Faking Life Page 13

  The commuters sat with a purpose, everyone relaxed, content, an eventual finality to their journey. A job, maybe a family, somewhere safe and familiar. John didn't feel he belonged here, didn't belong in a routine. Yet there was nobility in these lives that intrigued him. The ability to provide for someone other than himself. And the job he'd held for nearly seven years, had cut his teeth with and received his first paycheck from, it was now obsolete. He could never again unearth satisfaction from it, never feel like he was working for something more.

  Bartending was supposed to have been a bridge to his next career, yet it now occurred to him that he'd jumped off the bridge and was being swept along a river with no end. At some point he'd have to either swim or drown. It was just a question of which.

  When the train ground to a halt, John followed the exodus into the station, uncertainty creeping over him. Shivering in the crisp fall wind, he searched for any sign of transportation. He had no idea when or where the buses ran or if there even was an underground, but there was a line of taxis. Sighing, he took a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, confirmed the address, checked his wallet and jumped in the first available cab.

  The driver was an old black man with a snowy white mustache and a tattered beret. His ride smelled like a mixture of fried onions and shoe polish. A picture of three young children was taped to the dash, a drawing of Jesus obscuring the speedometer. John breathed through his mouth and gave the address.

  “Where you headed?” he asked. John could see his eyes, content and inquisitive, peering at him in the rearview.

  “Sixteen Forty Two Jebson…”

  “No, I mean where you headed? You gave me the address, so where you headed?”

  “Oh, you mean where am I going?”

  “Yeah,” he said, a big toothy grin spreading. “You know, you going to work, visiting someone? Can't say you look like you're dressed for work. Going to see a ladyfriend?” He let out a deep, baritone laugh and spread his lips wide.

  “No, not a ladyfriend. Not a friend, anyway. Just someone I knew a long time ago.”

  The driver hummed softly, scratched his mustache. “Hey listen,” he said, rustling through some papers on the front seat. He came up with a folded business card and passed it through the divider. It read Stanley Jackson, Transportation Coordinator Extraordinaire and listed a cell number below a picture of a grinning checkered cab, a hand waving merrily out the window. “No buses where we're goin'. You need a cab back to Union Station, give me a ring. Twenty-four seven, three sixty five.” John thanked him and put the card in his pocket. He turned his attention back to the road.

  He could feel cold sweat seeping through his clothes, he pulse quickening as the car sped by identical two-story houses, all off-white with chipping paint. Children rolled around on tricycles and shot basketballs at hoops with rusty rims. He noticed clotheslines with actual garments hanging on clothespins. He shook his head, amazed that there was so much he didn't know.

  Without warning, the cab pulled up in front of a beige house that seemed isolated from the others on the block. A tire swung from a tree in the front yard, the chain squeaking as the links ground together. A riding lawnmower sat next to a red SUV, a white PTA sticker on the rear bumper. John's hands shook as he gently pressed his palm against the window, the glass cool beneath his fingers. Removing them, he saw the house through his sweaty residue.

  “Thirty-six,” said Jackson, snapping John's head to attention.

  “Thirty-six dollars? As in dollars?”

  “That's right. Ain't got no currency exchange here.”

  “You're serious. Thirty-six dollars for a cab ride.”

  “Serious is my mother's maiden name. If you'll look over here,” Jackson said, pointing to a chart pasted on the back of the driver's seat that John wouldn't have paid attention to even if he had noticed it. It diagrammed rates according to different “zones” and other mumbo jumbo that was clearly designed to deter passengers from understanding a word of it. “The ride from Union Station to zone twelve is thirty-six dollars. Would've been more if I'd gone by the meter.” John frowned and took out his wallet, pissed that his decision to forgo public transportation would cost him seventy-two dollars roundtrip. Between cabs, trains, and coffee, the day would set him back nearly a hundred bucks. John was glad he hadn't finished the bottle of Andre. He'd need a drink when he got home.

  He gave Jackson forty, told him to keep the change and to expect a call sooner rather than later.

