Crusader

by Edward Bloor

  "Your junior year! You look so young."

  "Actually, I am a little young. My mom started me a year ahead of time. She thought I was ready for kindergarten when I was four, so she put me in Montessori school."

  "Is that right?...Now, is fifteen old enough to drive?"

  "No, ma'am. I can get my learner's permit when I turn sixteen. I've already taken driver's ed, though, so I do know how to drive."

  She said, "Good for you. I have a license, but I don't drive. I never have. My husband made me get one for identification purposes and for emergencies. But I've never had to use it, thank god."

  We reached Seventy-second Street and turned north. Now the storm clouds were out the left-side window. They were gaining on us fast.

  Mrs. Roman looked at me again. "So, Roberta, who do you have buried here at the cemetery?"

  "My mom."

  "Oh no. Oh, that's sad. Now, what happened to her?"

  "She died when I was eight." I should have left it at that, but I never can. I added, "Of a heart attack."

  "Oh, how tragic. That really is. My Joe died when he was sixty-nine years of age. But you can't call that tragic, not when you almost make it to seventy. Not when you were a man who both smoked and drank." She asked Mrs. Weiss, "Did your husband smoke?"

  "He smoked. It helped kill him."

  Mrs. Roman turned back to me. "I hate to tell you how my husband died. He died during a medical procedure." She leaned toward Mrs. Weiss and half whispered, "I don't know if it's appropriate to tell a young girl about this."

  "You can tell her. She's a news reporter. She needs to hear."

  "Well, he died during a barium enema. Do you know what that is, Roberta?"

  "I think so, ma'am."

  "I hope to god you never learn about it firsthand, because it is a horrible thing. It is a horrible thing even to talk about. Joe had problems, intestinal problems, and the doctors said he needed to get this barium enema so they could get a good look at his colon. Well, they never got their look, because his colon exploded with all that barium in it." Mrs. Roman paused, her voice quickly filling with emotion. "And Joe died. Just like that. It was a routine procedure, they said."

  We drove on in silence for a minute.

  Then Mrs. Roman resumed her story. "Right away, my son and daughter said, 'You sue them, Ma. You get a lawyer. You get an autopsy before Papa's body ever leaves that hospital.' So I did. And do you know what they found? Joe even had barium in his brain." She paused for emphasis. "Anyway, long story short, they settled out of court for eighty thousand dollars, and the lawyer took ten thousand. I sold the house and bought a condo at Century Towers. I couldn't believe the deal! They were practically giving them away. Long story short."

  I felt the big Lincoln turning right and realized we were at the Eternal Rest Cemetery. We pulled up to our usual spot and prepared to get out, but suddenly Mrs. Weiss screamed, "Look! Look at that! I caught him!"

  A young guy in a groundskeeper's shirt was walking toward us with a golf club and a bucket of balls. When he saw Mrs. Weiss he froze in his tracks.

  She rolled down the window and leaned out. "You get off these graves! Do you hear me? If I ever catch you again, I'll wrap that club around your scrawny little neck!" The guy spun around and started off at a brisk walk. Mrs. Weiss rolled the window back up and assured us, "That infuriates me. I need to talk to the manager."

  Suddenly the storm that had been stalking us closed in and struck. The day turned as dark as nighttime. The winds howled, pelting the car with such force that it bounced up and down on its springs.

  All we could do was sit in the driving rain, in the noise and the dark. Not even Mrs. Roman spoke. The storm battered us for fifteen minutes. Then, as quickly as it had hit, the storm moved on, to do the same thing to the people east of us. The sun came out, and steam started to rise. I grabbed the stepladder, opened the door, and got out.

  The cemetery roads were puddled, and the grass was wet, but the air was rosy all around us, and fresh to breathe. We set out on our separate missions. Mrs. Weiss walked up and to the right, to an all-Jewish section of the cemetery.

  Mrs. Roman and I walked to the left, to the Guardian Angel section. I watched her kneel down on the soggy grass of a grave, panty hose and all, and start to pray.

