November 7, 1991
Dear friend,
It was one of those days that I didn’t mind going to school because the weather was so pretty. The sky was overcast with clouds, and the air felt like a warm bath. I don’t think I ever felt that clean before. When I got home, I had to mow the lawn for my allowance, and I didn’t mind one bit. I just listened to the music, and breathed in the day, and remembered things. Things like walking around the neighborhood and looking at the houses and the lawns and the colorful trees and having that be enough.
I do not know anything about Zen or things that the Chinese or Indians do as part of their religion, but one of the girls from the party with the tattoo and belly button ring has been a Buddhist since July. She talks about very little else except maybe how expensive cigarettes are. I see her at lunch sometimes, smoking between Patrick and Sam. Her name is Mary Elizabeth.
Mary Elizabeth told me that the thing about Zen is that it makes you connected to everything in the world. You are part of the trees and the grass and the dogs. Things like that. She even explained how her tattoo symbolized this, but I can’t remember how. So, I guess Zen is a day like this when you are part of the air and remember things.
One thing I remember is that the kids used to play a game. What you would do is take a football or something, and one person would have it, and all the other kids would try to tackle that kid. And then whoever got the ball next would run around with it, and the kids would try to tackle him. This could go on for hours. I never really understood the point of this game, but my brother loved it. He didn’t like to run with the ball so much as he liked to tackle people. The kids called the game “smear the queer.” I didn’t really think about what that means until now.
Patrick told me the story about him and Brad, and now I understand why Patrick didn’t get angry at Brad at the homecoming dance for dancing with a girl. When they were both juniors, Patrick and Brad were at a party together with the rest of the popular kids. Patrick actually used to be popular before Sam bought him some good music.
Patrick and Brad both got pretty drunk at this party. Actually, Patrick said that Brad was pretending to be a lot drunker than he really was. They were sitting in the basement with some girl named Heather, and
when she left to go to the bathroom, Brad and Patrick were left alone. Patrick said it was uncomfortable and exciting for both of them.
“You’re in Mr. Brosnahan’s class, right?”
“Have you ever gone to a Pink Floyd Laser Light Show?” “Beer before liquor. Never sicker.”
When they ran out of small talk, they just looked at each other. And they ended up fooling around right there in the basement. Patrick said it was like the weight of the whole world left both their shoulders.
But Monday in school, Brad kept saying the same thing. “Man, I was so wasted. I don’t remember a thing.”
He said it to everyone who was at the party. He said it a few times to the same people. He even said it to Patrick. Nobody saw Patrick and Brad fool around, but Brad kept saying it anyway. That Friday, there was another party. And this time, Patrick and Brad got stoned although Patrick said that Brad was pretending to be a lot more stoned than he really was. And they ended up fooling around again. And Monday in school, Brad did the same thing.
“Man, I was so wasted. I don’t remember a thing.” This went on for seven months.
It got to a point where Brad was getting stoned or drunk before school. It’s not like he and Patrick were fooling around in school. They only fooled around at parties on Fridays, but Patrick said Brad couldn’t even look at him in the hall, let alone speak with him. And it was hard, too, because Patrick really liked Brad.
When summer came, Brad didn’t have to worry about school or anything, so his drinking and smoking got a lot worse. There was a big party at Patrick and Sam’s house with the less than popular crowd. Brad showed up, which caused quite a stir because he was popular, but Patrick kept a secret as to why Brad came to the party. When most people left, Brad and Patrick went into Patrick’s room.
They had sex for the first time that night.
I don’t want to go into detail about it because it’s pretty private stuff, but I will say that Brad assumed the role of the girl in terms of where you put things. I think that’s pretty important to tell you. When they were finished, Brad started to cry really hard. He had been drinking a lot. And getting really really stoned.
No matter what Patrick did, Brad kept crying. Brad wouldn’t even let Patrick hold him, which seems rather sad to me because if I have sex with someone, I would want to hold them.
Finally, Patrick just pulled up Brad’s pants, and said to him.
“Just pretend you’re passed out.”
Then, Patrick got dressed and walked around the house to go into the party from a different direction than his bedroom. He was also crying pretty bad, and he decided if anyone asked him, he would say his eyes were red from smoking pot. Finally, he shook himself out of it and walked into the main party room. He acted really drunk. He went to Sam. “Have you seen Brad?” Sam saw the look in Patrick’s eyes. Then, she spoke up to the party.
“Hey, has anyone seen Brad?”
Nobody at the party had, so a few people went to search for him. They finally found him in Patrick’s room… asleep.
Finally, Patrick called Brad’s parents because he was really worried about him. He didn’t tell them why, but he said that Brad was really sick at this party and needed to be taken home. Brad’s parents did come, and Brad’s father, along with some of the other boys including Patrick, carried Brad to the car.
Patrick doesn’t know if Brad was really asleep or not at that point, but if he wasn’t, it was a good acting job. Brad’s parents sent him to rehabilitation because Brad’s father didn’t want him to miss his chance at a football scholarship. Patrick didn’t see Brad for the rest of the summer.
Brad’s parents never did figure out why their son was getting stoned and drunk all the time. Neither did anybody else. Except the people who knew.
When the school year started, Brad avoided Patrick a lot. He never went to the same parties as Patrick or anything until a little over a month ago. That was the night he threw rocks at Patrick’s window and told Patrick that nobody could know, and Patrick understood. They only see each other now at night on golf courses and at parties like Bob’s where the people are quiet and understand these things.
I asked Patrick if he felt sad that he had to keep it a secret, and Patrick just said that he wasn’t sad because at least now, Brad doesn’t have to get drunk or stoned to make love.
Love always, Charlie
November 8, 1991 Dear friend,
Bill gave me my first Bin advanced English class for my paper on Peter Pan! To tell you the truth, I don’t know what I did differently from the other papers. He told me that my sense of language is improving along with my sentence structure. I think it’s great that I could be improving on these things without noticing. By the way, Bill gives me A’s on my report cards and letters to my parents. The grades on these papers are just between us.
I have decided that maybe I want to write when I grow up. I just don’t know what I would write.
I thought about maybe writing for magazines just so I could see an article that didn’t say things like I mentioned before. “As
wiped the honey mustard off of her lips, she spoke to me about her third husband and the healing power of crystals.” But honestly, I think I would be a very bad reporter because I can’t imagine sitting across the table from a politician or a movie star and asking them questions. I think I would probably just ask for their autograph for my mom or something. I would probably get fired for doing this. So, I thought about maybe writing for a newspaper instead because I could ask regular people questions, but my sister says that newspapers always lie. I do not know if this is true, so I’ll just have to see when I get older.
I did start working for a fanzine called Punk Rocky. It’s this xerox magazine about punk rock and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I don’t write for it, but I help out.
Mary Elizabeth is in charge of it, just like she is in charge of the local Rocky Horror Picture Show showings. Mary Elizabeth is a very interesting person because she has a tattoo that symbolizes Buddhism and a belly button ring and wears her hair to make somebody mad, but when she’s in charge of something, she acts like my dad when he comes home from a “long day.” She is a senior, and she says that my sister is a tease and a snob. I told her not to say anything like that about my sister again.
Of all the things I’ve done this year so far, I think I like The Rocky Horror Picture Show the best. Patrick and Sam took me to the theater to see it on Halloween night. It’s really fun because all these kids dress up like the people in the movie, and they act out the movie in front of the screen. Also, people shout at the movie on cue. I guess you probably know this already, but I thought I’d say it anyway in case you didn’t.
Patrick plays “Frank ‘N Furter.” Sam plays “Janet.” It is very hard to watch the movie because Sam walks around in her underwear when she
plays Janet. I am really trying not to think of her that way, which is becoming increasingly difficult.
To tell you the truth, I love Sam. It’s not a movie kind of love either. I just look at her sometimes, and I think she is the prettiest and nicest person in the whole world. She is also very smart and fun. I wrote her a poem after I saw her in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but I didn’t show it to her because I was embarrassed. I would write it out for you, but I think that would be disrespectful to Sam.
The thing is that Sam is now going out with a boy named Craig.
