Too Soon for Jeff Read online

  Always I’d used condoms. That was something I was very careful about, even the first time, when I was fifteen and fumbling all over the place. But a few months ago, when Christy said she’d gone on the pill because of being irregu­lar or something, well . . . it was a lot easier. And we didn’t worry about AIDS, or other diseases, because we were only with each other.

  I walked faster, past the house on the corner with the huge oak tree in front. There was a big yellow plastic slide under the tree, and a treehouse with a rope ladder leading up to it where I’d often seen kids playing. I wasn’t ready to build treehouses! I didn’t want a kid!

  I broke into a run, across the street, one block, two, to the big Safeway near where Christy and I used to park after school, when we were first getting to know each other. I leaned against the wall, breathing hard.

  What should I do? What could I do? I didn’t want the responsibility of a kid! Her parents would kill me if they found out. And my mom? God, I didn’t know what she’d say. I was so young the first time she talked to me about the importance of rubbers that I thought it had something to do with keeping my feet dry.

  My mom is studying to be a nurse and she’s a fanatic about safe sex. She’s always coming home from her nurs­ing classes with horror stories about AIDS and other STDs. She has two slogans that she’s been preaching to me for about forever. Never ever have meaningless sex, and never have sex without a condom unless you’re ready to get sick and/or take on the responsibilities of fatherhood.

  I stood, still leaning against the market, shivering against the cold stucco. Maybe it was a mistake. Doctors make mistakes all the time.

  The security guard sauntered over, carrying a billy club in his right hand.

  “No loitering here,” he said.

  “It’s a public place,” I said.

  “Not now it ain’t. We’re closed.”

  I felt like punching the phony smile off his ugly face. But I’m not the kind of guy who does stupid stuff like that. I turned and walked slowly away, toward Christy’s house. She wasn’t in the car when I got back. I stood outside for a while, looking at her lighted bedroom window, then got in my car and drove home.

  As I started the turn into my driveway I shut off the lights and the engine, and coasted slowly to the place in front of the garage where I always park my car. The light was on in my mom’s study, and I knew if I went in while she was still awake she’d want to talk. I wasn’t up to it. Just thinking about how disappointed my mom would be if she knew Christy was pregnant made my stomach feel all fluttery, the way it used to get when I first started compet­ing in debate tournaments.

  It’s weird how one minute, things seem to be one way, and the next minute, everything’s changed. Someone tells you something, and the world you thought you knew is all different. That’s how I felt the morning my dad walked into my bedroom and told me he wouldn’t be living with us any more. And that’s how I felt sitting in my driveway last night, like the world had taken a big turn, and it was a turn I didn’t like, and nothing I could do would turn it back.

  I sat watching my house, listening to the police copter circling overhead, waiting for Mom to go to bed. I’ve lived in the same house for as long as I can remember—a basic three-bedroom two-bath house with an attached garage. It’s not fancy or anything, not like some of the houses up in the Highlands area of Hamilton Heights. But it’s not a neighborhood where people have to put iron bars on their windows either.

  For awhile after my dad left, he was bugging my mom to sell our house and rent an apartment, so he could get his money out of the place. Mom said they owed it to me to give me a decent place to live, in a decent neighborhood.

  “I’m not making one more payment on this place,” he’d said. That’s the kind of person he is. Once he decided to leave, he couldn’t care less about the people he left behind.

  Mom told him, “So don’t make another payment. But we’re staying in the house.” That was when she started working for Town and Country Realty.

  I guess it’s been a good place to grow up: 1264 Columbus Street, Hamilton Heights, California. But even though it looked exactly the same as it always had, if Christy really was pregnant, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Finally, after I’d been sitting in the driveway for about 20 minutes, all the lights went out except for the ones on the back porch and in my bedroom. I stayed in my car a few more minutes, then tiptoed quietly inside.

