The Incredible Magic of Being
Page 4
“You think that’s going to support us? I’d actually like food and clothes, not to mention college. Now go.”
“Shouldn’t we ask Mom and Joan first?”
“Mom is going to go off the deep end if she doesn’t get to do this. She gave up everything and wanted to be this B&B hostess, and have the chance to homeschool YOU because, let’s face it, you’re a social anomaly and you’d never make it in middle school.”
“I could make it,” I say, although I know she’s probably right.
“And Joan will freak if Mom freaks. Joan is probably in a panic already.”
“Joan? Joan doesn’t panic.”
“She said, It’ll be fine. You know what that means. We’re toast.”
I stare at the house next door.
“Jeez, Julian, I thought you were always trying to make everyone happy.”
“I am!”
“Then go!” She turns me around and pushes me next door.
Slowly, I walk over, clutching my life jacket. To be honest, I don’t want to talk to him about the addition; I’d rather talk to him about not giving up just because someone you love dies. To be completely honest, I’d rather not have to talk to him at all.
Plus, it feels weird to visit someone when I don’t even know his name. I look left to the street and see his mailbox. It says X. SCIACCHITANO on it. Our music teacher in second grade had a first name that started with Y and a last name that was long so we called him Mr. Y. I decide to call our neighbor Mr. X. At least he has a name now.
I look at Mr. X’s front door and then go to the patio around the back because there are big glass doors and I can see in and he can see out so maybe he’ll notice this kid outside and open the door and come out and chat. Maybe. Or not. But I’d rather see him first than go bang on his front door. It’s like trick-or-treating. I always hold my breath to see who or what will open the front door. I like front doors with side windows, which his house doesn’t have, so you can see the person or monster approaching.
I look inside the patio doors, and when my eyes get adjusted to the darkness I see something special. A BVM! Even though it’s a sketch I still recognize the Blessed Virgin Mary, probably because of the halo. She’s smiling at me. I smile back and wave. I think it’s a good sign.
All over the wall are more drawings, mostly of dogs. I love dogs! I’ve always wanted a dog! When I stare closer I realize they’re all the same dog, just at different ages. It’s a black Lab, my favorite! That must be a good sign, too. There are also some sketches of a lady at different ages, maybe Mrs. X. And there are a few photos of boats, which I try to ignore because they make me feel queasy.
I see a big glossy photo on the coffee table of Mr. and Mrs. X. At least, I think that’s who they are. They’re really old. She’s not dead yet in the picture, though, which means he must be even older now. His mouth is pretty much a line, but you can tell from his eyes, underneath his big woolly eyebrows, that he’s happy. Also, he’s standing up tall with his shoulders back and staring straight at the camera. Mrs. X has her head against his chest, smiling and happy. The way she has her arms around his waist and he has his arm around her shoulder makes them look teenager-y.
“Dinnertime!” Mom calls.
Which is a relief, because I really wasn’t ready to be pathetic. Looking at Mr. X’s living room makes me feel sad for him. It’s full of old, dead stuff because I’m pretty sure that dog is dead now, too, along with Mrs. X, and the BVM. Dead, dead, dead.
“Bye, BVM, and dog, and Mrs. X,” I whisper.
Pookie is waiting for me at the kitchen door. “Did you talk to him?”
“No. Just his pictures. He has a BVM and lots of dog—”
“You’re not supposed to talk to the stupid pictures, dork,” she hisses, “you’re supposed to talk to the old man!”
“He wasn’t there,” I hiss back.
“What’s wrong?” Mom says as she puts the salad on the table.
“Nothing,” we both say.
Mom looks like she’s going to ask another question, so I decide to deflect. “Why don’t we meet at my telescope after dinner and I’ll show you—”
“Not tonight, kiddo,” Joan says. “I have to go to the station.”
I raise my eyebrows at Mom.
“I need to look up easements and property laws,” she says.
I steal a glance at Pookie.
She snorts. “Dream on.”
