“Tina, I am home,” I said and hung up.
I skipped down the fifteen stairs between our bedrooms and the living room. Mom was waiting for me in the kitchen with some cheese-and-cucumber sandwiches on a ceramic plate. She offered me some coffee as well, but when I said I didn’t drink coffee, she gave me milk instead.
“What did Tina want?” Mom asked.
“Oh, nothing special. She just wanted to chat.”
“She didn’t say anything about their coming here, did she?”
“It’s been a while since they were here,” Dad said from his chair in front of the TV.
Mom began to wipe the kitchen counter with a quiet ferocity.
“No, she didn’t mention that. Mostly she was interested in my plans.”
I saw Mom and Dad exchange a look. They were thinking the same thing. I tried to distract them.
“So, anyway, great sandwiches, Mom.”
Nobody said anything. I could hear our kitchen clock ticking, and I followed the second hand as it travelled its way around the clock’s black face.
“What are your plans?” Dad asked eventually.
I was getting frustrated with the questions. I had only been there for two days.
“Not you too. First Mom, then Tina, now you. Plans, plans, plans! I don’t have a master plan. Maybe you all do, but I don’t. Things will work out the way they’re meant to work out. If you want me to leave, just say so.”
“It’s not that, Peter, not at all . . .” said Mom.
I heard Dad chime in: “We’re just worried about—”
I didn’t hear the end of the sentence because I stormed out, flinging the door open with such force that it shook in its frame.
Parents.
I needed some space.
Chapter 14
My Hometown
I WALKED OUT of the house without looking back and ran to our storage room on the far side of the communal parking lot. I battled all the way to the back and picked up my dusty skateboard. I remember the day Dad brought it home—he had a friend who’d bought a shipment of this newest craze, and I’d been delirious with excitement. Within five minutes I’d fractured my wrist and had never ridden the stupid thing again. I chucked it to the side and pulled out my golden Crescent racing bike with the zebra-patterned drop handlebar.
I really wanted a large triple-shot, no-foam latte, but since those weren’t available in the 1980s I went for something else to get my blood pumping: my wheels.
It had been a few years since I’d ridden any bike, let alone this one, so it took me a little while to notice that the ride was bumpier than it ought to have been. After a hundred metres or so, I understood that something was wrong, and when I dismounted, I saw that both tires were flat.
Instead of turning back home and risking running into Mom or Dad, I kept on walking to the nearest gas station, where I examined the Crescent a little more closely.
I had made the zebra stripes on the handlebars myself, by rolling white tape over the original black leather grip. The bottle holder I’d screwed on was also still there, but the bottle was gone. On the mudguard at the back was a faded sticker in the shape of the famous London Underground sign, with Mind the Gap on it, that I’d bought on a trip to London.
A baby-blue lock was hanging underneath the seat.
Once I had filled the tires with air, I turned up the collar on my denim jacket, turned my baseball hat backwards, clipped the JVC walkman (lowercase w) on to the back of the waistline of my jeans, and then carefully placed the headphones over my ears. Without even looking, my finger found Play.
With the tires now rolling smoothly, I found riding the bike was as easy as . . . riding a bike. I could’ve done it with my eyes closed (but didn’t). I did do it without hands, though, as soon as I got to the main bike lane. I put my hands in my jacket pockets and let Queen’s “I Want to Break Free” and the late-summer breeze on my face carry me away. I looked at the blue sky above me and smiled, thinking how nice it was that there was no climate change, just a hole in the ozone layer, but that we’d fix that by starting to use roll-on deodorant.
There were no terrorists—except airplane hijackers, and the IRA, and a little bit of Middle East trouble—but those things were far away. They never came to us, and especially not to Kumpunotko.
I switched up a gear. I didn’t have a plan but I trusted my bike, which felt almost like an extension of myself, to make the decisions for me.
Kumpunotko was only a small town/large village (take your pick), but even so there were several routes between our house and the market square. The straightest was along the bike lane. It was pretty—lined with birches almost the whole way—and at the halfway point there was a kiosk where I could stop and get a soda.
Then there was the other route. The one my bike had chosen.
On this route, there was no bike lane, only a dirt road, so it took almost twice as long to get to the town square. I’d discovered it during our first year of high school, when Mikke had told me there was a barbershop along the way—the cheapest in town. That sounded good to me, as I was hoping to pocket some of the money Mom had given me for the haircut and put it toward something I needed much more: Phil Collins’s new solo album, No Jacket Required. The one with “Sussudio,” whatever that meant.
I rode along the little track through the forest and marvelled at how everything had completely not changed. I remembered just about every bump, root, and pothole.
After the track through the forest came the dirt road, and I clearly remembered riding along it that first time, keeping an eye out for a barbershop. I’d seen nothing of the sort, just lots of nice, big houses. The neighbourhood was a little closer to town than ours, and therefore a little bit nicer. Ours had low, terraced houses, like my family’s, and apartment buildings; this neighbourhood had only decent-sized single-family homes with porches and verandas and two-car garages.
