Every Visible Thing, page 10
Two days into the Christmas break, a notice comes in the mail, generated automatically by the school’s new computer system and accidentally addressed to me. It says that I have seriously exceeded my allowed absences for the semester. I tear it into shreds and burn it in my mother’s ashtray, watching my name seize up, then disappear.
8. thermometer
On the first day, Owen fakes a stomachache and his father lets him stay home without interrogation. He is surprised how easy this is; his mother is always suspicious of vague ailments. She would have tested him by offering pancakes, held a hand against his forehead, and waved him off to school. But his mother has already left for the hospital by the time he starts malingering, and his father is so inexperienced he actually asks Owen’s opinion on whether or not he should miss school. He brings Owen a bottle of ginger ale and a jelly glass, settles him on the sectional couch with a lap quilt before leaving for the office, promising to call in a couple of hours. After he is gone, Owen grazes in the pantry, eating small portions from various boxes so as not to leave evidence of his appetite. He watches seven straight hours of television—game shows then soap operas then talk shows, getting up only to relieve his bladder of ginger ale. By the time his sister and father come home he feels pasty-mouthed and light-headed, as though he has made himself genuinely sick by pretending to be.
When his mother comes home she visits his bedroom, where he is hiding from the tempting odor of Shake ’n Bake. She brings him chicken soup and saltines, which he eats tentatively, hunched over the faux wood tray on his lap. All he has to do is let his mind focus on what it has been flitting away from—the image of Danny’s mother in the doorway—and he begins to gag. Halfway through he rushes to the bathroom and vomits. His mother stays in the bathroom with him, smoothing his hair as he retches and heaves over the brown-streaked bowl. After this is over he develops a genuine wheeze, heavy enough to guarantee him another day at home.
The same performance the next night gets him Wednesday, but Thursday requires new tactics. If he fakes an asthma attack it means the emergency room and his mother staying home to watch him. So when she puts the yellow glass thermometer in his mouth and leaves the room, he folds the silver tip inside the heating pad stashed beneath his covers. The gauge shoots up past 106 and he shakes it down to a respectable 100.2 degrees, high enough to back up his symptoms but not so spiked that he ends up at the doctor. He presses the warm flannel pad against his face for a few seconds when he hears his mother’s clogs making their way back down the hall. She frowns in sympathy as she tilts the thermometer in front of her eyes.
“Poor buddy,” she says, kissing his searing forehead. “Must be the flu.” She brings him more ginger ale, and he lies in bed, ravenous, until they all go to sleep and he can raid the Tupperware containers of leftovers in the fridge.
On Thursday night he throws up a bland rice and butter dinner and displays a 101-degree temperature. His parents conference outside his bedroom door about a visit to the pediatrician. Since his father has an important meeting and his mother two exams, his checkup is postponed. He goes to sleep relieved and looking forward to a symptom-free Saturday. He plans on asking for a grilled cheese and keeping it down. There are moments when the concentration involved in such lying allows him to forget what he is avoiding in the first place. Instead he congratulates himself: he has missed an entire week of school.
Danny’s mother didn’t say a word. She shut the door, releasing them back into darkness. Owen struggled with his pajama bottoms, wiping away his virgin semen with the flannel. He shoved the gun under his pillow. Danny didn’t lie back down but sat on the edge of the futon, head in hands, barely breathing. In five minutes the door opened again, and Mrs. Gray, her coat and skimpy outfit replaced by a limp terry-cloth robe, grabbed Danny by the arm and led him from the room. Owen spent the night alone, his crotch pulled as tight and raw as his lungs.
In the morning, he waited for someone to come and get him. The sun moved across the floor and by the time it hit the futon he could hear the sounds of breakfast from the kitchen. He dressed quickly in yesterday’s underwear, jeans, and shirt, ignoring the whole new day folded inside his backpack. He opened Danny’s door to the smell of coffee and burnt toast. In the breakfast nook he found Danny hunched over an untouched bowl of Cap’n Crunch, Mrs. Gray with her hair in rollers, smudges of last night’s makeup hollowing her eyes. She sprinkled a packet of Sweet’n Low over half a pink grapefruit and didn’t look up when she told Owen he wouldn’t be allowed in her house again. Owen, who had spent the night imagining the expression on his father’s face when he came to pick him up, was confused by this anticlimax and stood there for a minute, the kitchen linoleum sticky under his sneakers.