I sigh. “Maybe we could plan to have a telescope session tomorrow night?”
Pookie rolls her eyes, which at least means she heard me. Mom and Joan start talking as if I never even said anything.
“We need a lawyer,” Joan says. “We’ve got to fight this.”
I put my fork down because tomatoes in my stomach would not be good right now. I already feel bad and sickish for Mr. X because he’s an old man, and a sad one, and he wants to die.
“We don’t know how long this will take,” Mom says, “so in the meantime I intend to continue fixing up the place so we can rent out rooms and run our B&B.”
“I’ll try to get maximum hours at the station,” Joan says, “and I can also look into getting work as a physical therapist.”
Mom’s eyes flash. “When are you going to fit that in? We’ll hardly see you.”
“Well,” says Pookie, “pretty soon you won’t be seeing me at all because I’ll be at drama camp.” She puts her chocolate milk glass down dramatically. “You guys can figure this out for yourselves.”
Mom and Joan look at each other, and Mom clears her throat.
Uh-oh.
“Honey, we can’t afford … We’re going to have to cancel drama camp.”
“What!”
“Just for now. Until we know what’s happening.”
“This is so unfair! My dad would send me to drama camp!”
“I’m sure he would,” Joan mutters.
“Maybe by the end of the summer—” Mom starts, but Pookie interrupts her.
“Maybe by the end of the summer I’ll be gone!” She gets up from the bench so wildly she almost knocks me off. “I hate you! I hate all of you! And I hope that old man dies!” she yells as she storms up the back stairs.
The rest of the meal is pretty quiet. I’m not hungry, anyway.
Mom wipes her eyes as she walks me to my tree room to watch me climb up. I can feel her upset-ness. “Maybe you can find a camp for Pookie that’s free.”
She combs my hair with her fingers and smiles but doesn’t say anything. I know why. It’s the kind of smile that’s holding the crying inside.
“Don’t worry, Mom. Something magical will happen. Everything will work out.”
She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. That’s OK, because I’m not sure I believe me, either.
If we can’t make money from the B&B and Joan can’t make enough for us to live on then Mom will have to go back to work except she can’t because she’s too freaked about that baby dying even though it wasn’t her fault. But now she says she’ll never deliver a baby again or be a doctor, which is too bad because she went to medical school as a grown-up and still owes a lot of money, which Joan can’t afford to pay.
So I guess Mom will have to work at McDonald’s, like around the clock 24/7, and I’ll have to go to real middle school and Pookie will freak that we’re stuck in this deadwater and everyone will be stressed.
This situation could go on for a long time. I might never get them to focus on the Dog Star. Then it’ll be too late.
I take some deep breaths because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you feel panicky. It stops you from passing out. I also think about the universe because that usually calms me down. I start counting the Messier Objects, but when I get to M31, the Andromeda Galaxy, I can’t help thinking about how my family and Mr. X are like Andromeda and the Milky Way—two different galaxies whirling around on their own, minding their own business, until they try to occupy the same space and then they collide.
WHEN GALA
XIES COLLIDE: ANDROMEDA VERSUS THE MILKY WAY
It’s going to happen. Our galaxy, the Milky Way, and the closest other galaxy to us, Andromeda, are already heading toward each other, which in most models has Earth flung into deep space, and that is NOT a good cosmic phenomenon.
There is no winner.
I don’t want that to happen with us and Mr. X.
I have to stop it.
I stay awake a long time and finally try meditating, but that doesn’t help, either. When I meditate I see things. I know that’s not what’s supposed to happen. You’re supposed to clear your mind and see nothing, but that’s not how it works for me. It’s different from seeing normal things. Instead, I see things that aren’t there. Or maybe they are. I’m pretty sure nobody else sees them, though.
