It was a funny feeling reading about all this normal stuff that was going on back before you were born.
He finally reached the front page for Shadow’s birthday and then for the day after, a Saturday. Adam checked the weather report first, like Mrs. Stanky had told them. Shadow had been born on a sunny October day with temperatures in the mid-sixties and winds out of the south at twenty miles an hour. There was a small-craft warning for boating on the Tremble River.
Next, Adam read a few paragraphs of each front-page story and made notes. Angry motorists were complaining about gas prices going up to $1.50 a gallon. The president was Bill Clinton, and a story said he was fighting with Congress about — actually, as far as Adam could tell, just about everything. A three-car crash on the Beltway killed two people and snarled traffic for four hours.
But it was a piece on the bottom right of the front page that sent such a chill through him, he put down his pen and read every word.
The headline said:
It seemed like a story Adam’s parents might not want him to see, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Every sentence he read made him nervous about the next sentence, but he could not stop himself.
The story said an abandoned newborn baby boy had been discovered alive in a trash can in the ladies’ room at Big Frank’s All-Nite Diner on Route 197 in West Tremble. It said a worker emptying the trash before dawn on Friday had found the baby and immediately called the police. The story credited the diner workers with doing a great job keeping the baby alive until an ambulance arrived. A Tremble detective was quoted saying that the kitchen staff used a turkey baster to suction out the baby’s mouth, which was full of paper towel. The detective said that the baby had apparently been in the trash can for a couple of hours, and that’s how the paper towel got in his mouth. Or there might have been other explanations, but the police didn’t want to speculate. The detective said the baby was so cold, he had curled into a tight ball. To warm the infant, the grill chef had wrapped him in towels that they’d heated in the kitchen microwave.
At a press conference later in the day, the director of the Tremble County Medical Center said the six pound, six ounce baby’s body temperature had dropped to eighty-five degrees and that he was suffering hypothermia, but was responding to treatment. He was still listed in serious condition in the hospital’s intensive care unit. The story said that when reporters asked if the baby would suffer permanent brain damage or any other problems, the medical director said it was too early to know, but “babies are tougher than we think, and I’m very hopeful.”
The story finished by listing a confidential hotline number to call if anyone had any information on the whereabouts of the mother.
That night, Adam had trouble sleeping. He was squirming around so much in bed, he kept getting twisted in the covers and several times had to kick his feet loose to untangle himself. His pillows felt hot. How could anyone sleep under these conditions? He repeatedly flipped them over to the cooler side, but after a while, neither side was the cooler side. Some day, he was going to invent a microchip that would keep pillows cool all night on both sides.
He tried not to see the fluorescent numbers on the clock on his dresser, but he couldn’t stop seeing them: 11:17, 12:03, 12:53, 1:18, 123:07, 1486:02 . . .
Adam was way out in front in the running club race. And he deserved to be; it really was his time. For once, nothing was distracting him and he knew, this was it, numero uno, here comes Adam Canfield, champion of the world. People were lining the street, waving and cheering him on. Dr. Duke was holding up an envelope the size of a poster board that was decorated in zebra stripes and said, GO, ADAM! Franky Cutty was there too, and he had a poster that said, BIG KIDS LOVE ADAM BEST! At checkpoints along the route, volunteers were handing out cups of water and free iPods. Adam tried to grab one, but it was just out of reach, and he wasn’t going to slow down for anything; he was making his own music anyway. He was so far in front now, there were fewer people along the street — come to think of it, all the people were gone — and he could see the storefronts clearly. One, a SuperSonicSuperBuy TV superstore, was particularly interesting. Every TV was black-and-white and Adam was on all the screens, running along the race route. He waved to himself, and the boys on the screens waved back. This was fantastic — Jennifer would be so sorry she hadn’t appreciated him.
