Invisible Fences Page 2

  “I know you kids would never be foolish enough to try drugs,” my mother continued. “But if you run across a group of dope fiends, they may force their drugs on you. Chase you down, and whoosh!” She jabbed her pencil in the air towards Pam for emphasis, then towards me; I jumped back in nervous reaction.

  “The police haven’t caught any of the dope fiends yet, so they’re still out there.” She pointed at her main sources of information: the television, in its rare moment of flickering silence; disorganized towers of newsprint; and the end table telephone, her daily link in epic half-hour conversations with her two remaining friends, Mrs. Lieberman and my Aunt Lora. “If I hear anything more, I’ll let you know. Until then, I want you both to stay out of those woods.”

  I nodded first, without waiting to see Pam’s response.

  This was before a president’s wife told us to “Just Say ‘No’,” before “Your Brain” sizzled sunny-side-up in an MTV frying pan. But even then, in the post-hippie 1970s, drugs were dialed pretty high on a kid’s panic-meter. I was too young to grasp the concept fully, of course, and stirred my own fears into the mixture. When my mother mentioned the “paraphernalia” found in the woods—hypodermic syringes, rubber tubes, empty glass vials of medicine—she may have said something about medicine caps. Or maybe the “dope” idea was suggestive enough. My third grade mind somehow latched onto caps, conflated it with the image of a cartoon child in the corner of a schoolroom, a pointed dunce or dope cap rising from his head. I imagined predatory older boys donning these caps as the proud symbol of their gang. They patrolled the woods behind our house, seeking new initiates—would toss syringes like darts at your exposed arms or neck, then would force you to the ground and press their ignorance into you, lowering it like a shameful cap onto your struggling head.

  Ignorance was even more terrifying to me than needles. I was a slightly overweight boy, uncoordinated at sports and generally unpopular at school. To be stupid—to be unattractive and awkward and picked-on and stupid—was the worst fate I could imagine. Smart was all I had.

  • • •

  And yet I was stupid enough, later that summer, to let Aaron Lieberman and my sister talk me into visiting those woods to search for abandoned needles.

  Sunday Morning

  The agonizing stretch between 10 a.m and noon every Sunday morning was without doubt the most mind-numbingly boring interval of my childhood.

  Dad preferred not to go to church alone. With Mom’s stubborn agoraphobia, that left me and Pam as potential company. Neither of us liked church: the wooden pews were uncomfortable, and the monotonous Catholic mass lacked for us the religious significance our father so evidently derived from it. Worst of all, the final service of the day was a 12:15 “folk mass” at Saint Catherine’s, that church’s desperate attempt at “hip”—as if bad singing and silly acoustic guitar arrangements were enough to spark young people’s faith. The folk mass was the one Pam and I usually got stuck with, if we ended up going at all.

  Here was the odd thing about Dad and church: he wouldn’t drag us out of bed and make us go. I guess he thought we should practice religion willingly, or it wouldn’t be meaningful. If we were up and around, though, he’d ask us to get ready for the next scheduled mass, and in that trapped interchange, neither Pam nor I would have the heart to say we’d rather stay home. The only sure church-avoidance strategy, which Pam and I developed independently and practiced with varying success, was to make yourself sleep past noon.

  Seemed easy enough. We’d stay up as late as we could on Saturday night, watching horror movies introduced by Count Gore de Vol on Channel 20, or switching to Ghost Host with the snowy reception of Baltimore’s Channel 45. No matter if the creature feature lacked a creature—like that Japanese mushroom-people flick with no Godzilla to stomp the cast into oblivion, or the “old house” mysteries from the 40s where foolish people ran from room to ghost-less room. Sometimes the films portioned out a few decent scares between the “Hair Club for Men” commercials, enough to distract us while we waited for the night to become our own. We watched television in the den, on the other side of the kitchen from Mom’s living room. During the first feature, Mom disappeared to join Dad in their bedroom (did we ever see her go? At some point we’d look past the kitchen doorway to the other end of the house, her couch empty against the far wall). To extend the night past Ghost Host’s nonsensical farewell (“Here’s blood in your eye!”), we’d play a game of Life, steering blue- and pink-pin families in plastic cars over plastic hills or, even better, Monopoly—the full version, not the quick cheats with dealt-out properties or “Free Parking” windfalls. The longer we stayed up, the easier it would be to sleep late on Sunday morning.

