Exley, p.16
Exley, page 16
Mother pushed a button and the back passenger-side window rolled down. I leaned into it and said, “I wish someone would take a picture of us right now.”
Mother cocked her head a little and said, “You can be a strange kid sometimes, Miller.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, especially since Mother must have seen me leaning against her car and flapping my clothes like a maniac a minute earlier. I said, “What are you doing sitting in the car anyway?”
“I was watching you sit at your dad’s desk,” she said. “You reminded me of him.” I wondered if Mother was going to say more than that — like ask what exactly I was doing, sitting at his desk — but she didn’t. So I said, “What were you doing in the car in the first place?”
“I was on the way to pick you up at Harold’s,” she said.
“What for?” I said.
Mother shrugged. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Special treat,” was all Mother said. She pulled the keys out of the ignition and jingled them at me, like I was a dog who loved to be taken for a ride. I wasn’t. But I got in the car anyway.
Doctor’s Notes (Entry 18)
After speaking with M. at JCCC, I return home, but I have no intention of staying there past seven o’clock; seven o’clock, I know, is when M. and M.’s mother are going to the Crystal to celebrate his birthday. When the clock strikes seven, I “hop” on my Schwinn and pedal to their home. Two of the downstairs rooms are illuminated; there are no cars parked in the driveway. I park my bike on the street, then reconsider and park it around the corner so as not to be seen. Am I thinking like a criminal? No, I am thinking like someone who might be considered a criminal if he didn’t have such a good cause. This is as good a definition of a mental health professional as any.
The house is unlocked. This is as I hoped and planned, and I am not surprised: M.’s mother is a secure woman and secure women do not need to lock their doors to feel secure. I open the door that leads into the kitchen. The kitchen is unremarkable — unremarkable and, indeed, not worth remarking upon. I proceed through it, into the living room. M. has described this room at length; sure enough, there in the corner is M.’s father’s desk. Behind the desk is the window seat. The window seat, I know, is where one can find M.’s father’s copies of A Fan’s Notes. I have one of his copies already, which is more than enough. I walk past it and head toward the stairs, then up the stairs, and into the hallway, turning on lights as I go. First, the bathroom. It, too, is as M. describes it: as with a cave, something within it drips. I turn on the light. The room is half-boy (there is a child-sized toothbrush encrusted with old paste and emblazoned with a caped cartoon superhero) and half-woman (in the shower, a “lady’s razor” and a bottle of shampoo, organic, from Australia — a fact not insignificant, given that M. claims K.’s shampoo is also native to that faraway island continent). I take note of the coincidence, mentally, and move on to M.’s bedroom. I turn on the light. I am tempted to write, “I don’t know what I expected,” but this is merely something one says when one does know what one expects and one’s expectations are not met. I expect the room to look literary, somehow, in some way, but it does not: there are bookshelves and there are books on them — some of them age-appropriate and some not. But that is the extent of its literariness: there are toys and puzzles scattered on the floor and left in various states of midplay and half completion; the wallpaper is blue and dotted with footballs; the lamp on the table next to M.’s bed (unmade) is in the form of a clown, its shade decorated with elephants, trapeze artists, and other creatures of the big top. In other words, it looks like a boy’s room, a normal boy’s room. Next to the lamp is a picture. I turn on the lamp to look at it. It is of M. and his parents. They are sitting in what is obviously a photographer’s studio: the photo’s background is pure mauve. M. is sitting between his parents. His father looks unshaven — unshaven and, indeed, somewhat early in the process of becoming bearded — although he is wearing a white button-down shirt and a red knit tie; his mother looks freshly groomed and beautiful as ever. They are both smiling. I’m sad to say of myself that their smiles sadden me. M. is smiling, too. His arms are linked with the parental units on either side of him. To a mental health professional, the symbolism is unmistakable: without M. between them, they would clearly not be linked. M. is clearly aware of this as well: his smile is toothy and desperate. Given what I just wrote, and felt, about M.’s parents’ smiles, this should not sadden me. But it does. Even the room itself suddenly saddens me: it is a boy’s room, but the boy who sleeps in it is more than a boy. Or less than one. I don’t know which, and either way, I don’t yet know how to restore his boyhood. As his mental health professional, I should know. This saddens me most of all. Oh, M., I think, I am failing you and I am sorry, and then I leave the room and head toward his mother’s.
