by Lutzke, Chad
I won’t be here. I’ll be watching the world from dirtied windows behind broken blinds.
I hear a little click above me. It’s the intercom. It happens when the principal is going to make an announcement.
“Will those sixth graders who are participating in this year’s spelling bee please head to the auditorium now? Mrs. Penney will meet you at the entrance.”
My eyes widen, my stomach tightens. Carter looks at me and smiles big. I grab my stuff and head out the door and have to stop myself from running.
When I get to the auditorium there are already a few other kids there standing outside the double doors, waiting to enter. We wait another ten minutes while Mrs. Penney hands out nametags and then leads us inside. She has us sit in the audience seats while she stands up front and tells us the entire process of the event: Where we’ll be standing, what happens when we miss a word, what happens when we get a word correct and how a winner is announced through the process of elimination. She points at a large table to the side of the stage where a cork board sits propped up holding two ribbons–a red one and a green one. I start to wonder about the first place blue ribbon, when I spot a small golden cup gleaming brilliantly in the stage lights. There’s no ribbon after all but an actual trophy. Just like one of Dad’s.
I look at the stage. Like our own personal thrones, there sits fourteen blue folding chairs split into two rows. Before long I’ll be in one of them. Mrs. Penney is going on about the event still and then announces last year’s fifth grade winner–Kyle Corry–who happens to be competing again this year. And then she starts talking about the history of the spelling bee and how she’s proud of everyone. She loses my attention and all I can think of is losing and will I really be that proud of myself just because I tried.
I see kids getting on the stage and realize I missed the cue to head up. I scramble to the stage, pick a seat and wait. The clock says 2:40. The bee starts at 3:00. The bell rings and a few minutes later parents and students start filling the audience seats. I see Carter in the back. He’s waving and making goofy faces, giving his support. I’m glad he’s here.
I look at the kids sitting in the chairs around me. Three of them are boys and the rest are girls. The boys seem to come from the same mold–dressed well, sitting straight and proper with short, freshly cut hair. I look at my shoes–old ratty Converse. The others have loafers and oxfords like it’s full frontal picture day. I touch my bangs, muss them up, and hope my hair doesn’t look as bad as the other boys.
While the seats fill and we wait for 3:00, there’s not much for any of us to do on the stage other than shift around uncomfortably in our chairs and try and make small talk. But unless we know each other real well, sixth graders don’t make talk, small or otherwise. So with the exception of about half the girls who seem to know each other pretty well, we just sit there.
I look at the ribbons again, the trophy. I think I smile for a bit, lost in the golden glare and the polished wooden base.
Eyes on the prize.
I picture it on my dresser, reflecting rays from the sun into the eyes of anyone who enters my room, attracting their attention.
You mean the dresser in the foster home?
“Parents, children. Welcome to this year’s Maguire Elementary spelling bee for the sixth grade class.” Mrs. Penney speaks into a mic that threatens to feed back and then is tamed.
“The students you see up here today are from all three of Maguire’s sixth grade classes...Mr. Keniston’s, Mrs. Sikora’s, and Mr. Hall’s class. Some of the students competed last year in the fifth grade bee and are returning for another go round, and some are just beginning the adventure. Let’s give them all a round of applause for signing up for today’s event and working so hard to get here.”
The room fills with applause, whistling even. I begin to wonder how many would be clapping if they knew Mom kneeled stiff on the floor full of flies. Would they pull me off the stage, strip me of my nametag and push me through the doors, in a speedy ritual of excommunication?
Eyes on the prize.
Mrs. Penney goes through the rules again but this time with the audience. “When a name is called, that student will step up here to the microphone and be given a word by the judge, at which point the student must repeat the word, spell it, then repeat it again. If the word is correct then the student sits back down and waits for another turn. If the word is misspelled, the student is eliminated and must exit the stage. This process continues until there is only one person left standing. So, without further ado, let’s begin.”
Those last few words seem to echo through the giant room. The audience is peppered with empty seats and I picture Dad sitting in one of them, giving me a thumbs up.
