Silent night.
For some reason what people were wearing seemed like a big deal. T-Ho and Rebel had been on the same page as me when it came to house-burning attire. T-Ho: dark blue hoodie (hood up), jeans, some kind of work boots. Rebel: brown leather jacket, toque (the new one), jeans (real dark, almost black), and brown sneakers. He was wearing gloves. On the porch, the old lady was wearing a housecoat — light blue, not fancy — wrapped around some kind of pants that covered her legs. Even from where I was standing she looked like she was shivering. But maybe it was shaking — scared. I couldn’t tell.
Patti was wearing a yellow, almost gold, sweatshirt — University of Colorado with a big buffalo head on it. Ball cap, light green, no writing on it. Yoga pants, white runners. She looked like she could be getting ready to go jogging. Except that as I looked at her I could tell there was nothing that would make her run anywhere. She was staying on that porch, no matter what.
I actually felt like I was going to puke. I know people say that but I could taste bile in my mouth and it was like my stomach had clenched itself into a ball. I thought about sneaking back to the Biscayne and trying to slink out of there without being seen, but I abandoned that thought in about three seconds. I knew Patti had seen me. My stomach stayed clenched as everybody stood still, looking at each other and saying exactly nothing.
Patti had her arms crossed and there was a little smile at the corners of her mouth. It wasn’t a friendly smile.
“I wondered if you’d really do this,” she said. I think she said it to T-Ho but she was looking at me.
T-Ho must have thought Patti was talking to him too because he snorted and laughed a little laugh. “You and the Jew better get your asses off that porch or be ready to get cooked like a couple of marshmallows.” He took a few steps forward, not big ones. Rebel was pretty much in step beside him.
I didn’t think T-Ho had chosen the best word. There was nothing about Patti that was anything like a marshmallow. And Numbers might have been afraid, but she wasn’t exactly diving for cover. Neither of them had moved. And neither looked like she was about to.
“Hello, Andy.”
Hearing Patti say my name made me feel even shittier that I already felt.
“Yeah … hi.”
“You, too? You going to be part of the big house burning? Must take amazing courage to burn down an old person’s home.”
T-Ho and Rebel stopped walking toward the house.
“How do you know … about …” My voice didn’t sound like me.
Patti laughed. “Your friends were bragging at school yesterday about what they were going to do.” She looked at T-Ho, the smile, if that’s what it was, still on her face. “And look at you — you’re really going to do it. Liquid courage. And maybe something more, a little weed … mushrooms or crack maybe? Yeah, you gotta love bravery, right men?”
The way she said “men” didn’t make me feel all that manly. I wanted to tell Patti that I hadn’t been drinking, but I didn’t think she’d care. I couldn’t tell what T-Ho and Rebel were thinking but they didn’t move.
I took one step closer to the porch. “What are you doing here?”
Patti looked at me, not laughing or smiling now. “What’s wrong? Does it cramp your style that the old lady isn’t all alone? It happens I volunteer. I visit seniors, read to them, talk to them, listen to them — you should try it, Andy. It’s amazing what you can learn.”
After a while T-Ho pointed. “That bitch set fire to the Bidwell Plant.” He spat the words at Patti. “People died in that fire, or don’t you give a shit about that? Then the Jew made it look like she saved a guy that was hurt — but the only reason he was hurt was because she started the fire in the first place.”
Patti stepped down onto the top stair of the porch. She turned and looked back at Numbers and held out her hand. I could hear her say, “It’s okay” in a really soft voice and after a few seconds, the old lady moved down to where she was.
Patti turned back to us. “You might want to check your facts. There was an investigation of the Bidwell fire right after it happened. A gas leak caused the explosion. Julia got out safely but she went back in to help the man who was injured — she saved his life.”
“Bullshit.” T-Ho barked at the porch.
“Good answer.” Patti nodded and laughed again. “Oh, and one other thing that you might not know. The man she saved? His last name was Retzlaff. As in your Mr. R’s grandfather.”
