by Daniel Kraus
“What do we do if he sees us?” he asked.
Reggie shrugged, his sweaty face adopting the stubborn mug of a bulldog. “I’ll do what I have to do.”
“Yeah, but what’s that?” asked James.
Reggie shrugged again. “What has to be done.”
James worried that this could develop into another Leon Heller situation. A couple years back, a new kid arrived at their school. His name was Leon. He was a skinny kid with floppy blond hair, a long face, and a loose, goofy smile. He seemed all right. But Leon Heller had one fatal flaw: his eyelashes were too long. He had dark, curly lashes that looked like they belonged on a woman. When he started getting picked on, kids made up all kinds of excuses—”He stole my lunch” or “He keeps looking at me weird”—but James knew the real reason they tormented him. It was because of those eyelashes.
One day, on the school’s south staircase, Leon shoved a kid named Jesse Dratch all the way down the stairs. Jesse landed with a gruesome crunch, then flopped onto his stomach and started screaming into the floor. Leon just walked away, leaving Jesse to writhe in pain until his reverberating din drew the teachers.
Or at least that’s how the story went. No one James knew had actually seen the event. But plans went into action to punish Leon. James thought this was strange, because no one had paid much attention to Jesse before. But now the name Jesse Dratch was on every boy’s lips—they must get their revenge for what that scoundrel Leon Heller did to their good, good friend Jesse Dratch.
Reggie spearheaded the plot. He passed around a note instructing all the boys in class to meet behind the kickball field at recess. At the meeting, Reggie did most of the talking. They’d have to corner Leon Heller somewhere, he said. They’d have to carry things with them, like baseball bats or tennis rackets or hockey sticks. They couldn’t let that punk get away with something like this.
Reggie conducted several of these meetings, and while he talked he glared across the playground at Leon, who sat alone along the side of the school, talking to himself and smiling into the grass.
James had never seen Reggie get this excited about anything—and why was he so excited about beating up some new kid? James imagined all the boys circling around Leon Heller with their makeshift weapons and imagined how Leon would fight back but eventually lose. He wondered how long they would beat Leon, and how hard, and how much blood there would be. Mostly he wondered if Reggie would ever stop beating him—after all, it was Reggie’s pet project and he might be sorry to see it end.
It was agreed to do it after school one Monday in November. To all the boys’ surprise, Jesse Dratch returned to school that very day wearing a cast around his shoulder. He was clearly pleased at his hero’s welcome. All the kids gathered around him, cheering and patting him on the back like he was their best friend in the world. Jesse looked confused but happy.
When somebody asked Jesse to describe how Leon had shoved him down the stairs, Jesse just shrugged and grinned. He explained how he had grabbed Leon’s backpack and had lost his balance when Leon turned around. A few seconds later his collarbone was split in two.
James felt his body relax muscle by muscle. There would be no fight, no revenge, no blood, no suspensions. He looked at Reggie, expecting to see similar relief. But instead Reggie’s face was red and trembling. He was angry that Leon was innocent. He was furious that his brutal plans were dissolving before his eyes. Perhaps his anger had something to do with the other boys in class and how rapidly they were remembering how to ignore him.
Today, as they trailed Mel Herman down a potholed stretch of pavement that baked heat upward like a stove, Reggie wore a similar expression of wrathful determination. James felt as if once more he was being led to violence he did not want, yet he could not stop his feet from following Reggie.
“We’ll get in trouble if we hurt him,” said James.
Reggie didn’t flinch. “I’ll cover for you guys. I’ll say I did it by myself. Who’s going to punish me, my mom?”
Broken glass scrunched beneath their sneakers.
“You maybe could get suspended for something like this, maybe,” said James.
Reggie shrugged. “I doubt it. But even if you’re right, I’ll probably drop out in a few years anyway.”
They kicked through a pile of pigeons, who barely waddled aside to let them pass.
“I just don’t know what we’re doing,” said James, maybe to himself, “or where we’re going.”
