Текст книги "Forgive me, Leonard Peacock"

Автор книги: Matthew Quick

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

THIRTY-THREE

In the cab, Herr Silverman does a lot of texting with someone he calls Julius.

I can tell by the look on his face and the way he’s poking his cell phone that Julius is not cool with my coming over, but I don’t say anything about that or ask any questions, even though Herr Silverman’s facial expressions sort of make me want to jump out of the moving cab, roll to the sidewalk, run away bruised and bleeding, and take a train back to New Jersey.

I’m sort of freaked about everything I told him—like maybe it was a mistake to be honest. I’m worried he’ll never look at me the same way—he’s just being nice to my face, but then when I leave he’ll tell Julius that I sicken him. I keep telling myself that Herr Silverman isn’t like that—that he’s good and understands—but it’s hard to make myself believe in Herr Silverman a hundred percent now.

When we arrive at his building, the cab fare is more than two hundred dollars, and I insist on paying with my credit card, even though Herr Silverman says I don’t have to. He’s a teacher, so I know that two hundred bucks is a lot for him.

My hand shakes when I extend the credit card through the little plastic window that separates the cabdriver from the passengers, but Herr Silverman doesn’t say anything about how shaky I am.

I give the cabdriver an eighty-dollar tip because fuck Linda, who will be paying the bill, but my hand is still shaking and you can barely read the numbers I write.

“Is this okay?” I ask as we walk up the steps, and even my voice is all over the place wobbly.

“Is what okay?”

“Having a student over to your apartment.”

“Is it okay with you?”

“Yeah, but aren’t there school policies forbidding you to do this sort of thing? I mean . . . I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Well, I do believe this is an extenuating circumstance. And if you don’t tell anyone, no one will know.”

“Okay,” I say, and stick my shaky hands in my pockets.

If any other teacher had said this to me, I’d have thought they were executing some sort of perverted plan—but not Herr Silverman, I tell myself. You can trust him.

Outside his door as he puts the key in the lock, he says, “My roommate, Julius, is inside sleeping.”

I nod, because I realize that Julius is most likely Herr Silverman’s partner, and I wonder if Julius really is pissed about my taking up so much of Herr Silverman’s time and now invading their personal lives. Part of me starts to wish I weren’t here—that I didn’t even call my Holocaust teacher.

Herr Silverman keys into his apartment and loudly says, “Julius? I’m here with Leonard.”

No response.

“Come on in,” Herr Silverman says, and I follow him to a leather couch over which hangs a huge painting of a bare tree, which gets me thinking about the Japanese maple outside my English class and what an asshole I was to Mrs. Giavotella, which makes me feel depressed again.

The tree in the painting is surrounded by the decapitated heads of famous political leaders: Benito Mussolini, Joseph Stalin, Gandhi, Ronald Reagan, Winston Churchill, George Washington, Adolf Hitler, Fidel Castro, Teddy Roosevelt, Nelson Mandela, Saddam Hussein, JFK, and a dozen or so more I don’t recognize. It looks like the heads have fallen from the tree like rotten fruit. And a huge red X has been painted over the entire painting—like someone stamped it with a rejection. It’s one of the strangest artworks I have ever seen.

“Have a seat,” Herr Silverman says. “I’ll be right back.”

He opens the bedroom door a crack and slips in without letting me see what’s behind—like he sort of makes a U around the door without opening it more than ten inches and then closes it quickly.

I hear whispering, and the voice that’s not Herr Silverman’s is sort of fierce, like wind rushing through barren tree branches.

“This isn’t your job,” I hear Julius say a little more loudly.

“Shhhh,” Herr Silverman says. “He’ll hear you.”

And then they are silent for a minute before I hear the fierce whispering again.

Finally, the door opens ten inches, and Herr Silverman slips around once more before he shuts it for good.

“Your roommate is pissed that I’m here,” I say.

“He’s just tired. He has to work in the morning and he’s afraid we’ll keep him up. We’ll be quiet.”

“I heard him say this isn’t your job, and it’s not. I shouldn’t have called you. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

“It’s okay,” Herr Silverman says. “I’m glad you did. You can meet Julius in the morning. He’ll be less grumpy with a full night’s rest.”

“He’s your boyfriend, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” I say, and then feel stupid for saying okay—like Herr Silverman needs my permission or something.

“Here,” Herr Silverman says, and then holds out his hand.

There’s a small box in front of my face wrapped in white paper.

When I have it unwrapped and opened, it takes me a second to realize what’s inside.

