Secretly, I bank a certain April Fools’ Day sort of satisfaction from their prank. I glance at Miss Cherry, and she gives me an appreciative wink. Yes, I’m a hero!
Luke rips off the offending paper, throws it to the ground, and we move beyond the immediate crisis. It is a shoe box. He removes the lid, lifts back some tissue paper, and with his face beaming bright as a searchlight, he proudly displays a brand new baseball cap. “Wow! Look, Wade, a Georgia Bulldogs cap!”
I get it… the bird-patterned paper makes sense after all.
Luke quickly pulls the cap down over his vulnerable red hair. Above the visor is a caricature of a muscular bulldog smiling shamelessly as though he has just eaten, you guessed it, a catbird.
I finally figure out that Lucinda must have blabbed about Luke’s mockingbird problem and probably offered some specific gift suggestions. While to the best of my knowledge Lucinda knows nothing about our lives as storm drain troopers, she does know about Luke’s desire to own a Bulldogs cap and the hilarious reason why. What she possibly might have told them to get for me, I can’t begin to imagine.
Miss Cherry sees the opportunity for an apology and adopts her most sympathetic tone. “Sorry about the wrapping paper, Luke. I hope you’re not too upset with us.”
She comes across a bit contrite for the Sergeant, and he rolls his eyes.
I think she is just being nice, maybe even a little motherly. Either way, Luke is glowing, sanguine-faced, and fanciful. He’s up beyond the clouds in a respite from worry, his new cap auguring a future free from attacks from on high. And he doesn’t hear a word Miss Cherry is saying.
I elbow him a little harder than I mean to. “Come on…what do you say, Luke?”
“Hey, you big dumb donkey. Watch it!”
“Well, Miss Cherry is talking to you and you didn’t even say thank you for the cap.”
He frowns at me and then quietly says, “Thank you.”
Immediately his hands go up to touch and stroke his new hat, his new pet, his new defender. And seconds later he is gone again, eyes glazed, off in a mental utopia where I envisage he is sitting around a campfire like a pompous nobleman roasting mockingbirds on a wooden spit and listening to his jowly bulldog bodyguard recite Shakespearean sonnets in perfect King’s English.
Miss Cherry watches him as he slips back into his reverie. She smiles, pleased that he is so taken with his hat.
“Hey, what about Wade’s present?” asks the Sergeant.
“Well, let me see here. What have we brought for big brother?” She reaches back into the car for the other gift and hands it to me along with the blessing of one of her captivating smiles.
“Thank you very much.”
“Lyle picked it out. He said we had to get the best for Wade Parker.”
“Thank you again, ma’am…and sir.” I am so happy with all of this unexpected attention it could be a box of snakes, and I’d still be full of appreciation.
“You’re welcome, honey. Lyle and I hope you like it.”
I look over at the Sergeant, now sitting on the grass scratching Mac’s belly. I glance at Luke, and his eyes tell me he is still frivoling in a fantasy dimension, his mind hooked to a helium-filled balloon that has not yet returned to earth.
The gift is heavier than I expect. For a moment, I relish imagining what it could possibly be—something in parity with a Bulldogs cap. I shake the package and listen for telltale clues to its contents. Silence.
But then I yield to a pinprick of caution. Given their choice of wrapping paper for Luke’s gift, I can’t stop myself from scanning the box for renderings of the dead man of Three Ponds. I only see freeze-framed images of Emmett Kelly and friends engaging in various antics with confetti and seltzer water dispensers—no dead man. Whew!
Luke suddenly slips back from his coma-like sojourn. “Just open it, Wade. Maybe they got you a cap, too.”
“I don’t think so. They know you’re the hat wearer in the family, not me.”
I glance at the Sergeant. He offers me a supplicating smile that does little to ease the disquieting concern gnawing at the back of my mind. I can’t suppress the memory of the last time he gave me something. It turned out to be spurious, not a gift at all, more like a dire warning. The little chromium marble he dropped in my hand has clung to me like a pilot fish since, and it’s probably the force that holds me in the tangle of troubling dreams that plague me to this very day. I look askance at the clowns, hesitating like a dieter trying to abstain from eating sweets but not wishing to offend a gracious host.
