Signs of Life Read online

  Table of Contents

  BOOKS BY SELENE CASTROVILLA

  Acknowledgments

  Part I

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy –Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy - Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy — Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey - Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy - Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Doll – Then

  Joey – Now

  Doll – Then

  Now – Joey

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy — Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Now

  Part II

  Amy - Now

  Joey – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Amy – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Pop – Then

  Amy – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Pop – Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy - Then

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Doll – Then

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Pop – Then

  Dorothy – Then

  Joey – Then

  Joey – Now

  Joey – Then

  Joey – Now

  Joey – Then

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Then

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Then

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy’s Mom – Then

  Dorothy’s Dad – Then

  Joey – Then

  Amy – Now

  Dorothy’s Dad – Then

  Joey – Then

  Dorothy’s Dad – Then

  Joey – Then

  Part III

  Dorothy – Now

  Amy – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Amy – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Dorothy’s Mom – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Amy – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Dorothy’s Mom – Now

  Dorothy’s Dad – Now

  Dorothy – Now

  Amy – Now

  Joey – Now

  Interview

  Dear Reader

  BOOKS BY SELENE CASTROVILLA

  By the Sword

  Melt

  Revolutionary Friends

  Saved by the Music

  The Girl Next Door

  Upon Secrecy

  Revolutionary Rogues

  *

  Selene is pleased to have a piece included in the charitable book anthology

  Travel in the Sixties,

  whose proceeds fund art/music therapy for Alzheimer’s patients.

  For my beloved aunt, Olga Bloom

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to everyone who has supported me, including:

  The New School Writing Program

  Margaret “Bunny” Gabel

  my classmates in Bunny’s
class

  Long Island Children’s Writers & Illustrators

  Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators

  Bank Street College Writers Lab

  and my many amazing friends

  Thank you to Joe Donovan for sharing your story with me.

  Thank you to Cammie Smith, Joli Wade Huynh and Destiny Philipose for your help way above and beyond.

  Thank you to Orel Protopopescu for more than I can list here.

  Thank you to Jen Halligan for your hard work and undying enthusiasm.

  Thank you to Pascale Laforest for your dedicated assistance and friendship.

  Thank you to my street team Castrovilla’s Crusaders for spreading my words.

  Thank you to my readers for pushing me to write this book.

  Thank you to Professor Warwick Wadlington for permission to use quotes from his book:

  As I Lay Dying : Stories Out of Stories

  Thank you to the University of Virginia Library for permission to use quotes from Faulkner at Virginia: An Audio Archive

  Thank you to my children for being my children. Michael and Casey, I love you.

  William Faulkner quotes:

  Faulkner at Virginia, © 2010 Rector and Visitors of the University of Virginia; Author Stephen Railton.

  As I Lay Dying interpretive quotes:

  As I Lay Dying : Stories Out of Stories, © 1992 Twayne Publishers; Author Warwick Wadlington

  “I think the writer is concerned first in telling about people, people in conflict with themselves and with others, with their environment, and he uses whatever method seems to him the best to tell what he is trying to tell in the most dramatic and passionate way … ”

  —William Faulkner, recorded at

  The University of Virginia, April 13, 1957

  “I was writing about people again.”

  —William Faulkner, referring to As I Lay Dying, recorded at the Virginia Colleges Conference, April 15, 1957

  PART I

  “If the writer concentrates on what he does need to be interested in, which is the truth and the human heart, he won’t have much time left for anything else.”

  —William Faulkner, recorded at

  The University of Virginia, May 7, 1958

  Dorothy – Now

  They’re going to

  kill

  me.

  Joey’s not here

  and

  they’re going to kill me.

  They say so, then they

  leave

  their feet scuffle, the door squeaks, then I’m

  alone

  with the

  sounds.

  There’s the beeping

  sound

  there’s the sucking

  sound

  there’s a drip

  drip

  drip

  so faint, but louder than

  me.

  I count

  count

  count the drops to keep from going

  mad

  except maybe it’s too late.

  How can I

  tell?

  How long

  has it

  been?

  I’m locked in that closet again, but

  worse

  there’s no

  chance I’ll be

  set

  free.

  Squeak

  scuffle

  they come in, they talk not even in a whisper, they

  plot

  my

  death.

  They’re going to

  kill me.

  Joey didn’t come.

  Joey – Now

  My clothes are spotted with grease and motor oil, but my hands are clean thanks to a glob of GOJO. It smells like Luden’s and leaves me with this slick feeling like I’ve been Turtle Waxed, but hey—it does the job. I don’t have time to go change before the meeting, but that’s fine. Twelve steppers don’t flinch at grimy jeans.

  I head onto the train tracks even though the barriers are down, flashing their red lights and ding-ding-dinging. The train is like a mile away. I stop and stare into its glaring headlights. They always look like they’re searching for something. Sometimes I want them to find me. Sometimes I want them to be the last thing I ever see.

  But then I move on, across the tracks.

  Which is what I do now. My filthy work boots clomp down on the ties.

  Wouldn’t want to become a smooshed, bloody corpse and skip my meeting.

  Wouldn’t want Pop’s fellow officers presiding over my dead body.

  Would I be missed at the meeting, if I was struck by the Long Island Rail Road 5:22 p.m. westbound train? Doubtful. It’s not like I share. I’ve got nothing to say. There’s only one person I wanna talk with, and I ain’t talked with her for almost a year.

