Bomb Cyclone and its Effects on Harvard - 10

A Novella

II

The Bomb Cyclone

1

Space. The omnipresence of time. Stretch. That was the subconscious clue that her previous making was only an illusion – nowhere was the feel against the nerves. Stretch. Now to review my situation: I and grounded, for a month. This is not as bad as it seems: because all my time is either in class, doing homework for class, or doing a variety of activities that are required for proving my worth 2 college - other than that, the iPhone will allow me time to talk to my nonexistent friends. Well, that is not true, I have 2 friends – Lily and Sai - who both met on the same day. But only two. Suddenly realized that high school was not for me - the obvious answer was getting out. And more or less one semester - and it was done.

It was now “officially” autumn, though, like the “Square that is a triangle” the visual cues are at odds with the “official”  definition. By official I mean “ someone who other people pay a lot of money to decide these things.”  In this case, the decision is that  Labor Day is the end of “ real summer” and the beginning of the yearly grind of work.  In Paris,  they call it “a rentrée”  which sounds rather nicer.  But the business and the calendar could be managed.

And in absolute terms, it was my father who caused the problem.  Specifically, it was not carrying out the decisions that he made.  

My father will be watching me every second that he is here - but again, he is up to his ears in work. And that leaves little time to watch me, which means that the job will be left to mother - and she is not as compliant as father would like. She has some things to do, and there is takes up a good bit of time.  So my mother decided the obvious thing, obvious for her, she wanted me at my desk in my bedroom.

And that means staring at the ceiling, pondering what to do should this happen. The problem with being grounded - is your nature as a sitting duck is rather obvious. The only answer, which was not a good one, was to get up, and start working on homework - or at least something resembling it - at my desk. C'est la vie.  The problem here is that I look content,  because after all I have something that I have to do.

And it was in that situation that my father came in, and his face was a deep scowl - and it seemed very much likely that more pain was going to be inflicted. Joy of joys. Perhaps some display of obedience and contrition would have been appropriate - but the words did not come out, and instead, it was his voice:

“I have decided that not only should you be grounded, but I going to take your iPhone away for a period of one month.”

This would be a more egregious punishment than the grounding was. Normally, this would not be a problem - because the only people who would call me would be my parents. But now things were different, and without reasoning through it - a decision to fight back wrenched in my intestines.

“That is not fair.” And I stared into his face - there must have been a defiant look on it.

“I have made up my mind.” The word “I” was clearly on his mind.

Needing to tread carefully, because some things about the night before had to remain secret. First, modulating my tone downwards - because logic was the only way to keep the iPhone, which was my sole objective. Secondly, it occurred that the correct response was not from my point of view but his. What would make him decide that the iPhone should be in my possession? Quite suddenly, it was obvious. After all, you do not want him tweeting his displeasure the way the Idiot-in-Chief had a habit of doing so. And Trump was the modern model of the major chief executive. Thank you, Gilbert and Sullivan.

“You need to be in contact with me, and that requires that the iPhone is with me.”

Straightened in the overstuffed chair which he had sat down in. It was clear he did not think of this when he decided. There was a long pause. What he wanted was for me not to call people - and I wanted to call two people. This was the contest of wills, so petty in its implications - but deadly serious for each of the 2 participants.

As we sparred, it was clear that his hands were growing tighter and gripped the cloth with an outrageous intensity - it had been a long time since he raised a hand and struck me. Slowly, he backed off - because fear had become the dominant emotion - hoping that this would ease the clench of his fist. But instead, he got up and loomed over me. And it was on this scene - he towers over me and I look up from the bed - that my mother came in. The word relief does not begin to describe it. It was on her face - she knew that he would hit me had she come in just a few minutes later - it seemed an accident that she rescued me just in time.

Both of them just stared at each other, each one was in the position of being defiant - as if they were to children, daring the parent to strike them.

One minute passed.

Then two.

