Crash (11 page)

Every year there’s the same fight. Abby and I want to take our piles up to our rooms and start using them. My parents want them to stay under The World’s Most Boring Christmas Tree until New Year’s so people who come to visit can see them. Except nobody hardly ever visits.

This year we didn’t take no crap. We said, Okay, you got three days. If nobody comes by then, the stuff goes up. And that’s what happened.

And now the only stuff under the tree is Scooter’s. My mom says we’ll keep everything just so until he gets home. The bad part about that is that the tree is fake, so it will last and last. Come on, Scooter.

After the red shoes, I did get him a real present, a book about ships of the U.S. Navy. I’m not sure what to do with the shoes. I wrapped them up. Then I was going to throw them away. But then I thought, Wait, maybe they’re a good-luck charm. Who knows what bad could happen if you dump them? So they’re under my bed.

J
ANUARY 1

Mike came over today. The rest of the family went off to visit Uncle Herm, so we had the place to ourselves.

When we weren’t in the kitchen, we were in my room watching the parades and bowl games and tapes. And checking out each other’s Christmas stuff.

Mike got a Jetwater Uzi and a Walkman, which I didn’t get. He got a TV, but my old one is bigger, 21 inches to 18 inches for him, plus he doesn’t have Auto Sleep Off or Wake Up on his remote, like I do. He got three tapes to my two, but my two cost more than his three.

I whipped out my Raiders jacket. “Check this, baby.” I put it on, along with the Raiders wristbands and Raiders cap.

He flapped his hand. “Aw, that ain’t nothin’. That’s a rag. My Dallas Cowboys jacket I got last year is still better than that thing.” He was sneering, but he couldn’t take his eyes off my jacket. If I wanted to, he would have traded his Cowboys for my Raiders and given me free use of the Uzi for a week besides.

But then his sneer turned to a smirk, an evil grin, and I knew what was coming. He hadn’t said anything about his
sneakers the whole time, and neither did 1.1 pretended I didn’t notice them. But he had been waiting, saving them for last.

He was sitting on my desk chair. He put both feet up on the desk. “Okay,” he said, grinning, “check these.”

They were the most beautiful sneakers I had ever seen. Every time I went to the mall lately, I would stop at Foot Locker and stare at them. I put them on my Christmas list, but my father said no way was he going to spend more on a pair of sneakers than on a week’s worth of groceries. Besides, he said, the pair I have are “perfectly good.”

On the last night that I talked to Scooter, before the morning and the cherry tree, I asked him to try to change my father’s mind. He said he would try, but I guess he never got the chance. About the last thing I remember him saying was “Don’t worry so much about it. It’s not the sneakers that count, it’s the feet.”

I sneered at Mike, “I’ve seen better.”

He grinned. He held them bottoms-out to me. “Check the soles, baby.”

They were so gorgeous, I felt woozy. Three colors. I could see myself jumping over backboards, defenders sobbing like babies, spectators gasping at moves no human had ever made before.

He stuck one in front of my face. I could smell the white, skin-smooth leather. I smacked the foot away. “It ain’t the sneakers,” I said, “it’s the feet.”

He looked at me like I was crazy; then he laughed. He knew I didn’t believe it.

While we were watching one of the tapes Mike had brought over, he got hungry again and went down to the kitchen. When he came back he had a jelly doughnut in his hand and a sailor hat on his head. He had the sides pulled down like a white bowl.

“Where’d you get it?” I said.

“Kitchen.”

“The hat.”

“Room down the hall.”

“What were you doing in there?”

His tongue drilled into the doughnut and came out with a clump of jelly. He shrugged. “Lookin’ around. Ain’t that the old dude’s room? Your grandfather?”

“Take it off,” I said.

Scooter never wears the hat. It sits on his bedpost. He said me and Abby could wear it if we ever wanted to.

Mike wasn’t moving, except his tongue drilling for jelly. I jumped up and ripped the hat from his head.

“Hey!” he squawked. “Whattaya doin’? I thought you said he was in the hospital. He don’t need it. He’s old.”

I screamed, “He’s not old!” and charged down the hall. I folded the brim back up, like it was supposed to be. I stuck it back on the bedpost. My hands were shaking. My throat felt funny, my eyes too. I went into the bathroom and shut the door and sat on the edge of the tub.

