The Underdog Parade

by Michael Mihaley

  “Gimme a break. I’m an old lady. It’s getting dark. You could be a carjacker. You don’t look like my pastor or anything.”

  Brutus’ lips thinned. Mr. James and Mr. Terry watched the scene play out with great curiosity and admiration for the brave woman. This was the most they’d ever seen Brutus have to work. Usually he could just point silently and make people obedient.

  “Ma’am, I have to ask you to come back with me. We have strict policies regarding visitors. Past five o’clock, if you’re not on the guest list, we need to call down the individual you’re requesting to see—”

  Mr. Terry stepped forward. “I’m sorry about that, we should have told her about the protocol. It’s her first time visiting. I’ll gladly come down and sign her out. I hope we didn’t trouble you too much—um, I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

  It wasn’t the first time Mr. Terry tried to coax his real name out of Brutus. Brutus didn’t answer.

  The strings of Christmas lights in Josh’s yard blinked on, and Josh walked out of his garage holding a paint can in one hand and a beer can in the other.

  “It’s an oil-based waterproof paint,” Mr. Terry said, not because anyone asked or seemed interested but born from his yearning to be informative when he could. “Two coats over the layer of linen should seal it. James’ mother donated the linen.”

  Brutus’ head tilted ever so slightly in the direction of Mr. Terry before returning to Maria. “Ma’am?”

  Across the street, the front screen door opened, and Uncle Herb wheeled out and waved, his stiff fingers pointing in several directions. Peter and CJ followed him out.

  A smile softened Maria’s rigid features. She pushed open the car door. Brutus had to step back to avoid being hit. She stood, reaching the curve of Brutus’ bicep, and walked past him without saying a word. There was a slight shake of his head and a small release of air from his pursed lips. It was his largest public display of emotion to date.

  “Ma’am, next time please roll down your window and sign in,” he said.

  Maria kept walking toward Herb. She turned her head to say, “Next time tell me what you want, and I will.”

  Brutus walked back to his golf cart. He shifted into reverse, and the golf cart beeped. He looked once more at the woman, now hugging the guy in the wheelchair, before pressing the accelerator.

  Brutus doesn’t talk through glass, he answered her silently.

  Maria

  Maria didn’t like it when she found out Herb was left alone with the kids. And he was in charge! Peter was thankful she had no clue to the number of times this had happened, or for the length of time.

  “Tomorrow, I get agency van and come pick you up, Hoobie. Come home where you belong, and I take good care of you,” she had said, repeatedly.

  Uncle Herb was appreciative of her concern but declined each time. He said he was having a great time.

  They were sitting in a circle on Peter’s driveway. Mr. Terry had brought out the cocktail hour chairs again and even offered to make Maria one of his famous margaritas, but Maria passed. Josh’s Christmas lights dimly lit their circle and the strong fumes from his paint permeated the air.

  “It’s nighttime, and Mrs. Grady still not here,” Maria said, not bothering to hide her disgust. “What did you eat for dinner?”

  Peter felt it was his sole responsibility to prove to Maria that his Uncle was in good hands. “I’m just about to order pizza,” he said.

  Maria slapped her hand against her forehead.

  “We’re right next door, Maria. Peter knows he can come over any time if he needs a hand,” Mr. James said.

  Maria looked far from impressed. CJ was the only one not sitting or accommodating Maria. She was trying to whip a lightning bug out of the air. Maria yelled, “You better not be jumping all over your uncle like he a piece of furniture.”

  CJ stared at her, then flicked her wrist gently. The lasso dropped softly in a line pointing straight at Maria. The message was sent.

  “Oh, little girl. You are so lucky you not my child.”

  CJ flicked the lasso back behind her. “You’re lucky you’re not my mother.”

  Maria glared at CJ, but she’d turned her back to her.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner, Maria?” Peter asked.

  “No, I have to get home. I’m working a double tomorrow.”

  Peter was relieved. He had no idea what time his mother was coming home.

  Maria stood and kissed Herb on the forehead. “You call me soon. I don’t like this not hearing from you. I pick you up any time you want. You still have almost a week left. Too long, right?”

