A 52-Hertz Whale (19 page)

Later,

J-ded

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 18, 2013 at 10:45 AM
Subject: The Movie

Hey Earth James,

It's Sky Darren. I'm writing you from our cruising altitude of 30,000 feet. I have no business paying for Wi-Fi on a plane, but I couldn't help myself. I get too bored and antsy on planes if I just sit there. So now I'm emailing you and listening to the Stones on Spotify. Mick Jagger keeps telling me that he can't get any satisfaction and that you can't always get what you want. To which I say, “You're preaching to the choir director, bro!”

So Mrs. D thinks I have the evil eye! Just my luck, right? I think it was our conversation in the basement that led her to that conclusion. I got to talking, somehow veered into the Corinne thing—imagine that!—and Mrs. D'Angelo just kept rolling her hand over in the air and saying, “Go on,” so I guess she understood. So I told her the whole saga of my last couple years: the breakup, the restraining order, the community service, you, Testy Snobbin, the end of Testy Snobbin, Corinne in Spain, Corinne cohabitating with this new shmuck. And when I finished, damn near out of breath because it was the first time I put into words all the shit that's been knocking around inside my brains for the past couple years, she waved her hand and started leading me over to the corner where there was this old bureau. When we got there, she picked up this framed black-and-white picture of some guy wearing suit pants and a white T-shirt and holding a baby. It was one of those pictures from way, way back, from before people smiled for pictures. The baby looks bored, and the dude just looks tired. He's wearing suspenders over a T-shirt. I've always loved the T-shirt–and–suspenders look. It just screams “grumpy old man” even if the guy's not old.

“My husband,” she said. “When I have him, I strong. I happy.” She turned the frame facedown on the table, looked back up at me, and said, “When he die, I am no as happy . . . but I am now stronger.” She made a muscle with her arm, pointed for a second at it, then up at her heart. She stared at me like she was waiting for something, and I thought I got what she was talking about, so I nodded real gravely, as if she'd just dropped major knowledge on me and I was instantly changed forever.

That was a bunch of cow dung, though. I had no idea what she was talking about or what it had to do with me. But now that I've had a chance to think about it, I think I do.

Look at my life: I'm a dude in America of sound body and with a college degree. No one close to me has ever died. My great-grandparents were dead before I was born, my grandpa on my mom's side died when I was seven and I barely remember him because they moved to Arizona to avoid winter, and my other three grandparents are all still kickin'. My point is, losing Corinne was about the first time I've really lost anyone. I've never had to deal with something like Sophia has. And she had to do it as a teenager. Can't imagine how hard that'd be.

I've had other breakups, but this is the first real-deal one. So, loss sucks. But maybe I can come out of it a little sadder but a little tougher. Doesn't sound like the worst thing, especially if when the next loss comes—and more will come, no avoiding them forever—I'll be a little better prepared as a result. And maybe the next good thing in life will seem a little more precious knowing that it could be gone at any moment.

God, that all sounds maudlin. Straight up last-scene-of-an-episode-of-
7th-Heaven
(don't tell anyone; if you've seen it you know what I mean). But I think Mrs. D'Angelo is evidence I'm right. Look at how much she likes you and Sophia. Went on about you guys' little date as much as I went on about Corinne. Personally, I would've been more comfortable during a rectal exam than I was watching you two eating garlic bread and making the most god-awful awkward small talk I've ever witnessed. (Actual snippet I remember. You: “I really like this bread.” Her: “Bread is good.” You: “Yeah, it really is. Unless you have a wheat allergy.” You know you're approaching Peak Awkward when the conversation has turned to wheat allergies.) Not you guys' fault. Product of your age. I was the same way. Actually no. I was equally awkward, but I just kept talking and talking as if hoping that my words could somehow outrun my awkwardness. (They couldn't.)

Much as it pained me to listen to you guys, Mrs. D'Angelo thought it was the most adorable damn thing in the world and would have stayed up there longer if she didn't have to check on the pignoli.

