by Gae Polisner
“You will,” Mom says quietly. She looks up at him now, tightens a strap on the backpack.
Dad nods, looks at me. I shift uncomfortably. He puts his hand on my shoulder which just makes things harder. “Take care of that leg, kid, and don’t give your mother any trouble.” I nod. After that, he walks out the door.
* * *
Mom doesn’t seem all that broken up about it. Just goes about her business like usual.
“People have to do what they have to do, Nicholas,” she says as we stand at the window and watch him walk down our road. When we can’t see him anymore, she ruffles my hair like I’m a little kid and goes back to making us breakfast.
Up in my room, there’s a note from him, which I glance at then shove in my desk drawer. And when his e-mails come in, I don’t open them at all, just transfer them unread to a file called FatMan2 and act like they never came. I’m not exactly sure why.
Maybe it’s because of how much pain I’m in from my leg those first few days, or how Jeremy is constantly being a jerk, but I just can’t bring myself to read them. The truth is, I’m pissed at Dad, and not just for leaving me and Jeremy and Mom, but also for ditching the Scoot when he needs Dad the most. Because maybe it sounds like I don’t care too much about the Scoot anymore, but I do. Not hanging out and not caring are two very different things.
In fact, with Dad gone, I try to make up for things a little with the Scoot, because who else does he have? Besides, there isn’t much else for me to do stuck home in Glenbrook the last few days of summer with a busted leg.
So Scooter and I spend more time together again, mostly talking and watching movies in his living room like we did when we were kids. Star Wars, especially, which we can both watch over and over again. Of course, he’s in such bad shape the littlest things make him winded now. When he moves and talks, you can hear his insides rattle and wheeze. Neither of us says anything, but it definitely makes me sad.
Luckily, I don’t have too much time to think about it, because then school starts up.
The first morning of school is already a bad omen. I wake up way early, like 6:00 a.m. I don’t need to be up yet but I can’t sleep either, so I get out of bed and gimp downstairs to the kitchen to see if Jeremy’s awake. Which he is, drinking coffee and eating breakfast at the table.
I hobble to the cabinet to get myself a bowl and spoon, then hobble over to the table and rest my crutches on the floor, hoping his company will make me feel better.
“Hey,” I say, pouring milk in my bowl.
“Dude,” he answers.
I don’t mind if we don’t talk much, really. I haven’t slept too well since Dad left, and I’m feeling pretty bummed out and quiet. Maybe it’s because I feel responsible for things. Like, if I hadn’t broken my leg, then Mom and Dad wouldn’t have fought, and now Dad wouldn’t be gone. Even though I know this isn’t true.
Anyway, the peace and quiet lasts only another minute before my idiot brother starts running his mouth. Says I should stop being so naïve and surprised about Dad going, that anyone paying attention would know he’s wanted to leave for years. That he hasn’t been happy since Mom made him leave Manhattan, and that Mom hates him anyway, so what’s the big deal?
“Kid yourself all you want,” he finishes, spooning Cheerios in, “but there’s no way in hell he’s coming back.”
I glare at him, wondering why he doesn’t just shut up.
“Yes, he is,” I finally say, even though I should say nothing, not feed into his annoying bull crap. But he’s really pissing me off.
“Nope, Nick, you’re wrong. He’s gone, trust me. Gonna start a whole new life in New York City. Unless he drops dead first.” He shovels in another big, globbing mouthful.
And I snap. I can’t help it. When he says this, I just go crazy inside. I pick up my spoon and, without thinking, I chuck it at him. Normally I’d get up and punch him instead, but it would take too long now, because of my bum leg and the crutches. So that’s what I do. I chuck my spoon at him.
It hits him hard, smack in the center of his forehead. It sticks for a brief second, then falls and clanks down on the table. A little milk dribbles down his nose.
He jumps up, and I can tell he’s about to pummel me—like it’s a reflex, you can tell—but then he realizes I’m handicapped, that I’ve got the broken leg. Plus, now I’ve got tears in my eyes, so I guess he thinks he should go easy on me. He sits back down and glares. There’s a red oval welt where the spoon hit him. I laugh, because it’s pretty funny actually, and he glares harder like he’s waiting for me to tell him I’m sorry.