Craig is older than my brother. I think he may even be twenty-one because he drinks red wine. Craig plays “Rocky” in the show. Patrick says that Craig is “cut and hunky.” I do not know where Patrick finds his expressions.
But I guess that he’s right, Craig is cut and hunky. He is also a very creative person. He’s putting himself through the Art Institute here by being a male model for JCPenney catalogs and things like that. He likes to take photographs, and I’ve seen a few of them, and they are very good. There is this one photograph of Sam that is just beautiful. It would be impossible to describe how beautiful it is, but I’ll try.
If you listen to the song “Asleep,” and you think about those pretty weather days that make you remember things, and you think about the prettiest eyes you’ve known, and you cry, and the person holds you back, then I think you will see the photograph.
I want Sam to stop liking Craig.
Now, I guess maybe you think that’s because I am jealous of him. I’m not. Honest. It’s just that Craig doesn’t really listen to her when she talks. I don’t mean that he’s a bad guy because he’s not. It’s just that he always looks distracted.
It’s like he would take a photograph of Sam, and the photograph would be beautiful. And he would think that the reason the photograph was beautiful was because of how he took it. If I took it, I would know that the only reason it’s beautiful is because of Sam.
I just think it’s bad when a boy looks at a girl and thinks that the way he sees the girl is better than the girl actually is. And I think it’s bad when the most honest way a boy can look at a girl is through a camera. It’s very hard for me to see Sam feel better about herself just because an older boy sees her that way.
I asked my sister about this, and she said that Sam has low self- esteem. My sister also said that Sam had a reputation when she was a sophomore. According to my sister, Sam used to be a “blow queen.” I
hope you know what that means because I really can’t think about Sam and describe it to you.
I am really in love with Sam, and it hurts very much.
I did ask my sister about the boy at the dance. She wouldn’t talk about it until I promised that I wouldn’t tell anybody, not even Bill. So, I promised. She said that she has been seeing this boy secretly since Dad said she couldn’t. She says she thinks about him when he’s not there. She says they’re going to get married after they both finish college, and he finishes law school.
She told me not to worry because he hasn’t hit her since that night. And she said not to worry because he won’t hit her again. She really didn’t say any more other than that, although she kept talking.
It was nice sitting with my sister that night because she almost never likes to talk to me. I was surprised that she told me as much as she did, but I guess that since she’s keeping things secret, she can’t tell anybody. And I guess she was just dying to tell somebody.
But as much as she told me not to, I do worry a lot about her. She is my sister, after all.
Love always, Charlie
November 12, 1991 Dear friend,
I love Twinkies, and the reason I am saying that is because we are all supposed to think of reasons to live. In science class, Mr. Z. told us about an experiment where they got this rat or mouse, and they put this rat or mouse on one side of a cage. On the other side of the cage, they put a little piece of food. And this rat or mouse would walk over to the food and eat. Then, they put the rat or mouse back on its original side, and this time, they put electricity all through the floor where the rat or mouse would have to walk to get the piece of food. They did this for a while, and the rat or mouse stopped going to get the food at a certain amount of voltage. Then, they repeated the experiment, but they replaced the food with something that gave the rat or mouse intense pleasure. I don’t know what it was that gave them intense pleasure, but I am guessing it is some kind of rat or mouse nip. Anyway, what the scientists found out was that the rat or mouse would put up with a lot more voltage for the pleasure. Even more than for the food.
I don’t know the significance of this, but I find it very interesting.
Love always, Charlie
November 15, 1991 Dear friend,
It’s starting to get cold and frosty here. The pretty fall weather is pretty much gone. The good news is that we have holidays coming up, which I love especially now because my brother will be coming home soon. Maybe even for Thanksgiving! At least I hope he does for my mom.
My brother hasn’t called home in a few weeks now, and Mom just keeps talking about his grades and sleeping habits and the foods he eats, and my dad keeps saying the same thing.
“He’s not going to get injured.”
Personally, I like to think my brother is having a college experience like they do in the movies. I don’t mean the big fraternity party kind of movie. More like the movie where the guy meets a smart girl who wears a lot of sweaters and drinks cocoa. They talk about books and issues and kiss in the rain. I think something like that would be very good for him, especially if the girl were unconventionally beautiful. They are the best kind of girls, I think. I personally find “super models” strange. I don’t know why this is.
My brother, on the other hand, has posters of “super models” and cars and beer and things like that on the walls in his room. I suppose if you add a dirty floor, it’s probably what his dorm room looks like. My brother always hated making his bed, but he kept his clothes closet very organized. Go figure.
The thing is, when my brother does call home, he doesn’t say a lot. He talks about his classes a little bit, but mostly he talks about the football team. There is a lot of attention on the team because they are very good, and they have some really big players. My brother said that one of the guys will probably be a millionaire someday, but that he is “dumb as a post.” I guess that’s pretty dumb.
My brother told this one story where the whole team was sitting around the locker room, talking about all the stuff they had to do to get into college football. They finally got around to talking about SAT scores, which I have never taken.
And this guy said, “I got a 710.”
And my brother said, “Math or verbal?” And the guy said, “Huh?”
And the whole team laughed.
I always wanted to be on a sports team like that. I’m not exactly sure why, but I always thought it would be fun to have “glory days.” Then, I would have stories to tell my children and golf buddies. I guess I could tell people about Punk Rocky and walking home from school and things like that. Maybe these are my glory days, and I’m not even realizing it because they don’t involve a ball.
I used to play sports when I was little, and I was actually very good, but the problem was that it used to make me too aggressive, so the doctors told my mom I would have to stop.
My dad had glory days once. I’ve seen pictures of him when he was young. He was a very handsome man. I don’t know any other way to put it. He looked like all old pictures look. Old pictures look very rugged and young, and the people in the photographs always seem a lot happier than you are.
My mother looks beautiful in old pictures. She actually looks more beautiful than anyone except maybe Sam. Sometimes, I look at my parents now and wonder what happened to make them the way they are. And then I wonder what will happen to my sister when her boyfriend graduates from law school. And what my brother’s face will look like on a football card, or what it will look like if it is never on a football card. My dad played college baseball for two years, but he had to stop when Mom got pregnant with my brother. That’s when he started working at the office. I honestly don’t know what my dad does.
He tells a story sometimes. It is a great story. It has to do with the state championship for baseball when he was in high school. It was the bottom of the ninth inning, and there was a runner on first. There were two outs, and my dad’s team was behind by one run. My dad was younger than most of the varsity team because he was only a sophomore, and I think the team thought he was going to blow the game. He had all this pressure on him. He was really nervous. And really scared. But after a few pitches, he said he started feeling “in the zone.” When the pitcher wound up and threw the next ball, he knew exactly where that ball was going to be. He hit it harder than any other ball he ever hit in his whole life. And he made a home run, and his team won the state championship. The greatest thing about this story is that every time my dad tells it, it never changes. He’s not one to exaggerate.
I think about all this sometimes when I’m watching a football game with Patrick and Sam. I look at the field, and I think about the boy who just made the touchdown. I think that these are the glory days for that boy, and this moment will just be another story someday because all the people who make touchdowns and home runs will become somebody’s dad. And when his children look at his yearbook photograph, they will think that their dad was rugged and handsome and looked a lot happier than they are.
I just hope I remember to tell my kids that they are as happy as I look in my old photographs. And I hope that they believe me.
Love always, Charlie
November 18, 1991 Dear friend,
My brother finally called yesterday, and he can’t make it home for any part of Thanksgiving weekend because he is behind on school because of football. My mom was so upset that she took me shopping for new clothes.
I know you think what I’m about to write is an exaggeration, but I promise you that it isn’t. From the time we got into the car to the time we came home, my mom literally did not stop talking. Not once. Not even when I was in the dressing room trying on “slacks.”
She just stood outside the dressing room and worried out loud. The things she said went all over the place. First, it was that my dad should’ve insisted that my brother come home if only for an afternoon. Then, it was that my sister had better start thinking more about her future and start applying to “safety” schools in case the good ones don’t work out. And then she started saying that gray was a good color for me.
I understand how my mom thinks. I really do.
