“Know what?” she asked with her mouth full. “What’s wrong with your eyes? Do you have a headache?”
She was going to actually make me say it?
“I’ve figured out the clues.”
“You have?” She sounded skeptical. “Already?”
“I know that you’re … you’re …”
“Spit it out.”
“Dying.”
Silence.
“D-E-A-D. Dying. End of life.” I blew my nose with some of the toilet paper roll on the table, then continued on, ignoring the fact that my voice was squeaking. “You wanted to spend your last remaining days bonding with your—”
I was interrupted by a snort. A big snort.
I opened my eyes, releasing the tears, which sped down my cheeks. Grandma Gerd was laughing.
“You mean you’re not … dying?”
“Of course I am! Aren’t we all? Once we’re born, life is just one long journey toward death. Or haven’t you gotten to ‘Death & Dying’ yet in your AP/AAP classes?”
Was she just being cavalier to protect my feelings?
“Are you dying sooner rather than later is what I’m asking.”
“No sooner than your average sixty-year-old.”
“You’re not lying?”
“I’m not lying and I’m not dying. I’m in better health than most senior citizens. There’s no lower blood pressure to be found in any bingo parlor anywhere.”
Then what was The Big Secret? If she wasn’t using her impending death to coerce Mom and Dad, what else could it be? Was Hanks right after all? Had Mom and Dad actually done something so unethical, they’d allow Grandma Gerd to blackmail them rather than have me find out? But no, she’d already said they hadn’t done anything disreputable.
“Then what—”
“Come on, Frangi. You’re a smart cookie.” She blotted my wet cheek with the checkered tablecloth. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Isn’t that right?”
“But you wrote in your Everything Book that …” Ooops.
“That what?” She didn’t seem angry.
“‘Both our lives will be changed forever. It’s the end of my life as it’s been,’” I quoted verbatim.
“Ah,” she said. “Our lives will be changed. But not in the way you think. And for me, it is the end of an era … .”
My head felt strange. My entire body felt strange. A tingly sensation rippled across my skin. A faint ringing in my ears. Lights seemed brighter and blurred around the edges. My stomach suddenly cramped.
I dropped my glass of Coke right onto the pizza, speckling my shirt and Grandma Gerd’s tortoiseshell glasses with red sauce.
“I feel … funny … .” Could what I had feared actually come true? I pushed back my chair and swayed on rubbery legs. “Malaria! I’ve contracted malaria! Or … or is it dengue fever?”
Grandma Gerd shook her head and blinked rapidly. She, too, looked strange. “Whatever it is, it’s not dengue fever … .” She abruptly clutched her stomach. “Oooh.”
“Done with lunch, gals? The steers need a-ropin’ and the taxi’s a-waitin’.”
There was Hanks walking toward us, his footsteps gunshots on the ceramic-tile floor.
“What’s wrong with you two?” Hanks quickly looked at me. “Was your hypothesis doubly correct?”
Grandma Gerd weakly gestured toward my Foreign Food Sanitation Spray. “I think we’re having a chemical reaction.”
Hanks picked up the metal bottle of spray. The bronze print rubbed off on his hands. He sprayed a little on his forearm, smelled it, then tasted it with his tongue. “How much have you had?”
“Enough,” she said.
“Oh, no!” I said. “The amp-amputee!” I unsteadily turned to see my friend the amputee teetering back and forth on his crutches, his one leg as wobbly as my two.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur. I followed Grandma Gerd and Hanks out of Peppy Pete’s Pizzeria into a taxi. Despite my incoherence, Hanks figured out I’d also inflicted my spray upon the amputee, so he stuffed him into the taxi, too. I remember little of the hospital other than it was crowded, less than clean, and a place I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy (Wendy)—or toughest SAT competitor (Wendy).
Apparently my cheap Foreign Food Sanitation Spray knockoffs contained a cocktail of chemical substances that aren’t supposed to be inhaled, much less ingested. We were given charcoal to bind the chemicals—then had our stomachs pumped for good measure. An experience that would not be on my List of Trip Highs.
