by Edward Bloor
"Uh-huh."
"Are you going to go? It's Friday night."
"Oh yeah. I'm going."
"Because I'm going, too."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah."
There was a pause, then she said, "Joey's having some kids over to his house afterward. Would you like to come with me? As my date?"
I didn't hesitate at all. I said, "Sure."
"Great."
I added, "Thanks for asking me."
"Sure thing."
"Does Joey know that you're asking me?"
"Oh yeah. He knows. He says we can ride over there with him and Cara."
I had a sudden, crazy picture in my head. Could Joey be listening to this? Could he be on the extension? Mom came in and pointed at the clock. I said, "I'm sorry, I have to go. I'll see you at the gym on Friday."
"OK, great. Bye."
"Bye."
Mom said, "Who was that?"
"Kerri Gardner, from Lake Windsor Middle. We're going over to Joey's house on Friday night, after the ceremony."
Mom took in this information. She waited—I guess, for more. But I didn't say anything else, so she started making her calls to the homeowners. It didn't sound like too many were interested in her meeting.
Mr. Costello arrived first, at about eight o'clock. I answered the door and let him in. He gave me a friendly greeting, as usual. I claimed my seat in the alcove at Dad's IBM. I pulled up the "Erik—Scholarship Offers" file as Mom and Mr. Costello settled into the living room.
Dad has been working on the file again. He has added the names and phone numbers of scouts and alumni boosters from the three Florida schools—people like Mr. Donnelly and Larry and Frank. He has also noted that a "press packet" from the Times has been sent to those schools. He hasn't added anything more to the other page 1 schools, and get this—the page 2 schools are gone. Deleted. Trash-canned. The Houston schools, and any other noncontenders for the national title, are gone. They have no place in the Erik Fisher Football Dream.
I clicked out of the file and started listening to the meeting. Mom was taking notes as Mr. Costello rattled off a series of items: a Rolex watch, a diamond stickpin, a twenty-four-carat gold bracelet.
I logged off and walked into the great room. Mom didn't suggest that I leave, so I joined them. I asked, "What are you writing down, Mom?"
Mom looked at me with a pained expression. Was I being a pain? "These are items that were stolen from the tented houses."
Dad came in and sat in one of the folding chairs. He didn't say anything to us; he didn't even look at us. It was like we weren't there. He just stared straight ahead at the fireplace, like he was waiting for it to flame on.
The doorbell rang, so I went to answer it. I let in a group of four homeowners. Mom suggested that they begin the meeting right away since no other people were expected.
It was smaller and friendlier than most homeowners' meetings. The eight of us listened as Mr. Costello read the financial reports. Then he turned to the old business. "We have good news on a couple of fronts. All I can say is, thank God for that freeze. It killed off all the mosquitoes, so we were able to cancel that guy with the gas masks and the sprayer."
Mom said, "'Thank God' is right."
"The freeze also signals the end of the thunderstorm season. This is a fact that Mrs. Fisher and I have both brought to Bill Donnelly's attention. We have suggested a compromise to him—that he remove his string of lightning rods for now and put them back up next summer. He has agreed to think about it."
The man from the yellow Tudor asked, "What about the termites?"
"The freeze might have helped us there, too; I just don't know. Three houses have tents now, which makes a total of twenty-five so far in the development."
"And the robberies?"
Mr. Costello nodded solemnly. "There were two more robberies of tented houses since our last meeting. In both cases, robbers smashed a window, ran in, and ran out with cash and jewelry. The deputies say they have some leads, but that's all they're willing to tell us at this point."
The same man said, "I saw a guy sitting outside a tented house with a shotgun." Everyone reacted to that, and he continued, "He's one of your neighbors, Jack. He's sitting outside in a lawn chair, all night long, with a shotgun across his lap."
Mr. Costello said, "Thanks for telling me. I'll talk to him. If that doesn't do any good, I'll have the Sheriff's Department talk to him. We can't have that." Everyone agreed. "He's gonna wind up shooting some late-night jogger."