  Uncle Herb only thanked her and promised he’d call.

  “Herb is very lucky to have someone like you,” Mr. James said, standing to say goodbye.

  Mr. Terry grinned. “Yeah, he never told us he had a spitfire like you on the side. No wonder we don’t see him around here more often. Go Hoobie.”

  Maria ignored them. She patted Herb on the shoulder and walked away without saying a word to anyone else. Suddenly, she stopped and pointed at Josh’s house.

  “This place reminds me of my old neighborhood. Cheap lights and trash all over the front lawn.”

  Mr. Terry howled with laughter. “Get back before the rain starts, Maria.”

  Maria looked at the sky. She muttered, “Rain.”

  Pizza Again

  The microwave beeped, and Peter walked over to get the bowl of carrots. Herb watched his nephew’s movements as he methodically chewed his pizza square. Stopping in front of the kitchen window, Peter said, “It’s dark out there. Josh turned out the Christmas lights.”

  CJ was sitting next to Herb at the table, staring down her nose at the slice of pizza dangling from her mouth. She took a big bite and said with her mouth full, “Josh said it won’t rain today, Uncle Herb.”

  “He weda-man ow,” Herb teased.

  Peter placed the carrots on the table, then spooned out portions for all three of them. “No, he’s not a weatherman. I think God told him, or I think he thinks God told him, or—you know what I mean.”

  Uncle Herb grinned.

  CJ stopped chewing and a serious look crossed her face. “Do you think God spoke to Josh, Uncle Herb?”

  This is where it gets complicated in dealing with children, Herb thought. How much do you tell? How much do you hold back?

  “Uncle Herb?” Peter said. He too was waiting for an answer.

  “Haybe,” Uncle Herb said. Heck, who was he to doubt? Maybe God did speak to Josh. He wouldn’t cast the first stone. Maybe God said hark and Josh heard ark. Who was he to doubt or pass judgment?

  The noncommittal “maybe” seemed to be enough for CJ and Peter, rooters for the Josh-is-not-a-crackpot team. Herb felt relieved. This chaperoning job was a tight-wire act.

  Things fell back into routine after that. CJ wondered why a perfectly good pizza dinner had to be ruined with carrots while Peter read The Three Musketeers and Herb chewed deliberately on his cut-up pizza squares. The carrots were Herb’s idea. For the second night in a row, Abby got stuck at work and didn’t have anything prepared for dinner. The kids didn’t mind ordering pizza again, but Herb thought adding a vegetable would bring some nutritional balance, even if he’d have to sweeten the pot by allowing some marshmallows for dessert.

  Peter closed his book and pointed to the muted television where there was video of the California wildfires.

  “Wow, two-hundred-and-fifty homes have burned down. They can’t put this thing out,” Peter said.

  “Stop, drop, and roll,” CJ said, as was her way whenever the subject of fire came up.

  The phone rang and Peter rose from the table.

  “Maybe it’s Dad. He hasn’t called in a couple days,” CJ said.

  Nick. Herb sighed quietly, another subject to mentally sashay around.

  Herb stared at the fire on TV. He looked up to see an ashen Peter holding the phone loosely away from his ear.

 
; “Who?” Herb asked.

  Peter hadn’t said anything after hello.

  “Who is it, Peter?” CJ said.

  “Ang-up, Pita,” Herb said. His voice was surprisingly clear and level.

  Peter remained frozen.

  “Pita!”

  Peter forced the phone back into the receiver and stood staring at the cord, as if it had betrayed him.

  “It wasn’t Dad?” CJ asked though she didn’t have to.

  Peter shook his head no. He returned to the table and started clearing the dishes in silence.

  Late Night List Making

  All the people who call me on the phone and how I feel about it, plus one reason why I’m not in a rush to get an iPhone—A List by Peter Grady.

  1. Dad—to say his business trip is going well (don’t care about his business, but it’s good when he talks about other things).

  2. Mom—to say she is held up at work and won’t be home at the time she said she would (don’t care about her reasons, but care about dinner and the extra chores I now have).

