Aaron, the youngest brother, the lawyer, was talking on his cell phone. He finished, flipped it shut. “Knock it off, you two. It’s the same conversation you’ve been having since high school. What about Mom?”
Ellis said, “It’s what I told you on the phone. It’s spooky. She’s smiling and happy. She doesn’t care.”
“Three grand last week.”
“She doesn’t care. She’s buying more than ever.”
“So much for that gene spray,” Aaron said. “Where’d you get that, anyway?”
“Some guy works at some company in California. BioGen.”
Jeff had been looking over his shoulder. Now he turned back to the table. “Hey, I heard something about BioGen. They’ve got some problems.”
“What do you mean, problems?” Aaron said.
“Some product of theirs is contaminated, earnings are down. Did something sloppy, made a mistake. I can’t remember. They got an IPO coming up, but it’ll tank for sure.”
Aaron turned to Ellis. “You think that spray you got is affecting Mom?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think the damn stuff just didn’t work.”
“But if they had contamination…” Aaron said.
“Stop being a lawyer. Some cousin of Mom’s, her son sent it as a favor to us.”
“But gene therapy is dangerous,” Aaron said. “There have been deaths from gene therapy. Lots of them.”
Ellis sighed. “Aaron,” he said, “we’re not suing anybody. I think we’re looking at the start of, you know, mental deterioration. Alzheimer’s or something.”
“She’s only sixty-two.”
“It can start that early.”
Aaron shook his head. “Come on, Ellie. She was in perfect health. She was sharp. Now you’re telling me she’s losing it. It could be the spray.”
“Contamination,” Jeff reminded them. He was smiling at a girl.
“Jeff, will you fucking pay attention?”
“I am. Look at the rack on her.”
“They’re fake.”
“You just like to ruin everything.”
“And she has a nose job.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“She’s paranoid,” Ellis said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m talking about Mom,” Ellis said. “She thinks we’re going to put her in a home.”
“And we may have to,” Aaron said. “Which will be very expensive. But if we do, it’s because of that genetics company. You know the public has no sympathy for these biotech companies. Public opinion polls run ninety-two percent against them. They’re perceived as unscrupulous scumbags indifferent to human life. GM crops, trashing the environment. Patenting genes, grabbing up our common heritage while no one is looking. Charging thousands of dollars for drugs that cost pennies. Pretending they do research when they really don’t; they just buy other people’s work. Pretending they have high research costs when they spend most of their money on advertising. And then lying in the advertising. Sneaky, scummy, sloppy, money-grabbing schmucks. It’d be a slam-dunk case.”
“We’re not talking about a lawsuit,” Ellis said. “We’re talking about Mom.”
Jeff said, “Dad’s fine. Let him deal with her.” He got up and left the table, going over to sit with three long-legged girls in short skirts.
“They can’t be more than fifteen,” Ellis said, wrinkling his nose.
“They’ve got drinks on the table,” Aaron said.
“He has two kids in school.”
“How’re things at home?” Aaron said.
“Fuck you.”
“Let’s stay on the topic,” Aaron said. “Maybe Mom’s losing it and maybe she’s not. But we’re going to need a lot of money if she goes into a home. I’m not sure we can afford it.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I want to know more about BioGen and that gene spray they sent us. A lot more.”
“You sound like you’re already planning the lawsuit.”
“Just thinking ahead,” Aaron said.
CH065
This ison , man!
Riding his skateboard, Billy Cleever, angry sixth-grader, came ripping off the playground with an old-school aerial, came down into a backside three-sixty with a tail grab, then heel-flipped onto the sidewalk. He did it flawlessly, which was good, because he was feeling he’d lost some of his cool today. The four kids following behind were quiet, instead of yelling like usual. And this was the big downhill run to Market Street in San Diego. But they were quiet. Like they had lost confidence in him.
Billy Cleever had been humiliated today. His hand hurt like a mother. He told the stupid nurse just to put a Band-Aid on it, but she insisted on a big white thing. He ripped it off the minute school was out, but still. Looked like crap. He looked like an invalid. Something sick.
Humiliated. At age eleven, Billy Cleever was five-nine and 120 pounds, solid muscle for a kid his age, and a good foot taller than anybody else in the school. He was bigger than most of the teachers, even. Nobody messed with him.
That little skin-shit Jamie, that nimrod doof with buck teeth, he should have stayed out of Billy’s way. Markie Lester the Pester was throwing him a football, and when he went back to receive it he tripped over Bucky Beaver and fell, taking Bucky with him. Billy was pissed and embarrassed, sprawling like that in front of everybody, with Sarah Hardy and the others giggling. The kid was still lying on the ground, so Billy gave him a couple of kicks with his Vans—nothing really, just a warning—and when the kid got up he smacked him a little. No biggie.
