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Desperate for AttentionAuthor(s): Steve FellnerSource: The North American Review, Vol. 287, No. 6, Youth (Nov. - Dec., 2002), pp. 45-46Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25126872 .

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N AR

Desperate for Attention THREE ESSAYS BY STEVE FELLNER

Stalker

When I was in the fourth grade,

my mother always took me to the

grocery store after school. As she

loaded the cart with what we

needed, I kept my eyes out for my birth mother. I was adopted. I

searched the aisles for single,

middle-aged women. I followed

them, hoping they'd mistake me for one of their own children.

Once I found a woman I loved.

She had bright frizzy hair and buck

teeth. A little girl was with her. The

mother was browsing the frozen

dinner section. She saw me

approach her daughter. "You two

can go play," she said to us. I led

the little girl far away from her

mother.

Then I ditched her. I wanted to

see if the mother took to me more

than her own kid. Her daughter was

homely and had a scar on her fore

head. No wonder she was more

interested in pricing sailsbury steaks than her own daughter.

"There you are," the mother said

to me.

"Where's Elizabeth?"

"She found someone else to play with," I said.

"Another little boy?" she said, "I

can't imagine that."

"It's a girl," I said, "Someone

from school."

She waved two frozen dinners in

the air. "Which one do you think

she'd like more?"

"I know which one I'd like

more," I said and pointed to the box

with the more alluring photo. The meat was more red.

"Boys like meat," she said.

"We do," I said, "Do you have a

little boy?" "No," she said.

"Want one?"

Her daughter came running

toward her, screaming that I had left

her.

"I thought you found someone

else to play with," I said.

The mother could tell I was lying. She grabbed her daughter's hand. I

threw myself on the floor, sliding toward her feet. I reached for her

ankle. She almost kicked me. My own mother came from around the

corner and said, "What the hell is

going on?"

"Your son won't leave me alone,"

she said. I was holding her foot

pretty tight. Her daughter started screaming. I

regretted not luring her into the

parking lot, convincing her to climb

into a cart, and then pushing her

down the nearest hill.

Everyone stopped moving around us. They all stared at the sight of

me holding a woman's ankle,

begging her not to leave me.

"He's not mine," my mother

said, pushing the cart in the other

direction. She muttered, "Nope.

He's not mine. He really is not

mine. That's a fact. That kid is not

mine." D

Bus Stop For some reason the school bus

drove past the trailer park stop. It

whizzed by. Kids seated in the back

waved out the window. My mother

called up the superintendent and

asked what the problem was.

"The driver says that no one's ever

there," the superintendent said,

"That all the trailer park kids play

hooky."

"My kid is smart," my mother said, "And punctual."

"Maybe the bus driver made an

oversight," the superintendent said.

"I'll look into it."

The next couple days the bus

stopped. One day one of the kids said to me, "The bus driver says you make

the bus smell funny. Kids like you." It was true. I did smell funny. I went

days without showering. Once I took a

whiff of myself and said something to

my mother. "It's hard enough to find

the energy to get you awake. Let alone

clean." For the longest time, I thought it was normal to take a shower no more

than once a week.

A week later I stood at the bus stop. The bus drove by me. Yelling, I ran after it.

No luck. I was alone.

Later that day my mother again

called the superintendent. The

superintendent said that the bus

driver didn't see anyone.

"Maybe he needs to make himself more visible," the superintendent

said.

Later that day my mother left

the house, said that she would fix the problem. An hour later

she came back with a huge American flag. She stole it from

someone's garage in the rich

neighborhood.

November-December 2002 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 45

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"You're going to take this to the

bus stop with you," she said, "When

you see the bus coming, wave it.

He'll have no excuse."

"But what am I supposed to do with it when I get on the bus?" I

said, "It's heavy."

"Give it a seat all to itself," she

said, "It's the American flag. It

deserves its own sacred space."

"The other kids are going to

make fun of me," I said.

"No, they're not," she said.

The next day I waved the flag

when I saw the bus coming. The

driver stopped. I walked on the bus.

