Quaking Read online

  “What makes you so delusional?”

  He shrugs. “An old Quaker idea.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s something of God in everyone.”

  I stare at him. “Perhaps I inherited His bad side.”

  He just smiles, crunching his candy.

  It is an annoying sound.

  “You will break your teeth,” I warn him.

  “The great thing about wintergreen LifeSavers is that they spark.”

  I do not follow his logic. Then I realize he has none. “What?”

  “Haven’t you tried that before? Here, you’ve got to take the rest of the roll.” He struggles to get the candy out of the pocket of his green down vest again and the car jerks around the road.

  I roll my eyes.

  “No, really,” he says. “Take these and go stand in a totally dark room and look in a mirror—”

  “I will not be able to see anything in a totally dark room,” I point out.

  “But you will! If you bite through wintergreen LifeSavers—with your mouth open—you’ll see sparks!”

  I stare at him. He is a child in a grown-up body. Peter Pan swallowed up by the Incredible Hulk. And the Hulk is shoving LifeSavers into my hand.

  I take them and look at them. Something stirs deep inside my head. It is my mother. I remember—I think I remember—her giving me LifeSavers. Like this. Partially opened. And they were mint. Maybe spearmint. I do not know. But they were white. They looked like this. Just like this. I cannot stop staring at the LifeSavers in my hand.

  “Hey!” Sam cries, making me jump. He points past me, out of my side window.“Look at the way the mist just hangs over the river like that!”

  It does not take much to amuse Sam, apparently.

  “Nice,” I say dully.

  He is not put off. “Isn’t it incredible?”

  I sigh. “Actually, it is called science.”

  He looks at me.

  “Wa-ter va-por,” I say slowly, on the off chance that he might understand.

  He grins like an imp, if imps are crazy, annoying creatures. And he imitates my speech pattern. “I—think—it’s—God.”

  “God as water vapor. Nice, Sam. I am not sure He—or She—would go along with it, though.”

  He grins. “Why not? God is all around us.”

  Oh, really? I sincerely doubt that, Sam. He was never around at 125 South Water Street, apartment 416. He never stopped the rock-hard hand from finding my mother. Or me. No matter where I hid. No matter how fast I ran. No matter how many times I begged him to stop. Where was God then? No one ever has a good answer for that. They look away. Or down. Or worse, they look at you with pain oozing from their eyes and you do not know whether the pain is theirs or yours. And whether you have brought more pain into the world by opening your big mouth. And whether all the pain was your fault to begin with.

  Sam is staring at me. What? Was I supposed to answer him? His eyes are not twinkling. He is not chuckling. His belly is not shaking. So, what is that noise? Oh, it is my foot kicking the dashboard. Hard. Over and over. I stop.

  “Are you all right?” His voice is soft and marshmallowy.

  “Of course. My toe was itching. That is all. It is hard to get at it in these boots. So I have to kick.”

  He does not say anything but watches the road ahead. I steal a look at him. He is wearing the saddest clown face I have ever seen and I have to look away. The mist from the river is getting in my eyes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I am sitting in a big, blank, cold room staring at a bunch of people. Who are all staring back at me. The chairs are in a circle. It appears that we are going to play Duck, Duck, Goose.

  This is the Meeting House. It is not a church, I am informed. It is, in fact, a small, shabby house in the middle of a run-down neighborhood not far from Casa Quaker.We are sitting in what is probably supposed to be the living room. Only without furniture, except for these metal folding chairs. Also, there is no steeple. No cross. No altar. Outside, there is no brightly lit church sign with a thought-provoking query like, Where will YOU spend eternity—smoking or nonsmoking? There is only a small sign on the porch railing that states the hours of worship and a banner underneath saying PEACE ON EARTH in red and gold letters. I am thinking they forgot to take down their Christmas decorations.

  I pick flakes of black polish off my nails. I look at my watch. I squirm in my cold, hard chair next to Sam’s.“When is the service going to begin?” I hiss.

  Sam smiles, then grins his impish grin and whispers, “This is worship, Matt.”

