Almost as equally interesting to Uncle Herb was the wiry, long-haired twenty-something who now joined Peter and the rest of the group on the path. There was more to Josh than met the eye. He was not like the young people who worked at his group home, always talking on their phone, texting, taking selfies. What could they possibly have to say every minute of the day? Herb realized he was getting old, and the times were passing him by, but it all seemed like a lot of navel-gazing to him. Maybe it’s good to be young and think the world is not bigger than you, he thought. You sleep better.
On the trip back home, Peter dragged behind the group. He wondered what Josh’s plan was for the next forty-eight hours. Again, the thought hit him that on Monday he would lose both Uncle Herb and Josh. He kicked a stone, and it disappeared off the path. He pondered asking his mother if Uncle Herb could move in forever, if that was okay with Uncle Herb.
Next thing he realized, Mr. James was walking next to him.
“You feeling okay, Peter?”
“Yeah. I’m okay,” he said, but the words came out slow and slightly slurred. The unbalanced and melting words would have worried him more but he sometimes experienced speech problems after a seizure. Usually they wouldn’t linger this long, but Peter hadn’t spoken much on the trip. He was in listening mode.
Mr. James nodded as though he was waiting for more, but Peter had nothing else to say aloud.
There were two great fears Peter had with his epilepsy. One was called status epilepticus, where your brain remains frozen in the state of a persistent seizure like a car that won’t turn over. The other dealt with this brain surgery for epileptics where doctors purposely kept the patients awake to make sure they didn’t cut into the brain fibers connected with speech. He hoped he would never require this. Peter could only imagine the conversation:
“So, how about those Yankees, Peter?”
“I like the Mets. How’s it looking in there, doc?”
“Um, smaller than I anticipated. You seem a lot smarter than you actually are.”
Peter had read about the procedure at a time when he was interested in researching his condition. That was an itch he sufficiently scratched that day. He decided he was better off left in the dark.
Thankfully, a question from Mr. James saved Peter from his thoughts.
“Have you ever heard of Dostoevsky, Peter? Or Charles Dickens?”
“Do they live in the Creek?”
“No. How about Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great?”
“I think so.”
“Vincent van Gogh? Beethoven?”
“He plays piano, right?”
“What do your teachers do all day?”
“What do you mean?”
Mr. James shook his head. “What I’m getting at is that all these people were exceptional human beings in one way or another. They mattered, made a difference in this world. Their contributions to society are immeasurable, Peter. Do you know what they all had in common?”
Peter wanted to answer one of the questions, but he had no idea where Mr. James was going with this line of questioning, so he decided to wait him out.
“They all had seizures, every single one of them. And that is only the short list.”
“Wow,” Peter said. He thought he might have been even more impressed if he knew some of the people Mr. James had mentioned.
“Back in the olden days, people who had seizures were considered prophets. Maybe you’re a prophet, Peter.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, just in case, I’m planning on sticking close to you.”
Even though Mr. James confused him most of the time, he still had a way of making Peter feel good.
“Really, what my long-winded point is—I’m sorry, I’m not too experienced with this—but you should not feel ashamed or unhappy with yourself because you’re different. I’ve been there, and it’s no fun.”
“You have seizures?”
“Not exactly.”
Peter saw that Mr. James was struggling to find his words. Mr. James never seemed to struggle with anything. His hair never even fell out of place. He waved his hand back-and-forth as though he wanted to erase the air. He spoke fast. “Listen, Mr. Terry said he saw some kids giving you trouble in the library the other day. What I’m trying to tell you is that since you’re different, you stand out, and the bullies of the world notice you faster. But there is nothing wrong with you. You are different, you’re special. There’s the difference, if that makes any sense. I know your parents probably tell you that you’re special all the time, but it can’t hurt to hear it again.”
Mr. James took a deep breath as if he had to pull in oxygen to replenish all the air his words pushed out. He rubbed his hand over his head.
