Armstrong and Charlie

by Steven B. Frank

  “On the last Friday of May, he was playing handball on the lower yard, and he just collapsed. Mrs. Wilson called the paramedics. They took him to the hospital, but in the middle of the night he stopped breathing. He didn’t come home.”

  “That’s a terrible thing, Ross,” Armstrong says. “A terrible, unfair thing.”

  “Every day I wonder, where did he go? How can someone just be gone?”

  We lie there, looking at the sky. It’s silent up there. Silent down here, too.

  Then Armstrong says, “I almost had a brother.”

  I turn my head to look at him.

  “It’s one of my early memories. Putting my hand on Mama’s swollen-up belly. I even felt him kick. Your brother’s going to be a kickboxer, Mama said.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was born still. The cord, they said, got wrapped around his neck.”

  We keep looking up. But we don’t see any more shooting stars.

  “Should we go back?” Armstrong says.

  “Give it a minute,” I say.

  Two more go by. Maybe three. And then I see it—​a silent streak of light. There for a second, then gone.

  I nudge Armstrong.

  He nudges me back.

  In the cabin, with our duffles mostly packed, I’m ready for bed in the top bunk. I’m about to close my eyes when I hear a walkie-talkie squawk under my pillow.

  I pick up the receiver and listen.

  “Sleepy? Over.”

  It’s Shelley.

  “Not really,” I say. “Over.”

  “Me either,” she says. “Over.”

  “Where are you?” I ask. “Over.”

  “My cabin. Over.”

  “How’d you get the other … ?”

  I lean over the side of the bunk. Armstrong’s bed is empty. I look back at my walkie-talkie. I press the talk button. There’s a little silence while I think of something to say.

  “I didn’t know you were so good at archery. Over.”

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Charlie. Over.”

  “Tell me one,” I say. “Over.”

  “I’m crazy for swimming. When I’m in the water, I feel totally free. Over.”

  “I feel the same way on skis. Tell me another. Over.”

  “I can solve a ninth-grade-level crossword puzzle. Over.”

  “So can I. With a dictionary.”

  “That’s cheating, Rules Boy. Over.”

  “Hey, I break them sometimes. Tell me one more. Over.”

  “I left my spinner in the shed. Over.”

  “Want help finding it? Over?”

  “Yes. Over and out.”

  Armstrong

  On my way back into our cabin, I pass Ross coming out. I hand him his flashlight.

  “If you get the opportunity,” I say, “it’s okay to touch tongues.”

  He nods and starts to go. I tug on his jacket sleeve.

  “Don’t bite down, though. They don’t like that.”

  He nods again and starts to go, then turns back and hands me his walkie-talkie.

  “Hey, Armstrong. Thanks.”

  “It ain’t nothing,” I tell him.

  “It’s something to me,” Ross says.

  I watch him and his pool of light disappear down the path. And I wonder, is Charlie Ross going to get his first French kiss?

  Charlie

  Inside the shed, Shelley drapes her red bandanna over my flashlight. It keeps the light low, which is a good thing because I don’t want her to see how nervous I am.

  There’s no bottle to spin, so it’s up to me, not chance, to kiss her. I could just tap her on the shoulder, and when she turns around, meet her with a kiss. Or I could ask her if she wants to play seven minutes in heaven. But is that the kind of game you ask a girl to play? Or is it like spin-the-bottle, a game that a group plays and you just hope you and your crush end up in heaven at the same time?

  “Found it,” Shelley says, scooping up her milk-carton spinner.

  “Should we head back now?” I ask.

  “You want to?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Me either,” she says, smiling.

  She looks at me, looks away, looks back again. “You know, Charlie,” she says, “you don’t have to spin for me anymore.”

  “I don’t?”

  “You can just kiss me.”

  “I wasn’t sure when would be the, you know, right time.”

  Shelley takes hold of my wrist and presses the light on my Timex watch. Four numbers appear in the darkness: 10:03.

  “That’s as good a time as any.”

