SABOTEUR

SABOTEUR



“Christ, Jodie, don’t do that.” I’m sorry I lost my temper. If you tell the police I hurt you, it’ll ruin any chance of my getting another job. That’s a serious charge. It’ll ruin my life.” I was lying on the floor on shards of glass and thought that I’d finally gotten what I’d been wanting.

I’d been looking for a way to get rid of Phil since the day he moved in with Mom and me two years ago.  Picture this big burly guy, probably thirty pounds overweight, balding, with hair sticking out of his ears. I don’t understand how Mom can stand him. He farts at the dinner table and has terrible table manners. I’ve been praying it won’t last, that he’ll leave, and it will be just her and me again, but he’s been living with us for two years.  I’d do anything to get rid of him.

Today I had an inspiration when Mrs. Oliver taught us a new vocabulary word: “saboteur,” in French class. I’d heard of sabotage but didn’t know that a person who practiced sabotage was called a saboteur, and that the word originated during the Second World War, when members of the French resistance planted bombs in Nazi bunkers to kill enemy soldiers. The saboteurs wore wooden clogs, called sabots, and that’s how they became saboteurs, and the French word became part of the English language.

Saboteur. I tasted the word and loved the way it rolled off my tongue.

           I raised my hand. “Yes, Jodie?” she asked.

           “Mrs. Oliver, what would a female saboteur be called? Saboteuse, or sabotrice?” I heard some kids start snickering, and someone whispered, “She’s such a suck-up.”

           Mrs. Oliver didn’t seem to mind me asking. “Good question, Jodie! I’m glad you remembered that French has feminine endings for many nouns, such as serveur, and serveuse for waiter and waitress, or acteur and actrice for performers.” She wrote the words on the board.  “I’m not sure if there’s a feminine form for saboteur. I’ve never seen it used with a feminine ending. Let me look in the dictionary.” She took a book from her desk and searched the pages.  “Ah! Here it is, Jodie: saboteuse.”

           I decided I would become a saboteuse. I had a unique battle to fight -- a war against Phil, no clogs needed, only my imagination, the goal to drive him away. 

           Walking to the next class, I felt somebody poke me in the ribs. I turned and spotted Martin Courcy trying to get my attention. We’ve known each other since elementary school when he was short and pudgy, but now he’s a beanpole. He’s wears his hair pulled back into a ponytail, making him look even more like the nerd he’s become. Martin is in a lot of the same classes as mine, and we’re both very competitive.  He thinks he’s smarter than me, but he’s not.  

“Hey, Jodie. Wait up!” he said.

“Martin, don’t you know you shouldn’t poke people? That really hurt, you pest!”

           “Poor thing! Such a delicate constitution.  Didn’t you hear me calling you, or were you visiting another planet?” Tilting his head, he pretended to study my face. “Are you constipated? You look like it. Perhaps you were thinking about French vocabulary words, so you can show everyone how smart you are.”

 “Wanna bet who’ll do better on that Algebra test on Friday? You’re just tasting sour grapes

           “Oh, ho! Sour grapes? I love how you mix metaphors.  Who do you think you are?  Shakespeare?”

           “Just leave me alone. I don’t know why you’re always pestering me.”

           “You’re such a baby! You can’t stand anyone teasing you.”

           I reached into my bookbag and grabbed a Kotex. “Why don’t you shove this up your ass, Martin,” I said, and put it in pocket. He looked hurt, but why should I care? I was too busy planning my attack on Phil.

           By the afternoon I had a plan in mind. I would take money from Mom’s purse when she wasn’t looking and hope she’d suspect Phil had stolen it. She wouldn’t think it was me because she buys me whatever I ask for. I needed a new computer a few months ago. When Mom saw the price tag, she looked scared but paid for it anyway.  I suspect she has a big credit card debt, but when I asked, she just said not to worry; she was coping.  

She’d met Dad twenty years ago when she was hired to head Human Relations at Horst Global Manufacturing, where he was vice president.  They were married soon after, and she continued working there until the shit hit the fan five years ago. When the Board of Directors audited the books, they discovered that the president, Maurice Horst, my father’s brother, had been stealing from the employees’ retirement accounts. He’d bought a yacht, a cottage in Aruba, and was supporting several mistresses. HGM almost went under and was forced to cut salaries and lay off staff to avoid bankruptcy. My uncle is now under house arrest, awaiting trial for embezzling funds. He’ll probably go to prison for many years.  

The story was in all the papers. This is a small town, and Mom and I are shunned, as if we were part of the scheme. It’s ironic, because I hardly knew Maurice. I met him only once or twice in my life. He was clearly not a family man, and we never had him over the house.

After he was indicted, Mom had to take a big salary cut or lose her job. Phil, who’d also worked there as a shipping clerk, was let go. He now works as a security guard for a bank earning minimum wage.  I never understood why Mom and he hooked up.