It’s like when we were little, and we would go to the grocery store. My sister and brother would fight about things that my sister and brother would fight about, and I would sit at the bottom of the shopping cart. And my mom would be so upset by the end of shopping that she would push the cart fast, and I would feel like I was in a submarine.
Yesterday was like that except now I got to sit in the front seat.
When I saw Sam and Patrick at school today, they both agreed that my mom has very good taste in clothing. I told my mom this when I got
home from school, and she smiled. She asked me if I wanted to invite Sam and Patrick over for dinner sometime after the holidays are over because my mom gets nervous enough as it is during the holidays. I called Sam and Patrick, and they said they would.
I’m really excited!
The last time I had a friend over to dinner was Michael last year. We had tacos. The really great part was that Michael stayed over to sleep. We ended up sleeping very little. We mostly just talked about things like girls and movies and music. The one part I remember distinctly was walking around the neighborhood at night. My parents were asleep along with the rest of the houses. Michael looked into all the windows. It was dark and quiet.
He said, “Do you think those people are nice?” I said, “The Andersons? Yeah. They’re old.” “What about those people?”
“Well, Mrs. Lambert doesn’t like baseballs going into her yard.” “What about those people?”
“Mrs. Tanner has been visiting her mother for three months. Mr. Tanner spends his weekends sitting on the back porch and listening to baseball games. I don’t really know if they’re nice or not because they don’t have children.”
“Is she sick?” “Is who sick?”
“Mrs. Tanner’s mother.”
“I don’t think so. My mom would know, and she didn’t say anything.” Michael nodded. “They’re getting a divorce.”
“You think so?” “Uh-huh.”
We just kept walking. Michael had a way of walking quiet sometimes. I guess I should mention that my mom heard that Michael’s parents are divorced now. She said that only seventy percent of marriages stay together when they lose a child. I think she read it in a magazine somewhere.
Love always, Charlie
November 23, 1991 Dear friend,
Do you enjoy holidays with your family? I don’t mean your mom and dad family, but your uncle and aunt and cousin family? Personally, I do. There are several reasons for this.
First, I am very interested and fascinated by how everyone loves each other, but no one really likes each other. Second, the fights are always the same.
They usually start when my mom’s dad (my grandfather) finishes his third drink. It is around this time that he starts to talk a lot. My grandfather usually just complains about black people moving into the old neighborhood, and then my sister gets upset at him, and then my grandfather tells her that she doesn’t know what she’s talking about because she lives in the suburbs. And then he says how no one visits him in his retirement home. And finally he starts talking about all of the family’s secrets, like how cousin so-and-so “knocked up” that waitress from the Big Boy. I should probably mention that my grandfather can’t hear very well, so he says all of these things really loud.
My sister tries to fight him, but she never wins. My grandfather is definitely more stubborn than she is. My mom usually helps her aunt prepare the food, which my grandfather always says is “too dry” even if it’s soup. And her aunt will then cry and lock herself in the bathroom.
There is only one bathroom in my great aunt’s house, so this turns to trouble when all the beer starts to hit my cousins. They stand twisted in bladder positions and bang on the door for a few minutes and almost coax my great aunt out, but then my grandfather curses something at my great aunt, and the cycle starts over again. With the exception of the one holiday when my grandfather passed out just after dinner, my cousins always have to go to the bathroom outside in the bushes. If you look out the windows like I do, you can see them, and it looks like they’re on one of their hunting trips. I feel terribly sorry for my girl cousins and my other great aunts because they don’t really have the bushes option, especially when it’s cold.
I should mention that my dad usually just sits real quiet and drinks. My dad is not a big drinker at all, but when he has to spend time with my mom’s family, he gets “loaded,” as my cousin Tommy says. Deep down, I think my dad would rather spend the holiday with his family in Ohio. That way, he wouldn’t have to be around my grandfather. He doesn’t like my grandfather very much, but he keeps quiet about it. Even on the ride home. He just doesn’t think it’s his place.
As the evening comes to an end, my grandfather is usually too drunk to do much of anything. My dad and my brother and my cousins carry
him out to the car of the person who is least angry at him. It has always been my job to open doors for them along the way. My grandfather is very fat.
I remember there was one time that my brother drove my grandfather back to the retirement home, and I rode along. My brother always understood my grandfather. He rarely got angry at him unless my grandfather said something mean about my mom or sister or made a scene in public. I remember it was snowing really hard, and it was very quiet. Almost peaceful. And my grandfather calmed down and started talking a different kind of talk.
He told us that when he was sixteen, he had to leave school because his dad died, and someone had to support the family. He talked about the time when he had to go to the mill three times a day to see if there was any work for him. And he talked about how cold it was. And how hungry he was because he made sure his family always ate before him. Things he said we just wouldn’t understand because we were lucky. Then, he talked about his daughters, my mom and Aunt Helen.
“I know how your mom feels about me. I know Helen, too. There was one time… I went to the mill… no work… none.… I came home at two in the morning… pissed and pissed… your grandmother showed me their report cards… C-plus average… and these were smart girls. So, I went into their room and I beat some sense into them… and when it was done and they were crying, I just held up their report cards and said… ‘This will never happen again.’ She still talks about it… your mother… but you know something… it never did happen again… they went to college… both of them. I just wish I could have sent them… I always wanted to send them… . I wish Helen could have understood that. I think your mother did… deep down… she’s a good woman… you should be proud of her.”
When I told my mom about this, she just looked very sad because he could never say those things to her. Not ever. Not even when he walked her down the aisle.
But this Thanksgiving was different. It was my brother’s football game, which we brought a VCR tape of for my relatives to watch. The whole family was gathered around the TV, even my great aunts, who never watch football. I’ll never forget the looks on their faces when my brother took the field. It was a mixture of all things. My one cousin works in a gas station. And my other cousin has been out of work for two years since he injured his hand. And my other cousin has been wanting to go back to college for around seven years. And my dad said once that
they were very jealous of my brother because he had a shot in life and was actually doing something about it.
But in that moment when my brother took the field, all that washed away, and everyone was proud. At one point, my brother made a very big play on third down, and everyone cheered even though some of us had already seen the game before. I looked up at my dad, and he was smiling. I looked at my mom, and she was smiling even though she was nervous about my brother getting hurt, which was strange because it was a VCR tape of an old game, and she knew he didn’t get hurt. My great aunts and my cousins and their children and everyone were also smiling. Even my sister. There were only two people who weren’t smiling. My grandfather and I.
My grandfather was crying.
The kind of crying that is quiet and a secret. The kind of crying that only I noticed. I thought about him going into my mom’s room when she was little and hitting my mom and holding up her report card and saying that her bad grades would never happen again. And I think now that maybe he meant my older brother. Or my sister. Or me. That he would make sure that he was the last one to work in a mill.
I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I don’t know if it’s better to have your kids be happy and not go to college. I don’t know if it’s better to be close with your daughter or make sure that she has a better life than you do. I just don’t know. I was just quiet, and I watched him.
When the game was over and dinner was finished, everyone said what they were thankful for. A lot of it had to do with my brother or family or children or God. And everyone meant it when they said it regardless of what would happen tomorrow. When it came to my turn I thought about it a lot because this was my first time sitting at the big table with all the grown-ups since my brother wasn’t here to take his seat.
“I’m thankful that my brother played football on television so nobody fought.”
Most of the people around the table looked uncomfortable. Some looked angry. My dad looked like he knew I was right, but he didn’t want to say anything because it wasn’t his family. My mom was nervous about what her dad would do. Only one person at the table said anything. It was my great aunt, the one who usually locks herself in the bathroom.
“Amen.”
And somehow that made it all right.
When we were all getting ready to leave, I walked up to my grandfather and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He wiped my lip
print off with his palm and gave me a look. He doesn’t like the boys in the family to touch him. But I’m very glad that I did it anyway in case he dies. I never got to do that with my Aunt Helen.
Love always, Charlie
December 7, 1991 Dear friend,
Have you ever heard of a thing called “Secret Santa?” It’s this activity where a group of friends draw names out of a hat, and they are supposed to buy a lot of Christmas presents for whatever person they choose. The presents are “secretly” placed in their lockers when they’re not there. Then, at the end, you have a party, and all the people reveal who they really are as they give their last presents.