It’s my grandfather’s Bronze Star, only it’s been covered with paper, painted, and then laminated. On the star is a bronze peace sign and on the ribbon are my initials written in fancy calligraphy swirls.

“If you don’t like it,” Herr Silverman says, “I can remove the tape and paper. The actual medal isn’t altered underneath. I was going to give it back to you tomorrow after class. Remember when you said you wanted to turn the negative connotation into a positive?”

I’m not entirely sure how to respond. It’s kind of corny on one hand, and on the other it’s an amazingly thoughtful present—plus it’s the only gift I will receive on my eighteenth birthday, which is almost over.

But for some reason, instead of saying thank you like any polite, normal person would, and maybe because I feel like it might be really important, I say, “Does Julius make you happy? I mean—do you love him? And does he love you? Is it a good relationship?”

“Why do you ask?” Herr Silverman gets this worried look on his face, like my question throws him a little.

Instead of answering his question, I say, “Did you write letters from the future Julius when you were in high school?”

“Actually, I did,” Herr Silverman says. “Metaphorically, I absolutely did.”

It makes me feel less insane to think about Herr Silverman being all confused in high school about his sexuality and writing letters from the future people in his life—the people who would understand him, and listen to him, and treat him like an equal without making him act and put on a fake mask. The people who could save him. Herr Silverman believing in those people back when he was my age, and then making it to his age, because if he’s truly happy . . .

I get mad at myself for thinking about all of that, because there’s still a large part of me that thinks it’s all bullshit, and if I let myself believe in the bullshit, it will just ultimately make me even more depressed when bad things happen or Herr Silverman eventually lets me down and I can’t believe in him or his philosophies anymore. But for some reason, I go ahead and pin the stupid peace medal to my shirt, right over my heart. Maybe just because Herr Silverman went to so much trouble for me tonight—maybe because I owe him this much, and it doesn’t really hurt to pin a fucking medal to my shirt.

“Looks good,” Herr Silverman says to me, and then smiles.

“Thanks,” I say, and suddenly I feel so tired—like I really don’t care about anything anymore, like I’m just finished.

“I’d like to call your mother, Leonard. May I?”

“What for?”

“Well, we’re going to have a lot to sort out in the morning.”

“Like what?”

“You need help. Professional help. I’m not sure your mother realizes the seriousness of your condition—how much pain you’ve been in. These things don’t just go away.”

“She won’t listen to you. She’s crazy.”

“May I call her? Please,” Herr Silverman says.

I suck my lips into my mouth because I’m exhausted and don’t really feel like arguing with him, and then I nod, thinking, Herr Silverman can’t make anything worse.

“She’s under Fashion Designer Linda,” I say while I’m doing the pattern to unlock my cell. I hand him the phone and say, “But she probably won’t answer anyway. She never answers at night. Says she needs her beauty sleep, but really it’s because she’s sleeping with this French guy who loves sex and Linda is a nymphomaniac.”

I wish I hadn’t said that last joke, especially because Herr Silverman doesn’t even acknowledge it, let alone laugh.

He calls Linda, but she doesn’t answer.

He leaves a message saying that I’m with him at his apartment and he’d really appreciate a call back, because it’s an emergency. He leaves his cell phone number and then hangs up.

“Guess we wait for her to call,” Herr Silverman says.

I look away.

Linda won’t call back tonight.

I know from experience.

Herr Silverman pulls a pad of paper from a drawer, writes down Linda’s phone number, and sticks it in his shirt pocket.

“Did you paint this?” I point back at the X-ed-out-tree-with-fallen-decapitated-heads-of-famous-political-leaders painting that hangs over the couch. I don’t know why I ask. Maybe just to change the subject. Maybe because I feel bad about Linda’s not calling, and Herr Silverman’s belief that she will.

Herr Silverman’s face lights up like he’s either really proud of the painting or he’s just happy to have something to talk about besides how fucked I am. “No,” he says. “I purchased it when I went to Israel a few years ago. At an art show. A friend of a friend. Had it shipped home. A little extravagance.”

“It’s very good,” I lie. I don’t really like it at all. I just feel like I should be nice to Herr Silverman. I’m kind of worried that he’s going to use my secret against me—everything I told him about Asher—so I want to be on his good side.

“I like it,” he says.

“What does it mean?” I ask, trying to make him happy.

“Does it have to mean something?”

“I don’t know. I thought art was supposed to mean something.”

“Can’t it just exist without an explanation? Why do we have to assign meaning to art? Do we need to understand everything? Maybe it exists to evoke feelings and emotions—period. Not to mean something.”

