He Forgot to Say Goodbye Read online

  I know that Mom is trying to make Tito into someone decent. I don’t think he’s going to have a good life—I don’t. The other day I heard him talking to his friends. He was badmouthing me and my mom. “Fuck ‘em,” he said. He said that about us. His only family. I wanted to hurt him. I did. But he’s as big as I am—and he’s meaner. If he put his mind to it, he could hurt me.

  You know, really, I don’t understand.

  And what I really don’t understand is why I love that guy so much—even though I know he doesn’t love me. Guys like Tito don’t love anyone. It’s not personal, I know that. He’s just hard as a rock. Some people need and some people don’t need. I’m more of a needer than he is. He’s not a needer at all. So, it’s not really anybody’s fault. That’s just the way things are. Like I said, it’s not personal. But it is personal. He’s my brother.

  Me, Jake

  (not finished yet, not by a long shot)

  The thing is this: Fathers aren’t the only problem. There’s always mothers.

  Her

  (My Mom)

  Last year, I was mad at my mom. Mad, angry, sore. I mean for the entire year. Maybe I was going through something. I would just look at her like she was a trash can that needed to be emptied out. I took to calling her Sally. “Sally,” I’d tell her, “I just want you to lay off me for a while. Is that okay with you, Sally? Can you dig it?” And she would really lose it. She said she was going to take me to a therapist.

  “Oh, like the Anger Management Lady?” I asked her.

  “Don’t start,” she said. “Have some respect.” There was that word again.

  “Whatever you say, Sally,” I said.

  And then she just blew up and started yelling at me. I mean she really lost it. I calmly reached into my wallet and pulled out the Anger Management Lady’s business card and handed it to her. “You could use her,” I said.

  It wasn’t the best time in our relationship. I’ll take my share of the blame. Okay, I’ll take all the blame. How’s that? No one has to tell me when things are my fault.

  Through all of this, David spent most of his time shaking his head. “Stop calling her Sally,” he told me one day. He never gave me orders—but that sounded like an order to me. “If you have to call her by anything other than Mom, at least have the decency to call her by her given name.” He was mad too. So we were all mad. But I kept it up. I kept referring to her as Sally. Her “given name,” as David put it, was Elaine. Elaine Cosgrove Ballard. Ballard—that’s David’s name. Cosgrove—that was her name before she married Upthegrove.

  And then, I’m not sure why, I just kind of stopped being sore at her. Maybe I just got tired of being angry all the time. Or maybe I just decided to get angry at something else. I mean, take your pick, there are so many things to be mad at that when you get tired of being mad at one thing, you can just move on down the list. In fact, I have that list somewhere on my computer.

  So after I got over being mad at mom for a year, well, she and I were all right—at least for a while.

  And now, it’s she who’s sore at me. She says I’ve gotten an attitude and that I don’t talk to anyone and that my politics are just an excuse to bring out the worst in everyone. She said, “Not once do you ever talk about something you really feel.” Not true. Well, maybe I didn’t talk to Sally because I didn’t think she cared to hear what I had to say. And really, what was the point in talking all the time? Talk, talk, talk. Talk’s overrated. All you have to do is listen to all that buffalo crap on talk radio and you’ll see exactly what I mean. Listen to talk radio and tell me I should respect “adults.” I mean, can you dig that crap? Who can? Who?

  Look, I know my mom’s a good person and a decent human being. She’s a little flawed, and she can’t think her way out of a paper bag, but she’s very decent. Okay, not very. Look, I’m of the opinion that we should be realistic about things. Parents should be realistic about their kids (they’re not). And kids should be realistic about their parents (they’re not). But on the whole, kids fare better than parents on the realism thing. Trust me.

  Realism aside, every day I try to think of something to say to my mom when I come home—something I really feel. So yesterday, when I walked in the door, I said, “I think I hate Mr. Moore.” Mr. Moore’s my English teacher.

  “Why?” she wanted to know.

  “Because he’s a snob.”

  “Why is he a snob?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should ask his mother.”

  She gave me one of those looks.

  I shrugged. “He thinks anything written after the mid-1950s is trash. He says Kerouac and Ginsberg and Ferlinghetti and all the rest of the Beat writers were nothing more than bad typists. He says that most Americans wouldn’t know literature if it bit their noses off. He says things like that. He says Faulkner and a few other Southerners are the exception. He’s full of crap, that’s what I think. And you know what else I think. I think he doesn’t much care for girls or Mexicans.”

  “That’s a mean thing to say, Jacob Upthegrove.”

  I gave her one of my don’t-call-me-Upthegrove looks. “Look,” I said, “his sexual persuasion is the only interesting part about him. But I know a racist when I see one.”

  “You judge people,” she said. And then she starts telling me how ungenerous I am, and how I’m too hard on people, and how I have this really superior attitude, and she’s going on and on and on. She was really destroying me.

  And then I stopped her and said, “You say you want me to talk. And when I do, you lecture me. So don’t ask me to talk anymore. I’m not going to engage, Elaine. I’m just not.”

  “Don’t call me Elaine,” she said.

  “Elaine or Sally,” I said. “Take your pick.” And then I just walked into the backyard. I thought of having a cigarette—but I didn’t have any. Not that I smoked that much because, well, I wasn’t eighteen and I was always having to go through a middleman. The logistics weren’t simple. But I have to say that there’s something about smoking that really helped chill me out. I mean, you can dig that, right? The Anger Management Lady told me cigarettes only made things worse. How? How? Cigarettes were inanimate. Not like airhead mothers who didn’t want their sons to think about politics or religion or any other topic that really mattered and not like slacker fathers who lived in Florida, doing nothing but going through women like a chain-smoker goes through cigarettes.

  I sat in the backyard for a while—then I walked back inside and told Elaine I was sorry. Look, she’s trying to teach me right from wrong, my mom. The problem is we have such different ideas about those sorts of things. My mom happens to like the world she lives in. She thinks everything is very nice. I don’t share her optimism about things, and, really, I think the world’s all screwed up. It is. And that is the absolute truth. But Mom and David, well, they like their nice world, their nice vacations, their nice house, their nice friends. They sometimes vote for Democrats—but only if they know them personally. They mostly vote for Republicans. Well, that’s fine. They have their reasons, I suppose, and they’re entitled to their politics—but when I ask them about it, they look at me as if I’m from the planet Mexico. And my mom always says stuff like “Well, when you’re a little older you’ll understand the way things work.” This from a woman who has a hard time plugging in the toaster. Okay, okay, I’m being superior again. But tell me, who really understands the way things work?

  The thing is, David and Elaine don’t like people who ask a lot of questions. And they sure as hell don’t like extremists—though neither of them believes that you can be too rich. I listen to them at dinner all the time. I get tired of their voices. I know they think I have an attitude. Well, they have an attitude too. It’s just that they run the place. I’m just, well, a resident. Well, that’s not really true. I mean, I have a real home and I’m not alone in the world, and hey, I have health insurance. I’m being ironic again. I can’t help myself. But look, I have Mom and David. They care about me. I know th
at. They sure as hell care more about me than Upthegrove.

  Sometimes I think my mom would be happier if she got a job. But she’ll never do that. Look, she doesn’t need the money. And she doesn’t know how to do anything except worry about me. I’m her job. Shit. Have you ever been anyone’s job? Have you? It’s not a cool place for your mind to inhabit. I mean, my mom should have a real job—one that’s part of the system. I mean, if she’s going to be such a big defender of the status quo, she should at least be a part of it. I mean, the world is about work and buying and selling. As far as I can tell, my mom’s just about buying. She’s had a couple of garage sales, but I don’t think that counts as being part of the selling thing. You know, there’s this place called Serena’s. It’s this place that sells overpriced furniture that caters to people who need to buy things that are overpriced because they make too much money. Perfect place for my mom. She’d be happy working there. I mean it. She could see all her friends, and she could get a discount on the stuff she buys. I’m not being ironic. I’m not. Sure.