As he stared at himself running across the screens, he noticed that there was a snake on his leg, which was strange, since he was positive that snakes were illegal in Tremble County. And sure enough, when he looked down to check, it wasn’t a snake. The TV had it wrong. It was his To-Do list, which was unraveling out of his pocket and flapping at his side. He tried to stuff it back in, but the list just kept getting longer. If he wasn’t careful, he’d trip over it, and he certainly wasn’t going to give Jennifer that satisfaction. Fortunately, he was running past the West River Diner and was so far ahead, he had plenty of time, so he decided to duck in for just a second, to take care of his To-Do problem.
He dashed into the men’s room, but while he was trying to stuff the list back into his running shorts, he leaned too far forward — and this was odd; he couldn’t exactly explain how this next thing happened, but it definitely made sense — and he fell into the trash holder under the paper-towel machine. The trash receptacle was much deeper than you’d expect, and when he finally hit bottom and looked around, everything was dark; there were paper towels everywhere. Not a problem, he figured, but the more towels he pushed aside, the more fell on him, pressing down so much, breathing was difficult.
This really wasn’t funny anymore; it was time to stop joking around, and Adam wasn’t just talking about the running club race or what Jennifer would say. He couldn’t get any air, and the more he pushed the towels away, the more they pressed in on him to the point where he had to conclude that this was a lot more than a paper-towel situation. There was someone, some human force against him. Adam was scared, time was running out, so he screamed for help; he didn’t care what Jennifer thought. But the towels were so dense against his face, pushing into his mouth, no sound would come from his throat and he gulped deep for air. This was so unfair that he started crying. He could feel hands — he couldn’t tell whose — but somebody’s were pressing against him. Adam, Adam, Adam . . .
“Adam, wake up. Adam.”
Adam opened his eyes. He was sobbing. It was his dad. His dad was trying to kill him?
“Adam, you must have had a nightmare,” said his dad. “Are you OK? Here, drink some water.”
It was a good idea. Adam sat up. His throat was parched from all the . . . from what? He drank half a glass, then slid back down flat.
“You want to talk about it?” asked his dad. “Seems like a really bad dream. Adam, I hope you know that you haven’t a thing in the world to worry about. We wouldn’t let anything happen to you. You want to come sleep with me and Mom? Like when you were little? Remember we used to put up the covers and make quilt caves?”
Adam just lay there, remembering the dream. It was so real, he couldn’t imagine that it wasn’t. There was such a thickness to his feelings; they seemed exactly true.
He lay quietly; it was good just to breathe.
“I’m OK now,” he said. “It must have been from this TV show I was watching —”
His father raised his eyebrows. “More reason to watch less TV,” he said, but he was smiling kindly, and he wasn’t using his usual anti-TV, anti-computer voice. “You want me to keep the hall light on?” he asked, and he leaned down to kiss Adam on the cheek.
“That would be nice,” said Adam. “Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, Adam.”
Adam knew what he had to do. He needed to go see Shadow’s boss at the Rec. And not just for Mrs. Stanky’s paper.
Mr. Johnny Stack must know the answer, because Adam definitely couldn’t get the question out of his head:
Was that front-page baby Shadow?
“I don’t talk about him,” said Mr.
Johnny Stack. “And his name’s not Shadow. He’s got a real name. And as far as that goes, how’d you get back here? They’re not supposed to send anyone back unless they check with me first.”
“Please, Mr. Stack,” said Adam. “I have to ask — I know —” But Mr. Stack wasn’t listening. He was studying some papers on his desk. It was a good thing Adam was a dogged reporter, because he was accustomed to routinely being treated like dirt. Would someone please tell him when the day would come when he’d walk up to the front desk at the Rec, say, “Hi, I’m Adam Canfield, I’d like to see Mr. Johnny Stack,” and the woman behind the desk would say, “Sure, adorable sweetheart, baby doll, just go outside and around back through the double doors and he’s the first big office on the right. He can’t wait to see you, little honey-cakes.” Yeah, right. Adam knew exactly when that would happen: when he was a hundred years old and dead. The woman had looked at him like he was going to bite her stupid tuna-fish sandwich; she said if he didn’t have an appointment, it was impossible.