The woman from the white York asked, "What about the front, Jack? That's looking kinda run-down."
"The front is looking bad because of the freeze. Those plants are supposed to be cold-hardy, but nothing is going to come through a freeze like that completely undamaged."
The same woman asked, "Did the freeze kill off the rest of your fish?"
"No. We can't blame the freeze for that. Those koi are cold-hardy. That pond could freeze a foot thick and they'd be OK under the ice. We believe that some local person stole them and sold them."
I said, "I don't believe that."
They all turned and stared at me, as if they had just noticed that I was sitting there. Then they all turned back. They were about to ignore me and go on when I added, "That doesn't make any sense." They turned toward me again. "Think about it. How could some local person, some koi thief from Tangerine, stop at the front of our development, in that wide-open space, without anyone seeing him? How could he fish for, catch, and drive away with a string of big orange shiny fish with no one seeing him?"
Mr. Costello answered, "I don't know, Paul. Maybe because he does it in the middle of the night, when people are asleep. Anyway, it's the only theory we have. Unless you have a better one."
"The ospreys," I said. They all stared at me blankly. "The ospreys, the birds of prey, from those giant nests out on Route 89. They swoop down, snatch up the koi, and fly back to their nests. No one sees them; no one thinks about them; no one suspects them."
Mr. Costello seemed annoyed. They all did. He said, "You've seen this happen?"
"I've seen them flying west with the fish in their talons."
"How do you know they were our fish?"
"They were big and orange and shiny."
They all looked at each other. No one spoke. Finally, Mom said to me, "Paul, if you knew about this, why didn't you ever tell anyone?"
"No one ever asked me."
She looked at me with the pained expression again. "Is there anything else that we should ask you about?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you know anything about the robberies?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Mom nodded. She believed me. The rest of them now seemed to be waiting for me to leave, so I got up. She winked at me and said, "Thanks. Good night."
As I started out, I heard one of the homeowners ask, "Did anybody see that Eyewitness News team report on the sinkhole? The one where they found out the county never surveyed the construction site? Why can't we get that Eyewitness News team out here? They can shoot pictures of the muck fire. We show them to the county and demand action." The guy looked around for support. Nobody moved. He added, "And if that doesn't work, we can sue the county."
Mr. Costello half smiled and pointed at Dad. "We'd be suing our host here."
Dad jumped to his feet and gestured for the crowd's attention. He looked absolutely frazzled. "I want you all to know something. I am determined to change things. That sort of nonsense, an unsurveyed construction site, will never happen again in this county. I can't change the past, but I'm putting some big changes in place—for now and for the future."
The homeowners listened, then turned to other matters. I continued on upstairs. I have to wonder about Dad, though. He was a wreck just now. He was coming unglued. What is going on in his head?
Tuesday, November 28
Luis Cruz is dead.
When I walked into first period this m
orning, there was a group of kids standing around and whispering. Henry D. came up to me and said, "Did you hear what happened?"
"No."
"Tino and Theresa were waiting outside yesterday for Luis to pick them up, but he never came. Theresa called home and told their father. He went out into the grove and found Luis lying there dead."
"Found him what?"
"Dead. Right out in the new grove."
I stared at Henry like he was crazy. "Dead? Are you saying that Luis is dead?"
"That's right. Their father called 911. Wayne was one of the guys on call. He said Luis was dead when they got there; that he had been dead for hours."
"Dead? Dead of what?"
"Wayne said it might have been an aneurysm, like a blood clot. He thinks Luis got hit on the head, it formed into a blood clot, and that killed him."
My mind was racing in circles. I finally said, "What? Someone hit Luis on the head and killed him?"
"No. Wayne said the sheriff's deputies don't think it was a murder or anything like that. They think Luis might have gotten hit on the head last Wednesday night, when all those frozen tree branches were breaking off. They think maybe one of the branches hit him on the head and started that aneurysm thing going. But they don't know anything for sure."