  3. All my friends (would be a plus, and I would care very much, if it was true).

  4. Chipper—to say he is planning to fillet me like a fish before school starts (care very much, but not in the nice care type of way).

  Peter sat in his bed, leaning against the bedpost underneath his gooseneck reading light and doodling around his newest list. Chipper’s phone call at dinner wasn’t the source of his insomnia (he’d actually fallen asleep surprisingly easily) but rather a nightmare Peter just had. In it, he was surrounded by dark, toxic-smelling clouds created by some vague-yet-complete devastation. Behind the clouds Peter could hear the shouts and screams of voices, but they were unfamiliar and unfriendly.

  The dream had startled him awake, and now he was experiencing the dreaded aftereffects of a nightmare. The combination was a lethal one: all alone, middle of the night, and the feeling of being smothered by this heavy blanket of gloom, one weaved from the basement of your own mind where dark, deep fears bubbled.

  Thankfully, the fallout wasn’t as bad as usual, because Peter had indirect company. The Christmas lights were back on, and Peter heard Josh working outside. If he strained his neck to look out his window, he could see Josh’s silhouette walking up and down the driveway between the ark and the garage. It had a calming effect on Peter.

  Josh was softly singing “Amazing Grace,” but Peter could hear the song perfectly through the still night. He sang only the first two lines, stopping at the “wretch like me” part, and then hummed the rest, slipping in a couple des and das until it was time to start all over again with the lyrics he knew.

  After putting CJ to bed, Peter had stayed up with Uncle Herb to watch the Weather Channel. Uncle Herb shook his head in disbelief as the chance of precipitation in their area was downgraded; the approaching storm had drifted off to sea. Peter smiled.

  Before the weather report switched from national to local coverage, Uncle Herb asked Peter again who’d called during dinner. He said the phone call was a telemarketer, but Peter could tell his uncle wasn’t buying the story yet chose not to press.

  Of course the call from Chipper had spooked Peter at first. But in hindsight, Peter was surprised it took so long for Chipper to add this form of terrorism to his repertoire. The Willow Creek Landing Membership Committee made it easy, providing all residents with CreekLife. A four-color, glossy periodical, CreekLife printed event photos and happenings, listed golf course etiquette, general store hours and catering capabilities, as well as names, addresses, and phone numbers of all the residents, in case you needed a late replacement for your golf foursome or something.

  Chipper’s telethreat was of the garden variety—nothing he hadn’t told Peter before in person. Chipper was more action than talk anyway, more bite than bark. The distance of the phone diluted the fear.

  Peter dropped his notepad to the floor and tried to close his eyes when he realized Josh’s singing had stopped. He looked out the window to Josh’s house and saw pure black—the driveway and holiday lights were out, not even a moon in the sky. Only the streetlight shed orange warmth on the street.

  Suddenly Peter yearned to hear Josh’s singing. It was too quiet, too dark. This is why they have music in elevators and dentist offices. His clock read 11:53, but Peter never felt more awake. His mother snored lightly from her bedroom. She’d come home after everyone was in bed. Peter guessed she went out with some coworkers. She always snored after drinking a couple glasses of wine.

  “Can’t sleep?” a voice said from the window.

  Peter almost jumped out of his skin.

  Josh was peering in through the screen, smiling.

  Peter took a deep breath, a poor attempt to regulate his breathing. “You scared me.” An awkward silence followed, forcing Peter to ask, “What are you doing?”

  “Standing outside your window.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m about to go for a boat ride.”

  “Not on the ark,” Peter said. He immediately regretted the way the words left his mouth, as though a bowling ball had a better shot at floating.

  “No, no, no. I’m borrowing a boat. Practice.”

  Peter looked at the clock. “At this time of night?”

  “Sure.”

  Peter thought about Josh leaving now. He’d be all alone again until he fell asleep, if he could. He weighed his options in his mind and, ignoring his logical side, asked, “Can I come?”

  Sneak

  Josh said he’d meet Peter out front in ten minutes. Peter turned out his light and dressed quietly in the dark. He put on jeans thinking there might be some wind on the water. He couldn’t remember the last time he slid on pants—probably during school before summer started, right before the drought started. He thought about bringing a sweater but decided against it. He didn’t want to go overboard, a statement you could take several ways.

