The trucker nodded and wiped his brow with his forearm. Peter found himself making his way to the front yard, hugging the perimeter of his house. Josh and the truck driver unloaded long planks of wood from the back of the truck, two or three at a time. They worked in silence, and Peter studied them as he moved closer, not stopping until he reached the giant pine tree. He squatted and peered from behind it, nibbling at a fingernail as he watched.
The trucker broke the silence by asking Josh what in high heaven he was building with all this wood. Josh found this to be the most hysterical question for reasons beyond Peter and, by the confused look on his face, beyond the trucker. The trucker stepped back and stared as Josh’s body quivered, then erupted again in laughter. This went on for a couple of minutes. The trucker distanced himself from Josh. When they continued unloading, the trucker worked with newfound energy.
Peter waited, but Josh never did answer the question.
After the truck was empty and the front lawn layered with stacks of wood, Josh had to chase after the trucker to tip him, and the trucker accepted the crumpled bills at a trot, heading quickly back to the truck’s cab.
Peter slid further behind the tree and sat down, his back against the bark. With the trucker gone, there was no longer safety in numbers. It was the middle of the day, but the nighttime-roaming, prayer-chanting Josh was not far from the front of Peter’s mind. However, Peter couldn’t get himself to leave; he was drawn to Josh, an invisible pulling, but maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. The trucker sure sensed something and couldn’t leave fast enough.
Peter heard the sound of a twig snap and looked up to see Josh standing above him. The sun behind him shaded his face.
Peter scurried to his feet, his height barely reaching Josh’s chest. “Oh, hi.”
Josh looked around Peter’s yard. Peter maneuvered his body to see the expression on Josh’s face. There was none.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked.
Peter fought the initial and strong urge to lie. He figured Josh already knew the answer; the empty driveway gave it away. “She’s at work, but my uncle’s in the backyard with my sister.” He rushed the end part of the sentence.
Josh nodded, and Peter squinted up at him. Peter didn’t know why he always thought of wild animals when he saw Josh, but standing in front of him now was like crossing paths with a bear in the woods—should he make a lot of noise to show a lack of fear, or play dead?
“I forgot your name,” Josh said, not apologizing but merely stating a fact.
“Peter.”
Josh nodded again. “How old are you again, Peter?”
“Twelve and a half.”
Josh scratched the side of his face. “Wow. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a day over twelve, but a whole half.”
Peter felt his face redden. “How old are you?”
Josh leaned down toward him and whispered, “Twenty-three and three quarters.”
Peter had known older people, his parents for one, but out of uncertainty toward the person he was speaking to, he acted impressed.
A man in designer sunglasses and a black, sleeveless vest sped down the street in a golf cart. Many residents traveled this way, even if they weren’t off to a round of golf.
“Listen, Peter. I have four really long pieces of wood that I need to move from my lawn to my driveway. I should have had the trucker help, but I wasn’t thinking. He seemed in a rush anyway. I don’t think it’s a job for anyone under twelve, but maybe a really strong twelve and half—”
“I can do it.” The words rushed out from somewhere inside Peter, not his brain.
“Maybe we should wait until your mother comes home so we can ask her if it’s okay. I don’t want—”
“It’s okay, really.”
Josh puffed out his right cheek, then his left as if he was debating against himself. A slow shrug of his shoulders signaled he’d come to some sort of verdict. “Heck, I’ve always found it easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission anyway. Let’s go.”
Peter followed closely behind Josh, his two steps equaling one of Josh’s. The wood planks in question were indeed a two-person job, the length of two diving boards and as thick as Peter’s fist. They spanned most of Josh’s front lawn. Josh instructed Peter to bend down and lift with his legs for more strength and less strain on the back. Peter felt his arms quivering as they carried the first board. He studied Josh’s arms, searching for a sign of struggle, but saw only the blue veins streaking through his locked arms.
