Death by Toilet Paper

by Donna Gephart

  Dad had a way of making people he met feel good about themselves, even little kids.

  At least Toothpick and I will go trick-or-treating tonight in his neighborhood. Pick told me he has the two shirts sewn together already and will only have to do our makeup before we go out. I just hope we win something today, or my heart won’t be in it.

  I shake those thoughts from my head and enjoy the cool air as we walk together to the bus. We pass a couple people who do a double take, then nod their heads.

  “Cool,” some lady says.

  Zeyde nods.

  On the El, a guy asks, “Is that dress made out of toilet paper?”

  When I say, “Yes,” he says, “That’s the best costume I’ve ever seen.”

  Zeyde, hanging on to a pole in the middle of our train, smiles at the compliment, which looks especially creepy with Toothpick’s zombie makeup and Zeyde’s unnaturally long ear hair.

  It’s a long walk from the El to the Mütter Museum, and I’m afraid Zeyde will get tired or the dress will rip, but neither of those things happens. He leaves his jacket unzipped, and lots of people stop to look at us and laugh or tell us it’s a great costume.

  I’m getting pumped.

  We have to walk under a dingy bridge that drips water. Toothpick and I hold our arms around Zeyde to keep him and the dress dry.

  I’m glad when we finally pass under the bridge and arrive at the museum.

  Mom holds Zeyde’s hand to help him up the steps in the dress.

  The mummy manning the admission desk asks, “How many?”

  My throat tightens. I didn’t think about having to pay admission.

  Mom puts her palm on the counter. “One adult, two students and a zombie bride, please.”

  I love my mom.

  “The bride’s free,” the mummy says, smiling through her bandages. “The other three will cost a total of thirty-five dollars.”

  I’m sure Mom can’t afford this. She’s not working. How could she have any money? I feel embarrassed in front of Toothpick. And disappointed that we won’t be able to get in, after all the work we did. Maybe Zeyde could go in by himself, and we could wait outside. But what if he gets confused and messes up? Or needs help with the bathroom? I wish we had thought of all wearing costumes, so we wouldn’t have had to pay.

  Before I can continue worrying, Mom pays for the tickets.

  Go, Mom!

  She leans down and whispers in my ear, “Aunt Abby sent a few bucks to tide us over.”

  I whisper back, “Thank you, Aunt Abby!”

  “Indeed,” Mom says quietly.

  It’s crazy crowded in the museum today, but we find the table where some guy with an arrow sticking out of his head registers us and gives Zeyde a number to wear—113—which I hope isn’t unlucky.

  We are stationed in the big room with most of the exhibits, where last week I told Toothpick I had to go to the bathroom and proceeded to ruin his birthday. In addition to the display cases, it’s wall-to-wall werewolves, vampires, mummies, monsters and even some zombies.

  But Zeyde is the only zombie bride. And definitely the only person wearing a toilet paper wedding dress. I’m really glad I thought of that.

  Toothpick elbows my ribs, which reminds me of the lady whose corset was so tight it pushed one of her ribs into her lung. “I can’t believe how good some of these costumes look,” Pick says.

  “I know.” I bite a fingernail.

  “I need to ask a few of them about their makeup techniques.”

  “Yeah,” I say, distracted, as I size up the competition.

  “Do you think we have a shot?” Toothpick asks. “I mean, look at that girl.” He points. “Her face looks like melting lava. And that guy with the knife through his skull and the bloodied costume. It looks so real.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I’m worried that Zeyde—”

  “Shhh,” Mom says, nudging me. “They’re judging the costumes now.”

  The contestants are asked to stand around the perimeter of the room. People without costumes step far enough away that there’s space for the judges to walk past each contestant. There are so many contestants, they encircle the entire room!

  The rest of us are jammed together around the displays in the middle, including the corset-lady display. I’m holding Zeyde’s jacket. And even though it’s cold outside and usually cold in the museum, I’m sweating because of the heat generated from all these people. I hope Zeyde isn’t sweating too much into the toilet paper dress. I want to use it again for the contest this summer.

