The Evolution of Ethan Poe, page 15
“Why would I want to go with one old lady to visit another old lady who sounds like she’s off her rocker?”
“Gee, I don’t know, maybe because you’d be with me?”
“That’s not how I want to be with you. In fact,” and he lowers his voice and looks around, “I’d like to take another drive to Bangor on Saturday. What do you say?”
Maybe this thing with Kyle has me too on edge, or maybe my reaction is what it should be, but something in me snaps, and Max and I have our first fight. Quietly. Right here in front of the school.
“Y’know, Max, it’s really not cool with me the way you talk about Etta.”
“What’d I say? Jeez!”
“Let’s see. You’ve called her a hag, and you use the term ‘old lady’ like it’s an insult, and you say spending time with her is lame. I got news for you. I like spending time with her. And if you think that’s lame, then you must think I’m lame, too.”
I stop long enough to take a breath, but I’m on a roll. “And you can stop saying mean things about Jorja, too. D’you think I don’t know she’s weird? But she’s my best friend, and she can’t help it that she’s so scared of life that she needs the Bible to lean on.” Where did that come from?
I stare out toward where the highway runs in front of the school, my eyes catching on the last orange berries of the bittersweet vines that are strangling those baby poplars. What will Max do? Is this, like, the end of us?
He looks off to the side, away from me, for a minute. Then, “All right, all right. Don’t be so prickly. Christ. Sorry if I hurt your feelings.”
I turn toward him. “It’s not my feelings, Max. Etta is a terrific lady who’s helping me, and Jorja is a sad person who needs a friend. They’re . . . they’re my people. You gotta get that.” I wanted to say they’re my pack, but it seems odd to say that about Jorja.
“I get it, okay?”
There’s about two minutes of painful silence, and then we go back inside.
I’m worried all afternoon. I know I did the right thing, but being with Max feels like the right thing, too. I leave History class with my head down, moving toward my locker like some automaton. I’m standing there, barely able to focus on what to leave and what to take home, when I hear a voice in my ear.
“I really am sorry, Ethan. That I said all those things.” I turn to look at Max, and he shrugs. “It’s just . . . I dunno, sometimes I’m just not sure what to say around you.” I feel my face soften. Then he says, “So, are we good? And what about Bangor again?”
I haven’t told Max about Kyle, and I’m not sure whether Mom will need me to stay with him. All I can do is tell Max that yes, we’re good, but I have to get back to him about Bangor. I do my best to convince him that I really, really want to go, and I think he believes me.
What I don’t say, about that trip to Bangor, is that there had better not be any more talk about how much better Max thinks he is than people I care about. If he cares about me, he cares about them. It has to be that way. I steal a sideways glance at his gorgeous face and silently ask the universe for the courage to stick to these convictions.
Mom drives Kyle to Bangor on Thursday afternoon for an evaluation with a shrink. Kyle is very subdued at dinner that night, more even than he’s been all week. It’s like it’s hitting him that there’s something really screwy going on in his head and he’s just realizing how bad it is.
After Kyle goes up to bed, early for him, I bring my homework downstairs so Mom won’t be alone. I’m at the kitchen table, iPhone at my side in case anyone (read: Max) wants to get in touch, and she’s watching something on TV. When I finish I go sit in the chair beside her. She’s watching something really stupid, some show she doesn’t even like, and I realize it doesn’t matter. It’s just noise to drown out what else her brain would be telling her. I decide this might be a good time to ask about Saturday, and I’m not going to lie to her again.
When I’ve got her attention, I say, “I know I’m going out tomorrow night, so if you need me here on Saturday I’ll do that. But it’d be great if I could spend the afternoon with a friend.” I wait; will she ask for details?
“Can the two of you spend it here?” I’m straining my brain, trying to think how I can let her know that won’t work, when she shakes her head. “Never mind. I can see that’s not what you had in mind. I can go to the grocery store on Sunday. Who is it, Ethan?”
Nanoseconds pass like minutes. “Max Modine.”
