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  Getting Nowhere

  Constance C. Greene

  CHAPTER ONE

  If I ever get to kiss Lisa, I’m not closing my eyes. I’m keeping them open for a variety of reasons. One, so I can get a good look at her. Two, so I can duck if she swings at me. Three, I want to see if she likes it. I’ve had only the one experience with kissing and that wasn’t what you might call typical. I wonder what you do with your nose when you kiss a girl. Especially a nose like mine.

  I filled the bucket with soap and water and looked under the sink for a sponge.

  “Mark, I thought you were going to do your room this morning,” Pat said. Her voice was casual, but I could hear the irritation in it and was glad. On a slow day, or sometimes when I wake early and watch the dawn slide under the shade, I think of ways to aggravate Pat.

  “I did it already,” I said. “Besides, I’ve got to wash Dad’s car.” From where I was crouched on the floor, I could see her sneakers and legs in jeans. Why the devil did she dress as if she was a kid my age? Why the devil didn’t she grow up? If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a grown woman pretending to be a teen-ager.

  “The vacuum is sitting in the dining room where I left it,” she said in a low voice. “Better get cracking before your father gets home. Didn’t you wash his car yesterday?” she continued in a conversational tone.

  “Why don’t you get off my back?” I said softly, just loud enough so I could pretend to be talking to myself if she called me on it. I heard her breathe in sharply, but she didn’t say anything. She wasn’t ready to do battle yet, that was all. A couple more pushes and she’d come out in the open. It was like guerrilla warfare. A good fight might make me feel better. I had a few things I wanted to say, a few loaded things. They could wait, but not indefinitely.

  “Day before yesterday,” I said in a tone even I would admit was insolent. “It needs it again. Don’t forget it rained yesterday.” I brushed past her, careful not to touch her, and went to the garage to wash the car, to smooth and polish it, make it look first-class. Some day, in the not-too-distant future, I’d drive that buggy. Sit behind the wheel, turn the key in the ignition like I’d been doing it all my life, release that brake, and steer it out into the world.

  On my way to pick up my date, who would be Lisa, driving through the dark, I’d plan what to say. After I got through the preliminaries, had shaken hands with her father and mother, said, “How do you do, sir?” to make an impression on the old man, patted her punk kid brother on the head, not to mention the dog, I’d escort Lisa down the path, opening the door gallantly, closing it carefully, closing her inside, next to me.

  Then what? Well, “Let’s drive around for a while,” I might say, “maybe hit a hamburger joint. That is, if you like hamburgers.” Lisa liked that crack. She laughed, put her hand on my arm, said, “Oh, Mark, you’re so funny.”

  I wouldn’t try anything on the first date, no matter what she tried to talk me into. Nothing except a couple of kisses, that is. Just your basic soul kiss. Nothing fancy.

  A couple of weeks ago I happened to be hanging out in the kitchen, making one of my justly famous grilled cheese and onion specials. Pat and Dad were sorting out books in the study. I guess they didn’t know I was there.

  “How’s it going with the boys?” I heard my father say.

  “Well,” Pat said. “Tony and I get along fine. Mark’s a different kettle of fish.”

  I should know by now it’s always a mistake to eavesdrop.

  “Mark has his guard up.” I could hear my father flicking his lighter to get it to stay lit.

  “Mark is a tough nut to crack,” Pat said. I smiled. You bet your ass he is, lady.

  “It’s partly his age,” Pat went on. “Not entirely, but at fourteen, all your nerve endings hang out just waiting for somebody to stomp on them.”

  My father laughed, but he didn’t sound terribly amused. “Mark’s nerve endings have been hanging out ever since he was born,” he said.

  “Listen, my friend,” Pat said, “how about me? What do you think those things sticking out of my ears are?”

  My father laughed again and she joined him. This time he sounded young and happy. I should’ve been glad he sounded that way, but I wasn’t.

  Someone dropped some books and there was silence. It’s gotten to the point where I’m afraid to go into a room for fear I’ll find them making out. I’m a growing boy. My sensitivities are easily wounded.

