Peter had called his bouts Grandma Seizures. Of course, that was not the clinical term, but early on Peter had misheard the term grand mal. Another medical term for his seizures was tonic-clonic, which sounded more appropriate to Peter in a funny sort of way. Peter pictured shaking a liter of soda and then watching it explode. That’s what his seizures felt like.
Uncle Herb had his Bible in his lap, but he was listening to the news on a small, portable radio he always had near him. Old school, Abby always teased him, no iPhones in Herb’s life. There was a report on the weeklong forest fires in California followed by a taped interview with a Malibu resident who had lost his house to the sprawling wildfire shortly after undertaking a major renovation to rebuild his home after the last wildfire a few years ago.
“Hat inks,” Uncle Herb said. That stinks.
The man took it in good spirits; at least that’s what came through during the radio interview. He joked about being happy that he didn’t waste time putting up the molding.
There’s nothing you can do against an act of God, Herb thought. It’s not like he was smoking in bed. California was going through a drought worse than the one they were living through on the East Coast.
Uncle Herb remembered the last wildfire that hit Long Island, over a decade ago by now. The Sunrise Fire, named after the blaze that engulfed both sides of Sunrise Highway, was a series of major brush fires that devastated the Pine Barrens regions of central Long Island, threatening many area homes and businesses. It closed down the highway and stopped train service, effectively cutting off a portion of the South Shore from the rest of Long Island. It took firefighters from all over the island and the city to extinguish the flames.
Uncle Herb wondered how far that fire was from here. Willow Creek Landing abutted the Pine Barrens regions, but the Pine Barrens was bigger than most people think, covering almost a hundred thousand acres. As far as he knew, the developers had not even cut out their vision for Willow Creek Landing at that time, but they were probably thrilled that the preservationists did not beat them to the punch for the property. Uncle Herb thought the woods behind the golf course would be a fun place to explore with Peter and CJ, but it was probably not handicap-accessible—he pictured his chair getting stuck on a giant tree root, lifted off the ground like a small fishing boat on the top of a giant whale.
CJ kicked open the screen door and rumbled out, wiping a white, sticky substance off her lips and cheeks.
“Marshmallows,” Peter answered as if he read Herb’s mind. “She can’t help herself.”
CJ trudged across the front yard, kicking up a cloud of dust in her wake. The remaining grass looked like hay, and it crunched under her step. Peter had told Herb that the neighbors across the street watered their lawn on the sly, sometimes with spray bottles, but even their grass now had the color of faded leather and was swallowed in the sea of brown.
“Have you read the entire Bible?” Peter asked unprompted, bored with watching CJ lasso anything that could be hooked.
Uncle Herb held up two crooked fingers.
“Wow,” Peter said. He’d read The Outsiders four times, his personal record, but that wasn’t nearly as thick the Bible.
CJ wiped her forehead with her arm, her tiara tipped to one side. “I’m sweaty.”
A golf cart zipped by with two men and their golf clubs, triggering a recent experience in Peter’s mind.
“Is Dad home?” he asked, suddenly remembering the foggy conversation shortly after his seizure.
CJ collapsed to a sitting position against the garage door. “Who knows?” she said as if an answer required too much energy on her part.
Uncle Herb sat in silence, looking into the distance. He knew the answer but decided to plead ignorance. He’d heard Nick come in and leave like a summer shower—a quick thunderstorm was more like it, Herb thought. The neighbors’ garage door opened, and the kids’ attention turned away from their father.
Josh appeared from the garage, dressed in a maroon T-shirt with a white inscription reading Who’s Your Daddy? Without missing a beat, he corralled his unruly hair into a ponytail, dropped two wooden horses on one of the few open spaces of lawn, and ran an extension cord from the garage back to the horses, all with a stream of cigarette smoke trailing him. Then he noticed he had spectators.
A thin smile pushed his cigarette to the corner of his mouth. “He has risen.”
Peter half-waved.
