Are You Alone on Purpose? Page 2

HARRY

  April

  That afternoon, Rabbi Roth actually asked if Harry wanted to play Scrabble. Of course, this was only after—even more unbelievably—he had suggested Candy Land. “Like we used to,” he had said, following Harry into Harry’s bedroom. “After all, Shabbat isn’t over for a few more hours, is it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Harry said. He kept his back to his father. “Religion’s your department.” He couldn’t believe it. Usually his father had the decency to leave him alone.

  “Well...”

  His father was pitiful. Harry didn’t know whether to be angry or disgusted. Couldn’t a forty-two-year-old man occupy himself for a few hours? After all, he was the one who insisted on all this Sabbath crap. No car. No electricity. No TV, so Harry couldn’t even watch the playoffs. And now Candy Land. Unbelievable.

  “Candy Land,” Harry said, “is for six-year-olds.” Which was probably about his father’s mental age.

  “Oh. Well, you always used to like playing it with your mother. . . . I guess I forgot . . . .”

  Forgot what? Harry thought. How old I am? Or that dear sweet old Mom is six feet under?

  “How about Scrabble, then?” said the rabbi.

  Harry glanced sidelong at his father, wondering why he was being so persistent. That scene this morning at the temple over those Shandling kids? Couldn’t be. There’d been worse before. His father never made a big deal; he didn’t dare. Harry might refuse to go to synagogue at all. Harry might break the Sabbath and do just as he pleased on Saturdays. On any day. And then what would all the people in his father’s congregation think of their rabbi? That was the only thing that worried his father, Harry knew.

  Well, they’d see, one day. All of them.

  Harry looked at his watch. Three more hours. Then he could get the hell out of the house. Maybe he’d call that girl from school, the one with the tits and the chewing gum and the big crucifix. What was her name?

  “You like Scrabble, don’t you?” insisted his father.

  This was really pretty weird. Harry knew his father had no more desire to spend the enforced boredom of a Saturday afternoon with his son than Harry had to spend it with him.

  “Okay, sure,” said Harry casually. “Why not?”

  “Great,” said the rabbi. “I’ll set it up in the kitchen.” And he bustled off after the Scrabble board. Harry stared after him, speculating. He wanted something from Harry. Had to be. But what?

  And what was that girl’s name? Gina. Gina Something. Collarusso.

  He’d just love to introduce her to his father.

  About halfway through the game, just when Harry had about decided he’d been mistaken, that the old man really only wanted a little fake father-and-son bonding to bolster his ego, his father finally, tentatively, came out with it. “That Shandling family,” he said. “I understand the girl is at your school?”

  Aha, thought Harry. Now we’re getting somewhere. He squinted at the board. It was his turn, but he hadn’t put out a word yet, even though the egg timer had almost run out of salt. At the synagogue, his father had marched Harry off in front of everybody. The good father, the good rabbi, ready and able to discipline when necessary. Only Harry knew the truth. His father hadn’t said anything. And he wouldn’t now, either. He’d back down. Harry would bet on it.

  He was really very surprised it had come up again.

  The egg timer ran out of salt. Harry had not put out a word.

  “Want me to help you?” asked his father.

  Harry ignored him. He made the word WAS, building on the W of his father’s WOBBLE.

  Quickly, his father made the word SERENE, building on the S of WAS. Double word score. The crossword on the board was listing down lopsidedly into one corner. “I, uh, hope you plan to apologize to that girl when you see her at school,” he said.

  Harry looked his father right in the eye. “Sure,” he said. “I plan to tell her exactly how sorry I am.” After a couple of seconds, his father looked away.

  There was silence. Again, Harry deliberately waited the full three minutes on the egg timer before putting out a word on the board. NO, built on the N from SERENE.

  “What,” said the rabbi, “uh, what exactly is the problem with her brother? I didn’t think he looked retarded. . . .”

  Harry looked up from the Scrabble board and watched his father’s face as he rambled on.