  “I'll stay in the area,” he said. “Maybe some Yale kids need a ride to the liquor store.” Jackson waved and drove off, leaving John completely alone in the middle of a city he'd never set foot in. He turned back to the house. His heart thumped in his chest, and for a moment, he thought about turning back. He put his hands in his pockets and tucked his neck into his jacket collar. Wind swept across the lawn. Shivering, he saw movement inside the house.

  A few wisps of hair flitted by the window. Then a man, no, a boy, walked to the window and peered out. John's blood ran cold at the sight of him, his eyes widened. The kid looked to be about 13 or 14, a curly mop of dark hair spilling about his eyes. It made sense that he'd be around 13. He was the same age as John when…

  Suddenly, John remembered why he'd been so frightened to come here.

  Then he saw her, the boy's mother. She was kneeling in front of her son, arms draped around his shoulders. She took a napkin from her pocket, licked it, and wiped his face. He had no doubt it was her. Noticeably older, but the same face. There was still a gracefulness to her features. She'd aged well, John thought. Skin still smooth. He walked towards the house, the danger of being spotted not even a thought in his mind.

  Her hair was drawn back in a ponytail. She'd grown it out. He could see faint crow's feet at her eyes and mouth. She was wearing a white t-shirt and denim overalls. No work for her today. She's probably a great mother, John thought. Sometimes, when he was younger, John wished she was his.

  He watched for several minutes, his feet glued to the ground. Here was the woman he'd tucked into the folds of his memory, hoping time would blanket her so thoroughly that he'd never see her face again. But she'd escaped and was now standing in front of him, looking out the window, not at John but past him, reveling in her hideousness. For years he'd pretended it never happened, that it was all a dream. He'd been alone that night. And the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon was still corked in his parent's liquor cabinet. But it had happened. And now he needed to know.

  After a moment she stood up, went over to the window and shut the drapes. Had she seen him? John watched in a vacuum, listening to the occasional passing car shatter the air, the only sound in his otherwise sensory-deprived world. Then the door opened and she strode onto the lawn. John's breath caught in his throat.

  “Help you?” she said, folding her arms across her chest. She'd left the door open behind her. The boy walked into the doorway and John stared. He observed the boy's dark skin, much darker than his or the woman's. His curly black hair resembled neither of them. He had her nose, her eye color. But nothing else. And now he knew the answer.

  “Sorry?”

  She spoke deliberately. “Said can I help you? Or do you want me to call the cops?”

  “Is that your son?” John said, pointing at the boy behind her. She swiveled her head to look at the boy.

  “Yes…why? What's this about?” Her eyebrows arched. John saw a flicker of recognition in her face. She looked at the boy then back at John. “Is he still stealing newspapers from the grocery store? Frannie send you to yell at him again?”

  “Is he your only son?”

  “Yes,” she said, hesitating.

  “That's all I needed to know.”

  “Listen,” she said, stepping backwards, toward the house. “If you don't tell me your business or get off my lawn this instant, I'm calling the cops.”

  “No need, I'm leaving.” She nodded but didn't take her eyes off him. John began walking back toward the street, knowing
every step was being watched. He took out his cell phone. Then he turned around to face her.

  “And Gloria,” he said. He registered the confusion in her eyes. Her mouth opened.

  “How do you…”

  John smiled. “I accept your apology.”

  “Who are you?”

  John smiled and turned back into the wind. He pulled his jacket tighter, waited a moment then pulled the business card out of his wallet, dialed. After one ring he heard the static-choked voice.

  “Stanley Jackson, transportation coordinator extraordinaire. How may I be of service?”

  “Hello Mr. Jackson, uh, you just dropped me off…”

  “Say no more my friend,” he said. “Give me five minutes.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I was eleven, my parents hired a student named Gloria Rimbaud to watch me on the few occasions they decided to shake the stodgy conventions of psychiatry and paint the town red. I always considered her an attendant rather than a sitter, although that may simply have been to make myself feel better about being babysat. My sister was eighteen and rarely home, always sleeping at friend's houses for late night “cram sessions” and hanging out at dirt-speckled bowling alleys. Gloria “attended” to me for nearly three years.