  Scratch that. Shit. Grammar is an SOB. Do I get points for substituting initials in for the words I’d normally use? Doubtful. Mrs. Baker’s not cutting any breaks for stuff like that. She would say it’s better for me to avoid all such terms. She would go, “Grammar is unpleasant, Joseph. I believe that is what you meant to convey.”

  Not go. Say. “People ‘say,’ Joseph.” That’s what Mrs. Baker would say. “They speak.”

  Right, Mrs. Baker. You’re absolutely right. People speak.

  Except when they don’t.

  Except when they can’t.

  Sometimes they “go,” but it has nothing to do with speaking. Or leaving for that matter. Sometimes they go even when they’re here, and that sucks.

  Oh, sorry, Mrs. Baker. I mean, that is unpleasant.

  But really, it sucks.

  I trudge past the town hall, past the bank, past the real estate broker. They’re all closed. Everyone hightails it out of their jobs at five sharp. There’s no place like home.

  Mrs. Baker wants me to use descriptive words. She says people never just walk. And she’s right. I definitely trudge. Trudge is le mot juste for me. Still, I’d be just as happy using walk. And by that I mean, not at all. Only time I get happy is when I think of Doll. But then there’s that drop, like my heart’s on a roller coaster at the end of the ride.

  I promised Doll I’d go to community college. I didn’t think I’d get in, but she said, “Try, just try,” and so I applied, and they took me. Go figure.

  Mrs. Baker is my Literature Studies and Composition teacher. It’s a college credit way to say English teacher, really. She’s always on me to speak correctly. Once, early on, I pointed out that “speaking” did not fall into either “literature studies” or “composition.” She wasn’t having any of that. “Joseph,” she said in her sing-song voice that’s hard to get annoyed at because it’s just so caring and patient, like when a mom speaks to her toddler. “We can’t appreciate good writing, and certainly we can’t accomplish good writing, unless we speak well. We can’t do much of anything effectively unless we speak well.” Our summer class ended, but I’m taking part two in the fall. It’s a requirement, but tell you the truth, I’ll be glad to see her again. She keeps me in line, and I like alignment. That’s my favorite thing to do on cars—set them straight.

  And even though she’s being paid to care, it just might be that she cares on her own. Not that it matters, really.

  Of all my bad grammar, Mrs. Baker hates most when I use the word “ain’t.” She says it makes her soul shudder. I think that’s over the top, but I get it. And you know what? I wanna be like everyone else. Shit. Scratch that, too. I want to be like everyone else.

  No. That’s wrong, too. I sure as hell don’t want to be like them. Holden Caulfield may’ve been a tool, but he was right about them phonies.

  Those phonies, I mean. People. Most people, except Doll. And maybe Mrs. Baker ain’t so bad—isn’t so bad, either. She talks straight, even if it’s too perfect. English teachers, they can’t help being all proper.

  What I meant was, I want to communicate like everyone else.

  Mrs. Baker would just about faint fro
m happiness if she knew that I used the word “communicate.” I’ll have to tell her, even though I only used it in my thoughts. But hey, it’s a start. She says if we think the words, we can write them and speak them. She says it all starts inside our brains.

  Yeah, don’t I know it.

  It starts in our brains, and it ends there, too.

  Yes, I mean yes. Yes, I know that.

  So anyway, I’m doing what I can to learn how to communicate. But really there’s only one person I wanna—want—to communicate with. But I can’t.

  I haven’t heard her voice in almost a year.

  Yeah, that’s it.

  Haven’t. I haven’t.

  Haven’t, haven’t, haven’t.

  I keep wondering. What if I hadn’t dropped the gun?

  Dorothy – Then

  He dropped the gun

  Thank God, Joey

  dropped

  the

  gun.

  He let go of his dad

  the monster

  who

  flopped to the floor. His head

  hit with a

  thud, not as

  loud as the

  clatter

  the

  gun

  made

  but more disturbing because he’s a human being, well

  sort of.

  He’s a living being, maybe

  not

  so

  human.

  Joey got

  up. He didn’t look

  back at

  the monster

  not even when he

  heard

  the

  thud

  I know he heard it, his body

  flinched.

  I could see it

  twitch, but he kept facing

  forward heading

  toward

  me.

  Joey – Now

  After I dropped the Glock, all I wanted was Doll. I had to get to her.

  Me, I could’ve gone either way. I could’ve shot him, just as easily as not. In fact, more easily than not.

  I cast a long, dark shadow down the grainy sidewalk through town. It falls over a crushed Coke can. I give it a kick across a crack. Surprised it’s even here—there’s so many people these days picking up cans, carting them over to the redemption center at Stop & Shop. It smells like beer and mold in there, and there’s constant smashing and crushing sounds. I’m not clear on where the redemption comes in.

  Mrs. Baker calls it my redemption, that I didn’t shoot Pop. She pulled me aside after class one day. Her hands smelled like chalk. They’re too cheap for Smart Boards at the college, I guess. She said she knew who I was, what had happened. Not a surprise—it was front page news. But she was nice about it. That was the surprise. She said I needed to separate my actions from … everything else. She said I needed to recognize my triumph. Really, she said that.