Sam started doing this with her group of friends three years ago. Now, it’s some tradition. And supposedly the party at the end is always the best of the year. It happens the night after our last day of school before the break.
I don’t know who got me. I got Patrick.
I’m really glad I got Patrick even though I wished for Sam. I haven’t seen Patrick in a few weeks except in shop class because he has been spending most of his time with Brad, so thinking about presents is a good way to think about him.
The first present is going to be a mix tape. I just know that it should. I already have the songs picked and a theme. It’s called “One Winter.” But I’ve decided not to hand-color the cover. The first side has a lot of songs by the Village People and Blondie because Patrick likes that type of music a lot. It also has Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana, which Sam and Patrick love. But the second side is the one I like the most. It has winter kind of songs.
Here they are:
Asleep by the Smiths
Vapour Trail by Ride
Scarborough Fair by Simon & Garfunkel A Whiter Shade of Pale by Procol Harum Time of No Reply by Nick Drake
Dear Prudence by the Beatles
Gypsy by Suzanne Vega
Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues
Daydream by Smashing Pumpkins
Dusk by Genesis (before Phil Collins was even in the band!)
MLK by U2
Blackbird by the Beatles
Landslide by Fleetwood Mac And finally…
Asleep by the Smiths (again!)
I spent all night working on it, and I hope Patrick likes it as much as I do. Especially the second side. I hope it’s the kind of second side that he can listen to whenever he drives alone and feel like he belongs to something whenever he’s sad. I hope it can be that for him.
I had an amazing feeling when I finally held the tape in my hand. I just thought to myself that in the palm of my hand, there was this one tape that had all of these memories and feelings and great joy and sadness. Right there in the palm of my hand. And I thought about how many people have loved those songs. And how many people got through a lot of bad times because of those songs. And how many people enjoyed good times with those songs. And how much those songs really mean. I think it would be great to have written one of those songs. I bet if I wrote one of them, I would be very proud. I hope the people who wrote those songs are happy. I hope that they feel it’s enough. I really do because they’ve made me happy. And I’m only one person.
I can’t wait to get my driver’s license. It’s coming up soon!
Incidentally, I have not told you about Bill in a while. But I guess there’s not a lot to tell because he just keeps giving me books that he doesn’t give his other students, and I keep reading them, and he keeps asking me to write papers, and I do. In the last month or so, I have read The Great Gatsby and A Separate Peace. I am starting to see a real trend in the kind of books Bill gives me to read. And just like the tape of songs, it is amazing to hold each of them in the palm of my hand. They are all my favorites. All of them.
Love always, Charlie
December 11, 1991
Dear friend,
Patrick loved the tape! I think he knows that I’m his Secret Santa, though, because I think he knows that only I would do a tape like that. He also knows what my handwriting looks like. I don’t know why I don’t think of these things until it’s too late. I really should have saved it for my last present.
Incidentally, I have thought of my second gift for Patrick. It is magnetic poetry. Have you heard of this? In case you haven’t, I will explain. Some guy or girl put a whole bunch of words on a sheet of magnet and then cut the words into separate pieces. You put them on your refrigerator, and then you write poems while you make a sandwich. It’s very fun.
The gift from my Secret Santa wasn’t anything special. That makes me sad. I bet you anything that Mary Elizabeth is my Secret Santa because only she would give me socks.
Love always, Charlie
December 19, 1991 Dear friend,
I have since received thrift store “slacks.” I have also received a tie, a white shirt, shoes, and an old belt. I’m guessing that my last gift at the party will be a suit coat because it’s the only thing left. I was told by a typed note to wear everything I had been given to the party. I hope there is something behind this.
The good news is that Patrick liked all my gifts very much. Gift number three was a set of watercolor paints and some paper. I thought he might like to get them even if he never uses them. Gift number four was a harmonica and a book about playing it. I guess it’s probably the same gift as the water colors, but I really think that everyone should have watercolors, magnetic poetry, and a harmonica.
My last gift before the party is a book called The Mayor of Castro Street. It is about a man named Harvey Milk, who was a gay leader in San Francisco. I went to the library when Patrick told me he was gay, and I did some research because I honestly didn’t know much about it. I found an article about a documentary movie about Harvey Milk. And when I couldn’t find the movie, I just searched for his name, and I found this book.
I have not read it myself, but the description on the book seemed very good. I hope that it means something to Patrick. I can’t wait for the party, so I can give Patrick my party present. Incidentally, I have taken all my finals for the semester, and it has been very busy, and I would have told you all about it, but it just doesn’t seem as interesting as these other things that have to do with holidays.
Love always, Charlie
December 21, 1991 Dear friend,
Wow. Wow. I can paint the picture for you if you like. We are all sitting in Sam and Patrick’s house, which I had never seen before. It was a rich house. Very clean. And we were all giving our final presents. The outside lights were on, and it was snowing, and it looked like magic. Like we were somewhere else. Like we were someplace better.
It was the first time I had ever met Sam and Patrick’s parents. They were so nice. Sam’s mom is very pretty and tells great jokes. Sam said she used to be an actress when she was younger. Patrick’s dad is very tall and has a great handshake. He is also a very good cook. A lot of parents make you feel very awkward when you meet them. But not Sam and Patrick’s. They were friendly all through dinner, and when dinner was over, they left so we could have our party. They didn’t even check on us or anything. Not once. They just let us pretend it was our house. So, we decided to have the party in the “games” room, which had no games but a great rug.
When I revealed that I was Patrick’s Secret Santa, everyone laughed because everyone knew, and Patrick did his best impersonation of being surprised, which was nice of him. Then, everyone asked what my last gift was, and I told them it was a poem I read a long time ago. It was a poem that Michael made a copy of for me. And I have read it a thousand times since because I don’t know who wrote it. I don’t know if it was ever in a book or a class. And I don’t know how old the person was. But I know that I want to know him or her. I want to know that this person is okay.
So, everyone asked me to stand up and read the poem. And I wasn’t shy because we were trying to act like grown-ups, and we drank brandy. And I was warm. I’m still a little warm, but I have to tell you this. So, I
stood up, and just before I read this poem, I asked everyone if they knew who wrote it to please tell me.
When I was done reading the poem, everyone was quiet. A very sad quiet. But the amazing thing was that it wasn’t a bad sad at all. It was just something that made everyone look around at each other and know that they were there. Sam and Patrick looked at me. And I looked at them. And I think they knew. Not anything specific really. They just knew. And I think that’s all you can ever ask from a friend.
That’s when Patrick put on the second side of the tape I made for him and poured everyone another glass of brandy. I guess we all looked a little silly drinking it, but we didn’t feel silly. I can tell you that.
As the songs kept playing, Mary Elizabeth stood up. But she wasn’t holding a suit coat. It turns out that she wasn’t my Secret Santa at all. She was the Secret Santa to the other girl with the tattoo and belly button ring, whose real name is Alice. She gave her some black nail polish that Alice had had her eye on. And Alice was very grateful. I just sat there, looking around the room. Looking for the suit coat. Not knowing who could possibly be holding it.
Sam stood up next, and she gave Bob a handcrafted Native American marijuana pipe, which seemed appropriate.
More people gave more gifts. And more hugs were exchanged. And finally, it came to the end. No one was left except for Patrick. And he stood up and walked into the kitchen.
“Does anyone want any chips?”
Everyone did. And he came out with three tubes of Pringles and a suit coat. And he walked up to me. And he said that all the great writers used to wear suits all the time.
So, I put on the suit even though I didn’t feel like I really deserved to since all I write are essays for Bill, but it was such a nice present, and everyone clapped their hands anyway. Sam and Patrick both agreed I looked handsome. Mary Elizabeth smiled. I think it was the first time in my life I ever felt like I looked “good.” Do you know what I mean? That nice feeling when you look in the mirror, and your hair’s right for the first time in your life? I don’t think we should base so much on weight, muscles, and a good hair day, but when it happens, it’s nice. It really is.