Here’s what I see:
Joan carries a clear medical supply bag full of whiskey bottles, some empty, some half-full. I know it’s whiskey because I saw some at the ABC liquor store when I got lost at the strip mall and went in every store looking for Mom. I only got as far as the whiskey aisle because the manager pushed me out of there fast, saying it was no place for a kid, which was fine with me because it smelled like a mix of bathroom cleaner and puke.
Anyway, I don’t know why Joan is carrying whiskey bottles around with her. She doesn’t even drink.
Mom carries a Target shopping bag full of weird stuff, most of which doesn’t belong in a Target shopping bag: her diploma, expired coupons, empty bottles of Tums, hospital baby blankets, the book she used to read to me about grandparents dying even though I never knew my grandparents, and other stuff I can’t see. And she feels guilty because the bag is plastic.
Pookie’s bag is not actually a bag. It’s a cauldron like witches have. And the weird thing (I know, the cauldron is pretty weird already) is that it’s empty. It’s still heavy, though, because it’s made out of cast iron and Pookie has to stoop over with her head down and arms crossed to carry it, which is how she walks in real life, too.
I don’t know what Mr. X’s sack looks like, but I can feel his sadness. It’s a heavy gray blanket weighing me down. Also, it makes my throat hurt. Mr. X is all alone. He doesn’t have Mrs. X or even his dog. Sometimes I want to be alone because it can get really noisy in our house, but I wouldn’t want to be alone permanently. That would be worse than being dead.
I feel like I’ll never get to sleep, but I finally do and how I know is this: I have the drowning dream again.
I wake up gasping for air and also scared. I wish Joan were here, but she’s staying at the fire station tonight to learn “the scoop.” I don’t want to wake Mom up or she’ll get all upset. And Pookie would just make me feel worse.
I climb down from my tree room to look through my telescope because that always calms me down. But just as I’m walking to my telescope, Mr. X’s porch light comes on.
Good. I’d really like to talk to someone right now.
I walk over to his patio and stare in the glass door. The only light I see is a dim glow from the kitchen. I can see the edge of a refrigerator. Maybe he’s getting a midnight snack like I catch Joan doing. A lot. We have a deal: Joan won’t tell Mom I had another nightmare if I don’t tell Mom that Joan eats peanut butter straight from the jar.
I’m still squinting through the glass when I hear a rumbly noise behind me and I freeze.
“Can I help you?”
I whirl around and he’s standing there. Mr. X. And I was right. He’s even older than in the picture. Pookie might get her wish about him not living much longer.
“Um. Hi. I’m Julian. From next door.”
His head juts forward and he squints at me. He still has big woolly eyebrows, but they’re white now. He also has hair coming out of his nose, which has got to be really itchy.
“Isn’t it a little dark to go sailing?” he says.
“I’m not going sailing. I’d never even get in a boat!”
He cocks his head at me. “Then why are you wearing a life jacket?”
“Because I don’t want to die.”
He swallows hard and I see the Adam’s apple in his throat. “We’re all going to die, kid.”
“I know that, but I’m not ready yet.”
“I got news for you. I’m going to die a lot sooner than you are.”
“Why? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m old. That’s what’s wrong with me.”
“Oh. Other than old, is there anything else wrong with you?”
“Why? Are you hoping I’ll die off and you can keep that addition on your house?”
“No! I never said that. That was Pookie.”
“Pookie?”
“My sister. But she says mean stuff all the time. She doesn’t really want you to die. Probably.”
“Gee, thanks. What kind of a name is Pookie, anyway?”
“It’s a nickname. I’m pretty sure I was calling her Poopie because she was the one who potty trained me but everyone thought I was saying Pookie, which is a good thing because if she knew I was calling her Poopie I probably wouldn’t be alive today.”
People usually laugh when I tell them that story, but not Mr. X. He just looks sad. And he doesn’t speak. At all. I have this thing where I have to fill in any gaps in the conversation even if it’s pointless stuff. The big vacuum of silence feels too much like falling into a black hole, so I spew random words.
“My name’s Julian.”
“You said that already.”