  I kept walking another twenty yards, past the statue, to the walls of the mausoleum area. My mom is in the first section, in Crypt #109E. The walls are fifteen feet high, and they are covered with polished black marble. You can have a crypt placed in the wall at five different levels—A, B, C, D, or E, in ascending order. That means my mom's crypt, #109E, is on the level that the cemetery calls the Heaven Level. And that's why I needed the stepladder.

  Unfortunately, just as I got to Mom's wall I felt big, cold raindrops on my back. The main storm had passed on, but some straggler clouds were still raining on us. I heard a car horn and turned around. Mrs. Roman was on the blacktop road, hurrying back toward the Lincoln. Mrs. Weiss was already in the car. She gestured through the window at me to get over there, but I didn't. I had something I was determined to do. I'd failed to do it last week, using a rickety garbage can, but I wasn't going to fail this week.

  Most of the nameplates on the mausoleum walls are made of bronze. Many have little angels or crosses carved in them. The nicest have a long bronze vase sticking out, parallel to the wall, like a Statue of Liberty torch. Mom's doesn't have any of that. It's just a plastic rectangle.

  I opened the stepladder and set it in front of Crypt #109A. I climbed to the fourth, and top, step, balancing myself against the black marble facade of 109C. I slid my hand up the wall and stretched up on my tiptoes.

  I could just reach it. I ran my right index finger inside the plastic grooves and, slowly and carefully, traced the letters of her name: R-I-T-T-E-R. When I was finished, I placed both hands against the wall, on either side of her nameplate. The rain was coming down harder now, wetting my hair. I looked at my face in the black mirror of the marble. Who did I look like? The dead woman lying on the other side of this wall? She had plain brown hair, and brown eyes, like I do. In pictures she always looked pale next to Dad. Of course, most people look pale next to Dad.

  I started to think about my mom's death, but I forced myself to stop. The rain dripped out of my hair and onto my face, like a sudden flood of tears. I took a last look at myself and climbed back down the ladder. I folded it up and walked quickly to the car, soaked to the skin.

  I got into the back, dripping on the floor mats. Mrs. Weiss eyed me angrily in the rearview mirror. Mrs. Roman said, "Roberta, I thought you were a smarter girl than that. Standing out in the rain? In Florida?"

  Mrs. Weiss dropped the Lincoln into gear and pulled out. I said to both of them, "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. There was something I had to do."

  Mrs. Roman said, like it was the last word on the subject, "What? Catch your death of pneumonia?"

  Mrs. Weiss shot me a glance in the mirror. "Roberta, there's an old expression: Have sense enough not to stand out in the rain."

  I said, "All right. I'm sorry."

  It was a little after six o'clock when Mrs. Weiss finally turned down 111th Street. She asked me, "Roberta, do you have anything to eat for dinner?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "What? What is it, Sugar Pops?"

  "No, we have a couple of Kid Cuisines in the freezer."

  "What's that? More junk?"

  "No. They're frozen dinners. Complete dinners. They have vegetables in them."

  "Frozen junk. Do you want to come back with me? I made tuna fish, with the applesauce and raisins in it, the way you like it."

  "No, thank you, Mrs. Weiss. That's okay. I have homework."

  "Bring your homework. I'll help you with it."

  "No, that's okay. Not tonight."

  "All right. Suit yourself."

  We pulled into the driveway. Mrs. Roman had gotten quiet right after we turned into my neighborhood. I thought maybe she was crying. But she turned t
o Mrs. Weiss and said, in a half whisper, "This is it? This is where she lives?"

  I was surprised. I wondered just what she had seen to make her say that. I slid over until I was directly behind her seat. Then I looked through the front window and tried to see our house through her eyes.

  It's a Florida duplex—two small houses connected together. It has two front doors in the middle. It has one covered carport on each side. True, the brown trim around the top is cracked and peeling off. And the poles that hold up the carport are bent and rickety. But it didn't look that bad to me. Believe me, there are much worse houses on our street.

  "This is your last chance. Are you sure you don't want to stay with me tonight?" Mrs. Weiss explained to Mrs. Roman, "My second bedroom is for Roberta, whenever she wants."

  "That's nice."

  I said, "I'm sure. Thank you for asking. And for the ride."