No one mocked me. I sat down and

laid the flag on the empty seat in front of me. I could hear a bunch of the kids reciting the Pledge of

Allegiance under their breaths.

Harlequin Romances

Growing up, I was surrounded by

Harlequin Romances. That was all

my mother read. Any free time was

devoted to a new novel. Hours were

spent on the couch, flipping

through the pages at such a quick pace I wondered if she was merely

looking for the sex scenes.

When we moved into our first

house, she bought a dozen book

cases, littering them in every room.

She owned hundreds and hundreds

of books. She even created her own

card catalog system. Each book had

its own color-coded index card.

There were greens, yellows,

purples, blues, and mauves. I didn't

know what each color signified, but I know she did.

Once she ran out of blue index

cards and ran to an all-night conve

nience store down the block. It was

after midnight. She was wearing her

nightgown. That didn't stop her.

She changed back into her clothes

and left the house.

I've never collected things. As a

result, I really haven't had very

many possessions. Having my own

bedroom for the first time over

whelmed me in a way. I didn't

know what to do with all the space. One day I opened my closet door

and found my mother's books

stacked on all my shelves. There

were also two large stacks on the

floor. I yelled for my mother.

"What's wrong?" she said.

"These books are everywhere," I

said, "I feel like you're driving me

out of the house."

"When I want you go," she said,

"I'll tell you to go."

"You promise?"

"Of course."

On each index card, there was the

name of the author, book, and a star

rating. She read each book twice

before she made her decision to

keep it or not. If she decided to get rid of a book, she took it to a

Whistlestop, the closest used book

store. They gave her credit. That

way she could buy more books. At one point she had about $700 of credit.

My parents never had anyone

come over to the house much. My

mother hated to cook. They weren't

social people. They were annoyed when I brought one of my friends over to come play. If a friend and I

stayed inside, she guarded the

bookcases, hovering over them,

afraid that he might take one of them. Once I caught her counting them. There were so many I had no

idea how she'd discover if someone

had stole one.

Once one of my friend's mothers came over to pick up her daughter.

The first thing she noticed were the

books. She found one by Rosemary

Rogers, a favorite. She said to me,

"Can you get your mother? I need to ask her something."

"Mom!" I yelled. She rushed into the room.

"What's wrong, honey?" she said.

"Nothing," I said.

"Don't yell like that. It makes me

nervous."

She smiled at my friend's mother.

"Can I help you with something?" my mother said.

"Would you mind if I borrowed

this?" She held up the Rogers book.

My mother flashed me a

perturbed look.

"I'm sorry," my mother said, "I

told a friend already I'd loan her

that one."

My friend's mother nodded, then started to peruse the shelves

some more. My mother took a step

back, and I was surprised at how

vulnerable she looked. These were

her books, and someone wanted to

take them away. I wanted to tell my friend's mother to just leave, go,

leave us alone. I knew that would

have been a melodramatic thing to

say, but watching my mother slowly step backward from the scene upset

me. Someone wanted to steal from

her stash, the stuff that made it

possible for her to get through the

day upset me.

"Maybe you should come back

another time for a book," I said,

"My mother's writing a long article

about books for a magazine, and she

doesn't know what ones she's going to end up needing."

My mother's friend said, "Vicky, I

didn't know you're a writer?"

"She is," I said, "Sometimes I

proofread her stuff." I loved the idea

of reading my mother's manuscript,

crossing out lines with a thick red

marker, watching her frown, and

then explaining how I was improving her decent but not yet remarkable sentences. The idea of being able to

claim that I was the one who made

her special made me happy.

"And I'm really hungry," I said.

"Would you mind going so she

could make me dinner?"

"You're a pushy one," my friend's

mother said.

"He's driven," my mother said,

"That's the right word for it."

I smiled. I liked that she tried to

think of the most perfect word to

describe me.

"We should be going, anyway,"

my friend's mother said. "I have to

cook dinner, too."

She left with my friend and my mother turned to me and said, "You

saved the day. That woman tried to

rob me. She wanted to steal my love." D

46 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW November-December 2002

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