The Sergeant tries to goad me. “Maybe we should give his present to the dog, Cherry. Wade seems to think there’s something in there that might bite him.” The comment makes me even more suspicious.
Mac has been lounging on the grass preening his fur and relishing his belly rub. At the mere mention of his species he sits up at full attention, ready, willing, and able to rip open a hand-me-down gift. He stretches his legs, does one of those get-the-kinks-out whole body tremblers that start at the head and flow like falling dominoes to the tip of the tail; then prances over to me, or rather to the gift I’m holding; and gives it a thorough sniffing. Finding no hint of edible treasure within, he shambles back to the Sergeant and settles for a continuation of his belly rub.
Lost in the moment, I watch Mac with envy. His is such a simple existence. I stand here frozen in my own ridiculous reverie, doing the same thing I had just chastened Luke for doing. Miss Cherry no doubt notices a disturbing trend, a genetic trait implanted in both Luke and me. Parker’s Syndrome: Stupidity in the presence of gifts.
I have gone completely silly over all of this. My eyes, too, must have glazed over, because Miss Cherry takes hold of my arm and gently pulls me out of my dingy stupor. “Wade.”
“Huh?” I grin—stupidly. “Oh, sorry, ma’am.”
“It’s okay, honey. Just go ahead and open it.”
At length, the clowns are properly drawn and quartered. Another wink from Miss Cherry confirms her influence over me as I become the proud owner of a brand-new transistor radio. “Wow! Neat!”
Mac turns his head away in disgust, but Luke is sufficiently impressed. “Hey, cool, can you get Vin Scully on that?”
The Sergeant chimes in. “You sure can, Wolfman Jack, too—clear as a bell all the way from Mexico. I checked it over real good, Wade. It picks up all of them, static free—KRLA, KHJ, KFI, KNBC and KMPC”
I look over the pudding box size receiver with the scrutiny of a jeweler inspecting a new shipment of diamonds. It has the smell of brand-new—solder, wiring, and plastic—and it seems to be very well made. But then I notice the label on the back, MADE IN JAPAN, and I can’t keep from frowning. To me MADE IN JAPAN means throw this junk away.
I turn the radio around and look at the manufacturer’s brand on the front. An American company—now I am confused. “It says the Japs made this on the back.”
Carl has come out of his house and sits on the steps of his front porch. He leans his head behind the solid banister that encircles his porch, and I deduce he is probably nursing a beer. He looks over at our little gathering and waves to us like a well-behaved probationer and polite neighbor should.
I wave back.
The Sergeant says, “The Japanese are going to own the electronics market someday, Wade. We all better get used to it. The fact is, Japanese quality is improving all the time. Reputable American companies wouldn’t put their names on it if it wasn’t any good.”
“Is that so? Well, somebody should tell Earl.”
Earl claimed to have been captured by the “Japs” during the war. I gather they did not treat him well. Mistrust of Japanese people, “those sneaky, slanty-eyed creeps,” as Earl was given to call them, has left a bigot’s imprint.
And speaking of bad influences, Carl definitely has some contraband hidden behind the banister. I watch him lean twice more. Come to think of it, speaking of the war with Japan, Carl once told me he lost a nephew at Pearl Harbor.
“In fact, Wade,” the Sergeant goes on, “some folks believe the Japanese will own this country someday.”
A mischievous impulse clicks inside my head. I’ll have to pick the right time, but I can’t wait to inform Carl that someday he’ll be making his mortgage payments to the Bank of Hirohito. Just to get his mind off of the Soviets, of course.
We all sit around on the front lawn talking, Luke still on cloud nine with his new cap, me running up and down the dial finding more radio stations than I ever knew existed. Miss Cherry and Luke meander over to the fence to chat with Carl, who has abandoned his comical effort to hide the beer. In another thirty minutes he’ll be singing patriotic songs to the entire block. Mac has drifted off to sleep stretched out between the Sergeant and me, nap number five or six probably.
I have thoroughly enjoyed the surprise visit, and I’m pleased that they decided to stay the entire afternoon. The Sergeant seems relaxed. I notice he carries an unusually nice tan for so early in the year. Where has he been spending his days to get so brown? If he’s been going to the beach, I wish he would invite Luke and me to go with him.