  Chapter

  2

  “You’re awake kind of early this morning, aren’t you?” my mom says, not looking up as I walk past the door of the bedroom/study on my way to the kitchen.

  She’s sitting at her big oak desk, gazing at her computer screen. A microbiology book is open before her. This is how I’ve found her every Sunday for the last three years. She’s studying to be a registered nurse—it’s what she’s wanted for a long time.

  Mom quit college after her first year so she could work and help my dad get through school. Then I came along. Her plan was to go back to school when I started first grade, but by that time my dad had left us and she had to work full time just to make ends meet. Real estate is not great in Southern California right now, but she’s been in the business long enough that people know her and trust her, so she does okay. Anyway, she’s always been interested in medical stuff and in helping people, so when I started high school and could be more on my own, she started taking classes at Hamilton Heights City College.

  “Well, aren’t you up early?” she repeats, looking up from her book now.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I say.

  “Worried about something?” She gives me one of those intense looks like she can see inside me. I swear, I don’t know why my mom needs to study nursing in order to get out of real estate. She should just open a little mind reading parlor.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “No trouble,” I lie, hoping there’s some mistake and Christy isn’t really pregnant, or if she is, she’ll decide to get an abortion after all. No need to get my mom all wigged out over something that may not even be a problem.

  “How are things with you and Christy these days?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “School?”

  “Fine.”

  “How’s your Dramatic Interpretation piece coming?”

  “Fine.”

  “How are things at the Fitness Club—your boss treating you okay?”

  “Fine.”

  She looks at me for a while, like she wants to hear more from me than “fine,” then goes back to her studies.

  When I was little, my mom and I were real tight. I was only five when my dad split, and I guess when he stopped loving my mom, he stopped loving me, too. It seemed that way anyway, because I sure didn’t see much of him after that.

  He was supposed to take me every other weekend, but usually something came up. So really, it was just me and my mom, and I pretty much told her everything. I knew I could depend on her. She was never too busy for me. She even coached my Little League team one year. She did a good job, too. She’s cool. Sometime around junior high school though, I stopped telling her all of my business. I mean, we still talked and everything, but I had a private side, too.

  I pour some grape-nuts in a bowl, slice a banana over it, it, cover the whole thing with milk and lean against her doorway, slurping my breakfast.

  “What did you do last night, Ma?” I say, figuring if we talk about her night, we won’t be talking about mine.

  “Went to a movie.”

  “How was it?”

  “Fine.”

  “Who’d you go with?”

  “May.”

  “How’s she?”

  “Fine.”

  I glance up to see if she’s making fun of me. She is. I can tell by the barely turned up corners of her mouth. My mom still looks pretty good for thirty-eight, except her hair is already totally grey. But she’s not fat, like Benny’s mom. All my friends like her because, for o
ne thing, she’s got a sense of humor, and for another, she keeps a well-stocked refrigerator. The refrigerator is another reason Christy likes being at my house more than she likes being at her own. I guess I’m lucky to have a mom like mine, and not to be living with my dad, who is a jerk, but not as big a jerk as Christy’s.

  By the time I get to the Fitness Club to start work, I feel better. The whole thing is probably some big mistake. Or maybe Christy was just playing a joke on me. She’s been acting kind of weird lately. But no, she was really upset last night, that part was for sure. Probably we’ll find out it’s a mistake. We never did it without a condom until after she’d been on the pill for over a month. And once a condom broke, but that was way last year. It’s got to be a mistake.

  “Hey, why so serious this morning?” It’s Faye, this old woman who had a stroke about a year ago.

  “Hi, Faye,” I say. “Want some help?”

  “Of course. I’ll do anything to get your attention,” she says with a laugh.

  She starts her training circuit. I adjust seats and weights for her as she makes her rounds. When she first started coming to the club, she had to use a walker and she couldn’t manage any weight at all. After a few months she had increased both the weights and repetitions on each exer­cise and she could walk with just the help of a cane. It’s been so amazing watching Faye’s progress that sometimes I think it’d be cool to be a physical therapist. I’m pretty sure I’ll stay with my plan to be a teacher, though. Faye is inspiring, but so is Mr. Rogers.