  I glare at him. “No, really. How much longer do we have to wait?”

  Some old lady throws me a “be quiet, young lady” look.

  Sam just smiles.

  I am confused.

  If this is “worship,” then Quakers bring a whole new meaning to the term “religion.” They are not born-again. They are born-dead. At least, that is what it looks like when they are in church. I mean, in Meeting. It is not like a meeting of the yearbook committee or Scouts. There is no talking, no music, no singing. No pictures, no reading, no words. Everyone simply sits frozen in this room staring at each other or closing their eyes, napping, apparently. God knows there is nothing to look at except white walls and large windows, which are up high enough that you can see trees and sky but nothing more.

  Now I understand why Sam told me it is okay to say something in Meeting if you are moved to speak. It would break the monotony. I am almost moved to say, “Blue-light special! Bible sale at Kmart! Buy one, get one free!” But it is easier to simply ignore the situation. It is a skill I have perfected over the years.

  I notice a newspaper on the floor under the chair next to me. It is open to the editorial page. I bend forward and turn my head to read one of the articles because at least it is something to do. Someone has highlighted certain phrases in yellow so I cannot help but read those first. Do we think we own the world and can make over every country in our own image? We already have the Midwest U. S. Are we looking to create the Mid-East U.S., too? I appreciate the article’s sarcasm. I imagine it would be lost on my World Civ teacher, however. The yellow highlight also leads me to How many people have to die? That is the part I hate. The killing. The dying. The pain.

  I am at the fold in the newspaper now so I grab it to read the rest. But then I realize how much noise a newspaper makes in a silent room and I look up and see everyone’s eyes on me and I quickly let go and sink farther in my chair. I glance over at Sam in case he is angry and I need to scoot my chair away from him. He catches my glance and gives me a smile, so I am safe.

  I am still bored, however. In fact, I am so bored I am practically asleep when someone finally stands up. Everyone is shaking hands with each other and chatting as if the Meeting is a big success. Now here is a club I would not mind being the secretary for . . . Meeting Minutes for Sunday, January 7: Nothing happened. Hallelujah! The end.

  I rush out to the Subaru half a block away to impress upon Sam that we are not staying for “fellowship” or however you say “coffee and doughnuts” in Quaker. After a couple of minutes, he is on the front steps looking toward the Subaru and me. I sigh dramatically, hoping he will notice. He does, but motions me to come back to the Meeting House. I shake my head and stare at the car.

  He does not come immediately. I look back and he is talking with a group of people and shaking his head, but not at me. He is pulling at his watch strap like it is cutting off his circulation.The circulation to my toes is cut off because they are so numb. I lean dramatically against the car.

  In a moment he is there. “It’s not locked,” he says.

  I get in and stare at him because it was locked before and how was I supposed to know?

  He reads my mind and answers, “Jessica always locks it, but I never do. Hey, Matt, we usually stay after Meeting to sing a song. And I wanted to introduce you to some folks.”

  I fold my arms and look away.

  “Well,
maybe next time,” he says.

  If there is a next time.

  Sam clears his throat. “I need to make a slight detour on the way home.”

  Probably to get the doughnuts I have deprived him of. I sigh and continue to stare out my window.

  When he pulls the car to a stop and starts plucking at his watch again, I finally look over at him. He is staring out his window. I notice that it is not a watch he keeps fiddling with, but a bracelet. The man is wearing a silver bracelet. It adds nothing to the baseball cap motif.

  “That church has been helping war victims in a lot of Mid-East countries,” Sam says, out of the blue.

  “What?”

  He turns to look at me. “That Catholic Church.”

  As I stare at him and try to make sense of what he is saying, I see past him to a large stone building. When I look closer, I see nasty words painted on the stone in red paint. And a broken window. I lean over to see more and notice the sign out front: OUR LADY OF PEACE.

  Peace.That word again. Peace, the thing the Rat decries.

  “This vandalism,” Sam says, pointing at Our Lady of Peace, “started after the news broke about the ring of terrorist plots on the bridges and tunnels in New York, Washington, and San Francisco.”

