Chemistry Page 4

  Valentine’s foster home looks like a baby-blue dollhouse with a sprinkler running in the front yard. The grass is already drowning. I imagine they’ve had the damn thing going all morning. I park across the street and sit for a good ten minutes with my hand sweating on the handle before I can get up the nerve to leave the truck.

  I’m a coward; I freely admit this. And what scares me more than anything in the world—more than disease or disaster or death—is “good, church-going people.” This is the sort that will open their arms to you right before they punch you in the face. Everyone else in the world will cuss you out before they beat you, so you can prepare to fight or run. But “good, church-going people” will do whatever they can to love you, even though they don’t. The hatred they suppress will build and build until it finally explodes in your face. And it will hurt far worse than anything you’ve suffered at the hands of the usual assholes because you won’t have seen it coming… unless you know what to look for: those forever smiles, pressed shirts, made-up faces, and perfect yards; those sweet, gentle voices that just want you to know they’re here if you need to talk. They swear they won’t judge you again and again, until you finally spill your guts, and then they do. And the sentence they mete out is always unbearable, saccharine torture. If you’ve ever experienced it yourself, you know what I mean.

  As I trudge toward the front door, I notice how scuffed my shoes are, how much water runs down the sidewalk from the front yard, and the ever-marching army of ants in the driveway. Then I hear shouting. It’s a woman’s voice. And since this is my honest confession, and I expect nothing less than your complete disgust with me by the time I’ve finished, I’ll speed the process along by admitting to this: there’s little else I hate so much as the sound of a woman’s voice. You can call on Freud in your next séance and ask him what that has to do with my mother. For myself, I can’t remember. All I know is the more feminine the voice, the more I cringe when I hear it. It’s fingernails on a chalkboard to me.

  Maybe that’s why I latched on to Esmeralda. She doesn’t sound like a woman. She doesn’t end all her statements as though she were asking a question. She doesn’t singsong everything she says in order to sound sweet. She just talks straight. She’s aggressive and sharp-witted. She’s honest as a rattlesnake, and even though her honesty stings, I think I love her for it. Yes, this has to be more than just some crush. I think I really love her. And this realization floors me.

  The shouting is louder now. Valentine’s foster parents are screaming at each other, blaming each other, fighting about what to do next. They think Valentine can’t understand them because he can’t hear them. They don’t know how well he’s learned to read lips, gestures, hearts in general. He knows their disdain for him. He probably knows it better than they do.

  And then, just as I raise my hand to knock, I hear, “It’s the bad influence of whoever he’s been living with—that’s what it is! If you hadn’t let him go in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

  II

  I guess I’ve been sitting on the curb across the street from Valentine’s foster home for at least an hour. I can’t bring myself to face the people shouting in that house. Because they’re blaming me. And they’re right, aren’t they? This is my fault, after all. I can’t be a guardian to anyone if I can’t even manage myself.

  It’s true, I’m a bad influence, and I’ve failed everyone I ever cared about. Just look at my brother. He has the most adoring foster family in the world, but they can do nothing for him—not when he has someone like me to provide him with all the money he needs to support his habits. How could they help him at all when I undermine them every step of the way? And why do I always give in? Why do I need my brother to love me so much that I’m willing to sacrifice his well-being for it? That’s not love. That’s not family. That’s just co-dependency.

  I’ve made my decision. Part of me wants to lie right now and tell you I’ve decided to rescue Valentine, but I haven’t. I’ve decided I will not make the same mistakes with him that I made with Gene. I will do right by him, at least. I will let these people teach him what no one bothered to teach me, though I’ll be damned if I know what that is. Well, probably I’ll just be damned.

  I climb back into the truck feeling more worthless than I ever have in my life. And that’s when I see the other car. It’s as much a piece of crap as the one I’m driving, but it carries its age with more pride. It’s a rusty old wagon, big enough to hold a whole family and their dogs, too. I imagine it’s been everywhere. I don’t recognize the driver, but the figure that climbs out of the passenger-side door is one I would know from a mile away. My hand is frozen on the ignition. I wonder how Esmeralda knows where Valentine’s foster home is. I wonder why she cares.