“Max? Sylvia’s brother?” I nod. “What are you going to do?”
“Maybe drive around, get a burger. You know, stuff.” Will she ask about his license?
She takes a hard look at me. “You like this boy, don’t you, Ethan.”
I look down at my hands, clasped together tightly between my knees. “Yeah.” And I wait.
Finally, “I need another promise from you.” I look up at her. “Promise me that you won’t let anyone—and I mean anyone, I don’t care how cute he is—get inside you.” I feel my body jerk and find myself sitting up straight. “You look shocked; good. I’m hoping that means it hasn’t already happened.”
I can’t speak, but I manage to shake my head.
“Promise me.”
Swallow. “I promise.” God, I haven’t even thought of that! At least, not seriously.
“I don’t want to run your life, Ethan, but I know something about young boys. I was young once, and I was no angel. But I can’t face both my sons getting sick. I just can’t. . . .” Suddenly she’s on her feet and out of the room and up the stairs. I hear her bedroom door shut.
I sit there maybe twenty minutes, watching and not watching the same stupid program that’s still on the TV, before I fish out my phone.
I text Max, we’re on for sat afternoon that still cool w you? Within minutes I get, fab! same place? And I reply no my house 1:00 ok? Then I see fur sur but no blabbing ok
It takes me a few seconds to realize that he means he doesn’t want my mom to know who he is to me. Too late for that. But I reply, k cu and sign off.
Etta picks me up at five on Friday. It feels weirder than our other times together, a Friday night date with an old lady, even if that’s not the insult Max made it sound like. I’ve dressed more Goth again for tonight; it seems appropriate, going to have dinner with someone who practically tells fortunes for a living. Looking at myself in the mirror before going downstairs, I see wrinkles in the cloth that wouldn’t have been so bad a few weeks ago. My Goth stuff has found its way toward the bottom of my drawers lately.
Etta comes into the house briefly to see how Mom is doing. I know they’ve been on the phone already about Kyle’s therapy appointment yesterday, which I gather was not particularly encouraging. He has another evaluation, different therapist, on Monday. Etta is living up to her promise.
Two is in the backseat again. I have to chuckle at the picture in my mind of either Max or Jorja sharing that space with him; maybe this is better with just me.
This time of year it’s getting dark by five, or close enough, so when we finally leave the house I have no trouble promising myself to log all driving tonight in the “night” category. Etta tells me where we’re going but then says we’ll take the long way to log more time. She gives me a few directions, I put on my ear cuff, and we’re off.
“Do you have anyone you can talk to about what’s happening with Kyle?”
This throws me. In fact, I’ve been looking forward to not talking about him, not having him a couple of rooms away, not having that darkness over my head. “I don’t want to talk to anyone about it. I haven’t told any of my friends.”
“Even so, I want you to know you can either talk to me about it or not. It’s up to you, and I’m glad to hear anything you want to say. Or say nothing. But I think you should talk about it. Do you have a friend in mind?”
I don’t bother to go over the list out loud. There are a few kids I call my friends. There’s missing link Kenny, according to Max, anyway, and (per Max again) douchbagette Marra. And of course Jorja, the Jesus freak. But Max isn’t wrong about that label. Even so, if I can talk to any of them about this, it’s Jorja. Maybe. And “maybe” is all I say to Etta.
“School counselor?”
That wouldn’t have occurred to me. “I’ll think about it.” My mind goes instead to Sylvia Modine. Could this be called science, in a pinch, if Etta’s diagnosis is right?
“What about your father?” I stare at nothing for a second. Does he even know? She must take my silence for a No way ’cause before I can think how to respond she says, “Can you talk to Max?”
“About that? God, no!”
“And that’s because . . .”
“That’s just not the kind of conversation I want to have with Max, okay?” Only after I say this do I hear how angry my tone is. And I don’t even know why. We’re both quiet for a minute, and then I say, “Sorry.”