  Warm water hit my shoes as I lathered the hood. Oh, you beauty, you’re such a beauty. Polish, wax, don’t forget the hub caps and the trim. Oh, you’re going to be so beautiful.

  “At it again, eh?” my kid brother Tony said, parking his bike against the wall. He’s only twelve and doesn’t mind riding his bike. I didn’t when I was twelve, either.

  “You’re going to rub the finish right off that baby if you’re not careful.”

  “You sound just like Dad,” I said, polishing harder.

  “I do?” I could tell he was pleased. “Guess what, Mark. I’m taking fencing as my after-school activity. Isn’t that neat? I get this foil to use and a thick jacket with a mess of padding to protect me from my opponent, and a mask and everything.”

  He picked up an old broom handle from the corner. “En garde!” he shouted, lunging at me.

  It hit me in the back. “Knock it off,” I told him. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “What the heck’s the matter with you?” Tony asked. Nothing much bothers him. “Where’s Pat?”

  “Inside, reading dirty books and eating bonbons,” I said.

  “Hey, she’s all right,” Tony protested. One of the things that really bugs me is that he likes Pat. “She sure beats Mrs. LeBlanc and all those other tomatoes who passed as housekeepers. And Dad likes her better, that’s for sure.”

  “Tell me,” I said sarcastically. “That’s what I need is for you to tell me how much Dad likes her. No one would ever guess, the way he’s acting.”

  “Well they’re married, aren’t they?” Tony tossed over his shoulder as he went inside.

  I threw the sponge at his back but it missed.

  “What do you know? All you are is a twelve-year-old fink who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.” I got behind the wheel, draped my arm casually over the seat and prepared to resume my courtship. It was too late. The seat was empty. I couldn’t lure Lisa back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I should’ve known. I should’ve known when Dad first said he had somebody he wanted us to meet. He brought Pat to the house and we sat around talking for a while. Then he asked us to go out to the Stagecoach with them for dinner. He’d never done anything like that with one of his lady friends before. I knew something was up when he asked us later, as if our answer didn’t matter, “How’d you like Mrs. Nelson?”

  “I thought she was great,” Tony said first crack out of the barrel.

  “You would,” I remember saying in a sour tone. “She laughed at your jokes.”

  Dad looked at me. “I gather you didn’t care much for her. Is that it, Mark?”

  “She was all right,” I told him. “Nothing special but all right.”

  Actually, she was pretty. She talked to both of us as if we were people, not kids, which is something you have to watch out for at our age. “Does she have any kids?”

  “No,” my father said. “She was married for a short while when she was very young. She’s been divorced for ten years.” That was all. Still, there was something there. I tried not to think about it. Two weeks later
Dad told us he and Pat were getting married.

  That was almost a year ago.

  Right away it was different. It wasn’t just that they bought a queen-size bed and got rid of the twin beds in my father’s room. Although that was part of it. My father sure spent a lot more time in the bedroom than he had before. But the house felt different, smelled different. My father rushed in every night like a thirsty man straight off the desert.

  And she was always there, putting her arms around him, kissing him. They kissed like people in the movies kiss. With abandon. That’s the only word I can think of to describe the way they kissed. Tony sat right where he was, grinning. I got up and left, making a lot of noise. Nobody paid any attention to me, but I went on making noise.

  Pat was a good cook. Too bad. If she hadn’t been, it would’ve been a point to work on, make a few cracks. But she was. And any time Tony and I wanted to have our friends over, we could. The first time a couple of guys in my class came to see if they could help me fix the clutch on my father’s Chevy, I introduced them to Pat simply because she was standing in the kitchen and there was no way out.

  “This is my, uh, my stepmother, Pat,” I told them. She shook hands with both Ken and Scott, and afterwards they said, “Hey, not bad. She’s got a grip on her like a man. She’s some tomato.”

  “If you like old tomatoes,” I remember I said. Tony heard me and he wouldn’t let go. Tony is very tenacious.

