The Great Perhaps (6 page)

“What?”

“You heard me. Just because you’re smart doesn’t mean you can get away with certain things.”

“Like what?”

“Like today.”

“Dad, I knew what I was doing was right.”

“Sometimes there’s the right thing to do. And then sometimes there’s the thing you do because the right thing is going to get you in trouble, when you really don’t need to be in trouble. Being smart and going to school and being able to write for the school paper, those are all privileges.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying I should like…be a sheep. All I did was write down my opinion—”

“I’m not saying you should be a sheep. But kiddo, you’re still a student. You’re still seventeen. Those people, that principal, is an adult. He’s not your equal.”

“Well, that’s not what you and Mom taught me. You always said just because we’re kids doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have an opinion. All I did was write down my opinion.”

“Amelia?”

“Yes?”

“I want you to think about this.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think anything you did today, that column you wrote, do you think that helped anybody? Do you think that helped those ladies, in the cafeteria? Or do you think it was something you wrote because you knew you could put it in the paper and get away with it?”

“What?”

“On the outside it looked like it was brave, what you did, but you and I know it really wasn’t. Don’t we?”

Amelia sets down her orange chopsticks, sulking. “I’m done eating.”

Jonathan nods, wondering if Madeline would agree with anything he has just said. He pushes his food around his plate, staring across the table at his daughter, who sits there looking haughty.

“Are you finished?” he asks, and she nods. He waves to the petite waitress, who comes to deliver the check. Jonathan reaches for his wallet and finds it’s empty. He places his credit card down next to the bill. Spotting it, Amelia leans across the table, alarmed.

“Mom said not to use the credit card anymore.”

“I know what she said. I don’t have any money.”

“You guys really don’t communicate very well, do you?”

“Amelia. Give it a rest.”

Amelia nods, laying her chin on top of her hands.

“Do you think you’ll get separated again?”

“Do you?”

“It doesn’t look good,” Amelia says with a sigh.

M
ADELINE, IT TURNS OUT
, is a lot less sympathetic to the whole Amelia/protest/Chinese food situation. She does not care what Amelia’s motivations actually were. In the kitchen, when she gets home from work, she calls Amelia snotty. She calls Amelia totally spoiled. She tells Amelia to go to her room so she and her dad can talk in private.

“I am not eight years old anymore!” Amelia shouts.

“Really? Because this, this all sounds like something an eight-year-old would do.”

Amelia storms off to her room, then stops at the top of the stairs to listen. Her dad does a good job of explaining the situation, but when he gets to the part about the Chinese food, Madeline begins to whisper angrily, “What is wrong with you? What kind of lesson are you trying to teach her?”

“I don’t know,” Jonathan says. “It’s a pretty complicated situation. I thought you and I could talk about it and figure something out. As a team. That’s what parents are supposed to do. Work as a team.”

“Jonathan, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say to you right now. I can’t believe you’re actually proud of her for writing that shit.”

“She’s a great kid, Maddie. She just did something stupid.”

“So she shouldn’t get rewarded for doing something stupid.”

“Maybe she should. Maybe my way is not so bad. I let her know I was disappointed. Maybe your way isn’t necessarily the only way to do things.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Awesome.” Jonathan turns and begins to walk off, shaking his head.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the den. It’s quiet in there. Nobody’s in there shouting all the time about nothing.”

“Great. So how long is this going to last?”

“I don’t know. I’m beginning to like it.”

Madeline nods, hurt, her eyes already wet with tears. “Wonderful.”

Amelia quietly creeps from the top of the stairs, then goes to lie in her bed.

A
ROUND MIDNIGHT,
Amelia comes downstairs to eat some yogurt. She sneaks down the hallway and sees her father has indeed moved into the den—he has made a bed out of the tiny sofa and has his clothes hanging from the bookshelves. She peeks in and sees her dad holding a magnifying glass up to a large color photo, a photo of what looks to be a squid tentacle, and he is mumbling. “Not so fast, my old friend. You thought you could trick me with your seizing tentacles. But you can’t. I now believe you may be an
Architeuthis.
Ha, ha.”