On the 3rd minute - and counting - my mother scolded: “I thought you were going to talk to her.” - as opposed to cuff me. So the mother knew that there was a chance that things would not go as agreed. It was on her face.

My father stood there obstinately - though his hands were now by his sides, as they had been just after mother came in. There was tension, in that sort of way that someone might call “crackling” - if he had no vocabulary. I could think of more ornate words than that. Gradually my father seemed to calm down and followed my mother to their room. And they both closed the door - obviously, they were going to talk, about me, about him, about the situation.

Then I was alone, and immediately a plan took shape in my mind - go upstairs to the attic, and thumb through the old picture books - my mother and father when they were young, and further back to my grandparents, and great-grandparents. It was the sort of easing. I used my iPhone - because the iPhone would be confiscated eventually - to call Lily and Sai. My phone privileges were to be curtailed - but the plan was to get back to them eventually. But tell them nothing more, especially if my father crept into my room - and decided to finish what he started.

The attic was up a steep and narrow ladder - made of a forgotten kind of wood - to quickly ascend the stairs, and then turned around and pulled up behind me. Then a kind of trick was played - getting around the steps and ladder - one could just barely pull the sliding shut apparatus. It would still be visible, but only just barely.

In the darkness, the loft held a glimmer as if it were somehow magical. - a tomb It was long and thin, covering only half of the base of the house. On the ceiling, it was covered with insulation, which was before we moved in - so it was the old kind rather than the new pink stuff which was advertised in the True-Valu store, with a Pink Panther. On the floor were a large number of boxes, some open, but most closed. Out the far corners, there was a window on either side, with a frame made of mahogany - in the days when this house was built, they built to last.

But there was one box - it was over to the left - where the floorboards gave way to more insulation - and it held a secret. Or rather, several secrets - most of which were opaque to me. They held pictures, but not explanations. black and white, and sepia-toned, from before I was born - and there were no explanations to be had. My father and mother both avoided the topic - which meant it was interesting. There were also no documents, of any kind - and the implication was they were all destroyed. Ça ne fait rien.

And it was one photograph which interested me for that all of the others - there were at least a dozen people in it, and it seemed like it was taken somewhere else - the land was flat, and there were only a few trees - American elms, specifically. Never seen a full-size American Elm - they were mostly destroyed by some blight or other - to details were not available, they were an enigma by themselves. In back of the people was a wooden house, of 2 levels, with a running porch around the outside. It was the person who engrossed my attention - because there, in miniature, was the picture of my mother. She was about 4 - or 5 - and I had never actually seen any of the other people. Her hair, unlike the present, was curly. Everybody was thin. They were erased from history, at least my history. However, they were there someplace in the past. She was sitting on some woman's lap, and presumptions were too striking not to be a relative - perhaps even her mother. Her real mother, as opposed to the person who was called grandmother - but who looked nothing like her.

Never having told anybody about my escapades here, guesses were the stuff of my imagination. And they wandered in and out of the corridors in my head. Staring at a little girl in a pink dress, held by someone who may or may not have been mother, in a white dress.

The time had come, however, to call up Lily and Sai – and explain the details of the situation. However, Lily would not answer. And Sai would not answer either. All plans were annihilated. Laisse tomber...

Perusing the box, which was mostly made up of shoe containers with pictures in it - there was one folded batch of papers, mostly typed on. Who would use a typewriter? They had to be old, so I took them. Looking around the attic, nothing else seemed to declare a reason to purloined them. This might be the last time in this place for me.

Then - there was in downstairs. I placed my photograph and iPhone carefully in a pocket - moving gracefully I clambered down the ladder, and placed it up, without anyone seeing what I was doing. Then to my bedroom, seated behind my bureau - making it look like I was doing homework.

But in my mind, I was planning - though I did not know exactly what. Dumping the papers, but back to that, they would not be discovered - reading them eventually, but not yet.

Gum-ba getya gum-ba hay-hay, gum-ba gitch-gi gech-hay.