The Last Martin

by Jonathan Friesen

  She shifts on her feet. “Try me.”

  “Well —”

  The bell dongs and we all move toward first period. “Are you coming to the track meet tonight?”

  “I have to. Detention. Remember?”

  “Okay. Poole’s coming and I’ll talk to Charley. I think it’s time to schedule one last OSM meeting.”

  “What do you mean ‘one last'?” She clenches her jaw. “There’s not going to be a last. You have to think positive.”

  I say nothing. She shoves my shoulder and stomps off. Think positive.

  The day goes by slowly, which is fine by me. I’m in no mood to hurdle. The day also goes by differently. Mr. Halden, Gladys Gladys, even Will — they all make me smile. I’d invite all three of them over for a party if it would buy me more time. But it won’t. Nothing will.

  The school day ends, and I march to the locker room. I change for track and slowly walk out to the field.

  “Where you been the last two days?” Charley runs up behind me while I stretch out on the track. “You get a paper cut?”

  I roll my eyes, drop down, and stretch my skinny calves. “I went to work with Dad.”

  “No way. At the fort?”

  Loudspeakers blare, “All non-competitors please clear the track!”

  “That’s me,” he says. “Good luck, Marty.”

  “Yeah. Can you do another midnight meeting on Saturday?”

  “Will Julia be there?”

  “She’s invited,” I say.

  “Count me in. Gotta go.”

  I watch him run off toward the stands. Slow of mind, but no worries. Julia sits in her regular corner. Dad and Mom watch from the other side. Well, Dad watches. Mom lathers the metal bleachers with liquid disinfectant. A ten-foot empty space has formed around my parents on the otherwise crowded bleachers.

  And it hits. As I stare at her, a new feeling grows. Not anger. Pity. I feel sorry for her, trapped inside her paranoid skin. I lie back and stretch my back, stare into clear blue sky. I was like that. No more. I’ve just found one of death’s perks.

  I glance around the field. School buses from around St. Paul line up outside the fence surrounding the track, and runners cover the lanes. My first track meet is a huge event, and teammates go crazy. I should at least cheer when Midway wins, but I can’t bring myself to hype more than a clap.

  “Hurdles. 300 meters!”

  “Let’s go, Martin.” Coach calls. The team is freaky excited and lines the inside of the track.

  I peek up at Julia and she waves. I’m suddenly nervous. Dad smiles down on me, and my butterflies turn to small birds.

  Might be my last chance. Win the tournament and I receive my father’s coat of arms, his seal of approval. And I impress the lady. A knight is humble, faithful, and expects nothing in return. Ah, the agony of courtly love.

  I lower my gaze, stretch my thighs, and march to the starting blocks. I will win. For all the things that could have been, I will —

  “Oh my.”

  Other hurdlers mill about around the start. They are not boys. They are man-boys. Their bodies are huge, with furry upper lips and chins. They are beasts, not children, with thighs like tree trunks.

  I step into lane three and stare down the track. Surrounded by Goliaths, I now only want the hurdles behind me.

  I peek at the monster to my right. He sneers and licks his lips.

  I reach into my pocket to make sure my chess horse is still there. Sure could use a real one right now.

  I’m a knight. I’m a blistering-fast knight. I’m an … unhairy, under-developed, blistering-fast knight. I have faced hideous creatures and hideous curses and sharp-toothed jackals.

  “Hey, monster. Are you really thirteen?”

  Sasquatch grunts. I guess so. We put our feet in the blocks and our fingertips on the line. We’re tense, like arrows on a string, ready to fly. Muscles ripple around me. At the slightest noise, my competition will launch, leaving me in their wake. Suddenly, I remember my vow.

  “I’m thankful I’m not furry!”

  Every other hurdler leaps forward.

  “False start, lane 1 … uh, and 2, 4, 5, and 6.”

  The Furry Ones growl and return to their positions. One more false start and they’ll be disqualified.

  “Sorry guys. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just had to get that out — “ A grin works its way across my face.

  We lean over.

  “Abubalah!” I scream.

  “False start lane 1. Runner disqualified.”

  One man-boy is out of the race.

