Chipper was with his two constant companions, Jason Franco and Eddie Doane, but Peter preferred to call them Goon A and Goon B. They came down Ranch Street from the direction of the pavilion, tossing a football. There was no real reason that Peter could think of for Chipper to make this walk since Ranch Street was a dead end that emptied into the Pine Barrens. Chipper’s family lived in a big home on Victorian Row, the other side of Willow Creek.
Peter prayed for the power of invisibility, or an earthquake.
CJ stopped pacing and watched the boys approach. With CJ near, her brightly colored outfit and tiara sparkling in the sun, the chance of going undetected was nil.
One of the goons, either Jason or Eddie—they were interchangeable—noticed Peter first, nudging Chipper and pointing into the tree as if they were bird-watchers and had just spotted a rare, exquisite bird. Chipper handed off the football and led the goons in the direction of this bird, who was now highly nauseated.
Out of fairness, even Peter would begrudgingly admit that his old neighborhood hadn’t been perfect. There were bullies there too, but they were clearly marked and usually on the fringe of the school’s hierarchy. They were easy to ignore, or their actions could be simply chalked up to a Neanderthal upbringing or low intellectual horsepower. Chipper was different—the new-and-improved version of the modern-day bully. He was the class president, popular with students and teachers, and he cleaned up all those “most” awards at the sixth grade graduation. Peter wanted to submit a write-in award for Chipper, most likely to tie an M-80 to a cat when no one is looking, but he couldn’t trust the student council, which would probably do everything in their power to unveil the disreputable student who dared to tarnish the name of their beloved class president. Chipper wielded that kind of power and influence. His back pocket was filled with people. Worst of all, the playground behind the pavilion, where CJ loved to play, had a gold plaque attached to the climbing gym that read: This playground is the Boy Scout Service Project of Kenneth “Chipper” Kassel, Jr. It was enough to make vomit rise to the back of your tongue.
Peter never understood why Chipper enjoyed lashing out and terrorizing the “lesser” kid. The world was his oyster. The only conclusion Peter came to was terrorism gave Chipper enjoyment and satisfaction. It was a hobby like collecting stamps.
“Are you coming down?” CJ asked.
A small noise came from Peter’s mouth.
“Howdy,” Chipper said, hopping the curb and crossing the lawn. “If it isn’t our friend Peter Grady.”
Peter kept his eyes locked on his book.
“Hey, Nemo,” one of the goons said from behind Chipper. He dropped on the ground and started shaking.
“That’s not nice,” CJ said quietly.
Chipper’s arms shot in the air. “Whoa, watch out guys. Wonder Woman is here to protect Nemo.”
The shaking goon stood up. All three acted like they were laughing so hard they had to hold one another up.
No matter how hard he tried, Peter couldn’t bring himself to look up from the book. He felt a hot wetness forming in his eyes.
Then the tree spoke.
“Get lost, midgets. You’re decreasing my property value.”
Now, Chipper was in no way vertically challenged. There was a rumor he was going to be the captain of the middle school football team as a seventh grader, but he suddenly seemed small as Joshua appeared from the other side of the tree.
Joshua was dressed in the same cut-off shorts from yesterday but was now shirtless and barefoot. A rubber band shaped the bottom of his beard into a triangle. He stared down at Chipper and the goons, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips as he scratched a small tuft of chest hair. His face was expressionless.
Chipper and the goons coagulated. The goons looked to Chipper for representation, but Chipper looked prepared to defer to anyone else. He shifted his weight and bit his lip. Peter had never seen this side of Chipper.
It was the tone in which Joshua spoke that struck Peter—a combination of menace and boredom, as if he’d swat them dead like mosquitoes without thinking twice about it, maybe while eating a ham sandwich.
Chipper and the goons continued to hold their position until Joshua barked, “Get lost!”
They didn’t stay to see if his bite was worse.
Joshua yawned as he watched them run down the street. He scoffed, “Like I give a rat’s ass about property value.”
