The Underdog Parade

by Michael Mihaley

  Peter appeared at the step in front of the general store. He studied the silent crowd then looked at his uncle.

  “Is—is everything okay, Uncle Herb?”

  Herb shoved the wheelchair’s joystick forward with the back of his hand and sped to the exit. As he had hoped, Peter fell dutifully in tow without saying a word. Herb felt the eyes of the crowd and heard the murmurings. He felt bad for Peter, who was probably wilting under the gaze of all these adults. He stared straight at the exit.

  By now, Nick was certainly one of the spectators. Herb waited for Peter’s name to be called, but he wasn’t entirely surprised when it wasn’t.

  The automated doors opened, and the heat forced its way into the air-conditioned lobby. Herb pushed through into the sunlight, thankful when the doors closed behind them.

  Day Camp

  Peter was fifteen minutes early to pick up CJ from camp. He’d taken the fastest route, Slocin Road straight into town, because he wanted to stop at the supermarket and buy a small bag of marshmallows for CJ—a peace offering. A short, chain-link fence enclosed the playground where all the campers were running around fueled on sugar cookies and fruit juice. Peter lingered outside of the fence. The elementary school already looked smaller to him. In a couple of weeks, he’d be bussing down the road to the middle school and seventh grade.

  He scanned the playground’s climbing towers, slides, and swings for CJ. Kids ran together in clumps, changing direction on whim, and stopping only to laugh or shout over one another at the top of their lungs. He leaned over the fence, as though the extra inches would help. How hard could it be to find CJ? She would be the one wearing a sparkling outfit and gripping a lasso. He finally spotted her in the back corner of the playground, a fair distance away from the swarms of kids. She was standing alone, using a jump rope to tie a complex series of knots along the fence.

  The image bothered Peter. He’d wanted to find her playing with the other kids, maybe even acting as a group leader. This was like staring at a reflection of himself in school. He hoped that CJ had chosen to stay on the perimeter, a decision she made on her own, because for some reason having the choice made a huge difference. At school, Peter felt relegated to outside the circles, as if this invisible and collective force from all the other kids pushed him to the back like a body fighting sickness. Once he found his customary place in the shadows, away from the moment, the world regained its balance.

  Peter felt anger and envy as he watched the other children bounce around without a care or an unhappy thought in their heads. Then a boy shouted “Cricket!” from his knees in the tall grass along the fence, and the games of chase and hide-and-seek paused. There was a mad rush to circle the boy and get a closer look at the cricket. With cupped hands, the boy fought off aggressive grabbing as he shielded his body and elbowed his way through the crowd. The kids followed him, begging for a better look or a chance to hold the cricket. Peter watched with a curious detachment, until he saw the boy was making his way toward CJ. He stopped in front of her and opened his hands slightly for CJ to peek inside.

  “Do you want it?” the boy asked CJ.

  CJ looked away. “No,” she said, softly.

  Several of the boys and girls shrieked from behind the boy, placing dibs on the cricket, but the boy kept his hands in front of CJ, giving her ample time to change her mind. When she didn’t, the boy barely glanced back before cocking his arm and throwing the cricket as far as he could over the playground’s fence.

  On the bike ride home, Peter asked CJ about the boy and the cricket. It was difficult having a conversation with CJ sitting directly behind him on the seat and speaking into his back while he peddled and kept his eyes on the road, but CJ wasn’t haven’t any of it anyway. She didn’t respond the first time he asked or the follow up attempt. On the third try, she said, “Please leave me alone.”

  This did not sit well with Peter—this wasn’t at all like his sister. She always wanted to talk to him, to be around him. He was always the one telling her to leave him alone. What was most concerning was that she used the word please.

  Peter kept trying to look back at her, but then the bike would swerve, and they would almost hit a mailbox or fall off the curb entirely. It wasn’t until they had passed the gated entrance into Willow Creek Landing that she spoke.

  “I heard them talking about me, Peter. In camp.”

  “Okay.”

  “They said no one wants to play with me, because I’m weird.”

  They turned left at the Pavilion onto Ranch Street.