  Okay, but she’s not going to work “outside of the house,” as she puts it. I mean, what the hell is she talking about? We have a full-time maid, Rosario (whom I call Rosie), who cooks, cleans, and irons, and my mother complains about her because her English isn’t very good, and when I tell her that she could pay for a language tutor for Rosie, she just looks at me funny. Hell, my mom could buy one less dress a month and pay for a tutor. Look, let’s not go there. The point is my I-don’t-work-outside-the-home mother doesn’t even clean the house. And we have this guy who works the grounds twice a week. And if anything breaks down, everything is just one phone call away. So what is there left to do? If my mother works “inside the house” and not “outside,” then what the hell does she do? She sure as hell doesn’t stay home, that’s for sure. Not that I mind. Not that I care. She does what she does. But she sure as hell appears on the scene when I get myself into trouble. “You could be anything you wanted to be,” she tells me. “You’re as smart as Albert Einstein.” I was impressed. My mother knew who Albert Einstein was. That’s something. Maybe I had more to work with than I thought.

  Him and Her

  (Me and Sally)

  My mom looks at me sometimes as if she’s searching for that thing in me that really bugs her. So, as I was sitting there, trying to find something to say to her, I noticed she was studying me with that look. So I looked right back at her and told her that I’d decided to become a Catholic. You know, when people have you off balance, well, you’ve got to do something that makes them even more off balance than you are.

  “What?” she said. “You haven’t gone to church since you were ten. You threatened to drown yourself in the bathtub if I made you go.”

  “I’m not ten anymore. And the thing is, I’ve never really liked the idea of Protestantism.”

  “What? Where do you get these things? And you don’t even believe in God.”

  “God has nothing to do with it,” I said. “I just think it would be interesting to become a Catholic. I mean, I like the idea of all those saints.”

  “Is this about some girl?”

  My mom thinks everything is about some girl. See, it’s because in her life everything’s about some guy. “No, Sally, it isn’t. I don’t happen to be like Upthegrove.”

  “Are we going to start this Sally business again?”

  “From here on in, when you say inane things, I’m going to call you Sally.”

  “Inane? Where did you get that word?”

  “From studying you.”

  She got this I-don’t-believe-you’re-my-own-flesh-and-blood look on her face and said, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” She shook her head. “Has Rosario been trying to proselytize you?”

  “What?” That made me mad. Rosario had more class than to go around trying to convert a guy like me to her religion.

  “Well, you know, Jacob, she’s always praying.”

  “Now, there’s a crime. Maybe you should fire her.”

  “Stop it, Jacob, you’re being glib again.”

  “Yes, I am, Sally. Maybe I’ll become Jewish instead.”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “I mean, I’m circumcised. Why not just go all the way.”

  “Go to your room.”

  “Can’t we just have this discussion?”

  “This is not a discussion.”

  “Of course it is. I’m trying to discuss my future religion with you.”

  “What you’re trying to do is make me angry. You know David and I are committed Episcopalians. You’re just mocking us.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m trying to talk to you. What if I became a Quaker. They don’t believe in wars.”

  “I’m going to take you to a therapist.” See, Elaine really believes in therapists. She goes to see one all the time. Of course, she changes therapists every two years or so. And then she just starts all over.

  “I won’t go. I’ll drown myself in the bathtub.”

  “Now you really are mocking me, Jake. I want to know what I did to make you mistreat me like this? What did I ever do to you, Jacob Upthegrove?”

  “Mom, you’re getting all Blanche DuBois on me.”

  “Stop it! Just stop it!” That’s when she slapped me. I decided it was best not to say anything. I’ll tell you something, Sally can pack a punch. I sat down on the couch and put my head down and took a breath.

