“That’s entertainment?” Ms. Clybourn said. “Or do you mean me to believe that’s why you trespassed on my property? Because I’m ‘very pretty’ and I have a ‘nice voice.’ Maybe it’s the manicure?”
“You shouldn’t be lonely. That’s all I’m saying.” The word you came out more suggested than pronounced, I’m was closer to ahm, and saying was g-less and a little bit uptalked. Pleasant accents were contagious. Ms. Clybourn, if she noticed I’d been infected—it seemed possible she didn’t; possible that everyone to whom she spoke tried his best to sound more like her—appeared not to mind.
“Brass tacks,” she said. “What exactly have you got against my driveway, kid? Hitting it like that…And you know, that spade—it’s worthless, now.”
“I know,” I said.
She said, “I think you’ve got an anger problem.”
I didn’t, I thought. That was Blackie, I thought. But before I said I didn’t, I realized I could. I could see how I could. For the benefit of others. Ms. Clybourn. My mom. That could be my out. I could be the boy who had the problem with anger. Who took his anger out on inanimate objects. That was far less abnormal than talking to them. There was something beneath it, an anger problem—something understandable. Vulnerability. That’s what the girls who liked Blackie all called it. Deep down, Blackie was vulnerable, they said. Deep down he was deep. Not crazy or scary, but guarded and sad. Matt Dillon eyes. He felt things too deeply. Then he got angry. He didn’t know how else to express what he felt.
“I’m lonely, too,” I said to Ms. Clybourn.
“But you’re handsome,” she said. “And you talk so nice. Like Boss Daley campaigning for the Nascar vote.”
“You’re making fun of me,” I said, and stared distantly, dramatically, into my glass.
Ms. Clybourn said, “Well who’s Mr. Sensitive? Oh, I’m sorry. Tell me how you’re lonely.”
And I told her I was lonely because I loved Stevie, and Stevie didn’t love me. I said it wasn’t fair. It made me angry at the world. It was hard to explain, I said. She said I should try. The world was unfair, I said. I wanted to hurt it so bad sometimes, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to hurt people—I wasn’t angry at people. It wasn’t their fault that the world was unfair. It wasn’t Stevie’s fault that she didn’t love me. Stevie was perfect, so it couldn’t be her fault. Maybe it was my fault because I wasn’t perfect. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just the fault of the world. I couldn’t figure it out. The more I tried, the more angry I got, though. Either I was bad at being in the world or the world was bad at having me in it. I didn’t know which, but it didn’t really matter. Or maybe it did. It was hard to explain. I couldn’t explain it. Ms. Clybourn said it seemed I was explaining it well; I should keep on explaining it. So I was walking back from Stevie’s, I told Ms. Clybourn, and I was feeling really angry, at myself or at the world, and maybe, I thought, I just had to do something that I hadn’t been doing. Maybe I just had to try something new. I didn’t know what, though, and I was just so angry, so I wasn’t thinking clearly, and when I saw her garage door was left half-open, I thought how maybe what I should do was try out…stealing. I’d never stolen anything. Maybe stealing something would make me feel better. It was worth a try, I thought. So I went in her garage and I grabbed the first thing that was grabbable—the spade. And I thought, “I am stealing this,” and then I was stealing it, and that’s when I got caught, and I was just so angry that I hit the driveway.
“It didn’t work, did it?” Ms. Clybourn said. “Stealing didn’t make you feel any less lonely. I tried it a couple of times myself. Not from a garage. Just from the Dominick’s. I stole a pack of gum once. Another time a shampoo. I was angry at the man who used to be my husband, and I thought, ‘Gwendolyn Clybourn, the world owes you something. Anything. Whatever.’ I got away with it, too. Didn’t make me feel better, though. Neither time. What I wanted wasn’t something anyone could steal. That was the problem. I think you know what I mean.”
“Completely,” I said. “I just feel worse, now. You’re this nice, pretty lady who gave me Crystal Light, and look what I did.”
“Oh honey, love’s hard,” Ms. Clybourn said. “And you didn’t even know me. You just saw my garage was halfway open. And it seems to me you’ve learned your lesson. That you don’t give in to anger and loneliness. You won’t steal again. I can tell. You won’t.”
“I won’t,” I said, “but my mom’s gonna kill me.”
“You leave your mom to me. I wish we’d have talked, you and I, before I called her. You’re a real sweet boy just having a bad day…That’s what I’ll tell her. You want to watch TV or something? You like to play cards? Go Fish or Casino? Are you hungry?” she said. “Do you want some more to drink? I’m having another. And a snack,” she said.
We ate honeyed almonds and played gin rummy til my mother rang the bell. I don’t know what exactly Ms. Clybourn said to her. They spoke on the stoop for at least ten minutes before I was summoned, by which point the both of them were puffing on Quills and admiring the blossoming asters in the garden.
* * *
As she pulled out of the driveway, my mom’s whole demeanor changed. “You’re lucky that woman’s such a mess,” she said.
“She’s nice,” I said.
“She’s drunk,” said my mother. “I could hardly understand her, going on about Stevie, going on about her ex. What am I going to do with you, Belt? How can you be so angry about this girl?”
“I’m stupid.”
“You’re the opposite of stupid. Tell me the truth. Is there something you’re hiding? Did someone do something to you? Is someone picking on you? Bullying you? Was it seeing what happened to that biker at the jail? We never talked about that. You didn’t tell me about that. I probably should have brought it up when I saw it in the papers. I probably should have brought it up because you didn’t. Did it disturb you, Belt? What a dumb question. Of course it must have. Whoever’s telling the truth there, it was terrible and violent. No one seems to be disagreeing about that part. But the world isn’t like that—full of violence and anger. Not usually, Belt. Not in America. Not in this part of it. I don’t want you to think it is. Is that what you think, though? And you’re trying to fit in? Is that what this is?”
“No,” I said. “It’s really nothing like that. It has nothing to do with that. It’s just I was angry and I didn’t want to be angry. I thought, somehow, if I tried something new—”