  In theory. I could usually drowse past the departure time for the 10 a.m. mass, easy, but eventually I’d hear Dad fixing himself breakfast in the kitchen, the murmur of Sunday news programs from the living room. With a hopeful stretch I’d grab my metal-band watch from its place around the bedpost, certain it was nearly noon, and see the phosphorous hour hand aimed squarely between the ones in eleven. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get back to sleep: I’d toss and turn, check the watch again, distinguish a few stray words or commercial jingles from Mom’s TV, rearrange my pillow, check the watch again (only 11:15!), and, defeated, resign myself to a hard wooden seat and the latest strummed arrangement of “The Lord’s Prayer.”

  Seems silly now, all that effort. Church itself couldn’t be any more tedious than those endless minutes of feigned sleep. But even in summer, when every day was free of school and schedule, I still fought to avoid that single hour in church. Maybe it was a competition with Pam (who “won” more mornings than I could count, Dad and I leaving for church without her). Maybe it was an early instance of childhood rebellion, a passive battle against a father I loved but subconsciously blamed for my mother’s infirmity. Whatever the case, those hard-won mornings where I did sleep long enough were sweet victories. The day was mine: a quick slip into fresh underwear and yesterday’s shirt and blue jeans, and I’d escape into noon-day sun with the whole world open to my explorations.

  Within the accepted boundaries, of course.

  • • •

  Atlas had wrapped his rope around the tree in our front lawn again. He panted against the trunk, collar stretched tight and his water bowl temptingly out of reach.

  “Retard,” I said, and the dog barked in agreement. I pointed to his left, made a “go ’round!” motion with my hand, but all he did was twist his head, brown ears flopping stupidly.

  “C’mon, boy. I’ll show you.” I walked counter-clockwise around the tree, and Atlas followed me. If I stopped, Atlas would have stopped too, not grasping the concept of the wrapped leash. I had to go all the way around for each of the six twists.

  The ground remained spongy beneath my feet. Dad had tied Atlas’s leash to the porch banister, since the wooden spike wouldn’t stand firm in the lawn. We’d had a week of off-and-on heavy storms, thunder and loud downpours that rattled like gravel tossed against the windows and aluminum siding. Mom watched the televised weather reports from the safety of her sofa. “You wouldn’t catch me outside in that mess,” she said more than once.

  July 18, 1971. That Sunday morning’s victory over church and time and weather was cause for a special celebration—maybe even a little mischief.

  I heard the screen door screech open and bang shut. “Wasn’t sure I’d make it this morning,” Pam said, then she bounced down the three cement steps. “I had to fold one end of the pillow over my eyes to block the sunlight.”

  She picked up a gray tennis ball, muddy and matted with dog drool. “Ready, dummy?” She moved the ball back and forth; Atlas followed the motion, as if shaking his head in the negative. “How about now?” This time, with Pam moving the ball up and down, Atlas nodded “yes.”

  No matter how dumb the dog, you can teach it a trick or two. You just have to figure out the right kinds of tricks.

  “Here,” Pam
said, and she tossed the tennis ball straight up into the leafy oak. Atlas stood under the tree and barked as the ball bounced slowly down, ricocheting from limb to limb. It took an unexpected hop before the last drop, but Atlas caught the ball in his mouth after the second soggy bounce.

  “Your turn,” Pam told me.

  I didn’t much care for this next part. Atlas was a gentle dog, not at all intimidating. He wouldn’t give up a toy easily, though. Pam and Dad both liked to grab a ball or rag or bone in Atlas’s mouth and try to pry it free, tugging and making fake growling noises to taunt answering growls from Atlas—deep yet playful, almost a parody of canine anger. His lips snarled up over the gums, yellow teeth gleaming large and slick. Atlas was a big dumb dog, but he was Atlas, so I wasn’t scared he’d bite me. But big dumb dog mouths produce a lot of drool: I didn’t want that smelly, slimy stuff on my hands.

