The Underdog Parade

by Michael Mihaley

  Peter said goodnight to Uncle Herb and retreated to the living room, away from the orders of General CJ. He sank in the couch and turned on a baseball game. He half-listened to the announcers as they wondered aloud if baseball would go an entire season without one rain delay. History in the making.

  Abby walked past the couch zombie-like on the way to the kitchen. Peter heard a sigh, then the click of the dishwasher’s latch.

  Peter rolled over and looked above the cushions and out the window at the lavender sky. As if Peter caught the sky by surprise, an ear-rattling scream echoed in the distance, followed by a long high-pitched cackle. Peter pushed himself off the couch and looked at his mother, who was standing in the middle of the kitchen holding a plate.

  “What the hell was that?” Abby said, placing the dish on the counter. She moved quickly across the kitchen tiles and past Peter to the open front door. She looked out the screen and down the street. Another scream followed by a high-pitched laugh. Peter had once heard a rabbit scream in the middle of the night. His dad said a cat must have got to it. Peter thought that was the worst sound he ever heard. This new noise topped it. Then a different voice punctured the air, deeper than the first, shouting muffled commands.

  Abby closed and locked the front door. She moved faster than usual back into the kitchen.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, but get CJ out of the tub, Peter,” she said, grabbing her phone midmovement and hurrying to the window at the end of the kitchen—the window facing Josh’s house.

  When Peter entered the bathroom, CJ was sitting still in the tub, holding a duck in each hand and staring at the empty doorway.

  “What’s a matter?” CJ asked.

  “Get out. Where are your pajamas?”

  Peter held CJ’s wrist as she stepped out of the tub. He handed her a towel and ushered her down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom. She stopped and pulled out of Peter’s grip. “Wait, I need my lasso.”

  Her towel fell as she ran back into the bathroom and grabbed the lasso hanging from the robe rack behind the bathroom door. She sprinted past Peter to her room, completely naked besides the lasso wrapped around her shoulder like a fireman carrying his hose. Peter sighed then ran after her.

  CJ stood in the middle of her room, looking trapped. “Are people trying to break into the house?” she said.

  Peter opened CJ’s pajamas drawer and picked out something that would be easy to put on, to save time. He tried to remain calm, but the yelling on a usually quiet summer night had unnerved him—this was more than the normal fore! “No. Just get dressed.”

  “I hope Josh is home. He’ll help us.”

  Peter had to admit Josh did cross his mind. Then he heard a door slam and more yelling from somewhere outside.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m going to check on Uncle Herb.”

  “Oh, no. I’m coming with you,” CJ said. She trailed Peter, bumping into him as she tried to run while squirming her legs into her pajamas bottoms.

  Uncle Herb’s room was dark, only a soft and rugged voice describing a cloud formation around a mountaintop coming from the CD player. Peter whispered his uncle’s name from the hallway. No response. His sleep patterns were so strange. If this were three in the morning, Uncle Herb would be wide-awake. Peter looked at CJ, nodded, and pointed down the hallway. They sprinted toward the kitchen.

  The kitchen table and counters had come alive. They danced in dark yellow, the color of cough medicine. Abby had turned all the lights out and now stood at the kitchen window, peeking out. Peter and CJ stayed in the hallway until Abby waved them over.

  The security car for Willow Creek Landing was parked at an angle in front of Josh’s house, the flashing yellow light glowing from the top of the hood. A tall, thick, shadowy figure stood at Josh’s front door, knocking.

  “It’s Brutus,” Peter whispered.

  “Uh oh,” CJ said from somewhere behind Peter.

  Brutus was a legendary figure at the Creek. Peter placed him to be somewhere older than Josh, but younger than his father. One of the residents had dubbed the shadowy figure Brutus, and the name stuck mainly because no one knew his real name or felt particularly comfortable asking him. Brutus wasn’t the chatty type. He shaved his head like Peter’s father, but it looked a lot meaner on Brutus. His head had a sharp shape as though a bullet was shooting down into his neck. The goatee and the hint of a black-ink tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve didn’t hurt his image either. Peter loved making lists about Brutus—his real name (favorite choice: Rattlesnake), his tattoo (a raven, the small black part that always showed from under his sleeve reminded Peter of a beak), where he lived (a tie between a cave and a dark mansion on top of a foggy mountain where only one treacherous road led to the top).