“That’s what you get for buyin’ black market goods,” said Hanks as he paced back and forth at the foot of my bed. He clenched and unclenched his jaw and wouldn’t look me in the eye. “You’re lucky you’re not bein’ nailed into your coffin right this minute.” This was the first time I’d seen him upset.
We were sharing a hospital room with twenty-five other patients. At least Grandma Gerd and I had beds next to each other. The amputee was six beds down. And he most certainly wasn’t happy with me—even after I had Hanks tell him I’d pay for his stomach pumping.
Grandma Gerd was even worse off, thanks to the mix of chemicals and alcohol in her system. With her eyes still closed, she said, “Next time I’ll just play along and say, ‘I’m dying, I’m dying,’ and save you the trouble of knocking me off.”
“That’s not funny!” I could barely croak it out.
“Come on, we all know you have death on the brain.” She coughed. “Or is this your way of punishing me?”
“I better keep a closer eye on your granddaughter,” said Hanks. “She’s dangerous to your health.” And then after a glare at me: “And her own.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHOOT ’EM UP SHOOT ’EM UP BANG BANG!
It took about three days of R & R at the smile smile Guesthouse before I felt back to my normal Vassar self—other than a raw throat from my bout with the plastic tube and a bruised ego from acting like a complete idiot. But Grandma Gerd appeared frayed around the edges. Even when awake, she lay in bed with her eyes closed and winced at the slightest sound.
I was sitting in bed writing up the Peppy Pete’s Pizza adventures as my latest chapter—a difficult task since much of it was hazy—when Hanks knocked, then entered our sickroom without waiting for a reply.
“How ’bout ropin’ some steers?”
Grandma Gerd groaned and pulled the sheet up to her chin, eyes still firmly shut. “I’m not leaving this bed for twenty years. But you two go ahead.”
Her voice was raspy.
“No, I’ll stay and keep you company.”
My voice was raspy.
Grandma Gerd opened her bleary eyes. “Frangi, I really need some alone-time today.”
I was hurt, but I tried not to show it.
“If you’re sure—”
“Sure I’m sure. You two go on and rustle cattle. Don’t forget to keep a lookout for found art. Oh, and one more thing …” Grandma Gerd dropped a gum wrapper into my hand.
It contained no gum … only a faint “P” written in pencil.
Before we left, I typed up and emailed the latest chapter in the lobby of the guesthouse and checked what was going on stateside.
Amber: Guess what? Garrett FINALLY asked Laurel out! Sure, it was a free outdoor concert at Seattle University, followed by a Mini-Mart hot dog and Cinnabon dinner, but …
Laurel: A date’s a date!
Amber: BTW, hope you’re not still hung up on John Pepper. Anyone who prefers a Stupacker to a Spore is a BORE.
Laurel: Has Denise mentioned that her parents made her sign up for ballroom dancing lessons?
Denise: They seem to think that being “cotillion-ready” will somehow make me more marketable to the opposite sex. Do I leap off the ledge before or after the humiliation?
Laurel: Did Amber mention she won another chess tourney?
Amber: Your mom’s bugging me to invite my parents to the next one. Says that once they see me in action, they couldn’t hel
p but be proud. RIGHT. The last time they were REMOTELY interested in anything I did was when I was named Tetherball Queen of sixth grade … .
Denise: Keep those chapters coming!
I felt a pang—their lives were continuing without me.
However, the final email from Amber confused me:
Amber: That wild Aunt Aurora! LOVE her! What will she do next? We all think Sarah’s acting like a goody-goody, though. Total PRIG. Have her loosen up, why don’t you?
What did that mean? Exactly how was Sarah a prig?
There was an email from Mom:
Mom: It sounds like you’re having such a good time—so restful and peaceful. I’m glad to hear Gertrude is actually behaving herself for once. It certainly sets my mind at ease. I’m sleeping without medication now. Amber is making quite good headway. (Although her parents continue to impose their sports agenda on her. Such a travesty!) I bought some fuchsias yesterday. Remember how much fun we had potting the hanging baskets for the patio last summer? I miss you.