  “But nothing actually happened,” I remind him.

  “No, but we were brought right back to the terrorist attacks on September eleventh. That horrible fear. The unpredictability. The feeling of being a target.”

  I understand that.Very well.

  Sam sighs. “Once again, being against the war is seen as unpatriotic. And peace has become a dirty word.” He shrugs and smiles. “It just means we have to say it even louder.”

  “Why?” It is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  His blue eyes gaze at me sadly, gently.“Because . . . I don’t want anyone else to die.” He looks almost disappointed before he turns away again.

  I understand his point but I do not understand his desire to act. It does not matter if you are right. What matters is self-preservation. Somewhere along the way, Sam, you missed the raison d’être, the whole meaning of life: If you will draw negative attention to yourself, it is better to Shut Up.

  All the same, as I read the threats splattered across Our Lady of Peace, I wonder why people choose to be violent when we are all facing violence from the outside.

  And I am just the tiniest bit ticked off that Sam would give me a disappointed look simply because I know enough to stay out of the spotlight.

  Sam pulls at his bracelet again, making scratching metal sounds. It is so annoying.

  “Would you stop doing that?”

  He looks at me, his eyes big. “What?”

  “Flicking your bracelet.”

  He looks down at it, almost like he is surprised that it is there, and shoves it quickly under the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “It—it’s nothing.” He looks back at me like a kid who is denying stealing cookies even though his mouth is full.

  It is too late. I have already seen it. And he is a very bad liar.

  When we get back to Casa Quaker, the Blob is moaning and drooling as usual.

  Jessica is rubbing her forehead. She stops and asks me how I “enjoyed” Meeting.

  “You mean Sit-and-Stare?”

  She smiles. “We have unprogrammed Meetings. What we’re doing is listening.”

  “Oh.” I make my face look serious and concerned. “Has anyone noticed yet that no one is speaking?”

  Sam sits down at the kitchen table with the Blob drooling in his lap.“Sometimes people speak, if they’re moved to.”

  The Blob is moved to bang the plates with a fork. My fork.

  I yank the fork out of his hand and sit down at my spot on the other side of Sam, gathering all my dishes as far away as possible from the gack attack.

  I wipe the fork off with my blue paper napkin that does not go with the kitchen’s mustard and mold motif. Jessica does not seem to notice such things. “So you are just waiting to see if someone might speak? You have a very high tolerance for disappointment.”

  Jessica ladles lima beans onto our plates out of a blue dented pot. I know it has been washed since the Blob played with it because she treats it like another baby. It is her favorite pot. It is very special. It belonged to her grandmother, you know.

  “We’re also waiting for God,” Jessica says.

  I knew God-speak would have to crop up at some point. I drop my fork on the table in mock shock. “The Second Coming?”

  Sam chuckles. I should start calling him Chuckles the Clown. “No. We’re listening for . . . a voice.”

  “Oh,” I say. Again, I put on my thoughtful look.“It might help if you hired a minister.”

  Jessica opens her mouth but Sam holds up his hand.“Just sit and listen, if you like.You might hear something helpful.”

  “First, I will need to learn Quaker-speak,” I point out. “You people communicate telepathically. I believe you are an alien race.”

  They laugh as if I am joking.

  While Jessica spoons out the mashed potatoes and meat loaf, Sam tells her that I asked him when the service would begin. He winks at her. Then they both say together, “The service begins when the worship ends.” And they laugh again. They are easily amused.

  Sam turns to me. “You see, service is helping others. And that’s what we do after Meeting.” He is still grinning. “Get it?”

  I stare at him. “If that is Quaker humor, you people should stick to oatmeal.”

  After lunch, I try to escape upstairs to read but Jessica stops me. “I could use some help with the dishes.”

  I look over at the dishwasher to give her a hint. That is what it is for. She does not get it and tells me to bring the plates over from the table. I want to say “Why? Have you suddenly suffered some debilitating injury?” but I do not. I think of what Loopy said: This is the end of the line for you. I need to stay here long enough to graduate and get to Canada.