A
MELIA DOES NOT
sleep much. Instead, she stays up, searching the Internet, trying to learn how to build various types of bombs. She has already figured out how to construct three different kinds: for her science project, she is trying to learn how to build a pipe bomb with a timer. Already she has plans. Already she is thinking of blowing something up—like the principal’s office at her high school or the new Starbucks in her neighborhood or maybe an SUV dealership. Just like the Earth Liberation Front. Or just like the Weathermen. She will take every precaution not to injure anyone. It will be a spectacular show of force, a moment to remind people that they are alive and that their lives need to be more meaningful. They will see the dazzling explosion and reconsider what it means to live in a world with other people in it. Or maybe not.

F
OURTEEN YEARS OLD,
T
HISBE
C
ASPER HAS BEGUN RIDING
her bicycle around Hyde Park looking for God. Before each school day and after, she pedals up and down the street in a gray skirt and blue sweater, ignoring her wheezy asthma, searching for signs of providence in the miraculously trimmed hedges and perfectly kept trees. When she does not find His Holiness in person, she will often seek one of her neighbors’ pets for an impromptu baptism instead. This morning, holding Mrs. Lilly’s small white cat, Snowball, to her chest, Thisbe whispers a prayer of her own invention:

Please

Please

Please let there be a heaven for everything that is too pitiful to believe,
and then the animal hisses, scratching Thisbe’s wrist. Thisbe turns the poor cat loose, watching it hurry back to its spot beneath Mrs. Lilly’s shadowy porch. Thisbe grabs her wrist and sees three red marks, already dappled with blood. She retrieves her math notebook from her book bag and makes a small tally mark, next to a dozen others, noting Snowball’s unsuccessful redemption.

T
HISBE PRAYS FOR
a number of things each day, usually in this order: for her neighbors’ pets, for her hair to look okay, for her asthma not to get any worse, for her sister not to make fun of her, for her sister to act like she knows her in school, and for all the homosexuals she sees on television—who she truly believes can be saved with the right kind of prayer. She also prays for her singing voice to become an instrument of God, something miraculous, something to fill the world with wonder. Finally, she prays for all the black people in her neighborhood. Black people terrify her. She does not ever ride her bicycle west of Cottage Grove Avenue or south of Fifty-ninth Street into the tired confines of the adjacent black neighborhood. She does not like the way the black people dress, she does not like their music, she does not care for the way they look at her, like she is an intruder in her own neighborhood. She does not like their worn-out-looking storefront churches. She thinks these churches are an insult to God. She does not like the boys, her age or younger, standing shirtless on the corner, wearing silver chains, drinking from bottles hidden in brown paper bags, calling out to passing cars. She hates that some of them wear crucifixes. She does not believe they want to be saved. She thinks they are where they are in their lives, in this world, because they are all lazy. She does not like to ride past their sad little houses. She does all she can to avoid the few black girls at her high school, all of whom, without trying, can sing better than her. Thisbe pedals past them all, hoping no one makes fun of her skirt, which has just begun to come undone at the hem. There are a few loose threads there that anybody could see.

A
FTER SCHOOL,
Thisbe has chorus practice, which she loves, though she spends most of the day dreading it. Thisbe is an awful singer, worse than awful, very, very bad. Her classmates are forced to stand beside her, listening to her wail without tone or melody. Mr. Grisham, the very weird chorus teacher, a man strangely fond of Cary Grant—a signed photograph of the famous star rests on his desk—a man with a passion for songs by Bette Midler and by Bette Midler only, does not believe in turning students away from the performing arts. His chorus, for the past eight years, has received no major awards and has failed to place in even the lowliest of regional competitions. In his soft tan suit, his bushy brown mustache covering his moist, thin lips, Mr. Grisham always manages to make Thisbe feel unwanted, moving her from first to second to third to fourth soprano. Mr. Grisham was relieved when he discovered Thisbe could play piano. Susannah Gore, a hulking senior with oily dark hair, had been the accompanist, and though her scratchy tenor was nearly unbearable, it was an obvious improvement over Thisbe’s caterwauling. Mr. Grisham made the switch, vainly hoping the heavy, melodious tones of the piano would drown out Thisbe’s harsh though earnest wailing. They have not.

