Quaking Read online

  Of course. It must be the morose favorite. Please let it be short.

  Sam flips through the pages of the one songbook and brings it to me.

  I sit on my hands.

  He puts it on my lap.

  I stare at it like it has cooties.

  “Who’ll start us off ?” someone asks.

  “I will!” says Sam.

  There are smiles all around the room, the kind of smiles that adults give small children who are being sweet or cute.

  I do not find it cute at all.

  And then Sam starts. Oh, God, he is awful! The man is tone deaf! I have never heard this song but I am sure it is not supposed to sound like this. My suspicion is confirmed when others in the room join in and it sounds as if they are singing a completely different tune, although the words Sam sings are the same.

  I look down at the words, trying to block out the sound, and I see George Fox’s name. Since the lyrics are about George, I decide to read them. In the chorus, George walks off in his old clothes and “shaggy, shaggy locks.” I imagine George running at full speed, tripping over his shaggy locks to get away from Sam’s singing. Others in the room are singing cheerily, apparently unbothered by the Sam-blasting.

  And then I realize something. It is not a morbid song. At all. In fact, people have started to ad lib to the chorus and clap a part of it. I imagine it is like being in camp. It is almost fun. Wait. Did I say “fun”? No, that was not me, truly. Anyway, the song is over now and the room buzzes with chatting and laughter.

  Sam puts my book back and creaks himself down in the chair next to me again. “Did you like that?”

  There is enough noise around that I can be inconspicuous. “Not bad,” I say, because I am so relieved that it was not a maudlin hymn.

  He grins and sits up straight like a happy puppy.

  Oh, God. I did not mean him! He is awful. Someone should set the man straight. “I would not advise you to try out for American Idol, however.”

  He laughs, hunkers down in his chair, and winks.“I’ll tell you a secret. I can’t sing.”

  No! Really?

  “But I love to. I just have to sing.”

  “Why? Is that a Quaker Testimony?”

  He screws up his face to think, even though it was not a serious question. “Let’s see. I was honest about my singing ability. That’s one.” He taps his chin.

  I think of the newsletter I was just reading. “And people are tolerant of your singing. That would be two.”

  There is laughter. It is not just Sam’s. And I realize that people are looking at me and smiling.

  I quickly look down at the newsletter and read.

  I discover that one of the missions of this Meeting House is to lobby the legislature to end the fighting in the Middle East. There is a website to contact your senator and representative directly. I also see an announcement about collecting school supplies for children in the Middle East whose schools have been bombed by one side or the other or both.

  There is a tribute to Tom Fox, that Quaker peace worker who was abducted in the Middle East a while ago. I cringe, even without reading the article. I remember the event and that is enough. Tom Fox was brutally killed.

  Finally, there is an appeal to attend the weekly peace vigils downtown on Thursdays from 6 to 7:30 P.M. Bring candles. Contact Sam Fox for more information.

  Is every Quaker named Fox? Maybe they are all related.

  Wait a minute! Thursday nights? The night Sam comes home late. Sam Fox? Sam!

  I look over at Sam. His eyebrows raise. He looks almost alarmed. Perhaps he is reacting to my expression. I point at the Sam Fox in the newsletter and he smiles and nods. I do not.

  I look away. I think about what Jessica said about that rabbi. Was he singled out? Are they starting to attack people now, not just buildings? I am not sure that these peace vigils are such a good place to be. Not that Sam would listen to me. I look over at him but his eyes are closed. I shudder because I realize that Sam Fox and George Fox and Tom Fox really are related, even if not biologically.

  The room is silent. Meeting has begun. And it is freezing in this place. Heat must not be a Quaker Testimony. Perhaps this is a sneak preview of next month’s Tolerance Testimony. You must build up a Tolerance for the cold.

  It is quiet, except for people sniffing or taking deep breaths and exhaling or shifting in their squeaky chairs.The furnace starts with a boom and I shudder. Apparently, enough people have been praying for warmth that they have willed the furnace to start.

