Divisible by Zero - A Serial Novel (2)
Spring, 3rd Grade
She stopped by Kenny’s mother’s house on her way back from the school. She refused to call it Kenny’s house, even though there was no sign he’d ever leave it. She’d just met with the school about Zeke’s English incident with Mr. Humphrey.
“Maybe he’s one of those idiot savages,” Kenny said. She glared at him. He was such a moron. He put his head back down under the hood of the truck. He didn’t know shit about cars, but he was always trying to fix whatever beater he was driving. He was banging on something in the engine compartment with a hammer. She knew even less about cars than he did, but she knew you didn’t use a hammer to fix them. He swore and came out from under, shaking his finger then sticking it in his mouth. “Fuck.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” she snapped.
“You know. Like the kids you see on tv on the Science Channel. They can’t tie their shoes but they can do math in their head.”
“First off – he’s not an idiot. He can do everything any other kid can do. Second off, he’s not the idiot in the family. He just has a different personality.”
Kenny shrugged. “So do you. So what’s the problem? What do you want me to do?”
Deborah closed her eyes, took a deep breath and counted to ten. Why did she bother? “I didn’t ask you to do anything – I was just telling you, ‘cause you’re his father, that he had some trouble at school. That’s all. You should know.”
“It doesn’t sound serious. So the teacher thinks he’s a smart ass. He’s 9. All kids are smart asses at 9.”
She counted to ten again. “He wasn’t being a smart ass. He was trying to be helpful. He’s always trying to be helpful.”
“So that’s good,” he said dismissively. “I don’t see what the problem is.”
She gave up. Changing the subject, she asked, “So are you still going to take him to the game Saturday?”
He shook he head and ducked back under the hood. His voice came out in an echoing muffle. “Can’t. I couldn’t get the extra ticket.”
“Jesus.”
“What? There’s only two tickets. Not my fault.”
“ ‘There’s only two tickets.’ Let me see. One for you and one for Zeke. I can do that math.”
He said, “Yeah, and what about Cameron?”
“Okay, whatever. You and Cameron enjoy the game. Zeke’ll watch on tv and maybe see you and Cameron slugging beer in the stands. Bye.”
“Yeah, bye, Deborah. Come back when you’re not a bitch anymore.”
She went back to her car and put her head down on the steering wheel. She had such a headache. She felt completely alone. Why can’t you just be a friend? He’s your son, for chrissake… Zeke wouldn’t care about the game. He’d understand. Kenny knew that. He knew that Zeke was a free pass – perfectly accepting and perfectly happy no matter what his father did or didn’t do. So Kenny did what Kenny always did, which was whatever made Kenny happy. Like everyone else, she thought. That was the shitty assed pisser about the whole thing. Deborah felt like the whole world around her was warped – insane, senseless – except for Zeke. He was… serene. He was grounded. He got it in world that didn’t get itself. Zeke had no demands, no expectations. There were no words to explain him.
She needed someone who could just understand him, understand him the way she did. No one got it. Her friends saw an oddly quiet, watchful little boy – maybe a little slow. They all liked him, but all felt a little bad for Deborah. They knew there was something “off” about him, even if they didn’t know what it was. The teachers variously saw a disruptive kid, a disinterested kid or a kid who couldn’t keep up. He always tested normal. Not autistic. Not impaired. Not disturbed. He could hear and see like everyone else. He was always dead average on the IQ tests. There was no explanation for him except he was different, different than all the other kids in some way no one could quite put their finger on. Everyone acknowledged he was different. Everyone thought it was a problem they could not solve, and so they judged him against what they wanted or expected him to be, and they all felt bad for Deborah. No one said it, but everyone thought it: Good luck, girl. He’s a weirdo, that kid.
If they only knew! She tried to keep Zeke’s… specialness… under wraps. Quiet. Hidden. She knew how horribly cruel and dangerous the world was, what people did to other people who were too different. Look at what they did to gays; look what they did to blacks… look what they did to Jews in World War II, and to the guys with AIDS in the eighties. Look what they did to the Little People – they put them on fucking tv like animals in a cage. They made reality shows out of them, and everyone felt just fine about saying the cruelest things possible – all over the internet, all over tv, in conversation… Because they weren’t really people to them – because they were too different. Zeke understood. “I know, Mom. I understand how they think. Don’t worry.”
The other day he’d crawled onto the couch with her and said, “You know, you need a real friend, Mom. You need someone who can help you with me. I will find you one.”
She’d said something like, “Oh honey, I’m fine.”
“I know, Mom. I meant I need you to have someone to help you with me. There’s more I need to do now, and you can’t do it by yourself.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and went back to his room, while she was left to wonder, What am I supposed to say to that? He’s right. I can’t do it myself anymore. There’s more he needs that I can’t do.