  Peter wasn’t worried about waking his mother. She sounded like she was sawing wood in her bedroom. She must have had that extra glass of wine. CJ could sleep through a marching band. Peter tiptoed quietly past their rooms. Uncle Herb was a different matter, however. Peter drifted to the far wall and listened. Nothing. He skulked an inch forward when he heard his name called.

  “Pita.”

  His name wasn’t posed as a question. Uncle Herb knew who was in the hall.

  “Hey, Uncle Herb.” Peter tried to sound casual and sleepy. He didn’t walk over to the door. How would he explain being fully dressed at this time of night?

  “Can-ew-elp-e?” Can you help me?

  Peter bit his lip as he tried to think fast. He stopped at the door and showed his head in the doorway, keeping the jeans and shirt in the hall. He could see Uncle Herb’s faintly shadowed face staring at the doorway.

  “Do you have to go the bathroom?”

  “No,” Uncle Herb said. He asked Peter to help him into his wheelchair.

  Peter poked his head further into the room. “You know the time, Uncle Herb? It’s not morning yet.”

  Uncle Herb said he knew.

  “You want to get up now?”

  Uncle Herb said he did.

  Peter’s brow furrowed. “Now?”

  Yes, now. Uncle Herb’s eyes were fixated on Peter, freezing him in the doorway, and his words were adamant and came out of his mouth in steely bursts. He moved his head on the pillow, and raised his fingers crooked in the air. He told his nephew he was coming with him.

  Hecksher Park

  All his life, people had cared for Herb. Since he was a teenager, his goal was to gain independence. In adulthood, as people his age were getting married and adding dependents, he was still striving for a measure of autonomy that most people took for granted, like learning to brush your teeth without poking out your eyeball. The electric toothbrush helped with that one.

  His decision to join Peter rather than forbid him was not spontaneous. He’d heard Peter talk to Josh. Some of Peter’s whispers were hard to decipher, but
Josh’s deep voice rolled down the muggy hallway. When he’d heard Peter’s footsteps in the hallway, he knew something was up. Not bad detective work—sleepless nights can have a payoff.

  His sister would have commanded Peter back to bed and then unleashed “Hurricane Abby” upon Josh’s house, which would have been totally warranted. No matter how he felt about Josh, sneaking a boy out on a boat in the middle of the night is, at best, poor judgment. Yet Herb felt his choices were limited. Herb knew he couldn’t enforce a lockdown, so the next best alternative was insisting on his presence. Peter could just as easy climb out his own window, though Herb didn’t like to think Peter would ever defy him like that. He would make Josh turn the boat around at the first sight of danger. Hopefully he was dealing with a young man who could be reasoned with.

  As they waited outside, Peter seemed concerned about Josh’s reaction, but, as Josh pulled up in an official Willow Creek truck with a trailer carrying a seventeen-foot motorboat, Josh looked almost relieved to see Herb perched next to Peter at the bottom of the driveway, as if he was having second thoughts himself.

  They quietly loaded Uncle Herb into the seat, and Josh lifted Herb’s wheelchair into the truck’s bed. They drove slowly past the dark, quiet houses of Ranch Street. Peter steadied himself in the middle of the bench seat; his arm locked with Uncle Herb’s to keep him from sliding downward.

  Josh looked over and smiled as they passed the guardhouse. Brutus was inside reading a magazine. He didn’t look up. Peter was disappointed. Brutus without his sunglasses was a rare sight, and Peter hoped to get a glimpse of the color of his eyes. He’d once made a list guessing the color. Coal-black won.

  Slocin Road was deserted—the first time Peter had seen it this way.

  “How did you get this truck, Josh?”

  Herb was wondering the same thing, but thought some things were better left unknown.

  Josh smiled into the windshield. “My man back there. We have a deal. I don’t make his life difficult by swimming in hole number eleven or disrupting community events anymore, and he slips me some insider information at times, such as the groundskeepers leave the keys to the truck under the seat.”