And the next thing he knows, he’s got Monkeyboy jumping on his back, yanking his hair and growling in his ear like a fucking ape, and Billy reached back and grabbed for him and Monkeyboy took a bite like—whoa! Pissing pain! Seeing stars.
Of course the monitor, Mr. Snotty NoseDrip, does nothing, whining, “Break it up, boys. Break it up, boys.” They put Monkeyboy in detention, and called his mother to come and pick him up, but his mother obviously didn’t take him home, which was too bad for him. Because there they were now, walking along at the bottom of the hill, starting to cross the baseball field.
Jamie and Monkeyboy.
And this ison !
Billy hits themside on, moving fast, and the two go flying like bowling pins, right next to the dugout by the side of the field. Jamie skids on his chin on the dirt, raising a cloud of brown dust, and Monkeyboy bangs into the chain-link backstop behind home plate. Off to one side, Billy’s buddies are yelling:Blood! We want blood!
The little kid, Jamie, is moaning in the dust, so Billy goes right for Monkeyboy. He charges him with his deck, trucks out, swinging the skateboard hard, and catches the little black fucker back of the ear, thinking that’ll teach him a lesson. Monkeyboy’s legs go out, he flops on the ground like a rag doll, and Billy kicks him a good one, right under the chin, lifts his ass off the dirt a little, that one does. But Billy doesn’t want to get that monkey blood on his Vans, so he comes back swinging the deck again, figuring to whack the monkey square in the face, maybe break his nose and jaw, make him even uglier than he is.
But Monkeyboy springs to one side, the deck clangs the fence,kawang-kawang-kwang , and Monkeyboy sinks his teeth into Billy’s wrist and bitesfucking hard! Billy screams and drops his deck, and Monkeyboy hangs on. Billy is feeling his hand get numb, there’s blood pouring down from the arm, down Monkeyboy’s chin, and he’s snarling like a dog, and his eyes are popping out, staring at Billy. And it’s like his hair is raised or something, and Billy thinks in an instant of pure panic:Shit, this black fuck’s gonna eat me .
By then his skateneck buddies run up, all swinging their boards at the monkey, four boards whacking him downside the head, while Billy is yelling and the monkey is growling—it takes forever until Monkeyboy drops the hand, springs at Markie Lester, and hits him full in the chest, and the Pester goes down, and the others all chase after them as they roll in the dust, while Billy nurses his bleeding ar
m.
A few seconds later, when the pain is bearable and Billy looks up, he sees the monkey has scrambled up the chain-link backstop and is maybe fifteen feet in the air above them. Staring down at them. While his buds all stand below and yell and shake their decks at him. But nothing is happening. Billy staggers to his feet and says, “You look like a bunch of monkeys.”
“We want him to come down!”
“Well, he won’t,” Billy said. “He’s not stupid. He knows we’ll kick the shit out of him if he comes down. Least, I will.”
“So how we get him down?”
Billy is feeling mean now, blind mean, he wants to hurt something, so he goes right over to Jamie and starts kicking the kid, trying to hit him in his little nuts, but the kid is rolling and yelling for help, fucking baby that he is. Some of the buds don’t like it, “Hey, leave ’im alone, hey, he’s a little kid,” but Billy is thinking,Fuck it. I want that monkey down here. And this will do it, nimrod kid rolling in dust. Kick and kick…kick…the kid yelling for help…
And suddenly the buddies are screaming, “Aw,shit! ”
“Shit! Shit!”
“Shit!”
And they’re running away, and then something hot and soft smacks Billy on the back of the neck, he gets the weird smell and he can’t believe it, he reaches back and…Jesus. He can’t believe it.
“Shit! He’s throwing shit!”
The Monkeyboy’s up there with his pants down, heaving crap down at them. And never missing. Deadly, the kids are all covered in it, and then another one hits Billy right in the face. His mouth is half open.
“Ooo-uk!” He spits and spits, wipes his face, and spits again, trying to get that taste out of his mouth. Monkey shit! Fuck! Shit! Billy raises his fist. “You fucking animal!”
And gets another one right on the forehead.Splaat!
He grabs his deck and runs away. Joins his buds. They’re spitting, too. It’s disgusting. It sticks to their clothes, faces. Shit. They all look to Billy, it’s on their faces:Look what you got us into. It’s the moment to step up. And Billy knows how.
“Guy’s an animal,” Billy said. “Only one thing to do with animals. My dad’s got a gun. I know where it is.”
“Big talk,” Markie says.
“You’re full of shit,” Hurley says.
“Yeah? Wait and see. Monkeyboy won’t make school tomorrow. Wait and see.”
Billy trudges home, carrying his board, and the others drag on after him. And he’s thinking,Oh shit, what did I just promise to do?
CH066
Stan Milgramhad begun the long trip to see his aunt in California, but he had only been driving for an hour before Gerard started to complain.