The judge, who sits at a table near the front of the stage between the rows of seats, calls out a name. “Wendy McGhee.” The girl at the end of my row stands up, walks to the mic.
The first word of the bee is given. “Differential.”
The audience watches the girl as she collects her thoughts and silently spells the word to herself. She steps closer to the mic, then speaks.
“Differential. D.I.F.F.E.R.E.N.T.I.A.L. Differential.”
The judge smiles and tells her she’s correct. There’s a small applause from the audience and the girl sits down. Another name is called and then another. Every student spells perfectly, without error. They’re just as confident and prepared as myself.
Finally, my name is called and I approach the mic. A spotlight finds me, making it hard to see the audience. The room grows hot quick and the judge’s voice from somewhere in front of me says “Legendary.” The word booms through the speakers on either side of me.
Like others before me, I mouth the word silently, verifying the correct spelling. Then I speak.
“Legendary.” I spell the word, then recite it. And for one moment I can’t tell if I ended the word with E.R.Y or A.R.Y.
For one moment, I panic.
I don’t even hear the judge tell me I’m correct. But I hear the audience. They break into applause, and I can hear Carter’s voice. “Attaboy, Den!” Near shaking, I go and sit back down.
I feel like the hard part is over, my first word. But then I watch someone misspell. And as they walk to the side of the stage and beyond–disappearing into black corridors–my stomach stirs and knots. For a short while we had all seemed invincible.
Before it gets back to me again, another student misspells. We all watch with empathetic hearts as they shamefully exit the stage and head into the darkness. So far I hear no words that I don’t know how to spell, including the ones that other students had gotten wrong.
I’m given another word: Acquaintance.
And another: Fertilize.
Archaeology.
Musician.
I continue to know every word, though I will admit I stalled a bit on archaeology. It’s down to four of us now, but then the darkness behind the stage sucks Raymond Degraves in when he misses the “h” in synchronize. After Raymond is gone it dawns on me that at the very least I’ve won a ribbon. I’ve actually won! One of the ribbons is mine! I’ve placed! I don’t fight the smile that takes over my face, stretching wide. And while I’m in a daze, staring off at the ribbons on the board, the third person is eliminated from the bee. And just like that, I’m now competing for first. It's near overwhelming and my smile disappears. I’m terrified.
Only myself and Tracey Shepard fill the empty rows of chairs. Another four rounds continues and each of us remains, correctly spelling every word thrown our way. Then Tracey is given a word that I’m glad I didn’t have. I wouldn’t have gotten it. The first word that I don’t know. But without hesitation, Tracey spells it correctly, receives applause and sits down.
The thought of coming so close to receiving her word is unsettling, and I approach the mic with my confidence lacking. Preparing for loss. The bit of audience I can make out beyond the glare of the spotlight are not smiling. Every one of them is tense, nearly frowning, as th
ough this is uncomfortable to watch. I can see Carter. He’s chewing on something, a pencil I think. No smiling, no goofy faces, just tense chewing, then spitting.
“Decomposition.”
My knees nearly give when I hear the word. It feels like a sick joke, the judge mocking me. I must look like I need extra help because the man repeats the word. Louder.
“Decomposition.”
Followed by a sentence. “The rotting fruit was in a state of decomposition.”
It feels like a cruel conspiracy, the audience fully aware that mother is at home rotting while I stand here on the stage trying to win a souvenir from my days at Maguire. I feel a rush run through my body and I’m thinking it’s what happens when someone blushes, or like the hot flashes that Helen and Jerri complain about during cards, as they fan their reddened faces with the nearest magazine.
The auditorium is as still as night. Every eye I can’t see I can feel. My heart pumps in my ears, in my throat. The last six days hit me harder than I think ever possible and tears well up in my eyes, threatening to fall.
“Mom.” I say it right into the mic and it’s amplified for every single ear to hear, much louder than they need to. My chin quivers and my eyes can no longer hold the water blurring them. I can hear snorts and quiet chuckles, whispers. My entire perspective changes and winning feels undeserving. Before I lose it in front of everyone, I decide to end it.
