Chasing Tarzan
by Catherine Forster
Genre: YA Memoir
In the 1960s, a relentless school bully makes Catherine's life a living hell. She retreats inward, relying on a rich fantasy life––swinging through the jungle wrapped in Tarzan’s protective arms––and fervent prayers to a God she does not trust. She fasts until she feels faint, she ties a rough rope around her waist as penance, hoping God will see her worthy of His help.
As the second of eight children, Catherine is Mommy’s little helper, and like Mommy, Catherine is overwhelmed. The bullying and the adult responsibilities together foment her anger. She starts smacking her siblings, and becomes her younger sister’s nemesis. Spooked by who she is becoming, Catherine vows to escape for real, before she hurts someone—or herself.
Catherine finds salvation in a high school exchange program: new town, new school, new family, new persona. A passport celebrity. In New Zealand, nobody knows her history or her fears. Except for her Kiwi “mum,” who sees through Catherine’s façade and pulls her out from her inner safe-house.
Exposed, her sense of self implodes. Catherine must finally rethink who she is.
I was barefoot in the front yard, my toes warmed by a sunbaked sidewalk. Ants bled from its cracks. I poked them with a stick and watched them recoil, flee, and come right back, some carrying bounty. I was three years old, alone (except for the ants), and ever so careful not to step on the cracks. My big brother, Steve, told me that even one teeny step on a crack would break my mother’s back.
“Does everyone forage for food, or do some stay home and clean up?" I conversed with the ants, deliberating on colony jobs. Like most of my conversations, this one took place in my head. I moved on in search of new creatures. Avoiding the cracks, I hopped, skipped, and twirled my way down the block, eyeing trees, bugs, and birds. It was nice being alone with the bugs and birds: no crying babies or adult saying, “Do this or do that.” I hummed a tune from church and walked past gardens chock full of flowers, yards clipped clean, and yards overgrown with dandelions. I was tempted to pick the flowers, but I knew not to. Instead, I picked the dandelions bordering the sidewalk.
A woman in a yellow dress called out to me, asking me what I was up to. I was not in her yard, but I was smelling one of her roses. Standing on her porch, she asked me where I lived and where was my mother. Her husband came outside. Tall and frowning, he stood next to her and watched me, silent. I stepped away from her roses, then I told them my name and that I lived down the street. Unbeknownst to me, I'd been walking for hours, blissfully drifting; I was nowhere near my house. Her husband brought out the phone book, found my last name, and called. I don't remember what he said over the phone, but his wife's face plumped up like she'd eaten a tasty treat.
"Sit here," she said, pointing to the bottom step, "until your mother comes."
Mom arrived. "Hello, so sorry to bother you," she sputtered, addressing the cross-armed twosome. She grabbed my arm and pulled me up. The adults chatted, but I don't remember what they said. I remember studying Mom’s face and the tone of her voice––she used her out-of-the-house-friendly voice––knowing both revealed more than the words coming out of her mouth. She was hopping mad. When we got home, she let loose, adopting her you-are-bad voice. I was wide-eyed confused. What was all the fuss about? Why was she so mad? I was just on a walk, a very fine walk, and I wanted to go back outside for another. Whatever I'd done, it was in front of the neighbors.
"––might be Dad's customers. Don't ever do that again." I nodded my head like big people expected, all the while wondering what that was.
Sometime later, maybe days or even weeks––it's hard to know for sure, I watched her face as she berated me once again. Then too, I was unable to comprehend her rage. Again, I was paralyzed by it, afraid to pull away.
I was playing in the backyard, immersed in an imaginary adventure. I had to pee, but didn't want to stop and go inside. I waited too long and wet myself. Knowing I was bound to get into trouble, I slipped inside to change, but Mom spotted my soiled shorts and the pee dribbling down my legs. Her face scrunched up, turning ugly, and she yelled. I have no memory of what she said, but her voice hit me like a thunderclap. I nearly fell down. She barreled toward me. I froze, expecting the worst but not knowing what that might be. She cupped her hands under my arms, carried me into the bedroom, tossed me onto the bed. My head snapped forward and I bit my tongue, but I didn't cry––dared not to.