“Didn’t you hear me, you little faggot?” Mrs. Gray spat, looking up. Her eyes were an ugly, red-rimmed blue. “Get the hell out of my house. If I see you here again I’ll call the police before I call your parents.”
Owen hurried, grabbing his bag and coat and taking the stairs two at a time to the street. It had snowed overnight, camouflaging the dirty plowed piles from the previous storm. In his teary scuffle for his belongings he’d forgotten his hat and mittens, but couldn’t go back for them. By the time he walked all the way home, taking the shortcut through the graveyard, his ears had gone from burning red to numb and white at the tips. Confused by Mrs. Gray’s last sentence, he expected to find his parents bereft in their own kitchen, phone not replaced on its hook, too ashamed to come pick him up. But when he let himself in with his key, no one was home. Half an hour later, his father returned from his daily run to find Owen taking the first unprompted bath of his life.
On Sunday afternoon he makes himself throw up again, then pretends to fall asleep on the couch. Later, his mother takes his temperature in the living room, which he spikes by holding the tip of the thermometer against a light bulb. It is agreed that Owen’s father will take Monday morning off to bring him to the doctor.
The pediatrician’s office is across the street from Children’s Hospital, and the hallways of the building are narrow and dim and smell of disinfectant and plywood tongue depressors. Owen has to direct his father, who has never been here before, to the third floor and the correct office. Owen plays halfheartedly with the wooden train set he coveted as a small boy while his father reads The New Yorker and waits for their name to be called.
In the exam room Dr. Cloherty jokes with Owen’s father about being a med student’s spouse while Owen strips to his briefs and undershirt. The doctor pops a thermometer in Owen’s mouth and Owen presses down hard with his tongue, willing the mercury to rise.
“Normal,” the doctor announces, then proceeds to look in Owen’s throat, nose, and ears. Mercifully, he seems to decide Owen is too old for the “Let’s look for bunny rabbits in there” routine. He feels Owen’s neck and announces that his glands are slightly swollen. Owen tries not to smile at this sudden good fortune. His lungs manage a convincing wheeze, but he passes the breath test. He lies down on the paper-lined table and claims sore spots as Dr. Cloherty prods his stomach.
“How’s school?” the doctor asks, writing something on his clipboard. Owen shrugs, then speaks up when his father shoots him a don’t-be-rude warning.
“It’s okay.”
“Playing baseball this spring?”
“I guess so,” Owen says. He is not very good at baseball but continues to play it mostly because he likes the accessories: the Tshirts, the cleats, the leather mitts, and wooden bats. He looks forward to the team photo and seeing himself crisp and official, like every other boy on the team.
“Using your inhaler a lot?” the doctor asks.
Owen shrugs. “Sometimes,” he says. Lately, he has only needed it after a night of smoking with Danny.
“No signs of puberty yet?” Dr. Cloherty says casually, and Owen blushes.
“I dunno,” he mumbles.
“You’ll know.” Dr. Cloherty winks at Owen’s father. “Maybe another year for you. I think your brother’s voice started to change when he was thirteen.” Owen’s father looks taken aback, but Owen is impressed at how casually Dr. Cloherty mentions Hugh, as if he is out by the train set, waiting his turn. People rarely mention his brother, and when they do it is usually in a hushed, solemn voice.
“I’m going with your wife’s diagnosis of flu,” Dr. Cloherty says to Owen’s father, indicating that Owen can put his clothes back on. “It’s a hanger-on this year. Push the fluids and watch his lungs. Have his teachers send extra work home. That’ll cure him fast.” Dr. Cloherty winks at Owen and leaves, shaking his father’s hand vigorously on his way out.