I put my hand over my mouth, afraid that I would throw up. I whispered, "He got hit on the head on Wednesday night?"
"They don't know that, they're just saying maybe."
"One shot to the head? Five ... six days ago? How is that gonna kill anybody?" Henry could see how upset I was getting. He didn't reply. "I mean, you see these guys in these kung-fu movies getting hit on the head a thousand times, and they keep on fighting. Right?"
"Right."
I raised my hand and got Ms. Pollard's attention. I said, "I gotta go. I'm sick again." I hurried into the hall, pushing past a stream of kids all the way to the office. I asked to use the phone and left a quick message for Mom. "Come back. Right away. I'm sick again." An aide led me into a sterile black-and-white room that turned out to be the nurse's office. I slumped down into a black chair and waited there—dry eyed, speechless, numb.
Mom returned at nine o'clock to sign me out. She told Dr. Johnson, "I guess we sent him back to school too early."
I rode home in a painful trance. Finally, when we pulled into our development, Mom said, "This cold of yours is really bad. It's really persistent."
I nodded slowly. "Yeah." I thought, How could she believe that? How could she believe that I'm in the sixth day of a severe cold, when I have not coughed or sneezed even one time? Has it even occurred to her that that isn't the truth? That I might be making it all up? Probably not. I decided to share part of the truth with her. I said, "Luis Cruz is dead."
She thought for a minute. "Who, honey?"
"Luis Cruz. He's Tino and Theresa's brother. He was at the grove the day you drove me out there. I guess you didn't see him. He came to nearly all of our soccer games. But I guess you didn't see him there, either. He used to pick tangerines on Merritt Island. He injured his knee doing that. He played goalie for Tangerine Middle School. He invented a new variety of citrus. Then a tree branch broke off and hit him on the head."
I looked over at Mom. She was nodding sympathetically. Did she want to hear more? Maybe the whole truth? Did she want to hear anything bad? Should I come right out and say, Actually, Mom, he wasn't killed by a tree branch. He was killed by Arthur Bauer, on orders from Erik. What would she do if she heard that? Would she swerve into a utility pole? Or would she do what she always did back in Houston—take my temperature and threaten to call the doctor?
I didn't say anything else. When I got into the house, I went straight to Dad's IBM and logged on. I put in a CD-ROM called Health Text and searched for "aneurysm." I found out that it's not a blood clot at all. It's a "weakening of a blood vessel," like a little bubble that swells out from a vein or an artery. That's all there was about it, so I got online, searching for a medical home page. The Tangerine County Medical Center listed one called "Ask-a-Nurse." I got into it and typed, "Can you get an aneurysm from an injury to the head?"
I received a reply right away: "No. You are either born with an aneurysm, or you are born with the tendency to get one."
I typed in, "Can an aneurysm kill you?"
"Yes. An aneurysm can burst, causing a massive stroke and death."
"What could cause it to burst?"
"The aneurysm gradually deteriorates due to the constant pressure of the blood passing through it."
"Could an injury to the head cause it to burst?"
"Yes. An injury to the head could further weaken the aneurysm and cause it to burst."
"Would this happen right away, or could it happen a week later?"
"It could happen right away, or a week after the injury, or a month after, depending on the condition of the aneurysm."
I typed in "Thank you," and logged off. I had my answer. Luis had been killed by Arthur Bauer on Tuesday, but it had taken six days for him to die. That shot from the blackjack had been just as deadly to Luis as a shot from a gun.
I went upstairs and lay on my bed until three-thirty. Then I called Henry D. "Henry, what else did you hear about Luis?"
"I haven't heard anything new from Wayne. I did hear from Dolly that Luis's funeral is going to be on Thursday at noon."
"Oh. All right. I'll be there. Do you think the whole team will go?"
"I expect so. They all knew Luis. A lot of us owed Luis for things. A lot of us got rides from him in that truck of his."