  The woman next to me did not have breakfast. Or even dinner last night, by the sound of it. Her stomach is louder than the furnace. I wonder if the whole room can hear.

  Oh, no. It is contagious. My stomach is talking to hers. It is worse than yawning because you can stifle a yawn even when everyone around you is doing it. I have no control over my insides.

  Sam pokes me with his elbow and grins. Are Quakers supposed to grin in the Meeting room? I think not. So I scowl at him.

  When the furnace shuts off, it is so quiet that it is like pure nothing.

  I hear a cell phone chirp but no one answers it. No one even budges. The ringing continues. Ring, ring, ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling. Over and over. I am surprised that there is no sign about turning off cell phones and pagers. And surprised that it does not stop.

  Then I realize it is a bird. Of course. Quakers probably do not own cell phones.

  I do not know if it is my brilliant AP brain that finally figures it out or the bird’s flicker that catches my eye. But I look at the bird out the window, sitting in a high branch and looking in on all of us. It stops chirping when it sees me staring at it.And stares back at me, cocking its head from side to side. It has black and white stripes above its eyes, much like my mascara. And yellow. It looks good on the bird. I am not sure I want to go there with my eye makeup.

  I hear a snort next to me and whip my head over to Sam. He is grinning at me and glances up at the bird.

  I scowl again and cross my arms. So I am distracted by a bird. This does not exactly make me ADHD. There is, after all, nothing going on in this room.

  I decide to look at the other people. And I notice their fashion non-sense: white socks with black shoes, a striped skirt with flowered top, and a scarf so moth-eaten it is quite possibly a hand-me-down from George Fox himself. To be honest, though, I do not care what people choose to wear. Unless it directly embarrasses me. Like a too-small baseball cap.

  A woman stands up, slowly, shakily. She is older than Jessica but not ancient.“I’ve been trying to make sense of it,” she says,“but I still can’t. He was my rock.Why did God take him?” Her lips are quivering and she closes her eyes and sits down but not before the tears creep out from under her eyelids.

  No one says a word. They sit like statues, eyes closed, some sniffling but basically ignoring her. I cannot believe how cold they are.

  Finally, people start squirming in their chairs and taking deep breaths and I know it is time for Meeting to stop.

  Sam stands up, anyway. “I have some afterthoughts. Phyllis, I wish I had an answer for you. I don’t know why Steve was taken. I’ve been thinking about it for the past several months myself. I never understand why things happen. Sometimes I get it later.” He shrugs. “Sometimes not. For now, all I can say is you have us, and we’re with you.”

  The people around Phyllis close in on her like a shawl, wrapping her in warmth, and others move over to occupy all the empty seats near her. Sam kneels in front of her and everyone is talking at once and the words weave a cloak around her and I realize that I am the only one sitting on my side of the room and it is me who is the cold one, not them.

  Later, I tell Jessica about Phyllis. I do not know why. It is not my problem. But for some reason it bothers me.

  Jessica immediately goes to the computer and starts Googling.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Finding a recipe.”

  I think th
is is an odd reaction to Phyllis’s plight. “What on earth for?”

  “I want to make her some Lamingtons.”

  “Excuse me? Is that some sort of Quaker treat?”

  “No, it’s a dessert she misses from her childhood. She says they just make her feel good. I’ve been meaning to make her some. She has terrible arthritis and can’t do much with her hands. I hope the Lamingtons will give her some comfort and remind her of Australia.”

  “Australia? God, you people get around.”

  She wheels around on the stool. “Language, please, Matt.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Sam does not have a problem with my swearing. Why does she?

  She glances over at the Blob. “It’s a bad influence on Rory.”

  I roll my eyes. Like it could possibly matter. “Okay, okay, I meant gosh!”

  Now the Blob is staring at me. And puckering his lips. And spitting. But a sound comes out, too. A new sound. While he stares at me. His little red lips form an O. “Awshhh, awshhhhh.”