  “Kids are mean sometimes, CJ. Trust me. I know.”

  CJ rubbed her face against Peter’s back. Peter knew that she wasn’t wiping away sweat. She told him that the boy only gave her the cricket because he felt sorry for her, since no one would play with her.

  “I have no friends, Peter. I say that about you, but you used to have friends. I never did.”

  “What about that girl Penny? Or Jenny?”

  “They stopped being my friend. Because I was weird.”

  As they pulled into their driveway, Peter said very delicately, “CJ, maybe you shouldn’t dress as Wonder Woman every day. Maybe leave your lasso home some days.”

  CJ jumped off the back of the bike as soon as it stopped. She wiped her eyes with her forearm. “No,” she said firmly, and ran into the house.

  Peter watched the screen door close. He hoped that there was more to the boy and cricket story. He hoped that the boy was some sort of savant—that he’d picked up on something very quickly that the other kids didn’t, something that even took Peter a long time to understand: that CJ was special and deserved to be treated that way.

  The Giant Shoe Box

  After they went inside, CJ told her brother she hated camp and was never going back. Peter thought he could create a quick and concrete list of reasons why she was wrong, starting and stopping at Mom, but decided against it. Nevertheless, buying the marshmallows had been a good idea; he and CJ were on good footing again and she told him what had happened that day.

  The camp counselors had taken CJ’s lasso away and returned it to her only under the condition they never see the thing again. Peter guessed prying the lasso out of CJ’s fingers hadn’t been the most enjoyable activity of the day. Between marshmallows, CJ casually mentioned some of the older girls made fun of her Wonder Woman costume, but Peter sensed she didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t bring up the boy and the cricket, and Peter didn’t reveal he’d witnessed the scene, though the boy’s actions were still on his mind.

  Looking out the window Peter saw that the geese had split and Josh was outside holding a paintbrush and coating the seams of the ark with a dark, thick liquid. The ark was no longer upside down. Peter wondered who Josh had asked for assistance.

  The sky was a gray blanket, and the lack of a blazing sun made the temperature bearable. The dry heat that scratched at the back of your throat was replaced with a heavy, humid air.

  “I have to find my rain boots. I want to puddle jump, unless Josh wants to give us a ride in his ark,” CJ said. Obviously the gravity of the situation, if Josh was correct, was lost on CJ.

  The siblings went outside.

  “That doesn’t look like the ark in your Bible,” CJ whispered.

  Peter silently agreed. Josh’s ark looked like a giant shoebox without a lid. He couldn’t be finished yet. For one, there was no top. If it rained, for forty days and nights no less, the thing would fill up like a bathtub. Also, a gaping hole appeared in the side where CJ’s painted door should have been.

  As though he could read their thoughts, Josh patted the boat in a “good dog” fashion and ran his fingers along the hull. Peter felt the awkwardness of intruding on a private moment.

  “How did you flip the boat around?” Peter asked.

  Josh spun slowly, not startled or embarrassed in the least as if he knew they were there. His tan had darkened, and his beard was fuller. He looked a lot older than the mysterious guy who’d ruined the C
reek’s road race. Josh smiled.

  “Young Peter. Wonder Woman. What do you think?”

  Josh’s voice was soft and wavy, and his eyes lacked their usual sharpness. He sipped from a green bottle and smiled. Peter and CJ held their position in the middle of the street and smiled approvingly at the ark.

  Josh asked, “Did you see the geese before? They’ve moved on, probably looking for one last chance to annoy their golfin brethren. They’ll be back.”

  “Did you have friends help you with the boat?” Peter wanted to know. It dawned on him that Josh had never mentioned a friend or family member that he was close to.

  “No, no. I paid some landscapers to help me.”

  That explains the Spanish-speaking guys from a week ago, Peter thought.

  “Are you done, Josh?” Peter asked, though he knew the answer. He just wanted to know why Josh wasn’t running around frantically given the approaching storm.

  “Not yet, but it’s almost complete. Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

  Not yet, Peter thought. It was pretty big, all right, definitely bigger than a birdhouse. But as far as buoyancy, Peter wasn’t so sure the thing would stay above water longer than you could say, “Where are the life preservers?”