When Patti said that, I was pretty sure I saw the old lady — Numbers — nod. It was just the smallest nod but it was there.
“I don’t get it.”
“You know what, Andy?” Patti was looking at me again. It seemed she was looking at me a lot of the time. “I believe you. I believe that you don’t get it. But they do.” Her eyes finally left me and she stared hard at T-Ho and Rebel.
“Don’t you, boys? All those intimate conversations with Mr. R — oh, I know about that too — saw the three of you together a couple of times. Except I’ll just bet Mr. R, the Jew-hater, never mentioned that his grandfather was the person Julia dragged out of the Bidwell Plant. How much do you think he hated having a Jew save his grandpa? He might never have said that to you, but I’ll bet it ate him up.”
It felt like the night was the quietest it had been since we got there. No sound but people breathing.
“You people are pathetic. All three of you.” She looked at me again when she said that last part.
When Patti stopped speaking, Numbers — the woman called Julia — inched a little closer to her. I could see that she was squeezing Patti’s hand. But Patti’s eyes never left T-Ho or Rebel … or me.
I glanced over at T-Ho and Rebel. It didn’t look like either of them knew what to do.
It was like they’d read my mind and decided to act. They both started moving forward, T-Ho talking as he moved. “Enough of this crap. We’re burning this piece of shit down. So move. Now!”
Patti didn’t move. Numbers looked at Patti then back at us. She didn’t move either. She wasn’t shaking anymore.
“That makes no sense,” I said.
“What doesn’t?” Patti looked at me.
“Why would Mr. R want to hurt someone who saved his grandpa’s life? Even if she was a Jew.”
T-Ho and Rebel hesitated, maybe waiting to hear what Patti would say.
“You’re right,” she nodded “It makes exactly zero sense … unless you hate Jewish people so much that you’re ashamed that someone in your family was actually saved by a Jew. Unless you hate Jews so much that you would rather your grandfather had died than be saved by one.”
I thought back to that day at the regionals, the day I’d lost to the kid named Epstein. Mr. R had been pretty pissed off … not that I’d lost, but about the person I’d lost to. You don’t ever let those people beat you.
“Oh, and one more thing.” Patti reached down and took Numbers by the hand. She held up the old woman’s arm and pushed the sleeve of her housecoat back to her elbow. There was something on Numbers’ left forearm … like a tattoo. I wasn’t close enough to read it.
It didn’t matter. Patti read it for us. “8-5-2-3-9.” She said each number slowly and looked up at us after each one. “Did you ever wonder why Julia is called ‘Numbers’? Let me help you with that. This is the number she was given when she was sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp in Poland. In a way, having this number tattoed on her arm was a good thing, because when people arrived at Auschwitz, there was a selection process. Children, their mothers, the old, the sick, and the weak — they didn’t get numbers. I guess the Nazis figured it would be a waste of time since they were immediately marched away to die. Julia was strong, so she was sent off to the work camp. She lived. Most didn’t.”
“What a bunch of shit,” Rebel said, but he didn’t say it very loud.
“You’re right,” Patti nodded. “It is shit to Holocaust deniers,” Patti stared hard at Rebel. “It’s all crap to Retzlaff … and
to you three.” Her voice dropped down when she said “and to you three.” “To the rest of us, it’s the most horrible mass murder ever.”
It was weird but I wasn’t thinking about mass murder or whether there really had been a Holocaust or not. I was thinking about and to you three. I’d never made it into The Six but here I was part of a different number. A smaller number. But I was part of it.
I took a couple of steps closer to the porch. I don’t know why but it was suddenly important for me to see the old woman’s arm — to read the numbers for myself. She still had her arm extended. I could see them now: 8-5-2-3-9. I looked up at the woman and realized for the first time how old she actually was. Or at least how old she looked. Which was really old. She was Patti’s height or close to it, and very thin. Didn’t look strong at all. But sixty years ago she must have been stronger. Strong enough to get Mr. R’s grandfather out of a burning plant. To save his life.
