Читать книгу The Underdog Parade - Michael Mihaley - Страница 13

Day 60

Uncle Herb paid casual attention to the cartoon on television: this big, blue octopus was living in an apartment complex in the city, hanging out and getting into exciting adventures with his buddies—a wiener dog, a penguin, and a talking flower. It was a dated cartoon, considered a “classic” by the cable network, but much newer than the cartoons he had grown up on—and a lot less creative, in his opinion. It was like Friends for the kindergarten set.

It didn’t matter what was on; Herb’s enjoyment stemmed from his proximity to CJ. She sat at his feet, her back leaning against his knees as she ate raisins out of the container.

“Look, Uncle Herb, Oswald always wears a life preserver near the water,” CJ pointed out.

It was in moments like this when Herb wished that speaking wasn’t such a frustrating effort. He wanted to joke with her, tease her, and make her think: why does Oswald need a life preserver? He’s an octopus! But Herb knew by the time he pushed the words into the air, the payout wouldn’t be there, and both CJ and Oswald would be far from the water, flying a kite or eating ice cream. The last thing he wanted was to slow them down.

His first night of vacation at his sister’s home had gone as well as expected. He soaked in CJ and Peter, shared in Abby’s enthusiasm about getting a job, and spent a night of horrible sleep, which was nothing new.

The room Abby had set up for him was comfortable enough. The mattress was firm and didn’t swallow him, and Abby had installed bed rails—probably CJ’s old set—to prevent Herb from rolling off and falling to the floor. The troubling aspect was the small desk and unopened boxes piled high in the corner. The room was evidently intended as a home office for Nick.

Herb had to admit he wasn’t overly upset when he found out Nick was away on business. The comfort quotient rose exponentially. When Nick was around, Herb felt like a visitor. He didn’t know if Nick made him feel this way on purpose, if it just came naturally, or it all was in Herb’s head, but they were brothers by law only.

Herb knew this was partly his fault. He had felt this unsettling ping in his gut since Nick and Abby started dating. