Bitsy and Walter are such a help and they want us to stay.”

“Do I have to keep eating bran in my cereal?”

Mom laughs.

“Do I?”

“It’s good for you.”

I bend over and pick the tiny ovals of polish from the floor, cupping them in my hand.

“If we are staying then I want to learn to ski. Everyone is talking about ski season. If there’s enough snow the ski area will be open before Christmas.”

“We’ll talk about it with Walter and Bitsy,” Mom says. “Okay?”

W
hen we do, Walter says, “It’s out of the question.”

“But everyone skis,” I tell him.

“That’s an exaggeration,” Walter says.

“Well, maybe not everybody, because you and Bitsy don’t … but Jane’s whole family skis, except for her mother.”

“I’m not going to argue about this, Davey,” Walter says. “My mind is made up. I’ll give you my reasons. Number one, it’s dangerous. Number two, it’s expensive. Number three, it’s an overrated, trendy sport. You can go ice skating instead. We have a very nice skating pond that will be frozen soon.”

“But I already know how to ice skate,” I tell him.

“Good. Then you’re all set.”

“You don’t understand,” I say.

“That’s what you say to us every time we don’t respond in the way you want us to respond.”

I feel frustrated, unsure of what Walter has just said. Walter twists words and confuses me. It’s impossible to argue with him and win. So I shout, “Dammit …”

And Walter says, calmly, “Let’s keep emotion out of this conversation. Let’s hold it to logic, pure and simple.”

I look over to my mother for support. “I’m sure Walter knows much more about skiing than we do, Davey,” she says.

“But he doesn’t ski,” I argue.

“Maybe not,” Mom says, “but he knows
about
it.”

“Besides,” Bitsy says, “we know a family whose daughter was on the ski team and she crashed into a tree, head first, and wound up a vegetable in an Albuquerque hospital. They visit her every Sunday but she doesn’t recognize
them. You don’t want to wind up a vegetable, do you?”

“What kind of vegetable?” Jason asks.

“She’s probably better off than I am!” I shout. “She doesn’t have to live in this house.”

“What’s wrong with this house?” Bitsy says.

“What
kind
of vegetable?” Jason asks again.

“A turnip!” I tell him, storming out of the room.

“Really,” Jason says. “A turnip?”

TWENTY-FOUR

I look forward to candy striping each week, especially to my visit with Mr. Ortiz. He is the only patient who has been in the hospital since my first day there. We have become friends. But it’s hard for me to see him losing his strength. Each week there is a change for the worse. His cheeks are sunken now and his body seems to be withering away. Last week I saw him without his dental bridge and he looked ancient, even though I know from his chart that he is only fifty-seven. Through it all he remains cheerful. I don’t understand how someone so sick, so close to death can still enjoy what little of life is left.

Mr. Ortiz likes to hear about school and he has decided that I should go out for the swim team. I have explained a dozen times that I can’t dive, that I hardly ever swim with my face in the water but he says I can learn, that I am built like a swimmer. He regrets never having learned to swim himself but his son was the star of the high school team and for three years Mr. Ortiz never missed a meet. I promise him that I will think about swimming but the truth is, I am more interested in trying out for the school play. It’s
going to be a production of
Oklahoma!
and scripts and music are available at the drama department office, even though tryouts are still a few months away. I doubt that a sophomore has a chance at a major role but there is always the chorus and it would be nice to sing again, outside of the shower.

When I am candy striping I save Mr. Ortiz’ room for last, so that I can spend extra time with him. Today, as I walk down the corridor, I see that his door is closed and I get a sinking feeling. I have told myself over and over that I must prepare for Mr. Ortiz’ death. But I haven’t been able to. Not yet.

I knock softly on the door, then push it open and feel a great sense of relief when I see Mr. Ortiz lying in his bed. “Come,” he says softly, when he sees that it is me. “Come and meet my son.”

I look across the room. His son stands with his back to me. His hands are pressed against the window frame.

“Martin,” Mr. Ortiz says, “this is Davey.”

Martin turns around and I can’t believe it! It is Wolf.

We stare at each other. Finally he says, “Hello,” as if we have never met.

I try to say hello too, but my voice cracks. I cough, clear my throat twice, and say it again. “Hello.”

“Martin was captain of the swim team,” Mr.
Ortiz says, “and co-captain of the soccer team, and a National Merit Scholarship winner and runner-up in the Westinghouse Science Contest and …”

“Come on, Dad,” Wolf says gently. He looks at the floor and refuses to meet my eyes. His hair tumbles across his face.

“He doesn’t like to talk about himself,” Mr. Ortiz says.

As if I don’t already know.

“And now he’s got a full scholarship to Cal Tech,” Mr. Ortiz continues. “He’s a junior and he’s going to be a brilliant physicist …”

“Hey, Dad …” Wolf says, “give me a break.” Wolf finally looks directly at me as if to say,
Don’t listen to any of this crap. That’s not the real me
. He is embarrassed by his father’s enthusiastic outburst but doesn’t want to hurt his feelings either. I want to tell him that it’s okay. That I understand.

“You should be proud,” Mr. Ortiz tells him. “Look at all you’ve done in your life and you’re only twenty years old.” Mr. Ortiz closes his eyes. Talking this much has worn him down. When he opens them again his voice is weaker and I have to stand close to hear what he is saying. “So what do you think … I’m a lucky man, no?”