Double-Dare O’Toole (12 page)

Shortly before eleven Fex and Charlie ate their egg salad sandwiches outside. It was sort of early for lunch but Charlie claimed he was hungry.

“Those are probably the best egg salad sandwiches you have ever eaten,” Fex told Charlie. “Or ever will.” Charlie smiled in agreement. He looked sleepy.

“How about a little shut-eye?” Fex suggested.

“It's still morning,” Charlie said indignantly. “I don't shut eyes in the morning. I'm too old for that.”

“O.K. then, I'll tell you a story.”

“That would be good,” Charlie said, settling in Fex's lap. Fex told him the same old tale he'd made up, about good monsters and bad monsters and the continuing battle they fought. The good monsters always won. Charlie liked that part.

When Fex finished, Charlie stayed where he was for a while, thinking things over. “I don't think it's fair,” he said at last. “The way the good ones always win. That's not fair.”

“O.K. Next time I'll have the bad ones win. How's that?” Fex said.

“That'd be nice,” Charlie agreed. “Now let's go fishing.”

They stood on the riverbank and gazed into its dark depths. The water, normally clear to the bottom, was turgid and black. They watched it bungle its angry way over the rocks, rushing, pushing its way downstream.

“I never saw it like this,” Fex said. “Not ever. And I've lived here since before you were born, Charlie.”

Charlie did not look impressed by this impressive statement. He squatted by the river's edge. “I can't see anything,” he said. “No fish, nothing. It's too dark inside the water.”

Fex squatted beside him. “Hey!” someone shouted. Fex looked up.

A gang, led by Barney, approached. “If it isn't Double-Dare O'Toole!” he cried, grinning, looking around to make sure his followers joined in the fun. “How's it going, Double-Dare O'Toole?” he shouted.

Doesn't he ever know when to quit? Fex thought.

“Come on, Charlie,” Fex urged, “let's go see what's on the tube. Let's catch a couple of cartoons.”

Charlie didn't stir. He stayed where he was, looking at the big kids loping across the grass. This was fun, like a party.

Fex stood his ground. “Clear out,” he said.

The mob nudged one another and laughed. “Make us,” one of them said.

Fex put out his hand. If necessary, he'd drag the kid inside to safety until these guys took off. “Come on, Charlie,” he said, his voice cracking. “Let's go.”

“Why don't you go for a swim, Fex?” Barney said, mocking him. “Suppose I double-dare you? How about that?” He turned to his troops for approval. They gave it. “Yeah!” they cried. “Yeah! Yeah!”

“I double-dare you to go for a swim right now, O'Toole!”

Charlie stayed where he was, squatting by the water, watching, his smile as bright as ever.

“I'm not falling for any more of that crap,” Fex said.

“O.K.,” Barney said slowly, distinctly, “how about you, Charlie? I dare you, Charlie. You go for a swim.”

Fex stepped backward, keeping Barney in his sights.

He heard Charlie say, “O.K.,” heard a splash. Charlie had jumped into the boiling current. He'd been to the Y for swimming lessons. He knew what he was doing.

The water surged over his head. All Fex could see was Charlie's bright red shirt. In the dark water it stood out like a beacon. Then he saw Charlie's legs waving in the air as he was carried bouncing over the rocks.

Fex jumped in, keeping the red shirt in the center of his terrified vision. He fought the powerful rush of water as it picked him up, drove him along, down, and farther down.

The shirt. The red shirt. If you lose that, you lose Charlie, a voice screamed inside Fex's head. You lose everything. You lose Charlie. With an immense effort he kept his head up and his arms out, ready to grab and hold on. Red shirt. Red shirt. Ahead was blackness, the terrible opaque blackness of the water. It seemed to Fex that he saw a spot of color. Using his arms, his feet, his legs, his heart, he fought his way toward it. He reached out, almost had it, and then it was gone. Again he reached out, his arms and heart straining. He touched something, grabbed hold, held on. His heart was going to burst. He lifted what he'd caught, pulled, tugged, lifted again.

Then there were two men beside him, helping him. Two tremendous men. They must be giants, they were so huge. They lifted up the red spot, and it was Charlie. They carried him and Fex out of the raging current and brought them to the bank of the river.