  “I have to say, I’m pretty proud of it. I never really finished anything before. Nothing of this magnitude, at least. Goes to show you, all you need is a little spirit.” Josh laughed aloud and flipped his empty bottle onto a pile of scrap wood.

  “Remember that first day, Peter? I’m glad I didn’t cut off any of my digits. Look, it’s solid as a rock,” Josh said, and with that he hit the hull with a closed fist.

  The two boards underneath the plank he struck loosened and separated slightly. They stood in silence, staring at the open crease.

  “Ooops,” Josh said. He paused, “Well, I guess it’s good that this happened now. I haven’t finished sealing yet.”

  Peter and CJ looked at Josh, worried.

  “You know it’s supposed to rain soon,” CJ said, painfully. “Maybe today even.”

  “I heard it might hold off until tomorrow,” Peter offered, but to him the rain was a moot point. If one animal larger than a squirrel tried to enter the ark, Peter would bet the thing would fold, collapse, and flatten until it resembled a coaster.

  “It won’t rain today,” Josh said, and the sudden confident manner in which he spoke caught Peter off guard. Did Josh not see what just happened? How could he be feeling good about anything? A sprinkle would do irreparable damage.

  Peter looked uncomfortably at the sky. “It doesn’t look too good out.”

  “The ark will be ready.” Josh said the words with such conviction that Peter almost believed him. He didn’t know if he wanted to believe him or not.

  “I should probably repair these boards,” Josh added. He patted Peter on the shoulder. “I guess I’m stronger than I look.”

  Peter forced a smile. “We should be getting home. Uncle Herb might be worried.” On their front lawn, CJ leaned into Peter. “I hope it doesn’t rain tonight. That might drive Josh crazy.”

  Peter wondered how far of a drive that really was.

  Cocktail Hour

  When the sun slowly drips down the sky and the heat starts to subside, it’s typically time for Creek residents to make their way outside and do their chores. For Peter’s neighbors, Mr. Terry and Mr. James, this time of day meant only one thing: cocktail hour.

  Peter sat in a beach chair as he watched Mr. James go through the ritual of organizing the chairs and portable table on the lawn, as Mr. Terry, the official “drinks coordinator,” prepared their cocktails inside.

  “Usually I’d bring the drink ingredients outside with me, along with a pitcher of ice, glasses and a snack all on one tray, Peter,” Mr. Terry told him. “But today’s drink is the dirty martini, and to bring out the gin, vermouth, olive juice, cocktail shaker, strainer, ice, and garnish is way too much of a production, even for me.”

  Peter laughed, because Mr. Terry did. He didn’t care that he had never heard of half the things Mr. Terry listed; Peter usually had trouble following Mr. Terry’s conversations because Terry always spoke so fast and quickly jumped from subject to subject. Peter liked his neighbor, because he felt like Mr. Terry enjoyed talking to him.

  “And don’t mind Mr. J over here,” Mr. Terry said, nodding to Mr. James as he handed him a v-shaped glass. “After all these years, I know to give him some space after a long day of work. It’s not easy looking at feet all day.”

  Mr. James accepted his drink silently but smiled at Peter. He sipped his drink, then stared into the glass while Peter watched Mr. Terry study him, looking for a subtle sign of an opinion.

  “What do you think?” Mr. Terry finally asked.

  “Tanqueray?”

  “Bombay.”

  Mr. James shook his head approvingly. “Very smooth, earthy from the olive brine. You have outdone yourself once again, Ter.”

  Mr. Terry beamed. “I must admit, I’ve become quite the mixologist.”

  Diagonally across the street, Josh was busy tacking a fabric to the outside of his ark. The three of them watched Josh quietly.

  “I must say, since he started his project, Josh has added to the entertainment during cocktail hour,” Mr. James eventually said.

  Mr. Terry wiggled his beach chair deeper into the dying grass. “We should move to a place with a front porch.”