  "You're welcome, dear. You be careful."

  I could hear my feet squishing on the driveway as I walked through the carport and let myself in the kitchen door. Right away I saw the blinking light on the answering machine. There were two messages. I pressed the button and listened while I got out a macaroni-and-cheese Kid Cuisine and put it in the microwave. The first message was from Dad: "Hi, honey. It's me. Pick up if you're there." After a pause, he resumed, "Will you be okay there for a couple of hours? Me and Suzie have to stop by the Marina Bay Yacht Club. She's invited to a big reception for Mr. Lyons. I put a ten-dollar bill on the fridge if you want to call for a pizza. You lock up, and call me if there's any problem. See ya."

  The time of the call was 6:05. I must have just missed him.

  The second message was from Suzie, but it definitely wasn't for me: "Hi, I know you're there. Pick up." There wasn't much chance of that. My dad never answers the telephone. Ever. It's like a phobia with him. I guess Suzie hasn't figured that out yet. She paused to wait for him, then continued, in a low whisper. "You must be in the shower. I wish I was in the shower with you. Cleaning you up." Then she switched to a monotone, like from Mission: Impossible. "This tape will self-destruct in ten seconds..."

  I deleted the message.

  After dinner I got my favorite photo of Mom and me and placed it on the coffee table. Dad took this photo. Mom and I are standing in front of the high counter at our old arcade, both of us in our blue smocks. Mom has her arms around me from behind, enveloping me. I'm not smiling, but she is.

  I studied her face in the picture, wondering what she would think of me now.

  I'd never spent much time missing Mom. Not in seven years. But lately I've been thinking about her a lot. I felt like I nearly touched her today, through that plastic nameplate, through that black marble. That sounds silly, but I really felt that way.

  I slid off the couch and rummaged through the wire magazine rack next to the TV. I reached underneath a pile of Times and Newsweeks until I felt it. A hardcover book. I pulled it up and read the title aloud, "The Sneetches and Other Stories by Doctor Seuss." This was my favorite book when I was little. I guess it still is. I think it was Mom's, too. At least she told me it was.

  I can remember this scene so clearly: Mom would come home from work. It would be past my bedtime. The sitter would leave, which was my cue to walk out of my bedroom with the book. Then Mom would walk me back into the bedroom, and we would read one story. Then I'd go to sleep.

  I carried the book into my room and set it on the bed. I looked at it, thinking, This is the book. It is not a copy of it. This is the actual book that my mother held in her hands as she sat next to me, those many nights, those hundreds of nights, when she was alive.

  But that was a long time ago. That was before I was allowed to stay home by myself. It was before I was allowed to eat whatever I wanted for dinner. It was before I was allowed to stand out in the rain.

  MONDAY, THE 21ST

  Ever since that first horrible dream, I have lived in fear of having another one. I actually hate to go to sleep. Whenever I have a dream now and the first hint of my mother shows up in it, I snap awake. So I only have fragments of dreams. Here's the fragment that I had last night:

  My mother appeared in a totally unfrightening way, wearing the blue smock, looking exactly as she does in our arcade photo. She smiled and said, calmly and caringly, "Do you need to talk to me?"

  This time, when I sat up in bed, I knew it had only been a dream. The room was already lightening; it was nearly time to get up. So that question my mom asked me stayed inside my head all day—as Mrs. Weiss would say, "like a nourishing breakfast." I repeated Mom's words over and over on the bus ride up Route 27, past the Atlantic County Landfill, to Memorial High. Once I got into school, though, I had to concentrate on school things.

  My day at Memorial basically revolves around two subjects—broadcasting and journalism. Last year I picked Journalism I as an elective, and it was great. My teacher was Mrs. Knight. We mostly studied the newspaper, which was delivered every day. But we also managed to put out an issue of our own school newspaper, The Spartan, in November. We had an April issue all ready to go, too. But the principal, Mr. Archer, told Mrs. Knight that there was no more money available for paper or printing. She got so mad at him that she quit. She got a job writing news in the news department at Channel 57.

  But before she left, she brought in her own replacement. He was a thin little man whom she introduced to us this way: "This is Mr. Peter Herman, an old colleague of mine from the newspaper trade."

