Love May Fail Read online

  Mr. Vernon slowly waved his index finger over the class. “You limit yourself with a bad attitude. Those of you who are lazy will blame the system. You’ve been conditioned to retch at the word test, no matter what the actual testing may involve. But it’s a choice too. You don’t really want to be Pavlov’s dog, do you? And that’s the point of today. When was the last time you got to make paper airplanes in class and then throw those airplanes out the window?”

  He looked around at us, but no one raised a hand.

  We were on unfamiliar ground, and while most of us were smiling at this point, we were still reluctant to speak before we knew what sort of game was being played here.

  “How many of you wrote scathing reviews of your plane and its flight? Even worse—how many of you envisioned your planes crashing and burning before you even gave them a test flight?”

  He seemed to be searching all of our eyes at once, scanning us for lies.

  “You gotta believe once in a while, kids. That’s what I’m trying to tell you here. The world will try to crush that belief out of you. It will try its damnedest. ‘If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.’ Does anyone know who wrote that?”

  I raised my hand before I could stop myself. “Ernest Hemingway. It’s from A Farewell to Arms. We read it sophomore year.”

  “Very good. And do you believe that the world wants to break you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is your senior year, Ms. Kane. Next year you will be squarely in the real world. It’s important for you to understand these things. Imperative.”

  “What things?”

  “The cost of being strong.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You will,” he said, looking directly into my eyes. “You will, Ms. Kane. I promise. You all will,” he said to the class. “And I know before I even begin that many of you will be consensus people. Herd members who will cower at the word test. People who look around the room before speaking or doing anything. But you can free yourself. There’s still time, kids. To be free. To tell Pavlov that you are not a dog. Do you want to be free? Do you?”

  Mr. Vernon paused too long—it made all of us feel uncomfortable. You could hear the red second hand ticking on the standard school clock hanging next to the American flag.

  “You all scored one hundred on your tests today. Every one of you starts the year with one hundred percent. And I’m a man of my word. That’s twenty-five percent of your grade already perfect. No homework tonight either. And no boring average predictable syllabus outlining what we may or may not do. Instead I offer you adventure. Who knows what lies around the curve for us? I promise you one thing only—it won’t be boring.”

  The bell rang, but no one made a move for the door.

  “When your head hits the pillow tonight, when you close your eyes, just before you drift off into your dreams, I want you to ask yourself these two questions, and answer honestly: Doesn’t Mr. Vernon give the best tests? And if day one was so interesting, what the hell will the rest of the school year be like? What was that word you used earlier, Mr. Hallaran? Assume? Makes an ass out of u and me, is the old cliché. Check your assumptions at the door tomorrow before you enter my domain. Ms. Kane, see me after class. The rest of you are dismissed!”

  I swallowed hard and remained seated as the rest of my classmates filed out.

  Mr. Vernon walked over toward me slowly, and then, with the fingertips of his right hand resting on my desk, he said, “Are you a fan of Greek drama?”

  “What?” I said.

  “Your T-shirt. The masks. Comedy and tragedy. Classic symbols, thousands of years old.”

  I looked down. “Um, this is a Mötley Crüe concert shirt. Theatre of Pain. ‘Home Sweet Home’? Mötley Crüe is a band.”

  “Those masks represent tragedy and comedy. Been around a lot longer than your assorted crew. Look it up. You’re smarter than you realize, Ms. Kane. You don’t have to pretend. Do you like Hemingway?”

  I shrugged, but inside I was pissed about the “smarter than you realize” comment. He didn’t know me. And he sure as hell didn’t have the right to talk to me like this—like he was my father or something. It was bullshit.

  Mr. Vernon said, “Do you find him sexist? I mean, Papa was a bit of a pig when it came to women, but goddamn could he write. Do you agree?”

  I just stared up at Mr. Vernon.

  No teacher had ever talked to me like that.

  “You don’t know what to do with me, do you?” He laughed. “You don’t like me yet either. Yet. But you will. I can look into all of your eyes on the first day and know which of you will get my class. You will get it, Ms. Kane. I can tell. You’re free to go now.”

  I grabbed my backpack and left as quickly as I could.

  When I was far enough down the hall, I whispered, “Freak.”

  But in my heart, I didn’t mean it.

  I went to the library during lunch and looked up Pavlov, learned about the conditioned reflex, and how you could make dogs salivate when they heard a bell ring even when there was no food in the room, if only you’d rung it enough times previously while the dog was eating.

  I sort of got what Mr. Vernon was saying about us.

  I didn’t want to be anyone’s dog.

  Maybe I had been conditioned.

  That night when my head hit the pillow I caught myself smiling and realized I was doing as Mr. Vernon had instructed—I was thinking about him and his class. I wondered what the rest of the school year would be like, and if any of the other kids in my class were also thinking about Mr. Vernon before they drifted off to sleep. I bet they were. And then I wondered if he was doing to us what Pavlov had done to his dog. Would I think about Mr. Vernon every time my head hit the pillow for the rest of my life?

  Back in the Crystal Lake Diner, Danielle says, “One with whipped and one without,” as she plops plates of waffles down in front of Mom and me.