I nod to acknowledge what he’s saying, even though it sounds a little like art-talk bullshit to me.

Still—I think about Herr Silverman and Julius having deep conversations about art and life and everything, and it actually starts to make me smile.

Life beyond the übermorons.

If I weren’t so tired, I’d continue the conversation, debating back and forth, just like in Herr Silverman’s Holocaust class, like he always wants us to. I’d go on for hours and hours, but I feel like my mind’s quitting on me—like I only have time for one or two more questions—so I ask, “Would you say it’s modern art? Something you’d see in MoMA in New York City? I’m sort of interested in modern art lately.”

“Well, it’s art and it’s modern. But anything painted recently is called contemporary art.”

I nod and say, “Do you think a picture of a Nazi handgun set next to a bowl of oatmeal could be contemporary art, or maybe just art?”

“Sure,” he says. “Why not?”

“Okay,” I say, and then we just sort of sit there silently until I realize I’m dangerously exhausted—that my brain is maybe at the end of its rope—and I can’t wait for Linda to not call all night, because I just don’t have the energy. My eyelids weigh a million pounds each. Through a yawn, I say, “Do you mind if I shut my eyes for a second or two?”

“Go right ahead,” he says. “Make yourself comfortable.”

As soon as my head hits his couch, the rope snaps.

It feels like my brain is falling down into some pitch-black abyss.

I dream of übernothing.

THIRTY-FOUR

There’s a warm puffy blanket over me when I wake up.

I’m sweating.

The lights are off and the curtains have been pulled, but the glow of the city creeps in from under the heavy cloth and illuminates the outside rectangle of the windows.

It takes me a second to remember where I am and how I got here on my Holocaust teacher’s couch, but once I do, I feel a rush of adrenaline course through my veins.

I sit up and think, What the hell happened yesterday?

Then I replay it all in my mind, remembering. When I get to the part about Asher Beal, I feel like maybe I shouldn’t have told Herr Silverman about what happened—like it was a horrible mistake. I trust him, but I also know he has to tell other people to get me help, and what if those other people think I’m a pervert, and do things to me that will fuck my head up even worse? How can I trust people I don’t know? I don’t know what’s going to happen next, and that makes me feel like I’m covered in super-pissed-off scorpions and spiders. I didn’t really think my confession to Herr Silverman through. It just sort of happened.

Maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I really should have killed myself.

I also start to worry that Herr Silverman went through my cell phone photos and found the one of Asher jerking off—which would really make him think I’m a pervert—so I grab my cell off the coffee table, hit the camera button, and see what was recorded.

It’s just the flash reflected in the glass of Asher’s bedroom window, so I delete it and feel a little relieved, but not completely.

I wish I could delete the past twenty-four hours.

I check my history and there are no calls from Linda, and I don’t know how to feel about that.

Part of me is relieved, part of me is disappointed, which is confusing.

I reach into my pocket to make sure I have the massive six-figure check I tried to give Baback and I rip it up into a million tiny pieces, although I’m not quite sure why, and the pieces land all over Herr Silverman’s floor and are hard to clean up because there are so many.

I’m not thinking straight.

I’m not sure I can trust myself.

I look at Herr Silverman’s closed bedroom door and think about him sleeping in the same bed as Julius, how they have this life together in the city that has nothing to do with me or my shitty high school or Herr Silverman’s teaching—and how I invaded their world last night, crossed all sorts of lines. I can understand why Julius was so pissed at me, because I was acting like a psychopath, and it sort of makes me feel horrible, because Herr Silverman was only trying to do the right thing, which is amazing, because no one ever does the right thing, but I should be with Linda and my dad right now. And because they blow as parents, I’m fucked up and Herr Silverman has to deal with my shit, which isn’t fair to him and maybe will lead to bad things for me in the end. It’s weird, because I really love Herr Silverman, and the fact that he cares so much about fucked-up kids—enough to meet me under a bridge in the middle of a school night. But I shouldn’t be here. This was all a mistake. My fault. I know that. And he probably shouldn’t have come to rescue me either. He’s too nice for his own good maybe. And I hope I don’t get him into trouble.

I wonder if he talked to Linda after I passed out and what the hell he said to her.

If he was able to make her feel even the slightest bit of guilt for being so oblivious—if he could get through all that makeup and high fashion.

How much he told her about what happened.

If she even gave a shit.

