The problem was, fishing with Cletus McCulley last night was every bit as real as the first bite of bacon I’d just put in my mouth.
Chapter Nine
Armadillo Middle wasn’t bad at first. I got in all the right classes without having a screwed-up schedule, and all my teachers seemed OK. Even Mrs. Goldwyn stopped me in the hall the first day, asked how my parents were doing, and how I liked the school.
I’m not the kind of person who makes friends easily. I’m quiet and don’t like to hang out in large groups. So the guys, though friendly, didn’t have much in common with me, and most of them had little to say other than “hello.”
Dani Carter, however, was in all my classes except PE. After a couple of weeks, we found ourselves sharing notes, pairing up for first-quarter projects, and forming an unspoken understanding that whoever entered the classroom or cafeteria first would save a seat for the other.
At first I told myself that even though Dani was a girl, she was better than no friend at all. She wasn’t interested in most of the things my old friends and I used to talk about at school, but I soon realized I liked it that way. Before the first half of the grading period was up, I didn’t care if I had guy friends or not. Being with Dani, even if we did nothing else but sit together in class, was more fun than pretending I enjoyed discussing pro-wrestling or the latest music CD. Dani liked a lot of the same subjects I did: biology, pre-algebra, and history. But she was a better reader than me, and sometimes it was hard to get her attention if she was into her latest book.
My new-school success didn’t last long. When Chuck Stiller showed up for his first day back, I knew he would give me trouble the rest of the year.
Chuck Stiller was smart (smart-mouthed, that is), short (shorter than me, anyway), and he walked with a swagger like Barney Fife in the old Andy Griffith Show reruns. Some days he wore shoes, but most of the time he wore boots. No matter which, they were always caked with dried mud. He didn’t care that everyone thought of him as the Student Most Likely to Spend Life in Prison. And when Stiller picked a victim, most of the other kids (whether they liked Stiller or not) offered support because they feared being next on his list.
One day in mid-September, I’d taken my seat in first hour when Stiller came in. He’d been sick—or in juvenile detention, I wasn’t sure—and ended up coming back to school a lot later than everyone else. He’d intended to find me on his first day back, because as soon as he entered U.S. History, he approached me with a clipping he’d cut from the morning’s Armadillo Courier. It was an ad for the funeral home, with a picture of my family at the ribbon cutting ceremony.
Stiller waved the clipping under my nose. “So, your mommy’s a mortician, huh?”
A dozen kids circled my desk. I started to sweat a little but figured if I played it cool he’d get tired of messing with me and move on. “Yeah, my mom’s a mortician, and my dad is too. They just opened the business this summer.”
“Ain’t that special,” he jeered, thrusting the clipping in my face. “That’s an awful nice suit you’re wearing there. Looks like you want to grow up to be just like Daddy.”
The posse surrounding my desk laughed. I tried to ignore my embarrassment. “No, I just help my parents when they need it.”
“Is it true, Kevie, you live inside the funeral home?”
“Yes.” He wanted to go somewhere with this, and my fists wanted to go somewhere too—right between his eyes.
Stiller exhaled a mock sigh. “You gotta make friends where you can. Since you don’t have any friends at school ’cept that Mormon girl,” he waved his arm at Dani, “I guess dead friends are better than none at all.” By this time the entire class was laughing, except for Dani. She was pretending to read, her head ducked behind The Story of America: Our History to 1865.
At lunch, Dani told me to ignore Stiller. Maybe he’d get tired of teasing me after a while, she said. But as I waited for Mom to pick me up that afternoon, Stiller and a new gang stood next to me in line and asked if there was enough room in the hearse for all of them to get a ride home. When Mom pulled up in the S-10, I told her that if she ever picked me up from school in the hearse, I’d leave Armadillo and never come back.
The next day Stiller burst into first hour again. He grabbed my lunch sack and started parading it around the room. “Well, Kevie, what’s for lunch today?”