Josh flicked his cigarette to the ground and stepped over the bundles of wood, slowly walking their way. His jeans, stained with dark blotches, were ripped in places where you could see the underlying threads. He grabbed what looked like an oversized, plastic, yellow ruler off one of the bundles.
Josh squatted down in front of CJ and handed her the ruler. “Do me a favor, hold this on top of my head.”
CJ hesitated, looking over at Uncle Herb before holding the giant ruler over Josh’s head. She gave it back, and Josh studied a small, clear cylinder in the middle of the ruler. A black liquid washed back and forth inside the tube.
“Let me see here. Yup, just what I thought,” Josh said.
“What?” Peter wanted to know.
“It’s called a level. Its purpose is to make sure things are even and square.” He looked gravely at Peter. “I’m a little off.”
Peter thought he was joking, but there was no hint of a punch line in Josh’s straight face.
“Those dudes over there,” Josh said, pointing across the street to the home of Mr. James and Mr. Terry. “They said you had a seizure the other night.”
Peter felt his face flush. He avoided Josh’s eyes.
Josh continued without waiting for a response. “Yeah, well, I’m here to say I’m sorry. The guys said the lights from the rent-a-cops might have tripped it off.”
“It’s okay,” Peter said, just wanting to move on. Josh made him sound like a circuit breaker.
“Peter has epilepsy,” CJ said.
“Hee-hay,” Uncle Herb said.
Josh smiled and stepped past Peter to Uncle Herb’s wheelchair. “I’m Josh,” he said and gently held the gnarled knots of Herb’s fingers in both hands.
Uncle Herb nodded. Peter wished he had said something, anything. He wanted to see if Josh could understand his words. It was one of those weird barometers Peter used to judge people, though he didn’t know what the test measured.
Josh stared at the Bible in Uncle Herb’s lap, long enough for Peter to notice. Then Josh looked away.
“What are you doing over there?” CJ asked.
Josh looked over at the piles of wood on his driveway and laughed, as if from this view he finally understood how crazy it all must look.
“Long story,” Josh said, looking at Peter. “I’m working on a project, an extremely time sensitive one. I could use some help if you’re up for it. An assistant.”
Nobody ever asked Peter for this sort of help, and he looked away, feeling both embarrassed and pleased. Even his father never asked, which was fine with Peter. His dad’s frustration with his inability to fix things was usually taken out on the nearest person.
Uncle Herb didn’t seem too thrilled about the idea. Peter could tell he was mulling over his decision. Peter wondered what Josh’s reaction would be if Uncle Herb dropped his head in prayer.
“Please, Uncle Herb,” he said.
Uncle Herb slowly nodded okay.
“I want to help too!” CJ said as soon as Peter received permission.
Peter looked over at Josh. “She always wants to do what I do.”
“No problem,” Josh answered, in a way that made it seem he was answering everyone’s questions.
“Are the police going to come?” CJ asked, hopeful.
Peter covered his face with his hand.
Josh smiled and opened his palms to the sky.
The Project
The tool belt Josh handed Peter wilted down below his waist even on the smallest setting, so Josh created a new hole with a leather puncher. CJ wante
d a tool belt too, but Josh gently placed his hand on her shoulder and guided her to the garage. “I have a very important job for you,” he told her.
Peter’s eyes widened as he took inventory of the garage. The place looked like a Home Depot. Josh cleared his throat and said since Peter and CJ were his assistants, it was of the utmost importance for them to know the names and uses of each tool.
“Where did you get all this stuff?” Peter asked.
“It’s my father’s, an accumulation over a lifetime.”
Josh showed them the garage. When Peter or CJ would ask Josh the name or purpose of a specific tool, Josh would mostly shrug and say he had no idea. He did point out the different types of saws and warned them to stay away from them if they “liked all their digits.”
“And here, CJ, is your first project,” Josh said, pointing to a large, square piece of wood leaning against the wall. It was at least three CJs high and wide. “This is the door for my project. I need you to paint something, a mural, dress it up.”
CJ’s head shot back. “What should I paint?”
