“The shirts?” I swiveled round in my chair and took a good look at my flushed-faced mother in the doorway. Her short blonde hair was tucked behind her ears and her blue eyes were aglow with a higher purpose and seriously, even though she was something like thirty-eight or thirty-nine, she looked like a kid right then.
“Yes. The shirts, the shirts. For the One Drum festival. It’s in April, you know. You haven’t forgotten about it, have you?”
I reassured her I was totally on it, but when I didn’t turn back to my computer right away, she waved impatiently at me. “Get to work. Get to work,” she said before flitting away. But seriously, I didn’t feel like starting on the Let’s Save Luke project she and Ms. Banks had concocted for me, so I waited a few minutes then headed downstairs and flopped onto the couch beside my mom.
“So, are you a star or what?” I asked.
“The local news isn’t on yet. I’m watching CNN. They just showed London. The rally is already over there, but it looked huge.” Her eyes never left the screen. She had the remote cocked, ready to fire.
The protest in New York was on at the moment, but let me tell you, it didn’t look like a love train chugging through the Big Apple. Instead, the crowd, pressing up against metal barriers and jostling with cops in riot gear, was a whole lot rowdier and angrier and wetter—once the water cannons were opened up— than the caravan crowd my mom had described. The coverage only lasted a couple minutes before the station flipped over to this pretaped feature about how the average Iraqi was gearing up for war.
I got up and went to the can, and when I came back and crashed on the floor they were already interviewing this one family. There must have been about ten or fifteen people packed into a crappy-looking apartment, which, according to the reporter, was in the heart of Baghdad.
“Nice digs,” I said, trying to strike up conversation. My mom gave me an annoyed look and kept watching, remote still primed.
Onscreen, the man of the house was doing most of the talking while the rest of the clan nodded around him. According to Pops, everyone was mainly worried about the youngest daughter, a diabetic. The camera zoomed in on this kid hiding out behind some lady in a head scarf. She looked about six or seven and her flowery summer dress actually reminded me a lot of the ugly couch we were sitting on, although I didn’t mention this to my mom, who was oohing and aahing over the diabetic.
After the sympathy-generating close-up of the kid, the father, dressed in a shabby suit, took us up onto the roof of the building. He showed us this little metal bucket thing and explained how he’d made it from a can and a piece of wire. He ran his fingers proudly along the makeshift handle, demonstrating how he’d bent the wire and attached it to the can. I was thinking he was definitely going to have to upgrade his craftsmanship if he wanted to sell his feeble-looking creations in the States, but it turns out it wasn’t exporting he had in mind.
He tied a spool of fishing line to the handle and lowered the can down a pipe leading from the roof. When he retrieved the contraption, it was filled with water from a well beneath the building. He smiled nervously as he explained to the reporter that this was how he planned to keep the girl’s insulin cold if and when the power went out in Baghdad.
By the end of that cheery little number, my mom’s post-rally euphoria seemed to be slipping. She was sort of sagging into the couch and the remote in her hand wasn’t quite as pert. Still, she flipped to the local station, but I bailed as soon as I saw Mrs. Jordan onscreen, weeping over her daughter’s 141-day absence, begging for anyone with information about Astelle to please, please come forward.
My mother barreled up the stairs a couple minutes later. She stopped outside my room, looking completely pissed, to inform me that, “There wasn’t one word, not one damn word, about the rally on WDFD.” And she took a second to agree with a comment I’d made a while back. “That roving-eye guy, well, he is a bit of an asshole.” Then the slam of a door. Hers for a change, not mine.
NINETEEN
The February 2003 weather roundup for Stokum went something like this: cold, sunny days, with snow every fucking night. It had definitely not been a good month to volunteer for shoveling duty. But hey, slipping the note into the widow’s mailbox had always been more about self-flagellation than brotherly love. So really, I’d gotten what I wanted, seeing how I’d practically become a lawn ornament over at my Polish neighbor’s pad. Even the grief-stricken widow seemed to have gotten used to me. In fact, given the timeliness of Mrs. Bernoffski’s appearances at the front window, I suspected she was actually keeping an eye out for me, and brief waving sessions now preceded the clearing of the snow. And while I wouldn’t exactly call her animated, as of late her arm actions had been fairly unrestrained during the pregame greeting.