There are a lot of questions about why George, my dad, retired when he did, right before the scandal broke. He was only fifty-three when he accepted an early retirement package.   The newspapers said he got several million dollars as a buy-out. Maybe he knew what his brother was doing or suspected something was fishy and wanted out. Perhaps Dad was in on Maurice’s scheme, had profited from it, and was afraid of getting caught.  The FBI suspects my dad blackmailed Maurice into getting that big payout, and they want to talk to him, if they could find him. So would I.

Right after Dad got all that money, he left Mom and me with no warning, got a divorce in Mexico, and married a twenty-year old Brazilian woman. Then he disappeared, and the Mexican police haven’t been able to locate him since.

Mom was heartbroken. Our lives were dictated by his needs. He was never mean to me but wasn’t interested in my life either. He treated me as if I was a faithful dog he could reward with an occasional pat on the head.

Even now, after all that heartache, Gladys, my mom, is still beautiful. Her face is an unlined ivory mask. She has blond hair that falls in graceful waves around her neck, not like my scrawny brown curls.  She’s still slim at forty-two and wears fashionable designer clothes. At least she did when she could afford them, before HGM cut her salary.   Mom wanted to sell our house, but Dad’s name is on the deed, and she can’t get rid of it unless they find him. 

 When he left, I could hear her sobbing in bed night after night, and I ached for her.  Now that I’m seventeen, I no longer pity her but still feel rage that Dad discarded us like garbage. I’ve always wondered if I did something to make him leave.  Didn’t he love me? For years I dreamed he would come back, but I know better now.

There’s so much I don’t understand, questions I can’t ask. Mom hides behind a wall of silence.  She won’t talk about Dad, and I’ve learned not to ask. She lives like a turtle protected by its shell, carefully cultivating a semblance of sanity. I know she felt sorry for Phil when he was let go at HGM, but why does he have to live here and share Mom’s bed? I get that she’s lonely, but she could do so much better.  She hardly talks to me, weighing her words as if any emotion might upset the delicate balance between us, yet she listens to Phil’s drivel about his job as if he was reciting the gospel. 

Phil dotes on her. Once, when he first came to live with us, he asked me, “Does your mom like strawberry ice cream? It would go well with the cake I ordered for her birthday on Sunday. I want to surprise her.”

           “How the fuck would I know? She never talks to me, just to you,” I said.

           He stopped and seemed to reconsider. “Well do you like strawberry ice cream, Jodie? Would you have some if I bought a gallon?”

           He was trying to be nice, but that made me spiteful. “I hate strawberry anything!” I replied.

           He wouldn’t give up. “What flavor do you like, then? I’ll buy whatever pleases you, and I’m sure your mom will enjoy it too.”

           I got even angrier. “Buy whatever the hell you please but leave me alone!” I went into my bedroom and slammed the door. 

The ruder I became, the more he tried to please me. I lie in bed at night sending death rays toward their bedroom.  I have to find a way to make him move out. I was hoping that the money missing from Mom’s wallet would make her suspicious, but when I looked, all I found was $23.67.   Even Phil wouldn’t take that. I had to come up with a better idea. 

By Friday when I still had no plan, I took the algebra exam but couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was sabotage. I glanced over to where Martin was sitting, and as if sensing my gaze, he turned and gave me a wry smile. I wasn’t sure whether that meant he’d aced the test or failed it. After the bell rang, he was waiting for me in the hall. “What did you think of the exam?” he asked.

           I was tired and didn’t feel like faking it. “It was pretty hard. I couldn’t remember how to solve some of those problems. How about you?”

           “I felt the same way. You’ll probably get a better grade than me, like you said.” I was surprised he’d admit it, since he’d always seemed so arrogant. When he shifted his bookbag onto the other shoulder, I saw he was about to say something more. I guessed he was angry because of how I’d acted on Monday, but I didn’t want to talk about it.

He began, “Jodie, do you remember the other day when I said I wanted to talk to you, and you…sorta dissed me?” I nodded. “Well, here’s what I wanted to ask. Would you like to go the prom with me next month?”

           Was I hallucinating? I’d been sure Martin never liked me. I started to say hell no, but then as I studied his face his features seemed to morph, and I saw he was emerging from the chrysalis of boyhood into manhood. His upper lip had the outline of a scrawny moustache, his acne scars were healing, and his voice had deepened into a baritone. I realized it must have taken a lot of courage to ask me, after how I’d behaved.

He was nervously waiting for my answer.   Everyone said I was a bitch, so why not be what they said: the daughter of a thief, cold-hearted, and not to be trusted? I smelled a fresh kill like a lion ready to pounce. All I needed  to do was scorn him, and he would hate me like the rest of the world. I was tempted to hurt him just for sport, but reconsidered.