Peter didn’t know if he should thank Joshua or offer him the three dollars and change in his pocket. Joshua made the decision for him. He walked away, tiptoeing down the sun-scorched driveway to his mailbox. Peter watched from the tree as Joshua riffled through the stack of mail, saying, “Bills, magazines, advertisements. You know what these are?”
Not sure if the question was directed at him, Peter didn’t answer.
“Spiritual handcuffs,” Joshua said, and shook his head in disappointment. “What a waste.”
On the way back to his house, Joshua stopped short as if he’d just remembered there was someone sitting high in the tree next to him. He shielded his eyes from the sun.
“C.S. Lewis depicts hell as this bureaucratic hole where everyone is forever concerned about his own dignity and advancement, and everyone constantly lives with deadly serious cases of envy, self-importance and resentment. What do you think?”
Peter was lost after the word depicts. He found it difficult to maintain eye contact but saw that Joshua had no such problem. His eyes were wide and white and danced like pitched Wiffle balls.
“I don’t know,” Peter responded.
Joshua nodded slowly, as if he was digesting Peter’s nonanswer. “I like someone who is man enough to say ‘I don’t know.’” His hand scrambled in his pocket and he pulled out a lighter.
“You smoke?”
“I’m twelve-and-a-half.”
Joshua nodded again, satisfied with the answer. He pointed up at him. “Good man. Promise me you never will.”
Peter was too confused to answer. He was always being told by adults not to do things, just not at the precise moment the person was doing the exact thing they were telling you not to do.
“What is your name, young man?”
“Peter.”
“I’m Josh.”
Peter nodded, making the mental note of calling him Josh instead of Joshua.
“Okay, Peter. Another question. Why is Wonder Woman hiding behind the tree?”
In his panic, Peter had forgotten all about CJ.
“She’s my sister. I think she might be afraid of you, but I’ve never seen her scared of anyone,” Peter said, which was the truth.
“I’m not scared,” a small voice said from the tree’s trunk.
Joshua’s smile was thin and showed no teeth. “Last question. Don’t your grapes hurt from sitting on that tree limb for so long?”
Peter didn’t have time to process and reply to the question. His mother called to him and CJ from the front door.
“I have to go,” Peter said, apologetically.
“I know,” Joshua answered.
Peter hopped down from the tree and ran after CJ. They scooted in past their mother, who stood stiffly in the door, pointing inside the house. She didn’t watch as her children approached but stared curiously beyond them at the shirtless, long-haired neighbor, even after the screen door closed.
Day 59
The sun started its climb, backlighting Willow Creek Landing in soft tones of peach and pink. The low moans of tired air conditioners drifted from up and down the block. Since the drought started, the predawn hours had grown as a popular time for leisure and social activities, and many walkers and joggers now dotted the streets.
Peter sat on the living room couch, still in his pajamas, somewhere between the state of sleep and wakefulness. His father was leaving on another one of his business trips, and Peter always liked to see him off.
In addition to his growing number of lists, Peter kept a running tab of three additional things,
all on his desk calendar in his room. For each day of rainless sunshine, he drew an orange circle under the date, which was now fifty-nine in a row and counting. He drew a black circle on the days he had seizures. And recently he’d started keeping track of the days his father was away on business with blue circles, which wasn’t as consistent as the orange circles, but not too far behind either.
“The fruitcakes are up early,” Nick noted, peering over the couch and out the window facing the street.
Peter didn’t need to look; he knew his father was talking about Mr. James and Mr. Terry, the neighbors across the street. His father was always calling them a variation of the word fruit: fruit sticks, fruit platters, fruit loops, etc.
Nick rolled his eyes. Dressed in pressed khaki slacks and a plain black T-shirt, arguably a size too small, he felt confident in what he called his “business travel” attire. In one of the many men’s magazines he devoured religiously—especially now that he could actually afford a $300 pair of brown leather loafers—he’d read that “confidence radiation” was mandatory in a CEO, and a CEO was what he was since he’d opened his business, though he only had four employees. He checked his confidence radiation level as he caressed his freshly shaven head and patted his abs. The constant maintenance to look good was a necessary evil, especially now that he was pushing forty, but he read he couldn’t radiate confidence with a horseshoe hairline and a doughy body. He packed his salmon dress shirt with a matching tie in his carry-on for his trip to Colorado.