I say “his mother’s room,” and this is not merely wishful thinking on my part: there are no signs of M.’s father in it — no men’s clothes, no pictures of M.’s father, no “anything.” I’d like to say that I was strong and did not bury my face in M.’s mother’s pillow, did not open her drawers and run my fingers through her clothes, but I was not strong — was not strong and, indeed, am not strong. After indulging my weakness for some time, I close the drawers and only then notice, on top of the dresser, a page torn from a newspaper, which is itself paper-clipped to a manila envelope. It is page one of the “local” section of our local paper, dated today. I read it quickly. There are the usual dairy farm transactions — so-and-so has invested in such and such new milking technology — and next to them is the news from Fort Drum. The news is always sad, and today is no exception: a soldier was killed recently in Iraq, and there will be a ceremony in his honor at our Public Square tomorrow. I don’t recognize the name of the poor man, but perhaps this is why M.’s mother has saved the newspaper: perhaps it has something to do with her job. In any case, I’m happy to have found it: perhaps I’ll rely on my privileges as a mental health professional to withdraw M. from school tomorrow so that I can take M. to the ceremony, so that he might realize that he should not pretend that his father has been wounded in battle, so that he should feel grateful that wherever his father is (and now that I know that M. is not teaching a class and so K. is not a student in it, I feel more certain than ever that K. is M.’s father’s “girlfriend” and that they are “shacked up” together somewhere), M. is fortunate his father is there and not being eulogized on the Public Square (let alone convalescing in the VA hospital). I decide to “pocket” the article and the envelope to which it’s clipped, so as to remind myself of the ceremony in the morning. Besides, surely M.’s mother will not miss it. One never misses a torn piece of newspaper. One knows that one guarantees its future lostness the moment one tears it from the rest of the paper.
All that is well and good. But I still have not found what I have come to find: M.’s journal. I search the entire house and still I cannot find it. Oh, despair! And oh, how quickly the cry of despair can turn into the cry of surrender! I am prepared to do exactly that when I remember one place I have not searched: the window seat. I assumed that the window seat contained only what M. has told me it contains: copies of A Fan’s Notes. But it now occurs to me that the window seat might contain more than what I know it contains. It is like the juvenile mind in this way.
I hurry downstairs. There is a lamp on the desk; I turn it on, then open the window seat. As expected, there is a jumble of books, both hard- and softcover. I push them to the side until I reach the bottom. At the bottom I see a notebook and also several loose pieces of paper stacked and folded in two. I reach down, extract them, and place them on the desk so that I might have a closer look. First, the pieces of paper: they are all lessons M. has learned from his father, who learned them, apparently, from Exley. I read them quickly, then return them to the window seat. Then I open the notebook. It is the journal in which I suggested M. keep his thoughts. What a good kid he is, I think, doing what I suggested he do. What a bad man I am, I think, reading the journal uninvited, especially given that I promised M. I’d read his journal only upon invitation. But then I forget what a bad man I am once I begin reading — which is, I suppose, one of the reasons why people read — and instead scour the journal to see if I’m mentioned in it — which is, I suppose, one of the other reasons why people read.