  Gloria was pretty. That's the way I described her to my friends. I didn't know enough about women yet to call her “hot” or a “babe”, although looking back she certainly would have been both. She was a senior psych major at CCNY. She'd written my mother a warm letter in regards to a paper in the American Journal of Psychiatry she'd published. They started corresponding, and soon enough I had a babysitter.

  My mother was never a fan of people who used agencies to find sitters. She felt if you didn't know someone well enough to have them over for dinner. you shouldn't trust them to watch your children.

  The sitters prior to Gloria never worked out. My mother never gave them an inch, driving them batty by phoning fifty times a night to make sure I was still alive, asking me to check if the jewelry drawer was still full. In Gloria, she was happy to finally have a sitter she could trust, or at least someone she could track down if her pearls went missing.

  I gleefully anticipated the nights my parents went out. Gloria always let me stay up late to watch T.V. and play Nintendo when I should have been doing grammar lessons. I went to bed wishing she could stay over and talk to me some more. She was a kind older sister. I'd never felt closer to anyone.

  When I was thirteen (I know this for certain), Gloria was still attending to me, but much less frequently. She'd graduated college and was seldom available, only taking jobs when she needed some extra cash and had a hole in her schedule.

  One chilly night in November, the New York skyline growing darker by the day and the first sprinkle of snow falling outside, Gloria attended me while my parents went to dinner and the theater—Cats, I think it was. My mother roasted us a chicken for dinner. When they left, I said goodbye and quickly ran to my room to complete my work so I could be with Gloria the rest of the night. When I'd completed my social studies, I tiptoed out of my room, hoping to surprise her. Then we could chat, watch Alf, or listen to music while she told me stories of wild college parties and stuffy old professors.

  Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

  Gloria was seated at our dining room table, a bottle of red wine open in front of her, two glasses set out. The label read Beringer 1986. Cabernet Sauvignon. I'll never forget that wine. I looked at her, confused. Her glass was brimming, the one next to it empty. I knew my parents had a wine cabinet, but I'd never dared touch a bottle. I only opened it to show off to friends, bragging about how one day when they weren't home we'd drink until we threw up.

  I watched Gloria slide her thin fingers up and down the long stem of her glass, her eyes a little foggy, her breathing slow and harsh.

  “Want to watch me play Zelda?” I asked. Gloria and I were under a strict 'Don't ask, don't tell' policy with my parents, so she probably wasn't worried about me ratting her out for the wine, just like I wasn't worried about her telling them I watched so much television.

  “I thought you might have a drink with me,” she said, still running her fingers. I was captivated. I nodded and approached tentatively.

  I sat down at the opposite end of the table, a big brown balustrade with so many stains and scrapings from years of culinary torture that even if the entire bottle spilled I doubted my parents would notice.

  She said, “You can play your games later, can't you? Nintendo isn't going anywhere.” I shook my head in agreement. She took the empty glass—my glass—and filled it to the top. Then she slid it across the table.

  I remember hesitating. The only time I'd ever gotten drunk was at my friend Shawn Goldstein's bar mitzvah where a bunch of us had a contest to see how many shot-sized cups of Maneschewitz we could drink. I came in fourth with eleven, and then promptly barfed in the temple basement.

  I looked at Gloria for guidance.

  She took a small sip and said, “You don't need to be embarrassed John, have a drink. You're old enough for that, right?” I nodded and obeyed, my hands shaking as I brought the wine to my lips. I took a huge gulp, eager to show that despite my age, I could hold my own with a college graduate. We kept this game up until half the bottle was gone and my head was spinning like an uneven top. I barely noticed when Gloria stood up and walked over to my chair. My eyes were unfocused. All I could make out were two blurry visions that looked like her. Then she took my hands, which were dead in my lap, and placed them on her breasts.