“You’re an idiot,” I say instead, which probably isn’t the apology he’s hoping for.
After that, neither of us says much of anything. I can’t eat now because I don’t have a spoon, plus I’m not really hungry. I drag the cereal box across the table anyway, and check the back to see if it has any of those dumb kids’ games, like the mazes or the word search or something. I know I’m way too old for that stuff, but I still like to find the hidden objects. Plus, this way, I can ignore Jeremy, which would be a whole lot better. But they’re Cheerios, so of course there’s nothing but boring health food tips on the back.
Finally I say, “He didn’t leave for good, Jeremy. He said he’d be back,” because it’s either that or sit there and listen to him chew.
“We’ll see,” he says, but I can tell he’s not going to argue.
“There’s nothing to see,” I say, because I’m not finished yet even if he is, and it’s annoying when he acts all superior.
“Whatever, kid. I’m just telling you, so you’re prepared. You just don’t get how it is.” Which bugs me like crazy, because he knows I don’t like it when he calls me kid. He raises his eyebrows, but I don’t take the bait. Then he says, “Plus there’s everything with Reginald, and you know how Dad feels about him. He can’t bear to watch that go down.”
Well, if you haven’t figured it out, Reginald is the Scoot, but nobody calls him that anymore. Nobody. Not even MaeLynn. He hates it; everyone knows that about him.
“The Scoot,” I bark. “You’d better call him the Scoot.” I shove my chair out, grab my crutches, and hobble my sorry ass out of there. I mean, you can’t pin Dad’s leaving on the Scoot. He can’t help what’s happening to him. Plus, Dad is coming back, so everyone can just move along.
Anyway, that’s how breakfast with my idiot brother goes down. Two hours later, I’m in school, and life gets busy, and things pretty much go back to normal.
Until the six o’clock news shows up at our house, that is.
And, with it, Jaycee Amato.
From: FatMan2
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Walking
Hey Nick,
Yesterday I walked nearly 10 miles, almost to CR-70. Today, 4 more already, so I should be outside of Mechanicville by nightfall.
New York City is roughly another 170 miles by the scenic route.
I’m not sure which is harder, keeping my feet walking, or my mind on the task. I think a lot about you and Jeremy, and the things I’m leaving behind.
The pull of home, and everything familiar, is strong.
Hope the start of school is good, and that your leg is doing better.
Dad
* * *
From: FatMan2
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Walking
Nick,
12 more miles, almost to Troy this evening. I don’t know how long I can keep up this pace. It might not seem like a lot, but I have to rest every few hours or my feet swell and my knees start to hurt. Plus, today I have a blister developing on my heel. You’d think you could walk through a little blister, but it’s painful, so I may be sidelined for a day.
Blisters. Pouring rain. The things you forget to plan for … Thank God for places with coffee, outlets, and Wi-Fi ;)
Will write again soon. Would love to hear back from you.
Dad
5
The loc
al news wanting to do a feature on Dad isn’t as crazy as it sounds.
I mean, before Dad’s depression turned him into the Glenbrook version of Jabba the Hutt, he was a well-known news guy around town. He still had connections, and he still wrote some decently big stories every now and then.
In fact, it was Dad who got the Albany Times Union to run the series on the Scoot, Dad who wrote it each year, and Dad who kept it all going. Eventually, the series had gotten picked up by the AP and Reuters and ran in some national papers. Even the Sunday New York Times Magazine picked it up. I mean, the Scoot was a fascinating kid.
The stories on the Scoot ran every few years, and they were good for the Scoot, but they were also good for my dad. When he worked on them he’d get all enthusiastic in a way I otherwise rarely saw. For days before deadline they’d sit together, Dad interviewing and the Scoot answering into the mic. In the evenings, MaeLynn would come over, still in her white nurse’s uniform, carrying piles of updated textbooks she’d brought home from the medical library. She and Dad would sit at our dining room table, drink coffee, and look through them for anything new on Scooter’s condition.