  “I noticed him during services. He was davening . . . and his face isn’t, you know... of course, he didn’t talk later, but I thought maybe he was just shy. . . he can’t be retarded.” Rabbi Roth was not looking at Harry. “I thought he looked like such a nice boy.”

  You are too stupid to live, thought Harry. He was suddenly swept by a wave of anger. So that’s it, he thought. That’s what he’s interested in. That boy. That retard. What a joke.

  “It’s your turn,” said Harry.

  “Oh.” The rabbi looked at the board. Harry’s consistent use of little words had severely limited the crossword formulation, so that there were now only a few places that could be used. He frowned. Then he made the word THE, attaching to the E of SERENE, and Harry knew he had given up. The game would be over in another couple of moves.

  “Such a nice boy,” murmured the rabbi. “It’s so sad.”

  Abruptly, Harry reached over and upended the board. The little wooden letter blocks rained down on the kitchen table. “This game is over,” he said.

  Harry went to his room, leaving his father to clean up the Scrabble pieces and put them away. He had remembered something, and he went hunting in his closet, where all the old games were, the stuff his mother had bought him when he was little, toys and crap. Harry never used it anymore, but he hadn’t gotten around to throwing it all out yet. He found what he was looking for and dug it out.

  It was a Shandling Sphere, still in its original packaging, unopened. His father’s secretary had bought it for Harry for Hanukkah the year after Harry’s mother died.

  Harry turned the box over in his hands. Behind clear shrink-wrap he could see the Sphere, in bright red, blue, and yellow plastic. On the back of the box there was a little ink drawing of Alison Shandling’s father, with a blurb.

  Harvard physicist Jacob Shandling originally designed the Sphere to help him learn more about his autistic savant son’s mathematical abilities. He discovered that Adam can twist the Sphere into one of its three possible geometric forms, in any of the three possible colors, from any starting position! Now, you can test your own skills against Adam’s. But be warned: it’s tougher than it looks!

  Harry headed back to the kitchen, where his father was slowly putting the Scrabble pieces away, and talking aloud. To her. Harry heard: “I know you’d make him do it, Margaret, but I—”

  Harry interrupted. “Here you go, Dad,” he said, throwing the box hard at his father, who caught it automatically. “Everything you wanted to know about the little retard is on the back.” With positive pleasure, he watched his father’s face. “Or, as the box says, the little autistic savant.”

  “Harry—”

  “Read it and weep,” Harry said, turning. And he thought: And stop talking to her. Just stop, damn it.

  At school that week, Harry deliberately waited until Wednesday, when Alison Shandling had first lunch, like he did, and her friend, de Silva, had third. That meant Alison would be alone. She was a nerd. She didn’t have a crowd. She didn’t have any friends except Paulina de Silva.

  Wednesday was the day Pizza Hut catered lunch. Harry got three slices and hung out by the cashiers, but ten minutes into lunch the traffic had slowed to a crawl and Alison still hadn’t come by. He must have missed her. Harry got rid of his tray, stole a new carton of milk, and started to cruise the cafeteria. She couldn’t be outside; it was raining. But he didn’t see her anywhere.

  He spotted Felicia Goren. “You seen Alison Shandling?”

  “Don’t bother,” interrupted Karen McDonough, who was sitting across from Felicia. “She won’t do your m
ath homework for you. I asked months ago.”

  Karen was as stupid as they came. “I don’t need help with not doing my homework,” said Harry. He looked at Felicia, who was flicking her blond hair back with one hand. Felicia laughed.

  “She’s over there,” she said. She pointed to the far end of the very next table. Harry immediately understood why he hadn’t spotted Alison himself; he’d been looking for someone sitting alone, and she was at a table filled with kids. But they were seventh-graders, and she wasn’t talking with them; she had pushed her tray away and was bent over a book and drinking absently from a big paper cup of soda.

  The other kids at her table wouldn’t be any trouble.

  “What do you want with her?” asked Felicia. Her eyes were avid; she’d been present for the little scene at the synagogue on Saturday. Felicia was a bitch.