The rest of the evening was very special. Since a lot of people were going away with their families to places like Florida and Indiana, we all exchanged presents with the people we weren’t Secret Santas for.
Bob gave Patrick an eighth of marijuana with a Christmas card attached. He even wrapped it. Mary Elizabeth gave Sam earrings. So did
Alice. And Sam gave them earrings, too. I think that is a private girl thing. I have to admit, I felt a little sad because other than Sam and Patrick, nobody got me a present. I guess I’m not that close with them, so it makes sense. But I still felt a little sad.
And then it came to my turn. I gave Bob a little plastic tube of soap bubbles because it just seemed to fit his personality. I guess I was right.
“Too much,” was all he said.
He spent the rest of the night blowing bubbles at the ceiling.
Next was Alice. I gave her a book by Anne Rice because she is always talking about her. And she looked at me like she couldn’t believe I knew she loved Anne Rice. I guess she didn’t know how much she talked or how much I listen. But she thanked me all the same. Next came Mary Elizabeth. I gave her forty dollars inside a card. The card said something pretty simple: “To be spent on printing Punk Rocky in color next time.”
And she looked at me funny. Then, they all started to look at me funny except for Sam and Patrick. I think they started feeling bad because they didn’t get me anything. But I don’t think they should have because I don’t think that’s the point really. Mary Elizabeth just smiled, and said thanks, and then stopped looking at me in the eye.
Last came Sam. I had been thinking about this present for a long time. I think I thought about this present from the first time I really saw her. Not met her or saw her but the first time I really saw her if you know what I mean. There was a card attached.
Inside the card, I told Sam that the present I gave her was given to me by my Aunt Helen. It was an old 45 record that had the Beatles’ song “Something.” I used to listen to it all the time when I was little and thinking about grown-up things. I would go to my bedroom window and stare at my reflection in the glass and the trees behind it and just listen to the song for hours. I decided then that when I met someone I thought was as beautiful as the song, I should give it to that person. And I didn’t mean beautiful on the outside. I meant beautiful in all ways. So, I was giving it to Sam.
Sam looked at me soft. And she hugged me. And I closed my eyes because I wanted to know nothing but her arms. And she kissed my cheek and whispered so nobody could hear.
“I love you.”
I knew that she meant it in a friend way, but I didn’t care because it was the third time since my Aunt Helen died that I heard it from anyone. The other two times were from my mom.
After that, I couldn’t believe that Sam actually got me a present because I honestly thought that the “I love you” was it. But she did get me a present. And for the first time, something nice like that made me smile and not cry. I guess Sam and Patrick went to the same thrift store because their gifts went together. She took me to her room and stood me in front of her dresser, which was covered in a pillowcase with pretty colors. She lifted off the pillowcase, and there I was, standing in my old suit, looking at an old typewriter with a fresh ribbon. Inside the typewriter was a piece of white paper.
On that piece of white paper, Sam wrote, “Write about me sometime.” And I typed something back to her, standing right there in her bedroom. I just typed.
“I will.”
And I felt good that those were the first two words that I ever typed on my new old typewriter that Sam gave me. We just sat there quiet for a moment, and she smiled. And I moved to the typewriter again, and I wrote something.
“I love you, too.”
And Sam looked at the paper, and she looked at me. “Charlie… have you ever kissed a girl?”
I shook my head no. It was so quiet. “Not even when you were little?”
I shook my head no again. And she looked very sad.
She told me about the first time she was kissed. She told me that it was with one of her dad’s friends. She was seven. And she told nobody about it except for Mary Elizabeth and then Patrick a year ago. And she started to cry. And she said something that I won’t forget. Ever.
“I know that you know that I like Craig. And I know that I told you not to think of me that way. And I know that we can’t be together like that. But I want to forget all those things for a minute. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I want to make sure that the first person you kiss loves you. Okay?” “Okay.” She was crying harder now. And I was, too, because when I
hear something like that I just can’t help it. “I just want to make sure of that. Okay?” “Okay.”
And she kissed me. It was the kind of kiss that I could never tell my friends about out loud. It was the kind of kiss that made me know that I was never so happy in my whole life.
Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem
And he called it “Chops”
because that was the name of his dog And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X’s
and he had to ask his father what the X’s meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it
Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem
And he called it “Autumn”
because that was the name of the season And that’s what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint
And the kids told him
that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews
And sometimes they would burn holes That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night And his father got mad
when he cried for him to do it.
Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem
And he called it “Innocence: A Question” because that was the question about his girl And that’s what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end
of the Apostle’s Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed or even talked
And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway
because that was the thing to do
And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly
That’s why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem
And he called it “Absolutely Nothing” Because that’s what it was really all about And he gave himself an A
and a slash on each damned wrist And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn’t think
he could reach the kitchen.
That was the poem I read for Patrick. Nobody knew who wrote it, but Bob said he heard it before, and he heard that it was some kid’s suicide note. I really hope it wasn’t because then I don’t know if I like the ending.
Love always, Charlie
December 23, 1991 Dear friend,
Sam and Patrick left with their family for the Grand Canyon yesterday. I don’t feel too bad about it because I can still remember Sam’s kiss. It feels peaceful and right. I even considered not washing my lips like they do on TV, but then I thought it would get too gross. So, instead I spent today walking around the neighborhood. I even got out my old sled and my old scarf. There is something cozy about that for me.
I walked over to the hill where we used to go and sled. There were a lot of little kids there. I watched them flying. Doing jumps and having races. And I thought that all those little kids are going to grow up someday. And all of those little kids are going to do the things that we do. And they will all kiss someone someday. But for now, sledding is enough. I think it would be great if sledding were always enough, but it isn’t.
I’m really glad that Christmas and my birthday are soon because that means they will be over soon because I can already feel myself going to a bad place I used to go. After my Aunt Helen was gone, I went to that place. It got so bad that my mom had to take me to a doctor, and I was held back a grade. But now I’m trying not to think about it too much because that makes it worse.
It’s kind of like when you look at yourself in the mirror and you say your name. And it gets to a point where none of it seems real. Well, sometimes, I can do that, but I don’t need an hour in front of a mirror. It happens very fast, and things start to slip away. And I just open my eyes, and I see nothing. And then I start to breathe really hard trying to see something, but I can’t. It doesn’t happen all the time, but when it does, it scares me.
It almost happened this morning, but I thought of Sam’s kiss, and it went away.
I probably shouldn’t be writing about this too much because it brings it up too much. It makes me think too much. And I am trying to participate. It’s just hard because Sam and Patrick are in the Grand Canyon.
Tomorrow, I’m going with my mom to buy presents for everyone. And then we are celebrating my birthday. I was born on December 24. I don’t know if I ever told you that. It’s a strange birthday to have because it is so close to Christmas. After that, we are celebrating Christmas with my dad’s family, and my brother will be home for a little while. Then, I’m going out to take my driver’s test, so I will be busy while Sam and Patrick are gone.
Tonight, I watched some television with my sister, but she didn’t want to watch the Christmas specials that were on, so I decided to go upstairs and read.
Bill gave me one book to read over the break. It’s The Catcher in the Rye. It was Bill’s favorite book when he was my age. He said it was the kind of book you made your own.
I read the first twenty pages. I don’t know how I feel about it just yet, but it does seem appropriate to this time. I hope Sam and Patrick call on my birthday. It would make me feel much better.
Love always, Charlie
December 25, 1991 Dear friend,
I am sitting in my dad’s old bedroom in Ohio. The family is still downstairs. I really don’t feel very well. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’m starting to get scared. I wish we were going back home tonight, but we always sleep over. I don’t want to tell my mom about it because it would just make her worry. I would tell Sam and Patrick, but they didn’t call yesterday. And we left this morning after we opened presents. Maybe they called this afternoon. I hope they didn’t call this afternoon because I wasn’t there. I hope it’s okay that I’m telling you this. I just don’t know what else to do. I always get sad when this happens, and I wish Michael were here. And I wish my Aunt Helen were here. I miss my Aunt Helen like this. Reading the book isn’t helping either. I don’t know. I’m just thinking too fast. Much too fast. It’s like tonight.
