Paul sighed and grabbed a beer, and I asked him something I knew he was probably thinking about.
“Are you worried that your kid might turn out like me?”
“Like you? No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yours is not the influence I worry about. I think it’s safe to say that on her most normal day, my mother could out-crazy you.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and I think he knew that when the words left his mouth, but we both laughed anyway, grateful that my mom wasn’t there to ruin the moment by being offended. But somewhere in the back of my head, all I could think was, Challenge accepted.
DOSAGE: 3 mg. Reducing dosage to discontinue.
MAY 8, 2013
I feel fine.
One of the many reprieves from our actual education is the annual visit from the Knights of Columbus. Maya says they visit all the Catholic schools in the state, and they’ve been coming to St. Agatha’s since she was little. There were three old men with papery skin and knobby knees from the local chapter standing together with their little navy-blue suits and lapel pins. As a Columbian Squire, Dwight had to stand at the front of the room with them, wearing his own navy-blue blazer and lapel pin. He looked mortified. Ian was standing next to him, along with a few other boys, but Ian didn’t look embarrassed. He just looked bored.
It’s hard to waste too much energy disliking these old guys, though. They do a lot of charity work and put a lot of money back into local businesses. They’re also mostly harmless old men who are just in a club because it was something their fathers wanted them to do, and they’re too ancient to cause trouble. And yet there’s something. Definitely a creep factor.
I remember their signs outside our grocery store. I remember the way my mom shook her head and pushed me toward the car before one of the Knights could offer us a button. There was something my mom didn’t like about them. I think it’s the way they protect family values, but only families that look like theirs. I think it’s also the way they like to quote Leviticus.
The oldest and frailest of the group opened his mouth to speak. For a second, I was sure that nothing but dust was going to trickle out, but he was feisty for an old guy. “We’re here today,” he said in a voice that sounded like every FDR recording I’ve ever heard, “to talk to you about becoming Columbian Squires. Or Squirettes, as the case may be.” He grinned at the girl in the front row, then proceeded to tell us about the history of the organization and the essay contest they sponsor every year.
Here’s my problem. I feel guilty about thinking bad things about old people no matter how much I don’t like them. It’s like I’m programmed to respect old age as a virtue all on its own with the exception of Paul’s evil mother. Respect your elders. When shouldn’t it be…respect everyone?
But the thing I forget when I look into their sad, pathetic, cataract-filled eyes is that being old does not make you a good person. Old age is not, in itself, an admirable quality. Sometimes it just means you haven’t had the sense to let anything kill you.
My mind might have already started to wander at this point. Rebecca sat straight up and reached for my hand. She always knew when something was going to happen before it did. A second later, two men walked through the door, and I understood her anxiety.
I’ve only seen them a handful of times. In fact, I’d nearly forgotten what they looked like. These two hardly ever show up when I’m alone, and they never do anything quietly. In fact, they kicked the door open so hard that it crashed against the opposite wall, knocking imaginary items off the shelves. And not to sound too philosophical, but I know why these hallucinations come around. They come around when I want to argue but can’t.
They’re both tall, older gentlemen in three-piece suits. One is thin and the other is fat. And they’re both British because I guess if my subconscious is going to win an argument it’s going to be with an English accent.
The thin man is called Rupert and the fat one is Basil. Their names popped into my head the same way they did. Quickly and without explanation.
“Right,” said Rupert, leaping onto Sister Catherine’s desk and kicking papers to the floor. “I can’t believe they do this in a school. They should actually be learning something, yeah? Something useful.”
“You’d think so,” said Basil, stuffing a muffin into his mouth. “But these gentlemen look like they’re half dead already. What a shame.”
“God, it must be bloody awful to be that old. Imagine sitting on your shriveled man berries.” Basil spat out his muffin.
“Oy, Ru. Enough. That’s disgusting,” said Basil.
“Just listen to them,” Rupert said, his lips curling into a smile. “Knights of Columbus. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything more ridiculous. Do they even know who Columbus was? Not exactly a role model. And the subject of the essay is ‘the real message of the Catholic Church.’?” He laughed, rolling off the desk and onto the floor. “What do you think they should write about?”
“How to not get caught raping little boys?” Basil offered.
“Or how to quietly sack a pope for his secret ring of pedo priests?” Rupert shouted, swinging from the overhead lights while Basil fished a bag of candy out of his pocket.
“Yoo-hoo! Adam!” Rupert called in a high, girlish voice. “Thoughts? We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have any. In fact, you probably agree with us.”
This was always the worst part. The persistent hallucinations who want a reaction. Of course, you’d say that I was the one who wanted a reaction, since the visions belong to me. But they wouldn’t leave me alone. They juggled. Took swigs of something from a flask and sang “Danny Boy.” I hate that song. Rupert even dropped his pants and shook his bare ass in Sister Catherine’s face.
The old man up front never stopped talking. Phrases like “your duty as young Catholics” and “defending your faith against immorality” floated across the room. His cracked and wrinkled lips continued to flap up and down while I watched the two British gentlemen destroy the classroom without turning my head. The trick was pretending to pay attention to the old guys at the front instead. The problem with that is Rupert and Basil are not to be ignored.
“You were a lot more fun when you thought we were real,” said Basil, shaking his head sadly at me.
“Is that her?” Rupert whistled. He walked over to Maya’s desk. “The one you, you know—” He wriggled his finger into a hole he’d made with his index finger and thumb. Both of them laughed. “And your first time you were dressed as Jesus. I applaud you, sir.”