Day 66
The house was quiet. Peter was marking his calendar with an orange dot and a blue dot as Uncle Herb watched a morning news program in the living room. CJ had left early for camp without a fight—barely made a peep. She didn’t say a word to Peter. When he heard his mother’s car pull out of the driveway, Peter felt the sensation of losing something and not knowing where to find it.
His mother returned shortly after dropping CJ off; the camp was held at the elementary school behind the library. Peter tipped his shade back and watched as his mother stepped out of the car with the phone to her ear again. Since she’d started working again, that phone was like an earring.
Peter sighed and headed to the living room.
“Uk-a-tiss,” said Uncle Herb, motioning to the television. Look at this.
Peter flopped down on the couch. A spirited weatherman was pointing to a computerized map behind him, where a big green arrow was heading from the ocean to the East Coast of the United States.
“And with that,” said Mr. Very Happy Weatherman, “look for heavy and steady rain, with possible thunderstorms within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, if you can believe it, folks. And there is a front behind it too. We can be in for a real storm. At the top of the hour I’ll have the ten-day forecast.”
Abby walked in and stopped at the door, watching the television. “Yeah, I heard on the radio a couple minutes ago. Everybody is going crazy. Finally, right? A big storm. It’s feast or famine around here.”
The camera panned to two female newscasters, one young and the other middle-aged, sitting at a large desk. They applauded and thanked the weatherman, as if he had a hand in bringing the rain. “When it rains, it pours,” the older newscaster said, and all three laughed heartily, with the weatherman now walking back into the picture and tapping the desk with a pencil in front of the younger newscaster. Once they got their excitement under control, the older newscaster said, “After the break, an update on the California wildfires.”
Peter stood and went to the window in the kitchen. Josh’s ark didn’t look ready to float in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Actually, Peter doubted if the ark would ever be seaworthy. It looked more like a storage crate than anything.
“Maybe this heat will finally break now,” Abby said, entering the kitchen.
Peter didn’t answer, wondering if Josh knew about the weather forecast.
“You okay, Peter? You’re awfully quiet lately. So is your sister. I can’t believe how easily she went to camp.”
“I’m fine, Mom.” Peter considered telling his mother that in a roundabout way, his cowardly ways might have had something to do with CJ’s attitude reversal toward camp, but decided against it.
“What is he building over there, anyway?” Abby asked. “I can’t figure it out. Yesterday I asked him. I said, ‘Heaven knows what you’re building over there. All he did was smirk and say, ‘Exactly’.”
Peter grabbed a box of cereal from the cupboard and a quart of milk from the fridge. Abby placed the three orange vials next to his bowl at the table. Some dessert.
“Crap, I keep forgetting to call that doctor James told me about. Peter, will you call me at work today to remind me? We really should schedule an appointment soon,” Abby said. “I’m such a horrible mom.”
For a second, Peter wondered if she truly meant that. If she did think she was horrible mom, and wanted to get better, wouldn’t she practice it more? Like shooting a basketball—keep working at it until you start getting some into the basket. “Sure,” Peter said, but he didn’t commit the task to memory. His brain felt overloaded with the things spinning around in his head, a washing machine where everything was sudsy and unclear.
Abby sat down across from Peter as he shoveled the first spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not acting yourself.”
Peter nodded.
Abby stared at him for a beat longer, then said, “I was thinking, honey. Uncle Herb goes back to work next Monday, and you don’t start school until a week after that.”
She didn’t need to remind him. Chipper sightings did more than an adequate job.
“Do you think you will be fine here for a couple days by yourself? I hate to do it, but I’m crazy busy at work. Did I tell you I might close on my first house today? Well, assist in closing. I really need to get my license. I also have two other leads—”
Her voice drifted off, and Peter wondered and hoped that one of those leads was not for the house next door.