  A woman answers the door when Esmeralda knocks. I sink down in my seat and hope she doesn’t notice me. I can’t bring myself to drive away for two reasons: starting the engine would draw attention to me, and I’ve got to know what Esmeralda intends to do. She’s talking with the woman, and every once in a while, almost absent-mindedly, she signs a word. These are signs any quick search would teach a person. At first, I wonder what she’s doing. Then, when Valentine finally comes to the door, it occurs to me. She’s pretending to be his tutor or study-partner or something. Of course, he needs a translator for lectures and a person who can communicate with him to help him study. In short, she’s pretending to be me. And she’s doing what I should have done from the start.

  What can Valentine’s foster mother do but let him go? So she does, grateful that someone has finally come along to take her problem away, at least for a little while.

  Then Valentine’s eye catches sight of my truck. And it’s over. He’s seen me.

  I sink further into my seat.

  Esmeralda puts her hand on his back and walks him to her car.

  I squeeze my eyes closed and turn the radio up.

  I don’t even hear the car drive away. When I find the courage to look again, they’ve gone. There’s only one thing I’m sure of now: Valentine saw me cower as a stranger pulled him from the pillory. He must hate me now. I know I hate myself.

  III

  I do not return immediately to the church. I know Valentine will be there, and I don’t want to face him. I go to the hardware store and buy some supplies. I sit at a café and stare at a lunch I can’t manage to eat. I wander around looking for something else to do, but there isn’t anything and the lab is closed. I have nowhere left to go.

  The church is saturated with Valentine’s presence. I can hear the organ from outside the building. He’s composing, and I can’t not listen to it. Something is off about his composition. It takes me a moment to pinpoint exactly what it is, but when I do, it’s more unsettling than anything else I’ve experienced today.

  Valentine is happy.

  After everything he’s been through, after all the shit he’s taken—from the police, from his foster family, from me—he’s actually happy. The music he plays is quick, steady, uplifting. It’s a dance, and as I realize that, I begin to understand where his happiness comes from: Esmeralda.

  I can’t stand waiting, but I wait. I stare up at the organ loft from below, my feet spread in a ready stance as though I am about to fight him. I can almost see her dancing to this, smiling at him or touching him. I know he’s writing this for her. I know she’s done for him something I could never do, not in a million years. And I wonder why she won’t do the same for me. Why does Valentine get to be loved so much?

  “I hate you!” I scream up at him. I know he can’t hear me. I’m glad because I don’t mean it. I don’t hate him. I love him. “You freak! You stupid idiot! Fuck you!” I love him.

  Soon the music stops, and I hear Valentine’s heavy, irregular footsteps. He catches sight of me and waves. I do my best to smile back, but I’m sure it looks more like a snarl. He doesn’t deserve this from me. He has done nothing wrong. I’m the guilty one here. But I’ve noticed the guilty are often angry when
faced with the innocent. We can’t stand the sight of those who have managed to keep themselves intact, despite it all. We envy them, and we despise them for reminding us of what we really are: broken, old, useless.

  “I saw you at the house,” Valentine signs, but this is not an accusation. He’s smiling as though we were old friends who ran into each other unexpectedly, instead of the delinquent family we are.

  I don’t know what to say to him. I lift my hands and put them down again. I am wordless. It’s for the best, I guess. Anything I say right now, I will most likely regret later. I bow my head.

  “It’s okay,” he says aloud in that thick accent that is as much a part of him as his awkward gait. “They scare me, too. They’re always yelling. Sometimes, I wonder if they’re as deaf as me.”

  I want to laugh with him, but I can’t. He’s acting like I didn’t just let him down in the worst possible way.

  He shrugs. “You’re always so serious. I’m not mad at you, okay? So let’s just forget it.” Then he grins and signs, “We’ve been invited to a party.”