  Harry smiled. “Business,” he said. He walked away, aware that Felicia and her friends were watching, and paused in front of Alison. “Hey, Shandling,” he said pleasantly. And then, when she didn’t respond immediately, he raised his voice. “Hey, Shandling!”

  She started up from her book like she’d been shot. But she didn’t say anything. She just looked at him like he was an ant.

  Harry picked up Alison’s abandoned tray, held it suspended in the air over the floor for three slow seconds, and then let it go. It landed with a dull plastic thud. The seventh-graders sitting at Alison’s table looked up and stopped talking.

  Harry settled himself on the table in front of Alison, one leg swinging. “Nice hairstyle,” he said, reaching down to touch her hair, caught up in a ponytail by one of those fabric-covered elastic things. She jerked her head away. Harry smiled. “Whatcha reading?” he asked.

  “Nothing you’d be interested in,” she said. Her voice was low, barely audible. “And I’d like to get back to it.” She looked down at her book again and made to turn a page. Her hand shook just a little.

  Quickly, Harry snagged the book, wresting it easily from her. “But I don’t want to go away,” he said. “I want to find out how to be as smart as you are, Ms. Genius Shandling.”

  She stared at him. She reached for her soda, but her hand was still shaking and she didn’t pick it up, just clenched her fingers around it.

  “Maybe,” said Harry, “if I read the same books as you, I’ll be a genius too. What do you think?” He flipped the book open. “The Art of Mathematics. Hey! It’s a math book!”

  Alison released the cup and made a sudden grab for the book, but Harry held it out of her reach. “Anxious, aren’t we?” he said.

  “It’s my father’s,” said Alison fiercely. “You give it back.”

  “Oho,” said Harry. He looked up, smiling genially at the kids all around them, who were watching as if this were a circus. “It’s Daddy’s book. Well, well. That explains everything, doesn’t it? Genius father gives books to genius child.”

  Alison grabbed her soda and stood up, turning to walk away. But before she could do more than take a step, Harry slid off the table and moved to block her way. “Hey, what’s the rush? Don’t you want Daddy’s book back after all?”

  Trapped, Alison fixed her eyes on Harry’s. Then she said, clearly, so that everyone around could hear, “Well, it won’t do you any good.”

  “No?” said Harry. He took a step closer to Alison, and she took a counterstep, backward. “Because you think I’m stupid? Well, tell me something then, Ms. Genius. What’s with your retard twin brother?” He watched, satisfied, as her eyes flickered. “I’ll tell you what I figure. You’re freak twins. You got two brains, and he got none.”

  Harry saw her shock. He watched, satisfied, as even her lips turned white. And for the merest second he had an odd idea—that what he’d said wasn’t new to her. That she’d thought of it herself.

  Then she raised her cup and flung the remains of the soda in his face.

  ALISON

  August

  “Listen,” said Paulina de Silva, “d’you want to go over to the mall this afternoon?”

  Alison ate a potato chip. “I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “I kind of thought we’d just hang out here. We went to the mall yesterday.”

  Paulina squirmed on her Adirondack chair. They were in Alison’s backyard, eating avocado sandwiches. “I was thinking that I might want that top I tried on,” she said. “The red one with the crisscross straps across the back.”

  “I thought you said it was the wrong kind of red.” Alison tried to be patient. Lately, it seemed that all Paulina wanted to do was go to the mall. Or talk about clothes. They used to talk about real stuff. At least sometimes.

  Paulina shrugged. “This morning I realized that if I got that top, I could wear it with the pants I got last week and with a skirt I got last Christmas. And I need new tops.” She pulled at the shoulder strap of her bathing suit and looked down at her chest smugly. “Last year’s just aren’t going to fit.”

  “I suppose.” Alison wondered if she was jealous. Paulina had developed breasts that summer, and Alison had just gotten taller.

  “And you’ll need new stuff for school, too,” said Paulina generously.

  “Yeah.”

  School was the last thing Alison wanted to think about. Never in her life had she been happier than when it finally ended for the summer. The last few weeks of the school year had been unspeakable. She’d done her utmost to avoid Harry Roth, but it seemed as if he’d worked equally hard to be wherever she was. And the whole eighth grade—and a good part of the seventh as well—had been watching. If it hadn’t been for Paulina, Alison thought she would have died. As it was, she wasn’t sure if she had eaten at all, the last six weeks of school.