“I do,” Reggie snapped, ending the conversation. He pointed ahead. “We’re going that way.”
Let’s Go and See
Why Everyone Prays
The sights they were familiar with receded until they recognized only particular groves of trees, and then those trees receded, too. They crossed Oleander Avenue, then a second length of train tracks that ripped across the cement landscape like a zipper, demolishing everything the boys were accustomed to—grass, leaves, birds, squirrels, playgrounds—and replacing them with the debris of a grown-up world: trash-filled gutters, rusted-out gas stations, and factories with silent black windows. James and Willie hoped that Reggie would remember the way home, and they all kept a lookout for trucks.
The boys had not spoken in what seemed like forever. Far ahead, moving at a constant pace, Mel Herman remained a fuzzy black dot. Occasionally James rubbed his face to make sure Mel wasn’t just a piece of dirt caught in his eye.
When James first saw the motel, it looked like yet another squalid building ruined with peeling paint. In fact, he probably never would’ve noticed the motel at all if he hadn’t heard Willie mumbling words under his breath.
“… varancy?”
“Huh?” James asked him in a low voice.
Willie was staring at the motel sign, which read: VA AN Y. Two letters were missing and Willie could not resist the challenge.
“Valaney?” Willie said to himself. “Vapanry?”
James wrinkled his nose as they passed the motel. His family spent a week or two on vacation most summers—he’d seen the mountains, the ocean, the desert, the biggest city in the country, too—and they always stayed in fancy rooms with large-countered bathrooms and mints perched atop mounds of pillows. Never did they stay in a place like this one. James imagined the beds as dusty and stinking of feet. Still, as he looked it over, there was something that seemed familiar.
“Vacancy!” cried Willie softly, smiling in victory.
And then James figured it out. That car in the parking lot. It sure looked a lot like his father’s car. As they passed, James looked harder. Was that their license plate number? He wasn’t sure. Did their car have a dent in the rear fender? He couldn’t remember.
Just beyond the car, in the motel window, someone parted the curtains and glanced up at the sky. James tried to see. Was it his dad? No—this person was smoking. This person was also a woman. James stared harder, but as he took his next step the sun threw a great bucket of light against the motel window, blinding James and making him look away. Yet he thought he had recognized the woman.
It had looked like Call-Me-Kay, Reggie’s mother.
James stole a glance at Reggie, who charged down the sidewalk, eyes locked onto Mel Herman’s back. James checked Willie, who was still whispering the word “vacancy,” his braces glinting in the sun. No one else had seen her.
Was it really Reggie’s mother? And was it really his father’s car? A quick jolt of dread knifed down James’s back—he remembered the morning after the school adventure, and how his father hadn’t believed his fib about sleeping over at Reggie’s house. Maybe that was it: together James’s dad and Reggie’s mom were uncovering the lie, and later there would be punishment for both boys. The only reason they were meeting in a motel was because James’s mother disapproved of Ms. Fielder, and where else could two grown-ups gather in private? He tried to convince himself this was true, but he felt worse than he had all day. There were other reasons for two grown-ups to meet in a motel.
* * *
Mel Herman’s house was low and small and clung desperately to a collapsed front porch. Alongside the front lawn was an even smaller one-car garage. Both buildings were painted strangely—brown predominated, but the trim was a hodgepodge of color so bright and unexpected that it looked like a flock of exotic birds preparing to fly.
The three of them gathered behind a warehouse directly across the street. The heat was painful and the tops of their ears burned. They wondered aloud in awed tones: Did Mel Herman walk this far to school every day? On foot? Didn’t he own a bike? And what happened in winter? Did he walk that far through three feet of snow?
James felt sudden shame about their attempts to exclude Mel Herman from junkball. After all, if Mel walked over an hour just to reach the field, he must really love to play. James didn’t like feeling sorry for Mel Herman. He started hoping that Mel’s family did own a silver truck, one with a dented side door spattered with Willie’s blood or a busted grill that still clutched tufts of Greg Johnson’s hair. Because at this point—so far from home, so moist with heat, so weary beneath the threat of Reggie’s baseball bat—it was just easier to continue hating him.