  Three judges holding clipboards examine each contestant and scribble notes. I try to see what they write about Zeyde, but I can’t get close enough. I do manage to give Zeyde a thumbs-up. His smile looks particularly creepy with his big, fake white teeth and the jawless-zombie makeup on his cheek and chin.

  After what seems like forever, the judges go back to their table and talk to one another.

  We huddle near Zeyde.

  “This is making me nervous,” Zeyde says. “I’ve got to pee.”

  “But we don’t want to miss the announcement of the winner,” Mom says. “Can you hold it?”

  I can’t believe she asks Zeyde if he can hold it, like he’s a little kid.

  “Of course I can’t,” he says, indignant. “And I’ll need one of you numbskulls to help me with this thing.” He touches the sides of his dress.

  “No problem,” I say and maneuver Zeyde through the crowds, toward the bathrooms.

  Toothpick comes, too.

  Standing in front of the bathroom door, Zeyde pauses and says, “Not sure which bathroom I should use. I mean, I am wearing a dress.”

  We push Zeyde into the men’s room and help him with the dress. Of course, he takes forever washing his hands.

  “Hurry, Zeyde. We don’t want to miss the big announcement.”

  As soon as we maneuver him back downstairs, Mom grabs my hand. “You made it just in time. They’re announcing the winners now.”

  Mom tightens her grip on my hand. I grab Zeyde’s hand. And he holds Toothpick’s. We’re a zombie-bride train of jangled nerves.

  Please. Please, I think, hoping that somehow Dad is here with us in spirit and will help us win a prize.

  Mom squeezes my hand hard when they announce the $100 third prize. It’s the lady with the melting-lava face.

  Toothpick looks over and mouths the words, “Told you she was good.”

  I nod, my stomach twisting into pretzel knots. We have to win.

  Zeyde doesn’t win the $250 second prize or the $500 first prize either.

  I can’t breathe.

  “And our grand-prize winner is …”

  My heart beats so hard I hear it in my ears.

  The crowd falls silent.

  Mom squeezes my hand so tightly, it feels like she’s crushing all the bones in it, but I don’t pull away.

  “… that’s the winner of the fifteen-hundred-dollar grand prize. And it goes to …”—there’s an unbearably long pause—“… number one thirteen—the zombie bride wearing a toilet paper wedding dress.”

  People cheer and pound Zeyde on the back. I notice that some of the toilet paper rips, but I can fix it later.

  Other contestants lower their heads and skulk away.

  Mom squeezes my neck so hard in a hug, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap. “Oh my …” Then she lets go, holds my shoulders and looks in my eyes. “You did it, Benjamin. You did it!” Then Mom looks up at the ceiling and pumps her fist. “Woohoo!”

  Toothpick pulls me into a hug, slapping the back of my head. We start jumping around like idiots. My glasses bump up and down on my nose.

  “We won! We won!” he screams.

  Even after we let go of each other, Toothpick is still jumping. He looks like a flamingo on a pogo stick.

  “We won,” I say, dazed. Mom will be able to pay our back rent in court Monday. “Oh, yeah!” I pump my fist in the air, narrowly missing the nose of a vampire.

  M
om puts her arm around Zeyde and leads him to the judges’ table. Toothpick and I follow. People touch Zeyde’s shoulder or pat his back as we pass. They say things like “Congratulations” and “Great costume, man.”

  It feels like they’re saying “Congratulations” to me, because I finally won a grand prize.

  At the table, one of the judges says, “That is the best makeup I’ve ever seen.”

  Toothpick beams.

  A judge hands the check to Zeyde.

  Mom gives him a huge hug and plucks it from his fingers. “This belongs to the boys.” And she hands it to me. “You did it, Ben. You finally won a grand prize.”

  “With Toothpick’s help. And yours and Zeyde’s.” I look up. And Dad’s.

  A reporter from the Inquirer asks us questions, and a photographer takes our picture. Toothpick and I hold the check in front of Zeyde, and Mom stands next to me.

  “I guess you’re really on a roll,” the reporter says. “Get it?”

  His dumb joke reminds me of Dad, and I know he’d love that we’re going to be in the newspaper he used to work for.