The family watched It’s a Wonderful Life, which is a very beautiful movie. And all I could think was why didn’t they make the movie about Uncle Billy? George Bailey was an important man in the town. Because of him, a whole bunch of people got to get out of the slums. He saved a town, and when his dad died, he was the only guy who could do it. He wanted to live an adventure, but he stayed behind and sacrificed his dreams for the better good of the community. And then when that made him sad, he was going to kill himself. He was going to die because his life insurance money would have taken care of his family. And then an angel comes down and shows him what life would be if he had never been born. How the whole town would have suffered. And how his wife would have been an “old maid.” And my sister didn’t even say anything about how that’s such an old-fashioned thing, this year. Every other year she says something about how Mary was working for a living, and just because she’s not married, it doesn’t mean that she is worthless. But this year she didn’t. I didn’t know why. I thought it might be about that secret boy of hers. Or maybe it’s what happened in the car on the way over to our grandma’s house. I just wanted the movie to be about Uncle Billy because he drank a lot and was fat and lost the money in the first place. I wanted the angel to come down and show us how Uncle Billy’s life had meaning. Then, I think I’d feel better.
It started yesterday at home. I don’t like my birthday. I don’t like it at all. I went shopping with my mom and sister, and my mom was in a bad mood because of parking spaces and lines. And my sister was in a bad mood because she couldn’t buy her secret boy a present and hide it from Mom. She would have to come back herself later. And I felt weird. Really weird, because as I was walking around all the stores, I didn’t know what present my dad would like to receive from me, I knew what to buy or give Sam and Patrick, but I didn’t know what I could buy or give or make for my own dad. My brother likes posters of girls and beer cans. My sister likes a haircut gift certificate. My mom likes old movies and plants. My dad only likes golf, and that is not a winter sport except for in Florida, and we don’t live there. And he doesn’t play baseball anymore. He doesn’t like to be even reminded unless he tells the stories. I just wanted to know what to buy my dad because I love him. And I don’t know him. And he doesn’t like to talk about things like that.
“Well, why don’t you chip in with your sister and buy him that sweater?”
“I don’t want to. I want to buy him something. What kind of music does he like?”
My dad doesn’t listen to music a lot anymore, and the stuff he likes, he has.
“What kind of books does he like to read?”
My dad doesn’t read books too much anymore because he listens to books on cassette tapes on the way to work, and he gets them free from the library.
What kind of movies? What kind of anything?
My sister decided to buy the sweater on her own. And she started to get mad at me because she needed time to come back to the store to buy that present for her secret boyfriend.
“Just buy him some golf balls, Charlie. Jesus.” “But that’s a summer sport.”
“Mom. Would you make him buy something?” “Charlie. Calm down. It’s okay.”
I felt so sad. I didn’t know what was going on. Mom was trying to be really nice because when I get like this, she is the one that tries real hard to keep things calm.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“No. Don’t be sorry. You want to get a nice present for your father.
That’s a good thing.”
“Mom!” My sister was really getting mad. My mom didn’t even look at my sister.
“Charlie, you can buy your father whatever you want. I know he’ll love it. Now, calm down. It’s okay.”
My mom took me to four different stores. Each one my sister just sat in the nearest chair and groaned. I finally found the perfect store. It was a movie place. And I found a videocassette of the last episode of M*A*S*H without the commercials. And I felt a lot better. Then, I started telling Mom about how we all watched it together.
“She knows, Charlie. She was there. Let’s go. Duh.”
My mom told my sister to mind her own business, and she listened to me tell the story that she already knew, leaving out the part about my dad crying because that was our little secret. My mom even told me how I tell stories very well. I love my mom. And this time, I told her I loved her. And she told me she loved me, too. And things were okay for a little while.
We were sitting at the dinner table, waiting for my dad to come home with my brother from the airport. He was really late, and my mom started to worry because it was snowing really hard outside. And she kept my sister at home because she needed help with dinner. She wanted
it to be extra special for my brother and for me because he was coming home, and it was my birthday. But my sister just wanted to buy her boyfriend a present. She was in a really bad mood. She was being like those bratty girls in movies from the 1980s, and my mom kept saying “Young lady” after every sentence.
My dad finally called and said that because of the snow, my brother’s plane was going to be very late. I just heard my mom’s side of the discussion.
“But it’s Charlie’s birthday dinner… I don’t expect you to do anything about it… did he miss it? I’m just asking… I didn’t say it was your fault… no… I can’t keep it warm… it’ll be dry… what… but it’s his favorite… well, what am I supposed to feed them… of course they’re hungry… you’re already an hour late… well, you could have called…”
I don’t know how long my mom was on the phone because I couldn’t stay at the table and listen. I went into my room and read. I wasn’t hungry anymore anyway. I just wanted to be in a quiet place. After a little while, my mom came into the room. She said that dad had just called again, and they should be home in thirty minutes. She asked me if anything was wrong, and I knew that she didn’t mean my sister, and I knew that she didn’t mean she and Dad fighting on the phone because that stuff just happens sometimes. She just noticed that I looked very sad today, and she didn’t think it was my friends leaving because I looked okay yesterday when I came back from sledding.
“Is it your aunt Helen?”
It was the way she said it that started me feeling. “Please, don’t do this to yourself, Charlie.”
But I did do it to myself. Like I do every year on my birthday. “I’m sorry.”
My mom wouldn’t let me talk about it. She knows that I stop listening and start to really breathe fast. She covered my mouth and wiped at my eyes. I calmed down enough to make it downstairs. And I calmed down enough to be glad when my brother came home. And when we ate dinner, it wasn’t too dry. Then, we went outside to put up luminaria, which is an activity where all our neighbors fill brown paper bags with sand and line the street with them. Then, we stick a candle in the sand of each bag, and when we light the candles, it turns the street into a “landing strip” for Santa Claus. I love putting luminaria up every year because it is very beautiful and a tradition and a good distraction from my birthday.
My family gave me some really nice birthday presents. My sister was still mad at me, but she got me a Smiths record anyway. And my brother got me a poster signed by the whole football team. My dad gave me some records that my sister told him to buy. And my mom gave me some of the books she loved when she was a kid. One of them was The Catcher in the Rye.
I started reading my mom’s copy from the place I left off with Bill’s copy. And it made me not think about my birthday. All I thought was that I am going to take my driver’s test sometime soon enough. That was a pretty good thing to think about. And then I thought about my driver’s education class this past semester.
Mr. Smith, who is kind of short and smells funny, wouldn’t let any of us turn on the radio as we rode around. There were also two sophomores, one boy and one girl. They used to secretly touch each other’s legs in the backseat when it was my turn. Then, there was me. I wish I had a lot of stories about driver’s education class. Sure, there were these movies about death on the highway. And sure there were police officers coming to talk to us. And sure it was fun to get my learner’s permit, but Mom and Dad said they didn’t want me driving until I absolutely had to because insurance is so expensive. And I could never ask Sam to drive her pickup truck. I just couldn’t.
These kind of things kept me calm the night of my birthday.
The next morning Christmas started out nice. Dad liked his copy of M*A*S*H a lot, which made me so happy, especially when he told his own story about that night we watched it. He left out the part about him crying, but he winked at me, so I knew he remembered. Even the two- hour drive to Ohio was actually okay for the first half hour, even though I had to sit on the hump in the backseat, because my dad kept asking questions about college, and my brother kept talking. He is dating one of those cheerleader girls who does flips during college football games. Her name is Kelly. My dad was very interested in that. My sister made some remark about how cheerleading is stupid and sexist, and my brother told her to shut up. Kelly was majoring in philosophy. I asked my brother if Kelly was unconventionally beautiful.
“No, she’s hot beautiful.”
And my sister started talking about how the way a woman looks is not the most important thing. I agreed, but then my brother started saying how my sister was just a “bitchy dyke.” Then, my mom told my brother to not use such language in front of me, which was strange considering I am probably the only one in the family with a friend who is gay. Maybe
not, but one who actually talks about it. I’m not sure. Regardless, my dad asked how my brother and Kelly met.
