U Is For Undertow

15

When Jon was thirteen his mother died. She’d been asthmatic as a child and in later life suffered from countless pulmonary ills. Jon was aware that his mother often felt poorly. She was subject to coughs, colds, and various other upper-respiratory infections-pneumonia, bronchitis, pleurisy. She didn’t complain and she always seemed to bounce back, which he took as proof that she wasn’t seriously impaired.

In November she came down with the flu and her symptoms seemed to worsen as the days passed. By Friday morning, when she hadn’t improved, Jon asked if he should call someone, but she said she’d be fine. His dad was out of town. Jon couldn’t remember where he was and Lionel hadn’t left a contact number. Jon’s dad was an English professor, on sabbatical from the University of California, Santa Teresa. He’d recently published a biography of an important Irish poet whose name Jon had forgotten. Lionel was off giving a series of lectures on the subject, which is why Jon and his mother were on their own.

Jon offered to stay home from school, but she didn’t want him to miss classes, so at 7:30 he rode his bike the two miles to Climping Academy. He was a husky kid, short for his age, and fifty pounds overweight. That fact, and the braces on his teeth, didn’t contribute much in the way of good looks. He’d overheard his father make a remark about his turning into a swan-“Please, God,” was the way he’d put it. Jon missed the first part of the sentence, but it didn’t take much to figure out his dad thought he was an ugly duckling. It was the first time Jon had been jolted into the awareness that others had opinions about him, some of which were unkind. His mother had promised him a growth spurt when he reached puberty, but so far there was no sign of it. His dad bought him the bicycle to encourage outdoor activities. Jon far preferred having his mother drive him to school, which she did when she was well.

At 3:30 that day, he bicycled home and found the house exactly as he’d left it. He was surprised she wasn’t up and waiting for him. Usually, even when his mother was sick, she managed to be showered and dressed by midafternoon when school let out. He’d find her sitting in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, making at least a pretense of being normal. Sometimes she even baked him a cake from a mix. Now the rooms felt cold and dark, even though interior lights were on and he could hear the low wind of the forced-air furnace at work.

He knocked on the bedroom door and then opened it. “Mom?”

Her coughing by then was loose and wet and thick. She motioned him into the room while she patted herself on the chest and put a tissue to her mouth, depositing a wad of something.

Jon stood in the doorway watching her. “Shouldn’t you call the doctor?”

She waved the suggestion aside, wracked by another bout of coughing that left her sweating and limp. “I’ve got some pills left from last time. See if you can find them in the medicine cabinet. And bring me a glass of water, if you would.”

He did as she asked. There were four bottles of prescription medication. He brought all of them to her bedside and let her choose what she thought was best. She took two pills with water and then lay back against the pillows, which she’d stacked almost upright to help her breathe.

He said, “Did you eat lunch?”

“Not yet. I’ll get something in a bit.”

“I can fix you a grilled cheese sandwich the way you showed me.”

He wanted to help. He wanted to be of service because once she was back on her feet, the world would right itself. He felt a responsibility since he was the only kid at home. His brother, Grant, five years his senior, had just gone off to Vanderbilt and wouldn’t be back until Christmas break.

Her smile was wan. “Grilled cheese would be nice, Jon. You’re so sweet to me.”

He went into the kitchen and put the sandwich together, making sure both sides of the bread were well buttered so they’d brown evenly. When he knocked on her door again, plate in hand, she said she thought she’d nap for a while before she ate. He set the plate on the bed table within reach, went into the den, and turned on the TV set.

When he looked in on her an hour later, she didn’t look right at all. He crossed to her bedside and put a hand on her forehead the way she did when she thought he was running a fever. Her skin was hot to the touch and her breathing was rapid and shallow. She was shivering uncontrollably, and when she opened her eyes, he said, “Are you okay?”

“I’m cold, that’s all. Bring me that quilt in the linen closet, please.”

“Sure.”

He found some blankets and piled them on, worried he wasn’t doing enough. “I think I should call an ambulance or something. Okay?” he asked.

When his mother didn’t answer, Jon called the paramedics, who arrived fifteen minutes later. He let them in, relieved to have someone else taking charge of her. One of the two men asked questions, while the other one took her temperature, checked her blood pressure, and listened to her chest. After a brief consultation and a phone call, they loaded her onto a gurney and put her in the rear of the ambulance. From the look that passed between them, Jon knew she was sicker than he’d thought.