  “Zeebobie! Gooba! Tooby Toby!”

  Lane 2, 5, and 6 leap too soon, furry victims of my stupid-word strategy. The beast in lane 4 glares at me. It’s down to Sasquatch and me.

  “Heebeegeebee!” he yells, and I jump.

  “Got me, monster.” I tap my temple. We grunt at each other.

  “Foobee!” I shout.

  “Weeboowaaba!” he hollers.

  “Doopee!”

  “Mameemoo!”

  The starter looks confused, shrugs, and fires.

  The beast charges ahead. I follow, hollering, “Geenowa! Flapeeapee!”

  He loses his step and plows through a hurdle, then tumbles to the ground. I leap past.

  “Herky Dweeb!” he shouts.

  I laugh and don’t even jump the next hurdle. “Smowee! Kemaapa!”

  The beast and I stagger forward, tears filling our eyes, crashing into every hurdle. We knock over the last ones and bend over, grabbing our guts. The finish line is just feet away. I pull his ear toward my mouth and whisper, “Merp.”

  He crumples into a laughing heap, and I shuffle across the finish line.

  The announcer is silent. The crowd is silent. I raise my fists and Loudspeaker Man breaks out of his trance.

  “The winner of the 300 meter hurdles: Martin Boyle of Midway Middle School.”

  The crowd erupts. Dad cheers. Mom frowns. Julia and Poole laugh.

  It’s a great day.

  “I’m going to celebrate with the team.”

  I hate lying to Dad. I hate it. But I don’t know how else to get free. Family and friends circle me in the Midway parking lot. Lani grabs my hand and squeezes. She knows something; I see it in her worried face.

  “That was using your head to win a race.” Dad pats my back. “Never seen that before.”

  “And you never shall again.” Mom wipes her hands clean with antibac towelettes. “Every time your body came in contact with a hurdle, millions of germs and parasites leaped onto you.”

  “But those little critters didn’t slow down our son.” Dad rounds Mom’s shoulder and squeezes. “Did they?”

  Mom peeks at Dad, softens. “No, they didn’t.”

  Dad smiles. “Into the car, Elaina. Lani?”

  Sis doesn’t let me go, and Dad tugs gently on her shoulders. I force a smile, release my grip, and her hand slips free. Lani climbs in, presses her nose and a hand against the glass. I press the window from the other side, the dying side, until the Suburban pulls away, leaving me with Poole and Julia. I stare at Poole. “Frank’s okay with this?”

  “As long as you don’t jump out.”

  Julia frowns at Poole, then turns to me. “What’s going on?”

  “Can you call Lucy and tell her you need to go to Charley’s?” I ask.

  “Well, yeah.” She pulls out her cell. “I do that all the time now.”

  Poole grabs Julia and me by the arm. “What are we waiting for? Your chariot awaits.”

  Frank’s truck is parked behind the buses. We tumble in and clunk twenty minutes down the highway. Fresh off a victory and surrounded by friends, the horror doesn’t seem possible, and I relax.

  “We’re here,” I say.

  Julia squints out the window. “Hot Air Balloon Rides of the St. Croix Valley. Really? We get to go up?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Two thousand dollars means we can do whatever we want.”

  “You mind the
balloon folk, hear? Mind me too.” Frank hops out of the truck. “The last time I was a daddy, my son caused quite a stir at school. My kids need to be obedient. Follow.”

  We enter the building, and Frank fills out waivers for both of us. Once done, he turns to leave. “I’ll be sleeping in the truck. Martin, no fighting with your sister.”

  “What about prune —”

  “No fighting.”

  My new sister and I walk through the building to where baskets and balloons are tethered. Soon the gas blower has a beautiful blue balloon tugging at the earth. I help Julia into the basket.

  “You need your backpack?” I ask.

  She nods her head. We sit down while our pilot lifts the balloon into the sunset. In no time, we’re one thousand feet up. It’s cold, and we huddle beneath a wool blanket.

  “It was a great race today,” she says.

  I don’t answer.

  “What’s wrong?” She quiets. “Dumb question.”

  I peek at her. “There are so many things I waited to do until now. There’s a lot I won’t get to do. Look.”