  In retrospect, though, perhaps the worst had been the scene with her parents. Alison had not told them what was going on. They had enough to worry about all the time, with Adam, and the last thing Alison wanted was to be an additional burden. But Paulina told her own mother, and Mrs. de Silva had turned right around, as Paulina should have known she would, and told Alison’s mother.

  And Alison had had to beg her parents to let her handle it alone. She had had to cry. And all summer, since, she had been conscious of their eyes, watching her.

  It was awful. It was wrong. Adam was the child who worried her parents. Alison was the one who wasn’t any trouble.

  This was the way it had always worked in their house. Of course, nowadays Adam wasn’t as much trouble as he used to be. In the old days, you never knew what would set him off: a balloon popping, a chair that had been moved, some new clothes that he disliked. Sometimes it was nothing at all. And he’d scream and scream and scream, hour after hour. How come it didn’t hurt his ears when he screamed like that? It hurt Alison’s.

  Alternatively, when Adam was happy, it was because of something weird: an electric fan or a digital clock. Years ago he’d spent months fixated on the word “patio,” repeating it over and over and laughing that distinctive, high screechy laugh. And he still loved to play with automatic doors, stepping on the area that made them open, and then jumping back, delighted, absorbed, oblivious of other people and their stares.

  Alison knew it was awful for her parents. That was why she was important. She was their normal child, their smart child. That was why they loved her so much. And that was why it was so very horrible when Harry Roth caused her, suddenly, to be the focus of their worry. If she worried them she would be a burden like Adam. How could they love her then?

  But by now the pressure had eased. School was out and Harry Roth was no longer a daily concern, and also the Shandlings had temporarily stopped going to synagogue on Saturday mornings. The summer services were so small and sparsely attended; it felt awkward, Alison’s mother said. So Alison didn’t have to watch her parents glaring at Rabbi Roth. Or watch as Rabbi Roth, who never looked at her parents at all, stared at Adam. He’d do this from time to time from his pulpit, whenever the cantor was conducting the service, as if Adam fascinated him. The only thing that could have ma
de matters worse was if Harry had been there. Luckily, though, he’d gone off to camp in New Hampshire for the summer.

  Every day Alison thought: if only something would happen to stop Harry from ever coming back.

  “So will you come to the mall with me?” Paulina was saying.

  “Okay,” Alison said. “After Adam comes home from day camp. My mother won’t be able to drop us off till then.”

  “Why not?”

  “In case the bus drops him off early or something. Someone has to be here.” Alison thought she had explained this before. Why couldn’t Paulina remember? It wasn’t like Adam was easy to overlook.

  Paulina frowned. “We could ask my mother.”

  “She just had a baby!”

  “Four weeks ago,” corrected Paulina. She sighed deeply. “Seems like forever.”

  “Come on. I heard you goo-gooing at him.”

  “I’ve stopped, until he starts sleeping through the night. Do you know they expect me to babysit? I mean, I’m a teenager!”

  “Right. They should know better than to think you’re responsible.”

  They were laughing when Alison heard her mother call her from the back door. “Alison, could you come in here? Please?” Alison stopped laughing. She knew that particular controlled note in her mother’s voice.

  She went inside, trailed by Paulina. “What’s up?” she said. It must be something with Adam, she thought. I haven’t done anything.

  Mrs. Shandling was pacing the kitchen, an envelope clutched in her hand. “I had planned,” she threw over her shoulder to Alison, “to pick out my grad school classes for next term today. Balance the checkbook. Get things in order so I could maybe finally finish my master’s degree this year.”

  This did not look good. “Uh-huh,” Alison said. “Well, we can just get out of your way—”

  “Read that,” snarled Mrs. Shandling, thrusting the envelope at Alison.

  “It’s addressed to you and Dad—” Alison noticed the return address. Temple Ben Ezra. Her stomach clenched.