"I have enough diapers to change," she yelled, pulling off my pants and wiping me down las if I were a baby. She put training pants on me, or maybe a diaper; I don't remember, but it wasn't my underwear. Her mouth moved, but I didn't hear her. Her eyes frightened me. They said I don't want you.
In that moment, she may not have wanted me, or Steve, or Tom. I was too young to understand it might not have been me she was seeing or yelling at. The rage behind her eyes could have been meant for Dad, who was gone, away on business. Maybe she hated the new town, prying neighbors, the stacks-upon-stacks of laundry, the spit-up on her clothes, the absence of friends, and the loneliness. She was twenty-three with a bundle of babes, and one-hundred and fifty-six miles from home.
I was too young to know what her eyes meant.
Excerpt 2
"Next," Sister said, pointing her pencil at me.
We were stuck in mindless review, Sister hammering fifth-grade math back into our vacant summer heads. I was ready for sixth-grade material, but she wasn't––not yet. Stepping up to the blackboard, I grabbed a long piece of chalk, turned around, and faced her. She paused before announcing my challenge, and I could tell she was thinking up a hard one.
"Five-hundred-and-forty-six times forty-two."
I wrote the problem on the board and drew a line under it.
"Hey, Porky." Hunter hissed, for my ears only. "You'll never get it."
Pressing on, I worked the problem in my head: Two times six is twelve, carry the one. I wrote two under the six and put a notch above the four, letting Sister see before I moved on. I stayed put while she moved to the back of the room. Hunter watched her decamp, too.
"Give it up, Retard." His voice was still a whisper, but it was louder, everyone up front must have heard the offensive word: his favorite term for me.
Two times four is eight, plus one is nine.
"Piggy, I can't see the blackboard. Your fat ass is in the way."
It was time to liberate a dependable fantasy, one I could inhabit and do math. I focused on the numbers and the jungle beyond the blackboard. Blades of grass suddenly slashed my arms and legs, but I kept running, hurling through the bush, and resisting the impulse to look back. The barrage behind me was deafening. The ground shook, tripping me up, but I forged on.
Two times five is ten. Four times six is twenty-six, no twenty-four. Carry the two. Place the four under the two. No. Dammit. Four under the four.
"Give it up, Retard!"
He was gaining on me. I could smell him. A sharp object wedged deep in the ball of my foot but, I ignored the pain. Each pounding on the ground forced the offense deeper, but I didn't let it slow me down. My eyes were locked forward; there was no looking back and falling was not an option.
Four times four is sixteen, carry the one. Oops, sixteen plus two is eighteen. Four times five is twenty, plus one is twenty-one.
"Hurry up, stupid. I'm tired of looking at your fat ass."
Something was moving in the bush just ahead. A hiss pricked my ears. Standing perfectly still, I eyed the cobra. Its tongue slithering in and out of its mouth, preparing to strike––
"Can anybody see around that ass?"
Trapped between a crazed rhino and a deadly cobra, sure to be poisoned or crushed if I stayed put, I pivoted right. The cobra lurched, fangs inches from my face. The adder's head launched into the air, thanks to Tarzan's blade. The snake's headless body writhed as if trying to escape, only to be trampled by the enraged rhino. It happened so fast, I didn't feel Tarzan swing me up into the trees. Grinning, he wiped the machete on a leaf, leaving behind a gooey red smudge.
Bring down the two, four plus nine is thirteen, carry the one, eight plus one is nine, one plus one is two ...
Catherine Forster is an artist, filmmaker, and writer living in the Pacific Northwest ... at the moment. Her work and love of travel have led her to six continents, including Sub-Saharan African, the source of her childhood fantasies. She still holds a fondness for Tarzan, but when trekking in the bush, hiking mountain trails, or exploring a new city, she prefers the company of her beloved husband Kevin.
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ReplyDeleteI like the cover, synopsis and excerpt, Chasing Tarzan sounds like a memoir that I will enjoy reading. Thank you for sharing the author's bio and book details
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