  The sky ripples pinks and purples and we’re a part of it. Far below our shadow stretches long across the St. Croix.

  Julia presses into my shoulder. “Don’t give up. I can’t think of that.” She reaches for her pack. “You need to see this.”

  She removes her portfolio. “What I showed you before were sketches, while you kept adding installments. Now I think I’m up to date.”

  I flip open the portfolio and gasp.

  They might not be as pretty as the sky, but they come close. A jackal in mid-shape shift, the escape from the cemetery, Alia — looking more like Julia with each new scene — peering out from the cave.

  “What happened here?” I run my finger over two splotches near the bottom of the cave. “Looks like you spilled —”

  “I cried, okay?” She snatches her art back. “I cried a little doing that one.”

  I nod. “That’s okay. I’ve done that a few times too.” Squirming over, I take the knight from my pocket and set it on my knee.

  “You still have it!” She reaches up and strokes the tiny mane.

  “I just wish I had two and that they were real and we could ride — at least you’ll have Poole to keep you company.”

  She smacks my arm. “What does that mean?”

  “I just thought since you two seem to get along, you’d end up friends, or …”

  Julia bursts into tears. I don’t know what I said. I don’t know why talking about Poole makes her cry. I don’t know anything.

  We land in a field on a perfect night. I hop out of the basket. Julia sulks, slumped down with arms crossed. She’s not moving.

  “I’ve spent tons of time looking up curses,” she murmurs, staring straight ahead. “But since you’ve already given up, I guess that was a waste of time. I guess you’re a waste of time.”

  I watch the chase crew’s van approach in the distance. Soon we’re zipping back towards Frank’s truck.

  “Howdy, kids!” Frank offers his biggest toothless grin. “How was the stratosphere?”

  Julia walks past his words, hops in the truck, and slams the door. I mope behind her.

  Poole jumps into the truck bed, and Frank squeezes behind the wheel. “Didn’t I speak to you two about fighting?” He starts the ignition.

  Julia tongues her cheek and mutters, “You should have spoken to him about quitting.”

  CHAPTER 24

  DAYS PASS QUICKLY. JULIA IS NOT IN SCHOOL. MY mind hazes and my body sweats. Something deep inside is happening. Something horrible and unstoppable.

  The curse accelerates.

  “She won’t come to our OSM meeting.” I climb on top of the locomotive beside Poole and take in the morning. It’s beautiful.

  He whacks the metal roof with a stick. “Oh, I bet she will. She likes you.”

  “She hates me. She won’t talk to me.”

  “That proves it.” He pokes me with his stick. “That’s how it works.”

  I wipe wet off my forehead and stare at the rising sun. “It’s not so much the dying. It’s the leaving. I don’t want to leave her or Dad or grimy you … or Lani and Mom.”

  “Wait until tonight.” He leans over and bumps my shoulder. “Wait until the meeting. You ain’t gone yet.”

  I spend all of Saturday in my bedroom — anxious, waiting. When I come out for lunch, Mom stares at me and smiles.

  “How nice to see you looking as you did before. I was worried you’d lost your general good sense.”

  I want to talk to her. I want her to be a mom just once and not a crazy woman.

  “Do you ever get afraid? Do you ever think about something that’s coming up and wish you could blow the day back on the calendar, but you know you can’t? You know the Big Scary is coming. Do you ever wish you could do that?”

  Mom plops mashed potatoes on my plate. “No, Martin. I do not fear, for I plan. I plan for every emergency. Then nothing catches me off guard.” She pauses. “It’s a — well, your father would say it’s a heavy way to live and he might be correct, but once the habit is formed, well, no use talking about this. I’ll get the gravy.”

  She disappears into the kitchen and does not reappear. I don’t need gravy. I don’t need food. I rise and reach for the stairway rail. I haul myself higher, stagger into my room, and collapse against the door. My heart thumps slowly and loudly, and I try to catch my breath, but it’s no use.

  “In, out. In, out,” I whisper, and work my lungs like an accordion. Can’t just sit here.

  My story sits on my chair. I lunge for the tablet. “Okay, the centipede told the knight that the princess went back to the magic fort.” I prop myself up on an elbow.