I jumped out of my seat and snatched it back. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“What does your mommy do with all those body parts, Kevie?” Stiller snickered, and the class began to roar. “What does she do with all the intestines and stomachs and eyeballs and livers?” He held his nose up in the air and began to sniff. “Could that smell be your lunch, Kevie? Did Mommy fix you a fried brain sandwich?” He grabbed the sack again and ran to the window. He put his free hand up to his throat and began making gagging sounds. “This stinks SOOOO bad, it’s makin’ me hurl. We’ve got to get it out of here!”
Stiller stuck his arm out the window, and I heard the sack pop as it hit the concrete two stories below. Our teacher, Mr. Hampton, walked in then and sent Stiller straight to the assistant principal, who gave him two weeks’ detention for throwing stuff out the window.
Detention quieted Stiller down for a little while, since getting caught at something else would make his punishment worse. But it did nothing to help me. A few days later I didn’t have any trouble finding my locker. It was the one with KANNIBAL KEVIN scrawled on the door in black permanent ink. Clearly, Stiller’s seventh-grade project was to destroy my reputation.
At lunch, after our unsuccessful attempt to clean Stiller’s artwork off my locker, Dani gave me a pep talk as we sat in a booth in the back of the cafeteria.
“I don’t care what Chuck does. I’m your friend. So what if your parents are morticians?” Her brown eyes were solemn behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Somebody has to be. He’s just looking for someone to pick on, and you’re an easy target because you’re new.”
I studied Dani’s straight brown hair and the bright yellow hair band she’d pulled it back with. It felt odd to sit with a girl, but I liked it. And I liked Dani. Everything about her, from her braces to her white leather sneakers, oozed sincerity. So even if her friendship was the result of being her latest charity project, some support was better than none at all.
The days dragged on, and so did Stiller’s relentless teasing. I managed to get through the first quarter with all As, and Dani and I made the honor roll. So did Stiller. When I searched for my name on the honor roll banner by the front doors, I found someone had marked out my first name and written over it in big black letters, KANNIBAL.
Chapter Ten
I’d never hated anyone before, but I was beginning to hate Chuck Stiller.
I’d never hated school, either. But by Halloween, every day at Armadillo Middle was a living nightmare. My locker was the dump for Stiller’s leftover lunch garbage—banana peels, plastic utensils, sandwich scraps, anything he could shove through the vents. After ruining two new pairs of jeans by sitting on gum wads Stiller had planted, I had to check every seat in every class before sitting down. And it seemed like no matter which hall I was in, Stiller was there too, sneering at me and throwing paper wads—or worse.
November proved to be more of the same. A few days before Thanksgiving break, as I waited for Mom to pick me up after school, Stiller strutted over with his usual crew of spineless onlookers.
“Know something, Kevie?” Stiller stretched his neck so his mouth could reach my ear. “I don’t think you like me.”
I ignored him.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Kevie. Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”
I refused to give him the satisfaction.
“Just a minute,” Stiller said. He turned to his audience. “I think Kevie is scared of me! Is that true, Kevie?” He stretched up to my ear again and spoke in baby tongues. “Wittle Kevie-Wevie is afwaid of Chucky-Wuckie? Poor baby.” His friends roared. He reached up to pat me on th
e head and I smacked his arm away.
Breaking my resolve, I whirled around and tried to bore a hole through his oily head with my eyes. “Get away from me.”
“Ooooh, Kevie-Wevie is m-a-a-a-a-d,” Stiller said. He laughed and gave me a shove. “Don’t mess with me, prissy boy. I’ll beat you ’til you wet your pants and beg for mercy.” He moved closer, but I stood firm.
“Come on,” he said. He shoved me again, this time knocking my books out of my arm. His face was red and sweat ran off his temples and down his cheeks. He was so close, I could smell his BO.
It was time to introduce him to the blacktop. I shoved him back. My face burned, my arms tensed, and my hands balled into tight fists. I knew I could whip him, and I was ready, but I’d make sure he was guilty of the first punch. I jammed my fists into my pockets, ready to release them at the first sign of assault. But there was something soft and squiggly in my right pocket—the fishing worm Herb Conrad had given me at Cletus McCulley’s funeral. For a second my mind cleared, and my right fist relaxed. It was like someone opened the top of my head and let all the hot air out. Then two words entered my mind, as distinct as the ring when a crystal vase is tapped: Walk away.