T
ODAY THE CHORUS
is preparing for its first recital of the year, which is to take place that very evening. Thisbe folds her skirt under her thighs and takes a seat in front of the out-of-tune, upright piano. The rest of the girls take their places, gossiping quietly. Mr. Grisham is paging through his songbook when the door to the recital room bangs open. A girl with short blond hair and a funny-looking smile enters. Thisbe looks up from the piano and watches as the girl, a girl whom Thisbe has never seen in school before, unbuttons her gray sweater and wanders into place beside Alice Anders, a soprano. The new girl looks a little mean, with green eyes outlined in arrogant-looking mascara.

“Glad you could make it, Roxie,” Mr. Grisham says, nodding, adjusting his small-framed eyeglasses. “We’re happy you’ve decided to return to our little family again this year.”

The girl, Roxie, nods and when Mr. Grisham turns his attention back to his awful songbook, she immediately flips him off. Thisbe, at the piano, is shocked. The other girls all laugh nervously. Mr. Grisham announces the first number, “The Rose.” Thisbe flips her music book to the correct page, studies the fingerings for the opening chords, and places her digits above the keys, waiting. Mr. Grisham gives a nod in her direction, and Thisbe begins, much too slow, then much too quick, Mr. Grisham tapping his foot to set the pace. When the girls finally begin to sing, Thisbe is struck by how beautiful the new girl’s voice is; and although she is standing there in the back line, rolling her eyes, the sound appears effortlessly in the air around her dirty-looking mouth. Each note is like spun gold, each phrase echoing like a single prayer, the girl’s perfect tone confirming the startling order of the world. Thisbe feels a sad sting of envy as she glances out of the corner of her eye; the girl Roxie is not even trying, the lilting voice becoming stronger and stronger, filling the recital room with a magnificent glow. Thisbe decides she hates this girl with the beautiful voice, hates her for having something she does not even seem to appreciate, standing there in the back line, chomping on a mouthful of gum, rolling her eyes. She hates her and at the same time she feels clumsy, awkward, hammering her fingers along the keys without the smallest bit of talent, that voice, that one particular voice like a song she has always wanted to sing, a dream of a sound that she has so often wished would arise from her throat. Thisbe, no longer looking at the musical notes, closes her eyes and immediately pretends it is her voice singing brightly. When she makes a terrible mistake, missing the last chorus of “The Rose,” and Mr. Grisham begins shouting, she is reminded it is not.

T
HAT
T
HURSDAY EVENING,
minutes before the chorus’s first recital of the year, Thisbe sits down at the piano onstage, looking over the polished black monstrosity at the nearly empty auditorium, searching for her family. The audience is noisy and wet from the rain. Part of her hopes that her family is not there, while the other part of her aches to see her mother’s face. And her father’s, and Amelia’s, too, unless she’s still pouting. She quickly scans the audience, and sees row after row of tired-looking parents, bored in business suits, their hair glistening from the downpour outside. There, in the third row, she spots her mother, who gives her a quick, secret wave. Thisbe smiles, nodding, placing her fingers just above the keys. She sees Amelia is there, her arms folded across her chest, chewing a wad of gum. Every so often, Amelia stretches the wad with her finger, disgusted at having to endure this tedium on her sister’s behalf. Beside Amelia is an empty blue seat, where Thisbe’s mother has stacked their coats. Her father is late again; but what’s new? Thisbe frowns. Mr. Grisham, nervously pulling at his mustache, appears beside her and says, “Let’s not miss the grace notes tonight, Thisbe,” then touches her back with his creepy hand and hurries off once again.

As soon as the curtain is drawn, and the chorus, in their awful taffeta gowns, steps forward, Thisbe begins playing, “Wind Beneath My Wings,” her fingers cramped, her hands shaking. Mr. Grisham, at the head of the chorus, is giving her a terrible look, but she refuses to glance up at him. She follows the black notes across the lined pages with her eyes, listening for Roxie’s voice to swiftly fill the room with burnished light. Susannah Gore has a cold and is like an anchor, the huskiness of her tenor chaining the rest of the chorus to the boards of the dimly lit stage. Thisbe misses two notes, still waiting for Roxie to really begin singing. She is standing there, in the back line, head down, her nose buried in her lyric book. She does not at all seem interested in being there. By the third song, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” Thisbe realizes that Roxie is only mouthing the words. The rest of the chorus trudges on, their voices like dull, metal weapons falling down a stone staircase, until the final number, “From a Distance,” lands gracelessly at the audience’s feet. The curtain falls, Mr. Grisham has begun shouting, Susannah Gore is coughing, some of the other tenors are crying, and Roxie stands in the back row, looking down at her nails, totally unconcerned.