Peter’s father used the gym in the pavilion when he was home. Peter had started to notice changes in his Dad’s body. It was impossible not to, really. Peter and CJ had caught him several times admiring his shirtless body in the mirror. Sometimes he’d flex and make them grab his arm or punch his stomach. There was something different in Josh’s lean yet perfectly curved muscles, something genuine—not store-bought.
After they placed the first plank on the driveway, Peter held his one arm to stop it from shaking and asked, “Josh, how will cars get in and out of the driveway?”
“What cars? I don’t own one.”
“What about when your parents visit?”
Josh looked at Peter as though he was an old clock and his face could be easily opened to display the inner workings. A slight smile appeared on Josh’s face. “Visit? So, you know about my parents? I figured everyone must. This place is like a small town. A small, fenced-in town.” Josh laughed. “Sounds like I could be describing a prison.”
Peter had no intention of explaining to Josh the visits from his mother. They walked across the lawn to the next plank. Peter made sure to lift with his legs.
“Good,” Josh said. They walked several paces, Josh moving backward and facing Peter. “So, I guess you know about the race then too.”
Peter nodded. “I was there. I saw it.”
Josh didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed. He smiled, “Don’t hold it against me. Sometimes I act before I think. I guess you could say I was inspired.”
Peter would never hold that against Josh. If Peter acted on just a small portion of his thoughts, especially when he tried to rally himself to oppose Chipper, his life would be a lot better.
“I’m only here for a short time. Until my parents sell the house, or something else,” Josh said, pausing.
“What do you mean, ‘something else?’” Peter asked.
Josh wiped the sweat from his face and looked toward the sky. “That’s a conversation for another day,” he said, and from his tone, Peter knew Josh was done talking.
They dropped the second plank and slid it across the driveway until it touched the other plank. From the dead-end direction of Ranch Street, the golf cart from a couple minutes earlier puttered toward them, now carrying two men. Josh lifted his arm over his head to stretch his shoulder. The cart slowed as it passed, the passenger leaning his head across the lap of the driver to get a better view. He looked like a carbon copy of the driver with his sunglasses, khaki shorts, and sleeveless vest. The driver rested his arm on the steering wheel as he drove. The Plexiglas windshield was folded over, and his hand dangled in the open air.
The expression on Josh’s face changed. He dropped his hands to his side and returned the golfers’ stares with a hard, vacant look. Suddenly, the simple conversation and Josh’s small grins seemed miles away, and again Peter saw the wild animal in his neighbor.
“Do you know them?” Peter asked.
Josh’s eyes followed the slow-moving golf cart. When the golfers were gone, Josh just smiled at Peter without answering.
Most of the interactions Peter had with the golfers and residents of Willow Creek Landing were similar to the exchange with the guy who’d lost his ball. They either ignored Peter or treated him like he worked for them.
CJ appeared in the side yard between their houses, swinging the lasso over her head. She let the loop fly, barely missing the shrub she aimed to rope in.
Josh watched, the dark cloud that had enve
loped him now evaporated. “She’s pretty good with that thing.”
“She thinks she’s a superhero.”
CJ tried to rope the shrub again, casting glances at her audience as she wheeled the lasso over her head. She let go and the loop landed over the top of the shrub.
“Gotcha,” she shouted. CJ pulled from her end and the shrub bowed.
“You better be careful before the shrub gets mad and catapults you across the street,” Josh shouted.
CJ stopped applying pressure on the rope. She had no idea what catapult meant, but it didn’t sound good.
“What’s Uncle Herb doing?” Peter said, hoping his sister would get the hint and leave. Peter knew she wanted them to welcome her over. Usually, CJ wouldn’t wait for such formalities, forcing her presence wherever Peter might be, but Peter knew she wasn’t completely sold on Josh yet. Neither was Peter.
“He’s napping,” CJ replied.
Peter sighed. Where was it written that big brothers had to include little sisters in everything they did? Peter made a mental note to himself that once school starts he would poll his classmates and take the results back to his mother.
As if on cue, his mother’s car pulled into the driveway at the usual high speed.
“Mom’s home, Peter!” CJ said.
Peter didn’t want to leave. He was enjoying helping Josh, one of the few people he had spoken to this summer who wasn’t related.
