by David Haynes
By the time Todd and O’Hare choose a campaign theme, my presence is long past necessary, so I can’t say what happened. I bet they fought like a couple of mad hens, with Todd heavily favoring “NO NUKES” and O’Hare pushing “U.S. OUT OF CENTRAL AMERICA.”
“I don’t see why she’s so stubborn about a campaign slogan,” Todd says to me. “This is our chance to really get my issue out there.”
His issue.
I tell him that she probably has in mind what was best for winning the election.
He says neither of them are expecting any trouble with that.
Todd wins the argument. They go with “NO NUKES.” The election is set for national election day in November.
*
Meanwhile, Sam comes home every night, or is careful to let me know why not.
No. Sam comes home. Drunk mostly. I don’t know how he gets to the landfill every day. Or if he does. I imagine him asleep in the truck, fallen over in a chair in the recycling shed. I imagine him driving around doing nothing.
He takes up the shopping again, but I have to stop in at Miss Ida’s for real food, he’s so bad at it. Around the time the leaves are falling, this is what I unpack from his shopping bag: four green apples, one turkey pot pie, two packages of double fudge cake mix, a one and a half pound bag of Doritos. And, of course, two six packs of Bud.
“There’s no food in here,” I yell.
Sam clumps into the kitchen, slowly, as if there is lead in his body. “No, I suppose not,” he says. He takes a beer and goes back to the TV.
One afternoon Todd and I hitch a ride up to the mall to get the stuff for the campaign posters. We catch a Bi-State bus home, and Todd stops by my house to work on posters. He says it’ll at least be quiet here, but I bet there’s not been a favorable reaction to radical politics down in P.W.T. land. More and more Todd’s been saying he can’t talk to them down there. This is after never saying a word about them ever.
I open the front door and go turn on the TV. Todd says something about having to “drain the snake.”
“Marshall,” he says. “Come back here.”
There on the bathroom floor, Sam lies with his face in a pool of vomit. He moans, so it is clear he’s not dead.
I don’t know what to do. I say “I’m sorry” to Todd. Todd looks at me annoyed. I shake Sam and ask him to get up.
Sam slurs out my name.
“Come on,” Todd says. “You can’t talk to them when they’re like this. Grab under his arm there. I’ve got this side.”
I follow along as directed.
“Don’t be a pussy. You’re gonna get puke on you. It washes off.”
Todd apparently knows. The vomit smells sour, of beer and rot.
We hoist him up. Todd says, “We’ll have to drag him a little. He’s a heavy dude.”
By and by we are able to haul Sam to his room and drop him on his bed. He grunts and groans. He says my mother’s name. He is too far out of it to do much else.
I wet a washcloth and take it in to him. As I wipe around his face he moves his head around as if the rag hurts him.
“Stop, Marshall,” he moans. He brings a swollen hand up to still the rag. He mumbles something else and I fight down the urge to scream my hatred.
Back in the bathroom Todd is on his hands and knees wiping up the mess with a roll of paper towels.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
“It’s okay,” he says. He looks at me with a kind smile. “We get a lot of this down our way.”
“We don’t get a lot of it here,” I turn my back to him.
Later Todd joins me in the kitchen where I’ve started tracing giant globes on the posterboards. Anything to get my mind off of Sam.
“It could be a lot worse for you,” Todd says.
Just then I don’t see quite how.
*
Big Sam doesn’t look me in the eye for a week. He ducks in and out like a criminal on the lam. Sometimes stumbling and staggering; other times overcorrecting each step
I cook what I can—what Miss Ida and Betty credit us. Money’s been short and Sam’s not been paying the tab.
The first cold day, early November, I heat up some beef stew and Sam sits down to eat it. I begrudge him every drop of it.
“I’ll try. It’ll be better,” he says. “It’s just so hard, you understand. Different than I planned.”
I glare at him. The steam rises between us from the canned stew.
“What’s hard?” I ask. “Tell me.”
He picks up his soup bowl and empties it in one gulp. He gets up and walks by me, rubbing his hand through my hair.
My whole body quivers.
*
Each candidate is limited to ten posters. Connie Jo Hartberger, running on the school spirit ticket, makes full use of the limited space. All of her posters scream out from the walls, proclaiming FUN and GOOD TIMES with glitter, ribbons, and fluorescent paints.
Todd’s ten posters are identical. A bright blue map of the world with “NO NUKES” lettered across diagonally in red stenciled letters. Written across the bottom in green letters “Sponsored by the Todd Lawrence for junior class president campaign.”
I tell Todd these posters are completely the wrong idea. Who around here cares about this stuff? They think he wants them to give up their microwaves.
Which is just the point, he answers.
*
Sam comes up behind me where I am sitting on the couch watching MTV. He puts his hands on my shoulders.
“I guess this is the way it’s gonna be from now on. I guess I’m gonna have to accept that.”
He kneads my shoulders. He leans into me with all his weight. Madonna spins around on the floor.
“I kept waiting. I kept hoping. But I gotta get on with my life now.”
I hear him walk away down the hall and close the door to his room. I turn up the TV a little louder.