  Besides being a tough old lady, Faye’s a big joker. Like today. When I lean over to bring the pulley bar down to her she reaches up and pats me on the cheek.

  “If I were ten years younger I could sure go for you.”

  I laugh. If she were ten years younger she’d be sixty-eight.

  “I promise it would be safe sex,” she says.

  “I think you should go for Mr. Sampson,” I say, not wanting to think at all about the safety, or danger, of sex.

  “Sampson’s older than God,” she says.

  “But he can outlast almost anyone on the stairmaster.”

  “Not my type. You’re my type,” she says. “Rent that movie Harold and Maude and give it some thought,” she tells me.

  Faye banters her way through her whole workout, then walks, leaning on her cane in a lopsided way, toward the showers. I admire her for how hard she’s worked, and how she can always find something to laugh about.

  After Faye leaves I stand gazing out the window toward the San Gabriel Mountains, convincing myself everything’s going to be fine. The clouds have lifted and the sun on the peaks is shiny and glistening. No smog today. Some days it’s so smoggy I can’t even see the outline of the mountains from here, but today I can see individual trees clear up at the top, and roads that from this distance look like narrow trails.

  It’s slow around the club on Sunday afternoons—mainly only dedicated muscle men with bulging biceps and puls­ing veins. Those guys don’t need help or guidance from me.

  “Ugh!” I turn quickly, startled by a punch in the ribs.

  “Steve!” I return the punch.

  “Hey, watch it. Don’t be hard on your old uncle.”

  He laughs this high-pitched, funny laugh that always gets me going, too. Benny, my friend from before kinder­garten who has the fat mom, says when Steve laughs all the dogs in the neighborhood start howling.

  “What’s up?” he says.

  “The sky,” I say. It’s a ritual we’ve had since I was a little kid. It’s not really funny anymore, but we still always say it. Steve is my mom’s brother, and in some ways he’s been kind of like a dad to me.

  “When do you get off work?”

  “Four,” I say.

  “How about I do a quick workout, then you and me go grab a garbageburger and onion rings down at Barb and Edie’s?”

  “Sounds good. I’m starving.”

  “Me, too,” Steve says, stepping up on the treadmill and starting his jogging routine.

  Barb and Edie’s is this little dumpy place across from the furniture warehouse down on Fifth Street. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s got the best and biggest hambur­gers I’ve ever seen. Two huge meat patties (not like those thin pressed hockey-puck things you get at the golden arches), cheese, lettuce, guacamole, onions, tomatoes, and a great secret sauce. The first time I ever ate a whole garbageburger was almost as big a deal as when I got my driver’s license. Steve and I go there a lot. It’s run by these two really gruff women, Barb and Edie, of course. The worst thing about it is that there’s always country music blasting from the juke box, but that’s a small sacrifice to make for the sake of a garbageburger and the best onion rings in all of L.A. County.

  I step out to the hallway, pick up the phone, and dial Christy’s number. Her twelve-year-old sister, Maria, answers.

  “Is Christina there?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  “No.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “None of your business. How come you got in a fight?”

  “What makes you think we got in a fight?”

  “’Cause . . . She was a real witch this morning. She always picks on me when she’s mad at you.”

  “Well, tell her I called anyway, will you?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Don’t then,” I say, hanging up the phone. Maria is a total brat.

  I go back to the workout room and start wiping down the exercise bikes and weights. I hear the steady rhythm of Steve’s Nikes hitting the treadmill. I can tell by listening that he’s running at about seven miles an hour.

  I catch his reflection in one of the floor to ceiling mirrors they have over by the stretching area. Sweat is dripping from his face. His wet tee shirt is plastered to his back. For a thirty-three-year-old guy he does pretty good. I like my Uncle Steve a lot. I wonder what he’d think, if he knew I’m worried about Christina being pregnant.