  I put my finger near her face and start tapping her nose, her cheeks, and her chin.

  “You’ve got a funny way of kissing a girl, Charlie Ross.”

  “I’m counting your freckles first.”

  She closes her eyes and lets me count. When I get to forty-six, which is all I can find, I whisper the number in her ear.

  Then I kiss her.

  On the cheek.

  She asks if this means she won’t have to chase me on the schoolyard anymore and I say yes, but only if she agrees to go steady, and she says yes, so we kiss again, this time on the lips.

  I feel something warm and slippery trying to push my lips apart. I think she’s trying to French me.

  I’ve never Frenched anyone before. Once, accidentally, I Frenched a dog. I was letting him lick my face, and he must’ve smelled the tuna from the sandwich I’d eaten, so his tongue went looking for it, and it touched mine. It was a split second, that’s all.

  I’m trying to keep thoughts of that dog out of my head because this is an actual girl whose tongue is trying to open my lips and I have to decide, am I going to let her or not? I’ll bet when I climb into the top bunk tonight, Armstrong is going to ask me if we touched tongues. He’ll probably wake the whole cabin with a loud “Sorry-ass chump!” if the answer is no.

  Too bad for the cabin. The answer’s going to be no.

  We kiss some more and then we just hug until we fall asleep, Shelley with her head against my shoulder, me with my head against the wall. I’m not sure how long it is before I hear, “Ross. Ross, you there?”

  I look up at the window, half expecting to see him grinning at me. But he’s not there.

  “Ross, can you hear me? Over.”

  The walkie-talkie. Shelley must have brought it with her to the shed, to give back. It’s in her jacket pocket.

  I reach in and pull it out.

  Through the speaker I hear a whisper in somebody else’s voice.

  “Wake up.”

  Keith’s voice.

  “What do you want with me?” Armstrong whispers.

  “A walk outside. Then a talk. Randy and Tim’ll help you out of your bunk.”

  Shelley and I look at each other, then hurry out of the shed. She holds the walkie-talkie while I anxiously tap the side of my flashlight. We left it on for more than an hour; the batteries are almost dead.

  We huddle close and listen for Armstrong’s voice on the walkie-talkie.

  Nothing. I turn up the volume. Just static. Where are they taking him?

  Then I hear Keith’s voice over the walkie.

  “Didn’t your parents teach you not to kiss another guy’s girl?”

  “How was I supposed to know she was your girl? It’s not like she was wearing a ring or even your shells around her neck.”

  “She’s white. That’s ring enough for you. Now, take your hands out of your pockets. I want this to be a fair fight.”

  “You want to fight me fair? Out here in front of this big old pine tree, the one near the creek about a hundred yards from the boys’ cabins? That what you want?”

  The walkie-talkie cuts out.

  “I’ll go for help,” Shelley says.

  “Take the flashlight.”

  She bangs it against her thigh. The beam brightens just enough to light her way.

  Armstrong

  I bet Ros
s shut off that walkie-talkie ’cause he wanted some privacy. Well, he got his privacy and I’m about to get my ass kicked. Randy and Tim are holding back my arms, and Keith sounds ready to rumble.

  Three against one. How is that a fair fight?

  “Look here, Keith,” I say. “If you really want to fight, let’s do it man-to-man. But three to one hardly seems fair.”

  “Okay,” Keith says. “We’ll go one at a time. You can save me for last.”

  The moon is up and just bright enough for me to see where the ground is level and where it drops off toward the creek. Bright enough to see the look on Keith’s face. A look that says he’s not playing.

  Then I hear some gravel sliding down the hill. Somebody’s coming. It better be Charlie Ross.

  “Keith, man, what’s goin’ on?”

  It’s Ross, all right, but his voice sounds funny to me. Like it’s him and not him just the same.

  “Hey, Charlie Ross. We’re about to do a little outdoor education of your friend.”

  “He’s not my friend.”

  “He’s not?”

  I’m not?

  “He went for your girl, Keith. That crossed the line.”