  Brutus knocked again, harder this time. The sound of static came from a walkie-talkie in his other hand.

  Josh’s house was completely dark. Mr. Terry approached from down the street, holding a bag of groceries. He slowed as he passed the security car.

  Abby pressed her face to the window screen and quietly called him over. When he stopped in front of their window Peter could smell the musky, strong scent of sweat mixed with cologne. “Brutus is on the case,” Mr. Terry said.

  “What’s going on?” Abby asked.

  He shifted the bag of groceries from one arm to the other, then placed them at his feet. His face came so close to the screen that his nose almost touched. “The scuttlebutt at the general store is someone who closely resembled our new friend over there was skinny dipping at hole eleven, causing quite the stir out of the Canadian geese and the people eating dinner on the concourse—how do they get those window seats anyway, you must need some pull—”

  “We heard yelling.”

  Mr. Terry laughed. “There was a chase from security, which apparently one said skinny-dipper made a mockery out of.”

  “Was it definitely Josh?”

  Brutus knocked on the door again, louder this time.

  Mr. Terry gave her a look. “I guess it could have been a hairy-legged, flat-chested girl, but there were things swinging where that shouldn’t have been, if you catch my drift.”

  Abby smiled and shook her head in understanding. “I guess the golfers frown upon skinny-dipping on their course.”

  Mr. Terry smirked. “Prudes.”

  Brutus stepped away from the door and spoke into the walkie-talkie. He slowly walked the perimeter of Josh’s house, making no attempt to hide that he was looking in the windows.

  As Peter watched, he felt this pulsing from the corner of his eye, the flashing yellow of the security car. He made the mistake of looking directly into the rotating lights, and the rhythm hypnotized him. His head started to bob slowly in sync, and he felt his vision start to blur into an ocean of golden waves. His jaw and nostrils tightened. There was a smell of something burning. In a dreamlike sequence, his skin started to itch, his fingers twitched, and his tongue felt like it was growing. He heard CJ say his name, but she sounded like she was yelling from the bottom of a canyon. Then the black clouds started to come, and he knew what was about to happen, but it was all so dreamlike, and he was powerless to stop it. The clouds first came from the bottom of his left eye, then the top of his right. He sensed their plan was to meet to in the middle. That was the last thing he remembered.

  Day 62

  Nick opened his eyes when he felt the cab slow down in front of the gates and guardhouse of Willow Creek Landing. He never got bored with his community’s presentation.

  “Let me out here,” he told the taxi driver.

  Nick pulled up the handle to his luggage and started to roll the bag home. If the gates and guardhouse were not discouraging enough for uninvited visitors, the sight of Brutus and his beefy arms sitting in his metal fold up chair would do the trick. Nick knew this was why the community board loved the guy. He’d tried several times himself to engage with Brutus, thinking he’d be a good guy to get on his side but always to no avail.

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sp; Nick nodded as he rolled up. “How ya doin’?”

  Brutus didn’t answer from behind his dark sunglasses. He never responded to the greetings of the residents.

  Nick pointed back to the taxi sitting at the red light, waiting to turn back onto Slocin Road. “Nothing like sitting in a car for a half hour that reeks of cumin and body odor, you know what I mean?”

  Again, nothing from Brutus, and Nick thought that was a pretty good line—in a jocular, guy-to-guy type of way. As far as Nick knew, Brutus could have been sleeping behind those dark sunglasses, the rest of his face was so devoid of emotion, but as Nick passed, Brutus’ head tilted ever slightly. It freaked Nick out a bit, like those portraits in a haunted house where the eyes follow you.