“Anyway, bullying stunts your physical and mental growth. Those kids from the library will all grow up short and have menial jobs waiting for them in the future.”
The idea of being taller than Chipper one day appealed to Peter. He pictured patting a nervous Chipper on the head.
“I was bullied. Mr. Terry was too. I’m sure even Josh and Uncle Herb have stories where they were picked on. The only one who probably doesn’t here is CJ, and that’s because she carries that lasso around all day,” Mr. James said, smiling. “But the thing I’ve learned is it’s not about getting knocked down. It’s all about standing back up.”
Peter nodded. He hoped Mr. James was finished, for his sake. He looked like he was in pain.
It was midafternoon when they returned to the Creek. The sun was at their backs, and a small wind made the return trip bearable. They walked across the golf course in the same single file formation they’d used to cross through the fence. Mr. Terry was in the front, and he started to kick his legs high in the air as if he were leading a marching band.
“It’s like we’re a parade!” CJ shouted.
“A parade of what?” Mr. James added, smiling.
And they all followed Mr. Terry’s lead, marching happily—even Josh a little bit—until no one thought of anything else but trying to keep in step with Mr. Terry. All but Uncle Herb, who had been staring at a golfer across the pond on hole eleven. He easily recognized the confident walk and shaven head, and his eyes followed the golfer’s every move. He only hoped that Peter and CJ would not take notice of their father.
Hollywood
Peter was surprised to see his mother’s SUV parked in the driveway so early in the day, but then he remembered the phone calls Mr. James had made after his seizure. She was going to be angry that he wasn’t home. At least they wouldn’t have to order pizza for dinner again.
Mr. James also noticed the car. He asked Peter if he wanted help in explaining his whereabouts. Peter thought that might make matters worse, so he shook his head no.
Josh curled off at his house and went inside with a small goodbye. Mr. James and Mr. Terry continued to their home.
When Peter entered his house, he was surprised his mother didn’t look worried or angry at all. She was lounging on the corner of the couch, still dressed in her work clothes and watching TV as they entered. A glass of red wine rested on her thigh.
“Where have you guys been?” she asked, her eyes remaining glued to a news program.
“We went for a walk,” Peter said, dropping himself down on the opposite side of the couch.
CJ parked herself in front of the TV, and Uncle Herb lingered, waiting for some sort of fallout.
The Hollywood sign appeared on the screen, surrounded by smoke. In a dire voice, the newscaster said the California wildfires had spread to the Hollywood Hills, devastating several multimillion dollar homes.
“Unbelievable,” Abby muttered.
Uncle Herb watched, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He couldn’t get Nick out of his mind, and he felt annoyed that his sister seemed more in tune with the problems on the other side of the country than the ones under her own roof. Stay out of it, he told himself. Hold your tongue. He was leaving after the weekend. Make sure you get an
invitation back.
The news broke for commercial. Abby nudged Peter with her foot and got a good look him.
“Did you fall, Peter?”
The Band-Aid on the forehead. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Good. And thanks for picking CJ up at camp today again, mister. I hope it’s not ruining your last few days of summer.”
Peter had temporarily forgotten this little white lie they were maintaining, but he noticed CJ’s back stiffen at the mention of camp. He nodded, putting nothing verbal on record. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t mentioned his seizure yet.
“Where is your phone?”
“I forgot it in the office. I had a course for my license this morning, and then I had a couple look next door.”
Her voice trailed off, and Peter knew why. She was trying to sell Josh’s house and didn’t want to upset him. She’d never received Mr. James’s calls.
“I’m charging it now. Why? Did you call?”
“Yeah,” Peter said.
Abby waited for more but nothing came. “Is camp any better, CJ?”
CJ nodded but didn’t turn around to face her mother. Peter could see that she wasn’t even looking at the television but at the wall.
Abby frowned. “You guys are a talkative bunch.”