  “See!” Jessica runs over to him. “He’s learning! He’s copying us!” She looks at me. “He’s copying you, Matt.You said gosh!”

  “Shit!” I cry, because I realize she is right. He is copying me!

  “Matt!”

  “Oh, God—I mean, shi—” I cover my mouth with both hands before more shit can escape.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mr.Warhead stands at the front of the room and opens a large envelope as he announces another quiz. The class groans, but not too much because Mr. Warhead is an easy grader. Except when it comes to me. Still, I have memorized everything about our current warmongering, so I am thinking I am in good shape. Memorizing has always been easy for me. It is the forgetting that is hard.

  I scribble some more on my desk, notice that the room has gone silent, and look up.

  Mr. Warhead is squinting his gun-barrel eyes at me. “For this quiz, you will use your heart.”

  Now I know I am in trouble. Because I have no heart.

  “You will defend our fighting overseas. Not with opinions, not with casual ‘I thinks,’ but with facts about what constitutes an American and what our responsibilities are, as a superpower, to protect the rest of the world.”

  He moves away from the board and I see what he has just tacked up. It is a large photo of a dead marine.

  His body is splayed out in an awkward fashion, on his back but with one arm twisted underneath him in a very unnatural way. His other arm is on his gun. There is red all over his chest and stomach and you know there is nothing left intact. His eyes are open in that fixed stare of the dead. Above his eyes are a few short curls of hair stuck to his forehead. Like the Blob.

  I have to look away for a moment or I think I will throw up. I swallow and take a deep breath. When I look back again, I see someone in the street in the background. Also fallen. Also dead. I know who she is. Her white head scarf partially covers her face and her hands are reaching out because she did not want to die because she has a child who needs her. I cannot take my eyes off her.

  “You have twenty minutes,” Mr. Warhead says sharply, and I jump. How did he get here? Next to my mother.Who is slumped on the gurney. With the sheet partially covering her face. And her hand, limp and cold, dangling out from under the sheet. Reaching for me.

  I look around me—everyone is writing furiously. I am feeling hot and cold at the same time. And nauseous. I stare at the blank piece of paper on my desk. And the photo on the board. And every time I look up and see the slain woman my eyes fill up so much I cannot see the lines on my paper, so it is impossible to write anything even if I could think of something to say.

  “Time’s up!” Mr. Warhead announces, and he walks around the class collecting the papers.

  The bell is ringing and I clutch my paper and slowly get up, too slowly because Mr. Warhead is standing in front of me. He grabs the paper out of my hand before I can escape.

  “Just a minute, young lady!” he sputters. There is spit shooting out of his mouth. He clenches his teeth and wrinkles his nose as if my paper stinks. “Let me tell you something.” He looks up from my paper and grinds his gun-barrel eyes into me.“I’m tired of your flippant remarks and bad attitude. I spoke with your guidance counselor.You know, you’re not the first AP student I’ve taught. Just because you’re a little smarter than the average kid, don’t think you’re exempt from work.You’ll be getting an F.This will definitely have an effect on your grade this quarter.You’d better watch yourself or you’ll end up failing.”

  I do not answer and stagger out into the hall but my heart is pounding. I have to pass this class.And he is the only World Civ teacher. There is no getting around him. He can destroy my chance to escape to Canada. To graduate early. Maybe even to graduate at all.

  I start down the hall to biology and see the pointed-toe boot too late. My palms hit the linoleum with a slap and I am sprawled on the floor. I can smell the smoke of the Rat above me and hear his snickering. I scramble up as fast as I can and run past a blur of pushing, laughing, and shouting.

  When I round the corner, I slow down enough to catch my breath. As I walk, I realize that I am sore, but I am not dead. I can survive the Rat. I am still shaking, however. I think it is partly rage. How dare he get away with treating people like this?

  And I am enraged by Mr. Warhead, too. How dare he threaten me like that? Sure, I know how to pass his class. I can become the kind of perfect “Patriot” he wants to see . . . like the Rat. Ha! That will never happen, Mr. Warhead. Do not count your chicken-shits before they hatch. I will die before I become a Rat.

