“I’m your mother. Do you need another reason?”
“Yes,” CJ said, defiantly matching her stare.
Uncle Herb shifted in his wheelchair. Despite his responsibilities during the day when Abby was at work, Uncle Herb felt he didn’t have a say in the matter. He was still a guest in this house and would never do anything to undermine his sister’s authority, though the repeated glances from Peter and CJ were killing him.
Abby glared at her daughter. “Because I said so. How’s that? Anyway, I’ve decided to put you in camp for two weeks, Missy. You’ll love it. I ran into Suzie’s mom in the supermarket, and she said Suzie never wants to come home from camp. A new session starts on Monday. How does that sound?”
CJ dragged peas around her plate with a spoon. “Horrible.”
“There are a lot of kids who would love to go to summer camp but don’t have the opportunity.”
“Give them my spot,” CJ said.
Abby picked up her plate and went to the sink. “I can’t believe I’m raising such brats.”
“But I can’t go to camp until the project is finished,” CJ pleaded.
Abby turned and faced the table. “What project?”
Knowing she let a secret slip, CJ looked at Peter and Uncle Herb for some support. Peter scowled at her.
“What project?” Abby demanded.
CJ started shoveling peas in her mouth as if they were marshmallows. Peter’s spoonful of peas hung suspended in the air, waiting to see who would break first.
“What project?!”
Then Uncle Herb started coughing, lightly at first but progressing harder as time went on.
“Herb, you okay?” Abby said. She rushed in front of the wheelchair. “Are you choking, Herb?”
Peter sat motionless in the seat next to Uncle Herb. He was the one feeding him, and the last bite had seemed to go down fine.
Uncle Herb cleared his throat and nodded. He asked for water. Peter handed his mother the glass, and she held the straw as Uncle Herb sipped. He nodded again, and Abby wiped his mouth with the bib around his neck.
“You’re okay?”
Herb nodded and said he wanted to lie down. Abby motioned for Peter to follow. Herb avoided eye contact the entire time they changed him into his pajamas, even as Peter lifted him by his armpits into bed. Abby rubbed his cheek, and Peter stayed at the foot of his bed.
“I’ll check on you in a couple minutes,” Abby said.
Peter said good night and started to follow his mother out, but Herb called him back.
“Pita.”
Herb’s head struggled to rise from the pillow. Peter leaned in to cut the distance. Then Peter saw his uncle smile and wink at him.
“Ew-id-ud-aday,” he said. You did good today.
Peter went back and helped his mother clean the kitchen. Abby cleared the dishes from the table while Peter rinsed and loaded. They worked in silence, until Abby came up from behind Peter and put an arm around his shoulders.
“That was pretty scary, huh?”
Peter nodded. He didn’t want his voice to betray him.
“I know you’re close with him, probably even more now. I just want you to know he’s fine, nothing to be too alarmed about. This has happened before.”
Peter nodded again, but he didn’t agree with his mother; he certainly would have remembered if his uncle had previously faked choking to cover for his niece and nephew.
Nighttime Reading
Peter flipped through the Children’s Illustrated Bible in bed. He’d found it on his bookshelf and had to wipe the layer of dust from the book jacket. The title page was inscribed: To Peter—Love, Uncle Herb in a handwriting reminiscent of CJ’s, only with accurate spelling and letters facing the correct way.
Peter had forgotten all about the book and wasn’t sure when Uncle Herb had even given him the gift. It must have been when Peter was very young. Peter lowered his gooseneck night-light to get a better look at the picture of Noah’s Ark. Josh would have needed a part of the golf course to build a replica of Noah’s handiwork, not to mention a couple of construction crews. The Bible explained that the Ark was four hundred and fifty feet long, seventy-five feet wide and forty-five feet high with three levels. Peter wondered if Josh knew these dimensions.
Peter closed the book and turned off the light. He recalled the last part of a conversation he’d had with Josh before he and CJ ran home.
“How long will this take to build?” Peter had asked.
