Harley, Like a Person

Cat Bauer Creator of Harley Columba

photo credit: Roberto Silva

Author Biography

Cat Bauer has lived in Venice, Italy since 1998. She is the author of HARLEY, LIKE A PERSON and HARLEY'S NINTH, published by Knopf, a division of Random House, and was a former contributor to the International Herald Tribune's Italian supplement, Italy Daily.
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Harley, Like a Person

Synopsis:

WHO IS MY FATHER? Fourteen-year-old Harley Columba is convinced she's adopted. She is the only blue-eyed alien in a family of brown-eyed earthlings. She is a painter, musician and poet. Her parents drink, fight and watch TV. Harley lives in the suburbs "only forty-five minutes outside of New York City if there's no traffic," but "four zillion light years away." She decides to search for her real parents, and in her quest finds herself.

Smart, funny and refreshingly honest, Harley, Like a Person is a compelling novel of family, creativity and the enduring strength of self.

Book Excerpt:

CHAPTER 1

I’m under the bed. They don’t know it. They think I’ve run away again. And I have. Only this time I’m under the bed.
I can see their shoes as they walk around my room. There are my mother’s small fat feet squished into a pair of blue K-Mart specials. My father’s cowboy boots stampede across the linoleum floor. In the corner, my tiny sister, Lily, flutters her pink ballet slippers against the metal bed frame. She whispers, “row, row, row your boat” over and over.
My mother’s sneakers zigzag as she paces. “Where does she go? That kid will give me a heart attack!” My father doesn’t answer. My father doesn’t talk when he’s mad. He roars.
My mother shakes my little sister. I crane my neck, straining to see. She grabs Lily’s face. She squeezes her cheeks. She is angry at my father, but Lily gets it. Whoever is in the room gets their anger; this is why I’m under the bed. I want to yank my mother’s hands away, make her stop. “Where is she?” Her words are hot and Lily gets burned. “Where is Harley?”
My sister knows what’s coming. So do I. She starts to tremble. “I…I don’t know.” She speaks the truth. She doesn’t know. I feel bad that Lily is being tortured because of me. But although she is only five years old, she is a strong prisoner and does not break.
“Let me handle this, Peppy.” My father speaks softly. Not a good sign. Lily is caught in the crossfire; the battle is between the two of them. My father rumbles over to Lily. He removes his belt. It has a big silver buckle in the shape of Texas, even though we live in New Jersey. He never hits people with the belt, only furniture; it is a leather threat. He is a lion tamer and Lily is a kitten. “I’ll whip you, girl, if you keep lying like that. I’ll give you something to lie about.”
Lily wilts. She starts crying. “I’m not lying! I don’t know! I don’t know where Harley is!” I want to pop out from under the bed and rescue her. Like Superman. Unhand that child!
A pair of black Nikes bounce into the room. My brother, Bean. I hear the tap, tap, tap of Riley’s paws right behind him. Riley is a good hunting dog; I hope he doesn’t sniff me out.
An apple crunches. “What cha doin?" Bean eats apples.
“Get out and mind your own business, Bean.” My father pulls in the reins when he talks to my brother.
“You gonna beat the crap outta her? Can I watch?”
“Bean --”
“Come on, Dad. Let’s have some action. You go on and on about beating the little runt, but you never do.” Bean loves Lily too.
I think about calling out to Bean. A daring rescue. We transform ourselves into shining knights and capture the drunken dragon and his fire-breathing wife. We lock them in the dungeon in the basement and rule the house with peace and kindness. But although Bean is tall, he is not strong.
“Bean. Get out. Now.” My father puts on his Commander voice.
It works. Bean’s black Nikes hesitate, then shuffle out the door. “I’m goin’ over Earl’s.”
I hear the drawer of my night table open. I turn my head quickly, silently to the left. My mother stands right next to me. Those sneaky rubber soles have steered her over to my secret drawer. My safe place. My treasures. I try to breathe without making a sound. I could grab her leg and really give her a heart attack, I think. A monster from under the bed. I start to giggle. I force my mind to think of something else.
