Man, that was fun.
But underneath all the good stuff, the ordinary joy you feel when your whole family’s there, was my fear of what was going to happen when I went back to school. I found an hour to study late Thursday night, after the fridge had been stuffed full of leftovers and everyone else had gone to bed, and two more hours on Friday afternoon, when there was a lull in the flow of relatives and Dave and Katie, their differences temporarily resolved, retired for what I thought was an extremely noisy ‘nap.’
I still felt I could catch up — knew it, actually — but I also knew I couldn’t do it alone, or with Nate. I had to buddy up with someone who understood the suicidal pull of that third-floor lounge, and how the blood surged when someone started playing spades in an effort to force The Bitch. Someone who understood the primitive joy of managing to sock Ronnie with la femme noire.
It would have to be Skip, I thought. Even if Carol were to come back, she would never be able to understand in the same way. It had to be Skip and me, swimming out of deep water and in toward the shore. I thought if we stuck together, we could both pull through. Not that I cared so much about him. Admitting that feels scuzzy, but it’s the truth. By Saturday of Thanksgiving break I’d done lots of soul-searching and understood I was mostly concerned about myself, mostly looking out for Number Six. If Skip wanted to use me, that was fine.
Because I sure wanted to use him.
By noon Saturday I’d read enough geology to know I needed help on some of the concepts, and fast. There were only two more big test-periods in the semester: a set of prelims and then final exams. I would have to do really well on both to keep my scholarships.
Dave and Katie left at around seven on Saturday night, still bickering (but more good-naturedly) about the house they planned to buy in Pownal. I settled down at the kitchen table and started reading about out-group sanctions in my soash book. What it seemed to amount to was that even nerds have to have someone to shit on. A depressing concept.
At some point I became aware I wasn’t alone. I looked up and saw my mother standing there in her old pink housecoat, her face ghostly with Pond’s Gold Cream. I wasn’t surprised that I hadn’t heard her; after twenty-five years in the same little house, she knew where all the creaks and groans were. I thought she had finally gotten around to her questions about Annmarie, but it turned out that my love-life was the last thing on her mind.
‘How much trouble are you in, Peter?’ she asked.
I thought of about a hundred different answers, then settled for the truth. ‘I don’t really know.’
‘Is it any one thing in particular?’
This time I didn’t tell the truth, and looking back on it I realize how telling that lie was: some part of me, alien to my best interests but very powerful, still reserved the right to frog-march me to the cliff . . . and over the edge.
Yeah, Mom, the third-floor lounge is the problem, cards are the problem — just a few hands is what I tell myself every time, and when I look up at the clock it’s quarter of midnight and I’m too tired to study. Hell, too wired to study. Other than play Hearts, all I’ve really managed to do this fall is lose my virginity.
If I could have said at least the first part of that, I think it would have been like guessing Rumpelstiltskin’s name and then speaking it out loud. But I didn’t say any of it. I told her it was just the pace of college; I had to redefine what studying meant, learn some new habits.
But I could do it. I was sure I could.
She stood there a moment longer, her arms crossed and her hands deep in her housecoat sleeves — she looked sort of like a Chinese Mandarin when she stood that way — and then she said, ‘I’ll always love you, Pete. Your father, too. He doesn’t say it, but he feels it. We both do. You know that.’