  We? Somehow, I doubt that.

  BOOK SEVEN

  There is no way anyone meant to invite me to this party. It’s one of those events where word spread too fast, and in consequence, Phoebus has a number of guests he didn’t count on. Among them are Esmeralda, Valentine, and me. Esmeralda may have invited Valentine, but I doubt Phoebus had any intention of having her here. Reason being, Lily Darling looks less than happy.

  Most of us are milling around the backyard, which is lit with Christmas lights and Tiki torches. It’s an odd combination, but then no one ever said Phoebus had any class. Most everyone here is drunk, and I suspect some of them are high. I can’t tell whether this is a party sanctioned by Phoebus’ parents, but I don’t see how he’s going to hide it from them if it isn’t. Things have most definitely gotten out of hand. I almost feel sorry for him.

  I’ve been unfair to Phoebus, it’s true. He does have a reason for being a dick—albeit not a good one—and I’ve not told you about it. I suppose I should. As I said before, his parents adore him. His father is a military man, who insists his own son follow in his large, obnoxious footsteps. So Phoebus has been in a kind of figurative boot camp since he was a kid. Anything Phoebus does that could be classified as remotely gentle is either “gay” or “too pussy for my son.” He’s to act like a man, buck up, stop clinging to his mamma like a little girl. He works so hard to live up to his father’s expectations he’s been forced into a dual self. He curses and spits around the guys, while still attempting to be the kind of gentleman a good girl like Lily Darling would adore.

  Maybe Phoebus thinks Esmeralda is the answer to his problems: a girl he can spit at, who will only kiss him back. He’s so wrong… so, so wrong. As for me, I’m completely divided by her. Part of me, the rational part, tells me I need to let go of the idea that Esmeralda is somehow mine. It tells me I’m behaving like the stereotypical possessive boyfriend, only the girl I’m obsessing over doesn’t even like me. The other part of me, the far more powerful part, tells me to get her away from all these staring eyes, that they are ruining her somehow, tainting her. It reminds me of the time someone painted graffiti on the Holy Virgin at my church. That one act of vandalism stole all her dignity, her sanctity, the mystery of her. They’re doing the same thing to Esmeralda: robbing her… robbing me.

  She’s performing. It’s what she always does, how she relates to people. She has Peter beat a rhythm on her tambourine while she sings and her little goat mimics a dance. Esmeralda’s voice is stunning, but more than that, her face, her whole demeanor changes whenever she sings or dances. She is ethereal if anything ever was. She’s more sacred to me than the Holy Virgin, but her round face, her pouting mouth, her perfect arms and hands… I can’t believe how much I want her, and I feel filthy for it.

  Yes, I know what’s happening in me is just a chemical reaction to outside stimulus. It’s not like I’m completely ignorant. I can even name the chemicals involved. I know that phenylethylamine is giving me a cocaine-like high, that dopamine and norepinephrine are creating the illusion of happiness. I know, but I still can’t shut it off. And I can’t stop staring at Esmeralda.

  Valentine watches her, too. I hate his expression—his big, stupid smile. More than that, I hate that she smiles back at him, winks at him, flirts with him. I cross my arms over my chest and try to hide my growing discomfort.

  Then Peter does something that blows my whole world to pieces. He gives a tidbit to the goat, and then he hands the tambourine back to Esmeralda, says, “That was awesome, Em,” and kisses her on the cheek. Yes, kisses her. Like they’ve been a couple for years, only no one’s noticed before now. And she just laughs it off like it’s an everyday occurrence. Did I mention this is Peter? That clown? That philosophy junkie with a bad haircut?

  I’ve lost it. I can tell I’ve lost it by the warning look Valentine is giving me. He can yell at me later. Right now, I have to know.

  I cross the yard, take Peter by the arm, and drag him after me. Esmeralda glares at me, but I don’t care. Okay, I do care. I care more than anything, but I can’t stop now. I drag him upstairs and into a room that looks like an office. A cabinet filled with Phoebus’ trophies reflects the moon and gives off an eerie light. Other than that, we stand in darkness.