“My God, my God!” someone said. That was all Fex heard. He was surrounded by a wall of legs. All he could see were legs. Thousands of legs. Noisy legs.

“It's all right,” one of the men said. “I think we got him in time.” They bent over Charlie, breathing air into his little red mouth. Fex put his head in his hands and vomited. Someone held his head.

I think we got him in time. That's what the man said. Fex looked up, dazed. He saw Barney standing on the fringe of the crowd, mouth open, eyes bugging out. He struggled to get up. He wanted to beat Barney to a pulp. His legs wouldn't support him. You've killed him, a voice in his head shouted. Barney, I'm talking to you. And then another voice said, You know you might've been killed, don't you? Only fools accept dares to do things that might result in injury or death. It was his father, talking to him, Fex.

He lay back and closed his eyes. It wasn't Barney, it was me. If Charlie had died, I would've been responsible. I'm the big hotshot double-dare guy, the guy who never turns down a double-dare. He smelled the river on himself. It was my fault, not Barney's. Never again. Injury or death. He couldn't stop crying. Or maybe it was the river water seeping out of his eyes.

“It's all right, it's all right,” he heard a familiar voice murmur. Arms took him in, held him. It was his father. It was the first time in years, since he'd been very small, that he could remember his father holding him this way.

He heard someone crying. Very loudly. It was Charlie. Charlie didn't cry often. When he did, he really let go. It was a sweet sound. Fex put his head against his father's chest and closed his eyes.

22

When Fex woke on Sunday he felt bruised. As if he'd been in an accident. As if someone had stomped on him. It had been a rough two days. Friday night, then Saturday. No wonder he felt bruised. He went again to early church and listened to the sermon, which was about treating your neighbor as you would yourself. He put a dime in the collection plate. When church was over, he got on his bike. He figured he'd ride around a bit. He didn't want to get to Angie's too early. He wondered if she made pancakes every Sunday, if she expected him. He hoped so.

He rode past Audrey's house, crouched low over his handlebars, like a racing driver, in case Audrey looked out the window and saw him. He didn't want her to think he wanted to see her. The house looked closed, as if the family had gone on vacation. When he got to the end of her street, he turned and rode past once more, eyes straight ahead, arms folded across his chest. Look. No hands.

The streets were deserted, the morning light green and shining. Fex enjoyed the solitude, the feeling of being absolutely alone. That was a fine feeling as long as you knew you had a place to go, he thought. There was a calm, swelling sensation in his chest. He hadn't felt calm for some time. He also felt virtuous because he'd been to church already and the people inside the houses he passed were probably still in their bathrobes, drinking coffee, yawning.

He postponed riding to Angie's because he so much looked forward to going there, sitting with her, eating her good food, telling her about the party (the parts he felt like telling her), maybe having her give him a few more words of advice. He wasn't going to say, “Your plan didn't work, Angie. My friend tried putting the moves on an older girl and it didn't work.” He wasn't going to say that exactly. Something like it but not exactly that. He wasn't going to blame Angie for what had happened. When he told Angie that, she'd probably raise her shoulders, throw out her hands, and say, “What're you gonna do?” the way she always did. He smiled in anticipation. Then, at the end, when he was leaving, he'd tell her about Charlie. No big deal, just tell her what happened.

The sun rose higher, hotter. He figured the time had come for him to head for Angie's. Leisurely he rode toward her house. When he arrived, he saw six or seven cars parked out front. She must be having a party, a brunch or something. There was no one around he could ask. Well, if Angie was having a party, he couldn't knock on her door. That wouldn't be right. Then she'd have to invite him in whether she wanted to or not. He was disappointed. Maybe if he came back later in the day, Angie's guests would be gone. He'd give it a try.

On his way home he rode past the general store. On the door a sign said something that looked like:
CLOSED DUE TO DEATH IN THE FAMILY.
Fex got off his bike and walked up close to make sure that's what the sign said. So that's why the cars were there. Angie's husband's heart must've given out at last. Poor Angie. He felt bad for her. He rode home, his heart heavy.

As he opened the door, the phone rang. When Fex picked it up, Audrey's voice said, “Angie died.”