“I’ll stop in during the day like I do now with Uncle Herb, and I’ll try not to make any late afternoon appointments, but sometimes those are the only times the clients can see the house. You’ll be okay, right?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“I knew you would. I have to go. I’ll try to make it home for dinner, but I left money on the counter for takeout. I’ll call. If you and Uncle Herb want to go for a stroll, we could use milk from the general store,” she said. She stood and kissed the top of Peter’s head. She grabbed her briefcase and phone and rushed out the door to her car.
Peter pushed his bowl away. He looked up and saw Uncle Herb staring at him from the living room.
“Ucks-ike-e-n-ew,” Uncle Herb said. Looks like me and you.
Peter swigged from a glass of orange juice, leaving some at the bottom to wash away the taste of his medication. Uncle Herb made a funny face at him, one that tried to convey toughness and intimidation. Peter thought about trying to return the look but knew he couldn’t even fake tough; he was the opposite of tough. He was Play-Doh.
Uncle Herb’s face broke into a crooked smile with the corner of his bottom lip sinking down as if a fishhook was stuck in it.
Peter smiled and reached for the nearest orange vial.
* * *
Peter spent the rest of the morning organizing his room and reading The Three Musketeers in front of his fan. He was plodding along slowly through the book and was at the part when d’Artagnan duels Athos after being challenged by all three Musketeers separately. How come these guys were never afraid? They had to be, at least a little! They fought with swords—much more frightening than Chipper’s fists and caveman bullying tactics. Peter tossed the book on the floor, thinking at least he could be grateful for the little things in life, such as the change in society that made it unacceptable for people like Chipper to walk around with swords at their hip.
Peter’s mother had called minutes before from the office. She’d officially helped sell her first house. Peter tried to match her enthusiasm but found it hard to muster any excitement, especially after his mother asked him to pick up CJ at camp, because her coworkers wanted to take her out for a celebration—“Happy hour,” she said. Peter sensed that happy hour would turn into happy hours, and he’d be ordering pizza for dinner again. Now it was lunchtime, and he had no idea what to make for himself and Uncle Herb. He headed down the hall for the kitchen, passing Uncle Herb in the living room. Herb’s Bible lay opened on his lap, but his eyes were fixed on the Weather Channel. Peter looked instinctively out the front screen door. The sky was pale and cloudless. He’d have to see a raindrop to believe.
“What do you want for lunch, Uncle Herb?”
Uncle Herb shrugged and smiled, as though he’d happily eat grass if Peter prepared it.
In the kitchen Peter stopped abruptly at the sight outside the bay window. More than two dozen Canadian geese stood on Josh’s lawn. Some walked in circuitous routes, knocking into one another like amusement park bumper cars, while others pecked at the brown grass.
It was an odd sight indeed. Peter knew the geese antagonized the golf course groundskeepers to the point that they had hired a company to rid themselves of the pests. Peter saw the trucks driving around once in a while. He couldn’t remember the name of the company, Geese-R-Us or something to that effect, but their slogan stuck in Peter’s mind: Their goose is cooked. It was a small operation with a couple of dogs trained to patrol the golf course
and chase the geese off the greens and fairway. Usually they flew over to the safe haven of the Pine Barrens or a local park or ball field, only to return later. But rarely did the geese convene in the Creek’s residential section.
Peter’s stomach grumbled. He opened the fridge to barren shelves. There was bread and peanut butter and jelly, but the milk had run out at breakfast. Water or juice with PB&J just didn’t work for Peter.
“Uncle Herb, I think I’ll run up to the general store and get some milk,” he yelled. This would give him a good excuse to take a closer peek at the geese and maybe see if Josh was around.
Uncle Herb looked up from the television. The California wildfires had taken a turn for the worse after a sudden change in the wind. Fighting Mother Nature was a volatile and futile battle sometimes, Uncle Herb thought. It was interesting to watch, but his vacation was almost over. He could watch as much television as he wanted when he was back in his group home.
He asked Peter if he could come, scanning carefully for any hint of Peter not wanting him to tag along. With CJ not at home, Peter could finally enjoy some alone time.