  Mr. James laughed. “You were the one who wanted to come here.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought it would be good for when we’re older, with the pavilion right there for simple shopping and eating out, plus I figured I could get around on one of those golf carts once I’m too old to drive and my knees give out from being so fat. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to assisted living.”

  Peter saw CJ walk out of their house across the street and whip her lasso into the air. He warned CJ to be careful with her lasso because he was coming over. He started walking over to her, giving the adults some privacy but they were speaking loud enough that he could still hear their conversation from his lawn.

  “Stop, Terry. You’re depressing me,” Mr. James said.

  “No, I’m serious. We don’t fit in here. We can move back into the city for a couple of years or go east into wine country. You can start up the business again out there. Imagine the feet problems those vineyard workers have.”

  Mr. James laughed as Peter warned CJ again. She ignored him.

  Mr. Terry continued, “We can always move back here when we’re ready. I greatly exaggerated the report of my own death. I’m nowhere near it. I’m not ready for assisted living.”

  “We might not get this house back.”

  “So what? We’ll get another one. Maybe on Victorian Row this time?”

  CJ cracked the lasso again, and Peter gave up, heading back to the adults.

  Mr. James chuckled and smiled at Peter as he sat down next to him. “I like where we are, Terry. More every day.”

  Mr. Terry looked at Peter and nodded, but waved his partner off. “You’re impossible sometimes. Then I guess you won’t mind that the fabric Josh is using to waterproof his ark is your contribution to the project.”

  “What?” Mr. James tilted forward in his chair and squinted his eyes to get a better look at the ark.

  “Yup. That’s the linen tablecloths your mother gave us, what was that, eight Christmases out of ten?” Mr. Terry said.

  “You’re kidding me? You gave him all of them?”

  “How much linen does she think we need? We had enough to cover the entire ark, luckily for Josh,” Mr. Terry added, gamely.

  Mr. James finished his drink and laughed. “One more round. And leave my mother alone.”

  Looking For Hoob

  A rust-spotted Sedan pulled slowly up Ranch Street as Mr. James put away the cocktail hour chairs. A dark-skinned, middle-aged woman whose head barely cleared the steering wheel rolled down her window and impatiently waved James over. She looked mildly anno
yed, as if she was the one being disturbed, so Mr. James chose to let her wait as he rearranged the chairs in the garage.

  He ignored the car’s uneven idling. Then the woman punched her horn with two angry bursts, and Mr. James fought the urge to reorganize another corner of the garage, but then Mr. Terry jumped out the front door like an eager valet.

  “I’m looking for Hoobie!” Maria yelled, while Mr. Terry was still halfway across the lawn. He looked around the yard and spotted Mr. James loitering in the garage. He smiled and said, “Sounds dirty.”

  Mr. James muttered under his breath and exited the garage. Before he could reach the car, he knew who she was looking for. Mr. Terry was having fun with it though. “Who is Hoo-Bee? Is he like a rapper? James, does the board even accept rappers into Willow Creek Landing?”

  It was clear to Mr. James that the woman’s tolerance level for Terry’s bantering was short. Her grip strangled the steering wheel. He noticed she was sitting on a large cushion.

  “You’re looking for Herb?” he asked, not wanting her to drive off, or maybe over, Terry.

  “Yes,” she said shortly. “That’s what I tell Bob Hope over here.”

  Mr. Terry stepped aside. “Bob Hope? Ouch.”

  “May I ask who you are?” Mr. James asked, politely yet firmly.

  Maria shot him a look. “What, you the FBI?”

  “Just a friend.”

  One of the Creek’s security golf carts turned down Ranch and sped in their direction. Maria noticed the flashing, yellow light in her rearview mirror. She let out a string of heavy Spanish and reluctantly placed her car into park.

  Brutus stepped out of the cart. He wore his sunglasses even though there was no sign of sun. There was the sound of crickets chirping aggressively—two males must have been in proximity to one another. Maria stuck her head out the window to face the approaching Brutus.

  “Ma’am, did you not see the guard house and me standing in front of the guard house?”

  “I ask what you want,” she answered defensively.

  “And I asked you to roll down your window.” Brutus emphasized each word.