Uncle Herb asked her why she was home so early, and Abby groaned in frustration.
“I was supposed to show that house to a couple today,” she said, pointing to Josh’s house. “He promised to clean it up, but when I got there, it was an absolute pig sty. Empty beer bottles all over, dishes in the sink piled to the ceiling. He’s lucky he was nowhere to be found. I was ready to kill.”
Abby made careful note not to mention Josh by name. She had a feeling the kids would view her as the bad guy in this whole thing.
“I can’t talk about it. It makes my blood boil,” she added. “Anyway, I rescheduled the appointment for next week.”
She purposely left off, after Josh is gone.
Peter looked over at her. He knew exactly who she was talking about.
Abby finished her glass of wine and placed the glass on the floor. Then she moved over to the cushion next to Peter. “I feel like I haven’t seen you guys all summer. This is Uncle Herb’s last weekend. Maybe we should do something fun tomorrow. How’s that sound?”
“Good,” Peter said. He was still in cover-up mode over the camp story. The less you say, the better off you are. Call it mother’s intuition, but she turned to CJ.
“CJ, what did you do in camp today? I’m surprised you haven’t brought home any crafts or artwork yet. Do we get a big boxful at the end?”
Peter wondered if his mother sensed something was amiss. Mothers are good like that, even mothers who work all the time.
“CJ?” Abby said.
CJ turned and blurted, “Peter had a seizure today!”
All Abby could muster was “What?”
“A bad one!” she added.
Abby looked from CJ to Peter to Uncle Herb. “That’s why you called?”
Peter thought she might get mad but a wounded expression crossed her face. “I’m so sorry, Peter. I can’t believe I forgot my phone.”
Peter felt conflicting emotions, which he had a hard time separating. They had successfully avoided talking about Project No-Camp, and now here was his mother apologizing to him. He took some satisfaction in her apology for reasons he wasn’t quite sure of, but maybe she should be sorry.
“It’s okay,” Peter said, but made it plain to see that it really wasn’t okay. “I want to go outside for a minute.”
He went to the back patio. From the look on her face, he knew he’d upset her more. And he was surprised by how little that bothered him. He wanted his old mother back and thought this might be the trick to spur her return.
For the first time since he could remember, there was a breeze strong enough to tousle his hair.
Day 69
Peter spent the morning on the couch struggling through The Three Musketeers. After a fast start with good sword fighting, he was mired in chapters filled with girls and love.
“How come so many books are about falling in love with girls?” he asked his mother. She was bustling around the house, cleaning and starting to pack Uncle Herb’s things.
“Because that’s what people want to read about,” she said, placing folded clothes in an open suitcase on the floor.
“I don’t,” Peter mumbled and flipped a few pages ahead to the next chapter.
Abby brushed Peter’s feet off the couch and sat next to him. She rubbed his knee and watched him read. Peter enjoyed the attention he was getting from his mother since the seizure.
“I was thinking,” Abby said. “Tomorrow is Uncle Herb’s last day. Maybe we should take him to a church around here. He’d like that.”
“Okay.”
“Good. I’ll go tell him. I don’t think he’s too happy with me now.”
Peter lowered the book from his face and watched his mother go down the hall to Uncle Herb’s room. He knew a lot of stuff had happened last night, especially after he and CJ went to bed. That’s when his parents always used to talk about important things, like planning the move to Willow Creek Landing in the first place.
CJ came into the room and shoved a paper in front of Peter’s face.
“Look what I drew.”
A brown, crooked boat was in the center of the page with a large, bright-yellow sun bursting from the corner. A stick figure was standing on the deck, and the boat looked ready to crumble from the weight. It was one of the most accurate depictions CJ had ever created. In the other corner of the page, CJ spelled out Josh with a big, backward “J”.
“That’s really good, CJ.”
She smiled proudly. Abby came back into the room and looked at the drawing over CJ’s shoulder. She patted CJ on the head but didn’t say anything about the picture. She asked if they were hungry.