When the paramedic told him he could follow them to St. Terry’s, he wanted to laugh. “I’m a kid. I can’t drive. My dad’s not even home. He’s out of town.”

After more murmured conversation, he was allowed to ride in the front of the ambulance, which he gathered was against the ambulance company’s policy.

In the emergency room, he sat in the reception area while the doctor examined his mom. The nurse told him he should call someone, but that only confused him. He didn’t know how to reach his brother in Nashville and who else was there? It wasn’t like he had his teacher’s home telephone number. The school would be closed by then anyway, so that was no help. There weren’t any other close relatives that he knew of. His parents didn’t go to church, so there wasn’t even a minister to call.

The nurse went back down the hall and pretty soon the hospital social worker showed up and talked to him. She wasn’t much help, asking him the same series of questions he couldn’t answer. She finally contacted a neighbor, a couple his parents barely knew. Jon spent that night and the next night with them. He left notes on the front and back doors so his father would know where he was.

His mother survived for a day and a half and then she was gone. The last time he saw her-the night his father finally showed up-she had IV lines in both ankles. There was a blood-pressure cuff on one arm, and a clamp on her finger to measure her pulse, a catheter, an arterial line in one wrist, and tubing taped over her face. He knew the exact moment the rise and fall of her chest ceased, but he watched her anyway, thinking he could still see movement. Finally, his father told him it was time to go.

Lionel drove them home and spent the next two hours on the phone, notifying friends and relatives, the insurance company, and Jon wasn’t sure who else. While his father was occupied, Jon went into his mother’s room. Lionel’s side of the bed was untouched and still neatly made, while on his mother’s side the sheets were rumpled, with pillows still stacked against the headboard. There were the same wadded tissues on the floor.

The plate with the grilled cheese sandwich was on the table. It was cold and the bread had dried out, but he sat on the edge of the bed and ate it anyway while his body warmth brought up his mother’s scent from the sheets. Because of his braces, he couldn’t bite down on a sandwich without getting bread sludge stuck in the wires, so he broke off bites one at a time and chewed them, thinking of her.

At ten that night, his father found him, sitting there in the dark. Lionel turned the light on and sat down beside him, putting an arm around Jon’s shoulder.

“You weren’t at fault, Jon. I don’t want you to think anyone blames you for not getting help to her soon enough…”

Jon made no move. He felt the cold descend, moving from his chest to the soles of his feet. His cheeks flamed and he looked up at his father blankly. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that any action on his part might have saved her life. He was only thirteen. His mother had reassured him, saying she was fine, and he’d taken her at her word. In the absence of adult counsel, he’d waited for a cue. In a flash, he saw how pathetic his ministrations had been, how immature and ineffectual he was in making the grilled cheese sandwich, as though that might heal her or prolong her life.

It wasn’t until years later that it dawned on Jon his father had made the statement to assuage his own guilt about his failure to leave a contact number. In truth-and Jon wouldn’t learn this until later still-Lionel had been in a hotel room, frolicking with a grad student he’d met while he was giving a talk at Boston College.

His brother came home for the funeral, but then he was gone again. The remainder of the school year was strange. Jon and his dad fashioned a life for themselves, like two old bachelors. His dad paid the bills and kept their world, more or less, on track. The house was a mess. For meals, they ate out, brought home fast food, or ordered in from any restaurant that would deliver. Lionel went back to teaching freshman English and two sections of literary history, spending long hours at UCST. Jon pretty much did as he pleased. Nobody seemed to recognize that he was grieving. He knew something black had settled over him like a veil. He spent a lot of his free time in his room. As a fat boy, he had no friends to speak of, so he was comfortable in isolation. His grades were mixed-good in English and art, bad in everything else. A cleaning lady came in twice a week, but that was about as much contact as Jon had with other people. His teachers gave him sympathetic looks, but his demeanor was so dark they didn’t have the nerve to console him.

In the spring, without any discussion at all, Jon found out his father had signed him up for two monthlong sessions of summer camp, back to back. Lionel had committed to a series of speaking engagements that would have him zigzagging across the country nonstop during June and July. The day after school was out, Jon was shipped off to Michigan. This was a so-called sports program, meaning an intense boot camp for fat boys, during which they were weighed daily, lectured about nutrition, berated for their eating habits, and forced into long sessions of exercise, during which the occasional boy collapsed. Oddly enough, Jon enjoyed himself. His loneliness, his guilt, the silence of the house, even the yawning loss of his mother, all of that was set aside for two months, and he needed the relief. The boys were encouraged to choose a sport-basketball, football, soccer, hockey, lacrosse, or track.