“I guess the Fruit Roll-Ups think they’re above everyone else,” Nick said, nodding to the window as he zipped his carry-on and threw it over his shoulder.
This made Peter rise from the couch and nose close to the window.
Mr. Terry’s short and portly frame scooted back and forth across his lawn like a plastic duck in a shooting gallery. Sweat pasted his fire-engine red silk pajamas to his body.
“He said he had very expensive flowers in his garden that he had to water or they’d die,” Peter said, trying not to sound too much like he was defending him.
“He’s not watering his very expensive flowers, Peter.”
Sure enough, at closer look, Mr. Terry held a garden hose discreetly lodged into his ribcage, dragging behind him like a tail. His head swiveled up and down the block, further indicting himself and his actions. It sure seemed Mr. Terry was fully aware of breaking the county’s moratorium on water usage that had been enforced since the drought had caused the water reserve to sink dangerously low.
Peter refused to hold this against him. He liked Mr. Terry.
“And how do you know about his very expensive flowers? What, are you buddies now with the fruits?”
“No,” Peter said, with such force that he felt an instant and solitary guilt, betraying two of the small number of people in Willow Creek who were friendly to him. He couldn’t help it. Anytime his father spoke with such disdain, Peter’s response was knee-jerk.
Abby appeared behind them, her hair messy from sleep and still in her robe. She yawned and shuffled to the kitchen for coffee.
“What day you coming back, Nick?”
“Friday, if nothing pops up.”
“Are you expecting things to pop up, Nick?” she asked, her voice quickly losing the early morning lubrication.
Nick looked away from the window to stare coldly at his wife’s back. “Don’t start with me now, Abby. The taxi will be here any minute.”
It wasn’t even six a.m., and Peter could tell the day was sure to be another scorcher. He felt the urge to go outside and play before the sun took over and just blinking made you sweat. He glanced over at his father and rallied for the nerve to ask.
“Dad,” he finally mustered, “do you want to play catch before you leave?”
Nick was texting on his phone and his brow furrowed as it always did when he was being distracted. “Not today, slugger. I don’t want to get all sweaty before I get on the plane.”
Peter tried to shake his head like he understood, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment. Slugger, my butt, Peter thought. He could have been the next Mickey Mantle (though he was 99.9999 percent sure he wasn’t), but his father would have no idea. They hadn’t played catch since his father started the Business. His father probably thought if he had a glove on one hand and a ball in the other, how could he hold his phone? Peter was tired of hearing about the Business. It was the Business that brought him to this new home. It was the Business that changed his Dad. The Business was another staple on several of Peter’s lists.
Once, desperate to play catch, Peter asked Mr. Terry. Mr. Terry immediately said no but agreed after Mr. James persuaded him. Mr. James looked a little younger than Mr. Terry and definitely was in better shape, but Peter was more comfortable with Mr. Terry. He was always smiling and talking loudly, waving his arms and making animated faces. Mr. James once told Peter that Mr. Terry used to be a character actor. When Peter asked what that was, Mr. Terry said it meant he was too fat and ugly to be a star. Then he laughed.
For catch, Peter had to loan Mr. Terry CJ’s mitt. Mr. Terry’s first throw missed horribly, sailing high over Peter’s head and down the street. Mr. James, who Peter had seldom seen smile to that point, laughed and slapped at the arm of the lawn chair he had set up for the occasion. The added dimension of having a spectator excited Peter even though Mr. Terry seemed less than thrilled.