For the first time since they arrived, I find myself sitting alone with the Sergeant. It’s great to share the same space with him, pass some time together, and enjoy each other’s company. Something like a father and son feeling stirs in me, and I am acutely aware of how much I’ve missed him. I can’t help wondering if he has missed me too, or whether he’s even thought much about me at all. I guess the gifts answer that question, but it sure would be nice to hear him say it.
No one is more content than Mac. He is dreaming, whimpering softly, his feet twitching just like they do when I tickle them to annoy him.
I settle on one radio station, and after a while the Sergeant gets up and sets Queenie’s radio to the same place on the dial. “Hifidelity sound,” he says as he settles back down next to me.
“Enjoy it while you can. It won’t be long before Carl’s singing drowns out everything.”
“Maybe we’ll just sing along with him then. You know, when they give you lemons you make lemonade.”
“Carl’s voice isn’t sour. He has a sweet, wonderful voice. It’s just deep and loud—real loud. Carl is strange, but in his own way, I think he’s brilliant.”
“Maybe he’s a kind of savant.”
“A savant? What’s that?”
“A savant is a person with profound and rare knowledge or ability. An unusually gifted or wise person, I guess you could say.”
“I don’t know how wise he is, but he sure can sing.”
The Sergeant laughs and rubs the top of my head. Then out of the blue, he looks right at me. “You know, I kind of missed you, Wade. I’m sorry it’s been so long, but I guess I’ve been keeping to myself a little too much since Rodney died.”
My heart soars and dips. “I missed you too, sir. I think about Rodney just about every day.”
“You don’t have to call me sir all the time, you know. You can call me Lyle if you like.”
“Yes, sir, I know. Maybe to some people it’s kind of corny, but I just like to call you sir because I respect your being a policeman and all.”
His face turns solemn, almost ashamed, confusing me completely. He looks away, as if to keep from revealing more. Something sure seems wrong, and my confidence falters like a sail slackening in shifting wind. He coughs, and I take it as the kind of cough you make when you want to change the subject.
I switch gears, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. “Where have you been all this time?”
Now he really looks uncomfortable, skittish. “Well, some of the time I had to be away on business.”
That sounds a little strange. A Los Angeles cop going away on business? But I don’t have the nerve to question it. I am disgusted with my lack of courage. “Oh. I was afraid—well, I was thinking maybe you were mad at me and that was why you didn’t come around.”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
A ball of desperation clenches in my gut. I want so much to tell him the truth—that I know he knows all about me killing that man, that I’m glad he didn’t arrest me or turn me in, and that I thought he was mad at me and didn’t want to see me because of what I had done—but I don’t say a single word about it. Coward!
“Well, um, sir, do remember the last time we saw each other?”
“Yes—the day of Rodney’s funeral.” His mood turns melancholy, and I realize I have dredged up unpleasant feelings for both of us.
“That’s right. Well, do you remember when you dropped me off at home that day?”
“Yes, sort of, I think—what about it?”
Jeepers, do I have to go through the whole thing? Suddenly I remember what I told Luke to say to him when I thought Luke was just April fooling me…about Miss Cherry and me being in Hawaii on our honeymoon. He must be playing dumb and pulling my leg. “Well, if you remember, I kind of, well, actually—I played kind of a dirty trick on you.”
Now I am painfully conscious of the possibility that he might have told Miss Cherry about my prank, and specifically that I had claimed she wanted to marry me. Geez! Nervously, I glance in her direction.
“A dirty trick? I don’t remember that.” His face is full of interest, as though this is the first time he’s heard anything about this.
I move around to the other side of him and position my back to Miss Cherry to make sure she doesn’t overhear us. “Don’t you remember? We were sitting in Queenie.” I point at the car. “She was parked right where she is now.”
I am whispering and I don’t like that I am. The secretive vibration in my voice tantalizes Mac out of his slumber. He doesn’t open his eyes, but rising brows and quivering ears are sure indications of eavesdropping.