Sixty years. It was that long ago that the Bidwell Plant had blown up. That had to make her somewhere in her eighties. I stared at the old woman Patti had called Julia. She didn’t look evil; she just looked old. And tired.
“Crap.” T-Ho said it this time but it was like nobody was listening.
I took another step closer to the porch.
“How about it, Andy?”
I was concentrating so hard on the numbers on that skin-and-bones arm I almost didn’t hear Patti. What had she said … “how about it, Andy?”
How about it, Andy what? But I knew what she meant. Was I going to stay with Rebel and T-Ho or was I going to walk away? What was I going to do?
I mean, it didn’t take a damn rocket scientist to figure out we couldn’t burn the house down now. There were witnesses, for Christ’s sake. The old woman lowered her arm but Patti was still holding her hand. They looked out at us. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
And that’s when I knew. This wasn’t about starting or not starting a fire. It was about exactly what Mr. R had taught us. It was about not just accepting what was said. It was about deciding for yourself.
Somehow, it was like T-Ho knew what was going on in my head. “A-la-mo, don’t you go forgettin’ that this is your chance … your big chance to be jen-yoo-wine, Alamo boy.”
I looked back at him and Rebel, still holding the torch and the propane bottle. To tell the truth, they did look kind of pathetic: Ready to burn down a house that probably wasn’t worth much more than the Crap Wagon and that belonged to an old woman who looked like she’d have trouble swatting flies.
I stepped up onto the top stair of the porch and turned to face T-Ho and Rebel. I was a little ways away from Patti. I remember having this weird thought — if this was a movie Patti would hold out her other hand and I’d take it and it would make this amazing final scene.
But life isn’t a movie … it’s just life. Patti didn’t hold out her hand or even look at me. T-Ho and Rebel started toward the house but I knew they weren’t thinking about setting fire to the place anymore. It was about me now. I figured I was about to find out how tough I was when I wasn’t on a wrestling mat.
Patti reached into her pocket and pulled out her cellphone. “You two are even stupider than I thought. And to be honest, I’ve always thought you were pretty stupid. Did you really think we’d be standing out here waiting for you without calling the cops first? They’ll be here any second and we’re sure going to miss you when you go.”
At first I wasn’t sure T-Ho and Rebel were going to stop. And I didn’t know if Patti really had called the cops. I listened for a siren off in the distance but I didn’t hear anything.
I don’t know if T-Ho believed Patti or not but he stopped. He stared at me for what seemed like a really long time. Then he laughed.
“I was right all along, you puke piece of shit. You ain’t never going to be jen-yoo-wine.”
I was still trying to think of what to say to that when I did hear the siren. It was still a long way off but T-Ho and Rebel heard it too. And they turned away, walked to the Crap Wagon, threw the torch and propane bottle in the back seat, jumped in the car, and roared away.
That’s when the old Jew lady named Julia spoke for the first time. Not to me. Not even to Patti. It was like she was directing her words to the car that was spinning gravel and speeding out of her yard.
“Why do you hate me?” she said in a small voice that I could only hear because I was on the porch with her. “Why do you hate all of us?”
I stood on the porch and watched the Crap Wagon disappear through the trees and out onto the highway.
Patti said, “Thanks, Andy,” and she and Numbers — Julia — turned and walked back into the house.
September
ONE YEAR LATER
Epilogue
It didn’t go away quietly. Or quickly.
T-Ho and Rebel got probation and community service. And they were suspended from school for the rest of that year. They’re back now, but they don’t bother me. Not anymore. At first I thought I’d get the crap beaten out of me by someone in The Six but that didn’t happen. Maybe they figured that what would happen to them if they did that wasn’t worth it.
Besides, they had a better idea. Another fire. But this time they actually got it done. There was even a pretty major explosion that went along with it — like the Bidwell Plant.
Full circle.
