Mom
THAT’S what I found when I came home from work that day. It was a Saturday night. I didn’t know where the Kid was.
She left $137.50 in an envelope with my name on it.
The next day, I turned eighteen. Three days after that, I graduated high school.
1.
Where Bear Sees People
Come Home for the Summer
Three Years Later
SO, JUST to be up front with you, my name’s not really Bear. It’s actually Derrick McKenna, but I’ve been Bear since I was like thirteen or fourteen. It’s when Ty was trying to say my name as a baby and couldn’t say Derrick. It came out all weird, like “Barick,” but once Mom heard that all she could focus on was how it sounded like he called me “Bear.” I guess it was a sort of divine comedy in its own way as I had done something similar to someone else when I was little. But I’ll get to that later.
Anyway: Bear. So she started calling me Bear. Of course I hated it at first. There wasn’t and still isn’t anything bearish about me. But she insisted, and anytime I had a friend over or she answered the phone for me or talked to one of my teachers, she made a point of calling me Bear. I was just beginning high school then, too, and you know how that is: anything done as a freshman gets remembered forever. This was all thanks to my mom. The name stuck, she didn’t.
I’m not trying to sound all maudlin or anything. This isn’t that kind of story. This isn’t about poor old Bear and how his mom ran out on him, leaving him to raise his younger brother and how his life was totally screwed up by it, but in the end he learns A Very Valuable Lesson about life and shit. It’s not going to be like that.
Well, okay, scratch that. I don’t know what kind of story this is. I just hope it’s not going to be saccharine and make you gag or anything. Things like that make me queasy.
But I digress.
I just wanted to be up front with you about my name. I imagine, for some reason, when people hear my name as I get called now, Bear McKenna, that they assume one of two things: that I’ll either be a really big, hairy lumberjack with a stern demeanor but a heart of gold or that I’m pretentious as all hell. Usually it’s the first thing, until they see me and blink a few times, trying to associate such a name with what they’re seeing. As for the second part? Think about it: if you met someone for t
he first time named Bear, wouldn’t you assume they were an exaggerated version of themselves? Yes? No? Well, I guess I don’t think like most people. And I don’t fight them about it anymore. My name’s Bear McKenna.
“Derrick?”
Well, most of the time it is. I look in the rearview mirror and see my little brother, Tyson, staring back at me with an expression on his face that I can’t quite identify. Usually, he reserves calling me Derrick for when he is about to ask something serious, like if there is a planet of cows that have farms that milk people, then slaughter them for their tasty cutlets, or why Mom left and didn’t come back. He asks a lot of questions.
“What, Ty?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, Kid.”
“How do you know if you’re in love?”
I smile. I try not to think about where this is going. Understanding the Kid’s line of logic is an extraordinary exercise in futility. He thinks on a whole different level than the rest of us. Last week I explained to him, at his insistence, where babies came from. He sat with a look of dire contemplation on his face through the entirety of the conversation. When I finished, he’d gotten up and gone outside to play without a word. Later, when I was tucking him into bed, he finally responded: “Bear, why on earth would any girl want to push a baby out like that?” I didn’t know how to answer him then, as I sometimes don’t. Not many people can make me speechless, but Ty manages it on a daily basis.
I look back now at Ty and arch my eyebrow. “Why? You got someone you haven’t told me about, Kid?”
He shrugs vaguely. “I dunno. It doesn’t necessarily have to be about me, Bear. It’s just a question.” By the way, my brother is eight going on sixty. Given everything he has gone through in his life, I can’t blame him. Most kids his age haven’t gone through a quarter of the shit he’s been through. But at the same time, how many third graders do you know that are vegetarians by their own decision? I had nothing to do with that, trust me. I like hamburgers with bacon and sausage (and stop grimacing until you try it—it’s damn good). But that’s what I get for allowing him to watch some documentary on slaughterhouses on TV. He hasn’t been the same since.
I stare ahead so I don’t rear-end someone on the freeway, but I’m hedging and he knows it. I feel his eyes on the back of my head. I sigh again. “I guess it’s when all those stupid songs on the radio start making sense.” I chance a glimpse in the mirror and see him frowning. “What do you think it is?” When it comes to these esoteric sorts of questions, I always find it better to let him answer. But factual questions about babies and stuff, I make sure I answer for him. Even if I want to pull my hair out while doing so.
He’s quiet for a moment and then says, “I think it’s when you can’t go on another day without the other person. That they make you feel like your stomach is on fire but in a good way.”
“That sounds good to me.”
“Bear?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we stop? I have to pee.”