  So, I sigh and slowly retrieve dishes, one by one, from the table and place them randomly in the dishwasher. I also pick up the blue confetti I have made out of my napkin and put it in the trash. I am a napkin shredder. I always have been. Loopy says it is a nervous habit. I believe it is a sign that blue does not go with the mid-twentieth century mustard and mold décor.

  “I see you didn’t eat much meat loaf,” Jessica comments. She is almost right. I did not eat any meat loaf. “Are you a vegetarian?”

  “That depends. I am a vegetarian when it comes to meat loaf and turkey. Hot dogs and chicken nuggets are all right because they can hardly be accused of containing any actual meat.”

  “I see.” She nods as if what I am saying is serious. “How do you feel about the food at the school cafeteria?”

  “You mean, the barfeteria?”

  She smiles. “I’m worried about how thin you are, Matt. You hardly eat any breakfast, and I’m afraid you’re not eating at school, either.”

  “Going through the barfeteria line is comparable to passing through an entire row of ripe Porta Pottis.”

  She screws up her face.“Would you like me to pack your lunch?”

  I am not sure what to say.

  “I’ll make a lunch for you every day, as long as you tell me what you like to eat.”

  I shrug. “Okay.”

  “So, what do you like?”

  “Junk food.”

  She laughs. “I’d like to fix you some healthy things, like spinach balls.”

  “You are joking, right?”

  “No, they’re really very good. I’ll make some. If you like them, I’ll pack some in your lunch.”

  I decide I need to put her on the right track. “How about apples?”

  “Sure.”

  “Grapes?”

  “Okay.”

  “I despise bananas.”

  “No bananas. How about cheese? You love cheese.”

  How does she know I love cheese? Oh, right, I have been eating here for almost a week, so she i
s noticing my eating habits. I am not sure I like that. “I hate cheese.”

  She raises her eyebrows but drops them quickly. “Okay.” We have plain macaroni for dinner. No cheese. Sam complains. Jessica pats his hand and informs him that he needs to cut down on fat. He cannot argue with her. But he looks like a puppy whose owner is taking his favorite slipper away from him. I understand. My mouth is watering for cheese.

  After dinner, I am craving cheese so badly I am drooling. Sam and Jessica are upstairs giving the Blob a bath. Apparently, it is a two-person job. I find some cheese in the fridge drawer. Sharp cheddar. I break off a piece and cram it in my mouth.

  Jessica walks in.

  I freeze and stick the wad of cheese under my tongue. “What?” I say it in an accusing fashion to put her off. A good offense is the best defense. That is the only useful information to be gleaned from organized sports.

  “Nothing.” But she looks suspicious.When she turns her head, I chew fast. She walks over to the sink and starts washing apples, talking to me over her shoulder. “How was school? Do you feel like you’ll fit in okay?”

  I quickly swallow the cheese. “I do not ‘fit in,’ Jessica. I simply go unnoticed. That is part of who I am. I am not going to change.”

  She turns the running water off, dries her hands, and speaks softly. “I’m not trying to change you.”

  I do not believe her. “I am not changing the way I dress, either. I am a fashion plate.”

  “I like the way you dress.”

  I stare at her.“You are odd, Jessica, truly odd. Has anyone ever informed you of that?”

  She laughs as she pumps hand cream out of the pink bottle by the sink. I can smell the raspberry scent from here. “Many times.”

  Great, I have been sent to live with the odd ones out. “So, are you and your . . . Meeting . . . about the only Quakers left in the world, or what?”

  She laughs. She is too happy. Or perhaps she is on drugs. “We may not be a large group, but there are some of us all over the world. A lot in Kenya.”

  I stare at her. I guess I should be grateful that they live here and Loopy did not have to send me to Africa. Or maybe Africa would not be so bad. If I could not speak the language, then no one would expect me to talk. I could still think all my snide remarks in my head. It would be like a continuous criticism of a silent movie.