  “Good. Good, Charlie Ross. Then you can help with the lesson.”

  Randy and Tim tighten up on my arms. Keith starts tossing his flashlight into the air and letting it flip over once before catching it again. Seems like everything he touches got to be a weapon.

  “Charlie Ross gets the first ten hits,” Keith says.

  Now I’m starting to wonder what’s up with Ross. I went to a lot of trouble arranging that date for him in the shed. This is how he’s going to thank me?

  Well, here comes another gift from Armstrong Le Rois. I hock a loogie, a real thick one, and unload it right in his face.

  “Come on, whitey, kick my ass if you something.”

  Our eyes latch together. His left one twitches. At least I think it was a twitch. Might’ve been a wink.

  If it was a wink, that’s my cue to start playing. Means Ross heard my call for help over the walkie-talkie, and we’re about to have one ugly, maybe even bloody, pretend fight.

  On the other hand, if it was a twitch, it’s four to one.

  “You think you got something to give? Wake me when you’re done.”

  Charlie Ross thumps me in the chest. I smile. It must’ve been a wink.

  “Harder, Charlie Ross,” Keith says.

  Here comes another soft white punch.

  “You punch all floppy, like your mama’s titty,” I taunt.

  “Are you talking about my mother?” he says, voice all proper and pronouncing every last syllable. It was a wink, for sure.

  “Just making a comparison,” I say.

  He slams his fist into my stomach. That one felt authentic. I hunch over.

  “One,” Keith says.

  Ross pounds me on the shoulder. Maybe it was a twitch.

  “Two.”

  “Kick him!”

  He kicks me in the shin like it’s the start of a football game. I feel a pop of pain and now I know it wasn’t a wink. That Charlie Ross! He double-crossed me!

  “Three.”

  He comes in close, egged on by the other boys. Slaps me across the face. Shoves his knee in my gut. I see what it is. He’s fixing to pay me back for that time I knocked the wind out of him.

  “Four. Five.”

  Down comes a fist onto my back. Ain’t no love tap, neither.

  “Six!”

  I crumple to the ground. Ross sets his foot on my spine. Looks me all mean in the eye. There goes that twitch again. Or is it a wink now? Honestly, I can’t tell.

  “What number we up to?” he asks.

  “That was seven,” Keith says. “But I’ll take it from here.”

  There’s a little pause.

  “I’ve got three more coming,” Ross says.

  “You softened him up for me. Now it’s my turn.”

  “No. You can have what’s left of him when I’m done.”

  Ross raises his foot above my head. I look up at him, trying to read the intention on this boy’s face. If it was a twitch, then I’m scared what Ross might do. He puts his foot against my jaw to keep it pressed to the ground.

  “Anybody wearing a belt?” he says.

  “What do you need a belt for?” Keith asks.

  “To finish the lesson.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Randy lift his shirt and unhook his silver-buckled belt. He pulls it off and hands it to Ross.

  Charlie

  “Three more coming, Charlie Ross. Make ’em count.”

  I step back and swing the belt around and around. The buckle whistles in the cold air.

  Deep down, so far you can’t always see it, there’s a lot of courage in you. That comes from the lion inside. But most times, you want everybody to like you, so your lion stays in its den.

  I swing the belt toward Armstrong’s body. At the last second I change course. The buckle lands with a horrible crack against the side of Keith’s head.

  The lion is out of its den.

  Keith staggers back. His flashlight hits the ground.

  My hand shoots down and grabs on to Armstrong. I pull him to his feet.

  “Damn, Ross,” he says. “You need to learn the difference between a wink and a twitch.”

  Keith picks up the flashlight and aims it at his own face. Blood drips from his head onto the plastic window in front of the bulb.

  “You missed, Charlie Ross,” he says.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Keith raises the flashlight above his head. “Stickin’ up for him? You stupid punk. You deserve this.”

  He moves toward me waving the light. Randy and Tim step back.

  “What the hell are you doing, Keith?” Tim says. “Let’s just forget this.”