Jon took up long-distance running. He liked sports where individual achievement was the goal. He liked competing with himself. There was nothing in his nature that lent itself to team spirit. He wasn’t cooperative by nature, not a rah-rah kind of guy. He didn’t want to wear a uniform that rendered him indistinguishable from fifty other boys on the field. He preferred being on his own. He liked pushing himself. He liked the sweat and the harsh laboring of his lungs, the pain in his legs as he covered ground.

By the time he came home from camp, the promised growth spurt had materialized. Jon’s weight had dropped by twenty-two pounds and he’d added three inches to his five-foot-six-inch height. During ninth and tenth grades his braces came off and he shot up another four inches. He also dropped an additional ten pounds. Running kept him lean and filled him with energy. He took up golf and in his spare time caddied at the club. He and his father operated on separate but parallel tracks, and Jon was fine with that.

In August of 1964, prior to Jon’s freshman year at Climp, Lionel appeared at the door to the den where Jon was slouched on the sofa watching television. He had his feet propped on the ottoman and he held a glass of Diet Pepsi balanced on his chest. His father had been going out a lot, but Jon hadn’t thought much about it.

Lionel stuck his head in the door and said, “Hey, son. How’re you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Could you turn that down, please?”

Jon got up and crossed to the TV set. He muted the sound and returned to his seat, his attention still fixed on the screen though he pretended he was listening to his dad.

Lionel said, “There’s someone I want you to meet. This is Mona Stark.”

Jon glanced over as his father stepped aside and there she was. She was taller than his father and as vibrantly colored as an illustration in his biology text. Black hair, blue eyes, her lips a slash of dark red. Her body was divided into two segments-breasts at the top, flaring hips below, bisected by a narrow waist. In that moment, he took her measure without conscious intent; she was a wasp, a predator. In his mind he could see the lines of print: Some stinging wasps live in societies that are more complex than those of social bees and ants. Stinging wasps rely on a nest from which they conduct many of their activities, especially the rearing of their young.

Jon said, “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice meeting you,” she said. And then to Lionel in a teasing tone of voice, “You bad boy. I can see I have my work cut out for me. I can’t believe you haven’t taught him to stand up when a lady enters the room.”

Sheepishly, Jon set his soft drink aside and rose to his feet, mumbling, “Sorry. My fault, not his.”

He shot a look at Lionel. What was going on? Jon knew his father had been dating, but as far as he knew, Lionel wasn’t serious about anyone. He’d been carrying on a series of short-term romances with students in his department, skirting any suggestion of impropriety by waiting until the particular coed in question was no longer enrolled in his class.

Later that night, after Lionel dropped Mona back at her place, he returned to the den and settled in a nearby chair for the inevitable heart-to-heart. It was clear his father felt uncomfortable. For two years, he and Jon had functioned as pals, not the father-son duo that was now up for grabs. Lionel launched into a discourse about how lonely he’d been and how much he missed Jon’s mother. Jon blocked out much of what Lionel said because the words didn’t sound like his. Mona had doubtless primed him, making sure he touched on all the relevant points. Jon imagined Mona sitting there instead, explaining that no one would ever replace his mom, but that a man needed companionship. Jon would benefit, too, said she, talking through his father’s lips. Mona knew how hard life must have been for him and now they had an opportunity to share their home. Mona was divorced and had three lovely daughters, whom Lionel had met. Mona was looking forward to merging the two families, and he hoped Jon would make the transition as smooth as possible.

Lionel and Mona were married in June of 1965. Now that they were a family of six, they needed a larger place. Fortunately, as part of her divorce settlement, Mona had been awarded a house in Beverly Hills, which she sold for big bucks, rolling the money into the new house in Horton Ravine so she wouldn’t have to pay capital gains. At the same time, Lionel sold the modest three-bedroom house where Jon had been raised. That money was set aside for additions and improvements on the new place, which was situated on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Jon moved into a newly remodeled two rooms and a bath built above the garage while Lionel, Mona, and the three girls occupied the main house. Mona told him how lucky he was to have independent living quarters that would allow him to come and go as he pleased. Not that he was permitted to do any such thing. His “pad,” as she referred to it, was a not-so-subtle reminder that he’d been separated from the rest. His wants, needs, and desires were peripheral to hers.

