Object of Desire (41 page)

T
he principal of St. Francis Xavier High School was a small, elfish, red-faced Irishman named Brother Doyle, whom I had never liked, and who, I was sure, had never liked me, either. Certainly he didn't like me that day in his office, his red hands folded on his highly polished desk, Mom, Dad, and I seated in straight-back chairs in front of him. Above his head was the motto of the school—
BE A MAN
—something I appeared to have failed miserably at, and above that hung an enormous crucifix, with a near-naked Jesus writhing in the throes of his last human agonies. At that moment, I could definitely relate.

“But it is the other matter that is even more distressing than the marijuana,” Brother Doyle was saying.

Neither he nor Mom nor Dad would look at me.

Brother Doyle continued. “Troy Kitchens has admitted to us in rather graphic detail the sins he and Danny committed on a weekly basis for much of the last two years.”

Mom made the sign of the cross.

“Of course,” said Brother Doyle, “we have compassion for these two boys, both of whom have suffered terrible family tragedies, losing beloved family members—”

“We haven't lost Becky,” Mom interrupted. “We're going to find her.”

“Of course.” Brother Doyle cleared his throat. “But still the trauma of her disappearance has clearly pushed Danny into perverse behaviors.”

I saw Dad rub his forehead.

“I am certain that the use of that drug caused it,” Mom said, leaning forward, her big, manly hands opening and closing into fists. “And I believe that Chipper Paguni is the real criminal here, for he introduced my daughter to that drug as well. I believe he started Danny on it, and his mind was corrupted from there.”

“Well,” said Brother Doyle, “it's clear that Chipper partook of the drug with Danny, but Troy has admitted it was he who introduced your son to the drug.”

His eyes flickered briefly over to me but then looked away.

I had fallen into silence. While Troy seemed happy to sing, to spill his guts, I said nothing. No longer did I try to deny it, to bluff my way out of it, as I had in the men's room the day before. But neither did I confirm anything, either. As Brother Doyle read the charges against me, I sat expressionless, immobile. When he asked me if I had anything to say, I simply shook my head. Mom and Dad had so far said nothing to me. There had been no angry words, no confrontations. Only silence.

“All I know is,” Mom said, “Chipper Paguni has been an evil influence on my children. I expect any punishment he faces will be as severe as Danny's.”

Brother Doyle nodded. “Of course, Mrs. Fortunato. But remember that Chipper was not involved in the perversities….”

“He has
plenty
of perversities!” Mom retorted. “He knows more about my daughter's disappearance than he has ever admitted!”

“Be that as it may, Mrs. Fortunato, that is not the matter at hand here.”

“He shouldn't be allowed to graduate,” Mom said. “Are you going to let him graduate?”

Brother Doyle sighed. “We haven't yet decided the course we will take with Chipper. But we do know that we cannot allow Danny or Troy to continue at St. Francis Xavier.”

Mom cocked her head. “Are you saying…that you're expelling Danny but possibly not Chipper?”

“Mrs. Fortunato, we do not tolerate such perverted behavior in our school.”

“Danny's not going to do it again!” she shouted. “I'll see to that!”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Fortunato. We have essentially been giving Danny a free ride here. We haven't asked you to repay the tuition you've missed.” He gave her a sanctimonious smile. “And
this
is how we are thanked.”

“So you're kicking my son out?” Mom asked. “Just like that?”

Brother Doyle sighed. “I'm afraid we can see no other way.”

Finally, there was life from Dad's chair. He stood up abruptly. “And you call yourself a Christian,” Dad said thickly, striding out of the office.

Mom paid him no heed. “Brother,” she said sternly, “I do not want my son educated in a public school. If he has these perverse tendencies, only a good Catholic education can wipe his mind clean.”

I closed my eyes. The room was starting to spin.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Fortunato, our decision is final.”

She was outraged. “Is Troy Kitchens being expelled as well?”

“We haven't decided about Troy yet.”

My eyes opened to see Mom suddenly leap from her chair and press her hands down on Brother Doyle's desk, her nose only inches from his. “So only Danny! You're only expelling Danny!”