  “I’m invisible,” Mom whispers.

  I blink a few times, and Danielle says, “You okay, Portia?”

  “What happened to Mr. Vernon?”

  “Here,” Danielle says, and then slips me a piece of paper. “Enjoy your meal.”

  I unfold the paper and read it.

  Can’t talk here. Boss is a Nazi. Off at 6 pm. Dinner? Call at 6:20?

  Her phone number is underneath.

  “Mom,” I say.

  “Invisible.”

  “You haven’t heard anything bad about a teacher at Haddon Township High School, have you? Mr. Vernon? My senior-year English teacher? Anything at all? It could have been a few years ago?”

  “Can we leave yet?” Mom says, covering her eyes with her right hand and then gritting her teeth convincingly enough to make me believe she is really truly suffering through this.

  I look down at my plate—at the four-inch-high pile of waffles and the additional three-inch fluffy white pyramid of whipped cream on top—and I actually start to feel sick.

  “You’re not going to eat a bite, are you?” I ask Mom.

  “I’m invisible. Can we leave yet?”

  “Okay, Mom. You win.”

  I flag down Danielle, ask for take-home containers, explain that my mother is not feeling well, and let her know I’ll call later. I leave a hundred percent tip on the table, thinking of little Tommy at home, who doesn’t yet work on the docks but may someday, since his mother already works the diner by day, and also remembering my own waitressing days. I pay the cashier, and then walk Mom home han
d-in-hand.

  As soon as we’re in the door, she asks if she can eat her waffles, and I say, “Sure.”

  She grabs a fork and eats lustily out of the white Styrofoam box. She’s seated in her pink recliner among the towers of junk and lurking dust-bunny filth.

  “Yum,” she says. “Aren’t you going to have any, Portia?”

  “You got what you wanted, didn’t you, Mom? This is what you want.”

  “Waffles with whipped cream!” she says, which is when I realize that she’s eating my waffles.

  “Enjoy,” I say. “I’m going to my space now.”

  “Your room is yours. I haven’t touched a thing!” she says, flashing a mouth full of half-chewed waffles, white whipped cream, and sticky brown syrup. “It’s yours!”

  I turn and approach the steps, which are only half as wide as they should be. Mom’s stacked sundry boxes of crap two feet high along the left side, where there is no railing. She needs the railing on the right side to make it to the upstairs bathroom, which is the only thing she uses up there, since the halls, closets, and her entire bedroom are stocked floor to ceiling with what-have-you.

  She’s been sleeping on the pink recliner for decades.

  I stand at the bottom of the steps, wondering if it’s safe to climb, or if there is so much stuff up there that my added weight could bring the second floor crashing down. But then I remember that my mother outweighs me by an entire person, so I begin to climb, trying not to look at the six hundred or so rolls of toilet paper stacked eight feet tall and four feet wide, the bathroom door trapped behind them so that it’s no longer possible to shut it while sitting on the toilet or taking a shower.

  I enter my room and try to ignore its museumlike qualities. My mother has preserved the past with freakish dedication. Only one thing has been missing here: me. If my mother could have put me in a bottle of formaldehyde and kept me a little girl forever, she probably would have.

  I ignore the red varsity letters that hang on the wall because I played the flute, wore a ridiculous uniform, and lettered in marching band.

  A life-size poster of Vince Neil making an orgasm face and grabbing his crotch through ripped jeans hangs eternal and slightly faded on the back of my door.

  My old flute is in its case on the bureau.

  My collection of stuffed animal unicorns has grown because Mom still buys me one for my birthday and one for Christmas.

  You know what you call a herd of unicorns?

  A blessing.

  True.

  There are six less-dusty members of the blessing who I have not yet met, and the thought of Mom placing these on my bed because I’m no longer here and I’ve told her she’s not allowed to mail me anything makes me so sad.

  I’m a horrific daughter, yes.

  But I’m also back in the exact place I ran from all those years ago.

  I’m a homing pigeon.

  What goes up must come down.

  Then I remember why I came up here in the first place and rifle through my underwear drawer, tossing twenty-year-old panties—which would split in half if I tried to fit into them now; I’m not exactly fat, but I’m not eighteen anymore either—over my shoulder as I search. Finally I have it in my hand.

  “Incredible,” I say to myself.

  I stare down at the Official Member of the Human Race card and examine the picture taken by Mr. Vernon the week before I graduated high school. He took everyone’s picture—well, everyone who was in his senior English class. My face looks thinner, my skin smooth—absolutely no wrinkles—and I appear . . . innocent, completely oblivious to what’s ahead.

  Hopeful.

  God, I was so beautiful. Stunning, even. Why did I feel so ugly back then? Was I blind? I’d kill little old adorable Sister Maeve and all of her nun friends—figuratively speaking, of course—to look like this again.

  My bangs are teased up a little—okay, they’re teased up so high they barely fit into the picture—and the rest of my brown hair hangs down straight, disappearing behind my shoulders.