From that point on, everything revolved around Mona. She had her tennis lessons, her golf, and her charities, activities his father didn’t share with her because he was either teaching or secluded in his home office, writing. Jon was the outsider, looking in on a life that had once been his. He was miserable, but he knew better than to complain. At the same time, he wondered why he was expected to go on as though nothing had changed. His life had taken on an entirely different cast.

The following January, when he turned seventeen, he lobbied for his driver’s license and a car of his own. Mona objected, but for once Lionel argued on Jon’s behalf. After much ado and numerous debates, she finally gave in, perhaps because she realized having a car and driver at her disposal would work to her advantage. Lionel bought Jon a used Chevrolet convertible. By then, Mona’s three perfect daughters were enrolled at the same private school Jon had attended since kindergarten. He caught sight of them in the corridors six and seven times a day. Of course, he drove them to school and picked them up afterward. He also kept an eye on them if Lionel and Mona went out for the evening. If he had other plans, if he resisted in any way, Mona would rebuff him with silence, cut him out of her field of vision as though he were invisible. This she was clever enough to do without Lionel’s being aware. If Jon had brought it to his father’s attention, he’d have been written off as paranoid or oversensitive. Lionel would have repeated it all to Mona and she would have doubled the penalties.

Lionel would have had to be a fool not to pick up on the chill in the air, but since neither Mona nor Jon would discuss the situation, his father was no doubt delighted to ignore the problem. One Saturday afternoon Mona took the girls shopping, and Lionel walked out to the garage and knocked at Jon’s door. Jon hollered out, “It’s open!” and Lionel dutifully trudged up the stairs. He took a moment to survey the place, which was as cold and bare as a cell.

He said, “Well, it looks like you’ve settled in. Very nice. Is everything okay?”

“Sure,” Jon said. He knew his two rooms were without character or comfort, but he didn’t want to offer his father the means to maneuver.

“Is it warm enough out here?”

“Pretty much. I don’t have any hot water to speak of. I get five minutes’ worth of lukewarm dribble before it runs out.”

“Well, that’s no good. I’m glad you brought it up. I’ll have Mona take care of it.”

Jon suspected he’d just given his father an opening to the Mona discussion that loomed. It was up to his father to proceed without any help from him.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Jon moved a pile of dirty clothes from a wooden desk chair so his father could take a seat. Lionel began a long, rambling discourse about the new blended family. He acknowledged that things were sometimes tense between Mona and Jon, but she was doing her best, and Lionel said it was only fair that Jon meet her halfway.

Jon stared at him, bemused by the enormity of Lionel’s self-delusion. Of course, his father was her defender. She and Lionel were allies. Jon had no recourse. There was no court of appeals. In effect, his father was announcing that Jon was totally at her mercy. Her whims, her sharp tongue, her uncanny ability to seize the upper hand: for all of this, she had Lionel’s blessing. Jon couldn’t believe his father didn’t see what was going on.

“Well, Dad,” he said carefully, “not to be obtuse about it, but from my perspective, she’s a clusterfuck.”

Lionel reacted as though slapped. “Well, son, you’re certainly entitled to your opinion, but I trust you’ll keep it to yourself. I’d appreciate it if you’d try to get along with her, for my sake if nothing else.”

“For your sake? How do you figure that?”

Lionel shook his head, his tone patient. “I know the adjustment isn’t easy. She’ll never replace your mother. She’s not asking for that and neither am I. You have to trust me on this; she’s a caring person, amazing really, once you get to know her better. In the meantime, I expect you to treat her with the respect she deserves.”

It was the word “amazing” that somehow stuck in Jon’s craw. Mona was the enemy, but he could see how futile it was to battle her head-on. After that, Jon referred to her as the Amazing Mona, though never in his father’s company and never to her face. The newlyweds’ first Christmas together, the Amazing Mona had inveigled Lionel to play Santa for a Climping Academy fund-raiser, and every year thereafter, he donned his white wig, white beard, and white mustache, and then climbed into a red velvet fat suit, trimmed in white fur. Even his boots were fake. In Jon’s mind, the photograph that exactly captured their relationship was the one in a silver frame Mona displayed on the baby grand piano in the newly decorated living room. In it she was decked out in a low-cut Yves Saint Laurent evening gown, perched seductively on Santa’s lap. While she glowed for the camera, Lionel’s identity was obliterated. She did manage to raise over a hundred thousand dollars for the school, and for this she was widely praised.