In this, I am disappointed: I’m barely “in” the notebook at all. I appear at the beginning — first as the “first doctor” and then as Dr. Pahnee — and then not at all until I am mentioned, briefly, in M.’s retrospective account of the day his father left them. It is an account much revised from when I first heard it in my office, and in it I find part of what I’m looking for: the moment when M. first becomes aware of K.: he overhears his parents discussing (arguing about?) her, and when confronted by M., M.’s father tells him she is his student, which causes M.’s mother to laugh (bitterly?) and then cry. It seems more certain than ever that my suspicions are correct: M.’s father has had an affair with this K., and this is the cause of his departure. As for M. and K., it also seems certain that their relationship is merely “in his head”: M.’s journal asserts that he and K. were in the classroom together earlier today, but I saw for myself that this was not so. Perhaps, then, when M.’s eyes were closed, he was thinking of her in one of those many stone houses. And perhaps this is why M. has put her in one of those stone houses: not because she really does reside in one, but because there are so many of them on the way to the college, and he associates her with the college and his father. As for why M. needs to conduct this imaginary relationship with K., perhaps M. thinks that by consorting with K., he is continuing his father’s legacy. More likely, M. thinks that by having a relationship with K., he is preventing his father from doing the same, thus saving M.’s parents’ marriage. What is not any clearer is why his father says, just prior to his departure, “Maybe I should go to Iraq, too.” But I trust this, too, will become clear with time and with further detection — both mental and actual — on my behalf.
In any case, that is the extent of my presence in M.’s journal. He does not even mention our conversation today at JCCC; as far as the journal would have one believe, there were students in his classroom and he taught them, in his fashion, including this K., with whom M. had an at first heartening and then disheartening conversation after class. This fantasy itself is most disturbing. The reality is also disturbing — in the journal, M. writes that he shot a dog, twice, in his so far unsuccessful quest for Exley — but the fantasy is even more disturbing: it shows M. is using the journal not only as it’s intended — to make things clearer in his mind — but also to make his fantasy textual and not only mental. Likewise, M., according to his journal, did not kick the man in front of the Crystal in the face, which is true; but he does not admit that he did kick the man in the ribs. I confess this is an unforeseen — unforeseen and, indeed, I did not foresee it—by-product of journaling: in writing down the facts of one’s feelings, one might leave out facts, and one might also try to convince oneself that one’s fantasy is, in fact, one’s fact, or at least a fact among other facts, other facts that are, in fact, facts, making it most difficult to tell the fact from the fantasy. I tremble to think what will happen to M.’s mental health if he succeeds in confusing fact and fantasy. I trust these notes accurately depict the severity of that tremble.
I put the journal back at the bottom of the window seat, and then I hear a noise coming from outside. I slide to the floor, close the window seat, crawl out from under the desk, slink to the window, and peek out. There, I see M., standing in the snow-covered driveway, staring at his house. I do not know if he’s seen me, nor do I think it wise to wait and find out. He is standing in the driveway, thus making it impossible for me to exit the way I entered. So I open the front door, close it quickly and, one hopes, silently behind me — the pounding of my heart in my ears prevents my hearing anything except said pounding — and run to my bicycle. I mount it and pedal through the snow, thanking my tires’ deep grooves for each time I do not slip. My heart’s pounding does not relent when I get home, though: for when I’m home, I reach into my coat pocket and withdraw the newspaper clipping I took from M.’s mother’s dresser, and also the manila envelope. I assumed the envelope was empty, that the article either had been its sole content or would be, but when I open the envelope and look inside, I find three pieces of paper. I say “pieces of paper,” but I discover when I unfold them that they are not merely that: they are letters to M. from M.’s father.
Letter 1
Dear Miller,
I just have to say: Jesus H. Keeriiisst, it’s __________ here in __________. Yesterday got so __________ he took off his __________ and went __________ in the __________. He’s from __________. He’s like everyone else I’ve ever met from __________: too stupid to live. Or maybe he’s just stupid enough. The __________ started __________ at him, and like it was no big deal, he got out of the __________ and put back on his __________ and picked up his __________ and started __________ back. He’s fine, although still stupid. I’m fine, too, although I’m feeling old. I miss you and your mom. Everyone here misses someone. But missing someone seems to make them feel young. Missing you and your mom just makes me feel old.
But enough about me. Enough about __________ and the __________.