“Faster than you’d think. I’m working under a strict deadline here, young Peter.”
“It will rain soon?”
“More than rain, young Peter. Not your ordinary drizzle, my friend.”
Peter turned on his side and looked out the window. For the first time since he’d moved to the Creek, Peter went to bed with the shades open. He could hear Josh rustling around, and he saw a faint light coming from the direction of his house. Josh had set up portable lights to work in the dark. For more light, he’d strung up tiny, white Christmas lights up and down the driveway, which hung from rods made of scrap wood.
Peter fell back in bed and stared at the ceiling. He came up with two lists in his head. For the first list, he tried to work his way through chronologically:
Reasons Why Josh Is Probably Crazy
A List by Peter Grady.
1. He jumps in the middle of races to cross the finish line.
2. Ex-girlfriend rushes away.
3. He swims naked at golf course ponds at night.
4. He’s building an ark because God told him to.
5. He asks his twelve-year old neighbor to help with this ark.
Peter stopped there, but there was still the mysterious event that Mrs. Keeme alluded to: the trouble Josh got into while away. That might have to be added at a later date if Peter could find out more details. It would take some investigating.
Peter started to form his other list: “Reasons Why Josh Is NOT Crazy—A list by Peter Grady.” He yawned several minutes into constructing this list, still stuck on number one. The list stayed untouched until sleep crept up slowly from behind Peter and clobbered him.
Day 64
Uncle Herb stopped his wheelchair at the doorway to Peter’s room and studied his sleeping nephew. Peter was lying on top of the lone rumpled sheet in only his underwear, his hair matted to his head. Peter had zombied through his morning chores, and Abby had ordered him back to bed before she left for work. Peter hadn’t fought the idea. Herb wanted to check in on his nephew.
A week from today, Herb’s summer vacation would end, and he’d head back to his group home and work. The ticking started. He missed his coworkers in the mailroom, many middle-aged like Herb, but unlike Herb, they possessed the mental capacity of children. The staff workers who ran the agency programs treated Herb well, and many were patient enough to engage in conversations with him. Even friendships had developed over the years. Herb thought it was a decent enough life considering his circumstances.
All that changed in the last six days. He felt different lately, anxious almost, but he couldn’t pinpoint the root of his apprehension. He doubted he had a sixth sense, like a dog who can detect a medical emergency in his owner from the slightest change in breathing, or the rats who could foretell a sinking ship before the crewmen, but Herb couldn’t shake the feeling. He blamed it on nerves, blamed it on worrying about the kids, and his responsibility to watch them. He was also bothered by the seemingly cracking foundation of his sister’s marriage. Nick hadn’t come home since that last argument with Abby. Was he traveling again the last few days? He was gone the entire weekend, and Abby hadn’t even mentioned his name. Who conducts business on a Sunday? Deep down, Herb told himself, he was ready to do whatever he could to protect Peter and CJ—a willing, though broken, servant in the master plan.
Peter groaned and turned over in his bed. Herb dropped his hand on the wheelchair’s control knob and started to reverse the wheels when he heard CJ sprinting down the hallway. CJ
’s inner gearshift had only two speeds: park and full.
She stopped behind Herb’s chair, and he felt her quick and shallow breaths on his neck, then the top plastic layer of her lasso rub against his arm as she squeezed by his wheelchair and into Peter’s room.
“What are you doing, Uncle Herb?” she whispered.
“Ukin a teeta.” Looking at Peter.
CJ looked over to the bed, then cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head toward her uncle as if she was about to let him in on a deep secret. “He’s sleeping, Uncle Herb.”
Herb agreed with her.
CJ hovered until the silence and inertia became too unbearable for her, squeezing past the wheelchair again and into the hallway. She started climbing up the back of Herb’s wheelchair, using the oversized rear tires as footings. His body sank in the wheelchair under her weighted grip on his shoulders. A thick, sweet smell drifted under Herb’s nose, reminding him of a bakery. He turned his head back, almost inhaling a mouthful of CJ’s golden curls.