Peter noticed his mother looking at him as she put the car in park and removed the keys from the ignition. She stepped out and waved. Dressed in a gray business suit and with her hair pulled back into a knob, Peter thought she looked very pretty. Recently, Peter had rarely seen her with makeup or jewelry. He remembered how his father made her very angry once when he’d told her the pink sweatpants she wore every day “would walk on their own soon.” Her response was something like If you had my life, you’d do the same. His father, as usual, made a joke, further infuriating his mother. He’d love to wear pink sweatpants, he said.
Abby stopped next to CJ in the middle of the strip of grass that separated the two houses. She rubbed the back of her head.
“Hi, Joshua. I’m Abby. We met briefly when we first moved in last summer. You left for college shortly after,” she said.
“Josh,” he said, and bent down to pick a twig that stuck out of his sandal like a flag.
Peter sensed uneasiness in his mother. She waved Peter over and he obeyed, wondering if she had a problem at work. When he reached her, he whispered, “How did it go today?”
“Good. I think I have my first client.” She looked at Josh. “I recently started working again. As a realtor.”
Josh nodded. “Congratulations.” He twisted the cap off a water bottle. “I asked Peter if he could help me for a minute. I hope you don’t mind.”
Peter noticed the pause before his mother answered.
“Of course not. What are you building? A third floor or a ladder to poke the clouds for rain?” she said and laughed. The laugh didn’t sound right to Peter. It was the same fake laugh she used with Josh’s mother.
“Just a project,” Josh said with a shrug.
Abby nodded, though visibly not satisfied with the answer. “I’m really sorry to hear about your parents. Is there anything we could do to help?”
Josh shrugged again.
Abby shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “Yeah, well . . . if you can think of anything. What do you say we go check on Uncle Herb, guys?”
CJ took off. Peter half-waved to Josh as he left, avoiding eye contact mainly because he felt Josh’s eyes on him. Inside, Peter ran to the kitchen window facing Josh’s house and watched as Josh pointed at the bundles of wood, counting.
From behind, Peter heard Uncle Herb’s wheelchair buzz into the house from the backyard and his mother saying, “I’m so sorry, Herb.”
“Me too, Uncle Herb,” CJ added.
Peter turned to the French doors in the kitchen that led to the back patio. Uncle Herb was there smiling, half of his face and hairless head completely sunburned, while the other half, his normal shade. He fell asleep on the back porch only partly protected from the sun. He looked like a fishing bob.
Abby left the kitchen and returned with a jar of moisturizer and dropped the container in CJ’s lap. She held a small mirror in front of Uncle Herb’s face. He laughed at his reflection.
She patted Herb’s arm, then asked, “Did anyone call?”
The answer came in chorus: No, nope, and no-o-o.
By the way she paused before grabbing the cordless phone and marching out of the kitchen, Peter knew anyone meant his father.
CJ dragged a stool over to Uncle Herb and climbed to the top. Standing on the circular seat, she opened the moisturizer jar and starting rubbing cream on her uncle’s head.
“The burn might not have been so bad if you had more hair, Uncle Herb,” Peter said. Uncle Herb had only a few strands, each combed over to the side.
“Anks, Pita.”
For every glob of moisturizer that managed to reach Uncle Herb’s head, twice as much fell on the floor or on some part of CJ. With the back of one hand, she wiped at a smudge on her cheek, only to smear it down to her earlobe. She asked, “What is Josh building?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said.
“Did you ask him?”
“No,” Peter said, defensively. “You should have seen what happened when the truck driver asked.”
CJ wiped her hands on her shirt. “Josh is weird,” she said. She jumped down from the top of the stool, landing on her feet, then fell on her knees. She placed her hand on Uncle Herb’s leg. “All done, Uncle Herb.”
Uncle Herb pushed the joystick of his wheelchair and it jerked forward, almost hitting CJ.
They all found this to be the funniest thing in the world.