“Sure,” Peter said.
Uncle Herb smiled at the simple, quick and natural reply. The last thing he wanted was to be a nuisance.
Outside the temperature was in the midnineties and the air was dry and stifling. Peter lifted his head. The heat had burnt the color out of the white sky.
“It doesn’t look like rain’s coming,” Peter noted.
Uncle Herb’s attention was further below, specifically on the geese bumping around Josh’s lawn.
“Crazy, huh?” Peter said, and they started toward the sidewalk. Herb followed closely behind, careful not to run over Peter’s heels. The geese were distracting his driving.
Herb held no particular affection or dislike for geese, but as they neared the flock, he could see a sort of bustling grace to them, not as much as when they were in flight but still a noticeable beauty.
The geese took notice of them. One started honking which led to a chorus, either a thoughtful warning to the others or a menacing gesture aimed at Herb and his nephew.
“Uncle Herb, you don’t think they’re here for the ark, do you?” Peter said, quietly, as if he didn’t want to the geese to hear.
Herb considered cracking a joke here, one of a biblical nature, maybe along the lines of the geese missing the memo on pairings only. The problem was, as always, delivery. By the time he spit it out, Peter would have struggled to understand not only the words but the tone. Inflection and timing is required for humor, and Herb knew he failed miserably at both.
Herb smiled but didn’t say anything.
In a way, Herb thought his challenges stopped him from accidentally pushing his knowledge and opinions on his impressionable nephew—which was not exactly a bad thing. He believed young kids too often had to face the harshness of reality and give up on the magical enchantment of adolescence. Usually, so-called responsible adults were at the root of the problem. The longer he lived, Herb realized, science and fact were overhyped, and the aura of mystery and magic were short changed.
With his eyes, Peter pressed Herb for an answer.
“May-be,” Herb said slowly.
Josh and his ark were a tricky situation. He wanted Peter to reach his own conclusions. Herb admired Josh’s conviction and gave him a lot of credit for acting upon it, but Herb knew the Bible. There was no flood coming again. God was pretty black and white on that.
Peter pursed his lips and looked beyond Herb’s head at the geese. Herb could picture the mental scale weighing in his nephew’s mind. On one side is Josh the crazy neighbor, and the other side is the second coming of Noah. It was probably enough to drive a twelve-year-old insane.
“It’s amazing that all he ever built besides this was a birdhouse,” Peter said, taking in the ark behind the geese.
Herb silently agreed and cited some scripture for his nephew: All things are possible for one who believes.
“And Josh sure believes,” Peter said, turning around and heading toward the general store. Herb waited until Peter took a few steps, and then with a crumpled fist nudged the wheelchair’s joystick forward. He hoped Josh wouldn’t be crushed in the end.
The General Store
Herb wished he’d worn a hat. The lopsided sunburn he’d received at the beginning of his visit had finally evened out. The sun now punished his near-naked scalp. It was close to noon, and since passing the geese, they hadn’t seen a living creature on the street. It was like the sun had set a curfew.
They reached the pavilion, or the clubhouse as some of the residents called it—the modern-looking, two-story square building considered the hub of the Willow Creek world. All the residential streets extended from the clubhouse center like bicycle spokes.
Herb had never been inside the pavilion, but he remembered the brochures Abby had shown him before they moved in. The place was more like a hotel than a clubhouse with its catering facility, gym, bar, lounge area, pro shop and general store.
Herb followed Peter into the air-conditioned lobby. A huge chandelier hung from the ceiling. A marble stairway curled around a rock garden with waterfall to the second level. To the left was a lounge area with tables, leather chairs, couches, and a long mahogany bar. Open French doors led to a patio overlooking the golf course.
It was very beautiful, but Herb felt out of his element. If money had a smell, he was breathing it in right now.
To his right, Herb saw the one step in front of the general store, handicapped inaccessible. He told Peter he’d wait in the lobby.