Night after night they would work, talking and laughing, until long after the rest of us had gone to bed. Dad seemed so happy at those times, I wondered if Mom noticed it too. Either way, it didn’t seem to bother her, I guess, since it was all being done for the Scoot.
Plus, it didn’t much matter, because a few days after the story ran, MaeLynn would go back to her double shifts at the hospital, and Dad would go back to the couch, and everyone else would go back to their regular old boring lives.
The point is that there were still a few people who knew Dad around here, so when they heard he had pulled a “Fat Man Walking,” it made sense they wanted to cover the story.
At first, it was just the Glenbrook Weekly Sun and a paper in Saratoga Springs. But by week two the Times Union had picked it up, and then, that following Saturday, News 10 was at our door.
You could tell Mom wasn’t too thrilled with the hype, that she was just going along to help Dad. Maybe she thought it would somehow force him to keep walking. The first story read “Another Fat Man Walking: Local Reporter Leaves Family to Save Own Life,” which didn’t really help the mood around here.
But anyway.
The morning of the interview, I decide to invite Scooter over. I mean, he’s sort of family, and it seems like the right thing to do. So there we are, Mom, Jeremy, the Scoot, and me, when the news crew arrives. There are three of them altogether, a cameraman, a producer, and the on-air talent who I recognize as this total tool named J.P. Amato.
Everyone knows Amato. Dad can’t stand the guy. He’s been News 10’s main roving reporter forever. He’s about Dad’s age, but super fit with a fake tan, a bleached-white smile, and thick blond hair sprayed in place like a big mounded wave of cardboard. He wears a plaid sports jacket, khaki pants, a pink button-down, and brown loafers, like he’s going to a yacht club or something, which we don’t even have around here. Suffice it to say, he’s even more of a tool in person than he looks on the evening news.
But what’s more surprising is who walks in with him, which is this girl named Jaycee Amato.
Of course, as soon as I think of her name, I realize who she must be, but the girl looks nothing like her father. I mean, absolutely nothing like him.
Where J.P. is blond and plastic like a Ken doll, Jaycee is dark and quirky. She’s pretty—long black hair, cool face—but with a sort of militant edge. Well, that mixed with some Goth maybe, mixed with some just plain crazy-weird. I’ve seen her around school a few times but don’t know much about her. She’s in Scooter’s grade, not mine, and no one knows her that well. Rumor has it she showed up halfway through the last school year.
Now, in she walks, camouflage cargo pants, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and bright orange, high-top Converse sneakers, her long black hair in pigtails, and her fingernails painted purple. Plus, she’s got this necklace on—if you can call it that—a troll doll tied to string with a hot pink shock of hair.
But what is most noticeable are her eyes. They’re this amazing cold gray-blue, like a Siberian husky dog’s eyes. They look like glass marbles.
You can’t look at Jaycee Amato and not instantly notice her eyes.
“Hey, what are you ogling at?” She jams her hands in her pockets and gives me a look like I’ve done something wrong. It’s bad enough I’m already feeling self-conscious, not only because they’re here to do a story on my embarrassingly obese dad, but also because the Scoot is here and he’s sort of hard to explain.
I glance behind me to where Scooter sits in Dad’s oversized recliner in the corner, writing in that dumb old notebook of his. He’s hunched like a little old man—all three feet three inches of him—the reading lamp shining through his skull. His skin, thin like paper, reveals a road map of purple veins. I wish he’d worn a do-rag like he usually does. He breathes heavy with his mouth open, on account of how everything is failing. He must feel me watching him because he looks up and smiles and flips a casual wave. I force a smile back.
“Hey!” Jaycee says again. I whip my head back toward her, but she walks right past me, and I realize she’s talking to the Scoot.
“Hey, Jaycee!” Scooter calls back.
She plops down on the arm of the recliner and pulls the notebook from his hand. And, suddenly, I’m thinking maybe I should rescue him. I mean, who the heck is this girl? But then the producer calls for quiet and tells everyone to take their positions.
