The Stardust Lounge_ Stories From a Boy's Adolescence - Deborah Digges [39]
Now from his room comes a loud thud. Maybe he's hit the wall with his fist.
Charles lays his hand on Stephen's head and looks hard at me. We read the other's thoughts.
“I guess we could try an eyedropper with milk,” I say. “But can kittens drink cow's milk?”
“We could mix it with water and a little sugar,” Charles answers.
“And warm it up,” I say. “We'll get a book tomorrow. We'll ask the vet…”
“Can I stay home from school?” Stephen holds the dead cat in his arms. I look at poor Mugs and the blond head of the boy kneeling over her, that head with such an inventive haircut—shaved bald on the sides with a sort of mane ridging the top. Trevor hits the wall again. The buzz of the halogen light behind us burns on conspicuously, expensively, as it does every night near 5:00 A.M.
I'm aware of a sort of dream-portent, a forerunning into the crazy imminent dawn-to-day a day through which large adolescent boys sleep on, their backpacks full of unopened schoolbooks by the door. Six tiny kittens cry to be fed while our dogs romp, slide through the kitchen, our other cats leap through the kitchen window, then out again, knocking Buster the bulldog's many epilepsy medication bottles into a sinkful of dirty dishes.
“You've missed a lot of school already,” I sigh. He and I know I'm stating the obvious.
“So? For God's sake, Mom.” Stephen's tears come freely. Everything about his demeanor insists that this above all incidents, accidents, illnesses, or just plain fatigue is the exception to beat all exceptions. This is it and I as his mother am missing the point.
“Look,” Charles offers, “I'll run by school and pick up their work.”
“Uh-huh.” Something sharpens in me. “Who in the world let Mugs out? How did she get out? She was supposed to stay in the basement. We were supposed to keep that door shut.”
“We need to figure out about feeding the kittens,” says Charles. “Who knows how she got out? No one did it intentionally. Steve, go get a box and some blankets.”
Charles has been home now for a week or so. For the past year and a half he has been living and working for a human rights organization in St. Petersburg, Russia. Now he is on leave until January. I'm thrilled to have him home and at the same time I find myself oddly self-conscious around my reasonable, conscientious, worldly, grown-up son. Life is so crazy around here. I wonder if he can adjust.
At twenty-four Charles is tall and handsome, unshaven and swarthy these days as he gets over the huge time change from St. Petersburg to Amherst. He has always been disciplined, enthusiastic, capable. I'm afraid he actually believes that with his influence now the sixteen-year-old Trevor and seventeen-year-old Stephen will turn a corner.
The most trouble—that I'm aware of—Charles has ever been in took place some years ago while he was studying in London. He and some friends climbed over the wall into the Regent's Park Petting Zoo. More than a little intoxicated, Charles fell asleep among the young goats and sheep. He was awakened by a guard who took him to jail for the night. The next morning he was released with a warning, the incident merely noted.
Charles is at heart philosophical, a peacemaker. He wrestles with his nature.
“Never mind,” I say. “Steve, go to bed. Maybe you can go to school at noon.”
“What about Trev?”
“He can go at noon, too.”
“What will you tell school?” Stephen wipes his nose on his sleeve.
“I'll tell them the truth for once,” I say.
“Don't,” says Stephen.
“You're right,” I say. We don't explain why to each other. There's no need. The boys have been absent or late to school so often, I've surely run out of believable excuses. But to tell the truth about Mugsie and be laughed at seems disrespectful of the dead cat.