My face must have gone blank, because Stiller stepped back and stared at me. “Wake up, Stupid,” he yelled. “I want you paying attention when I beat the crap out of you!”
I heard the words again, just as clear as at first: Walk away. But why? I was bigger than Stiller, and I figured I was stronger, too. He’d be a big greasy spot on School Avenue by the time I finished with him. Then the voice came back once more, this time more forcefully: Walk away, Kevin!
I picked up my books. I didn’t know why I should do it, but I knew what I had to do. I walked away. Stiller called after me, “You’re afraid! You know I can ruin you! I’m not through with you, Kevin!”
I walked down the school drive and met Mom as she pulled in. I got in the truck and she asked if I was OK, because my face was red and I was sweating like crazy. I told her I was fine, and she didn’t question me anymore about it.
The next day, Stiller was absent. And the next. Every day he was absent made me feel better, especially knowing I had Thanksgiving break—four more Stiller-free days—to look forward to. I also had something else to anticipate: Grandma and Granddad Kirk were stopping by on their way to Florida to spend the weekend with us—and to celebrate my thirteenth birthday. I figured we’d all get a vacation, since I’d never heard of a funeral being held on Thanksgiving Day.
I was wrong.
When Mom picked me up after school on the day before Thanksgiving, she told me I’d have to help her get the chapel ready. Oda Mae Pidcock had passed away in her sleep. She was 104 years old. Her funeral would be Thanksgiving morning at ten. She wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, but since the family had no church to call on, President Carter offered to do the funeral. Grandma and Granddad had already arrived for the weekend and had parked their RV in the back lot. Grandma would cook Thanksgiving dinner for us, so we would celebrate later in the day.
We pulled into the Paramount parking lot, and I could see Granddad’s motor home parked in the grass behind the home. As Mom eased the S-10 into the garage, I saw my bird baths, disassembled and leaning against the back wall. Mom had moved them from the back lot before Granddad and Grandma arrived. Granddad wasn’t very observant—she probably assumed he would run over them while trying to park the RV.
Grandma was waiting for me outside the door of the motor home. She’d been making pumpkin pies and the smell wafted out the screen door, wrapping around me like a hug before I’d even reached Grandma’s outstretched arms.
“Sweetie,” Grandma said as she draped her fleshy arms around my neck, “you’ve grown so much!”
I laughed. “So have you, Grandma.”
Grandma pushed me back, looking me up and down the way grandmothers do to make sure you’re healthy and still eating plenty. Dressed in orange sweats, she had a green scarf tied around her hair, making her look like a pear-shaped pumpkin. “Oh, poo. I’ve only gained a few pounds,” she said, patting her hips. “Besides, grandmas are supposed to be soft and cuddly.” She began shaking her backside to emphasize her point, and her entire body below the neck jiggled like the big pan of orange gelatin they’d set out for lunch that day in the school cafeteria.
Mom nudged me in the back with my backpack. “I’ve told you not to make comments about Grandma Kirk’s weight.”
“Oh Freda, don’t be so uptight,” Grandma said, and she giggled. “Kevin and I like to have a little fun with each other, don’t we, Sweetie?” She turned her head to the side and gave me a big, open-mouthed wink.
I gave Grandma one right back and Mom let out a big sigh. “Since I’m the only one who thinks it’s rude to discuss someone else’s weight, I’ll just take your backpack upstairs.” She walked back toward the Paramount, dragging the backpack and shaking her head.
“So Grandma, how long can you and Granddad stay?”
“Just ’til the day after Thanksgiving, Sweetie,” Grandma said. She held the door open for me to step inside the motor home. “We have reservations at a campground near Fort Walton Beach, and we can’t be a day late or they’ll sell our spot to someone else.” She rummaged through a drawer underneath the built-in couch and pulled out a big brown envelope. She started to hand it to me, but Granddad opened the door.
