Imperfect Spiral (2 page)

“They don't answer,” she's saying. “They're not answering their cell phones. Who doesn't answer their cell phones when they leave their child with a babysitter? Isn't that the whole point of cell phones—so you can be reached in an emergency?”

“Oh my God,” Mrs. Stashower says.

Mrs. McGillicudy appears again as I lie on the stretcher waiting to be lifted into the ambulance. No one answered the
door or the phone at my house, she tells me. Were my parents reachable?

“Oh—my cell phone,” I remember. “Mrs. Raskin.”

While Mrs. McGillicudy goes to find Mrs. Raskin and my phone, my team of rescue workers lifts my stretcher into the ambulance.

“But she's got my phone,” I object.

Either I don't say this out loud or I do and no one cares. The hunky guy and the woman climb in the back with me. Before the doors to the ambulance close, I notice, for the first time, the teal blue minivan at the head of the line of cars snaking backward on Quarry Road. It's the car closest to Humphrey, and its position in the lane is sort of skewed. From what I can see in the deepening dusk, the car hasn't suffered a bit of damage.

Humphrey, however, is still lying in the road. I see him vividly and clearly, despite the gathering darkness.

I can throw a perfect spiral. Not only that, I can throw it hard, a spiral with speed. Humphrey was surprised by my football-throwing prowess—I saw it in his perfectly open and transparent face, the fair and transparent face of a blond, surprised in a totally delighted way. This was at the start of our summer together, when Humphrey and I were first getting to know each other.

“You can do that?” he squealed after the ball bounced out of his arms.

“I just did, didn't I?”

“It wasn't an accident?”

“Gimme the ball,” I said, “babysitt
ee
.”

“If you're the babysitter,” he had said on my first day, “then I'm the babysitt
ee
.”

“Law talk with his father,” Mrs. Danker had explained. “Employer, employee. Promisor, promisee.” She ran her hand gently over her son's crew cut. “You'll get used to Humphrey and his words.”

Now he threw the ball in my direction. We were, I figured, about fifteen feet apart. His throw didn't even make it halfway. I retrieved the ball, backed up to put some distance between us, and launched another spiral. It was right to him, but the kid didn't have a chance. He really couldn't catch the ball.

“Wow!” Humphrey yelled. “Can you teach me?”

I don't know football. I don't follow the Ravens or Redskins, don't go to high school games, don't follow college play. But I do like to throw and catch a football.

“I don't know if I can teach you, exactly,” I told Humphrey. “But I can play catch with you. I can help you practice.”

“Oh, come on—teach me how to throw a spiral!”

I tried. I know nothing about the mechanics of passing, but I looked at my hands on the ball and tried to place Humphrey's hands like mine. No way. He had pretty big hands, it seemed to me, for a little kid—
he'll be tall when he grows up
, I thought—but he still couldn't really grip the football.

“Come on, Danielle,” Humphrey said after sixteen unsuccessful attempts. “Try something different!”

“Follow me!” I exclaimed, running away from him. “To the spaceship!”

On the edge of the field was a small, kind of sad, toddler playground. It had a swing set, three bumblebees mounted on
springs, a climbing gym about as big as a king-size bed, and a roundabout. It was deserted, as it usually was, not only because it was just about dinnertime, but also because there was a much better playground with all the latest equipment a few miles away.

I let Humphrey catch up with me. “To the spaceship!” he screamed. “Hurry, before they get us!”

Humphrey reached the roundabout, which was, as it had been on previous visits to this park, our spaceship.

“Don't leave me behind, Humphrey!” I pleaded. “Don't let them get me!”

When I reached the roundabout, I grabbed hold of one of the handles and spun it around a few times, creating momentum before I jumped on opposite Humphrey.

“Takeoff!” he screamed joyfully.

“Into the atmosphere!”

“Away from the … away from the …”

“Aliens!” I prompted him.

“Away from the aliens!” Humphrey said.

The roundabout spun for a surprisingly long time.

“Coming in for a landing,” I said as we slowed down. “And … we're here.”

Humphrey jumped off. “A new planet,” he said. “It's never been discovered.”

“We'll have to name it, then,” I said.

Humphrey looked at the bumblebees and bugged out his eyes. Pointing, he screamed, “New aliens!”

“But could they be … friendly aliens?” I asked.

“Let's see,” Humphrey said. He approached the bumblebees slowly. “I come in peace,” he said, stretching out his hands. “Look, Danielle, they want me to ride them.”

“That's very friendly,” I said.

He climbed on the back of a bumblebee that used to be blue—most of the paint was worn off—and rocked himself to get the springy action going. After about a minute he stopped and got off. “Thanks, Bumble-Boo,” Humphrey said. “His name is Bumble-Boo.”

“That's a fine name,” I said. “And the planet's name is …”

“The planet is Thrumble-Boo,” Humphrey said.

“Thrumble-Boo?” I said. “Not Crumble-Boo? Maybe it's made up of cookie crumbs. Or Strumble-Boo? Maybe everyone here strums a banjo. Or Dumble-Boo? Maybe it's only for dumb aliens.”

Humphrey fixed his serious green-eyed stare on me. “It is not for dumb aliens. There are no banjos or cookie crumbs. It's Thrumble-Boo. It's Thrumble-Boo because of … the thrumbles.”

After a return spaceship ride to planet Earth, we set out for the walk home. Quarry Road was crammed with cars, slowly making their way in rush hour. I stretched out my free hand—the one not holding the football against my hip—and Humphrey took it.

“Danielle,” Humphrey said.

“That's my name, don't wear it out.”