That night, to his delight, Owen wakes with a genuine fever of 103 degrees and diarrhea that keeps him in the bathroom staring at checkered tiles until four A.M. Real symptoms milked to their limit, a few fake ones, and the PTA’s half-Friday buy him his second full week at home.
When his father suggests he call Danny about bringing his homework by, Owen’s temperature retreats to normal. On Monday he dresses for school with the care of an invalid, willing down waves of genuine nausea. He walks to school the long way, avoiding his usual shortcuts. Along with the rhythm of his snow boots he chants a hopeful, desperate prayer to Hugh. Let Danny be gone, Let Danny be gone. He doesn’t bother to provide an idea of where Danny might be.
The first kids he comes across outside the school are Katie Beck and three of her friends. They giggle and look away and, though this is what they do for ninety-eight percent of their encounters with boys, he is convinced it means something. (Though Danny broke up with Katie more than a month ago, it was said to be “mutual,” and his latest girlfriend, Meredith Gulch, still sits with Katie at lunch every day.) When Owen enters his classroom, Mr. Gabriel is standing in his usual place by the door and greets him with a raised eyebrow and a “Welcome back” that sends Owen’s heart racing. It never occurred to him that his teacher would suspect. He takes his place at the foursome of desks he shares with two of Katie’s friends and Danny, and waits, his face bright red and emanating enough heat to fool even his mother.
Danny enters alone but doesn’t glance Owen’s way. Instead, he grins at someone across the room and lopes over, sitting down at a block of desks with Brian Dowd and two girls who are known for being obsessed with horses instead of boys. Owen tries not to stare, leans his head down, and glances at the name tag of the desk diagonal to him. Instead of Danny Gray the name on the sticker is Tom Fisher. Just then Tom himself, a tall, bony boy who never stops reading and is generally considered a sissy, sits down and half smiles at Owen. Owen imagines pity in the tilt of his mouth and it is all he can do not to bolt from the room. Only a phone call from Mrs. Gray would have resulted in this change of seating. Mr. Gabriel is notorious for ignoring such requests from students.
Owen operates in a fog until recess, adrenaline and paranoia drowning out the morning’s curriculum. On his way to lunch he passes by the nurse’s office in the hope of refuge, only to find a note that says the nurse is out sick and all emergencies should be reported to the principal. Suspecting that Dr. Felsenfeld has already had a conversation with Danny’s mother, Owen has no choice but to follow the tide of children toward the lunchroom. He has brown-bagged it to avoid walking across the cafeteria with a tray. He sits at a table in the corner near the eighth-graders, whom he knows consider themselves above the gossip of lesser grades. He can’t locate Danny but still only manages to worry down one square of his quartered peanut butter sandwich. It is as heavy as an organ in his stomach. Tom Fisher sits down at the far end of his table but doesn’t acknowledge him. He props his book so it stands open in front of his tray and reads while he eats. The seats between them are empty.
Owen spends the half hour of recess sitting on a toilet in the boy’s room, trying to muffle the explosions of his bowels, reading graffiti about fags, which does nothing to settle his stomach.
He spends the afternoon reviewing a pile of missed work from Mr. Gabriel. He fills out three vocabulary sheets and spends a meditative fifteen minutes copying into his highest-level handwriting book. At a quarter to two, he takes the first deep breath of the day, knowing that it is almost over and that if he hurries out he can avoid confrontation. But Mr. Gabriel keeps him after. He schedules a time for Owen to make up two math quizzes and the history test. He reminds him that the graveyard paper is due next week and asks if he’s had a chance to go to the library. By the time Owen is set free, every kid in the school is loitering on the playground, waiting for rides or forming into their groups for the Extended Day program. Owen considers hiding inside until the playground clears, but the teachers haven’t left yet, and he doesn’t want to be questioned. He pulls his coat on and throws himself to the crowd.
