Drowning Instinct
Page 7

What for, Ms. Lord? Mr. Anderson said. You‘re with me.
9: a
And the rest of that day . . .
Oh, who cares? You know, Bob, school is school, one of those life experiences we kids all have to get through in order to become you. Then we wonder what all the fuss was about, especially while we‘re cleaning up your little messes: toxic waste, war, bank bailouts. Honestly, if we ran up debt the way you guys do? You‘d ground us, take away our cells, and make us clean toilets with a toothbrush until we‘d paid back every penny.
Anyway, things haven‘t changed that much from when you went, I bet. The only people who love school are either the über-popular kids with about a bazillion Facebook friends and no credit limit, or the truly geeky. Or the sports people, I guess. The rest of us fly below the radar, or try to, anyway.
So here‘s the only other important thing. Well, two things, actually. Okay, three.
b
One:
In chemistry, Mr. Anderson did not make me stand up and give my spiel. Oh, he took attendance. When he got to my name, though, he never looked up, didn‘t pause, just kept right on rolling so my name was lost in the general blur. Maybe he figured I‘d had enough. Pretty much everyone knew my story by then, anyway. So I would‘ve been one of the anonymous masses except . . .
c
Two:
Danielle threw a whisper to a classmate right after he called my name. Nothing audible, but when they both snickered, Mr. Anderson paused, drilled Danielle with a look and asked if she had anything she‘d like to share.
Danielle looked stunned, like she couldn‘t believe he‘d call her out like that.
Excuse me?
I said, would you like to share, or take your conversation into the hall? Folding his arms, Mr. Anderson leaned back against the board. We‘ll be happy to wait until you‘re done.
The class was deathly quiet. Everyone was looking at Danielle, even me. Well, I couldn‘t help it; I‘d chosen the very last row. So I saw the color ooze up her neck.
No, said Danielle, finally. Her voice was very small. I‘m sorry. It won‘t happen again.
Excellent, said Mr. Anderson. Now, where was I? Ah, here we go . . . Jim Morris?
d
And three:
Mr. Anderson lectured for about thirty minutes on safety, the curriculum, blah, blah, blah. But then he did an experiment.
Let‘s look at what happens to liquid hexane in air and on glass, he said, after turning off the lights. We were goggled up and clustered around his demo bench. He squirted a few drops onto a huge glass spatter plate as big as an elephant‘s contact lens.
Next he held a flint over the plate and scraped out a shower of sparks.
The hexane caught with a faint hah. The flame burned slowly, but it was also clean and very bright, almost white. Everyone oooohed and from where I stood, Bob, the way he palmed the glass? Mr. Anderson had scooped up a handful of flame with his bare hands.
Now, watch what happens when the hexane‘s in a plastic bottle. You might want to stand back a little for this one. He coated the inside of the bottle then carefully slid a long rod into the mouth and set off a spark.
BUMPH! The hexane erupted in a bright, violent fountain of flame that spewed from the bottle like a blowtorch. Everyone gasped; a couple people clapped. Someone said,
Whoa.
Yeah, very whoa. So here‘s what you‘ve got to remember, people. The conditions under which an experiment is performed are key. Change a single parameter and you might alter the outcome. On the watch glass, the vapors dissipated. It‘s still hexane and it‘s no less volatile, but you get a nice, controlled burn. Yet ignite that same hexane in an environment from which the vapors can‘t escape, and now you‘ll get an explosion, no less beautiful,
Mr. Anderson said, but deadly.
10: a
The thing about starting school a week before Labor Day is you go to school for four days and then you have a long weekend. There‘s no time to get into any kind of groove, and the next week‘s going to be short, too. So you‘re all, I don‘t know . . .
discombobulated. At least I was. If I were normal and had, oh, a social life, I‘d be as thrilled as every other girl not to be in school that next Monday. Instead, I got dragged along on our monthly guilt-pilgrimage to see my grandpa.
Well, it‘s not like I was ever like any other girl anyway.
b
Stephie, honey. Even before the fire, Grandpa MacAllister— husband of my nutty, sex-crazed grandmother—was a gargoyle, with his beaky nose and bright, button-black eyes. The whole left side of his face was drippy now, like molten candle wax, because of a stroke he‘d had in the ICU. The good news was, most of the time, he didn‘t know who I was. He‘d mistake me for Grandma Stephie or Aunt Betsy, my mom‘s sister who‘d wisely moved to England and never came home, or someone named Helen, a woman no one knew. (Given the leer on Grandpa‘s face I was happy not knowing.) That Grandpa sometimes thought I was his wife—Mom‘s mom—drove Mom up a tree. Stephie, you bring me a carton of those Camels I asked for?