The doorbell rang. I went downstairs. I could hear that in my room Mike had switched to
Sports
Bloopers. I did what I
usually do when somebody comes to the door—I peeked from the edge of the bay window. It was Webb.

He kept pushing the bell button and staring at the door like a dope. He had a package in his hand, sort of square, wrapped in brown paper and string.

It took him forever to give up. I could see him open the storm door and stoop. When he walked away, he didn’t have the package anymore.

I gave him a minute to get down the street, then opened the door. I brought the package inside. I could see now that the paper was cut from a supermarket bag. An envelope was taped to the top. Inside was a note. The klutzy handwriting was Webb’s:

Upstairs, Mike was howling at Sports Bloopers. I stuck the note back in the envelope. I stood at the window looking out.

I don’t know how much later, something hit me on the head. It was Mike, bonking me with my new football. “Man, that’s the funniest thing I ever saw. Can I take it for a couple days?”

“Go ahead,” I said. I turned back to the window.

“Who was at the door?”

“Nobody.”

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“In your hand.”

“Nothing.”

“Well,” he said, “time to eat. You got any frozen pizzas?”

“Yeah.”

“So let’s make one.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “I ain’t hungry.”

J
ANUARY 9

Back to school was a little like the first day after summer vacation: everybody showing off their new stuff. Mike drew a crowd with his sneakers.

Mike said he has a new Webb caper. Something to do with tricking him into eating meat. I told him I wasn’t interested.

The second day back I came around a corner and bumped into Forbes. I don’t even look at her anymore, so I just kept walking. Behind me I heard her say, “Sorry to hear about your grandfather.”

We were allowed to see him yesterday. He’s not at the hospital anymore. He’s at a rehab place. They’re supposed to teach him how to walk and feed himself and get dressed and all.

He was supposed to be in Room 23. My parents pushed me and Abby ahead into the room. There were two beds. Somebody was in the one by the window. The other was empty.

I whispered to my mother. “He’s not here.”

“Sure he is,” she whispered. “There.”

She was nodding toward the man in the bed by the window. Abby was already running over, but I still couldn’t believe it.

“That’s him?”

She squeezed my shoulder. We went over.

Abby was on the bed, jabbering away. He was propped up on the pillow. His face—everything—was different. He was bony, like he was starving. His mouth was sort of crooked, like he was smirking, only I knew he wasn’t. His right arm was on his lap. I thought something was weird, and then I realized what it was: the hand. It was resting palm up, the fingers half curled. It looked dead.

He kept staring at Abby while she jabbered on. He didn’t blink. He didn’t seem to notice the rest of us.

My mother leaned down and kissed him. “Hi, Daddy.” His unblinking eyes rolled up to her. “Your favorite grandson is here too.”

She stepped aside, and he was looking at me, or he was looking at the spot where I happened to be. “Hi, Scooter,” I said. I started to shake hands, then remembered the flopped arm and pulled back. His mouth opened like he was going to talk, but all that came out was a drop of drool. My mother wiped it away.

Abby started yapping again, but he kept his eyes on me. For a second I thought I saw him in there, the old Scooter, trying to get out. Suddenly Abby shut up and looked down and smiled. His good hand was clamped tight around her wrist.

In the car going home Abby said, “Will Scooter be better by February first?”

“That’s your birthday,” said my mother.

“I know. Will he?”

“Not all better. It takes a long time to recover from a stroke.”

“How about baking? Will he at least be able to do that?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think he’s going to be working in the kitchen for quite a while. Why? Are you afraid I’ll fire Mrs. Linfont and start cooking myself?”

Mom hired Mrs. Linfont a couple days ago. She’s supposed to come one day a week to clean the house and do the wash and three days to cook dinner for Abby and me. So far she made one dinner for us. It stunk.

Abby groaned. “I wanted him to make catfish cakes for me to take to school for my birthday.”

My mother told her, “We’ll get you something nice from the bakery to take in.”

Abby whined, “I don’t want that. It won’t be the same. I want catfish cakes!” She kicked the back of my seat. “I won’t have a party!” She was crying. “He’s never gonna call me swabbie again!”

Later, I felt clammy in the house, so I took myself for a walk. It was almost dark when I got back. I still didn’t feel like going in. I wandered into the backyard.