“That’s all right, Ethan. You’re going through a very difficult time right now. I won’t pester you. But I do hope you talk about this, and I hope you choose the right person. So. Is there anything else you’d like to know about where we’re going?”
“I can’t think of anything. Can I just drive?”
“Of course. Do you mind some music?”
“That’s okay.” I’m sure she’ll put on something I don’t like, but it’s her car.
She plays with the CD changer for a minute and then the car fills with the richest, most intense voice I’ve ever heard. It’s a woman, but her voice is kind of low. The songs are fun or sad, full of love or pain, it doesn’t matter. I could listen to her forever. She pulls at something in my gut, and it’s both beautiful and wrenching. When it’s over I ask, “Who’s that?”
“That was k.d. lang. Did you like it?”
“Yeah. Do you have any more?”
“At home, not in the car.”
“Can you play that one again?”
She does. Doesn’t say a word, just starts it again. And as I’m listening it occurs to me that one of the things I like about Etta is that she doesn’t overreact. She doesn’t make me feel silly or too young to be taken seriously. She’s never treated me like anything other than another person whose life is just as real and just as important as hers. Like I’m part of her pack.
We don’t talk at all after that except when Etta has to direct me. And just before we pull into the driveway I realize there is something I want to know.
“Um, what’s your friend’s name?”
Etta laughs. “I guess I didn’t tell you, did I? It’s Heidi Wolcott. I’m sure she’ll prefer it if you call her Heidi.”
The house is pretty far away from any neighbors, set back from the road behind some trees. We park next to a beat-up, old blue Volvo, Etta puts Two’s leash on him, and I follow Etta and Two along a path of wobbly flagstones that winds every which way toward the porch. It’s dark for real now, and the season for most everything but pumpkins is over, so I can’t tell what was growing beside the path. All I can see is that there are dead plants everywhere.
There’s a soft light coming through the windows, and as we step up onto the porch I try to peek inside. But the porch light is dim, and there’s so much stuff scattered all over the place that I have to watch my step as we make our halting way down the long porch across the front of the house toward the door. I see what looks like a bronze moon crescent dangling from within another circle that’s got spikes on it, and then I realize it’s the moon inside the sun, and the whole thing is suspended like a mobile from the porch ceiling. There are flowerpots and planters all over the floor, some with dead stuff still in them, others empty and stacked into crooked, unstable columns on a bench beside an old wooden rocking chair.
Something catches at my hair and I say, “What the . . .” But it’s only a fake spider web, and as I look up I see a huge fake spider with a Day-Glo green spot gleaming on its belly. I’m just wondering what I’ve got myself into when the door ahead of Etta opens. A large woman appears, in silhouette because of all the light coming from behind her. I can make out only her rounded shape and the long, loose hair all around her head and shoulders. She says nothing, just wraps Etta in a long hug. Then, “Is this your young friend?”
I step into a room scattered with stuff that’s different from what’s on the porch, though the flavor is the same. Moons and stars and suns and masks are on the walls or decorating flat surfaces everywhere. There are a couple of what I guess are tapestries, one with faces all over it and the other with some kind of symbols I don’t recognize. Everything about the place strikes me as the exact opposite of Etta, and I wonder how they met and how on earth they can be friends.
We go through the introductions, and Heidi tells me to call her that, just like Etta had said. Two sits quietly at Etta’s feet despite the fact that I see at least two cats, one with orange stripes and one with lots of tiny black and orange freckles, walking in curls around table legs and anything else that’s on the floor. Heidi notices that my eyes are darting everywhere, and she laughs.
“I can see the room is distracting you, Ethan. Come, let’s move into the kitchen. Though please feel free to explore in here as much as you want.”
Yuh. It would take some exploring. But the kitchen is orderly, even if it has ancient fixtures and wallpaper I wouldn’t choose on a bet. And it’s huge. At the far end it opens up into another space where there’s a large wooden table, chairs all around it—each one different from the others, but all wood—and beyond that is this ginormous fireplace with all kinds of tools and pots and things around it. I turn back to the kitchen area to make sure there’s really a stove, and there is. Not a new one, for sure, but at least Heidi doesn’t cook everything in that fireplace. Though it looks like she could.