  Nick thought about getting a drink in the clubhouse before heading home but decided to shower first and wash the trip off of him. The faint murmur of golf carts hummed in the distance as Nick turned onto Ranch Street. He could smell the cooking of some mass-produced dinner coming from the pavilion’s catering hall—one fish entrée, one chicken, and one beef, though it was impossible to distinguish the smells. He beamed with community pride until he came upon the stacks of wood planks covering the Keeme front lawn. He glared at each pile as he passed, hoping someone, anyone, would notice his level of disgust. The front door to his own home opened, and Abby marched down the lawn.

  Nick pointed to the stacks. “What is this?”

  “Why didn’t you call me back?” Abby stopped inches from his face.

  Nick remembered the six voicemails, and the fact that he hadn’t listened to a single one. “Oh, I forgot to turn my phone back on after the flight.”

  “How long was your flight, Nick? I’ve been calling you since last night.”

  “I had it turned off for meetings, maybe I forgot to check. What’s your problem?”

  “Oh please, that stupid phone is like an oxygen mask to you. You wish you could forget about your phone. Or do you wish you could forget about your family?”

  “Whoa. Uh, hi, Abby. How are you? Oh, my trip? Just fine. What’s the matter with you?”

  “What’s the matter?” She spoke through clenched teeth and tilted her head in the way that Nick knew meant she was primed for a fight. He wasn’t up for one—he would have drunk more.

  Abby looked to the sky as if making a mental list. “Well, let’s see. I feel like a single mother, because my husband is off to God-knows-where and God-knows-when, because he never calls. Our son had another seizure, and they seem to be getting worse. Our daughter almost poked my brother’s eye out with that frigging lasso of hers, and, oh yeah, we had the cops in front of the house last night. Apparently our neighbor was too hot to wear any clothes and decided to go for a dip somewhere on the golf course. How’s that for starters?”

  Nick hardly tried to stymie his laugh. “Which water hole?”

  “Listen, Nick—” Abby moved closed and poked her finger into his chest, “—I don’t know what’s going on in that little head of yours and, honestly, I don’t have the energy or patience to guess. But it’s been going on for a while now. I want to know.” She poked him harder, “No, I deserve to know if you’re checking out. You understand me?”

  Nick held his hands up in surrender. “Easy.”

  Abby was heading back to the house. “I’m tired, Nick. I’m really tired.”

  Abby headed toward the bathroom and, without turning around, she said, “Peter is resting. CJ and Uncle Herb are napping. I’m taking a shower.”

  Nick tossed his jacket on the living room couch and left his suitcase in the foyer. It was hot outside, but the inside of his house seemed stifling. He rubbed his open hand over his mouth, nose, and eyes, and he squeezed his forehead. He walked slowly down the hallway toward Peter’s room. The lights were out and the shades were drawn. A portable fan was spinning at full blast. Nick looked at the action figures on the floor, a map of the United States, a poster of some baseball star on the wall, and the desk calendar with all the dots that Peter drew on (Nick had no idea what they symbolized). Here was a perfectly normal boy, Nick thought, besides the fact that his brain was wired just a little off, a stalling car not firing on all cylinders.

  Nick sat at the edge of the bed and stared at his son. He wiped Peter’s sweaty hair away from his face. It suddenly dawned on him that it had been a very long time since he just sat and looked at his son. He was getting very handsome, looked like his mother.

  “Peter. Are you awake?”

  Peter remained motionless, his chest rising in a slow rhythm. Seizures usually wiped him out for days. Nick stood and headed for the door, thinking that maybe if he could smooth things over with Abby, he could possibly get nine in before dinner, when he heard a soft, weak voice say, “Hey Dad.”

  “Hey, buddy,” Nick said. He stood at the doorway. “How ya doing?”

  “Tired. Mom said it was a bad one.”

  Nick leaned against the doorway. “I heard, buddy. Mom told me. But it’s not the first time, and you always bounce back stronger, right? Just get some rest and get your strength back.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “I was thinking on the flight home, before I heard and everything, I was thinking, ‘Hey, it’s time that Peter and I get out on the golf course together, just me and him.’ I was planning it in my mind, and then Mom told me the news. We’ll have to reschedule once you get your strength back.”