Mel ducked inside the front door and nothing happened for a while. Without warning, Reggie sailed across the street and James and Willie chased after, wincing at the loud clap of sneakers on pavement. Panting, they joined Reggie at the front of the garage. James looked across the small lawn, expecting a large, dark shape to bolt from the front door at any moment.
Reggie balanced on his tiptoes and tried to look through the garage window.
“What’s in there?” asked James. “A truck?”
Reggie bared his teeth and stretched farther. He tried hopping and still came up short. Reggie set down his baseball bat, kneeled down, and opened his arms. Willie grumbled and stepped in. Reggie wrapped his arms around Willie’s legs and lifted him, then carefully rotated so that Willie faced the garage window. James watched in horror. Now it really looked bad—they weren’t just trailing him, they were peering into his garage! Any second now: Mel, charging from the house and the boys fleeing in naked terror. Possibly if they ran like mad they could make it back to the motel, where their parents, if they weren’t too angry, would protect them.
“Oh wow,” gasped Willie, looking inside the garage.
“What do you see?” Reggie demanded, struggling beneath Willie’s weight.
“Wow,” Willie said again.
Reggie lowered Willie to the ground, breathing hard.
“What?” Reggie hissed.
“What’s in there?” James asked.
Willie blinked and looked surprised to see them.
Then a smile spread across his face.
“They got a scooter in there. I always wanted a scooter.”
James exhaled and prickly sensations shot out through his fingertips. Without planning it, he laughed out loud.
Reggie’s neck went red, and he glared at James. Then he turned that glare on Willie.
“You couldn’t ride a scooter if you had one,” he said. “How are you going to steer it? With one arm? That’s pathetic.”
Willie’s smile faded.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
Reggie sneered. “What do you mean, what do I mean? I mean, some stuff you need two arms to do. Other wise, you just screw it up and embarrass yourself.”
“I wouldn’t screw it up.”
Reggie’s laugh was short and loud. “Willie, you’d screw it up with two arms.”
Willie paused, and seemed to give the moment uncharacteristic reflection. “You said I was pathetic.”
“Well, if you try to do certain things you will be pathetic. You remember the tree house, don’t you?”
“That wasn’t my fault. You guys couldn’t hook up the—”
“The what? The pulley? Why were we hooking it up in the first place, Willie? I mean, the whole thing is pathetic.”
Willie squinted at Reggie.
“Why are you being so mean?” he asked.
James wished Reggie would shut up. This was tree house talk, and it ought to stay between the two of them. These were not things Willie needed to hear, not ever, not even if they were true.
“You think I’m being mean? I’ll tell you what I’m being, I’m being helpful,” Reggie snapped. “Take a look at yourself. Do you have any idea how much of a drag you are? If we’re running somewhere or climbing over something, you ever notice how much time we spend helping you keep up? I’m not being mean here—if I were you I’d listen. Because if you go around trying to do things like a normal boy, you’re going to get made fun of. People are going to laugh at you. They’re going to say mean things, and you know what? You’re going to deserve it, because you should’ve known better.”
“I am a normal boy,” said Willie, though he did not sound so sure.
“You’re not like the normal boys I know,” said Reggie.
Willie looked squarely at Reggie. The scar on his neck seemed darker than usual.
Finally, Willie spoke. “You don’t need two arms for a scooter.”
And then, loud and sudden:
“You guys follow me?”
The three boys turned in unison and there he was, blotting out the sun and throwing them into shadow. In the next instant the boys saw Mel Herman in detail so exquisite it was painful: the downy hairs sprouting from his upper lip; the thin trail of scabs running down his calf; the color of his shirt, which was no longer black, but instead a murk of stains and discolorations, blue, purple, red, brown, gray.
Mel spoke again and his mouth barely moved.
“You guys follow me?”
