First I didn't sleep. Then I slept without meaning to. Right in my clothes. But only for a couple of hours. I woke up and it was a little before five, and the place was quiet. I was pretty sure my father wasn't up yet.
I lay on my back in bed thinking about Maria, but then I got this little catch in my stomach, like there was something else in there. Ever have that happen? Like there's something on the tip of your tongue, and you can't quite remember what it is, but you already know it's bad. Then my mind jumped back to tea with milk and sugar, and then I knew.
I wouldn't have done what I did next at any other time in my life. Not one day before I did it. But this was not any other day or any other time in my life. This was right now.
I booted up my computer and opened the Web browser. And then I did a search for Tehachapi, California. That's the little town in the Mojave Desert where Grandma Annie worked. But she lived in a little town that was actually called Mojave, on the other side of the Tehachapi Pass. Of course, I had no way of knowing if she still did. Either one. And I didn't even know the name of the motel, but I hoped I'd remember it if I saw it. So if I could just act like a tourist and look up lodging in that town, maybe something would strike me.
I hit the first link to come up, and what I saw moved through me like a rush, like a flash flood. Like the fire hoses they used to use to knock down protesters on the street.
It was a picture of the windmills on Tehachapi Pass. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of windmills. Spilling up and down the sides of these mountains. All exactly alike, but staggered by their placement on each slope. They're not like the old-fashioned windmills you see in books about Holland. They're very modern, streamlined and grayish-white. Three long, clean blades each. And whole sections of them would spin at once while other sections held still.
Now, of course, the picture on the Internet didn't tell me that some spin while some hold still. I knew that on my own. Because I had seen them with my own eyes.
It came back in a big rush, like I said.
I guess I must've been five or six, and I was riding in the back seat of the car, and my mother was up front in the passenger seat, and she said, “Sebastian, see the windmills?”
I had been looking at her face, but when she said that, I looked out the window. But I couldn't see them. So she took off my seat belt and pulled me up front with her, and sat me down on her lap, and put her seat belt around both of us. And then I looked up, and there they were. Hundreds and hundreds of windmills.
“They make electricity,” she said.
“How?” I wanted to know.
“They make it out of the wind. They take the wind on this mountain pass and turn it into electricity. What do you think of the windmills, Sebastian?”
“I like them.” Which, as I recall, was a huge understatement. But I was only five or six.
“When we see Grandma Annie, tell her what you thought of the windmills, okay?”
And while she said that, she was running a hand through my hair. And then, a minute later, rubbing my back a little bit.
I started to cry.
No, not there in the car when I was little. I was happy then. I started to cry right there in front of my computer. I couldn't even see the link that said, “A helpful guide to hotels, motels, inns” until I'd gotten a few tears out of my system, and out of my eyes. I had to get up and get a fresh handkerchief out of my drawer, because I'd given the one in my pocket to Maria.
After a while I hit the helpful guide link, right through the tears. There were only seven listings. I ran my eye down the list, and when I saw the Tehachapi Mountain View Inn, I knew right away. I didn't have to wonder. I remembered it as surely as I remembered the windmills, and my mother rubbing my back. And then when I thought about my mother rubbing my back, I started to cry all over again.
I WROTE MY LETTER to her in pen, on stationery. Not on the computer. It's one of those things like carrying a cloth handkerchief. My father taught me that's what gentlemen do.
Here's what I said, because I was feeling emotional, and there was a lot I just wasn't prepared to go into right then.
Dear Grandma Annie,
I know it's been a long time since I've written to you or you've written to me. But I just want you to know that I forgive you for not writing. It's been a long time, and I can understand how you could forget all about me. In case you don't forgive me for not keeping in touch, I have to tell you that my father strictly forbids it. So I'm doing this behind his back. So please don't do anything to get me in trouble. Not to sound wimpy, but I have to live with him. If you want to write to me, please write to me at the same address as always, the one on this envelope, only instead of our apartment number, 5J, please send it care of Ms. Delilah Green in apartment 3B. She's my friend and she'll make sure I get your letter, and then he'll never have to know. I want to ask you some questions, mostly about my mother.
Very Truly Yours,
Your Grandson,
Sebastian Mundt
Then I sealed it into an envelope and addressed it to her care of the Tehachapi Mountain View Inn, where I hoped she still worked, and then I sat alone in my room until I heard my father get up.