Danny and a group of fifth-grade boys and girls are sitting on the wooden benches by the baseball diamond, cupping cigarettes in their palms in case a teacher looks out the window. From a distance, Owen catches Danny’s blank glance, and for the next thirty seconds, as he walks straight toward them—he can’t get home without passing that spot—his heart unclenches and he believes it will be all right. Danny, like every other time, will simply pretend that it never happened, or that what happened is unrelated to their daytime roles as regular boys. He will punch Owen’s arm, they will spend the afternoon shoplifting, and though they won’t be able to face Mrs. Gray, there is still the promise of an unsupervised afternoon at Owen’s house. He even feels his penis nudge the fly of his jeans with hope. He is smiling, about to raise his hand in a wave, when Danny leans over to say something to Brian Dowd. Brian laughs, exaggerated and knowing, a noise that turns Owen’s spine to ice and makes every other member of the group look up at him. His hope grows cold and foolish, and he speeds toward them, looking down at the faded lines in the cement marking the fifty-yard dash. After he passes them, as he rounds the red-painted START line, he hears exaggerated snickers and catcalls, and one stiff, vicious word from the throat of his best friend.
“FAG.”
On Tuesday morning he has a relapse. His mother, though witness to his violent vomiting, stays in the room while taking his temperature, straightening surfaces and collecting his laundry. When it comes out normal she remarks that his stomach must still be sensitive and she’ll let him stay home.
“Only today, though,” she says. “I’m afraid you’re getting too used to the lazy life.” She gives him a searching look, but Owen feigns exhaustion and turns his head to the pillow. His mother sighs.
“Your father’s at a conference but call the hospital if you need anything, okay?” Owen nods and closes his eyes. He has become so used to faking a weakened, nauseated expression that it is now the natural resting position for his face.
When his mother has been gone long enough, Owen jumps out of bed and gets dressed. He takes twenty dollars in ones from the jar labeled SAVE on his bureau and his father’s black peacoat because his own blue ski jacket seems conspicuous. The coat reaches almost to his ankles.
He walks to Coolidge Corner hunched against the frigid wind, waiting for walk signals at corners and bouncing on his toes to keep warm. At the pharmacy he buys two glass thermometers identical to the one in his parents’ medicine cabinet and half a dozen Snickers bars to keep in his room for fuel. On his way by a small stationery and arts supply store, he ducks in on a whim. The door jingles, and a man with glasses, a receding hairline, and one earring looks briefly up from his place behind the counter. He seems disappointed to see Owen, as if he were expecting a more interesting customer. Owen slips down the Post-it aisle, out of the clerk’s sight.
He calculates what’s left in his pocket and picks out all the supplies he can afford. Two extra-long pieces of charcoal, five sheets of rice paper, a black hardbound sketchbook, and drawing pens of different thicknesses, which he tests out on a block of peel-away scrap paper. He brings his purchases up to the narrow counter.
“I thought the fifth grade already did their grave rubbings this year,” the clerk says, and Owen looks up, blushing.
“I’m home-schooled,” he says quickly. He is immediately worried that he will have to answer questions about this lie. He doesn’t know anything about home-schooling, only that in the third grade Jason Bartlett was taken out of his class to be taught at home by his mother, and no one ever saw him again. But the question the clerk asks him next is fairly easy to make up an answer to.
“Don’t you get lonely?” he says. He has unrolled the sheets of rubbing paper and is rerolling them all together to slip into a yellow cardboard tube. Owen concentrates on smoothing out his damp dollar bills. He tries to remember what Danny told him about earrings on men. He can’t remember if it’s the left or the right ear that means you’re gay. The clerk has a small silver hoop in his left ear.
“No,” Owen says, handing over his money. Though the clerk seems nice enough, Owen is contemptuous of his assumption. As if staying at home could be any lonelier than the fifth grade.
He goes to school only on the days after his parents ask if something is troubling him. Each time is a variation on the same. Danny surrounded by a group of smirking children, looking like a bored prophet, releasing one or two words that cause Owen’s anus to clench in fear. One day he is cornered in the boy’s room by Brian Dowd and Mark Flint, who take hold of his elbows and slam him back against the tiled wall until his head rings.