  “We’ll have to send the article to Aunt Abby when it comes out,” Mom says, giving my shoulders a squeeze.

  “I’m going to be famous,” Zeyde says.

  Toothpick and I take turns holding the check and looking at it all the way out of the museum, but then we give it to Mom for safekeeping.

  She puts it in her purse, then leans over and whispers in my ear, “Your dad would be so proud of you.”

  Her words make me happy and sad at the same time.

  Zeyde zips his jacket this time. “I’m pooped!”

  “Great job, Dad,” Mom says. “You deserve a rest.”

  When we’re out the door, down the steps and walking under the dank, drippy bridge toward the El, Mom says, “I’d take us all out to celebrate, but I have only enough cash left to get us home.”

  Knowing that Mom has a check for fifteen hundred dollars in her purse, this makes us crack up.

  Back at our apartment, I’m irritated that the eviction notice is still on our door. I feel like, since we have the money to pay our back rent, it shouldn’t be there for everyone to see, but of course Mr. Katz doesn’t know that yet.

  Inside, Zeyde pats the dress and says, “I’ll take this thing off as soon as I get a snack. I’ve got to eat before I plotz.”

  “There’s cheese and crackers,” Mom says. “Want me to get them?”

  “I can get them,” Zeyde says, and shuffles off to the kitchen.

  “I’m going to head home,” Toothpick says. “I’ve got to feed Psycho. And I can’t wait to tell Dad. Now I can go to film camp this summer!” He pumps his skinny arm into the air. “It’s going to be awesome!”

  “I’ll go to the bank Monday,” Mom says, “and bring your half to you in the evening, if that’s okay.”

  “That’ll be great, Mrs. E.,” Toothpick says. “See you later, Ben. Make sure you’re at my place by five so we can get ready to trick-or-treat. It will take me a while to do our makeup. And I want to hit the streets by six for maximum candy collection.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say. “And hey, thanks for everything.” We bump fists, then shoulders. “We wouldn’t have won without your great makeup artistry.”

  “And your great toilet paper dress.”

  “I guess we make a good team, Pick.”

  “The best,” he says.

  After Toothpick leaves, I hear Zeyde open a cabinet and some drawers in the kitchen. “You think he’s okay?” I ask Mom. “He must be tired.”

  She nods. “He’ll probably take a nap. I’ll check on him in a sec.” Mom pulls me over to the couch. “I have something to tell you.”

  “First, I have something to tell you,” I say. I’d been thinking about how to say it the whole way home. “I want you to keep my share of the prize—seven hundred fifty dollars—to pay at court this Monday. Or just five hundred. Take whatever you need.”

  Mom smiles. Her worry wrinkle is nowhere to be found. “Benjamin Epstein”—she takes my cheeks in her palms—“do you know how much you’re like your father? Hope-filled. Always finding a way.”

  She kisses the top of my head.

  “But I want you to understand something.” Mom takes my hand. “This ends here.”

  “What?”

  “Your feeling you need to somehow support me,” Mom says. “The contests, the candy bars. You don’t need to take care of me anymore, honey. I’m … I’m okay now. I can take care of myself. And take care of you. And Zeyde. How does that sound?”

  I nod, because it sounds so good that if I say anything, I might cry.

  “As far as your prize money goes,” Mom says, “I will use it to pay the back rent and any fees at court on Monday, but then I’m paying you back. Every dollar.” She bites her bottom lip. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Mom pulls an envelope from her purse.

  For a second, I think it’s the ten-thousand-dollar check from Royal-T.

  It’s not. Mom takes a letter from the envelope, unfolds it and points to the number 79. “Look, honey, I got a seventy-nine on my CPA exam.”

  I don’t know why Mom’s so excited. “Isn’t seventy-nine a C?” I ask. “Not to be mean or anything, but isn’t that kind of bad? I know you studied a lot and everything, but—”

  Mom laughs so hard she spits on me. “Ben, on the exam, you need to earn a seventy-five to pass. The top score I could have gotten was an eighty, and I got a seventy-nine. So that’s pretty terrific. Right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess that’s like getting a high A.”