I
N THE PARKING LOT,
Thisbe chases after the girl, calling to her, then grabbing at the back of her ugly blue dress. “What’s wrong with you?” she blurts out, flushed with anger and what she believes to be an appropriate degree of indignation.

“What?” Roxie mutters, thoroughly bored.

“Why? Why didn’t you sing in there?”

“Why don’t you fuck off?” Roxie asks, and Thisbe discovers she does not have an answer to that particular question. Roxie turns and cuts quickly through the parking lot, disappearing behind a crowd of disappointed-looking parents.

W
HEN
T
HISBE FINALLY
finds her own sad relations near the Volvo, they are fighting, once again. Her father has appeared, looking like a mess, his tie untied, his jacket wrinkled. He is saying, “I’m sorry. I had to take a cab. I thought you said eight,” while her mother shakes her head and says, “Seven. Seven. That’s what I said. Seven. You never listen to me. You never listen.”

“I do listen. You said eight.”

“So now I have to be responsible for picking you up, too?” she asks.

Thisbe climbs into the backseat beside her sister, Amelia. “Nice screw-up in there,” Amelia mutters, to which Thisbe does not reply.

T
HISBE PRAYS FOR
an asthma attack on the way home. Her parents continue fighting in the front seat. The Volvo idles at a stoplight while her father—from the passenger seat, his blond beard uneven with wet gray hairs—whispers angry, though incredibly quiet words at her mother. When her parents fight, they do it in near silence. Thisbe has seen her mother wordlessly cry during her parents’ spats, her father looking away blank-faced and ashamed—but these disagreements are almost always impossible to hear from the backseat. Thisbe tries to stop herself from breathing so that she can make out a word or two, but all she hears is her mother mutter, “I told you I will not do this anymore,” before she smashes down the gas pedal, the Volvo lurching back into traffic.

Thisbe begins praying to herself, roughly the same prayer she has been repeating for months now. Her parents, Jonathan and Madeline, too busy in the front seat, do not notice. Without their disapproval, Thisbe begins:

Attention, God the Judge, God the Father, who Art in Heaven, give me one miracle, please. If You exist as I know You do, even if no one else in the world believes in You, please give me a brain tumor. Please tear my limbs from their sockets and let the backseat and my older sister be totally covered with blood. Please make me dumb and blind and deaf, please make me a martyr, please, dear heavenly Father. Tear my heart right from my chest. Drive spikes into my eyes and let hot lava shoot out of my mouth. Make me silent and thoroughly dead, but please hurry. Before we get home, before we reach the next stoplight, let the only sound be no sound, the silence of my death burning in the empty sky. If You are a mighty and true God, if You are not just a dream I have made up, please, before another hour, another minute passes, let the wire in my bra poke through my heart. Dear Lord, please, please, give me this one miracle. I have begged You every day, every evening, so please, let Your will be done, let Your will be done. Give me a gruesome death as fast as You possibly can. Thank you, God. Amen
.

Beside her, Thisbe looks over at her older sister, Amelia, who is reading a book on Lenin. Amelia is wearing her headphones and seems not to notice her parents arguing, or maybe she is pretending not to notice. Thisbe taps her older sister on her shoulder, but Amelia ignores her, turning the volume up on her CD player. Thisbe cannot tell what she is listening to, only that it is incredibly loud and someone is singing something in French.

As the Volvo accelerates along Fifty-ninth Street, with the evening sky of the east reflected in the dark, choppy water of Lake Michigan, Thisbe hears her father say to her mother, “I don’t know how you could ask me that.” The station wagon turns and speeds off, their street getting closer each moment, the rest of Hyde Park rising high and sleek and wondrous, like a specter before them.

“I won’t do this anymore,” her mother says again, no longer whispering. It must be an admission, it must be something her mother has suddenly realized and so she can no longer speak it quietly.