My brother and Kelly met at a restaurant called Ye Olde College Inn or something like that at Penn State. They supposedly have this famous dessert called “grilled stickies.” Anyway, Kelly was with her sorority sisters, and they started to leave, and she dropped her book right in front of my brother, and she kept walking. My brother said that although Kelly denies this, he’s sure that she dropped the book on purpose. The leaves were in full bloom when he caught up with her in front of the video arcade. That’s how he described it anyway. They spent the rest of the afternoon playing old video games like Donkey Kong and feeling nostalgic, which as a general statement, I found sad and sweet. I asked my brother if Kelly drank cocoa.
“Are you high?”
And again my mom asked my brother not to use such language in front of me, which was strange again because I think I’m the only person in my family who’s ever been high. Maybe also my brother. I’m not sure. Definitely not my sister. Then again, maybe my whole family has been high, and we just don’t tell each other these things.
My sister spent the next ten minutes denouncing the Greek system of sororities and fraternities. She kept telling stories of “hazing” and how kids have died before. She then told this one story about how she heard there was a sorority that made the new girls stand in their underwear while they circled their “fat” in red magic markers. My brother had had enough of my sister at that point.
“Bullshit!”
I still can’t believe that my brother swore in the car, and my dad or mom didn’t say anything. I guess because he’s in college now, it’s all right. My sister didn’t care about the word. She just kept going.
“It’s not bullshit. I heard it.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady,” my dad said from the front seat. “Oh, yeah? Where did you hear it?” my brother asked.
“I heard it on National Public Radio,” my sister said. “Oh, Jesus.” My brother has a very full laugh. “Well, I did.”
My mom and dad looked like they were watching a tennis match through the windshield because they just kept shaking their heads. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t look back. I should point out, though, that my dad slowly started turning the Christmas music on the radio to a deafening volume.
“You are so full of shit. How would you know anything anyway? You haven’t been to college. Kelly didn’t go through anything like that.”
“Oh, yeah… like she’d tell you.”
“Yeah… she would. We don’t keep secrets.” “Oh, you’re such a sensitive new age guy.”
I wanted them to stop fighting because I was starting to get upset, so I asked another question.
“Do you talk about books and issues?”
“Thank you for asking, Charlie. Yes. As a matter of fact we do. Kelly’s favorite book just happens to be Walden by Henry David Thoreau. And Kelly just happened to say that the transcendental movement is a close parallel to this day and age.”
“Oooo. Big words.” My sister rolls her eyes better than anyone.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was anyone talking to you? I happen to be telling my younger brother about my girlfriend. Kelly says that she hopes a good Democratic candidate will challenge George Bush. Kelly says that her hope is that the E.R.A. might finally pass if that happens. That’s right. The E.R.A. that you always squawk about. Even cheerleaders think about those things. And they can actually have fun in the meantime.”
My sister folded her arms in front of her and started whistling. My brother was too much on a roll to stop, though. I noticed that my dad’s neck was getting very red.
“But there’s another difference between you and her. You see… Kelly believes in women’s rights so much that she would never let a guy hit her. I guess I can’t say that about you.”
I swear to God, we almost died. My dad hit those brakes so hard that my brother almost flew over the seat. When the smell from the tires started to fade, my dad took a deep breath and turned around. First, he turned to my brother. He didn’t say a word. He just stared.
My brother looked at my dad like a deer caught by my cousins. After a long two seconds, my brother turned to my sister. I think he felt bad about it because of how the words came out.
“I’m sorry. Okay? I mean it. C’mon. Stop crying.”
My sister was crying so hard, it was scary. Then, my dad turned to my sister. Again, he didn’t say a word. He just snapped his fingers to distract her from crying. She looked at him. She was confused at first because he wasn’t giving her a warm look. But then, she looked down and shrugged and turned to my brother.
“I’m sorry I said what I said about Kelly. She sounds nice.” Then, my dad turned to my mom. And my mom turned to us.
“Your father and I don’t want any more fighting. Especially in the family’s house. Understood?”
My mom and dad make a real team sometimes. It’s amazing to watch. My brother and sister both nodded and looked down. Then, my dad turned to me.
“Charlie?” “Yes, sir?”
It is important to say “sir” at these moments. And if they ever call you by your first-middle-last name, you better watch out. I’m telling you.
“Charlie, I would like you to drive the rest of the way to my mother’s house.”
Everyone in the car knew that this was probably the worst idea my dad ever had in his whole life. But no one argued. He got out of the car in the middle of the road. He got in the backseat between my brother and sister. I climbed in the front seat, stalled the car twice, and put on my seat belt. I drove the rest of the way. I haven’t sweat that much since I played sports, and it was cold out.
My dad’s family is kind of like my mom’s family. My brother once said it was like the same cousins with different names. The big difference is my grandma. I love my grandma. Everyone loves my grandma. She was waiting for us in the driveway as she always did. She always knew when someone was coming.
“Is Charlie driving now?” “He turned sixteen yesterday.” “Oh.”
My grandma is very old, and she doesn’t remember things a lot, but she bakes the most delicious cookies. When I was very little, we had my mom’s mom, who always had candy, and my dad’s mom, who always had cookies. My mom told me that when I was little, I called them “Candy Grandma” and “Cookies Grandma.” I also called pizza crust “pizza bones.” I don’t know why I’m telling you this.
It’s like my very first memory, which I guess is the first time I was aware that I was alive. My mom and my Aunt Helen took me to the zoo. I think I was three. I don’t remember that part. Anyway, we were watching these two cows. A mother cow and its baby calf. And they didn’t have a lot of room to walk around. Anyway, the baby calf was standing right underneath its mother, just kind of walking around, and the mother cow took a “dump” on the baby calf’s head. I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever seen in the whole world, and I laughed about it for three hours. At first, my mom and Aunt Helen kind of
laughed, too, because they were happy that I was laughing. Supposedly, I didn’t talk hardly at all when I was a little kid, and whenever I seemed normal, they were happy. But into the third hour, they were trying to make me stop laughing, but it only made me laugh harder. I don’t think it was really three hours, but it seemed like a long time. I still think about it every now and then. It seems like a rather “auspicious” beginning.
After hugs and handshakes, we went into my grandma’s house, and the whole dad-side-of-the-family was there. Great Uncle Phil with his fake teeth and my aunt Rebecca, who is my dad’s sister. Mom told us that Aunt Rebecca just got divorced again, so we shouldn’t mention anything. All I could think about was the cookies, but Grandma didn’t make them this year because of her bad hip.
We all sat down and watched television instead, and my cousins and my brother talked about football. And my Great Uncle Phil drank. And we ate dinner. And I had to sit at the little kids’ table because there are more cousins on my dad’s side of the family.
Little kids talk about the strangest things. They really do.
After dinner is when we watched It’s a Wonderful Life, and I started feeling more and more sad. As I was walking up the stairs to my dad’s old room, and I was looking at the old photographs, I started thinking that there was a time when these weren’t memories. That someone actually took that photograph, and the people in the photograph had just eaten lunch or something.
My grandma’s first husband died in Korea. My dad and my aunt Rebecca were very young. And my grandma moved with her two kids to live with her brother, my great uncle Phil.
Finally, after a few years, my grandma was feeling very sad because she had these two little kids, and she was tired from waitressing all the time. So, one day, she was working at this diner where she worked, and this truck driver asked her on a date. My grandma was very very pretty in that old photograph kind of way. They dated for a while. And finally they got married. He turned out to be a terrible person. He hit my dad all the time. And he hit my aunt Rebecca all the time. And he really hit my grandma. All the time. And my grandma really couldn’t do anything about it, I guess, because it went on for seven years.
It ended finally when my great uncle Phil saw bruises on my aunt Rebecca and finally got the truth out of my grandma. Then, he got a few of his friends together from the factory. And they found my grandma’s second husband in a bar. And they beat him up really bad. My great uncle Phil loves to tell the story when my grandma isn’t around. The
story keeps changing, but the main point is still the same. The guy died four days later in the hospital.
I still don’t know how my great uncle Phil missed going to jail for doing what he did. I asked my dad once, and he said that the people that lived around his neighborhood understood that some things had nothing to do with the police. He said that if someone touched your sister or your mother, they paid the price, and everyone looked the other way.
