Beetle Boy by Margaret Willey

Clara has said this. It is a new high in the absurdity of the gathering. The woman who ran away from her children? A streak of cruelty surfaces in me, uncontrollable: “Yeah, won’t you miss him …, Mom?” I echo.
    Mom turns to face me. She wears her hair in a plain ponytail with bangs, the same hairdo I remember from before I started school. She has deep creases from her outer nose to the sides of her mouth, frown lines. She is a frowner. I will probably have the same lines soon. Her eyebrows are invisible behind her glasses. But her eyes are a dark, stony blue. My eyes. She says, “Yes, I will miss him.”
    Oh, the things I could have said then! The dark places I could have pushed her into. Right into the dreams, where a giant beetle is waiting. But I look away and clench my jaw.
    And then suddenly, appallingly, Clara chimes in with her sunniest voice, “Maybe we should have a going-away party for Liam!”
    â€œGreat idea,” Liam drawls, after a beat. There is a gleam of triumph in his smile.
    They leave soon after this. Liam tells Clara he has a violin lesson back in Grand Rapids. He tells her he is preparing for his big audition at Interlochen, a scholarship waiting if he does well. As they leave the apartment, I stay rooted to my chair, letting Clara handle the good-byes. My leg is throbbing; I need to move. As soon as they are gone, I lope around the apartment, flexing my uninjured leg, putting a little weight on the bad one. Clara comes back into the kitchen and watches as I do this. “Did you cut yourself?” she asks, looking at the stain on my pants.
    â€œIt’s nothing,” I insist.
    She looks away. Perhaps it is dawning on her that I am a gloomy, prone-to-injury boyfriend with too many secrets.

    Before sleep that night, Clara comes to the side of the sofa bed and leans close and strokes my hair.
    â€œAre you mad at me?” she asks.
    I am, but I ask, “Why would I be mad at you?”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe today wasn’t such a great idea.”
    â€œToo late now.”
    â€œBut, Charlie, didn’t it go better than you expected?”
    â€œI don’t know what I expected.”
    â€œNo tears anyway. No threats. Nobody screaming or swearing, right?”
    â€œIs that what you expected? That one of us would start screaming? Are you disappointed? Not enough drama for you?”
    She sits up. “You are mad at me. I knew it. Don’t shut me out, Charlie! I admit it was a little strange. I felt stressed out by it too. I don’t know how to make it right.”
    â€œWell, here’s a start. Promise me that you will not make any further plans to see my mom or my brother without thoroughly discussing it with me first.”
    She said, almost too quickly, “Promise.”
    â€œNo, I’m serious. Really, really promise me. No exceptions.”
    â€œI heard you, Charlie. I won’t do it again. I promise.” But her tone is fretful. She is disappointed in me for always being so negative. Nothing can be done about it.

    â€œI’m glad you came to my house again, Charlie, because I’ve been needing to tell you something. I’ve been invited to several author events this spring, and I said no to every single invitation. And it felt good. So I’ve decided that I won’t be coming to any author conferences ever again. And I also think that I will enjoy what’s left of my life more if I stop pretending that I’m writing something of value.”
    We are on Mrs. M.’s porch; she had poured us lemonade. I sip mine. It is divine. “Are you sure, Mrs. M.?”
    â€œI’m very sure.”
    I wasn’t surprised. But I felt suddenly terribly sad. Perhaps my sadness showed on my anemic, rashy face.
    â€œNo moping, now,” Mrs. M. said. “You can come over and visit me anytime. We’ll share a glass of champagne on my front porch.”
    â€œMrs. M.,” I said.