The Sergeant gives Queenie kind of a stumped look. “Yeah. So what? I always park there, don’t I?”
I hold his gaze for a bit, watching for the crack of a smile and stalling for time. A Coca-Cola commercial playing on the radio ends and the disk jockey segues into “Poor Little Fool,” by Ricky Nelson: “…and here’s Ozzie and Harriet’s little baby boy with an April Fools’ Day lament…” I glance over my shoulder and note Miss Cherry’s hips beginning to sway with the music.
Carl has apparently swallowed enough artificial courage, because he’s in the middle of telling Miss Cherry about his day of infamy and his unfortunate incarceration. He gets louder, his arms darting about punctuating his speech with animated flair. The way she laughs, Miss Cherry seems to be enjoying his lowbrow humor. Carl has been generous with his supplies, as I can see Miss Cherry now cradles a beer of her own. He has also produced a cream soda for Luke.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Carl’s patient wife peeking through a slit in the curtains. Such a sweet lady she is. She’s probably bracing herself for the concert that is sure to begin soon.
Before resuming my whispering, I tap the radio volume knob for a little more background noise and move a little closer to the Sergeant. “Come on, sir—you know you remember. I told you I had heard some talk at the Highland Park police station.”
He gives me a blank look. “Really?”
I am annoyed with the whole charade. I can tell Mac is becoming annoyed, too. Ricky Nelson is doing a good job obscuring my voice, but I lean in even closer. “You said you wanted to marry Miss Cherry, and I told you that she wanted to marry someone else.”
He just stares and shrugs—no memory whatsoever.
Ricky’s final refrain fades to silence, and I get to my feet. Exasperated, dizzy with frustration, and completely unaware of the quiet lull, I shout at the Sergeant before I can catch myself. “I told you Miss Cherry wanted to marry me!”
The Sergeant’s face jells with pure pleasure as the heat of utter humiliation sets mine ablaze. I glance at Miss Cherry as my cue comes over the pudding box radio—the intro to Del Shannon’s “Runaway.” My brain says flee from this place of shame and confusion. Run! Run! Run! But my legs won’t respond. I am frozen solid, entrap
ped in a crystalline glacier that isn’t moving anywhere. I am on public display like a statue in the park. Bring on the pigeons!
A second or two of eternal length expire before my synapses rejoin my legs with the will to move. But it is too late.
“April fools!” the Sergeant bellows.
“What!”
With lightning quickness he lunges, grabbing my legs and pulling me down on top of him. My humiliation flashes away in a frothing frenzy of uproarious laughter, hilarious squealing, and frantic attempts to escape. Not a chance. I am hopelessly ensnared in the powerful clutches of a human grizzly determined to tickle me beyond the bounds of oblivion.
He howls and roars, all the while laughing equally as much as me. “I remember every word you said—you little trickster! But I’ve got you now!”
Miss Cherry and Luke run over and jump on the pile, and Mac prances and barks as he jumps in and out of the roiling ball of arms and legs. Carl laughs and claps and whoops and hollers as he dances a Russian jig. The fence separates him from us, but he is not about to be left out of the merry scrum.
His wife, still peeking through the drapes, is delighted to see him so energized and happy. So much so, she comes out of her house and hurries over to the fence. Carl locks an arm around her waist and waltzes her around his front yard until she finally squirms free and scurries back inside the house, but not before collecting up an armful of empties.
Batteries drained, limp as a tuckered out trout ready to be reeled in, I slump into a wheezing, giggling mass of arms and legs.
The Sergeant is as exhausted as I am. He grins and makes a breathless declaration. “We’re even, you trickster. But you did put up a heck of a fight.”
Relieved that my fears about him being mad at me are unfounded, I squeak out a tired thank you and privately count my blessings.
Miss Cherry ends up next to me in the pile. Now we lie side by side on our backs, looking up at the first twinkling hints of dusk. Luke untangles himself and resets his cap, while the Sergeant sits up and brushes a few blades of dried grass from his hair. Mac wallows on his back, snorting and snuffling in the grass. He nuzzles the Sergeant’s leg with his snout, and the Sergeant obliges him with a firm caress behind his ears.
Billy Goat Hill Page 17