  Pam was watching, though, so I went through the motions. I pinched the ball between the tips of my finger and thumb, tried to tease it out gently, but Atlas nudged his wet nose into my palm then shook his head back and forth, slobbering on the inside of my hand. With my other hand, I tried to pinch his jaw at the hinge; Atlas opened his mouth, the ball shifted, then Atlas clamped down on it again. I tried a tighter grip on the ball, my pinky rubbing against the dog’s slimy tongue, and I felt the jaw start to slacken. The instant I pulled the tennis ball free, Atlas let loose a head-shaking, lawn-sprinkler-style sneeze.

  “Yuck,” I said while Pam laughed. “You can have your nasty tennis ball.” I dropped the ball at the dog’s feet, then held my right hand away from my body and shook it in the warm air.

  “Hope you don’t catch Atlas’s cold,” Pam said. Funny thing: neither of us tended to get sick in the summer, but we suffered more than a few fever-less headaches or stomach cramps during the school year. Mom was sympathetic to any illness, and didn’t question us if we somehow healed miraculously once the school bus pulled away from our street. Still, some of Mom’s germ phobia rubbed off on me, especially when I thought of a dog’s bad breath heating up its thick, sticky drool. Not bad enough for me to run inside and wash my hands with soap and water, you understand, but enough to make me feel icky for a little while.

  “Let’s see who else is around,” I said. We liked to do a sweep of the back yards in our neighborhood—better than calling people on the phone or knocking at their doors, since you could see right away who was around, and if the other kids were having any fun. If you just drop in on a group, it’s easier to leave if you get bored.

  The Liebermans, directly across from us in the cul-de-sac, was a popular stop. They had a decent play set in their back yard, with two swings and a slide. There was a fun element of danger to these swings: if you arced out too high in front, the whole metal frame would lean after you a bit, its rear legs lifting slightly out of the ground. They’d thump back in place as you swung back, a satisfying rhythmic drumbeat over the squeal of metal chains. Lots of fun, as long as Aaron’s sixth-grade brother wasn’t around: he was a swing-hog, and rude on top of that, adding a “y” to the end of mine and Pam’s names to emphasize how much older he was compared to us. “Hey, Natey and Pammy,” he’d say, “you here to pway with widdle Aaron?” I couldn’t figure out how him talking like a baby was supposed to make us look childish, but it seemed to work that way.

  That afternoon, their back yard was empty. I could see why: the ladder-and-slide end of the play set hovered a foot over the lawn; the swing-seat on the furthest side lay on the ground, its chain hanging slack.

  The rain must have softened their ground even more than ours. Pam started laughing.

  “What?” I said. We had visiting rights for this play set. As far as I was concerned, this was a tragedy.

  Pam stopped laughing long enough to explain. “Big shot David must have been in for a shock when he sat his fat butt in that swing!”

  And I caught Pam’s joke. David pushing his brother aside in a race to the swings this sunny morning, heaving himself into the seat, and then the whole side of the play set sinking to the ground beneath him. If that wasn’t exactly what happened, that was how I wanted to picture it.

  “What’s so funny?”

  My face flushed at the high-pitched voice, and I turned expecting to see David’s rude expression. Instead, it was Aaron, his natural voice closer to his brother’s mocking lilt than I’d previously realized. Aaron had quietly opened their kitchen’s sliding glass door and regarded us from the Lieberman’s cement porch. He held a half-eaten strawberry Pop Tart, and wore the same green shorts and blue-striped shirt he favored for summer months. He was an okay kid, but he tended to dress in seasons: the winter outfit was brown corduroy trousers and an orange wool sweater; spring brought out the blue jeans and a button-down denim shirt; the autumn collection was tan corduroy and a red lumberjack-flannel shirt. I thought maybe he had identical pairs of the same clothes, but one winter Monday he tore a hole in the right knee of his corduroy pants. It grew slightly larger in the same place each passing day, until the knee was covered by a patch on Friday.