  So there, I can see the world from my mom’s point of view. I really can. She wants me to grow up. She wants me to attend a nice Protestant church where the people mostly look like us. See, the thing is, I don’t think my mom’s all that comfortable around Catholics because here in El Paso most Catholics are Mexicans. And I know that makes her uncomfortable because she says, “Well, if they would only speak English.” Speaking English makes us morally and intellectually superior. I get my mother, I do. And because of this doctor thing she has in her head, I go to the Silva Magnet School next to Jefferson High School. I go there to please her. Not that I mind going there. At least it gets me out my neighborhood and into somebody else’s. I can dig that. But the thing is, I don’t want to be a doctor. I mean, I might want to be a veterinarian and take care of dogs and cats and parrots and other assorted animals. I mean, I think I’d like that. Of course, then I’d have to deal with their crazy owners. Have you ever talked to a cat lover? Or a dog lover? They’re nuts. Completely. I mean, we’re talking fanatics here. They all think their pets are brilliant. Can you dig that shit? Maybe I won’t be a veterinarian. Look, animals are very cool entities. They are the coolest beings. I love animals. But their owners, well, I’m really into mocking them.

  And this is the thing about going to the Silva Magnet School. It’s not really a part of Jefferson High School. I mean everybody at Jefferson High School is Mexican. Well, technically, Mexican American, but Sally always says Mexican. But most importantly, they’re poor. Not necessarily homeless or anything like that. Working-class. Yup, though the word is not supposed to be spoken in my house. David wanted to make conversation one night at dinner, so he says, “So what do you want to talk about tonight, Jake?”

  And I said, “Let’s talk about class.”

  He thought I meant class, as in school. “Which class do you want to talk about? How’s that class you’re taking with Mrs. Anaya? Very inspirational teacher, I hear.” David, he’s not as plastic as all that. He just tries too hard.

  I looked at him and said, “I didn’t mean that kind of class. I meant, class. As in working-class, as in ruling-class, as in middleclass, as in leisure-class.”

  “Leisure-class?”

  “Yes. That would be us.”

  “I work seventy hours a week. What’s so leisure about that?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “So you’re working-class?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m a working professional.”

  “White-collar?”

  “Of course, white-collar.”

  He was star
ting to get mad, I could tell. “How come we have different classes in America, if we’re all supposed to be equal?”

  “Equal opportunity, Jake.” David said that very seriously. “This country affords everyone an equal opportunity. And not everyone takes advantage of that opportunity. And then there’s this thing called merit. I mean, some people do work harder than others. And some people are just plain smarter than others. And some people are just more gifted.”

  I nodded. “I see,” I said. I wanted to ask him if he worked harder than Eddie, our yard man—but I could see he didn’t like the way I said I see.

  And then he looked right at me and said, “I don’t know where you’re getting these liberal ideas.” He said it like I’d gotten some kind of sexually transmitted disease.

  “Look,” I said, “I go to a school where I’m not even allowed to mingle with the kids who go to Jefferson.”

  “We’re not sending you to a school for you to mingle,” David said. “We just want the best for you.”

  That expression makes me sick. It really does. “What about everybody else?” I said.

  “We can’t be worrying about everybody else.”

  “In other words, fuck everybody else,” I said.

  “I didn’t say that. And there isn’t any excuse for that kind of language, Jake.”

  “Actually, you did say fuck everybody else. You think because you used nicer language that what you meant was nicer?”

  David was angry. He hardly ever got angry. At least not around me. My mother wasn’t there for dinner that night. And I don’t think he ever told her about our argument that evening—otherwise she would have said something. Anyway, I stopped trying to talk to David after that. I mean, he may be a brilliant attorney, but as a human being, he was about as brilliant as the sun in the middle of a midnight blizzard. He used his mind to think when he was at work. But after that, I think he just coasted. His father handed him a religion, and he just took it like he’d take a dollar bill. His father handed him the political party he was going to belong to, and David just stuck that in his pocket too.