Fortunately, he knew where to go, since he’d visited Shadow last winter. Per usual, he had to take matters into his own hands.
“You’re still here?” Mr. Stack said. “Look, I’ve known this young man for many years and I have never, in all that time, seen him bother anyone who didn’t bother him first. You have a problemo, baby, you need to take it up directly with him. There’s nothing wrong with that boy that he can’t speak for himself. I’ve got to warn you, though, and I’ve told him a million times, my philosophy on this is ignore the fools.”
And he went back to his papers.
Adam hated being treated like a fool in need of ignoring. “Listen, Mr. Stack,” he said, “give a guy a chance. I just want —”
“Please go,” said Mr. Stack. “I’ve got to finish scheduling this lacrosse tournament. The damn pairings aren’t working; I’ve screwed something up. Team 7’s playing Team 3 twice, and Team 2’s not playing 7 at all . . .”
Adam glimpsed the sheet that Mr. Stack was working on. It was a tournament bracket like college basketball’s NCAA March Madness championships. Or the Ameches’ Big Tomato statewide championship. “There’s your problem,” said Adam. “That seven must be a one. It’s not seven versus three; it’s one versus three.”
Mr. Stack lifted his head and, for the first time, peered over his glasses straight into Adam’s eyes. He glanced down, checked the numbers, and looked up again. “How’d you figure that out?” Mr. Stack asked. “Especially from that side of the desk?”
“No biggie,” said Adam. “I can read upside down. I’ve trained myself. I’m a newspaper reporter. It’s a good trick to know. You go into somebody’s office, you chat them up, they have secret documents on their desk — if you can read upside down, it’s a big advantage.”
“I bet it is,” said Mr. Stack. “You trained yourself?”
“It’s not that hard,” said Adam. “I read the The BFG upside down for practice and now it just seems normal.”
“The BFG?” said Mr. Stack. “Roald Dahl’s BFG?”
Now Adam looked surprised.
“Good book,” said Mr. Stack. “I got four sons. They’re grown, but they loved that book.”
“They read it upside down?” asked Adam.
“No,” said Mr. Stack. “I believe right-side up. But it was even good right-side up. They loved it because . . . you know . . .”
“Whizzpoppers,” said Adam.
“That’s it,” said Mr. Stack, looking off in the distance. “I’d forgotten. . . . My kids thought it was hilarious to read a book for school about farts. That can’t have been an easy word to read upside down. . . . You’re Adam Canfield of the Slash, aren’t you?”
Adam nodded.
“I’ve heard about you,” said Mr. Stack. “You’re the one who’s been so nice to Theodore — Shadow . . .”
“It’s OK,” said Adam. “I know he’s Theodore Cox. I know you don’t like his nickname. And I quote: ‘Mr. Johnny Stack calls me Theodore. He says, “That’s your Christian name, that’s what we’re going to call you. Period.”’”
Finally, Mr. Stack grinned. “So that’s what Mr. Johnny Stack says, is it?”
“Quotes you a lot,” said Adam. “You can tell that he really thinks you’re pretty great.”
“He’s pretty alone in the world,” said Mr. Stack.
Adam told Mr. Stack about the English assignment. He explained about visiting 107A and how Mr. Willy had said to talk to him, but Adam had known that already.
“Theodore filled me in,” said Mr. Stack. “He’s very excited. He’s never been profiled before. Christ, it’s a huge deal for him just to talk to a normal kid who doesn’t call him a retard. We were at the field the other day, chalking lines for Little League and he says, ‘Guess who’s doing a big story, and it’s all about you-know-who?’”
“Hope you guessed,” said Adam. “Shadow gets pretty upset if you don’t guess. Boy, did he get worked up at me.”