“When I told you to try something different before, I meant
you should try something different to teach me how to throw a spiral.”

Huh
, I thought. And here I'd assumed that after sixteen efforts Humphrey had been ready to move on.

“Sorry, Humpty,” I said. “I thought you were tired of that.”

“No, Dumpty,” said Humphrey. “I'm very persistent.”

“You're persistent?” I asked. “Are you also a genius? How do you know the word ‘persistent'?”

“I know lots of long
p
words,” Humphrey said.

Long
p
words?

“Like what else?” I asked.

He thought. It was one thing to know them, another to remember them.

“Um,” he said. “I forget. And anyway, I'm hungry!”

Twenty minutes later, Humphrey was sitting at his kitchen table shoveling SpaghettiOs into his mouth, followed by chasers of chicken tenders and cut-up apple chunks. His favorite meal.

“I remember some of my other long
p
words, Danielle,” he said.

“I'm listening.”

He swallowed before launching into his lexicon:
Particular. Persnickety. Pugnacious
.

“Wow,” I said. “You are one smart boy.”

He thanked me and continued.

Predictable. Prognosis. Perculiar
.

“
Pe
-culiar,” I corrected him.

“
Per
-culiar,” he corrected me back. “My dad told me.”

I seriously doubted that. I seriously doubted that the esteemed Thomas R. Danker, Esq., a famous lawyer who argues cases in front of the United States Supreme Court, gave his son incorrect instruction on how to pronounce a
p
word.

“It really is
pe
-culiar, Humpty,” I said.

“I like
per
-culiar,” he said.

I looked at his SpaghettiOs-stained face and smiled.

“I like perculiar, too,” I said.

After three hours in the emergency room, I'm officially declared uninjured. By this time, my parents are at the hospital. As we emerge from the treatment room to the crowded waiting area, we see Adrian and a bunch of neighbors, including, no surprise, Mrs. Raskin.

“I keep my phone on vibrate, even in the theater,” she is saying to Adrian.

“Sometimes you can't feel it vibrating,” Adrian says.

“I hold the phone right in my hand,” Mrs. Raskin replies. “That way I don't miss a call. And if—”

She breaks off when she sees us.

“They finally answered the phone,” she says. “When the movie ended. They're with Humphrey. Unless he's being operated on. At any rate, they're here.”

“Any word on him?” my father asks. “Does anyone know how Humphrey's doing?”

“Not yet,” says Adrian.

Both sets of the Dankers' next-door neighbors are in the waiting room—the Crenshaws, who brought their three kids along, and the other couple, who don't have kids and whose name I don't know. There's also Mrs. Hermann, whose house is on the corner of Quarry and Franklin, right next to where the accident happened. Mr. Stashower, whose house is on the opposite corner of Quarry and Franklin. Mrs. McGillicudy, who lives on our street. She gives me a hug. So does Adrian, who also slips my phone into my hand.

“I had to pry it away from the crazy bat,” he whispers in my ear. “I think she wanted to download your contacts.”

I don't really get what he's saying. She what?

“Seriously—are you okay?” he asks.

“I don't know,” I say. “Did you see Humphrey's parents?”

“Yeah. They came through the waiting room and went right back to wherever Humphrey's being treated.”

“Did you see Humphrey?” I ask.

Adrian gives me a quizzical look. “How could I—”

“I thought maybe when they brought him in. Maybe you saw if he opened his eyes.”

“I didn't get here until way after,” Adrian says. “Anyway, they don't bring the ambulance patients through the waiting room.”

Right. I should know that from those television dramas.

“Why is it so crowded in here?” I ask. Besides the neighbors, there are lots of people milling around.

“Friday night in the ER,” Adrian says. “The end of the workweek. The beginning of the weekend. Doctors' offices are closed, and people start doing crazy weekend things.”

I see my parents speaking with a policeman, over in a corner.

“You're probably going to have to talk with the cops,” Adrian says.

“Right now?”

Couldn't they just talk to Mrs. Raskin or someone? Someone with lots of ideas about what happened out there?

“Well, soon, I bet. They'll want to get to you while your memory is fresh.”

Mom and Dad come over. Yes, the police need to interview me. It will be a quick interview tonight. We don't have to go to the police station; they will come to the house. Just a few questions, and if they need more details, they'll follow up tomorrow.

“But what about Humphrey?” I ask.

“I'm sure the doctors are doing everything they can to help him,” Mom says. “It's time to get you home.”

“Tell us what happened. What time was it when you and Humphrey were walking home?”

“Around seven fifteen. Seven twenty. Maybe seven twenty-five by the time we were on Quarry near Franklin.”

“You were playing with the football?”

There are two police officers in our living room, a man and a woman. They're taking turns asking the questions. I'm having a hard time focusing on who's saying what.

“Yes. We were playing with the football.”

“So you're tossing the football back and forth while walking home?”

“Oh, no. No. We played with the football at the park. We did that a lot. We were just going home and we dropped the football and it rolled into the street and Humphrey ran after it.”

“So when you say
we
dropped the football—”

“
I
dropped the football.”

“And then.”

“And it bounced into the street. Humphrey ran after it.”

“Did you notice the car before it hit him?”

“No. I wasn't looking at the cars. I wasn't expecting Humphrey to run into the street.”

“Did you notice if any cars seemed to be speeding, or driving recklessly?”

“No. I didn't notice anything like that.”

“Could you describe the car that hit Humphrey?”

“I don't think I can describe it. It's like I sensed Humphrey getting hit more than I saw him getting hit.”

“You didn't see the accident.”