“De….Decomposition. D.E.C.O.M.P….I.S.I.T.I.O.N.”
There’s an audible collective sigh and the judge says he’s sorry but that is incorrect. I walk off the stage and Mrs. Penney follows. When she catches up to me backstage she puts her arm around me and asks if I’m okay. I tell her I am. She tells me that it’s okay if I don’t know how to spell a word and that I’m a winner, that I’ve won 2nd place and even if I hadn’t that I’m still a winner for even trying. She says she’s proud of me. I tell her thanks and let her keep thinking this is all about not spelling the word right.
“Here, honey. You earned this.” She hands me the red ribbon from the cork board. “Congratulations, Denny. Now go on home and brag to everyone how well you did.”
I hold the ribbon in my hand and rub it with my thumb. It’s coarse and stiff. The inset gold lettering that says “2nd place” shines even in the dark. Wherever I’m going I’ll pin it on the wall.
I can hear the judge announcing Tracey Shepard as this year’s sixth grade spelling bee winner and the auditorium erupts with applause. I leave the stage through the side and walk through the shadows at the far end of the room. Carter spots me and meets me at the double doors.
“Hey, Denny. You okay?”
I don’t explain anything to him. I avoid the question altogether. He’ll find out soon enough. “Thanks, Carter.”
“For what?”
“Just being a friend. You’re a good one.” I stick my hand out to shake his. He gives me an odd look like he understands nothing about the past five minutes. We shake hands and I pat him on the back and leave through the double doors.
I don’t take the long way home. I want to get it over with. I’m tired, hungry, and I need to scream, to wail–get every bit of anger, frustration, and sadness out of me. I realize stuff can only be held in for so long or it’ll come bursting out, and not at the best times.
I nod at Mr. Artwell, who raises his beer and blows out a puff of smoke that clouds his face, then is stolen by the breeze. I unlock the door and go inside, holding my breath. This time I don’t shut the door behind me. I stand there and stare at Mom–an odd shaped ball of plastic sitting on the floor like some haphazardly wrapped sculpture waiting for its big reveal. There are flies everywhere–under the plastic and flying here and there in a chaotic frenzy, as though they can’t make up their minds whether to land or not.
I walk by Mom and into the dining room and open the slider. A strong breeze comes in through the house as though flushing it out, cleansing it. I bend down and plug the phone into the wall jack and dial 911. I hear three rings before a woman picks up on the other end and asks what my emergency is. I tell her my mother is dead and then give my address. The woman starts asking more questions and I hang up.
I take my school bag upstairs and grab a few of my favorite T-shirts, an extra pair of jeans, my calendar and the copy of The Temple of Gold that Sam gave me. I look around the room and realize there aren’t a whole lot of great memories here. It’s been a miserable tomb of a room for a growing boy. The places I’ll miss most are Carter’s, the dirt trails, and definitely Kemper Park and Sambo’s; those two days with Sam I’ll cherish forever.
I head back downstairs and look at Mom again. I consider taking the plastic off, but why bother. As bad as it looks, with my shoddy job of covering the smell, the scene will be no less morbid with or without her wrapped. And the story is the same: I lived my life pretending I even had a mother.
I can hear sirens in the distance. I put my ribbon into my bag and zip it up. I’m ready.
I head out onto the front porch, sit on the steps and wait. The sirens grow louder, at least two of them. Before another minute passes, an ambulance and a police car park in front of the house. A police officer and two EMTs approach me. The policeman starts to say they got a call about someone being dead, but then he gets distracted by the smell and looks in through the doorway and sees the fly-infested plastic blob.
The policeman places his hand near his gun like this is some kind of movie and says “What’s in the plastic, kid?”
I tell him it’s my mom and that she’s been dead a while now. I tell him that I’m the one who wrapped her and I tell him why. While I’m talking, another police car pulls up and parks. The first cop walks in the house, his hand wanting to touch his gun. The EMTs follow behind. They have white gloves on and one of them is carrying a case. I can smell the latex gloves as they pass by me.