  Here in my bedroom, I look to my right and see my old curling iron on the nightstand, next to an aerosol can of Aqua Net hair spray that belongs in a real museum.

  I smile.

  On the card, even though it must have been June—maybe it was a cool June, but I don’t remember—I’m wearing a white jean jacket and there are buttons pinned over the breast pockets. The buttons are hard to make out, but I can name them all anyway.

  Over my right breast: Bon Jovi, Guns N’ Roses, Metallica, Mötley Crüe, of course.

  Over my left: A purple peace sign. A yellow smiley face. Kurt Vonnegut Jr. smoking a cigarette. Sylvia Plath looking smart and sad in misbehaving bangs. They’re all still pinned on that white jacket—all I have to do to check my memory is open the closet door and take the relic off the hanger.

  In the photo I’m holding now, I’m smiling in a way I haven’t smiled for a long time. I look unburdened. Naive—in the best of ways. Like the rest of my life was going to be a late May afternoon on the Jersey shore, a walk on the beach in the most pleasant weather with the ocean tide tickling my toes.

  I read the words that Mr. Vernon printed next to my photo. What happened?

  Portia Kane, Official Member of the Human Race!

  This card entitles you to ugliness and beauty . . .

  . . . and remember—

  you become exactly

  whomever you

  choose to be.

  CHAPTER 5

  I call Danielle Bass at 6:20 p.m.

  I thought about googling Mr. Vernon on my phone to see what happened to him, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe because I want to hear whatever happened from someone who knew him? Maybe I’m worried that he did something deplorable like fuck one of his students—exactly like Ken and every other base man with whom I have ever come in contact would probably do? I don’t know why it’s suddenly so important for me to keep Mr. Vernon in the scarcely populated Good Man column, but it is. And if he isn’t a good man, I want to hear it from a living breathing, person—preferably a woman—whether that makes sense or not.

  “Portia!” Danielle says, after I tell her who it is. “You left me a nice tip. Thanks!”

  “Well, good service should always be rewarded,” I say, and hope it doesn’t come off as condescending.

  I’m relieved when she lets it go. “Glad you called,” she says. “You wanna eat dinner with me and my kid at the Manor? I’m starving. And my treat. I insist.”

  “The Manor?”

  “You know, that bar in Oaklyn. Near the school? I live in an apartment cattycorner to the Manor. I could hit it with a stone.”

  “The place with the deck, with the train tracks behind it? Next to the trestle?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I haven’t been there for—”

  “It’s exactly how you remember it. The place never changes, which is the beauty of it, right? It’s a constant. You wanna eat with us?”

  “Um, sure. But I’m wondering if you could quickly tell me what happened to Mr.—”

  “I just walked through the door, and I haven’t seen my boy all day. Meet us at the Manor in, say, a half hour. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know then.”

  “Okay, but—”

  I hear her yell, “Tommy, Mommy’s home!” just before the phone goes dead.

  “Shit!” I say, remembering that I have no car.

  I don’t know why I open my closet and pull out my white Levi’s jean jacket from high school, but I do. All of the pins are still affixed.

  I try it on. It’s snug, but chic. We used to wear them a little baggy, back in the day. It’s definitely retro, but I like it—it takes me back and makes me feel like I’m home again—so I leave it on, almost like a costume.

  Pre-Ken me.

&
nbsp; I skip every other step down to the first floor, which is when I realize I’m sort of excited.

  “Mom,” I say.

  “Did you say that Ken died earlier?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t really.”

  She’s staring at the Buy from Home Network on her boxy old television set. A middle-aged woman is twisting her wrist under an intense light so that the faux-diamond-encrusted face of an imitation Rolex watch—which they are calling a “Roll-Flex” on the screen—sparkles and dazzles with fabulous faux brilliance.

  Mom looks up at me from her recliner. “You must be careful, Portia. Sometimes when you wish for things, you get your wish! Maybe Ken really died today! It would be your fault then!”

  “I could live with that, believe me,” I say, and then quickly add, “but I’m going out with Danielle Bass.”

  “Who’s Danielle Bass?”

  “Our waitress today. Remember her?”

  “I was invisible then.”

  “I know.”

  Mom turns and faces the television again. I can see the saleswoman now. A tanning booth has turned her face into a catcher’s mitt, but she speaks and moves with the sensuality of a Victoria’s Secret model half her age.

  “With only five easy payments of fifteen ninety-nine, this beautiful classic cubic zirconia Roll-Flex can be yours! Perfect for any occasion, whether you are shopping at the mall or spending a night on the town! You’ll be in style and the envy of your friends with this little equalizer on your wrist.”

  “Equalizer? Why do you watch this shit, Mom? You never buy anything unless it’s on sale at Walmart.”

  “Father doesn’t allow profanity in the house, Portia!” she says without taking her eyes off the screen. “You grandfather simply won’t—”

  “I might be out late, okay?”

  She doesn’t answer, so I make my way around the various junk piles to the front door.

  I pause for a second before leaving just to see if Mom will break away from the Buy from Home Network long enough to say, “Have fun!” or even “Bye,” but she doesn’t, of course.

  Never has.

  Never will.