“What? Wha-wha-what did you say?” Fex stuttered the way he did when something unexpected and upsetting happened. “I was just at the store,” he said. “There was a sign saying they were closed due to a death in the family. I thought it was her husband.”

“My mother went to get the papers. A man said the store wouldn't be open today. He put the sign up. He said it was Angie who died.”

“When?”

“I don't know. Maybe today, maybe yesterday. They're having visiting hours tomorrow night at the Bennett Funeral Home. Tonight and tomorrow. I'm going tomorrow night.”

“Who're you going to visit?” Fex asked.

“The family, dope. It's a wake. You pay your respects. I'm going tomorrow. If you want, be at my house at a quarter to seven,” Audrey said.

“What'd she die of?” Fex said.

“How do I know?” Audrey sounded angry. “The man said she died suddenly. What's that supposed to mean? Does that mean all of a sudden she dropped dead? Why do they use stupid words like that when they're talking about a person? I don't understand it. I think it stinks. That's what I think,” and she hung up on him. He sat looking at the humming receiver, trying to make sense out of the whole thing.

How could Angie die when it had been her husband who was sick? Only a couple of days ago Angie'd been hopping around behind the cash register in her old army pants. She wasn't even old. She wasn't even a senior citizen.

“What's the matter?” Fex's father asked.

“Angie died.”

“Angle?”

“At the general store. You know her.”

Fex turned away. He didn't want his father to see his face.

“I'm sorry, Fex.” His father patted him on the back. “I thought you might want to see this.”

He held out the Bridgeport paper. There was a picture of Fex. The caption under the picture read:

TWELVE-YEAR-OLD RESCUES TOT FROM RIVER
.

There he was, puny, ugly, hair matted down, clothes sticking to him. Charlie wasn't even in the picture. If that's what I look like, Fex thought, I better crawl in a hole and stay there.

Pete came up behind him as he studied his image.

“Will you look at that?” Pete's voice was mocking, but there was something new there, something hard to recognize because it was so new. “Baby brother is a hero,” Pete said. “Will wonders never cease? Old Double-Dare O'Toole is a hero.”

Without warning, without planning, Fex leaped on him. Rage made him strong, and he brought Pete to the floor more easily than he ever would have dreamed possible. Through clenched teeth he said, “You ever call me that again and I'll break your head.” He put his hands around Pete's throat. His father watched and made no attempt to stop him.

“Never again,” Fex said, speaking slowly so Pete would remember what he said. “Never again. You hear me?”

Wordlessly, Pete nodded. He understood. Fex could tell from his eyes that he understood. Pete had never looked at him like that before. But he would again. Lots of times.

Jerry said nothing. But when Fex went to his room, their room, he found a poster Jerry had made. He had stuck it to the mirror with Scotch tape. It was a picture of him, Fex. A round face, round eyes, a smiling mouth. Over the head was a halo. Barely recognizable but a halo nevertheless. Underneath Jerry had written, FRANCIS XAVIER O'TOOLE.
BROTHER AND HERO
.

That kid was too much. Fex smiled in spite of himself. He heard a noise. His mother stood in the doorway.

“I'm so sorry to hear about Angie, Fex,” she said. “I know you and she were friends. I know you'll miss her.”

“Audrey and I are going to the funeral home tomorrow night,” Fex said. “To pay our respects. Is that all right?”

She nodded. “I'm proud of you, Fex” she said. “For a number of reasons.” Then she left him abruptly, before he had to answer her, which was a good thing.

Monday morning he overslept. When he came downstairs, the clock said it was after nine.

“Why don't I run you over?” his mother said.

“No, thanks. I'll ride my bike.”

At school he slipped into his home room. No one looked up. They were studying the English assignment. Ms. Arnow was writing on the blackboard. She didn't pay any attention to him either. He opened his book to what he hoped was the right page. “All right, class.” Ms. Arnow turned away from the blackboard. Everyone stood and sang “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.”

Fex looked at the floor. The ends of his ears tingled. He tried to look as if they were singing for somebody else. In the afternoon Ms. Arnow handed him a note asking him to come to the principal's office after school.