Point is, she can get a kick out of stuff like that, I think, because she's lost enough in her time to appreciate how badly you guys are grasping for something, trying to make some sort of connection. I guess it only made me want to vomit because here I am almost ten years older than you, and I'm pretty much in the same boat.

Well, metaphorically speaking. Physically, I'm on a plane, which is now preparing for its descent, so all the seatbacks and tray-tables must be put in their upright positions and I've got to shut down this computer machine.

Later,

Descending Darren

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 18, 2013 at 4:12 PM
Subject: RE: The Movie

Dear Darren:

Did we kiss? Read on.

While we were at the emergency dentist, wondering what had happened to you, Sash was on the phone with his boss, cursing up a storm. It was weird how everyone in the waiting room was looking at me and Sophia in our formal clothes, so we went back to the limo and talked for a while. Actually, Sophia talked. I slipped off my dress shoes. And as I poured Sprite into a champagne flute, Sophia was going: “Oh my God, I'm going to be in so much trouble for breaking curfew. My mom's going to kill me. Or worse, she'll talk to Nonna to come up with some completely insane punishment like taking my phone away for the weekend. Or making me go to 6:30 a.m. Mass every morning for Lent. It's going to be bad, James. I mean, she told me like fifty times before I left to be home by midnight. That she'd be waiting up.” There was a two-second silence where I wondered if I should comment. But Sophia was like a whale surfacing for air. After she sucked in a breath, she was ready to dive right back in. “But it's like who's Mom to judge me anyway? She's the one who stayed out till one in the morning with Albert Stevens last week. I'm not deaf. I could totally hear the key in the front door and their laughing. Honestly, James, I don't know what she sees in him, you know? The teeth, the roses, everything. He's nothing like my dad.”

Sophia picked at her nail polish. In the quiet, I hummed to a David Archuleta song that was playing on the radio. (Don't tell anyone I watch
American Idol
and I won't say a word about
7th Heaven
). With the changing colors of fiber optic light, I noticed Sophia's eye makeup had smeared into an abstract watercolor painting—you know, the kind that is hard to understand but also wildly beautiful. And I knew I should say something to her, but we never rehearsed any role plays in Social Skills that would actually be useful like how to talk to a crying girl who is cool enough to wear a Save the Whales bracelet. As you probably know by now, I'm no good without a script.

So I just hooked an arm around Sophia's bare shoulders. She cried a little more and I could feel her melting into me. Her forehead was so close that my lips grazed her skin. And then her face tipped up toward mine and we were kissing. Or rather she was kissing me. I didn't know what to do with my mouth or my hands or my tongue. But Sophia didn't seem to care. For five glorious seconds, I swallowed her breath and she swallowed mine. It reminded me of this awesome (and kind of far-fetched) account I once read from 1918 where a guy, a real guy—James Bartley—spent hours in a sperm whale's belly. Bartley went completely nuts after the crew of his whaling boat extricated him alive and now I can understand why. He'd been somewhere he never thought he'd go—deep inside another creature. Somewhere he might never go again.

In the middle of this magical moment, you yanked open the passenger-side door of the limo and dropped into the seat. Sash followed, yelling into his phone about “fucking vandalistic miscreants.” You kept groaning as you held your ice pack up to your mouth. It kind of killed the mood.

There's something else I wanted to tell you in case it is helpful with the edits for the documentary. As we were leaving Turnabout, Sam slung his arm around my shoulder and slipped an envelope into my blazer pocket. I didn't open the envelope up until just now when I emptied my pockets to take the coat to the dry cleaner. You'll remember how I told you that Coxson, Sam, and the rest of the soccer team stole my diorama for Bio at the beginning of this year and defaced it as part of some bizarre hazing ritual. Well, as you might recall, I included my one and only picture of Salt in the diorama and I figured it ended up in the cafeteria dumpster with the rest of my project. Just now though, when I opened the envelope that Sam gave me at the dance, the lost picture of Salt was inside. The photo was crumpled and there was a smudge of ketchup on the fluke. But still.

