Donuthead (10 page)

“There's nothin' more to it? I got your word?”“You have my word,” my mother said.

And he reached his hand into the car and she shook it.

As we were driving away, she said, “Now, I wonder what Sarah meant when she said you weren't afraid of everything. Is there a single thing you couldn't turn into a fatal accident? In fact, while Sarah's old man was making up his mind, I was amusing myself with all the tragic catastrophes you could make
out of his place. Really. Lockjaw, Lyme disease, fatal spills, dog bites, hantavirus, West Nile, lung cancer …”

But I barely heard her. Even my phone call to Gloria was forgotten in the wake of that hair-raising experience. As my own fear slowly receded, I realized I had discovered something very interesting during that trip, and I wanted to think more about it. I had discovered what Sarah was afraid of. Even more than her daddy's swing, Sarah Kervick was afraid that someone would laugh at her dream.

Me: Gloria, you will never guess where I've been.

Gloria (
sounding tired
): Oh, hello, Franklin.

Me: Think rabid dogs, think insect-borne diseases …

Gloria: Don't tell me. You went to a pet store.

Me: Is anything wrong, Gloria? You sound like …

well … not like yourself.

Gloria: Not my usual self, you mean? Well, now that you mention it, not every day at the National Safety Department is a good one. The terrible accidents, you can't imagine, Franklin. I don't suppose you're calling to cheer me up, are you?

Me (
unsure what to say next. It was Gloria's job to cheer me up, not the other way around
): I … uh …

Gloria: Tell me, Franklin. How is your friend? The one you're teaching to read?

Me: You mean Sarah Kervick.

Gloria: Yes, I think so. Sarah. Have you made any progress? Me: That's where I was yesterday! She has two vicious dogs, Gloria. They actually attacked my mother's van. One of them nearly came inside, where I was imprisoned by my shoulder harness.

Gloria: I was talking about the girl, Franklin. Not the dogs, and
not you
.

Me: Oh, all right. Um … (
And since I hadn't made any
progress on teaching Sarah to read, since I hadn't even really thought about it, I told Gloria everything else I knew about Sarah, about her new job, about the trailer where she lived, about her dream of being a figure skater, even the story about Sarah falling through the ice, which I decided would interest her professionally, seeing as drowning is the number-two accidental way for children to die.
)

Gloria: She wants to be a figure skater, you say? That's an expensive sport, I'm afraid.

Me: And a dangerous one. I, for one, fail to see how figure skating differs significantly from rollerblading or skateboarding. And yet, protective headgear is not required in any of the competitive ice skating sports.

Gloria: Can't you see, Franklin? This goes way beyond a question of safety. It's about a dream. Having a dream and believing in the possibility of that dream coming true is what gives people hope. Hope is a much greater determinant of whether or not a person will survive and thrive than safety helmets. (
On this last line, Gloria raised her voice. I think it is safe to say she was shouting at me.
)

Me: I was merely pointing out that—

Gloria: I know, I know, Franklin, but honestly, sometimes you can't see the forest for the trees. When you get back to your reading, I want you to find the story of Pandora. It's a Greek myth. That story hasn't got anything to do with statistics, but it will certainly teach you a thing or two about life.

Me: I'd be happy to look up the story, Gloria, if you think that's a good idea. I just don't see—

Gloria: Franklin, would you say that this friend of
yours … Sarah … would you say that she has the means to pursue this dream of hers?

Me: Means?

Gloria: The money.

Me: Well, judging from the fact that up until my mother came into the picture she was not adequately clothed, I would say no, Gloria. I don't think Sarah Kervick has money to spare. Gloria: Franklin! (
long pause
) I believe you have cheered me up (
sounding really happy now … I was totally confused
).

Me: I'm so glad, Gloria, that I could be of service.

Gloria: I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I would repay a debt, and I think I know now how I'm going to do that.

Me: Well, that's wonderful, Gloria. I know that one's financial picture can cause a lot of stress. Speaking of stress, my teacher, Ms. Linski, has signed me up to be in the Presidential Fitness Program along with the rest of our class, and one of the requirements is that we touch our toes. With my short arm and long leg, I'm afraid I won't be able to—

Gloria: Would you have any idea what her shoe size is, Franklin? Just off the top of your head?