“There’s nothing to eat in the house,” Peter said, which was true.
Abby went into the kitchen and returned with her purse. “I don’t have time to go food shopping today. If I give you money, Peter, can you run up to the general store and get us sandwiches?”
Peter said he would and asked CJ if she wanted to come. She gave an enthusiastic yes. Peter rarely invited her; she always had to ask or just tag along.
The breeze from yesterday had picked up a notch, keeping the heat manageable. At the pavilion, golf carts swarmed like bees. The golfins were out in force. Many mulled around outside, socializing and waiting for their tee times.
Peter and CJ hopped the curb and weaved in and out of the crowd. CJ, shadowing Peter’s moves, missed one quick cut and bounced off the hip of a burly golfin, knocking her tiara to the cement.
“Stay close,” Peter warned.
The crowd opened up right before the pavilion doors, and Peter found himself staring at Chipper and his goons sitting against the wall. Chipper sat in the middle, holding a soda and talking to one of the goons. There was no way Peter would make it through the doors undetected. He considered turning away, but the stink CJ would cause would surely gain Chipper’s attention anyway. Her resistance to Peter’s cowardice was almost instinctual—she never let him just run away. If he was alone, he easily could have reversed course back into the crowd, unnoticed. He drifted slowly in a direction that would lead to the door farthest from Chipper. He didn’t note if CJ had spotted Chipper, but he felt her presence close behind him.
It didn’t take long for Chipper to see Peter. He had a sharklike sense in picking up signals from prey in distress. He slapped one of the goons in the shoulder and nodded in Peter’s direction. A Nemo sighting always energized Chipper. He pushed himself to a standing position, and Goon A and Goon B, as usual, followed suit.
“Howdy, fishy,” Chipper said. He took a step toward the door, ready to block Peter’s escape path.
Peter stopped. He wished he hadn’t invited CJ. Without her, he could have made a mad dash for the door or back i
nto the crowd. Or he could have sat there and taken the abuse and kept the humiliation bottled within himself. No one else would have to suffer through it. Somewhere in his brain, a voice was shouting at him to make a run for it; some survival mechanism trying to justify that they wouldn’t do anything to CJ anyway. But he couldn’t move. In his fantasies that took place in the sheltered environment of his room, this was the moment he stands up for himself, puffs out his chest and tells Chipper to go blow it out his ear. Or this mean streak of tough guy violence boils to the surface, and Peter would unleash a wild haymaker that would unearth Chipper from his standing position. Peter knew that would never happen. At home he never had the shiver of fear running up his spine that he felt now. His insides wilted.
“Hey Franco,” Chipper said, nudging his friend. “Maybe now is a good time to practice CPR? What is it again? Ten quick punches to the chest and then five spits into the mouth?”
“That sounds about right,” the taller goon, Franco, answered with a smile. “I do need the lifesaving merit badge.”
They stepped toward Peter; Chipper served as the closest point of an approaching triangle of doom. Peter focused on a displaced white stone atop the blacktop.
“Let’s go around back where we can be alone. Wonder Woman will be fine on her own,” Chipper said, taking a step closer then reaching for Peter’s shirt. “I see you have that Band-Aid on your face. Let me show you how to properly remove it.”
Peter was still staring at the white stone when he heard the sound, like a kite cutting through the wind, and then a wet smack of flesh. Chipper dropped to the ground in an instant.
Peter looked up to see CJ’s lasso recoiling through the air. It took a second for the action to register in Peter’s mind. Chipper was reeling around the ground, holding his hands over his face. Blood poured from the slits between his fingers.
Peter looked from Chipper to CJ, his mouth wide open. The goons stared at CJ with a similar shocked expression—even CJ had a strange look on her face as she watched Chipper roll around on the ground. It was like the lasso had acted on its own.
The Underdog Parade Page 20