Thanks for your letter, bud. For Christ’s sake, I can’t believe you read so many books this summer! You should be the one teaching my Great American Writers class, since you’ve already read all of the Great American Writers, even the ones you’re not supposed to! Speaking of my class: thanks for offering to teach it while I’m away, but I don’t think that’s such a hot idea. I was thinking about quitting anyway. I don’t think I’m going to be an English teacher anymore. And don’t worry about K., either. You don’t have to worry about looking after K. Let’s not talk about K. Let’s not talk about JCCC, either. Let’s talk about something else. Like your school. I can’t believe you’re about to be in eighth grade! I know you’re nervous, Miller, being with all those big kids in advanced reading. But don’t be. You’re going to do great. Better than me, at any rate. I was never much of a student, not of anything, not even of literature. I’m more of a literary idolater; even though a certain writer we (!) love said that literary idolaters fall somewhere between blubbering ninnies and acutely frustrated maidens, that’s what I am. But you’re different, Miller. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have a kid like you. I know your mom feels the same way.
That’s it for now. I’m so proud of you, bud. I’m doing my best to make sure you’re proud of me, too.
Love, Your dad
An Early Birthday Dinner
I got in the front seat. Usually Mother made me sit in the back, because it was the law and she was a lawyer. But I figured since this was a special treat, maybe she’d let me sit in the front. She did. I buckled my seat belt and looked at her. She was still dressed in her work clothes. It was Tuesday. On Tuesday, she wore a chocolate brown skirt and chocolate brown jacket and a shiny blue shirt. I don’t know what she was trying to say with the clothes. But she always looked pretty on Tuesday.
“Where are we going?” I asked again. Mother was looking straight ahead, paying attention to the road. She smiled but didn’t say anything. She drove down Thompson and took a right on Washington, away from my school and toward downtown and the Public Square. It was starting to snow again. Not enough to stick yet, but enough to look good way up in the streetlights. Mother slowed down a little. She never liked driving in the snow. She and my dad used to fight about it. In fact, I think that’s what she and my dad had fought about on the way to Sears to get our picture taken: it was snowing, and Mother said my dad was driving too fast in it and my dad was saying that he really wasn’t and would it kill her to trust him once in a while? “Trust you?” Mother asked, and then no one said anything after that, not even “Cheese” in Sears when the cheese-ball photographer told us to. But like I said, the snow wasn’t even sticking. You could see it in the air, but not on the ground. Mother really was driving slowly, though. We rolled past Good Sam, the welfare office, and the library, and then we seemed to slow down even more as we got close to the VA hospital. Which was when I remembered that I hadn’t seen my dad that day. How could I forget to go visit him? How could I do that? Was it that I’d been too busy doing things for him to actually see him? Or was it that it was harder to actually see the sick person you love, and easier to be somewhere else, keeping busy and doing things to get him better? Either way, I was starting to feel terrible about it when Mother slowed down even more. We weren’t moving much faster than a fast walk now. And I wondered: Could this be the special treat? Were we going to see my dad? Was Mother really going to admit that my dad had been in Iraq after all? That he was in the VA hospital? My heart started to flutter again. Because I knew what I knew, but I didn’t know what I didn’t. Had Mother finally admitted that my dad was in the VA hospital? Had Mother seen him that day? Did she know something that I didn’t? Was my dad all better? Was he at least better enough to come home?
“Miller,” Mother said. She was leaning over the steering wheel. She was grabbing it tight. Her knuckles were white. I always thought that was just a saying, but I guess not. She glanced at me and said, “What are you doing? Put your seat belt back on.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d taken my seat belt off. I put it back on. But in my mind, it was still off. In my mind, I was jumping out of the car and running into the VA hospital. Mother was right behind me, in my mind. Outside my mind, we were almost at the VA hospital. We were a building away. The building was the Daily Times building. There was a driveway between the Daily Times building and the VA hospital. We were even with the Daily Times building, and almost to the driveway, when a car came screaming out of it. It didn’t stop to see if anyone was coming. Mother slammed on the brakes, even though she wasn’t really going fast enough to need to slam them on. The car took a left, fishtailed, then, like us, headed south on Washington Street.