I don’t watch them, but I can hear the thick plastic being unwrapped behind me, the flies and their schizophrenic buzzing. I can hear gagging and then the cop says “You wrapped her?” like he just can’t believe it. Then the cop says something into his walkie talkie thing that I don’t quite follow, something about confirming there’s a body, a female, and they’ll be needing the wagon. By this time the other cop is in the house and I think he’s gagging too. All four walk back outside and shut the door. The EMTs head to the ambulance and loiter around like they’re waiting for something and the cops walk down the porch steps and stand on the sidewalk. One of them pulls out a small note pad and a pen and then starts asking me questions.
He asks me what happened to Mom and where have I been, did I just find her today, where’s my dad at, and he asks me again about the plastic and why I wrapped her up like that. I tell them exactly what happened six days ago and why I never called. The cops look at each other like this is a hell of a story to talk about back at the precinct, and then the one gets back to jotting stuff down. I don’t tell them about any abuse or about the drinking or that Mom wishes she never had me. I don’t mention Ingrid or how I threw the spelling bee because I can’t deal with any of it any more or about Greeks’ charging $2.00 for a coke when we’re all dying out here.
As curious people start to slowly congregate, some pointing and assuming while others just stare, I can tell the police officers aren’t sure what to do or how to treat me–as a criminal or a poor, parentless child. Finally one of them says that I need to come with him and he holds my arm, not hard or rough, but enough to show me I’m not going anywhere but with him.
As the officer leads me to his patrol car, Mr. Artwell smiles at me from his mint-green chair. It’s a gentle, knowing smile, an optimistic smile. Like he knows that despite my situation, life has only just begun. He keeps his smile and shouts “You got this, Denny! You got this!” A mantra I’ll use for years to come. Then he raises his beer high and takes a long sip.
The officer opens the back seat of his car, takes my bag and guides me in, then shuts the door. The car is already running, and when I smell the hot
vinyl I realize I haven’t been inside a car for at least a year, maybe two. Mom didn’t own one and everything we ever needed was nearby.
The cop tosses my bag in the front seat through the open passenger window, reaches in and turns on the A/C, then walks over to the ambulance where the EMTs and the other cop are holding a conference in the street.
The growing crowd of people stare at me as I sit in the same caged seat shared by murderers and rapists; most observers look sad and sympathetic while others are indifferent, still making their assumptions on whether I’m guilty of something or not and why would I be in the back of a police car if I wasn’t–a blood-thirsty animal on exhibit.
Stay clear folks. Do not taunt the beast. Stay away from the glass. No feeding him, especially Pop-Tarts of the blueberry variety. The beast will see you dead and wrap you stuffed with maggots.
Out of my peripheral I see the policemen scramble for the porch steps. A tanned woman in heels and giant sunglasses nestled in her thick, curly hair rushes the porch. She’s yelling something and raising a fuss. But between the A/C and the engines surrounding me, I can’t make it out. The cops reach her and bring her back down the stairs. All three attempt to cover their mouth and nose while maneuvering the creaky planks.
The cops are holding onto the woman, she’s yelling louder and louder. And like a cat being dipped into a sink full of water, the woman puts up a hellacious fight–yanking her arms from their grasp, kicking at their shins.
And then I hear it, as plain as the train’s whistle outside my house: “Denny! DENNY!”
In all her California-dreaming likeness, it's Aunt Sunny, looking around frantically. She spots me in the back of the car and comes running, her eyes full of heartache. She pulls at the backseat door and the cop holds it closed, telling Aunt Sunny to keep calm, that they’re figuring things out, and saying “ma’am” every other word. Aunt Sunny is cussing and screaming and demanding they open the door and let me out this instant. Her thick metal bracelets are clanging against the car as she pounds on it with her open hands. Then she elbows the cop hard in his gut, he doubles over and lets go of the door. She opens it and climbs in the backseat with me, hugging me, caressing my cheeks and touching my too-straight bangs, inspecting me up and down, making sure I’m okay, telling me everything's okay.