Me: Off the top of my head? No, I wouldn't, Gloria. What does Sarah Kervick's shoe size have to do with—

Gloria: You must promise to get back to me on that. You can … Well, you can predict a great deal about … the future health of a person—longevity and so forth—from the size of her feet. Will you promise to get that for me, Franklin? Will you?

Me: You never asked for my foot size, Gloria.

Gloria: No, I haven't. But then, it's never been necessary, Franklin. You supply me with information about your health in agonizing detail.

As I hung up the phone, I realized that something had come between me and Gloria. And that something was Sarah Kervick.

But it seemed that the only way to get back into Gloria's good graces was to teach the girl to read. Even though I'd rather walk barefoot down the driveway or chew gum with artificial colors, I knew the task that lay before me.

And good old Mrs. Boardman was going to help.

In order to get Sarah alone, I decided I would just have to give up the health-promoting benefits of fresh air for a while. So I convinced Ms. Linski that my delicate physical state was best maintained in the library over lunchtime (besides that, I also promised to do a little extra-credit work hunting down cereal box toys on the Internet). She agreed—rather quickly, I might add—that we could give it a trial period. “But if you grow too pale, Franklin, it's back out in the sunshine.”

I didn't make any moves at first, just let lunchtime in the library with Mrs. Boardman take on its own routine. Sarah put up with me, but I was to keep my mouth shut. Which I did for a while, knowing that if I sprung this idea right away, Sarah would banish me from the library altogether.

Those days were just as pleasant as the first one had been. First, Sarah and Mrs. Boardman talked, then Mrs. Boardman pulled something glossy out of her library bag. Then Sarah
looked at the pictures. I just relaxed and read and enjoyed the reprieve from the playground.

After exactly ten days, I got quietly up from my assigned seat and approached the circulation desk.

“I'm interested in a Greek myth about somebody named Pandora,” I told Mrs. Boardman. “Can you help me?”

Mrs. Boardman glanced up at me and smiled. Somewhere along the line, I'd crossed over from being one of those annoying kids who caused her to reshelve the books to someone she could stand having around. Swiveling around in her chair, she pulled out a book from the reference shelf and set it on the desk in front of her. The thick, dark green cover contained a picture of a man with wings sprouting out of his head. Underneath that were the words
Bulfinch's Mythology
.

The middle drawer of her desk squeaked open, and Mrs. Boardman pulled out a little rubber cap that she stretched over her index finger. She opened the book and carefully turned the pages, smoothing down each one as she went. Her bony wrists bent precariously as she handed me the heavy volume.

“Thank you,” I whispered, and took it from her, walking directly over to Sarah, who lay on her stomach in the picture book section, poring over her latest skating book. I set the book directly onto a picture of a girl who seemed to be hanging in the air with her legs spread out at dangerous angles.

“What?” Sarah looked up at me, annoyed.

“My friend Gloria says you need to read this,” I told her. Sarah squinted at the small print before pulling her own book from beneath the one I'd set down. Then she shifted her position so she was over the pictures again.

“I'm serious,” I said, staying where I was.

Sarah glared at me and flipped over the cover of the book so she could see the title.

“So read it,” she said, as if it didn't really matter.

So I read her the story of Pandora, the girl who was sent to earth by the gods. She was the very first girl and every god and goddess did something to make her perfect. Then they sent her to earth to live with a guy named Epimetheus. In his house, Epimetheus had this box that he told Pandora she should never, under any circumstances, open. She did, of course. She couldn't control her curiosity. And out of the box came every bad thing that could ever happen to a person: sickness, poison, arthritis, old age, deformity. Those were just the diseases of the body. Then came the diseases of the mind, like sadness, jealousy, and despair.

Pandora was knocked flat by all these bad things rushing to get out and do their work in the world. She thought the box was empty, but at the bottom there was this little winged creature. She was Hope.