It’s just too bad that it went on for seven years because my aunt Rebecca went through the same kind of husbands. My aunt Rebecca had it different, though, because neighborhoods change. My great uncle Phil was too old, and my dad left his hometown. She had to get restraining orders instead.
I think about what my three cousins, who are Aunt Rebecca’s children, will turn out like. One girl and two boys. I get sad, too, because I think that the one girl will probably end up like my aunt Rebecca, and the one boy will probably end up like his dad. The other boy might end up like my dad because he can really play sports, and he had a different dad than his brother or sister. My dad talks to him a lot and teaches him how to throw and hit a baseball. I used to get jealous about this when I was a little kid, but I don’t anymore. Because my brother said that my cousin is the only one in his family who has a chance. He needs my dad. I guess I understand that now.
My dad’s old room remains almost exactly as he left it, albeit more faded. There’s a globe on the desk that’s been spun countless times. Old posters of baseball players line the walls, along with press clippings of my dad winning the big game when he was a sophomore. For some reason, I understood why my dad had to leave this house. He realized that my grandma would never trust another man again and wouldn’t look for anything else because she didn’t know how. He saw his sister bringing home younger versions of their stepfather. He just couldn’t stay.
I lay down on his old bed, looking through the window at a tree that must have been much shorter when my dad looked at it. I could feel what he felt the night he realized that if he didn’t leave, his life would never be his own. At least, that’s how he put it. Maybe that’s why my dad’s side of the family watches the same movie every year. It makes enough sense. I should mention that my dad never cries at the ending.
I don’t know if my grandma or Aunt Rebecca will ever truly forgive my dad for leaving. Only my great uncle Phil understood that part.
It’s always strange to see how my dad changes around his mom and sister. He feels bad all the time, and he and his sister always take a walk alone together. One time, I looked out the window and saw my dad giving her money.
I wonder what my Aunt Rebecca says in the car on the way home. I wonder what her children think. I wonder if they talk about us. I wonder if they look at my family and wonder who has a chance to make it. I bet they do.
Love always, Charlie
—
December 26, 1991
Dear friend,
I am sitting in my bedroom now after the two-hour ride back home. My sister and brother were nice to each other, so I didn’t have to drive.
Usually, on the way home, we visit my Aunt Helen’s grave. It’s kind of a tradition. My brother and dad never want to go much, but they know not to say anything because of Mom and me. My sister is kind of neutral but sensitive about certain things.
Every time we visit my Aunt Helen’s grave, my mom and I like to talk about something great about her. Most years, it’s about how she let me stay up and watch Saturday Night Live. My mom smiles because she knows if she were a kid, she would have wanted to stay up and watch, too.
We put down flowers and sometimes a card. We just want her to know that we miss her, think of her, and that she was special. She didn’t get that enough when she was alive, my mom always says. And like my dad, I think my mom feels guilty about it. So guilty that instead of giving her money, she gave her a home to stay in.
I want you to know why my mom feels guilty. I should probably tell you why, but I don’t know if I should. I have to talk about it with someone. No one in my family will ever talk about it. It’s just something they don’t discuss. I’m talking about the bad thing that happened to Aunt Helen that they wouldn’t tell me about when I was little.
Every Christmas, it’s all I can think about… deep down. It’s the one thing that makes me deep down sad.
I will not say who. I will not say when. I will just say that my Aunt Helen was molested. I hate that word. It was done by someone very close to her. It was not her dad. She finally told her dad, but he didn’t believe her because of who it was—a family friend. That just made it worse. My grandma never said anything either, and the man kept coming over for visits.
My Aunt Helen drank a lot, took drugs a lot, and had many problems with men and boys. She was very unhappy most of her life. She went to all kinds of hospitals. Finally, she went to one that helped her enough to try to make things normal, so she moved in with my family. She started taking classes to get a good job. She told her last bad man to leave her alone. She started losing weight without going on a diet. She took care of us so my parents could go out and drink and play board games. She let us stay up late. She was the only person other than my mom, dad, brother, and sister to buy me two presents—one for my birthday and one for Christmas—even when she had no money. They were always the best presents.
On December 24, 1983, a policeman came to the door. My Aunt Helen was in a terrible car accident. It was very snowy. The policeman told my mom that my Aunt Helen had passed away. He was very nice because when my mom started crying, he said it was a very bad accident and my Aunt Helen was definitely killed instantly. In other words, there was no pain. There was no pain anymore.
The policeman asked my mom to come down and identify the body. My dad was still at work. That was when I walked up with my brother and sister. It was my seventh birthday. We all wore party hats. My mom made my sister and brother wear them. My sister saw Mom crying and asked what was wrong. My mom couldn’t say anything. The policeman got on one knee and told us what happened. My brother and sister cried. But I didn’t. I knew the policeman made a mistake.
My mom asked my brother and sister to take care of me and left with the policeman. I think we watched TV. I don’t really remember. My dad came home before my mom.
“Why the long faces?”
We told him. He did not cry. He asked if we were okay. My brother and sister said no. I said yes. The policeman just made a mistake. It was very snowy. He probably couldn’t see. My mom came home. She was crying. She looked at my dad and nodded. My dad held her. That’s when I figured out that the policeman didn’t make a mistake.
I don’t really know what happened next, and I never really asked. I just remember going to the hospital. I remember sitting in a room with bright lights. I remember a doctor asking me questions. I remember telling him how Aunt Helen was the only one who hugged me. I remember seeing my family on Christmas day in a waiting room. I remember not being allowed to go to the funeral. I remember never saying good-bye to my Aunt Helen.
I don’t know how long I kept going to the doctor. I don’t remember how long they kept me out of school. It was a long time. I know that much. All I remember is the day I started getting better because I remembered the last thing my Aunt Helen said just before she left to drive in the snow.
She wrapped herself in a coat. I handed her the car keys because I was always the one who could find them. I asked Aunt Helen where she was going. She told me it was a secret. I kept bugging her, which she loved. She loved how I kept asking her questions. She finally shook her head, smiled, and whispered in my ear.
“I’m going to buy your birthday present.”
That’s the last time I ever saw her. I like to think my Aunt Helen would now have that good job she was studying for. I like to think she would have met a good man. I like to think she would have lost the weight she always wanted to lose without dieting.
Despite everything my mom, doctor, and dad have said to me about blame, I can’t stop thinking what I know. And I know that my Aunt Helen would still be alive today if she just bought me one present like everybody else. She would be alive if I were born on a day that didn’t snow. I would do anything to make this go away. I miss her terribly. I have to stop writing now because I am too sad.
Love always, Charlie
—
December 30, 1991
Dear friend,
The day after I wrote to you, I finished *The Catcher in the Rye*. I have read it three times since. I really didn’t know what else to do. Sam and Patrick are finally coming home tonight, but I won’t get to see them.
Patrick is going to meet Brad somewhere. Sam is going to meet Craig. I’ll see them both tomorrow at the Big Boy and then at Bob’s New Year’s Eve party.
The exciting part is that I’m going to drive to the Big Boy by myself. My dad said I couldn’t drive until the weather cleared up, and it finally did a little bit yesterday. I made a mix tape for the occasion. It is called “The First Time I Drove.” Maybe I’m being too sentimental, but I like to think that when I’m old, I will be able to look at all these tapes and remember those drives.
The first time I drove alone was to see my Aunt Helen. It was the first time I ever went to see her without at least my mom. I made it a special time. I bought flowers with my Christmas money. I even made her a mix tape and left it at the grave. I hope you do not think that makes me weird. I told my Aunt Helen all about my life—about Sam and Patrick, their friends, my first New Year’s Eve party tomorrow, my brother playing his last football game of the season on New Year’s Day, my brother leaving, how my mom cried, the books I read, the song “Asleep,” and when we all felt infinite. I told her about getting my driver’s license, how my mom drove us there, how I drove us back, and how the policeman who ran the test didn’t even look weird or have a funny name, which felt like a gyp to me.
I remember when I was about to say good-bye to my Aunt Helen, I started crying. It was real crying, not the panicky type I do a lot