Your friend,

James

P.S. I finished putting in my time to pay for the new Abominable Snowman costume at Star Arcade yesterday. They let me keep the old yeti gear, the one stained with jungle juice from Smith's party. Just for shits and giggles (Urban Dictionary, 2013), I tried the old Abominable Snowman costume on the other day, and this is crazy, but it barely fit. I must've had a growth spurt.

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 20, 2013 at 8:30 PM
Subject: Starbucks

Dear Sara,

So I'm only allowed out of the house for school-related stuff. Becky and I went to the Starbucks on King St. today because we had to finish our Bio homework. We're sipping on our Fraps and laughing and rehashing the latest episode of
The Bachelor
when I look two seats in front of us. And . . . there's Albert. His back is to us, but I would recognize his bad hair and misaligned ears anywhere. Anyway, I tell Becky, and instead of talking about theories of evolution, we're making fun of Albert for the next hour and a half. How he's such a loser to sit by himself, how he keeps wiping his face with a handkerchief (what—is he from 1910?), how he is drinking chocolate milk at a coffee shop, on and on. I start feeling kind of bad when we move on to ragging on his ride, this hulking handicap van parked right out front, because I know the reason why he drives that beast: his mom.

Anyway, when Becky's mom comes to pick her up, we've accomplished nothing, so I decide to stay and actually do some work then take the Pace home (don't tell anyone!). Thanks to the Frap, I need to pee, but since peeing means walking past Albert's table, I hold it. I try to study, but there's this worm of guilt that keeps digging deeper and deeper under my skin. When I can't hold it any more, I walk by Albert's table on the way to the bathroom, hoping he won't notice me. He doesn't. Because he is looking at a brochure about hospice and wiping tears from his eyes. And I know it has to be for his mom. The only other time I saw a grown man cry was when my dad was diagnosed with cancer. Mom had to hold him up under the arms, Dad cried so hard about it being stage IV. Anyway, on the way back from the bathroom, I can hardly walk. I feel like I am made of glass or something breakable. I pause at Albert's table and say hello. He looks up and sniffs. I point to the brochure and say, “Sorry,” even though I hated when people said that to me. And he hugs me, Sara, and I don't know why but I hug him back, and he's still sitting and I'm standing, and his head is on my chest, and I'm crying and he's crying, and he's holding on and I'm holding on. And finally the barista offers me a tissue and tap water. I know that I'd already made a complete fool out of myself so I don't even think twice about accepting when Albert offers to drive me home in that horrendous van. I'll call you about next weekend.

Love,

Soph

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 20, 2013 at 9:21 PM
Subject: RE: Starbucks

Hey Soph-

Was ur barista @ Starbucks named Wes? Cute and kinda short? He's used 2 tears. That's where Mom and Dad took me when we got the test results 4 JA. At least he didn't offer u a free drink.

L8r,

Sara

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: March 21, 2013 at 9:00 PM
Subject: RE: One week ago

Dear me,

Me again. Well, it's interesting to see what you, I mean I, wrote last week. I was pretty pissed about having to write this email journal. And it was pretty funny rereading that line about Dr. Sizemore's creepy wrist hair. The session wasn't as bad this week, except for his whole “sensitive voice” thing. I called him out on how fake it was because it was annoying me pretty badly. He said, “I think I know what you mean, but I don't know if ‘fake' is the right word. But I will readily admit that I'm adapting to my role as a counselor. In that role, I would like to be a calming presence for my patients, but if you were next to me on the sideline as I cheered on my son at his soccer game, you'd hear a much different voice.” Then he kind of turned it around on me and said, “Do you ever find yourself modifying your behavior based on your social situation, or do you speak and act the same way with your friends as you do with your parents and teachers?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Kids who do that are the ones who have to take social skills classes to learn how to have a conversation.”

“So it's not necessarily a bad thing to adapt your behavior to your role in a given interaction?”

“No, not necessarily.”

“What roles do you think you and your friend Charlie play when you're together?”

Only now do I see what he was doing there, how he slipped Charlie into the conversation because I'd mentioned him a couple times in last week's session. I'll hand it to Sizemore this time. You got me to talk. You win.