I’d filled up the Biscayne with gas the night before so their timing was perfect. By the time the fire department got the fire out, all that was left of my car was a burned out shell. It looked like one of those newscast stories from some car bomb attack somewhere in the Middle East. And whoever started the fire was smart enough to make sure there was no way it could ever be proved. But the four members of The Six that were still at Parkerville made sure they saw me in the halls the day after. Lots of smiles, actually grins … even a couple of thumbs up.
Patti phoned me when she heard about my car to say how sorry she was but we didn’t talk long. I wasn’t feeling much like talking to anybody just then.
Insurance paid for it and my dad said we could get another Biscayne. My brother even found one online. But I didn’t buy it, didn’t want to. I only wanted one Biscayne and it was gone. Now I drive a ’97 GM pickup. It’s okay.
Garth Redlake came around again too. This time the reporter came to our house. My dad insisted on sitting in. To make sure I didn’t say the wrong thing, I guess. But he didn’t have to worry — I didn’t intend to say much of anything.
The first newspaper story came out about a week after the night at Numbers’ house. And even though I wasn’t quoted — some kids were — the story definitely made Mr. R look bad. And even after all the stuff that had happened, I didn’t like that. I guess I still wanted to believe that the whole thing wasn’t his fault. It felt better to think that T-Ho and Rebel had sort of gone off on their own and dreamed up a plan to get revenge on the old lady.
My mom and dad totally disagreed with me on that and so did my brother — he was one of the people who was quoted in that article. There were lots more stories after that first one as suddenly Parkerville Comprehensive was like this huge media deal. The school board meetings got more coverage than the United Nations. Even though the meetings that dealt with Mr. R were closed to the public and the media, there were television cameras from the big networks; national newspapers had some of their big name reporters and columnists there, and there were people from different groups too, like the National Jewish Alliance and the Freedom of Speech Forever group and some others that I didn’t pay a lot of attention to.
Patti was interviewed tons of times and after a while I’d see her on TV and she looked like she just wanted it all to go away. Maybe that’s why her family moved to Toronto right after the year was over.
Mr. R was fired. They called it an “indefinite suspension,” but after all the stuff that’s been said and written about the guy, I don’t think he’ll ever teach again. Not around here, that’s for sure. I heard he’s opened up a computer sto
re but I haven’t gone around to see how he’s doing.
It’s funny in a way, but nobody calls me Alamo this year. It’s one of the things that’s not part of my life anymore, like Mr. R and Patti and the Biscayne. The difference is, I don’t miss “Alamo.”
The petition was another part of the whole thing that I guess I won’t ever forget. After Mr. R was kicked out of school, some kids organized this petition to get him reinstated. At first I figured it must have been The Six that started it — sort of a way to help Mr. R and show the world that T-Ho and Rebel weren’t such bad guys after all. But it wasn’t them; it was some grade twelves who were about to graduate. They circulated around the school near the end of June with the petition for kids to sign.
More than half the kids at Parkerville signed it. A grad named Darrell Whitchell approached me one day in the common area when I was eating my lunch. By myself. Which is how I ate lunch most of the time. That day I was working on a banana and trying to get through chapter eighteen of Moby Dick. Our last English exam of the year was on that book and to tell the truth I was kind of enjoying it. Maybe it helped me escape from everything that was happening around me. Anyway, that’s what I was doing when Darrell sat down and said, “So how about it, Crockett, are you going to sign?”
He stuck the petition down on the table in front of me. I looked at it and right away I could see names of kids that I knew.
I’d been thinking about that petition ever since I’d heard there was one and I wanted to sign it. I’d say I was even looking forward to it. Even though I knew some of the stuff Mr. R had done was wrong, he was still the best teacher I’d ever had. I’d had okay teachers before, but never anybody who had made me look forward to school like Mr. R. He’d made me think about things I’d never thought about in my life. I’d learned stuff that I didn’t think could ever matter to me. But it did … because of Mr. R.
And now he was out of school, probably forever.
Numbers Page 13