*
The class assembly:
Connie Jo—transformed into Marilyn Monroe—is borne on a flower-laden platter into the auditorium by a gang of tuxedoed football players, one waving a fan at her—up her dress—which she coyly smoothes down. All the while she’s blowing kisses and smacking her cherry red lips.
A nice illusion but about fifty pounds too much of it. A few times the jocks almost spill poor Marilyn to the waiting wolves below.
Miss H. breathes a heartfelt rendition of “Connie is Your School’s Best Friend.”
“A vote for a blond who is quite sentimental …”
She floors them. A Pinhead ovation.
Then it is Todd’s turn. He comes out alone. He has added a tie to the simple jeans, vest combo. His speech is written on one three by five card.
“Students and staff. Throughout the world today thousands of pounds of nuclear waste await proper storage and burial. The amount increases every day. It will remain harmful for hundreds of centuries. Every year the number of countries with nuclear potential increases, and with it grows the potential of nuclear war and of accidental detonation. Or of a small scale nuclear confrontation that would poison the globe. More and more scientists and physicians recognize the necessity for gaining control of the nuclear problem before it leads to our final annihilation. When elected class president I will bring these issues and others before you for intelligent debate. Thank you.”
He smiles in a way that is both sincere, serious, and also highlights his dimples.
Afterwards Todd asks me how he did. It’s clear he’s pleased. I tell him the applause for him was less than for Marilyn.
“I don’t think many of them really vote, do you?” he asks me.
How should I know?
“By the way,” he says, “I have here in my hand the terms of surrender.”
Before I can protest, he flips over and reads from the same three-by-five card he’d used for the speech.
“Artie says he’s willing to consider making up if you agree to allow him to say as many mean and rude things to you as he wa
nts to for up to and not to exceed five minutes. With, of course, no rebuttal and no repercussions.”
“That’s stupid.” I say.
“It’s the best I could do. Is it a deal?”
Why not?
*
Then it’s election day.
I should have known.
I did know.
There’s Miss O’Hare wearing an American flag on her lapel. There’s Todd all smiles.
I bet less than one hundred votes are cast. After the car crack from Todd, I, myself, mark a ballot for Connie Jo. It won’t make a bit of difference.
Miss O’Hare, very business-like, crosses the podium at the assembly to read the results. The two candidates flank her. Connie Jo has her chest thrust out so it appears her breasts will pop out of that sweater at any moment. She keeps giving these looks to Todd that are either gloating, flirting, or maybe both. As for Todd, he looks as if he’d be happy to spit on everyone in the room. The same look O’Hare has.
“Lawrence 125, Hartberger 87. Congratulations, Todd.”
There is a smattering of applause. The Pinheads get up and leave. No one really cares about these class elections anyway. Todd knew that all along, and Ohairy knew that, too. Connie Jo stands there open-mouthed, red in the face, teary. O’hare gives her a “I-dare-you-to-call-me-a-liar” look. Connie Jo walks away. I guess she will have to settle for prom queen this year.
I don’t know what to say to Todd on the bus.
“Congratulations” is the best I can do.
He just shrugs, says a quiet “Thanks.” And then, “You do what you have to do.”
“I’m not quite sure what you’re sayin,” I say to him.
“I’m not sure what you’re saying.”
“Did you cheat? You can tell me. I won’t say anything.”
“Is that what you think?” he asks with a sneer.
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
He just laughs at me.
“We won,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”
I think about it a minute. “That’s not quite all there is to it,” I say. “You know, if you did, you won’t get away with it.”
“If I did cheat—and I’m not saying I did—I think I already did get away with it.” Todd says. He shakes his head and laughs some more.
“But you’re just full of shit if you think I didn’t win fair and square.”
“I don’t.” I tell him, “You’re pretty cool now. But what if it were just you. No Ohairy. Just you.”
“It is me,” he says. “Just me. Don’t ever forget that.”
I tell him I won’t.
*
Which leaves the truce. Todd arranges for Artie to come to my house after school.
“Does everybody understand the rules?” he asks.
I, restricted from speaking, only nod.
Todd indicates for Artie to begin. He eyes me for a long time with an expression that goes from mean, to quizzical, and back again to mean. Finally he says, “Forget it.”
“That’s it?” I ask, but Todd reminds me that Artie’s time isn’t up.
“All I want is, I just don’t want, I … don’t like it when people think I’m dumb,” Artie says. “It hurts when people treat you that way.”
I feel like dirt.
Todd orders me to shake Artie’s hand.
Right then, Sam, unexpectedly early, comes in from the landfill. I have no idea how Artie’ll react.
Sam merely waltzes in, grin stretched from ear to ear, eyes all aglow.
“Men!” he cheers, and then gives us each a pat on the head on the way to his room. Artie flinches and Todd’s mouth drops open.
Behind Sam’s back I point at him and shake my head. I roll my eyes. Artie nods in agreement and I give high five.
Artie: as soft as a newborn baby. I’m sure I’ll know him the rest of my life, so I guess I better learn to respect him.
But he’s weak. Much too weak.
Weakness is just not to be tolerated.