“Where’s my grandson?” Granddad stuck his head through the doorway and looked up and down the interior of the motor home, pretending like he couldn’t see me. “I drive all the way to this ungodly Arkansas hole-in-the-wall to see my only grandson and he doesn’t even stick around to greet his elderly grandfather who’s already got one foot in the grave.”
“Now Papa,” Grandma said. “Armadillo is a quaint little town.”
“Only if you can stomach running over the little buggers.” Granddad loved to travel, but he also loved to find things to gripe about while traveling. Our town’s namesake was giving him something to grouse about. “Armadillos, I mean. I think I hit at least three of ’em after I crossed the city limits. They crack like walnuts.”
Grandma shuddered. “Hush, Papa. That sounds awful.”
Granddad stretched his arms out and motioned to me for a hug. “It’s the truth and you know it. They’re speed bumps with legs. You hit one doing sixty-five and there goes your front end. Betcha I’ll have to get it realigned before we get to Alabama.”
I hugged him back, but didn’t have to stretch to do it. Granddad wasn’t much taller than Dad—but he did have a lot more hair, all of it a peppery gray, with a moustache to match. “Well, Granddad, I hate to disappoint you, but that’s about the only excitement you’ll find around here.”
As it turned out, I was wrong about that, too.
Oda Mae Pidcock’s family trickled in for the visitation Wednesday evening. She was so old that she must have outlived all of her friends and most of her family. This was the smallest group we’d had for a visitation so far. But they also turned out to be the rowdiest.
Ten minutes before closing, her grandsons gathered around the casket. From my spot at the door, I couldn’t hear very well, but I could see their rough gestures. They were in heavy disagreement. One pointed to the casket, another to the body; one pointed to the door, another began shouting. I began to catch bits of the conversation, like, “This is mine,” “That’s mine,” “I did this,” and “She promised me.” Then the shoving started, and just like that they were all over each other. I beeped Dad on the radio. He and President Carter were in the office together, planning the next day’s service.
“Dad, there’s a fight!”
Dad didn’t answer. By this time the men were rolling on the floor, fists flying. One fell back and his head hit the front pew with a loud pop.
I beeped again. “DAD! GET UP HERE, NOW!”
Dad had heard the noise, and he and President Carter were already coming down the hall. The floor rattled and vibrated each time one of the cousins g
ot knocked down. By the time Dad and President Carter made it halfway across the chapel, the casket stand was swaying back and forth, as if it were dodging the cousins’ fists. I punched 911 on the cell phone and in less than two minutes we had blue lights flashing in the parking lot. It took four police officers to untangle the kicking cousins. They pulled them up from the floor, out of the fight, and arrested them all. One officer called central dispatch for extra backup, and I held the door as the screaming, handcuffed family was escorted to the waiting cruisers.
Dad got his toolbox out of the maintenance closet, and he and President Carter got to work tightening the bolts that were supposed to sturdy the casket stand. They looked like two auto mechanics, occasionally sliding out to exchange tools. I sat in the back of the chapel and listened.
“I should have expected this,” Dad said in a muffled voice. “Freda said when she went to pick up the body, the family was arguing over that poor old woman’s jewelry.”
President Carter scooted out to get a bigger socket. “At least they didn’t tip the casket,” he said. He picked up several different sockets and inspected them, only to find none were the right size. “Arlice, have you got the five-eighths socket?”
“Sure,” Dad said, handing it to him from under the stand. “Take this one and give me the three-sixteenths.”
On Thanksgiving morning, the crowd for Oda Mae Pidcock’s funeral was even smaller than the visitation because half of her living relatives were still in jail from the night before. President Carter offered a short sermon and the organist played an abbreviated version of “Amazing Grace.” When what was left of the family filed by the casket for the final viewing, a large distraught woman threw herself on top of the open coffin. Her hair was dyed tomato red, and she had on so much cheap jewelry that I wondered how much change it had taken to empty out the Gum ’n Gems machine at the Cow Palace. She wailed over and over, “Nanny! Nanny! Oh, dear Lord! Give me back my Nanny!”
My Mom's A Mortician Page 5