Another pang. I realized I missed her, too. And Dad. Their predictable ways were so comforting. There was definitely something to be said for routine.
An hour later, I sat behind Hanks on a rented motorbike that was more rust than paint. We bumped down a dirt road on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, narrowly avoiding potholes the size of Fiats. Every part of my body vibrated: my toes, my teeth, my clavicle. We weren’t wearing helmets.
And we were going very fast.
This would be so illegal in the States. Thank goodness my parents couldn’t see me now—Dad’s stomach would probably implode.
I soon forgot about the speed as the dust billowed around us. I squeezed my eyes closed so the grit wouldn’t get under my contact lenses. Thank goodness I’d taken off my big white hat or it would be long gone by now.
“Hold on,” said Hanks. “Tight.”
He dodged yet another barking mutt that magically appeared out of nowhere. I threw my arms around Hanks’s waist instead of gripping the seat handle behind me. The familiar scent of Old Spice filled my nostrils. I was hyperaware of his muscles beneath his brown cowboy shirt.
“Tighter,” said Hanks.
I squeezed Hanks as tightly as I could.
“Tighter.”
Flip-flop-flip-flop.
What was the deal with my stomach?
And what the heck was spelled with the letters “DADEP”?
Hanks passed a field where a herd of cows grazed and pulled up next to a bamboo hut with a roof made out of corrugated tin. An elderly man wearing a sarong and a red-and-white-checked krama—the traditional Cambodian cloth—around his head squatted out front, smoking a cigarette.
“He’s gotta be the owner. Wait here.”
Hanks walked over and squatted next to him. They conversed in Khmer for a few minutes. The owner gestured toward a teapot on a blue plastic table. Hanks looked over at me quizzically. I shook my head. How could they drink hot liquids in 100 percent humidity? I was already damp. The owner pointed at Hanks’s boots. Hanks shook his head. The owner grinned and shrugged.
After Hanks paid five dollars to practice roping for the entire afternoon, he untied his lasso from the back of the motorbike.
“He wanted to buy my Godings. The geezer’s got taste.”
I had to laugh at the thought of that old man wearing Hanks’s boots.
After practicing on a fence post until his arm and shoulder were loosened up, Hanks climbed over the fence into the field. I waited in the shade of a papaya tree.
“You gotta creep up on cows so as not to spook them,” he whispered over his shoulder.
“The sight of you would spook anybody.”
“Shh. Quiet now. Cows have darn good hearin’. They don’t like loud or jarrin’ sounds—like that voice of yours.”
He slowly walked toward the nearest cow, which didn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention. He started to throw his lasso—then stopped. Started to throw his lasso—then stopped again. Was it stage fright? I laughed. Hanks’s back stiffened. Then he threw the lasso and ringed the cow right around the neck.
“Bravo!” I called, and applauded.
“It would be a bigger challenge on a horse, but he doesn’t got any,” Hanks said after lassoing a few more cows.
“What a strange way to make money: renting out your cows to be lassoed.”
“He raises them for that place over there.” He pointed to a large wooden shack a few hundred yards away painted with giant yellow letters: SHOOT ’EM UP SHOOT ’EM UP BANG BANG!
“For what?”
“What do you think?”
“You’re kidding.” He couldn’t be serious. No way.
“Hey, where are you goin’?”
I strode briskly past a mound of garbage, past a chicken coop, past a line of rented motorbikes, and into the shack. The place was jammed with twenty-something backpackers, mostly Caucasian males, sitting at wooden tables reading menus. Attached to the back of the shack was a bunker where the sporadic sounds of gunfire could be heard. A lanky Cambodian boy with a straggly mullet cut, camouflage pants, and a Def Leppard T-shirt handed me a laminated piece of paper. It looked like a menu, but it sure wasn’t selling food. AK-47, thirty rounds: $20; M16, thirty rounds: $25; Grenade/RPG: $50; and there it was: Grenade with Live Cow as Target: $100!