  What am I saying? Why do I care? What difference does it make, anyway? I should just give Mr. Warhead what he wants, and then, hopefully, I can get what I want.

  I pass the Armed Services posters by my guidance counselor’s office and think of the Dead Marine photo and stop and shudder. I look through the front windows of the school and see the snowstorm that has started. The snow is falling thick, heavy, with occasional swirls that twist in a dizzying, sickening pattern. It snowed just like this the day they told me my mother was gone forever. I remember that now.The snow poured out of the sky, whiting out everything. And I am not sure who cried more, the sky or me.

  Back at Casa Quaker, Jessica is stirring a pot of soup on the stove. She is the only person I know who makes soup from scratch. It comes in cans now, Jessica. I believe Napoleon started that trend for his troops a few years back.

  She looks at me, her eyes squinting. “Are you okay?”

  I do not know how to answer this question. Is there anything at all about me that is “okay”? I do not bother to answer.

  The Blob is saying his “awsh” noise and standing against the cabinet under the sink. I look at him because it is unusual for him to be upright on his own. He mistakes my look for interest and grins, reaching for me.

  I step back, into Jessica. She strokes my hair and I pull away. It is not worth getting close. It will all get whited out in the end, anyway. When I go to Canada. I think.

  She sighs. “It’s hard being fourteen, isn’t it?”

  I am not so sure about that. I am thinking that being four and hiding under the bed to escape my father’s boots was tougher than this. Five was bad, too, having to go off to kindergarten, leaving my mother alone with the Beast. Did I ever do anything to help her? No, I just hid like a little dork.

  But six was the worst.When I got off the school bus, and the police cars and ambulance were in front of the apartment. And I knew it was my mother. I tried to push through all the people but they refused to budge. When they finally looked down at me, they all stepped back so I was in the middle of a big empty circle. Everyone went silent and they looked like they had just eaten something bad and felt sick. They were staring at me, alone in the spotlight. Finally, the guy I thought was Mr. Christ pulled off his funny hat and hobbled over to me and tried to kneel down next to me, but his knees cracked so much, he bent down instead. He smelled of mothballs and oranges. His
cheeks shook and I saw the tears streaming down the wrinkles in his face, and I screamed because I knew my mother was in those tears.

  The next thing I remember, a lady in a white uniform told me my mother had gone to heaven. I kept wondering why it was taking her so long to get back from that place. I wished she’d gone to Wal-Mart because it had everything you could possibly need. Then I wondered if she had to go grocery shopping, too. Sometimes the lines there took forever. She should have picked the IGA. It was quick and the checkout lady always gave me a lollipop.

  I had heard about hell from my father. In fact, he told us to go there on numerous occasions. I knew it must be a bad place. But I never knew what heaven was. Grown-ups talked about it like it was special. After a while, I decided heaven must be a place like Disney World where people go on vacation. I was mad at my mother for going on all those rides and not taking me with her. Finally, I stomped my foot at some grown-up and asked her if she had any idea when my mother was due back from heaven. She said never.

  When I got older I decided that heaven is really the same thing as hell. It just has more vowels.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It is First Day again. For some reason, it seems to come around more often than Sunday. Jessica and the Blob go downstairs to First Day School and the play group afterward.

  I grab a newsletter and sit down on a creaky metal chair. I am beginning to recognize some of the regulars in Meeting. Like Phyllis. Like the man who wanted to sing last week, Chuck. And the woman next to him. Laurie, I think. Their names are in the newsletter. They are always holding hands.

  Sam sits next to me in the quiet Meeting room. He swallows. Loudly. I glare at him but his eyes are closed. It is amazing how noisy a swallow is in a silent room. And how much you feel the need to swallow, too, when you hear it.

  I am focusing so hard on preventing copycat swallowing and keeping the saliva in my mouth that I think I might choke.