  “Exactly!” Mom hugs me and talks into my hair. “Mr. Daniels said I could start as soon as I passed the last CPA exam, and I passed. Now I’ll have a wonderful new job.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “One that doesn’t require you to wear a stupid paper piggy hat.”

  “Nope,” Mom says, patting her head. “I’ll only need to wear my thinking cap.”

  We both laugh at her dumb joke.

  Someone knocks at the door, and Mom startles.

  “I’ll get it,” Zeyde offers, shuffling out of the kitchen in the wedding dress and Dad’s bowling shoes. He’s munching on a slice of cheese.

  “That’s okay,” Mom says, her hand on the doorknob. “I think you’ll scare whoever’s on the other side, Dad.”

  Mom opens the door without asking who it is, and a woman in a brown uniform hands something to Mom. “Delivery from Royal-T Bathroom Tissue. Please sign here.”

  Mom and I look at each other.

  “Can you tell us what it is?” Mom asks, her voice shaky.

  “I can bring it in,” the deliverywoman says.

  She goes back outside.

  Zeyde hikes up the wedding gown, carefully sits on a chair and kicks off the bowling shoes. “Oh boy, I’m exhausted,” he says, seemingly oblivious to the major event about to take place in our apartment.

  Mom and I wait by the open door, clutching each other’s hands even more tightly than we did at the Mütter Museum.

  The deliverywoman carries in a huge brown box and puts it near our couch.

  “What on earth?” Mom asks, going over to the box.

  I join her, confused. “That box is way too big to hold a check,” I say. “Unless it’s a giant check.”

  The deliverywoman leaves and comes back with another huge box, the same size as the first.

  Mom grabs scissors from a kitchen drawer and opens one of the boxes.

  And I can’t believe what’s inside.

  Zeyde peers in and pulls out a roll of toilet paper. He puts it to his cheek. “Ahh, the good stuff.”

  When the deliverywoman comes back with a third box, Mom asks, “How many more boxes do you have?”

  “Seventeen,” the woman says. “Looks like you won a ten-year supply of Royal-T Bathroom Tissue. Congratulations!”

  Mom and I look at each other.

  I swallow hard. “A ten-year s
upply of—”

  “Toilet paper!” Zeyde shouts, tossing a couple rolls into the air.

  Mom leans her forehead against mine. “It’s okay, Ben. We don’t need that money.”

  “But—”

  “We’re fine,” Mom says, hugging me to her. “We’re going to be fine now.”

  And I know she’s right. We have enough money to pay the back rent at court Monday and keep our apartment. Mom passed her test with an excellent score and is going to start a great new job. And Zeyde will have a safe place to go during the day, where Mrs. Schneckle can keep an eye on him. Even Toothpick gets to go to summer film camp now that we won the grand-prize check today at the museum. And we’ll have enough toilet paper to last until I graduate from college … or medical school, if we’re conservative in our usage.

  I sit on top of one of the boxes and watch as the rest are delivered. They take up our entire living room/dining room/kitchen and part of the hallway.

  I borrow Mom’s phone to tell Toothpick about my big win. “Bring over a bunch of rolls,” he suggests. “We can be mummies tonight for Halloween instead. Conjoined mummies. It’ll be so cool.”

  When I hand Mom the phone, she shakes her head. “Benjamin, what are we going to do with all these boxes? Do you think Mrs. Schneckle would like some toilet paper?”

  Zeyde and I push a whole box of toilet paper across the hall to Mrs. Schneckle’s apartment.

  She invites us in for a few minutes, and we tell her about winning the contest today and the special delivery we just received.

  “That’s wonderful,” Mrs. Schneckle says, squeezing my cheeks between her warm palms. “I sure appreciate all this toilet paper. Royal-T is my favorite brand. I’ll bring some to the center.”

  Mrs. Schneckle won’t let us leave until we take a container of matzoh ball soup and a package of macaroons.

  Back at our apartment, while Mom and Zeyde figure out how to stack and arrange the boxes to take up the least amount of room possible, I grab the butter knife from a kitchen drawer and scrape that stupid orange eviction notice off our door. I should have done it sooner.