  “What’s your problem? Would you like it better if Dad had married some twenty-year-old chiquita? Yeah, I bet. I can hear you now if he’d done that.” Tony will never wind up on a psychiatrist’s couch, that’s for sure. He gets everything out in the open. He’s definitely not a brooder. He lets you know where he stands. Sometimes I’d like to kick him in the teeth, but most times I love him. I wouldn’t tell him that, but I do. People like Tony. He’s a survivor. He’ll survive everything. I won’t. I’m a fighter. I get too angry at things. I’m always sore about something. Once when I was sounding off about a kid in back of me who’s always leaning over my shoulder asking for an eraser or pencil and I know he’s checking my paper to see what answer I got, my father gave me a piece of advice.

  “Save your anger for something important, Mark,” he said. “Don’t waste it on little things. That boy won’t come out ahead, cheating. Be angry at injustice and poverty, things that matter, that you may be able to do something about when you’re a man.”

  I’ve thought about that a lot. Trouble is, I’ve also tried to stay cool but without much success. If a guy shoves his way ahead of me in a line, I get furious. If someone shoots a basket and makes a point, instead of missing (the way I usually do), it makes my stomach churn. I fight it but I always lose. Sometimes that rage gets its hand around my throat in the morning, and all day long it tightens its grip until by dinner I can hardly breathe. It’s stupid but it’s there.

  The thing that really eats away at me, that nags at my guts so bad it sometimes gives me a stomachache, is what I did a couple of months after they got married. It was so dumb, so incredibly stupid I can hardly believe I did it. I must’ve been crazy. I must’ve been spaced out of my mind.

  I was hitching a ride outside school and a couple of seniors picked me up. I didn’t even know them. They dropped me at my house. Pat was on the lawn, destroying dandelions right and left. She had on shorts and a T-shirt.

  “Hey, look at that!” the driver, a guy named Sparky, said. “That’s all right. That’s some piece. I wouldn’t mind a little of that. That your sister?”

  He didn’t say it so she could hear, but I sure could.

  I mumbled something that could’ve been “yes”; on the other hand, it could’ve been “no.” I’m a great little mumbler when I have to be.

  “She engaged or anything?” the other guy asked, eyeing Pat.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I shouted. “See you,” and I took off up the walk. Pat sat back on her heels and waved. Those guys in the car looked as if they might put on the brake and come in for the afternoon.

  “They gave me a ride,” I said, fast. “I don’t even know them.”

  “Oh,” she said. I suppose if you didn’t know how old she was, you might take Pat for a young girl. She buys all her clothes a size too small, it looks like. I bet she was a cheer leader in high school. If there’s one thing that gets me, it’s cheer leaders.

  “Give us an A, give us a T, give us a blah, blah, blah,” and then they break into their routine, swinging their hips, throwing their arms around, leaping in the air. They’re ridiculous. You have to have a certain mentality to be a cheer leader, I think.

  I went inside and got the milk bottle out and took a long swig. Pat followed me in. “Let me get you a glass,” she said.

  “I like to drink out of the bottle,” I said. I’d been drinking out of the bottle for years before she got here, and I’m damned if I’m going to stop now.

  “That’s hot work,” she said, reaching across me to get a glass of water. She brushed against me. I felt her breast against my arm. I’d never felt a woman’s breast before. That’s when I did it. I grabbed her and kissed her on the mouth, hard. My nose was smaller then. She stiffened and turned her head away and I almost swallowed her ear.

  “What in the name of God are you doing?” she said angrily, rubbing her hand across her face. “Have you lost your mind?”

  I turned away. My face felt as if I’d been in the sun for about a day, it was so hot. I said the first thing that came to my mind.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell Dad,” I said.

  How’s that for a line? How’s that for a big-time operator? Kid puts moves on stepmother and then whines because she’s going to spill the beans to his old man. Up to then that was the nadir in my life. I’ve had several nadirs since, but then that was it.

  “Listen, Mark.” Pat stopped and looked at me. “Mark, if I’ve done anything to make you think …” Again she stopped. I felt as if I’d been turned to stone. If a bomb had exploded in the next room, I still wouldn’t have been able to move.