“Whatever you want.”
CJ twisted her face in thought. Josh pulled several paint cans from a shelf. He opened all of them and handed her several paintbrushes. “It’s not every color in the spectrum, CJ, but it should suffice.”
CJ didn’t hear a word he said—colorful images fired through her mind like shooting stars.
Peter followed Josh out of the garage, and they started rearranging the wood to Josh’s instruction. Peter held a long piece of wood vertical in the air as Josh opened and locked a stepladder. He climbed it with another piece of wood lying on his shoulder. At the second to top step, he asked Peter to hand him the nail gun.
“The what?”
Josh smiled and pointed with his chin. “The scary looking thing over there. I guess I’m not that good of a teacher. Keep your finger off the trigger.”
Peter lifted a heavy gun-shaped instrument and carefully handed it to Josh, who considered the tool before leaning into the ladder for support and pressing the tip of the nail gun against the point where the two boards met. He looked down at Peter.
“I guess I should tell you I never used one of these before,” Josh disclosed.
The look on Josh’s face was one Peter never saw before in the short time he knew his neighbor: uncertainty. Peter stepped as far away as could without letting go of the beam and closed his eyes.
BAM! Peter flinched, and the sudden angry outburst of the nail gun startled Herb, sending the Bible on his lap into the seat’s crevice. A group of birds scattered from the cable wire running high in front of the homes. Josh stepped down off the ladder. The board that had rested on his shoulder now hung suspended in the air connected to the vertical beam.
“Wow!” Josh shouted, and his amazement made Peter cringe a little, as if even Josh himself wasn’t sure how everything would turn out. “Sure beats a hammer, huh?”
Uncle Herb had to restrain himself from calling Peter and CJ back to the house, though CJ looked completely safe and content in her section of Josh’s garage. It was obvious to Herb that Peter enjoyed Josh’s company, and Herb’s instincts about Josh were positive despite the hippie look, but that twinge of fear Herb felt when he took the kids down Slocin Road had returned. Josh looked squeamish using the nail gun and was visibly surprised at the kickback of the circular saw. Obviously he was not a carpenter by trade. Herb had to remind himself that he was the kids’ chaperone, not their party director on a cruise ship.
But then Josh looked as if he was getting comfortable. BAM! BAM! BAM! After nailing another board to Peter’s vertical piece of wood, opposite the first horizontal board, they dragged the ladder a few feet down and repeated the process. Soon they had five of these creations, looking like a column of half opened umbrellas.
Josh put the nail gun back in the case, and Herb started breathing easier.
Peter admired their work as he followed Josh back down the driveway to where they started. Whatever it was they were building, they were doing it quickly.
“Do you build a lot of things, Josh?”
“I think I built a birdhouse in Boy Scouts a long time ago before they threw me out,” Josh said, matter-of-factly.
Peter again looked over their work. This was some leap from a birdhouse. It spanned half of the driveway, longer than a pickup truck but shorter than a school bus.
Josh climbed the ladder again. He asked Peter to grab his drill and a fastener from a bucket on the driveway. Josh held one of the black pieces of metal to the sky.
“They don’t make ’em like these anymore, young Peter. Pure, corrosion-resistant, galvanized iron, hot-dipped in molten zinc. I bought them off an old wreck from a shipyard in Greenport.”
Peter realized the opportunity to ask was now in front of him. He hoped Josh wouldn’t laugh at Peter like he did to the guy delivering the wood.
“What are you building, Josh?”
Josh lowered his drill gun and smiled. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”
Peter gazed down the column of letter Ts. “What is it?”
Josh scratched his cheek and placed the drill gun on a ladder rung. “Do you believe in God, young Peter?”
“What?” Peter said, though he heard the question perfectly clearly.
Josh waited a beat and then repeated his question.
“Yeah,” Peter said, in an eye-darting, murky-sounding sort of way. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God, but the point-blank question rattled Peter, threw him off-kilter. No one ever asked him this question directly, not even in the short time he had attended Sunday school.