MY LESSONS THAT DAY were a disaster. Right from the start. I couldn't concentrate. My head felt hollow, and sore inside, like too many things had been banging around in there. Like the jumble of thoughts from the last few days had all been sharp, dangerous objects. Maybe they were.
My father wanted me to behave just the way I always did. No way to have an off day. That's him in a nutshell, actually. No tolerance for any kind of change.
He finally broke down and called me stupid. Well, he said I was stupid today. He said, “I can't stand this another minute. You're just stupid today. With all I invest in making you smarter and more educated, all of a sudden you're just falling down a well of stupidity.”
I was pretty deeply insulted, but I didn't yell at him, because all hell breaks loose when I do. I didn't want to have to live with the fallout. I felt like I couldn't take it. Not today.
So I just said, “I'm sorry.”
“Sorry isn't good enough,” he said.
That's when I lost it. I actually shouted at him. Shouted. I said, “I need a break. I need a goddamn break. Kids who go to school get breaks. Easter, Christmas, summer. They get to rest. I need to rest. You work me too hard. You're killing me with this, don't you see it?”
I almost never swore in front of him, because I was not allowed to. And I expected to get leveled for that. But he seemed to let it go by. Instead he shouted back and said don't put this off on him when he was sacrificing everything for me and I was the one screwing up.
And I shouted that anybody would screw up under this kind of pressure.
And he shouted, What pressure? What did I have to do that was so hard? And why was I always able to do it until just now, all of a sudden? And why was I refusing to admit that something was different with me? And what was going on, anyway?
I shouted, “I just have a lot on my mind, is all.”
And then the room went deadly silent and I thought, Oh, crap. Now I've done it. I really stuck my foot in it now.
His voice went weirdly calm. Artificially calm. “So, tell me what's on your mind.”
“No.”
More deadly silence. I thought I could see something throbbing in his temples. “Why not?”
“Because it's my mind. Not yours.”
Yeah, I know. What was I thinking? But I just couldn't take it anymore. Besides, I felt like I had nothing to lose. Usually I avoided saying things like that to keep the peace. Today there was no peace to keep.
I waited for him to say something. But it was almost as though he was too upset to form words.
I said, “What are you going to do when I'm eighteen? When I turn eighteen, I can walk out that door and never come back, and there's nothing you can do about it.”
“And go where?” he shouted. “And do what? You have no idea how to function in that world out there. You have no idea what it's like.”
I shook my head. Under my breath I said, “And whose fault is that?”
“What did you say?”
I just shook my head again, and headed for the door.
“What did you say to me, Sebastian?”
My hand on the knob.
“Sebastian! I forbid you to walk out that door!”
I walked out the door. Slammed it behind me. I guess I'd finally had enough.
Then, about ten steps down the hall, I turned around and went back in.
“Ah,” I heard him say. “I knew you'd see the light.”
I didn't answer. I walked into my room, got the letter to Grandma Annie out from its hiding place under my computer keyboard. Stuck it in my pocket. Then I walked out again. Never looked at him or said a word. This time, I slammed the door even louder.
DELILAH SWUNG HER DOOR OPEN, took one look at my face, and threw her arms around me.
“Child, child,” she said. I could feel her hands on my back. Why hadn't anybody ever touched me until now? Up until a few days ago, I couldn't remember the last time anybody had touched me. “Come tell me all about it. You want to go for a walk? Or you want to sit here?”
“Let's walk,” I said.
And she hobbled off to get her cane from beside the refrigerator.
“I don't know what he wants from me,” I said. Trying not to cry. I'd be humiliated to cry in front of Delilah.
“Whatever he's not getting from his own life,” she said. “Whatever big hole people got in their heart, they want something to fill it up. That's what he wants from you. But he'll never get it. Because you can't ever fill a hole in you with somebody else. But everybody keeps trying, though, even though it never brings nothing but heartache to both parties.” She came hobbling back with her cane in one hand, her geisha fan in the other. “Now let's go walk it off,” she said. “You'll feel better.”
I took the letter out of my pocket and showed it to her. I said, “We'll have to get a stamp while we're out, and mail this. But I wanted to get your permission first. To use your address.” She read the envelope and seemed to get the message.
“Oh, child!” she said, breathless with pleasure. “There's hope for you yet. I got you a stamp, right here.”
“I WANT TO SEE A MOVIE,” I said.
She said, “Well, that shouldn't be hard. What one you wanta see?”
We had just turned the corner onto Lexington Avenue. I could see the mailbox on the next block. It looked more important and more dangerous and more frightening and more attractive than anything else on the street. Anything else in the world.