On that particular day, I was riding past a nice grey house, not too big and not too small, with similar houses in different colours on both sides of it, when I saw Jennifer, sitting on the porch and reading a book. We didn’t really know each other so well back then—we’d been in school together but had never really spoken—but I was so surprised to see her that I jammed on my brakes, stopping with a squeal.
She looked up.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” she said back, expectantly, waiting for me to announce why I was there.
“You live here?” I asked.
“No, I just like to sit on random porches, reading my book.”
I couldn’t think of a clever reply.
“So, who’s the biker?” I nodded toward a yellow Honda Monkey moped that was leaning against their garage.
“That’s my brother’s.”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Maybe there’s a lot of things you don’t know about me,” she said. That’s when I saw that smile for the first time.
“I’m looking for a barbershop,” I said lamely.
She looked around her, puzzled.
“Not one here the last time I checked. Although if you trust me to have a go with the kitchen scissors and the hairspray, I could try for that Flock of Seagulls look?”
“Ha. I’ll pass, thanks!”
She pouted, wounded.
“Mikke told me there’s a barbershop along this way.”
“Keep going that way.” She waved vaguely. “Right into town.”
“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t want the conversation to end there. “What are you reading?”
She held it up for me to see and rolled her eyes. To Kill a Mockingbird. “Frankly, I might just save myself some time and watch the movie.”
“That’s exactly what I said! But my dad made me read the book. He kept asking me questions about things that happened to make sure I wasn’t cheating.”
“So you’ve read it?”
“Finished it last week.”
“No way!”
“Way!”
“And what do you think Atticus represents within the context of Maycomb’s community?”
I laughed. “I don’t know. I’m doing the other question, about how Jem and Scout change over the course of the novel.”
“Oh, you’re no use,” she said dismissively, and then laughed.
I thought about it, the novel’s powerful ending still fresh in my mind. “I think he represents the voice of reason, though, doesn’t he? He represents logic, while everyone else in the town represents emotion. He thinks things through, while they all act on impulse. He doesn’t allow prejudice to . . . um . . . prejudice his decisions.”
“My God, that’s brilliant, Peter! Can I steal that?”
“Actually, I think that’s much better than what I’d been planning to write, about Jem and Scout growing up being like the civil rights movement growing . . . or something.”
“Well, it’s too late now. That’s my essay, and if you write the same thing I’ll just tell Hanna you copied me.” Her eyes sparkled, and I chuckled along.
I could have stayed and chatted all day. I would have loved to have just parked the bike, and she could have shifted over, making space for me on the porch seat, and we’d have shot the breeze all afternoon—but I knew not to outstay my welcome.
I glanced casually at my calculator watch.
“I’d better be going. This hair won’t cut itself, you know.”
“Are you really going to get a haircut?” she asked. “I think it looks great the way it is.”
I turned my eyes to my bike and pulled the brakes a couple of times, as if to test them. They made a squeaky sound.
“Anyway, I’m so glad you came by,” she said quickly. “I was just sitting here wondering how the heck I was going to make sense of this, and you come by with your clever ideas. It’s like it was meant to be. Like destiny or something.”
I grinned. “Pleased to be of service.”
I got on my bike and rode for a bit before turning back for one last glance. I saw her wave goodbye, wiggling her fingers. I rode on, and eventually took a left turn toward the record store, my mullet flowing in the wind.
I DIDN’T HAVE a mullet now. Not yet, anyway.
I stopped outside Jennifer’s house to turn the tape over in my walkman, but I took my time about it. The house was just as I remembered it, except that there was no Jennifer on the porch, or in the window, or sitting in the backyard swing, or even in the awesome old orange Saab 96 that was parked outside the garage.
I reattached the walkman to my jeans and got back on the saddle.
Eight minutes and two songs later, I was riding through downtown Kumpunotko for the first time since my arrival.
There was the old wooden building with the bookstore and the realtor, and after that the bank’s cream-white stone facade, then the dry cleaners, and the general merchandise shop that did an odd sideline in curiosities like old coins, cannon balls, and military clothing.
On the other side of the street was the men’s clothing store, the barber shop, the small record store, and the comic book store. There were other stores and shops too; I’d never been to them, but it was good to see that they were still there.
After that, just next to the only traffic light in town, was the bus terminal, and then the main square.
I left my bike leaning against a no-parking sign and walked around for a while. It was a warm day, so I took off my denim jacket and let my T-shirt remind people to Choose Life. Around my head, I wore a black-and-white checkered scarf, like tennis ace Pat Cash, the coolest cat I knew. My fake Ray-Ban Wayfarers—like the ones the Blues Brothers wore—were the icing on the cake.
I bought an ice cream and sat on a bench. A man walking by nodded and said hello. I wondered if I knew him, but I didn’t think so. A couple of minutes later a young woman, leading a toddler, gave me a smile and said good morning. At first I thought my excellent eighties clothes were attracting people to me, but then I remembered: in small towns, people say hello to each other.
The Kumpunotko market square, the town’s epicentre, was the site of a real market, with fishmongers and people selling berries and potatoes and such, and that hadn’t changed at all. The introduction of plastic shelters in the previous century may well have been the only significant change since the last ice age. In the middle of all the red and orange market tents was a giant round red umbrella that I recognized.