  He really isn't that old, although he is bald and he is slightly stooped over when he stands. Mr. Herman took over Journalism I and II this year.

  Mr. Herman is my favorite teacher now. I get to see him before the morning announcements, during fifth period for journalism, and during seventh period for study hall. Most teachers can only talk about the questions that we'll be asked on standardized tests. Mr. Herman isn't like that. He talks about the importance of journalism in a society. He talks about high standards and ideals.

  My day begins in the guidance office, which is actually the main office of the school. I run the televised announcements, the Pledge of Allegiance, and "The Star-Spangled Banner." Last year Mrs. Knight's students did that job and got credit for TV production. I volunteered to do it this year, hoping to learn some camera work, copy writing, and tape editing. Unfortunately, it didn't turn out that way. Mrs. Knight, as I said, left, and Mr. Herman isn't at all interested in TV. So now I go in every morning, pop a video of the Pledge and "The Star-Spangled Banner" into the VCR, and rewind it when it's done playing.

  Mr. Herman, however, is still technically in charge of the TV stuff, so he and I must meet in the office each morning. We check with Mr. Archer to see if he has any special announcements for us. If he does, we videotape him saying them. Then we run the Pledge and the "Banner."

  Mr. Archer is very nice. He has been the principal of Memorial High School for about twenty years. He has a big red face, and he drives a big red Cadillac. I know, from my mornings in his office, that he takes medicine to keep his blood pressure down. Mr. Archer has his official office; he also has a "time-out office" next door, where he keeps the kids who are waiting to be punished. He has a sign on that wall that reads, If you're so smart, what are you doing here?

  Occasionally a teacher makes a videotape at home and wants us to play it on the morning announcements. When that happens I put the tape in for Mr. Archer to inspect and approve. Mr. Herman has to stand there with me while this goes on, which I don't think he likes very much.

  Mr. Archer tends to tell the same stories over and over. This morning, after he approved a videotape for the cheerleaders' fund-raiser, he retold one. He said, "Just let that tape play for a few more seconds. Once a teacher brought in a tape from home, and he had taped over some video from the Playboy Channel. Soon as his announcement ended, the kids were staring at a naked lady on a motorcycle."

  He told the same story last week. But then he looked at Mr. Herman and added, "Buck naked on a Harley." This week he didn't.
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  When morning announcements were finished, I wheeled the TV and VCR back into the time-out office. Mr. Herman pointed at the sign on the wall and muttered, "That should be the motto of this school."

  We walked out of the office together. Mr. Herman said to me, "Here's a tidbit I picked up in the teachers' lounge. Did you know that this high school, in its thirty-year history, has never had a National Merit Scholarship finalist?"

  I said, "What's that?"

  Mr. Herman expelled a short laugh. "Perfect. Perfect rejoinder, Roberta. Right on cue. Now tell me you're joking."

  "I'm not."

  He winced. "National Merit is a test that you take your junior year. I know they give it here. I've seen it advertised."

  "Oh. I guess I'll be taking it."

  "Of course you will. And you will be the first to be a scholarship finalist."

  "Me?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm not in advanced placement."

  "Why on earth not? And if you are not, then who is?"

  "The kids who have time to be, Mr. Herman."

  Mr. Herman arrived at his classroom. But before he went in, he said, "As God is my witness, Roberta, you will be in AP classes this year. And you will take that test, and do wonderfully well, and destroy this dubious distinction."

  I headed off to my first-period class, PE. I don't like it much. Most kids really, really hate it, but I don't. I just don't like it. Second period I have Mr. Archer, Jr., for history. He's the principal's son. He teaches American history, and he helps coach the football and baseball teams. The football and baseball guys, and anyone else who wants to, call him Archie. I don't, though.

  My English class is pretty boring. Junior year is American Lit. So far all we've read is stuff by Indians and Pilgrims. Third and fifth periods are when juniors are called down to guidance for RDT, random drug testing. I haven't been called yet. I think they're doing it in alphabetical order. Betty the Goth is in my English class. She sits in the back and twirls that black hair around her finger. She got called down to RDT last week.