“Do you believe God talks to people?”
Peter shifted the weight from one foot to the other. He did believe in God, but his image of God was this distant, all-powerful, school principal type who made and enforced all the rules from a high and unreachable office in a cloud. He was the one who decided who stayed and who was suspended indefinitely. You never heard his voice, even over a P.A. system. Josh had this very serious look on his face, and he was waiting patiently on Peter’s answer. His expression motivated Peter to say the answer he thought Josh wanted to hear.
“I guess so.”
Josh nodded and looked at Peter with evaluating eyes. Peter felt like the face of a clock again. Josh had opened him up and was now tinkering inside, searching for the real answer.
“I’ll just come out and tell you, young Peter. You can decide if I’m crazy or not.”
Peter thought of the young woman who’d peeled out in front of Josh’s house a couple days ago. Had he just told her about the project?
“God told me to build an ark,” Josh said plainly.
Peter looked over to his house just to make sure Uncle Herb was still outside watching. “Like Noah?” he asked. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Peter made a mental note to refresh his memory on the story of Noah. Without knowing the particulars, Peter was confident Noah’s Ark was longer than a half of Josh’s driveway. Josh’s ark would be one of the smallest boats in the local marina.
“What about all the animals?” Peter asked.
Josh waved off the question off, smiling. “Everyone asks the same question. The animals, the animals. The animals weren’t part of our conversation, young Peter! I can only go on what I was told, there was no follow-up Q&A. I decided to handle it like Kevin Costner does in that baseball movie. I’ll build it, and whoever comes, comes. I’m hoping the answers to the questions will show themselves.”
Peter squeezed his lips together and pictured every boat he’d ever seen before (he’d never seen an authentic ark). Not one matched the look of Josh’s six letter Ts.
“It doesn’t really look like an ark to me, Josh,” Peter said carefully.
The features of Josh’s face softened. “Well, I told you I’ve only built a birdhouse. We’ve just started.”
Josh fished into his jeans and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. The sun had started it
s descent and now hung over the golf course behind Josh’s house. Josh pointed. “This sun is like how I felt about my ex-girlfriend: never leaves.”
“I should go check on CJ. We should probably be going home soon,” Peter said. There was something about darkness and Josh that still didn’t mix well with Peter. Plus he had a lot to chew over in his mind.
Josh lit his cigarette, studying Peter. “You still don’t see it, young Peter.”
“No, it’s just that my mother will be coming home soon and—”
Peter started walking to the garage to get CJ.
Josh held his hand in the air. “Wait, wait, wait. This will help.”
Josh dropped to his knees, and, with cigarette still in mouth, did a headstand on the driveway. CJ would have been impressed, but the strange behavior only resurrected the image of the menacing guy praying and walking the street at night in Peter.
“I have to go,” Peter said.
“Look, young Peter! Look at it through my eyes.”
Peter only saw the column of letter Ts, now connected by two long boards that ran the length of the fixtures.
Josh mouthed to him, “It’s upside down.”
Peter tilted his head and the picture clicked. It’s upside down, Peter told himself. We’re building the boat upside down.
Josh collapsed from his headstand position when he started to clap. “It’s easier to secure the planks to the hull this way,” he said, getting to his feet and examining his cigarette that snapped in two during the fall. “I think I read that in a book somewhere.”
* * *
Over macaroni and cheese again at the dinner table, Peter’s mother laid it on him and CJ. “I don’t want you two going over there anymore.”
“Why?” Peter said, thinking this was greatly unfair. Crazy or not, his afternoon with Josh was the most fun day he’d had the entire summer, maybe since moving into the Creek. The smell of fresh cut wood and sweat, his muscles tired from hard work, had made his post-seizures symptoms and pity fest disappear into the air like sawdust. There was something cool about the work, tough even. He liked placing a pencil behind his ear, and even deliberated taking his shirt off like Josh, but then came to his senses. His pale, hairless chest would have made him look like a recently hatched chicken compared to Josh.
The Underdog Parade Page 8