  Keith turns to me.

  “No. Charlie Ross, I won’t ever forget this. Neither will you.”

  He comes at me swinging the light like a heavy club.

  And then everything changes. Out of nowhere comes a thing of blazing speed and blunt force. It whips around and lands on the side of Keith’s head, knocking him to the ground—​and knocking the flashlight out of his hand.

  It’s Armstrong’s kick.

  I bend down and grab the light. I shine it in Keith’s face.

  “He can kiss whoever he wants,” I say. “And it wasn’t gross at all. It was nice. They were holding hands.”

  I throw down the belt and the flashlight and walk past Otis and Cody and Mrs. Gaines and Mr. Mitchell and Mrs. Valentine, who are all standing under the tree now, with Shelley and Jodie.

  I walk back to the cabin, alone.

  INCIDENT REPORT

  Submitted by: Edwina Gaines, Yard Supervisor at Wonderland Avenue School

  Date of Incident: Thursday, March 6, 1975

  Time: 10:40 p.m.

  Location: Clear Creek Outdoor Education Center

  Shelley Berman came to the teachers’ cabin and said there was about to be a fight down by the river. I gathered up the staff—​Mr. Mitchell, Mrs. Valentine, and Counselor Cody—​and we raced with our flashlights outside and down to the water. There I saw a boy from the Carpenter School on his knees in front of Charlie Ross. This boy had a gash on the side of his head. Evidently, the Carpenter boys had dragged Armstrong out of his bunk with the intention of doing him harm. His crime? Kissing a white girl. As Yard Supervisor, I feel that adults bear responsibility for this incident. Why weren’t there teachers in the boys’ bunks after lights out? And what sorts of parents go on teaching skin hatred to their children?

  As to the violence, the worst of it was done by Charlie to the Carpenter boy. But it was done in defense of one who was being singled out and ganged up on. I therefore recommend that no punitive action be taken against Armstrong and Charlie.

  Armstrong

  “You didn’t touch tongues.”

  We’re on the bus ride home, everybody so quiet I can hear the ti
res buzzing on the road. My spot next to Ross has been supplanted, which means “taken,” by Shelley. They got the armrest pulled up and their hands laced together in her lap. She’s leaning on his shoulder, sleeping off the long night we just had. He’s leaning on the window, watching the road unwind down the mountain.

  “How would you know?”

  “I got eyes.”

  “You spied on us?”

  “Nope. I’m spying on you now.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “I see you staring out that bus window, all dreamy. But that’s not what tells me you didn’t touch tongues with Shelley.”

  “What tells you?”

  “The thing I don’t see—​your smile in the reflection of that glass.”

  “How do you know I’m not just being contemplative?”

  “Look here, Ross, when a boy gets his first French kiss, he leaves them long words in the dictionary. Talking about contemplative … If you’d touched tongues, you’d be contemplating how fine it was, and there’d be a dimple-to-dimple grin across your face.”

  “Well, Mister Le Rois,” Ross says, “if you’re so sure I didn’t French Shelley, then you’re right. I didn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “Want to know why?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m saving it.”

  “For what?”

  “Andy died two weeks before sixth-grade graduation. He told me he was planning to French-kiss Kathy, his girlfriend. But he never got the chance.”

  “So you’re waiting until you pass him in age?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But, Ross, what if we get in a bus crash and you die before your first French kiss? Think of the lost opportunity.”

  “Then I’ll have gotten as far as my brother, and what’s wrong with that? Now, if you don’t mind, Armstrong, I’d like to go back to looking out the window.”

  I sit back in my seat and think about Charlie Ross and what he’s doing for his brother.

  And what he did for me.

  “Say, Ross …”

  “What?”

  “You know you’re all right, for a white boy.”

  “I am?”

  “You stood up for me out there. Most folks would’ve sided with their own.”

  “I did side with my own,” he says.

  Now it’s my turn to be contemplative.

  · 15 ·

  Ten Saturdays

  Charlie