  My body froze. I'd only touched a girl like that once, a fifteen second tryst with Amy Steadman in the fourth floor stairwell as we skipped English class.

  “Don't be embarrassed John,” she said, laughing lightly. “I've known you for such a long time. You're like my kid brother.” I wasn't sure how that was supposed to make me feel better, but then she unbuttoned her shirt and my mind went numb. “Do you still want to play video games?”

  I reacted by wobbling my head, neither a yes nor a no. I felt my stomach lurch.

  I was in a haze for the rest of the encounter, as though watching myself through a frosted pane of glass. She took off her bra and eventually unbuttoned my pants. I was powerless to do anything to stop it and too drunk even if I'd wanted to.

  When it was over—I remember thinking I'd done well because at one point she stopped and kissed me on the mouth—Gloria poured the rest of the wine down the drain and washed the glasses. She threw the bottle down the incinerator. My mouth tasted like bitter grapes and my breath smelled like my father's deodorant.

  “You can play now if you want,” she said. I obeyed again, half-heartedly tapping the controller while my heart pumped like a thousand drums and my crotch burned.

  My parents came home three hours later. They paid Gloria and sent me to bed. My mother came to sit by my bedside like she always did before bedtime and asked about my evening. Had I finished my homework? Had Gloria taken good care of me? She asked the last question with a smile. She knew Gloria always took care of me. I nodded and mumbled, my tongue like a dried piece of meat. With the lights off and my breath minty fresh from a 15-minute brushing session, she didn't notice I was drunker than a boatload of sailors. She assumed my listless responses were simply from being tired.

  I tried desperately to force the night from my head. I'd always dreamed I'd lose my virginity to Cindy Crawford or a famous actress, maybe in a beautiful forest with a canopy of emerald leaves glistening above. Maybe on a sandy beach in the Caribbean with the sun shimmering off the crystal blue water like a column descended from the heavens. Nobody lost their virginity to their babysitter. I tried to shrug it off like a bad dream. But like any bad dream, it wouldn't leave me alone.

  Gloria stopped attending to me. I took it as an affirmation that I was growing up. After a few months I'd forgotten about her. I started concentrating on girls and athletics and had entered the first real relationship of my life with a red
head named Caroline who loved Bon Jovi and could beat me at H.O.R.S.E.

  Months later, I was eating dinner with my parents when my mother paused between bites of Caesar salad. She smiled at me and said, “You want to hear some good news?” I was excited. She'd promised me a new computer if I'd kept up my grades. I nodded eagerly and she turned to my father. “Well, remember your old sitter Gloria?” She shared a smile with my father. Whatever she was about to say, he already knew.

  “Yes,” I said flatly.

  “Well,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Gloria, it seems, is going to have a baby. Isn't that exciting?”

  My heart dropped into my shoes. I nearly choked on a tomato slice. I was smart enough to put two and two together but…

  “Pregnant? Really? How long has she been…you know…pregnant?” The words felt foreign coming out of my mouth.

  “Five months,” she said. I didn't need to do the math. “That's why she hasn't been back to visit; she's on maternity leave. I spoke to her this afternoon. She's so excited for us all to meet the baby.”

  “I didn't know she was married,” I said meekly, hoping for some sort of explanation. I felt like a snake had wrapped itself around my esophagus and was choking the air out of my lungs.

  My mother thought for a moment. “You know, I don't believe she is married. She didn't mention the father. Maybe it's a boyfriend. Oh well, she is twenty-five, the same age I was when I had your sister.” I tried to smile, but I'm pretty sure it came off as a grimace.

  For the next six months I hardly slept. I barely ate. I lost fifteen pounds, which, for a thirteen year old who wasn't heavy to begin with, worried my parents to no end. Horrible thoughts ran through my head, mainly about what life would be like as a thirteen-year old father. Would Gloria expect me to help raise the child? Would I have to quit school and get a job? Plus, there was this scary word called 'alimony' I heard friends of mine who lived with single parents refer to. How was I going to pay this 'alimony' on an allowance of twenty dollars a week?