  Peter is trembling. He’s readying for a fight, I know. He hates violence, but he isn’t afraid to defend himself. He could take me easily, skinny as he is, but I don’t want to fight him. I just have to know.

  I lean back against an enormous desk and brace myself with my hands to keep them busy. I must appear calm. I must not betray my own bitterness, or else he might not answer me honestly. “Peter,” I say. “Please, explain what you were doing just now.”

  He gulps. “Positive re-enforcement. It really is the only way to train goats.”

  “Goats?”

  “Djali.” He laughs. He sounds relieved. He shouldn’t be. “Em’s teaching me how to work with her, and I think I’m finally getting it, you know? At first, I was afraid she would hate me, even though I loved her to pieces. But lately, I swear she adores me! Just yesterday, she fell asleep with her head in my lap.”

  “Are you insane?” And this is where I start to sound crazy, even to me. “Do you know what kind of girl she is? Haven’t you heard the rumors?” I’m going to rip out my own tongue for this. “Do you have any idea the kind of diseases you can get?”

  Peter’s eyes widen in real surprise. “Jesus, Claude. I was talking about Djali.”

  I can feel the heat rush to my cheeks.

  “Anyway, Em’s not like that at all.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I know,” he smiles the most maddening smile I have ever seen, “because she’s my girlfriend.”

  It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to punch him in the face. Even though he’s the one defending Esmeralda’s honor. Even though I should be the one getting punched. But I know he’ll never hit me. He respects me too much, almost as much as Valentine does. I’m his teacher. I’m the reason he can call himself a poet and a philosopher. I wish I could stand the sight of him right now.

  “You’re telling me… that you and her…” I speak slowly because I can’t believe what I’m saying. “You and her are…” He seems confused, and I realize how pathetic I sound. I decide to change tack. “You’re supposed to be a philosopher, aren’t you? What are you doing training goats?”

  He laughs. “What else does a philosopher do?” Then his smile falters, and he glances back at the door. “One second,” he says. He crosses the office in three long strides, opens the door, takes a quick look into the hallway, and then closes it again. I hear the click of the lock. Then he’s back, and I’m shaking in anticipation of what he’s about to tell me. “Claude,” he whispers, “I have a confession. I haven’t been doing so well at home.”

  By home he means the group home we both lived in, if you recall. It isn’t a real home t
o him. It’s run like an institution, and Peter doesn’t belong there. I’ve always said so.

  “I left a little while ago.”

  I’m too shocked to say anything. How did I not know this? Why did he not tell me? I could have done something if he’d told me.

  “I just didn’t want to deal with them any more. They hate me—you know they always have. I’m just too lazy to live. But I thought if I could get up on my own two feet… I just needed a place to sleep for a while.”

  “You should have called me,” I say, no longer angry about Esmeralda.

  “What could you have done?” He shakes his head. “I doubt the church would let you take another person in. You’re as broke as I am. You’ve already got your hands full with Valentine and Gene. You can’t take care of everyone in the world. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You aren’t everyone in the world. And I have a little money. I got paid Friday.”

  He laughs a quiet laugh. “You never change, Claude. But I mean it. I wanted to stand on my own. I just didn’t know how. I took to walking when it got late. I figured if I could find shelter for one night, I’d work the rest out in the morning. So I wandered around and got colder and colder. And I did think of you then—I honestly did. But it was the night Valentine got arrested, and I thought you were already overwhelmed. That’s when I saw her.”

  I perk up. “Esmeralda?”

  “No, Djali.”

  “Djali?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “The goat,” he says, as though I didn’t already know. “You’re going to laugh at me for this, but I thought it must be a sign. I started to wonder whether the universe really could communicate with us. I mean who’s to say the universe itself isn’t a greater consciousness, and we’re just cogs in a machine that’s trying to understand itself? What if our whole world is just a thought process? While I considered the possibilities, and for lack of any other direction, I followed the goat.”