The whole time I’m looking around, Heidi is talking. “Don’t let the porch and the parlor fool you, Ethan. I mean, I had lots of fun hunting down all those things that play off of what people expect to see when they come here. Don’t get me wrong; I love them all. I’m sure Etta told you that I do astrology readings, and I take our cosmic environment very seriously. But I also like to have fun with it.”
One phrase stands out for me. “What do people expect to see?”
“Why, all that kind of stuff that you found so distracting. I do readings, like I said, but not just astrology. I also work with energy, helping people figure out where theirs is stuck or dark or too intense, and then helping them shift it or release it. I have a room where I work with my clients, and it’s not cluttered with whimsy and paraphernalia, but people who come for my services expect to see that stuff. Or most of them do. Some of them get the joke. They know it’s for show, and that it’s fun. But a lot of people ask about some of the objects in these hushed, serious tones. Sometimes it’s everything I can do not to laugh! But that wouldn’t be fair when, I mean, after all, I tempted them. I set them up.”
In the light of the kitchen I can see her hair is dark brown shot through with silver threads, and there’s a shock of solid silver hair falling in waves beside her right eye. Somewhere in the wavy strands are dangle earrings of multicolored glass beads; it’s hard to make out what the design is. And she’s dressed in what I guess is a caftan, lemon yellow background with soft orange and dark red designs all over it. A few fingers and one of her thumbs have silver rings on them, different styles. My ear cuff fits right in here.
There’s a sudden noise from the front room, followed by the sound of dog nails on wood floors. Etta sets a bowl of dog food down in the corner. “Sounds like the cats are keeping Two in line.” And sure enough, Two comes trotting in, a look on his face that says, Cat? What cat? I didn’t see no stoopit cat.
I’m confused. “But—he’s a pit bull. Wouldn’t he just eat one of the cats for dinner?”
“He does and I’ll eat him tomorrow!” Heidi is grinning, but I think she’s half serious. “Ethan, Two is well trained. He knows curiosity is one thing, but killing something is another matter. He’s not the pack leader. Etta is. She’s One.” She gives Etta a look I can’t quite interpret, and I’m feeling like an idiot for not having figured that out already. “Shall we sit down? I think everything’s about ready.”
There’s a lot of food, but most of it doesn’t look much like what I get at home. And it smells different, too. Etta says, “I didn’t warn you, did I? Heidi is a vegetarian. But wait till you taste everything. Very unusual.”
So much for her threat of eating Two. Heidi gives a brief description of each dish before she offers it. The only one I turn down is something with okra in it. I’m willing to try new things, but I have my limits. In the end, I think my favorite is something I have three helpings of—this eggplant bulgur casserole with cumin, a flavor I don’t remember having in any of Mom’s cooking.
Heidi asks me a bunch of questions about school, especially science. But, really, they’re more like questions about the other kids in class.
“How many of them do you think reject evolution the way your friend Jorja does?”
The fork I’m lifting to my face hangs in midair. “What do you know about Jorja?”
Etta says, “I hope I didn’t break any confidences, Ethan. The only thing I said was that Jorja is staunchly evangelical Christian and that she was having a hard time accepting secular realities.”
Heidi nods. “It might surprise you, Ethan, but a lot of people are concerned about the rift developing in your town. There’s some conflict in the other two towns the school board serves, but for some reason it’s worse where you live. And Jorja seems to have been the canary in the mine. An early warning sign. A lot of people know about Jorja’s reaction in your American History class, and Mrs. Glasier’s teens have been quite active.”
I’m blinking like a dolt. “Active?”
Etta says, “You haven’t noticed?” I shake my head, and she laughs. “Ethan, I know you’re a little, um, distracted lately, but—really.”
I assume she means Max, but then there’s Kyle, too. “Why? What have they done?”