“Ew eatin mar-male-oh again?” You eating marshmallows again?
“Only two. Mom hid them behind the cereal.” She grunted as she balanced her legs and stood straight up.
“Ta-da!” she shouted, her mouth barely clearing the dome of Herb’s head.
Peter jumped up, startled, his arms frozen forward as if he was carrying a heavy tray.
Uncle Herb sighed.
“CJ,” Peter moaned and crashed back down to the bed. He hoisted the sweat-soaked sheet over his head.
Herb motioned to CJ, and she jumped off the back of the wheelchair and took off down the hallway. Herb maneuvered the wheelchair in reverse out of the doorway. He sat parked in the hall and watched as his groggy nephew rose and headed for his desk. Peter glanced out the window, then removed the cap to his orange Magic Marker, unaware he was being watched. Such a diligent boy, Herb thought, it was time to circle the calendar. Another day without rain.
* * *
Uncle Herb watched as CJ “put on a show” for him, dancing around the living room imitating the dancers from some teen television show. In a heartbeat, he would trade years of life for the ability to dance with CJ.
Herb’s playful and private motto was “don’t diss the abilities.” It had a youthful, urban feel that he liked, though he couldn’t stand the rap music of today. He liked the message behind his motto though: don’t focus on the disability, accentuate the positive. But at times it was hard not to dwell on the negative, on how he limited the kids. Sometimes he felt like a dragging anchor.
* * *
Earlier Peter had looked out the window for Josh, but the entire street was quiet. Peter sprawled out on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Usually Peter acted as CJ’s television censor, and a teenybopper show like this would never have lasted long, but Peter barely seemed to notice the television.
Herb wheeled up to the couch and asked Peter if he wanted to go play at a friend’s house. He figured he and CJ could manage. It was a long sentence for Uncle Herb; he found short bursts to be the easiest way to converse.
Both Peter and CJ stared at him incredulously. Then Peter’s eyes returned to the ceiling.
“Peter doesn’t have any friends in Willow Creek,” CJ stated bluntly, as if she was reading from the community fact sheet. She shook her head slowly, like a person conveying a sad truth in life that could not be changed, only accepted.
Peter glared at CJ. “I do too, CJ. You just don’t know any of them. They’re older than you.”
CJ stared blankly at Peter then turned to Uncle Herb. With less exaggeration this time, she shook her head again, confirming her earlier statement.
Peter noticed and jumped off the couch, storming past Uncle Herb to the hallway until the high pitch sound of small dogs barking stopped him in his tracks. The dogs sounded excited and agitated, as if they were chasing a waning scent.
CJ leaped onto the couch and pointed out the window. “Look, Peter! It’s Mr. Terry’s dogs. They’re loose!”
Herb buzzed over to the screen door where he could get a better look. The matching, furry, white dogs were scampering down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, their tiny legs in overdrive.
“Let’s save them!” CJ yelled as she jumped down from the couch, sidestepping Uncle Herb and pushing open the front door, never breaking stride.
Peter followed, squinting and shielding his eyes from the sun as he tried to keep pace with his little sister. He could feel the hot driveway through his socks.
“Don’t run into the street,” he told CJ, but it was an unnecessary warning. The dogs had already crossed the street, and were angling straight for them.
CJ and Peter stopped running.
“They’re friendly dogs, right?” CJ asked.
“I think so,” Peter said. He couldn’t remember their names, but he’d pet them several times on their walks with Mr. Terry. They seemed sociable and accustomed to the amount of attention Mr. Terry showered upon them.
The dogs ran side by side. Their paws skimmed the ground; their legs paddled through the air at a furious rate. Peter knew all about rabies, how good dogs can turn bad. As the dogs headed straight for him and CJ, the prospect of punting them like a football as an act of self-defense occurred to Peter, but he hoped it wouldn’t get to that. Mr. Terry wouldn’t be happy with his dogs being kicked, even if they’d gone crazy. He looked over and saw Uncle Herb nudging his wheelchair past the front door and down the stone pathway to the driveway.