I only saw the umbrella, but I knew full well that under it would be an old man, sitting on a bar stool, selling lottery tickets. Next to him would be a car, a beige Lada, once popular in the Soviet Union and Finland. It wasn’t a great car but it was better than nothing. Even though I loved my Crescent, I had bought my share of lottery tickets trying to win that thing. And each time I didn’t, the old man told me it just wasn’t meant to be.
The car was different today, a grey Škoda, but it was still the same guy.
I reached for my phone, planning to snap a photo and send it to Tina. But the square thing in my back pocket wasn’t a phone: it was my backup tape. I gave my head a shake, as if to physically reset my brain.
“Hi, kid, you feeling lucky today?” the man said in a loud, hoarse voice, shaking a red plastic basket filled with lottery tickets.
“Sure, why not?” I handed him a coin and chose a ticket.
“Maybe a car, or maybe a stereo . . . a camera would be great,” I muttered as I rolled open the ticket.
“Thank you for your support,” I read out loud to the man.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” he said.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said with a laugh, and continued my walk.
On my way back to the bike, I made a stop at the Atlas.
I pulled at the door but it didn’t open. No real surprise there: Who went to the movies in the middle of the day? I pressed my nose against the glass door, trying to see inside.
There was something off about the scene. Everything was tinged with grime. As I squinted into the darkness, trying to achieve focus, I realized it was the window; it looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in years. I wiped my nose with my jacket and leaned in again.
Even through the layers of dirt, I recognized the old lobby. The box office was in its place, but behind the concession stand, the candy was gone from the shelves. Outside, the poster frames were empty, and somebody had taped a sign on one of them, advertising a church’s flea market. The Atlas seemed to have closed down—and some time ago, by the looks of it.
I walked backwards onto the street to get a better look at the building. The sign was still there, though it looked beaten up, especially in the daylight.
A car honked at me and I jumped back to the sidewalk, too shocked to even wave my fist at the driver.
The image of the ghost theatre bothered me. Instead of getting my bike, I walked to the coffee shop next door. It was in one of the oldest buildings in town, and I had once seen Jennifer and her mom there as they’d sat by the window in the fancier part of the shop, upstairs, drinking hot chocolate.
Before the young lady behind the counter had time to ask for my order, I blurted out, “Hey, what’s up with the old movie theatre?”
“Which one?”
“Um, the one next door?”
“I don’t know. It’s been empty for a while . . . I think. How can I help you?”
“I’m not sure . . . Do you know why it’s empty?”
“I mean, can I take your order, please?”
“Oh,” I said. “A hot chocolate, please.”
I took my drink and walked up to the second floor. I glanced around but didn’t see Jennifer anywhere. That was fine. I had stuff to think about.
Something about the Atlas being closed down had shaken me to the core.
Chapter 15
Start Me Up
I GOT MY BIKE and rode it all around Kumpunotko. It only took about twenty-five minutes, and as I rode back past Jennifer’s house, I found I was calm again. The house looked just as quiet as it had
on my way in to town. No lights were on, and I didn’t see anybody moving inside, but I didn’t let that disappoint me. Somewhere deep inside, I had the sense that something important—something that could help me to take hold of my life and turn it around—was beginning to form, like an itchy little seedling.
I couldn’t quite grasp it, or formulate it, but it felt important. I was on the verge of having . . . a . . . mission, and that gave me such energy that I pedalled like an Olympian all the way home.
Dad was still sitting in front of the TV, news blaring. I turned away so I wouldn’t see the doom or the gloom of current affairs. Mom was sitting in the kitchen working on a crossword. We didn’t talk about my leaving the way I had left; we just all shifted slightly to allow for the new lump under the old family rug.
I knew what Dad would have said, had we talked about it. He would’ve quoted a song, probably the Beatles, and reminded me of what had happened with the upstairs bathroom.
It was the smaller of the two in the house, just a sink and a toilet, and the door bore the signs of an encounter with Hurricane Tina. Once, when I had been in there for way too long (in her opinion), she punched her fist almost through the door. Dad made her fix it, but all she did was put some tape on it. He let it stay that way as a reminder to us all (not because he was too lazy to fix it properly himself).
“Let it be . . . a lesson to you now. Every time you come in here you’ll see the door, and you’ll think of two things. You’ll think about managing your temper, and you’ll think how important it is to put in a real effort to make things better after you’ve misbehaved,” Dad told us.
I couldn’t take my mind off the Atlas, and I knew Dad would know what was going on with it. He probably knew the previous owner, or the manager, or the guy who cleaned out the popcorn machines. He’d know somebody. Dad knew everybody in Kumpunotko.
He was watching the news. I asked if I could talk to him, and he asked if it could wait. Happy to leave the room, I chatted with Mom for a couple of minutes, and then bounded up the stairs.
I loaded up the first Spectrum game I had ever played, Thro’ the Wall. I always found that while one part of my brain was focused on moving the paddle and breaking the colourful brick wall, another part was puzzling through something completely different. It had worked for me in school—thinking up the solutions to math problems as I tapped away at the keyboard.
Someday Jennifer Page 9