“I want to see the one where the guy dances on the walls.”
“Oh, yeah. I think it was Singin' in the Rain. Unless it was Anchors Aweigh. Or Royal Wedding. But no, I don't think Donald O'Connor was in Royal Wedding. And I'm pretty sure it was Donald O'Connor dancing on the walls. Unless it was Fred Astaire. Or Gene Kelly. No, it was Donald O'Connor. In Singin' in the Rain.”
“Do you have that one?” I could see the mailbox getting closer. It looked even more dangerous close up.
“No, but we could stop at that video store and rent it.”
“Let's do that.”
“But, you know, child, I'm not sure that's really the movie you want to see. It's an old musical, with dancing, from the fifties, before you was even born. Don't you want to see something from this century?”
“What's it about?”
“Oh, it's a love story.”
“I want to see that one, then,” I said.
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
“Her name is Maria.”
“Well, that's some kinda progress. You gonna see her again?”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow night.” We stopped in front of the mailbox. I just stood there, staring at it. Like we were about to face off in a duel. “I think she's in some kind of trouble. She was crying. And twice she's had a bruise or something on her face.”
Delilah leaned on the mailbox, fanned herself, and sighed. “Well, child, I'd tell you to be careful, except for two things. One, it wouldn't do any good anyhow. And two, I think we tell each other that too much. Be careful. Don't get hurt. Don't take chances. Don't try anything. Don't feel. Might as well be telling each other not to be alive at all. Boils down to the same thing.” She waited, but I didn't say anything. Just stared at the mailbox. “You okay?”
“Never been better,” I said. I opened the box and dropped it in. Gone forever. Too late to take back. Done, and could never be undone. I had done it now. “Now let's go rent that movie,” I said.
IT WAS FUNNY. The movie. I knew it was going to be about love, but I didn't know it was funny. It was about this big famous Hollywood actor, played by Gene Kelly, who met the love of his life when he jumped into her car to get away from this mob of his fans. They were tearing at his clothes, and he yelled for help to his friend, the Donald O'Connor guy. He said, “Call me a cab,” and Donald O'Connor said, “Okay, you're a cab.”
I just cracked up laughing. Not just once either. Every time I thought about it again, it cracked me up.
Delilah was giving me this look.
“What?” I said.
“That is the oldest joke in the world.”
“Not if you've never heard it before.”
“Well, that's true. Besides, it's nice to hear you laugh. I'm not sure I ever heard you laugh before.”
“I'm not sure I ever heard me laugh before, either.” If so, I'd forgotten it now.
Then Donald O'Connor did this wonderful, funny dance. He was singing a song called “Make ‘Em Laugh,” and the dance part was funny. He was in a movie studio, with guys carrying boards around, and he kept banging his head into them as he danced. And dancing circles lying on the floor, and over couches, and running into brick walls, and I just kept laughing. Then he danced right up a wall about three steps and flipped all the way over and landed on his feet and then did the same thing on the other wall.
“Is that the part you were telling me about?”
“Oh, no, this is the wrong movie. It just hit me. That wasn't Donald O'Connor who did that, it was Fred Astaire. And he actually danced up there, a long time, not just three steps. I'll have to figure out what movie that was again.”
“How'd they do it?”
“Tell you later, after you've seen it. Want to turn this off?”
“No! I want to see the end of this. I like this.”
So Delilah made microwave popcorn while I watched Gene Kelly close up his umbrella and do a song and dance in the pouring rain, after kissing the girl he loved for the first time.
“You sure you like this?” Delilah asked. “It's awful old.”
“I love it.”
And I really did. It was silly. I wasn't allowed silly. It was about love, and it made you laugh. Two more things you don't get at my house. It had absolutely no educational value. No real purpose, except entertainment. So it was the perfect entertainment. It was unlike anything I had ever seen in my life.
It was my first vacation I could remember, all in itself.
WHEN I GOT HOME, my father was sitting in his chair. Staring straight ahead. Not reading, not listening to music. Just sitting.
“I'm not even going to ask you where you've been,” he said.
“Good.”
“But I was thinking, you do work awfully hard on your studies. Maybe a little spring break would do you a world of good. Maybe you'd even make better progress in the long run.”
I stopped and looked right at him, but he wouldn't meet my eyes. “Thank you, Father, that was thoughtful of you to decide that.”
Putting the day to rest once and for all.
It had never occurred to me—before that exact moment—that if I refused to give an inch, he would have to.