“Danny is the only one we've been subsidizing,” Brother Doyle spit back.

“And the Kitchens money probably comes in real handy now that you're building a new gymnasium, doesn't it?”

“Mrs. Fortunato, I will pray for you and Danny and your family. That is all I can offer you at this time.”

“You can go to hell,” Mom said, turning on her heel and storming out of the room.

That left me sitting alone in front of Brother Doyle. I looked at him.

I smiled.

“You may go, Danny,” he said uncomfortably.

I laughed. “Oh, I'm going,” I assured him, my first words all day.

Outside in the corridor, Mom and Dad were nowhere to be found. Maybe they'd left me behind. Maybe I was on my own now. But when I headed out into the parking lot, I saw them waiting for me in the car. I trudged over and slipped into the backseat. Not a word was spoken all the way back to our apartment.

But once inside, the volcano of Mom's emotions erupted. For two hours, she railed at me. I was sick, she said. I was depraved. I had done all this to hurt her. I was selfish. I had caused her so much shame and anguish that she feared she'd lose the energy to look for Becky. I was, she said, the ruin of everything.

Throughout it all, I remained silent. I sat on the couch, with my hands in my lap, my eyes on the floor. Dad poured himself a drink and paced from room to room. Mom's shrill voice filled up that tiny apartment. I was certain the people next to us and above us must have heard her every word.

“It is a filthy thing!” she cried. “No son of mine will be a homosexual!”

I closed my eyes.

“I've lost two children now! I've lost both my babies!”

I heard the front door slam. Dad had gone out. He couldn't take any more. I doubted we'd see him for a couple of days.

Mom stopped ranting after Dad left. She down at the kitchen table. A thousand things seemed to be going through her mind. Her silence disturbed me far more than her rants.

At that moment, the doorbell rang. With tremendous effort Mom stood to open the door.

It was Detective Peter Guthrie. He had come, he said, because he had information.

“Come in, come in!” Mom said, suddenly animated again, ushering him inside, fluttering around him like a giant moth. He sat at the kitchen table and looked grim.

“The man you call Bruno,” he told her, “has been arrested on a narcotics charge. I suspect he will go to jail for a long time.”

“Then he can tell us where Becky is!”

“Mrs. Fortunato,” the detective said, his thin, reedy face expressing annoyance. They'd clearly had this conversation many times.

It occurred to me sitting there that I had never witnessed any real discussion between Mom and Guthrie before. She had usually spoken to him on the phone. But now, from across the room, I listened closely.

“There has never been any evidence that Becky was with Bruno or any other biker,” Guthrie said. “I have followed up this lead of yours only because you have insisted, and that is why I am here today.” He paused for emphasis. “Bruno knows nothing about your daughter. He says he has no idea who she is or where she is. He admits he called you, because he learned you were following him. He thought you were a private detective and you were onto his drug ring.”

“He's lying!”

Guthrie shook his head. “Even when offered a possible reduction of the charges against him, he could offer us no information.” The detective looked at Mom with stern eyes. “Mrs. Fortunato, your daughter was
never
with Bruno. Those bikers were bilking you for cash. That's all.”

“I won't believe it!” Mom shouted. “Warren is my friend! There have been too many sightings of her for it all to be a lie. Too many bikers have seen Becky!”

“Mrs. Fortunato.” Detective Guthrie stood. “It is time that you faced facts. Your daughter left home because she was unhappy.”

“She was not! My daughter was very happy! We were very close!”

“Not according to her friends. You know that I interviewed all of them immediately after Becky's disappearance. I spoke with Karen Mulgrew. I spoke with Pam Antolini. I spoke with Carol Fleisher. I spoke with dozens of girls. They all told me of the arguments the two of you had been having. They all told me that Becky felt you were pressuring her about her relationship with her boyfriend.”

I had never known this. I had had little contact with Becky's friends. They were all over at St. Clare's, and all were older than I was. Becky's life and my life had become so separate. I knew that she and Mom had been arguing a lot, but I'd been unaware that her unhappiness had grown so great that she'd told all her friends.