"Yeah. Look, if you hear anything else, anything at all, especially from Wayne, will you please give me a call?"
"I sure will."
At dinnertime, Mom knocked lightly on my door and brought in some vegetable soup and a basket of rolls. I pretended to be asleep. She put them down quietly and started to leave, but she turned and saw that my eyes were open. She said, "How are you feeling, Paul? How is that cold of yours?"
I didn't answer, so she just smiled weakly and continued out.
Wednesday, November 29
I stayed out of school again today. I got dressed at about ten and went out back to sit for a while. Mom came out with the telephone and handed it to me. "Another girl," she said. "A different one."
I waited until she went back in to press the button. "Hello."
"Paul Fisher?"
"Yes."
"This is Theresa Cruz."
"Theresa? I'm really sorry to hear about what happened—"
She interrupted me; her tone was all business. "Yeah, I know that. Look, I have to tell you something: Don't you be coming to Luis's funeral."
I stammered, "Uh, OK."
"Henry says you're talking about coming. But Tino and Victor and those guys are saying some bad stuff. So you had better not show your face at Luis's funeral. I'm calling to tell you that."
"All right."
"I don't want any more bad stuff to happen, especially not at the funeral."
"No. Of course not."
"So I'm just telling you." Then she hung up.
I sat there with my mouth wide open. They knew! They knew everything! Theresa, Tino, Tomas and his brother, Victor and the others—they all knew the truth! They knew that Luis came looking for Erik last Tuesday. And they knew what happened to him at the school. They knew that he didn't get hit by any frozen tree branch. How did they know?
I jumped up and hurried through the gate to the front of the house. I turned left and headed down the sidewalk. I had to get away. I had to think.
My mind was racing with questions: Did Luis tell someone about it? Of course he did. If he told me about it, he told other people, too. Did I really think I could keep this a secret from them all? Does everybody in Tangerine blame me now? Am I just as guilty as Erik?
I was all the way down at the entrance pond before I stopped. I stood there and stared at the dark water until I finally understood. And it was so very simple. There's no big mystery here. The
truth about Luis is obvious to all of the people around him. Their lives are not made up of bits and pieces of versions of the truth. They don't live that way. They know what really happened. Period. Why would that seem so mysterious to me?
I sat on the bank and stared at the lifeless water. After a few minutes I heard a noise behind me and turned. A little boy on a little bike had pulled up about ten feet away. He looked to be about five years old—not old enough to be out on the road by himself. He sat there staring at me, astride his red twenty-inch bike. Then he pointed at the pond and said, "They say there's a gator in there."
I looked back at the pond. I wanted him to leave, but he went on, "They say a gator came outta there last year and ate a kid."
I turned back toward him. "Oh yeah? Who says that?"
"My mom and dad."
I shook my head. "Well, forget it. That didn't happen."
He shook his head right back. "My mom and dad say it did."
I thought about that. I thought about my own mom and dad, and I looked him right in the eye. "Then they're lying to you. They're telling you a story just so they can keep you scared. They want you to be scared. Do you understand?"
He stiffened. "My mom and dad don't tell me stories."
I rose up onto my knees so that we were eye-to-eye. "Oh no? Did they ever tell you a story about a kid who went swimming right after he ate, and he got cramps, and he drowned?"
"Yeah."
"Well, did you ever meet that kid?"
"No."
"OK. Did they ever tell you about a kid who climbed a utility pole to get his kite back, and he got electrocuted?"
"Yeah."
"And did you ever meet that kid?"
"How could I meet him if he's dead?"
"How about a kid who got bitten by a stray dog, and he got rabies, and he started foaming at the mouth? Did they ever tell you about him? And did you ever meet him?"
The boy straightened out the front wheel of his bike and started to back away.
"My mom and dad don't lie to me."
I got onto my feet. My voice was rising. "No? How about this one: Did they ever tell you about the kid who went out to play football in a thunderstorm, and he got struck by lightning, and he got killed?"