Jon unburdened himself bitterly to his brother by phone. “She is such a total bitch. She’s a tyrant. I’m telling you. She’s a fucking na rcissist.”

Grant said, “Oh, come on. You’ll be out of the house in a year or two, so what’s it to you?”

“She thinks she can run my life and Dad lets her get away with it. Talk about being pussy-whipped.”

“So what? That’s his business, not yours.”

“Shit, that’s easy for you to say. I’d like to see you try living under the same roof with her.”

Bored with the topic, Grant said, “Just tough it out. Once you finish high school you can come live with me.”

“I’m not moving away from all my friends!”

“That’s the best I can offer. Stiff upper lip, old chum.”

Jon discovered a new way to occupy his time. He began breaking into various Horton Ravine homes he knew were unoccupied. While he caddied at the club, he picked up all manner of information about members’ travel plans. Guys chatted among themselves about upcoming cruises and European tours, jaunts to San Francisco, Chicago, and New York. It was a form of bragging, though it was couched in queries about exchange rates, good deals on charter flights, and luxury hotels. Lionel and Mona socialized with most of them, so all Jon had to do was look up their addresses in Mona’s Rolodex. He’d wait until the family was gone and find his way in. If there was talk of an alarm system or a house sitter, he knew to avoid the place. People were careless about locking up. Jon found windows unlatched, basement doors unsecured. Failing that, he scouted out the house keys hidden under flowerpots and fake garden rocks.

Once inside, he cruised the premises, poking through closets and dresser drawers. Home offices were a rich source of information. He was curious about women’s underwear, about the fragrances they used, their personal hygiene. He didn’t steal anything. That wasn’t the point. Breaking and entering gave him temporary relief from anxiety. The heightened fear level washed away the stress he carried and his equilibrium was restored.

Midway through his junior year, he started cutting classes at Climp, first occasionally, then more often. Not surprisingly, his grades tumbled. He was secretly amused at all the murmuring that went on behind his back. There were conferences at school and conferences at home. Notes went back and forth. Phone calls were exchanged. Lionel didn’t want to be the bad guy, so Mona was the one who finally lowered the boom.

She was stern and reproving, and Jon made every effort to keep a straight face while she read him the riot act. “Your father and I have discussed this at length. You have great potential, Jon, but you’re not putting forth your best effort. Since you’re doing so poorly, we think it’s a waste of our money to pay private-school tuition. If you’re unwilling to apply yourself at Climp, we think you should transfer to Santa Teresa High.”

Jon knew what she was up to. She thought the threat of public school would give her leverage. He shrugged. “That’s cool. Santa Teresa High School. Let’s do it.”

Mona frowned, unable to believe he wasn’t going to protest her ruling and promise to improve. “I’m sure you’ll want to graduate with your classmates at Climp, so we’d be willing to discuss it after the first semester at Santa Teresa High, assuming you do better. If you show us you can bring your grades up, we’ll see that you’re transferred back. The decision is yours.”

“I already decided. I’ll take the public high school.”

The fall of 1966, at the end of Jon’s first day at Santa Teresa High, he was standing at his locker when a kid at the locker next to his looked over and smiled. “You’re new. I saw you this morning. We’re in the same homeroom.”

“Right. I remember. I’m Jon Corso.”

The kid extended his hand. “Walker McNally.”

The two shook hands and then Walker said, “Where you from?”

“I was at Climp last year. I flunked out.”

Walker laughed. “Good job. I like it. Welcome to Santa Teresa High.” He opened his locker and dumped his books, then took out a windbreaker and shrugged himself into it. “Speaking of high, this seems like an occasion worth celebrating. You have a car?”

“In the parking lot.”

Walker reached into his jacket pocket and removed a joint. “Shall we adjourn, good sir?”

The first time Jon smoked dope was the first time he’d laughed in years. The laughter was hard-edged and uncontrollable. Later he couldn’t even remember what he found so funny, but in the moment it had felt like happiness, however empty and artificially induced.