“Oh, I know,” said Mr. Stack. “At the basketball courts, right? About his older brother mugging you? You probably don’t realize,” continued Mr. Stack, “but you’re a big deal to him. When you took him on the Slash — my God, I think he told me about those thirteen proofreading mistakes he found about thirteen million times.”
“He does repeat himself,” said Adam.
“There are worse faults,” said Mr. Stack. “Theodore told me the Slash is in trouble, said the school’s not paying for it anymore because they’re afraid of the Bolands. That right?”
Adam nodded.
“It would be awful if the paper fell apart,” said Mr. Stack. “Theodore would die. I got to tell you — I think he considers you his best friend.”
Adam nodded, but he wished Mr. Stack hadn’t said that. Being best friend to a lonely person was a lot of responsibility.
Mr. Stack started telling Shadow’s story, and it was surprising — Adam actually knew a lot already, from his own talks with Shadow: how Shadow had grown up without parents in foster homes; how he’d moved from home to home and now lived in a foster house in the Willows; how he didn’t get along with his older brother who beat him. He was the same older brother who’d mugged Adam for his shoveling money last winter and was in jail.
“How do you know Shadow?” Adam asked.
“He found me,” said Mr. Stack. “It was, I guess . . . four summers ago. I was dragging the softball field, getting ready for a night game, and I lift my head and there he is, a little boy picking up trash without being asked. Never seen him before. And he just kept coming back, all summer. He was maybe ten. He’d help me mow, rake, grade; he loved hosing. After eight hours, I’d turn around — he was still working. And this was way before we paid him. Some days he’d be there at seven when I got in, and when we had night games — eleven o’clock, lights out — he was still around. He seemed to pretty much run free. There was a night I went into the Donut Shack. Had to be midnight; I was coming home from a ball game, and there he was, this little guy, sitting on a stool, twirling back and forth and talking with the doughnut man behind the counter.”
“You know what he loves?” Mr. Stack continued. “Carrying around keys. I guess keys make him feel official. I got him a clip for his belt. I let him lock up the ball fields — he’s in heaven.” Mr. Stack waited. “What else you need?”
“The nickname?” said Adam.
“He was always on my heels, and people started asking ‘Who’s your shadow?,’ and pretty soon, that’s what everyone went by.”
“So you were the original person Shadow-ed?” asked Adam.
“Nah,” said Mr. Stack, “just the first time they gave a name to it.
“Adam,” he said. “I don’t know how you’re going to say this, but his life’s pretty hard. A few summers ago, the clothes he’d wear to his Rec job — we were paying him then — they were on the shaky side, so we took him out and bought him. . . .”
“We?” said Adam.
“Me and two of my sons.
I figured they’d know what kind of clothes a kid would like, plus I wanted them to see how good they had it. So what happens? A few weeks later, this expensive hoodie we got and sneakers — gone. I figured he’d lost them, and it really made me mad. He said someone at his house stole them. I’ve never known him to lie. Unlike so-called normal people, he’s too honest. So I started visiting the foster homes — I think I’ve been to three — and talking to his case workers. I wanted to learn his story, and I did, boy. They showed me his file folder — it was about as big as you. But the main thing was, I wanted to let these people know there was a responsible grown-up watching, so they had better take care of Theodore.”
Adam got it; Mr. Johnny Stack watching over you was pretty good insurance.
“That enough?” Mr. Stack asked.
“Almost,” said Adam. “When I’m not talking it’s because I’m catching up with what you said — I’m always one idea behind, writing down stuff.”
“You’re lucky,” said Mr. Stack. “I’m usually several ideas behind. We need to wrap up — I got miles to go before I sleep. Who said that?”
“Probably Abraham Lincoln,” said Adam. “I always put that on tests when I don’t know. He pretty much said everything.”
It was time for Adam to ask the question, the one that was the whole real reason for coming.
The Last Reporter Page 12