Each boy hoped the other might respond with something sharp and brilliant; instead their silence said everything. James watched as Mel silently wiped his palms on his shirt. Those hands, those large, filthy paws topped with jags of fingernails, were somehow responsible for all of those paintings lining the hallways of Polk Elementary, as well as that spectacular mess tacked up on the tree house wall.
Bees buzzed about them; it was the only sound. The hot air hung heavy, pinning the boys to the cement.
Reggie dropped down and picked up the bat.
It must have seemed to Reggie that this was the smart thing to do—if Mel attacked, they would need a defense. To James it was a blunt and hasty declaration of war, and revealed exactly what the boys thought of Mel Herman: he was an animal and this is how animals were beaten. James wanted no part of this, but it was far too late to say so.
Mel’s eyes dipped to look at the baseball bat, then slowly crawled over each boy’s face. He did not appear angry or scared, only tired. For a moment James thought Mel might just bow his head and walk away.
But then Mel’s bottom jaw chomped at his lip, his shoulders broadened as if his oversized shirt concealed mighty wings, and all of a sudden he was a monster, escaped from his box and angry.
“You planning on busting my windows?” he demanded.
The boys paused. This idea had never occurred to them.
“No,” James said, because it was true.
Mel wasn’t listening.
“I’m going to have to whup you, fat-face,” Mel said to Reggie. He turned to James. “And you’re not getting out of here either. When I’m done with fat-face I’m going to feed you his broken teeth.”
Mel then looked at Willie and his forehead twitched. He said nothing, and again faced Reggie.
Mel held up his hands, not in fists, but as if displaying a fine set of knives. Reggie lifted his bat with both hands and seemed at once both bigger and smaller. James and Willie took unconscious steps away.
“I know what you did,” growled Reggie.
“Yeah? What did I do?” asked Mel. “Hit too many home runs? Boy, that must’ve really pissed you off.”
“We all know what you did,” Reggie said.
James felt his head spinning; he felt warm, dizzy, hysterical.
“Mel didn’t do anything,” James cried, even though he couldn’t
remember if it was true. All he knew was that this fight was not about Willie Van Allen or Greg Johnson. Even worse, Mel’s fight had nothing to do with Reggie, and Reggie’s fight had nothing to do with Mel. They were just convenient targets set in front of two hitters dying to hit.
Neither James nor Willie knew exactly when the old man appeared on the porch behind Mel. He was frail, bent, and so pale he was nearly translucent. James and Willie saw him and blinked, their faces knotted in the sweltering sun. Despite the heat, the man wore flannel pajamas and a blanket was thrown over his shoulders. His yellowed hand curled around the handle of a cane. He also carted a strange blue object behind him from which snaked tiny plastic tubes that ran into what looked like an oxygen mask.
Reggie saw him next and instinctively lowered the bat. Mel did not turn around, but his large hands fell to his sides.
The old man licked his lips and gawked at the boys across the lawn. His skin was white and papery and there was a growth of beard on his face, irregular and lumpy like a fungus. There were hollows sunk into his neck. His feet were bare and his naked toes shrugged and gripped at the porch. His thin chest rose and fell, rose and fell. His pajama bottoms looked big enough for a man twice his size, and were speckled with paint in the same vivid colors as the house. This was not a man who could drive a truck or plot a killing; this was not a man who could bathe himself or reach the toilet without assistance.
They stood in the sun for a long time, the four boys and the old man. To James it was even worse than a fist-fight. Somehow those old eyes upon him made him feel like he deserved whatever was coming: Mel’s attack, his parents’ punishments, a speeding silver truck, anything. “My dad,” blurted Mel. Blunt, hard, and coated with something—sickness? arrogance? satisfaction?—the two words shoved into James’s ears and crashed around his skull, and continued to do so all the way home, past the motel, off Oleander Avenue, back through the trash-filled alley, across the Leisure Estates trailer park, over the train tracks, and then even further, for the entire rest of James’s life, pounding forever through his veins like cold blood and lodging stiff and painful inside his heart.