“If Becky was unhappy,” Mom was saying, “it was because of him, because of that Chipper Paguni, not me!”

“Whatever the reason,” Guthrie replied, standing from his chair, “she was unhappy at home. I believe you need to face the fact that Becky
ran away,
Mrs. Fortunato. The evidence is there. Her missing clothes. The money that was taken from your cookie jar.”

My eyes widened. More information that I hadn't known. Missing clothes. Money from the cookie jar. Mom had never spoken of such things in front of me.

“Becky wasn't kidnapped, Mrs. Fortunato,” Detective Guthrie said, trying to sound kind, but years of frustration seeped through in his voice. “Certainly not by bikers.”

Mom's lips had gone white with rage. “So you will continue overlooking leads, then! You will force me to continue searching on my own!”

Guthrie sighed, his hand on the door to leave. “We will investigate every viable lead, Mrs. Fortunato. Trust me, I would like to find Becky very much. It's just that I still believe she will come home on her own eventually.”

“Get out,” Mom said contemptuously.

Guthrie said good-bye and left.

Mom picked up a plate from the table and tossed it against the wall. Miraculously, it didn't break. It just bounced like a Frisbee and landed on the couch, beside me. I jumped, but only a little.

I looked over at my mother. “You never told me about any of that,” I said, my words hard and accusatory.

“Listen to me, Danny,” Mom said. “Your sister wasn't unhappy. Your sister was a good girl!”

I stood now, taking a couple of steps toward her. I even managed a small laugh. “She took
clothes
with her? And
money?
”

“Becky did
not
run away!”

“Why are you so sure?”

Mom's eyes were wild. She rushed at me, as if she might try to tackle me. I tensed. Let her try. She stopped immediately in front of me, her finger wagging in my face. I did not back away.

“You listen to me, Danny! Your sister was a good girl! She wouldn't leave me! She and I had so many plans!”

Mom's face was pitiful. I stared at her.

“Ever since Becky was born, I knew what a bright future awaited her.” The tears sprang into Mom's eyes. “She was such a good baby. She never cried. I held her in my arms. I changed her little diapers. I put her in for her naps. I held her, my baby, in my arms….” Her voice broke.

I was melting, despite myself.

“It's not natural!” Mom cried. “It's not natural for her to be gone! Parents aren't supposed to lose children! I watched over both of you, wanting to keep both of you safe. I failed you! I failed both you and Becky.”

The tears began flowing from her eyes. “I'm sorry, Danny. I stopped looking out for you the way I should have, and that's why you did what you did. When a mother fails, this is what happens. It's my fault.”

I stood there, not wanting to feel anything. But I was.

“I remember when Becky went off to kindergarten,” Mom was saying. “She was so pretty and smart and talented. All the nuns said so. And she was going to go to Salve Regina College and major in art. She was going to marry a wonderful boy, a boy as smart and talented as she was, and I was going to give her a big wedding, the kind of wedding I never got, and she'd wear a beautiful gown, and I'd watch her walk down the aisle and listen to everyone say how beautiful she was.” Mom's eyes were imploring me to understand. “That's what a mother dreams about for her daughter. Don't you see? That's what a mother dreams about!” She burst into tears.

“Mom,” I said, my hand reaching out to her.

But she willed away her tears, seemed to suction them right back up into her eyes. Drawing herself tall, she ignored my outstretched hand. “It's not
right,
” she said angrily. “This isn't how it was supposed to be. All along, I've thought, she can
still
come back! We can still go on, still follow through with our plans. But every day that she's gone, it becomes harder. Don't you see? It gets harder the longer she's gone.”

Her voice hiccupped with emotion, and I wanted so much to hold her, to comfort her. But she remained tight, coiled into herself.

“If Becky had been gone only a few months,” she said, “she might have still come back, and we could still have picked up where we left off. Every day I'd think, ‘If she comes back today, we can still make it all happen.' But now it's been two years! If she doesn't come home soon, it might be too late. Time is running out! How can you pick up after two years?”