Bath Time
After dinner Peter helped his mother bathe Uncle Herb. The setting sun immersed the bathroom in golden hues as they lowered Herb slowly, propping his back against the back of the acrylic tub. Peter held him steady. They worked fast and in unison like a pit crew.
Uncle Herb watched the bathwater engulf him. “Tie-umin-in,” he said. Tide coming in.
Peter remembered the first time he’d helped bathe Uncle Herb, so nervous he could’ve puked on the spot. It felt so unnatural seeing a naked adult so close. His mother, annoyed at his transparent awkwardness, yelled at him. “There’s nothing that he has that you don’t,” she said, which embarrassed Peter because she’d said it right in front of Uncle Herb. It wasn’t even a true statement. Peter’s chest was as hairless as a baby chicken, and before the water and bubble hid half his body, Peter noticed another patch of hair on Uncle Herb where he had none.
Peter held his uncle by his thin arms as his mother ran a soapy sponge along Herb’s chest and shoulders. Peter watched in silence as she cleaned Herb’s stomach, and then sank her arm into the bubbles to clean his legs and privates. He wondered how many times she’d bathed him. Did she start after their parents died, or was she always helping out like Peter was now? Peter barely remembered his grandparents now; they both died before he turned five. The strongest memory was the color of the orange juice in their house: a murky brown. That was right before they moved into a nursing home.
His mother handed Peter a dry washcloth. “Can you get Uncle Herb’s back, honey?”
Peter sank the cloth into the bubbles. “What time is Dad coming home tomorrow?”
His mother sat back on her heels and stretched her back. “No idea.”
CJ appeared in the doorway. Right before dinner she’d jumped off the couch, tripped and hit her head against the wall, causing no harm to her but leaving a hotdog-shaped dent in the side of her Wonder Woman tiara. “He’s never home,” she said, as she tried to push out the dent with her palm.
“CJ, please. I’m tired,” Abby said.
CJ turned and headed back to the living room. She casually said, “You’re always tired.”
Ab
by sank to her elbows, and her hands enveloped her face. She stared at the empty doorway, rubbing her forehead. “I swear, you guys are putting me over the edge.”
Peter squeezed the lukewarm water from the washcloth. A hot bath these days would be considered a form of torture.
“I got your back, Uncle Herb,” Peter said.
Uncle Herb nodded. He stared straight ahead at the tiles above the shower handles. I got yours too, buddy, he thought to himself.
They lifted Herb into a crouching position, and the water dripped off Herb’s body. Abby held Herb upright as Peter gave his uncle a final rinse with the shower nozzle. Together they lifted him above the tub’s rim and sat him on the covered toilet seat. Then Peter towel dried Herb as Abby slid Herb into his underwear, white undershirt, and pajama bottoms.
For Christmas last year, CJ and Peter gave Uncle Herb a combination clock and CD player, a gift he wanted because he liked to take audiobooks out of the library. Peter thought it the perfect gift since his uncle had trouble sleeping.
Herb liked to listen to audiobooks while in bed—spiritual topics, sometimes history or biography, subjects that made Peter’s eyelids heavy with boredom. But Uncle Herb loved the disks, sometimes asking Peter to change them in the middle of the night if he heard Peter paying a visit to the bathroom.
One of Peter’s daily chores during his uncle’s stay was to set up the player. As his mother folded clothes and put clean socks and underwear in Herb’s dresser, Peter flipped through the CDs that Herb had brought with him. “Uncle Herb, tonight’s choices are The Purpose Driven Life by Rick Warren, or Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer.”
Abby closed the top drawer and opened the middle one. “How about the Purpose Driven Life Drove Me into the Wild,” she said.
Uncle Herb shot his sister a playful look. He said to her, Sounds good.
A rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat came from the bathroom. Now it was CJ’s bath time. Though Peter couldn’t see her, a vivid picture filled his mind. CJ, with bubbles in her hair and on her chin, surrounded by her loyal army of plastic, yellow ducks, which she’d nominate for kamikaze missions to destroy the floating tug boat. CJ’s baths were often flood advisories.
The Underdog Parade Page 6