They hustle me onto the couch where Mom and Jeremy are, and J.P. moves into the shot. He pats his stiff poof of hair to make sure it’s all in place, then clears his throat and begins his lead-in.
The studio lights are bright, and I have to squint to keep my eyes from hurting. I turn my head once more to where Jaycee sits next to the Scoot. She catches me looking and makes a sarcastic face, so I turn quickly back to where J.P. is asking Mom questions. They’re pretty tame, like “How is Mr. Gardner doing so far?” and “How many miles has he gone?” Mom gives answers, but they’re bland and short, as if she doesn’t really want to be here. Which, honestly, neither do I.
After a few minutes the producer yells cut and J.P. wanders away, and the three of them talk in the corner.
I take the chance to shift over and relax, because we’re all tense and cramped together like sardines. I feel better with some fresh air circulating. I try not to look back at Jaycee. Instead, I study the stuff Mom’s laid out on the coffee table.
There are a bunch of old photographs of Dad and her, and of all of us together. Dad’s so much skinnier in a lot of them. One of them is from their wedding, posed in front of a big fancy cake. I pick it up and look at it more closely.
Dad looks nothing like he does now. He’s young and smiling, and he actually has a chin. Mom doesn’t really look the same either. She’s still thin, but in the photo her hair is long and she looks pretty, and her head is way back, laughing. Now her hair is short and pushed behind her ears. She’s always so businesslike, a totally different person.
I stare at the photo, wondering how both of them have changed so much, when Scooter walks over and hauls himself onto the couch next to me.
“Hey, Scooter.”
He breathes hard, pulls the snapshot from my hand. “Wow,” he says, “he’s like a whole other guy.”
“Yeah, I was just thinking that.”
It crosses my mind, sitting here with Scooter, that this is something he completely understands. How someone can be one thing on the inside, while their body morphs and betrays them on the outside. I put my hand on his shoulder and he wheezes.
“Can I see?” Jaycee has come up behind us. She leans over, her troll thing dangling in my face. My heart races for some reason.
Scooter hands her the photo, and she holds it out in front of her like she’s comparing it to the recent photo of Dad they have up on the camera monitor.
“Man, oh man,” she says.
I’m about to get defensive, but J.P. is back talking to Mom and calls that we’re ready to roll again. They signal for quiet, and Jaycee walks out of the shot, but Scooter stays put with me and nobody seems to mind.
J.P. does a brief re-introduction and starts in with Mom again. “So, Mrs. Gardner, do you think he’ll make it to Manhattan, blah, blah, blah,” and Mom answers, “Yes, I do, sure, blah, blah, blah,” although she doesn’t sound too convincing. Then, suddenly, the camera’s on me, and J.P. is asking me a question.
“So, Nick, what do you think about your dad’s journey?”
I’m caught off guard, so I start stammering. “Oh, yeah, well, sure, it’s cool and all that…” Then I stop because I can tell I sound like a moron. My eyes dart to Jaycee. She looks down quickly, but not before I see that she’s laughing.
I look back at the cameraman helplessly, and he mercifully moves the camera toward Jeremy. “And what about you, son?” J.P. says, sticking the mic in my brother’s face.
Jeremy looks down like he’s thinking for a second, then looks back at J.P.
“I think you’ve got way too much gel in your hair, dude,” he says, flipping the camera the bird. Then he stands up, squeezes past Mom, and walks out the front door.
I just stare after him, as do Mom and the camera guy and J.P.
But when I glance over at Jaycee again, she’s standing there nodding and smiling.
From: FatMan2
To: Nick Gardner
Subject: Walking
79 miles, Nick. Nearly to Hudson! Had to take almost two days off to let the blister rest, so now I’m stuck trying to make up time. The scenic routes are longer, but I’m staying off the highway for obvious reasons. What irony if I got hit by a car. Now, that would be a headline!
Speaking of headlines, I hear my old buds from the Times Union found their way to you guys. Hope that wasn’t too painful. And now the news? Guess I’m a bit of a story.
Mom says school’s going okay and you’re getting around much better. Would love to hear back from you, kid.