I’m pretty sure that Herr Silverman is going to get my high school involved now and the school psychologist will evaluate me to figure out whether I’m truly a risk to myself or others and then when they discover how unbalanced I am, they’ll pump me full of drugs and lock me away, and I start to worry about where that will be and what it will be like. What if it’s worse than my current life?

 
What
if Herr
Silver
man is
wrong
about
my
future?
 

All of a sudden—I have to take off before he wakes up.

Leaving immediately—just getting far away from Herr Silverman and the talk we had last night—is the most important thing in the world.

I’m imposing.

I shouldn’t be here.

Maybe I shouldn’t even be alive.

Maybe I just want to enjoy my last few hours of freedom before they lock me up in some psych ward.

Maybe I just need some space.

Regardless, I stand slowly and tiptoe into the kitchen, past the closed bedroom door, and then find a pad of paper stuck to the refrigerator.

I write:

Herr Silverman,

Don’t worry; I’m okay. Needed to be by myself.

Going home. Danger has passed.

Nothing to worry about. NOTHING.

I’m sorry.

Thank you.

LP

P.S. Sorry also to Julius. I won’t do this again.

Promise.

I tiptoe through the living room and I’m relieved when the front door doesn’t squeak or squeal.

I’m gone.

THIRTY-FIVE

I take the stairs down to the ground floor and then I’m on the predawn streets of Philadelphia.

No one is around, and I imagine this whole city is under ocean water—I imagine I’m scuba diving, and it’s not really all that hard to do because it’s dark and desolate and my skin is kind of wet from sleeping under the down comforter Herr Silverman threw over me and also from freaking out, which maybe I’m still doing, although I’m trying not to think about yesterday—how choosing life might have been a mistake.

Underground, I crawl below the subway turnstile—feeling the disgusting city grime on the palms of my hands—because I have no money on me, and I wait in the trash-ridden piss-smelling underbelly of Philadelphia, imagining myself scuba diving with a huge light, swimming through subway tunnels with Horatio and maybe even showing S the graffiti when she is old enough to scuba dive in such dangerous enclosed waters.

The train comes after what feels like hours of waiting, and I’m the only passenger on the car.

When we burst out from under Philly and up onto the Ben Franklin Bridge the sun is just coming up over the eastern horizon and I blink at it.

When my town is called, I stand and hold on as the train slows to a stop.

It’s too early for the zombie-faced suits, although I know they’ll flock here soon enough.

There’s a rent-a-cop at the turnstiles and so I have to make a decision because I don’t have the ticket I need to get through the machines.

I’m just about to make a run for it when I see an old ticket on the ground.

I pick it up and insert it into the machine.

It doesn’t work, of course.

“Officer,” I say, and hold up the rectangle of paper. “My ticket’s not working.”

“Just go under,” he says, and then takes a slurp from his bucket-sized Styrofoam coffee cup and turns his back.

I crawl under the turnstile and walk out into the early-morning sunshine.

I’m not really sure what my plan is, but somehow I wind up walking past Lauren’s house, which is right next door to her father’s church.

Standing across the street looking at the house, I sort of feel like the house is looking back at me—like the two second-floor windows are eyes and the row of downstairs windows is a mouth. Kind of like what you see in old horror movies—the house coming to life like a face.

I have this stupid fantasy where I ring the doorbell and Lauren answers in a white bathrobe—which gives me a nice V-shot of her chest—and wearing the silver cross I gave her. We talk and I thank her for praying for me and she says it’s great that I’m still alive and we both agree that kissing was a mistake, before we shake hands and wish each other well—like everything is forgiven. But it’s all just bullshit and I know I messed up with Lauren in a way that can’t be fixed easily, which is so unbearably depressing.

“Fuck,” I say in real life, standing on the sidewalk across the street from Lauren’s house, shaking my head.

I know I’m an asshole for forcing Lauren to kiss me—a hypocrite even.

A bad person.

I walk away.

I’ll probably never talk to Lauren again and I’m okay with that.

It’s best.

Maybe I only pursued her because I knew a relationship between us was impossible. Like she was a safe test for me, because she had so much religion crammed into her brain that things would never go too far. But I ended up failing the test, so what does that mean?

I don’t know.

It’s kind of horrible that she’s the first girl I ever kissed, because I’ll always remember her as my first girl kiss, which will remind me of everything else that happened afterward. And I start to worry that every single time I kiss a girl from now on will trigger a flood of memories that will take me back to last night. Like maybe I’ll never be able to enjoy kissing at all.

All that gets me feeling depressed again, so I head over to Walt’s and key in.