Still, it must have been close to the end of February before we finally came face to face. I remember I was about halfway up the front walk when I heard the squeak of hinges and the whoosh of a door being pushed open. I looked up. In a pair of what looked to be her husband’s boots and a long black coat, Mrs. Bernoffski shuffled onto the front porch. She raised a hand. I raised one back. Without the double-paned glass between us, we were both a little nervous, and our waves were low, stiff, halfhearted-type deals. I started nervously tapping my shovel against the paving slab I’d just uncovered. The metal blade striking the frozen cement sent a steady, high-pitched ping through the cold air which reminded me of that one, tuneless Eyes Wide Shut note ringing out again and again when Tom is about to get nailed for sneaking into the high-class sex orgy.
Although I felt my sound effects heightened the tension, Mrs. Bernoffski didn’t say a word. With a heavy sigh she settled herself down on the porch steps, her sturdy calves poking out the tops of the oversized boots. I went back to shoveling. When I lifted my head to toss a load of snow onto the bank, I saw her watching me. Pretty soon, though, she’d shifted on the step, and with her big, beefy hands on her knees she turned to face the sun. By the time I moved over to start on the driveway, I was pretty relaxed about us being outside together, so I sort of jumped when she started yelling.
“No, no, no.” She waggled her hands at me. Her fingers were thick and red. “You leave it. You leave it. I no be drive.”
I was a bit relieved to hear it, but, pretending to be a better man than I am, I threw the shovel into the heavy fold of snow left by the plow at the bottom of the driveway. “It’s okay. I don’t mind,” I said.
“You get in trouble with da school if you no shovel da road?”
“Ahh … no. No trouble.” I’d almost forgotten about the civics class charade.
She pushed herself off the steps. “Okay, den. You leave it. Tank you for da good work. With the snow.” She stamped her boots a couple times then reached for the door handle. I was already disap- pearing behind the hedge separating the Bernoffskis’ yard from the Connellys’ when she called out, asking if I wanted a drink.
I couldn’t even imagine going into the kitchen and chatting up Mrs. Bernoffski while she took a couple hours whipping up some crummy European substitute hot cocoa. “Umm, I’d better be getting back,” I hollered. “I have to go someplace.” I should have just pushed off right then, but the widow was still on her porch, watching me, and I felt I had to add something. “So … thanks anyway. Next time, maybe.”
“Okay, den. Next time,” she said, and shuffled inside.
WHEN MY DAD and I headed out a while later, my mother didn’t even say goodbye. She’d been in a shit mood since, I don’t know, forever. That day at lunch, she’d attempted to create a bit of a family moment by reading aloud from the local paper, something of a Saturday ritual in the Hunter household. Thing is, she chose to bring us up to date on all this depressing shit—the debate around Colin Powell’s recent WMD speech at the UN, the shiny blue-green, half-inch ash borer beetle intent on gnawing its way through all 700 million of Michigan’s ash trees, the ten-game losing streak of our local hockey team, the Stokum Stingers. Still, the worst part of the Satu
rday morning story hour was the update on convenience-store Howie, the guy who’d made such an impression on me when he was shot.
Apparently, the police had a suspect in custody, but Mrs. Holman, the loving wife, was the impatient type. The paper said she’d gone down to the courthouse and fired off a few shots of her own. She got the guy accused of killing her husband, nailed him in the head and chest, seriously injuring a policeman and a court recorder along the way. Now she was in jail and her kids were wards of the state. I couldn’t help thinking how sickened Howie would have been if he’d seen the pathetic unraveling of the family he’d worked so hard for. When the missus was asked why she’d done it, the reporter claimed she’d given him a steely look and said that Howie had been her whole world, she’d loved him with all her heart, and when that son of a bitch had killed him, well, it all just turned bad. She said it was pure hate that had driven her to the courtroom and pulled the trigger seventeen times. She also took a moment to mention how pleased she was the bastard who’d killed her husband was dead himself.
