The decisions that turn out to be important in your life aren’t always about important things. “Do I go skydiving?” is something you’d take your time deciding. But other decisions seem too small to matter. Like, “Should I have a look under the driver’s seat to make sure there’s no snakes in the car that’ll scare me stupid when I’m on the highway going a hundred kilometers an hour between a concrete barrier and a hardwood forest?” Who would ponder that?
There’s no word yet on whether Mom will get a Darwin Award. I didn’t put a proper subject on my e-mail. I chose the “Miscellaneous” category. I asked if someone would qualify if they died because of a phobia. I gave Mom’s example, and I provided a list of smart things she did, like writing two books on medieval plays that stupid people never even heard of.
Mitchell came by our house on Wednesday night with a file box full of stories about Mom from the people she worked with—students and professors and secretaries and even the cleaners, who said Mom was friendly and kept her office neat. One story was totally weird. It was about a student named Ben who had a crush on Mom. He sent her flowers and presents every day. He dropped by her office and hung around outside her classes and creeped people out. Mom wasn’t even nice to him—she took out a restraining order and acted like he was invisible. I thought he must be the one who put the snake in her car. But Mitchell told me Ben was in jail at the time for attacking another student. That says a lot.
I told Mitchell I’d read that one in eight female university students are stalked every year. I asked him if he thought that was true. He said, “Yes. You wouldn’t believe how many young men are basically insane, Josh.” I thought that was a very negative thing for a professor to say. Then Sammy ran up, and the girl Power Ranger kissed Mitchell’s arm and said, “Stay with us, my dear and true friend.” Mitchell just nodded like that was his closing argument.
Sammy’s Power Ranger never stutters. I mentioned this to Dad, and he asked, “Why would she stutter?” I said, “Because Sammy stutters.” Dad said, “Sammy doesn’t stutter.” I said, “I-I-I-I think he-ee-ee-ee-he does.” Dad said, “Oh, that. That’s not a stutter.”
Since two out of three men in my family are insane, Mitchell is probably right to believe the crazy-stalker statistics.
It was very nice of him to bring the stories over. He typed them up and printed them out with headlines and clip art and put it all in a report cover. We’re calling it the Professor Book. It’s mostly boring, and the stories have nothing to do with me and Sammy or Dad. They don’t belong in the Mom Book. Even if Mom were alive, we’d never know those stories, unless we found out about the stalker guy when he got out of jail.
Mitchell put his own story in the collection, and it wasn’t about how much he adored Mom. It was about how Mom adored me and Sammy so much that she made the other teachers want to have kids. Mitchell knows all the details of our lives. He knows that Sammy likes the red Power Ranger best—although anybody could guess that, because the red Ranger is always the best. He also knows about tiny things, like Sammy’s Scooby-Doo flashlight and how he sneaks into Mom’s bed and annoys the cats with it every night. Except now he sneaks into my bed.
Mitchell knows that Cleo’s full name is Cleopatra and Charlie’s full name is Charlemagne, which even I’d forgotten. He teaches a course on the real Charlemagne. He also plays Civilization—which is weird because he’s forty, and he’s tall, dark and handsome, so you’d think he’d be going out with women instead of playing games all day. Whatever. He knows that I’m an expert player and that I want to make games when I’m older.
He said he liked making the Professor Book. “It’s a wonderful way to honor someone you love,” he said, right in front of Dad. Dad winced at the word “love.”
I asked Mitchell what Roman Catholic people do to mourn the dead. He said he didn’t know because he’s not a practicing Catholic, whatever that means. His father died when he was young, and his mother planted a tree as a memorial. They decorate it with lights on his dad’s birthday every year. But that’s not a Roman Catholic practice. It’s just what his family does.
There was a strange moment when Mitchell first arrived. I shouted down the basement for Dad, and Sammy said, “Daddy’s building his time machine.” At first Mitchell thought it was a joke, but then he realized our dad was actually in the basement ignoring us and building a time machine. He said, “Why?” Sammy smiled and stuttered, “So he-e-e can take the-the-the snake out of the car.” It was hard for me not to cry. A lot of times Sammy says something sad without knowing it, because he’s too little.
Before Mitchell left, he told me there’s an exhibit on Albert Einstein at the Museum of Nature that I should go see with my dad. As if Dad’s still a regular person who goes anywhere besides work and the basement. I might check it out by myself. I don’t know much about Einstein.
I asked Mitchell if he knew any available mothers for Sam, since we obviously need one. He could probably tell that by our shrunken gray clothes and our house that smells like cat litter and the fact that we were eating popcorn for supper when he arrived. He said he’d keep his eye out. He doesn’t need a wife as badly as Dad does.
Mitchell is divorced but he’s not a father, so he’s not too depressed. All the divorced fathers I know drink beer at lunchtime and try to make dates with total strangers in grocery store lineups. Ameer’s dad is a mess, and Karen’s dad is almost as bad. They can’t even dress themselves properly. They make bad jokes to pretty women and never take the hint.
Simpson’s dad is normal because he ran to a new wife—which is not nice for Simpson’s mom, but at least he’s not annoying strangers all over town. He’ll be driving us to soccer tonight, which is never as much fun as when Simpson’s mom drives. I’d bet a million bucks he won’t have any piercing wounds anywhere on his body.
Since Dad is a widower, he doesn’t bother women the way divorced fathers do. But as a parent, he’s much worse than average. Even though he shouldn’t get married for a year, according to the Jewish rules, it wouldn’t hurt to check out what mothers are available. In our scrapbook interviews, I’ve added a question about whether anyone knows a nice woman to be Sammy’s new mom. By focusing on Sammy, and ignoring me and Dad, we’ll have a better shot at success. Sammy is totally cute and in obvious need of maternal care. Who wouldn’t want to be his mom?
He was awesome at his soccer game on Tuesday! I couldn’t believe it! He was totally normal and not weird at all. He talked to the other kids and listened to the coach and went on and off the field when he was told. He didn’t even pick up the soccer ball with his hands, like he does when we play in the yard. He kept the Power Ranger in his pocket. I could see his hand in there and his lips moving through the game, but you’d never guess what he was doing if you didn’t already know about his insanity. He was absolutely great. He didn’t shout, “This one’s for you, Mom!” before he took a shot at goal, which I was half expecting him to do.
Aunt Laura came to his game. She’s coming over tomorrow for the whole day. “To get things under control,” she said. When she picked us up for Sammy’s soccer, she made a face at the stench of cat pee. She spent a long time talking to Dad. They were too quiet to hear, but a couple of times she raised her voice. Once she yelled, “You can’t travel back in time!” And once she yelled, “Your children look like orphans!” That was a bit harsh because, even though I’ve blended the colors in the wash, at least we’re not in our pajamas anymore.
Sam just peeked into my room and asked to come to my game tonight, but I had to say no. He asked, “Why not?” I said, “Because Simpson’s dad doesn’t like children.” He asked, “Why doesn’t Daddy take us?” I said, “Sam, I really have no idea.”