“It stinks,” Gerard said, perched in the backseat. “It stinks to high heaven.” He looked out the window. “What hellhole is this?”
“It’s Columbus, Ohio,” Stan said.
“Disgusting,” Gerard said.
“You know what they say,” Stan said. “Columbus is Cleveland without the glitter.”
The bird said nothing.
“You know what glitter is?”
“Yes. Shut up and drive.”
Gerard sounded cranky. And he shouldn’t be, Stan felt, considering how well the parrot had been treated the last couple of days. Stan had gone online to find out what greys ate, and had gotten Gerard some delicious apples and special greens. He had left the TV on in the pet shop at night, for Gerard to watch. And after a day, Gerard had stopped nipping at his fingers. He even allowed Stan to put him on his shoulder, without biting his ear.
“Are we almost there?” Gerard said.
“No. We’ve only been gone an hour.”
“How much farther is it?”
“We have to drive three days, Gerard.”
“Three days. That is twenty-four times three, that is seventy-two hours.”
Stan frowned. He had never heard of a bird that did math. “Where’d you learn that?”
“I am a man of many talents.”
“You’re not a man at all.” He laughed. “Was that from a movie?” Sometimes the bird repeated lines from movies, he was sure of it.
“Dave,” Gerard said, in a monotone, “this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Good-bye.”
“Oh, wait, I know that one. It’sStar Wars. ”
“Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.” It was a woman’s voice.
Stan frowned. “Some airplane movie…”
“They seek him here, they seek him there, those Frenchies seek him everywhere—”
“I know, that’s not a movie, that’s poetry.”
“Sink me!” Now he sounded British.
“I give up,” Stan said.
“So do I,” Gerard said, with an elaborate sigh. “How much farther is it?”
“Three days,” Stan said.
The parrot stared out the window at the passing city. “Well, they’re saved from the blessings of civilization,” he said, in a cowboy drawl. And he began to make the sounds of a plunking banjo.
Later in the day,the parrot began to sing French songs, or maybe they were Arab songs, Stan couldn’t be sure. Anyway, some foreign language. It seemed he had gone to a live concert, or at least heard a recording of one, because he mimicked the crowd sounds, and the instruments tuning up, and the cheering as the performers came on, before he sang the song itself. It sounded like he was singing “Didi,” or something like that.
It was interesting for a while, kind of like hearing radio from a foreign country, but Gerard tended to repeat himself. On a narrow side road, they were stuck behind a woman driver. Stan tried to pass her once or twice, but never could.
After a while Gerard started to say,“Le soleil c’est beau,” and then make a loud sound like a gunshot.
“Is that French?” Stan asked.
More gunshots.“Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang! “Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang! “Le soleil c’est beau.” Bang!
“Gerard…”
The bird said,“Les femmes au volant c’est la lacheté personifié.” He made a rumbling sound.“Pourquoi elle ne dépasse pas?…Oh, ouì, merde, des travaux.”
The lady driver finally turned off to the right, but she was slow making the turn, and Stan had to brake slightly as he went past her.
“Il ne faut jamais freiner…Comme disait le vieux père Bugatti, les voitures sont faites pour rouler, pas pour s’arrêter.”
Stan sighed. “I don’t understand a word you are saying, Gerard.”
“Merde, les flics arrivent!”
He began to wail like a police siren.
“That’s enough,” Stan said. He turned on the radio. By now it was late afternoon. They’d passed Maryville and were heading toward St. Louis. Traffic was picking up.
“Are we almost there?” Gerard said.
Stan sighed. “Never mind.” It was going to be a long trip.
CH067
Lynn saton the edge of the tub and used the washcloth gently to clean the gash behind his ear. “Dave,” Lynn said. “Tell me what happened.” She could see the cut was deep, but he wasn’t complaining.
“They came after us, Mom!” Jamie was excited, moving his arms. He was covered in dust and had bruises on his stomach and shoulders, but was otherwise not badly hurt. “We didn’t do anything! Sixth-graders! Evil dudes!”
“Jamie,” she said, “let Dave tell me. How did you get this cut?”
“Billy swung the board at him,” Jamie said. “We didn’t do anything!”
“You didn’t do anything?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You mean this happened for no reason at all?”
“Yes, Mom! I swear! We were just walking home! They came after us!”
“Mrs. Lester called,” Lynn said quietly. “Her son came home covered in excrement.”
“No, it was poo,” Jamie said.
“How did that—”
“Dave threw it! He was great! They were beatin’ us and he threw it and they ran away! He n
ever missed!”
Lynn continued to clean the cut gently. “Is that true, Dave?”
“They hurted Jamie. They beated him and kicked him.”
“So you threw…poo at them?”
“They hurted Jamie,” he said again, as if it explained everything.
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