I think it was at this point that my father had peered over the page and told my mom he had to go to work. It wasn’t good timing.
My mom folded the paper and set it down on the table before she started bitching. About how we hardly ever saw him anymore. About him having his priorities backwards and jeopardizing their marriage and ignoring his health (his exercise bike had been completely stationary for the last couple months) and neglecting his son. Didn’t he know how precious his family was? Didn’t he realize he only got one chance at this? He might not know what it felt like to lose a family, but she did, by God, she did. My dad told her not to blow things out of proportion; we’d all survive his half day away. Besides, he didn’t have a choice, there was a pile of contracts on his desk that had to be ready for Monday. And there were rumors of layoffs, big ones, trickling down from head office, and talk of moving the entire production facility to China, so keeping on top of things was doubly important at the moment. My mom quieted down a bit after that, but she still looked glum as a kid without a party invitation in hand. My dad reminded her the situation was temporary and as soon as Jack got back, things at Kalbro would settle down.
At that, my mom gave him a bitter smile. “Their house is up for sale,” she said.
“What?” My dad looked genuinely surprised by the news.
“The Kites’ house is up for sale. I saw the sign yesterday on my way to work.”
WHEN I’D EXITED the kitchen, my parents were still at the table, sitting in what sounded a lot like hostile silence. And in the car on the way downtown, my dad was all distracted and really miserable-looking and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. I mean, it wasn’t his fault his boss was gay and cowardly and failing to report for duty. Still, I wasn’t about to put in a huge effort to cheer up Dad.
I was sort of edgy about seeing Hank again. I probably shouldn’t have worried, because when I called to see if he’d be in that afternoon, he’d been his old self—tolerant, kind, with a whiff of regret in his voice but nothing more. I’d always imagined the whiff had something to do with owning a small-time T-shirt shop in a small-time town and dealing with messed-up small-town teens, such as myself, during most of his waking hours. Then again, maybe he was just tired all the time.
My dad slowed down on Water Street and we both checked out the brown and yellow Century 21 sign planted firmly in the middle of the biggest lawn on the street. The Kites’ place was definitely looking for a new family.
“So, do you think you’ll get his job?” I asked.
“His job? Oh, I don’t know about that. And besides, just because his place is for sale doesn’t mean he’s leaving Kalbro.” He didn’t sound very convincing and I thought I’d push him a bit.
“But he loved that house. Remember the tour? The Chicago designer? The purple living room?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“He’s gotta be gay.” I wasn’t sure how my dad would react to me propagating the rumor, but he just shook his head, looking all dazed and confused.
“Maybe. Doesn’t matter. All I know is that if Jack does leave, he’ll certainly be missed at the plant.”
It surprised me to hear my dad say that. I’d always thought Mr. Kite was such a dick and I guess I’d just assumed my dad shared my opinion. “You could do his job, though, right?”
“I guess so. I’m doing it now, but it’s not easy. And the supply chain is getting all buggered up. That’s really been bothering me. I’ve had to advance-order from our overseas suppliers because I just don’t have the time to stay on top of things every hour of the day, which is what you absolutely have to do to keep things running smoothly. So now our inventory is up, which is going to be costly, and we were late shipping to—”
“You can let me out here,” I interrupted. We were still a couple blocks from the shop, but I wanted to put the brakes on the just-in-time lecture. My dad pulled up to the curb and I threw the door open. I was already starting down the sidewalk when I heard the toot of a horn and the buzz of an electric window.
“Luke?”