After weighing the alternatives, I chose a compromise. “Thank you, Martin. Can I let you know in a day or two? I have to see if my mom can afford the ticket, a party dress, and everything else that I’d need.”  I knew she’d find the money if I asked her, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to go. I could always use her as an excuse to refuse the offer later.

           Martin grinned with such relief and delight that I felt something stir inside of me. I wanted to reach up, stroke his face, even kiss him. A flame of desire ignited in my belly. I was so shocked that I’d lost control of my emotions that I fled down the corridor to the next class where I imagined how it would feel to fuck Martin. I got more and more turned on and couldn’t concentrate. Perhaps it would be nice to go to the prom, I thought.  Afterwards, we might hook up in the back seat of a car. I’d never wanted to do it with a guy before, but the idea was addictive. I spent the rest of the school day in heat, although I was still tempted to tell Martin to fuck off and leave me alone. The spiteful scene I would make fed my emotions, rather than cooling  them.  I alternated between desire and rage, exhilarated by the tug of war between the two possibilities.

I was still riding that wave when I opened the apartment door and found Phil sitting at the dining room table, nursing a cup of coffee.  He usually came back from work at four-thirty, and it wasn’t even three. 

In a surge of fury powered by that witches’ brew of emotions, I screamed, “What the fuck are you doing here now? Can’t I have the house to myself for a while without you polluting it?”

Phil sighed. “Lay off, Jodie. I just lost my job. Please stop yelling and show a little understanding.”

For an answer I threw my bookbag at him. It hit the table, splashing hot coffee onto his leg and knocking the cup onto the floor, where it shattered. 

He screamed in pain and after dousing a towel in cold water, applied it to the burn. I knew I’d crossed a line. Searching for words to apologize, I bent down to pick up the shards of the cup.

“Look what you did, you little bitch,” he said, his voice trembling. He grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back. “What’s the matter with you? What did I ever do to you? I tried to be nice, but you’re like a dog that bites everyone in sight. Even your mother’s afraid of you.”

“Let go of my arm! That really hurts,” I yelled, but wondered, Mom’s afraid of me? 

“You’re poison. You make this place unbearable. You drive us crazy every day.” He released my arm. I fell to the floor sobbing.  His face contorted with rage, he placed a foot on my back and pinned me down. I could feel the jagged edges of the coffee cup cutting into my chest.

Perhaps if I’d said I was sorry, it would have ended there, but instead I looked at my arm. It was black and blue, throbbing with pain from where he’d squeezed it. I hissed, “You hurt me! I’ll call the police, and they’ll arrest you for attacking me.  I’m going to show them how you twisted my arm, you ugly freak, and they’ll put you in jail!”

Phil froze.  He started sobbing. “Everything’s all fucked up. I really love Gladys, and she says she loves me too. Please let us be happy. Don’t do that!” He took his foot away.

I’d wanted to force Phil to leave, and now I had the means. I’d wanted to be a saboteur, and I’d found a way.  I gloated for a moment and then realized that sabotage was a dirty sport played for high stakes.  There would be a price to pay for what I might do, and the plan might backfire.  How would Mom feel? I wondered how the French saboteurs of World War II lived with their conscience for the deaths they caused, but then I considered that they were fighting for survival against an evil regime, and I was not. I’d won a pyrrhic victory but began to doubt if I had the strength to finish what I’d started.  Who am I? I wondered.

“Please, Jodie, don’t just lie there. Talk to me!”  Phil voice shook with fear.

My nose was dripping snot, and tears flooded my cheeks. I gagged and vomited bile, and it felt like I was purging something I’d nursed for years. I looked up to see a lonely man who’d been kicked one too many times. I know how that feels. “Please help me up,” I asked.  He carefully reached out a hand, and I struggled to my feet. “Is Mom really afraid of me? Why?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“She never talks to me. She’s a stranger.”

“You’ve both suffered a lot because your father waltzed out of your lives without a thought to how it would be for either of you. She’s afraid of you because all she sees is anger and how you hate me. It tortures her. She doesn’t know how to fix it. I can’t afford to move out, even if I wanted to, and I don’t. Your mom will be even sadder if she loses me too. Can’t you see how much I care for Gladys? Jodie, why can’t you accept me?”  He wiped his eyes. “I should never have touched you, but you attacked me.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.  I could barely talk. My throat was burning with acid. I had to respect Phil for fighting back.  I’d have done the same if he’d thrown something at me.  “Please help me clean up before Mom gets back. Then we’ll forget about what happened.”

He nodded and replied, “Welcome to the human race.”  Together we cleaned the floor.

That was yesterday. Today I decided I no longer want to be a saboteuse and am looking for a new game with lower stakes and a different score sheet. First, I might even do something normal, like go to the prom with Martin and see what develops afterwards. That might lead me to another goal for the future. I wonder what the French vocabulary word is for seductress. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Oliver about that in French class on Monday.

                                                           Lucy Lehman