  When I was little, after my dad left but I was still expecting him to come around, I was really sad and lonely. And I was mad at my mom. My mom’s always been a nice person, but I thought if she’d been just a little nicer, maybe my dad wouldn’t have left us. And I was mad at Benny and Jeremy because their dads hadn’t left them. Mostly I was mad at myself because if I’d been a better son, then for sure my dad would have stayed with us. I’d remember when he got mad at me for leaving my bike in the driveway, or for spilling my milk at dinner time, and I’d know for sure it was all my fault.

  But even when I was the saddest six-year-old in the world, my Uncle Steve could make things better. I remem­ber this one Sunday—sitting on the porch, waiting for my dad to show up. He’d promised to take me to his company picnic. I had my baseball and glove beside me, ready to go. Steve was helping my mom paint her bedroom. When the phone rang, I covered my ears. I knew what I’d be hearing. Mom came out and sat down beside me taking my hands away from my ears.

  “Daddy can’t make it today after all,” she said. She tried to hug me, but I pushed her away. I didn’t want to cry. Maybe she’d misunderstood, and he’d be there any minute, and I didn’t want him to see my eyes all red, like a little baby’s. I stayed out on the porch for hours, I guess. Finally, Uncle Steve came out and sat beside me. He handed me a can of soda, and opened one for himself. He sat there with me for a long time.

  “It’s not your fault, you know,” he said.

  I remember that time like it was yesterday. How it felt to be six, little, but safe under my uncle’s arm, and understood. I can still feel the afternoon cooling air, and see the bright purple blossoms of the jacaranda trees that lined our block. That was the beginning of knowing who I could depend on—who really loved me, and who didn’t. I never counted on my dad showing up after that day. When he did, I went, and when he didn’t, I found something else to do. I stopped letting it matter. Early in my life I promised myself that I would never, no matter what, disappoint m
y kid the way my dad had disappointed me. I’m not ready to start keeping any promises about kids though. Not yet.

  At 3:45 I call Christy again, and again Maria answers.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Maria says in a sing-songy voice.

  “Is she there?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  I hang up. I’ll stop by her house after Steve and I get a bite to eat. It will be better to talk to her in person, anyway. But she’s probably not pregnant. Things always seem worse late at night and real early in the morning. Now, in the light of day, I’m pretty sure everything’s going to be all right.

  No more sex without a condom, though. No more de­pending on this pill business. Really, I’ve got to stop having sex with Christy, no matter what. Make a clean break. It’s not fair to either one of us to be together but not happy anymore. I’ve got to work this thing out, be honest, get it over with.

  Chapter

  3

  After we pig out on garbageburgers and onion rings, with two sodas each, Steve invites me back to his place to watch The Unforgiven with him.

  “I guess not,” I say. “I’ve got homework due tomorrow. Besides, I’ve seen it about ten times.”

  “You can’t get too much of Clint Eastwood,” Steve says. He loves Clint Eastwood movies. My mom is a Tracy/Hepburn fan. Me, I watch whatever comes along.

  Steve and I walk to the parking lot together, then go our separate ways.

  My Uncle Steve is the kind of guy who for sure should have had kids. He and his wife, Janie, wanted kids but she never got pregnant. They were all set to adopt a little boy when Janie found a lump in her breast. Then it was surgery and chemotherapy. It was awful. She’d always been full of life, laughing and joking around, like Steve. But then we watched her waste away.

  She died about four years ago. Poor Janie. And poor Uncle Steve. At first he stayed home all the time, looking at pictures and touching her clothes. He told me once he liked to smell her shoes, like it proved she’d really been there. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, or get out of there. I think I just stood and looked at him like he was some kind of freak. Anyway, he’s better now, but I think he still misses Janie a lot.