9
THE FIRST SNOW in early December is a snow almost like rain. In the morning Artie won’t drive: too chicken. So it’s back to the school buses for us. It is still snowing late in the day. The antique bus we ride groans and grinds on the icy streets, and the back end waves like a fishtail. To be safe, Artie and Todd and I get off way back on Colerain Road, by the 7-Eleven, and we walk the mile in to Washington Park. There’s no saying we wouldn’t have rolled off into a ravine or slid into a semi on a day like this.
The snow is gloppy thick and the three of us roll around and pelt each other with mushy wads of it, acting like we are the Pinheads back at Eisenhower, or like we are puppies out in our first snow. I catch Todd in his ruddy nose with an ice ball, and just when I am sure he’ll start to bleeding or something, he picks up a huge slab of snow that is stuck together with ice and is enough to smother both Artie and me. He mushes it right in our faces. Icicles drip from his stringy red hair and in Artie’s and my naps the snow looks like cotton balls and lint. We hoot and holler as the trucks spray us with charcoal slush.
*
The flag is up on the mailbox out by the curb. I reach in to see what’s new besides bills. What do I find but a postcard from Rose. On a day like this here’s a picture of palm trees and swimming pools sparkling in the sun. On the back it says:
Hi Marshall:
Life do be complicated. But things are changing over, I know. Still haven’t won a pot But as long as I got a quarter in my pocket …
Always,
Ma
I drop it and shake my head.
Of course, there is no sign of Big Sam, which is just as well because I don’t need to be listening on a day like this to a lecture about being soaking wet and out in the cold like a fool. Not that one could get such a lecture around here. I crank up the TV and peel off the wet clothes. They get dumped in a corner for when I’ll do the laundry. I put on a sweater and some overalls, and fire up the thermostat another ten degrees.
There isn’t too much around for supper. That’s been typical lately. Like I’m supposed to live on the bizarre stuff Sam picks up when he happens by Miss Ida’s. Today in the cupboard are a can of kipper snacks and two boxes of Captain Crunch—my favorite foods, canned fish and sugar.
I make a big pot of macaroni and then shave off the mold from an ancient chunk of cheddar cheese and throw the chopped up cheese in the pot along with some margarine and milk. For spite, I pepper it up real good—more than I like it myself—so that should old Sam drag himself in from another night of “just stepping out for a few minutes” and have stomach and taste buds left, he’d burn his ornery tongue real good. Serve him right. I shovel the biggest of the noodles out on a paper plate and wolf them down with some extra sugary raspberry Kool-aid.
Outside it’s still snowing. The huge heavy flakes are sticking together now. They fall in chunks that look like they ought to make a splat when they land. I do trigonometry homework and fall asleep in front of a Christmas special—some old white guy singing carols up in the mountains. Big Sam wakes me when he blows in the door like Jack Frost himself. He’s blustering and shaking like a big yard dog.
“It’s something else out there,” he says. As if there were someone else in the room who didn’t already know, or who cared more than me. He sits—more reclines—back in one of the kitchen chairs, his body leaned like a plank against the wall. He slowly unlaces his workboots by dragging first one foot up his leg and then another, looking for all the world as if he’d just walked from the North Pole, waiting for me to ask him where he’s been.
Out of habit I get up and move the boots to the tub where they can drain—not needing to, in addition to whatever else, mop up after him, too. The leather is soaked clean through.
I can’t smell that he’s been drinking tonight, even though his eyes are veined red. He is able to get the boots unlaced on his own, so he must be sober. I come back in and he is curled over the table with his face in his hands rubbing his h
ead that is beady with water.
I’m beat,” he says. “I musta pushed out every stuck car in Washington Park. Down across the tracks, too.”
“I made some food if you want it,” I say. I feel a little shamed for what I’ve done to it. And I know he must be tired because he just shakes his head and hauls himself up and I hear him crash on his big empty bed.
*
When the phone rings I wake up startled; no one ever calls here in the middle of the night. I know I’d better get it because there’s no way that Big Sam is gonna get himself up.
Put Sam on,” says this twangy voice that I recognize as Arnie Nelson, Sam’s supervisor from the county. I can hear the joy he is having at waking us.
“He’s sleeping,” I say.
“Tell you what: you tell him he best be gettin himself up. We got a mess out there with that snow. The Park needs to be plowed. Down to the river bottom, too. Before rush hour.” He hangs up.
The bastard.
It is three O’clock in the morning. Waking Big Sam at any hour is like going into the bear’s den. But to get him up for plowing …
“Daddy.” I lean in gingerly and shake his big frame. You got to be careful when you wake him in case he decides to lash out.
“Rose,” he mumbles.
“Hey! Daddy!” I call a little louder, shake a little harder.
“Gu wu,” he growls into a pillow.
“Come on, Daddy. Mr. Nelson says you gotta get the streets plowed. Let’s go.”
He sits up quick like he has been shocked; sits rubbing his eyes like a little boy would. “M’late for work again.” He says that the way he usually does when I wake him from oversleeping.
“No. It’s snowing. You have to plow. Right now.”
“Sheeit,” he says. He rolls back, spread-eagle.
“Dad?”
“Well. I guess that settles it—no more county work for me. There’s no way.”