Peter stiffened as the dogs came closer, and he felt CJ clutch the side of his shorts, but then the dogs parted and ran right around them, not even stopping for a sniff. Peter and CJ turned to watch them go.
Uncle Herb stopped right in front of them. “Hee-hay!” he yelled, and the rise in his voice startled both Peter and CJ.
Never run off again, he added, and the kids could see the anger in his eyes.
CJ bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Uncle Herb,” she murmured.
Peter’s eyes widened. For a day that started off boring, things had certainly changed in a hurry, he thought. First the dogs running wild, then an immediate apology offered by CJ, something their mother had been trying to get since CJ started talking.
The incessant barking never faded because the dogs had stopped next door. They were circling Josh’s ark now, going faster than the seconds hand on a clock.
CJ looked up at Uncle Herb. After sensing that everything was okay between the two, she smiled and asked, “Why are they barking? Is someone inside the ark?”
The skeleton of the upside-down boat was more recognizable now that Josh had started securing the planks to the frame. Peter thought Josh was moving fast with the ark for someone who had only built a birdhouse. Peter dropped to his knees to check for legs underneath the boat. Nobody was there. He wondered if Josh had worked through the night and was sleeping now. It was noticeably cooler at night, which provided better working conditions.
Uncle Herb stopped at the edge of the driveway. He watched the dogs circle with mild curiosity. The dogs seemed frenzied and out of whack but considering the current weather situation, Herb didn’t dwell on it. The heat can make animals do funny things.
A shout came from down the block. “Truman! Capote! You get over here right now!”
Mr. Terry was making his way down his lawn, utilizing a combination of jogging and speed walking. Peter never had trouble spotting Mr. Terry; he was the most colorful dresser in the Creek. Today he sported a half-buttoned, orange Hawaiian shirt with blue flowers on it, and matching blue shorts that hung over his knees, an outfit that most of the creek’s residents, including Peter’s father, wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Mr. Terry’s sense of urgency made Peter take another step further away from the dogs, though their attention remained solely focused on Josh’s boat. In size, the dogs were hardly intimidating, but Peter knew not to mess with animals, especially agitated ones—they were just as unpredictable as people.
CJ sat on the gra
ss between the yards and watched the yapping dogs lap the boat as if she were at a NASCAR race. Mr. Terry stopped next to Peter and shook his head. His round shoulders temporarily shadowed Peter from the blinding sun.
“I don’t know what got into these two. They’re like mini-Cujos,” he said, his words separated between gulps for breath.
“They’re acting weird,” CJ said.
“I know, darling. But aren’t we all in this godforsaken heat?”
CJ shrugged. “I guess so.”
Peter stole glances into the windows of Josh’s house, looking for signs of life. Nothing.
Mr. Terry stepped down to Josh’s driveway and entered the dogs’ path. He lunged for one, but the dog easily slid past him. On their next pass, he grabbed one, either Truman or Capote (Peter couldn’t tell them apart), by the backside. The dog squirmed and fought like a hooked marlin. Then Mr. Terry quickly pulled back one of his hands and let the dog free. “Ow, Truman, you bitch!” he yelled and shook his hand in the air.
A laugh came from behind them. Mr. James was walking toward them, taking it all in.
“He bit me!” Mr. Terry told him.
CJ stood. “Do you need a Band-Aid?”
Mr. James inspected Mr. Terry’s finger and, with his back to the kids, quickly kissed Mr. Terry’s finger. “You’ll live. Let them run. Tire ’em out.”
Mr. James turned and smiled at Peter and CJ. There was something genuine about his smile that Peter liked; there was no fakeness behind it, unlike the smiles adults typically gave children. A supermarket smile, Peter had labeled it. Mr. James looked over Peter’s head and waved to Uncle Herb.
Peter had forgotten his uncle was on the driveway, blocked from joining them because of the slightly uphill grass divider between properties. Peter started walking over to him, and Mr. James followed.
The Underdog Parade Page 9