“I’ll be fast,” Peter said, and broke off into a jog.
Herb sat parked in the middle of the lobby, listening to the waterfall and watching the bustling people. He caught pieces of conversations: tee times, stocks and insurance, and, of course, the recent weather report calling for rain. Men in their solid-colored sleeveless windbreakers and women with their cotton skirts and matching visors paid little mind to Herb and moved around him as though he was a statue set there to complement the rock garden.
In the back corners of the lobby were the separate locker rooms, men’s and women’s. Voices came to Herb in waves as the swinging doors opened and shut. Two white-haired men walked out of the locker room huddled together in conversation. They stopped at the entrance, and one of the guys leaned against the swinging door, preventing it from closing.
Then Herb heard Nick’s laugh.
It came from deep within the locker room. There was no mistaking his brother-in-law’s penetrating laugh, so loud and sharp. Herb’s wheelchair crawled in the direction of the men’s locker room. When the two older men figured their conversation reached a point where they could resume walking and talking at the same time, Herb blocked the closing door with his front tire.
A voice booming with bass traveled through the cavernous locker room, but the distance and lack of pitch made it difficult to pick up anything more than patches of the conversation. The place smelled like a giant deodorant stick. Herb lowered his head and tilted his ear to the voice. He inched further into the locker room, but the door was heavy, and he worried about his ability to escape quickly if the door closed entirely.
Some more laughter, and this time Herb couldn’t distinguish Nick from the others. Doubt started to creep into Herb until he heard someone say:
“Ark, my ass. That thing would hold water like a toilet.”
The laughs came in force, and Nick’s was again at the forefront. That was enough assurance for Herb, but if he had needed more, the clincher followed immediately when Nick spoke up:
“I told you, I live in the fruits and nuts section of Willow Creek. The taxes should be lower over there.”
Nick’s line drew a roar of laughter, including Nick’s, who was always prone to enjoy his own punch lines.
Herb knew he needed to get out of there and fast. Seeing Nick would only make a muddled situation worse, especially if Peter ran into him. He’d want to know why his father w
as not away on business.
“Can I help you?” a voice said from behind him.
Herb curved his head around to get a one-eyed view of an attractive, middle-aged woman hunched over and looking at him. She flashed expensive gold jewelry underneath her casual polo shirt. She thought he was stuck in the doorway.
Herb rushed a “no, thank you,” but he knew the words dropped out of his mouth in a jumbled, indecipherable mess. He heard locker doors slam and voices started to grow closer. He had to go. There was no time to humor a Good Samaritan when his nephew’s feelings were on the line.
He rushed to pull his wheelchair from the doorway, but his front tire clipped against the edge of the door. Now he was stuck. The irony, he thought.
He concentrated as hard as he could, now sensing that there were more eyes than those of the woman on his back.
“Are you sure I can’t help you?”
Herb slowly moved the wheelchair’s controller forward, then angled it back, freeing his chair from the door. He heard the footsteps shuffling along the locker room carpet. Soon the bodies attached to the voices would appear from around the corner. He craned his neck to look behind him. The well-intentioned woman stood in his path, leaning over and nodding her head.
“Let me help you,” she said, assertively.
She moved forward as Herb started to steer backward, and they collided, one of the wheelchair’s push bars jammed into her side.
“Ooomph!” she said.
A man appeared from around the lockers. He looked strangely at Herb and the doubled-over woman. Precious seconds were draining away.
“Skoo-e,” Herb said to the woman. Excuse me.
“What?”
“Skooz-e.” Herb felt his frustration level rising.
“I—I don’t understand,” the woman said. She moved closer, further inhibiting Herb’s escape.
“Mooo-ve!” Herb shouted. Spittle rocketed through the air.
The woman jumped back, clearing a space for Herb to turn his wheelchair around. Now he faced a group of people, all wearing the same aghast expression.
The Underdog Parade Page 13