  “That sounds great, Dad.”

  At that second, Nick wished he could see Peter’s eyes—to see if his son had turned. He hoped Peter’s lack of enthusiasm was because the seizure zapped his strength, not that his son realized his father was lying to him (even though part of Nick believed what he said). He could always get away with saying stuff like that to Peter, who tended to see his father in the best light. He could see that his word carried less weight with Abby, and CJ had developed the “I can take you or leave you” attitude the second she could move around independently. But his son was his son.

  Nick sat at the kitchen table and thumbed through the newspaper. “The East End farmers’ dismal crops due to the drought” on page one. “The president’s upbeat message regarding the drought having no correlation with global warming” was on page three. “The subdued but gleeful responses from the owner of the island’s only water park—Business has never been better! Thank God we recycle all our water!”—in the entertainment section. He slid the paper across the table when he heard Abby’s footsteps coming from the hallway.

  “We need to change Peter’s medication. Mr. James mentioned a good doctor he knows. Maybe we should make an appointment,” she said.

  This irked Nick. “Oh, and that fruitcake knows a lot about my son’s problems.”

  “He’s a doctor, Nick.”

  “For Chrissakes, Abby. He’s a freaking podiatrist.”

  Abby sighed and shook her head. “He was just giving neighborly advice. He likes Peter. He did go to medical school. He knows a lot.”

  “Sure.”

  Abby opened the refrigerator and poured a cup of orange juice. “I need to wake Herb. Can you help me bring him into the bathroom?”

  Nick rubbed his face. First class flying, luxury hotels, and cute little secretaries seemed like worlds away from this place: an institution with doctor visits and direct care workers doing bed checks and bathroom breaks. “Jesus,” he muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, what did you just say, Nick?” Her words shot out like BBs.

  “Nothing.”

  She left the room only to storm back in. “You know what, Nick? We were doing just fine without you,” and then she left again.

  Nick sat alone in the kitchen. When he finally stood, he grabbed his suitcase, took his golf bag from the closet, and walked out the front door.

  Day 63

  The sun jutted out of the colorless, hazy sky like a blister. Peter sat next to Uncle Herb in a plastic lawn chair underneath the garage door overhang, not nearly
as comfortable as the back patio with the heat radiating off the driveway tar, but it was Peter’s idea. He wanted to keep a close eye on next door.

  He had stayed inside the house all day yesterday, leaving his darkened room only at night to eat a small bowl of cereal and drink a glass of water. His severe headache had softened since yesterday, but his body still ached, and he felt as if he could fall asleep at a moment’s notice. These were typical post-seizure symptoms.

  Peter sighed. Today, number one on the “Sucks Rocks” list—no, correction, number one across the board on most every list ever created by Peter Grady—was . . . drum roll please . . . the seizure. Dealing with the physical effects after a seizure was difficult enough, obviously harder than the actual seizure since he never remembered that part (only the witnesses did and, unfortunately, they never forgot the sight), but there was a mental tax too.

  It was dealing with the disappointment. As each day passed seizure free, there was this glimmer of hope building inside of Peter that the last seizure he experienced would indeed be his last. A few years ago, the doctors had told his family of a possibility that Peter would outgrow his seizures as his brain matured, and Peter started reading extensively and playing concentration games in the hopes of speeding up the maturing process, but to no avail. His mother said only time would tell. Two years seizure-free was the goal. Once Peter hit that mark the doctors would try to wean him off the medication, and he’d be normal. Eight months was his record. After each seizure Peter would find himself again at ground zero, a hit streak that came to another crushing and immediate end.

  According to his mother, Peter’s seizure the other night was a long one. This made Peter feel even worse. Two seizures in two months meant another round of doctors’ visits filled with blood tests, pee tests, brain scans, and a change of medication. Then more doctor visits to monitor the new recipe. During the last visit, there was talk about changing his diet, and Peter was sure that would be brought up again. The diet didn’t sound that bad—his mother said he could eat a lot of bacon and cheese, something about the fat being good—but there were things he’d have to cut out that Peter would miss desperately, like soda.