  “I won’t catch her on foot. To the air. I must find … Hallo!”

  Before the knight, the skies grew dark, and a spindly finger dropped to the earth. The twister jumped and danced, sucking a herd of cows high into the swirling clouds.

  “Storm! I need transport!”

  “To what end?” Its thunderous voice shook the ground.

  “My princess flees to danger, to the Black Knight’s lair.”

  The storm roared. “That accursed knight! Prepare yourself. Sheath your sword.”

  The White Knight obeyed, bowed, and swirled heavenward. Faster he spun, his hands clenching his weapon.

  “Godspeed,” thundered the wind, and the knight spun to the ground. His sight blurred and his feet staggering from the twister’s twirling …

  I blink hard. The words on the paper blur, and nausea sweeps over me. I have no strength. Hours before the meeting in the boxcar, I’m fading fast. I lie down on the bedroom rug — the bed is too far away—and fall asleep.

  Eyelids shoot open.

  Plink. Plink.

  Small stones ricochet off my window glass. I glance at the time. 12:10 a.m.

  “Late!” I jump to my feet, grab a chair to steady myself, and tiptoe down the stairs. On the last step my legs give way, and I tumble to the floor.

  So this is how it is.

  I crawl to the boxcar. Poole, Charley, and Julia all poke out their heads.

  “How are we supposed to save you if you don’t show up?” Poole reaches down and pulls me into the car.

  “Sorry. I — It’s getting hard to move.”

  I crumple into a chair. “Have you started without me?”

  “No,” says Julia. She grins. “Not without you.”

  “I may as well go first,” I say. “Fort Snelling was a bust. There was a Martin Boyle. He was one of the first soldiers there.” I exhale hard. “I spent some time in jail with a guy who knew him, or at least a guy who was pretending to be a guy who knew him. It’s all so confusing.”

  “Go on, Marty.” Poole kneels down in front of me.

  “He said he was the mason. He said he carved the cornerstone with my name on it —”

  “Stop!” Julia jumps up. “Okay. Curses in the 1800s. Here’s what I know. Yeah, people s
aid them, but if they really wanted to make them stick, they would chisel them into something permanent. Permanent words, permanent curse.” Her face glows and she clears her throat.

  “1839. London. One James Davies hired a Gerald Rothchild, tombstone engraver, to engrave tombstones for himself and his wife, Louisa. After the work was completed, and the tombstones set in the graveyard, without the death date, of course …”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Julia continues, “Mr. Davies tells Mr. Rothchild he cannot pay him for his work. Mr. Rothchild is so angry, he goes to the cemetery and carves 1839 as the death year for Mr. and Mrs. Davies. Sure enough, two months later, the Davies both drowned in the North Sea … So! If you find that cornerstone, you might find —”

  “Nothing.” Poole glances at her. “I did see it. The only names on there were James Delaney and William Goddard. No message. No curse.”

  We don’t speak for minutes.

  Charley’s been pacing, his hands pushing through his hair. He stops. “I don’t want you to die.”

  He’s almost crying. I don’t know what to do. Julia is misty and Poole’s at my feet and Charley is crying. I force my way vertical and stumble toward him. He holds up his hand.

  “No. You stay there. You stay right there and you don’t die ‘cause this is stupid. Nobody dies because of curses. Especially you. Because I hate you.” He jumps out of the boxcar. “I hate you for leaving me. I hate you.” He runs into the night. “I hate you!”

  I back onto the couch, bury my face in my hands, and whisper, “You’re the best, Charley.”

  I spread my fingers and peek through at Julia. She rests her head on my shoulder. “When is your aunt supposed to, you know?”

  “A week. Her due date is in one week.” I lift my arm and watch it flop onto my lap. “That race stole all the energy I had. I don’t know how I’ll make it until then. It’s tough to walk now.”

  Poole hops up. “One week. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. That’s a lot of time. We can do this.”

  I stand. “I’m so tired. OSM is over.” I slide out of the boxcar.

  “Julia was right, ya quitter!” Poole yells at my back. He might be right. But I’ve had a great three months and how am I supposed to fight a curse?