So it was true! I glared at a table of backpackers, who were animatedly trying to decide what “appetizer” to start with.
“What to choose, what to choose …”
“The M16 sounds finger-lickin’ good.”
“RPG!”
“Hmmm … I think I’ll go for thirty rounds with the AK-47 with an RPG chaser.”
I cornered the mullet-haired Cambodian. “You don’t really use live cows, do you?”
He shrugged and walked away. Bored with the question? Couldn’t understand English?
A chunky guy my age with a shaved head and combat boots stood in the bunker wearing protective ear coverings and goggles. He aimed his M16 at a target: BOOM! BOOM!
The echoes ricocheted in my ears.
“What a rush!” he said, stopping to take a break. He grinned at me. “Wanna try?”
Before I could respond, the cool, hard metal of the M16 was in my hands and I was propelled toward the bunker. “Wait—I’m just—I’m not—”
“What? Scared?”
“No—”
“Then try it—it’s on me.”
Shoot a gun? Me? My intellectual curiosity momentarily distracted me from my quest. This would show Amber that Sarah’s no prig!
“It’s easy. Put these goggles on. Now just put your finger here, look through there, and aim there! That’s all there is to it!”
It was as if I were watching a whole different Vassar from above.
“A testosterone cocktail, that’s what it is!” His giddy voice spiked the air. “Whatta rush!”
Sarah’s sweaty finger gripped the trigger. She squinted through the “sight” at the black silhouette on the paper target—so distant and so tiny. She strained to hold the chunk of metal steady. It was surprisingly heavy. BOOM! The gun kicked back against her shoulder and shook her entire body—adrenaline gushed through her veins, and her hands started to shake. What a rush was right!
BOOM! BOOM!
“Look at that! You’ve hit the target twice! Atta girl! Go for the brain!”
BOOM!
Then—kachink! It locked up. I tried squeezing the trigger again. Nothing.
Impatiently, the mullet-haired Cambodian grabbed the M16 and shook it, banged the butt on the ground. He then took a long metal rod and jammed it down the barrel—and peered down it! Am I seeing what I’m seeing?
My intestines constricted. I slowly backed away from them, trying to catch my breath.
“You okay?” asked the chunky teen.
After my breathing finally regulated, I snatched a menu off the nearest table. “This is a joke, right?” I asked, pointing to the part about the cow.
“No. It’s for real. He’s done it.” He pointed to a runty guy with braces drinking a bottle of Orange Crush. Before I could stop myself, I strode over and slapped him over the head with the menu.
“Murderer!”
Then I slapped Chunky Guy on his shaved head for good measure.
“What’s her problem?”
“Hey! You come back here—”
But I was already out the door.
My adrenaline raced. My heart pumped. My mind whirled: There’s absolutely no way I’m gonna let those beautiful cows be grenaded by slacker backpackers using this struggling country as their own personal playground. It’s sick and wrong and just not gonna happen.
Hanks didn’t notice my return. He was too busy teaching the cow owner how to lasso a stump.
The cows had drifted toward the far end of the field. I grabbed a rusty piece of corrugated metal off the garbage heap. Then I walked along the fence examining the dirt until I found what I was looking for: a large rock.
After checking that no one was looking my way, I unlatched the gate and left it wide open. To propel the cows through the opening, I’d have to situate myself behind them. Ideally they’d stampede away from me, not over me! Remembering what Hanks had said, I crept around the herd until I was on the opposite side. I held up the piece of metal—out of the corner of my eye I saw the owner waving his arms at me and Hanks staring at me, his mouth open—then, WHACK! I smacked the rock against the metal sheet over and over and over again. To say the cows were spooked was an understatement—instead of heading through the open gate, they crashed right through the fence!
Ooops—not exactly what I had planned.
All twenty hightailed it across the neighboring field, past SHOOT ’EM UP SHOOT ’EM UP BANG BANG!, past the neighboring bamboo farmhouses, and off into the distance until all that remained were clouds of dirt suspended in the air.
Carpe Diem Page 15