  “Let’s forget it,” she said. “Everyone’s entitled to a mistake. That’s all it was. A mistake.” She walked back outside.

  God, I wake up at night still in a sweat, thinking about it. As far as I know, she kept her word and never told Dad or anyone else. If I had any guts, I suppose I’d tell Dad myself. But what for? Talk about masochism. If he knew, he’d be sure I was even more of a degenerate than he suspected.

  I had to live with it. It’s a terrible thing to be under obligation to someone you hate. Maybe I’d hate her more if she squealed on me. It’s hard to say.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “My feet smell,” Tony said, taking off his shoes and socks. “They smell fierce,” he said with a touch of quiet pride. “I bet they smell worse than any feet in my class.”

  “Not too many guys are proud of having smelly feet,” I told him, kicking at the wastebasket. But I had to give it another shot before it tipped over and spilled out on the floor.

  “I wish I was sixteen,” I said. “If I was sixteen I could drive and be on my own.” I hurled myself into a lumpy armchair I’d bought from the people down the street when they moved.

  “That chair always reminds me of pimples,” Tony said. “It looks like a whole terrible gross mess of pimples.”

  I ran my hand over the arm. “It’s not so bad,” I said. “At least it’s mine, nobody else’s.”

  Tony smelled one foot. “Yeah, and you’re not going to have much trouble with guys trying to get it away from you, that’s for sure,” he said. “You’re not even fifteen yet,” he added after a pause. “Why not try for the big one five before you press on to the big one six, man?”

  “In five months I’ll be fifteen. Then it won’t be any time at all until I’m sixteen.”

  “What’re you going to do then, join the Marines?”

  “Who knows? I might take off a couple years before college. Travel, learn what makes people tick, maybe learn how
to sky-dive.”

  “Pat says her nephew started to sky-dive last year and he’s jumped about twenty times already,” Tony said.

  “If you can believe anything she says,” I grunted.

  “Pat doesn’t lie and you know it,” Tony said defensively. “What’ve you got against her anyway? She’s all right.”

  “I keep hoping she’ll go away, like a toothache or the measles.”

  “I think you’re acting crumby about her, if you want to know what I think. You’re getting worse instead of better.”

  “Who asked you?” I said angrily.

  “Well, you are, and you know it as well as I do. If you keep it up, Dad’s going to blow his stack. You’re itching for a bruise. When you’re around her, it’s like you’re made of thorns. Or”—Tony’s face lit up—“it’s like you’re a porcupine and some dog’s attacking you, so you let fly with a snootful of quills. If Pat was a dog she’d be full of quills every time you talk to her.”

  “Who says she’s not a dog?” I never missed an opportunity.

  “She’s nice to us,” Tony went on relentlessly. “And what’s more, Dad loves her. He’s a lot happier now that he’s married to Pat.”

  “We were doing fine without her,” I said. “We were doing just fine.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Suddenly Tony asked, “Is it because of Mom? Are you jealous because it’s Pat instead of Mom?”

  “Don’t be an ass.” I stood up. “He probably should’ve gotten married a long time ago, when we were little kids. Right after Mom died. It wouldn’t have made so much difference then.”

  “Who to?” Tony reluctantly put his shoes and socks back on. “Mrs. LeBlanc?”

  We both started laughing, rocketing around the room, bouncing off the walls, thinking about Dad married to Mrs. LeBlanc. Poor Mrs. LeBlanc, handsomely mustached, gone to flesh, as my grandmother says, sporting three large moles on her chin alone. Mrs. LeBlanc had two wigs. When she was feeling fine she wore the red one. When she was feeling down, a black one. To anchor them she pinned a large, distinguished polka-dotted hat on top. One windy day I’ll never forget, she was coming up the front path when a gust took both her hat and her wig off over the trees. Underneath, her hair was close-cut and graying, like an aging athlete’s, like our soccer coach’s, Mr. Whitcomb. She put an ad in the Lost and Found column but nothing ever happened, nobody called. She told us, almost crying, that that hat had cost her a week’s salary.