I went back to the car and bent down. My dad was stretched halfway across the front seat with his head a foot or two from the open window. A bald spot, the size of a condom, shone from the top of his thick brown head of hair. His jacket was undone and there was a wedge of fat trapped between the top of his pants and the seat belt. “Don’t take what your mother said about our family falling apart too seriously. She’s just upset. About a lot of things. But we’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“You know, she’s worried about you. Taping yourself in your room and whatnot.”
“What?” I gave him a shocked look, but he was so not buying it.
“There are chunks of paint off the wall around the door and strands of duct tape on the windowsill. And you left the drop sheets in a heap in the garage.”
“Oh.”
“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. With the proof he’d laid out, I think he was expecting more.
“Yeah, oh.” I stood up, crossed my arms over my chest and took a step away from the car.
“So, do you want to tell me about it?”
“No. Not really. I did it. It was stupid. End of story. I’ll fix the wall.”
“We’re not worried about the wall, Luke. We’re worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not still taking all those drugs, are you?”
“What? What drugs?”
“Your mother told me Burton’s pharmacy called the other day. Something about having some prescriptions waiting for you.”
This was news to me, and I told him as much.
He dropped his head and let out this big sigh, then craned his neck up again to meet my eye. He gave me a weak smile. “Luke, you’re not thinking about doing anything stupid, are you?”
“Well, not too stupid.”
“If things really weren’t okay, you’d tell us, right?” He was trying to look confident, but it came off as sort of anxious.
“You’d be the first to know.” I jammed my hands in my pockets and stamped my feet on the sidewalk a couple times.
“That’s what I told your mother. But she thinks you’re keeping things from us. Thinks you’re depressed. About Stan. And everything else that’s happened.” He edged closer to the window. “Listen, Luke, I’m not going to tell you life’s easy. I’m not going to tell you it’s simple. But I will tell you it’s worth living. Every minute of it. You hear me, Luke?”
I didn’t answer. I pressed my lips together and stared at the sky, clear and bright.
“You hear me?” Voice firm. Voice no longer anxious. Voice fucking authoritative.
I looked his way. “I hear you.”
“I’ll see you tonight, then. The Red Wings are playing.” My father had never accepted the fact that I wasn’t a big hockey fan. I was pretty sure he still fantasized about us getting crazy together over some highlight reel or something eq
ually lame. But man, he looked sad, sitting there in the car with his briefcase bulging beside him and his new roll of fat. So I said great, terrific, I’d meet him in front of the big screen for a bit of bonding and bodychecking.
I thought he’d pull away then, but when I stopped in front of Hank’s my dad was still parked up the street. I waved. I couldn’t see if he waved back or not. I figured he was probably watching to see if I headed for the pharmacy, but if the old man really wanted a clue about one thing that was eating me, he should have tailed me to the Shack and watched my face turn gray as the girl of my nightmares floated me a faded smile from the sun-bleached poster taped to Hank’s door.
And I guess it was my unlucky day, because inside, the same bald-headed dude who’d been working the last time I’d come down to the Shack was propped behind the counter.
He gave a snort when he saw me. “Well, if it isn’t the Prophet of Death.”
My special ESP powers kicked in right away, and immediately I sensed two things: One, my mere presence no longer impressed the tough guy, and two, he and I were just never going to be friends. I laid my hands on the glass and we faced off across the counter.
“Hey, Fuckface,” I said, giving him my winningest smile. One side of his nose was red and tight-looking, and there was a yellowy crust decorating his gold nostril ring.
A corner of his mouth pulled tight, and he shook his head at me. “I heard you made the whole fucking thing up. What a fucking lowlife.”
“And I heard you got the big Employee of the Month award. On account of your sparkling personality.”
“That first time you came in here, I just knew you were totally full of shit.”
“I heard the leper with Tourette’s syndrome who works weekends gave you a good run for your money.”
“You are one twisted, lying, mother—”
“Your nose ring is infected. But don’t get me wrong. It looks good.”
His jaw slackened. He couldn’t help reaching up to finger the inflamed nostril.
Anthem of a Reluctant Prophet Page 16