Dad, my mom said wearily. She looked up from the windowsill where she was perched with her Crackberry and studying the store‘s spreadsheets. I don‘t know why she bothered to call what she did visiting. Mom‘s dead. That‘s Jenna . . . your granddaughter?
Don‘t you tell me what‘s what, Betsy. Grandpa‘s lips puckered to a wet, fleshy, liverish rosebud. A permanent trail of drool slicked the left corner of his mouth down to his jaw. You think I don‘t know my own wife?
It‘s like I keep telling you, my father said. He was standing on the threshold of Grandpa‘s room, either because the air was better there or he could bolt that much faster.
They‘ve got to up his meds.
My mom ignored him. I‘m Emily, Dad. Betsy‘s in Greenwich. Mom‘s dead, remember? She hanged herself in the hotel?
Don‘t I know it. Grandpa‘s face darkened and his gnarled fingers tugged at a fleshy wattle under his chin. Grandpa was Wisconsin-farmer stock. Of all the various . . . ah
. . . life-forms she screwed, Grandma never wrote about her husband. Maybe when Grandma was young and famous and they were still rich (before Grandpa drank or gambled the rest away), he‘d cleaned up pretty good. When they met, she was twenty-five, but he was over forty, widowed once and already boozy. So maybe he left her alone, never screwed her much, loved his vodka better. . . . I don‘t know. If he couldn‘t get it up, Grandma might‘ve been relieved.
Anyway. Since the stroke, a lot of Grandpa‘s meanness poked through, like the skin of the mask he wore was sloughing off, leaving just the snake.
He said, Left me her goddamned mess to clean up like she always did. I‘ll bet those maids couldn‘t get the stink of her shit out of the carpet for weeks.
I‘m telling you. My father rocked back and forth on his heels. Meds.
Mom glared. Would you shut up? You wouldn‘t be like this if it was your father.
My father would never be like him.
Grandpa squinted at me. What‘s wrong with those two, Stephie?
I don‘t know, Max, I said.
Jenna, I wish you wouldn‘t do that, Mom said.
Oh, what‘s the harm? Dad said. You think he‘s going to remember this in five minutes?
It‘s not respectful, Mom said.
Like your father‘s ever been respectful.
It‘s okay, I said. Whatever makes him happy. That was a lie. I didn‘t care about making Grandpa happy. I hoped he never recognized the real me ever again.
See? I know my own wife. Grandpa reached to pinch my ass.
Mom stiffened. Don‘t touch her, Dad.
It‘s okay, I said, pulling back before his fingers got a good hold. His touch made me wish I could peel my skin like a glove. Luckily, he couldn‘t get at me because the staff had strapped him to the wheelchair. To Grandpa: I‘m sorry I didn‘t bring you any cigarettes. I forgot.
Figures. Grandpa turned sullen. Stupid bitch.
Jennaaaa, said Mom. Don‘t get him excited.
Don‘t blame her. Dad jingled change. She can‘t make him any more confused than he already is.
Shut up, you cocksuckers, Grandpa said. She‘s my wife, not yours.
The doctors had explained that Grandpa‘s stroke was disinhibiting, which was a fancy medical term for Grandpa now said what he wanted whenever he wanted. Come to think of it, that wasn‘t much of a change.
I told you about listening to those doctors. Grandpa waggled the stub of an index finger in my face. He‘d been such a bad smoker, there were nicotine stains all the way to his knuckles. Bad enough I got to sit here all day long. I can‘t have myself a good smoke?
It‘s not allowed, Max, I said. I know it‘s hard. I‘m sorry.
Jesus, said my mother.
Sorry. Grandpa made a sound that started out disgusted and came out a phlegmy, gargly hawk. He spat into his claw-hand, only half landed on his chin and dribbled onto his neck. He smeared the rest of his chest-snot on the twig of a thigh. You always were one sorry bi—
Dad, my mother said.
What? said Grandpa, but you could tell Mom had broken his concentration because Grandpa‘s gaze went muzzy. All right, he said, mildly, all right. His claws rasped over stubble on his cheek and then his eyes traveled over my face and he blinked once, twice, like a sleepy lizard. I‘m just talking to Betsy, we‘re just having a nice . . . He fumbled for the words.
Father-daughter talk.
Here we go, said Dad.
Mom: Dad, that‘s not Betsy either.
Grandpa, to me: So, girl, where‘s that husband of yours?
Me: Oh, you know, back at the house, mowing the lawn.
Mom: Jenna, that‘s not funny.
Grandpa: He finally doing some work? About time. I told you not to marry him.