My mother is routing through my drawer. She makes noises like a curious raccoon. My heart pounds. I know what she will find. “Roger, look at this!” My father’s boots turn away from Lily. I can see the tip of the belt dangling at his side. I peek up at my little sister. She is crying softly. I want to pull her under the bed with me and keep her safe.
“That kid is grounded for six months!” My mother’s voice is nails on a blackboard.
“Calm down, Peppy. What’s the matter?” Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. The cowboy boots join the K-Mart specials.
“Look at these!” I know what she has in her hand. I keep my birth control pills hidden in my night table drawer under a pile of my drawings and my poems. My pills, unopened and waiting. I always thought they were safe there. My pills and my poems.
“Listen to this.” Papers rustle. My mother reads out loud. “‘My House’ by Harley Columba. ‘My house is a place of pain/ A sea of shame/ A hurtful chain/ My house is awash in gloom/ A desperate room/ A dying bloom…’” I hear a ripping sound. Pieces of white notebook paper sigh on their way to the floor. My poem. I blink away my tears.
“Where did she get them? Where does a fourteen year old girl get birth control pills?” My father seems bewildered.
“Well, you’re no help --”
“Dammit, don’t start! Don’t start in on me!” The lion tamer curls the belt in his hand.
My mother won’t stop. My mother never stops, she has no brakes. She is a man-eating beast that refuses to jump through the fiery hoop. “What are you going to do? Oh, ho, ho. Just try it.” I hear a scuffling sound and a shout. My easel in the corner crashes to the floor. I watch my oil painting of Strawberry Fields skid along the linoleum and stop inches away from my fingers. I want to cry.
I close my eyes and soar up to the quiet, peaceful place. Up, up, up I go. Their voices grow dim and hazy. The three-ring circus begins, but I can barely hear it. It’s safe up here, all flowers and rainbows. I stand in the middle of my painting of Strawberry Fields. In my mind, I paint a crystal blue lake in the center of the meadow. Far away, I hear the crack of the belt as it cuts through the air and strikes the bedpost. I dip my paintbrush into a jar of yellow and sprinkle the meadow with sunshine. The man-eating beast growls; the lion tamer laughs. The lake. Into the lake. I try to dive into the smooth blue water, but it is canvas, not water, and I am falling…
I open one eye. Lily has curled into a ball in the corner. My arm is asleep. I change positions. There is so much racket, no one hears me. I stretch. A dust ball floats under my nose. I have to sneeze. I try to hold it back. I squish my nostrils shut. The sneeze erupts from me. My eardrums have been blown right out of my head. I lie absolutely still. My body pulses against the floor. Thud. Thud. Thud. Like The Telltale Heart.
“What was that?” my father asks. “Did you hear something?”
“Harley, is that you?” My mother coughs.
I hold my breath. I am a mannequin. I am not human. I do not move.
“Harley Marie?” My father crosses the room and opens my closet door. He peers inside. I have hidden there before. He shoves my clothes to the side. My favorite red dress tumbles off its hanger into a heap on the floor. I want to snatch it and drag it under the bed with me. Lily, my painting, and my red dress.
I brace myself. They will kill me, I think. They will find me and kill me and that will be the end.
Instead the telephone rings. My father’s boots hesitate, then turn and walk out the bedroom door. My mother’s K-Mart specials shuffle right behind. “Lily, clean up this mess.” She slams the bedroom door. I take a deep breath. Saved by the bell.
I count. …eight…nine…ten… I come out from under the bed. Lily does not seem surprised to see me. I walk to the corner and set my easel on its wobbly legs. I wipe a smudge off my painting and place it back on the easel. There is no crystal blue pond in the center of Strawberry Fields, only grass. One edge of the canvas is loose.
I gather the tatters of my poem from the floor. I dig through my night table drawer and pull out some scotch tape. I sit on the edge of my bed. I tape the jagged edges back together. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men… I find all the torn pieces except one. There’s a hole in the center of my poem.
I hear a tiny sob. I turn and hold my arms out to Lily. She feels damp and trembly. I rock her until she grows quiet. I take her hand. Gently I pull her under the bed, together with my painting and my favorite red dress.