“Oh. I was named after Percy Lavon Julian. Do you know who he was?”
Mr. X shakes his head.
“It’s OK, most people don’t. I’ll tell you—and I’ll also tell you why a lot of people don’t know his name.” I walk over to the glider chair on his patio and sit down.
“Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks. At home, Mom makes me chocolate milk.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“Oh. OK, I’ll just tell you about Mr. Julian, then.”
He sinks down on the bench with a puffy cushion on it, and the air hisses out of him just like it hisses out of the cushion. “I’m so lucky,” he mutters.
“Percy Lavon Julian was this chemist who made all kinds of life-saving products like the foam in fire extinguishers and a bunch of stuff out of soybeans like hormones used to fight cancer and cortisone that stops pain. He could’ve done a lot more, too, except that he was African American back when people were stupid so he had to waste a lot of time finding a school that would take him and then a job that would take him and then a lab that would let him experiment. Isn’t that crazy? Just think what he could’ve done if people had just let him be brilliant! He might actually have cured cancer or terrible heart problems or done something else amazing!”
Mr. X doesn’t seem to understand how incredible Mr. Julian was.
“Don’t you see? In spite of everything he left the world a much better place. I want to be like that, too. People say, His legacy lives on. That means we still use the discoveries he made. Even though people don’t know his name, they’re grateful for all the stuff he did—lots of stuff. Percy Lavon Julian saved people he didn’t even know and weren’t even born until after he died! That’s magic!”
I realize I’m standing up now because Mr. X is leaning back in his seat to get away from me.
“You get pretty worked up over this, don’t you, kid?”
“It’s a big responsibility to be named after him.”
“It’s just a name.”
“Yeah, a name that’s going on a comet!”
I’m not sure if he actually says he doesn’t understand or I’m just uni-sensing it.
“I’m going to find a comet and name it Julian and then I can live forever.”
Mr. X shakes his head.
“You don’t believe me?”
He shrugs. “You can’t live forever. It’s impossible.”
“No, it’s not. It’s physics. Conservation of matter. Nothing disappears; it just changes form.”
“I’m really sorry about your wife, but she’s still around and you can talk to her.”
He whips his head back to me.
“It’s OK to talk to people who aren’t right here. It’s like talking with an imaginary friend or a friend in a parallel universe.”
He tries to say something but no words come out and he has to snuff up and blink, which gives me more time to say the stuff he needs to hear.
“I used to have friends in parallel universes all the time. Rudy was my favorite. He got to do all the stuff I wasn’t allowed to, like ride his bike in the driveway without his mom holding on to the handlebars, and go to summer camp outside of his own house, and eat marshmallows for breakfast. My therapist said it’s a good way to talk through your anxiety and—”
Mr. X holds up his hand. “Stop!”
But I don’t. “Your wife was real and lived right here in this universe so it’s even more normal to talk with her. It helps, I know, because Mom—”
He stands up so fast he almost knocks the cushion off his bench. “I have to go now. I’m not comfortable talking with you.”
“That’s OK, you’ll get comfortable because I’m going to be right here.”
“Do you always talk to strangers?” he snaps.
“No. Only if I need to.”
He points to our house. “To try and stop me from taking down that addition?”
“No, because you need a friend. And so do I. But this time I think I’m doing it more for you than for me.”
He stares at me, and when it starts turning into more of a glare I know that’s my cue to leave.
“See ya, Mr. X,” I say and go to my telescope to look for comets but also Mimas.
“Mr. X.” I hear him snort but he doesn’t argue so I guess he likes his name OK.
MIMAS
Mimas is a moon of Saturn that is too small to see with my telescope so I don’t know why I’m thinking about it. Mimas looks like the Death Star. No, really. It has a big bite taken out of it. Something collided with it and made a huge crater so it still orbits Saturn but it wobbles a lot. Astronomers think it’s either filled with water or it’s football-shaped inside. We don’t know for sure but what’s clear, if you have the right telescope, is its wound.