“You come over here and try this,” he shouted at Mr. James. “This is opening old wounds. I’m going to have to see my therapist later.” Peter threw a bullet that hit Mr. Terry square in the chest, freeing the air from his body with an exploding OOOMPH! Mr. James doubled over in his lawn chair, choking with laughter. “There’s a big leather glove on your hand for a reason, Terry. It’s not an accessory,” Mr. James said, wiping tears from his eyes. Mr. Terry ignored the heckling, gently rubbing the center of his chest.
For an hour, they both constantly underthrew and overthrew each other, but not once did Mr. Terry show any sign of aggravation. He actually grew quite serious, concentrating on each throw, the tip of his tongue visible, and rejoicing in lottery-winning style when he threw a catchable ball. They played until the sun sank under the homes and Mr. Terry collapsed on the curb, begging the violet-streaked sky for a mimosa IV.
A cab slowed in front of the house and pulled into the driveway. Nick gathered his belongings and told Abby he’d call once he landed.
“Herb might be here when you get back, Nick, depending on when you get back,” Abby said. She’d purposely held off on this information until this time.
“Uncle Herb is coming over?” Peter asked. That was news to him.
Nick threw his bag over his shoulder. “Well, that’s why we bought this ranch, for Herbie. Right, dear?” The word dear dripped from Nick’s mouth.
“Hurry home,” Abby said, flatly. She went back to kitchen and Peter followed her, waving one last goodbye to his father.
Nick jogged to the cab and threw his bag, then himself, into the backseat. He leaned toward the driver and tapped the top of the driver’s seat. The cab sped off. It was like the classic chase scene in a movie and Nick was hot on the tail, the pursuer. But anyone watching would have no idea what he was chasing.
Uncle Herb
After the cab pulled away, Abby sprinted through her morning cleanup routine, taking minutes to accomplish what normally would take her through lunch. She chose to avoid the everyday distractions that dragged her routine out: television, phone, magazines, children.
She dashed between rooms, dropping dirty coffee mugs into the kitchen sink, picking puzzle pieces off the living room floor, and lugging the laundry basket to the basement. She had energy. She moved purposefully. This was not a common weekday.
Peter took notice but pretended not to, stealing glances at her from the couch as she darted past.
“Peter, after we get Uncle Herb, I have to go out for a bit. I need to take a shower now.”
“Who is staying home with us?” Peter wanted
to know. If she said nobody or gave a line saying how he was old enough now to be trusted, that meant he was babysitting CJ. Kids got good money to babysit, and that’s where he wanted to lead the conversation. Plus, these handsomely paid babysitters weren’t watching CJ; there should be some extra combat pay for that.
“Uncle Herb will be here,” she said, as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“Really?” Peter loved his Uncle dearly, but he was not what you’d describe as the typical babysitter.
Abby stopped what she was doing and placed her hands on her hips. “Really. Problem?”
“No,” Peter said. Unlike CJ, he knew when not to push his mother. The hand-on-the-hip thing was a dead giveaway. The topic of monetary compensation would have to wait.
“Please wake up your sister now. I’m in a hurry,” Abby said.
Peter’s shoulders sagged. He had just given in to his mother, and this was how he was rewarded?
The Worst Things To Do In The Morning—A List by Peter Grady.
1. Wake Up.
2. Wake Up CJ.
A tornado outbreak from the minute she woke, CJ slept on her back, totally still with her hands folded over her chest. Her resting pose always freaked Peter out, as if his little sister was part vampire or something. And she slept hard. You could shake her, and she’d roll a little like a large log, only to return to the original resting spot. She had resisted a set bedtime since she was two, and now that their father was out of town a lot, Abby didn’t have the energy at night to battle and enforce. So she let CJ run and run until she was totally out of gas, then she’d find her curled in some random spot—the middle of the hallway, under the kitchen table—and Abby would carry her to bed.
Peter hovered over her bed. He sighed.
“Wake up, CJ.”
Baby Vampire didn’t respond. Her interwoven fingers sat motionless on her chest.
He stood on the bottom of her mattress and jumped up and down, chanting “Wake up!” but CJ’s body just moved with the waves.
The Underdog Parade Page 2