  Of course, kids my age didn’t always pursue things to their proper origins: Aaron’s wardrobe was more a sign of his parents’ (in those pre-liberated days, his Mom’s) laziness, not bothering to dress the kid nicely until he’d reached the age when such things mattered (whenever that was). Or maybe a sign the family wasn’t as well-off financially as their fancy backyard play set would indicate, and they’d cut corners with the clothes and laundry budget. I never actively teased Aaron about his wardrobe, which is some comfort to me now, but I remember having the vague impression my friend was like a cartoon character, Charlie Brown in every single panel with the same shirt, black mountain-peak stripes across his chest.

  “Nothing’s funny,” Pam said. “What happened to the swing set?”

  “Storm damage,” Aaron said.

  “Like what? Struck by lightning?”

  “Something like that.”

  I couldn’t look at Pam, but thought I heard her stifle a snort.

  “You guys want a piece of toast?” Aaron asked, indicating his Pop Tart.

  “Sure,” I said, and we followed him into the Lieberman kitchen.

  • • •

  The quick snack was fairly uneventful, but I ate gratefully, hungrier than I’d realized. The older brother stepped into the kitchen at one point to grab a can of root beer from the fridge, but fortunately David left without making a snide comment.

  Aaron collected our napkins and empty milk glasses when we were finished; he shook the crumbs over the sink, then turned on the faucet to rinse the glasses. I only half paid attention, but he seemed to be standing in front of the running water longer than he needed to, his elbows lifted on each side in an odd stretching motion.

  As Aaron returned slowly to the square kitchen table, he held both hands behind his back. Aaron veered toward the side of the table where I was sitting, then he lifted his right arm level with my head, fingers curled toward the ground. In one quick motion, he squeezed his thumb forward to meet his fingers.

  A thin crystal arced from his hand. An ice-cold whip lashed my face and neck and I jumped back, nearly knocking the chair over as I stumbled from the table.

  Cool water ran beneath the collar of my T-shirt.

  Aaron smiled, and turned his hand over.

  “Oh my God,” Pam shouted. “Where’d you get that?”

  In his upturned palm: a hypodermic syringe.

  • • •

  “I don’t want my Mom to hear.”

  Aaron should have considered that before he squirted my neck with ice-cold water. He was lucky I didn’t shout loud enough to bring the whole neighborhood running.

  “Let’s go back outside.” Aaron used both hands to pull open the sliding glass door, then stepped onto the patio. We joined him, but nobody spoke until after Pam closed the door behind us with a heavy click.

  Pam stepped forward with her hand out. “Let me see it.”

  “Sure
,” Aaron said. He traced a little path in the air with the syringe, treating it like a toy airplane. He made a buzzing noise then veered it in a mock crash landing towards Pam’s hand. She didn’t flinch, and I figured out why: the nose of the “plane” was flat, with no needle at the tip of the syringe.

  Pam pulled out the plunger half-way, then pushed it back in with a faint hiss of air.

  Thin black lines and small numbers marked the clear plastic casing. The syringe was thinner than I expected, about the diameter of a pencil.

  Then Pam pulled back the plunger again, and twisted her face into a goofy wide-eyed expression. She placed the syringe above the bend in her left forearm, then pressed down hard enough that I saw her skin dimple beneath the tip.

  “Don’t, Pam,” I said.

  She drove the plunger home with her thumb, then screwed up her face in a farce of agony and bliss. I looked away.

  Aaron was smiling. “Cool.”

  The next few minutes, Aaron used the garden hose to show us how to fill the syringe with water. Instead of pouring a thin stream of water through a hole, as you did with a normal squirt pistol, the trick was to put the tip of the syringe in the stream and pull back the plunger. Water dragged in after the retreating rubber plug, filling the cylinder like magic. I was the last one to try it, and the simple motion made the syringe less threatening. That, and its relative ineffectiveness as a squirt gun. You only got one shot, and the aim was unpredictable—a dot of metal remained in the plastic tip where the needle had been broken off, misdirecting the arc of water.