When I was finished, I glanced up at Sarah, who was resting her chin on her hands, listening.

“Read that last part again,” she said. “The part about the evils.” “ ‘So we see at this day, whatever evils are abroad, hope never entirely leaves us; and while we have
that,
no amount of other ills can make us completely wretched.' ”

Rolling over on her back, Sarah Kervick stared at the ceiling.

“Who's Gloria?” she said after a while.

“You can't read, can you?”

“Course I can read.”

“You can't read much, then.”

“Never was taught, was I? Didn't even go to school till I was eight.”

“Well, if you want to be regular, you're going to have to learn to read.”

Sarah reached up and yanked the fabric of my shirt so I lost my balance and hit the floor, shoulder first. There was no doubt this kind of collision would cause bruising.

“You think I don't know that?” she said.

“How come you don't ask for help, then? Or go to Coach Jablonski's class?”

“Lookin' like a retard, gettin' pulled out for special ed … you think that's regular?”

“I didn't know you had a choice.” We were whispering, our faces so close to each other that a little bit of Sarah Kervick's spit landed on my cheek.

She grinned at me like she always did, without showing her teeth. “Can't test me, can they? Dad won't sign the papers.”

“And you think you can pull that off forever?”

“That's how my dad did it.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to mention that her dad hadn't exactly reached the pinnacle of success with this method. But I'd already been Sarah-handled once that afternoon.

“Aren't you just a little curious?” I asked her, changing my tactic. “Don't you want to know how to do this?” With my injured arm, I managed to push her skating book so that it faced us both.

“You can't just look at the pictures, see. It says here, ‘It is essential to keep your weight over the left foot as you lead into the jump. With your right foot approximately twenty-four inches—'”

Sarah Kervick's palm slapped down on the picture with such strength that even slightly deaf Mrs. Boardman looked our way. Sitting up, she jammed her fists under her armpits.

“Course I want to know that.” And her eyes started blinking so funny and her jaw was clenched and she didn't say any more, not for a long time.

And I figured something out then. Sarah wanted to learn to read better, but you can't go around threatening Coach Jablonski behind the school, now, can you? She just couldn't figure out a way to make it happen.

This was a day I never thought I'd see. In my six-year history at Pelican View Elementary, I had never seen Mrs. Boardman break a rule. She wouldn't even loan you one of the library's pencils if you forgot yours—which, actually, was never a problem for me, but one that Marvin Howerton seemed to have with regularity.

But that day, when I asked her for help, Mrs. Boardman gave me six(!) easy readers to check out. And when I whispered to her that we'd have to find some way to disguise them, she found a backpack at the bottom of the lost and found box.

“Things should be put to use,” she said. “It's been here well over a year.”

I handed the backpack to Sarah and told her, “Well, it's got to be after baseball practice. And don't pretend you're busy.”

She clapped her arm around my shoulder and said, “Thanks, Donuthead.”

And I said, “Don't mention it.”

Later, I recalled with shock that I hadn't even checked her hand for warts.

If my memory serves me correctly, it was about this same time that I learned my mother was receiving anonymous gifts. Not that she volunteered this information, mind you. I had to pry it out of her.

She was going on what looked suspiciously like a date with Paul, whom she'd met when she and her friend Penny—the animal lover with the unhygienic potluck dishes—had gone out one night to snicker at the karaoke singers at Z's Bar and Grille. Paul was one of them, but when he crooned the line “You can't escape my love,” my mother punched Penny in the shoulder to shut her up.

“He's not so bad,” she said.

“In more ways than one,” Penny agreed.

She and Paul were only
friends,
she assured me. “No need to start grilling him yet, Franklin. We'll probably never cross the line. I don't really go for guys like Paul.” But she'd get a dreamy look when she talked about him that put me on my guard.

On the evening in question, they were meeting friends and going to a movie. Afterwards, Paul might take the mike at a new karaoke bar in Brownfield.

As soon as my mother emerged from the bathroom, I planned to engage her in a lengthy discussion of the perils of
leaving a child my age home alone after midnight, but I was temporarily overcome by the odor she gave off.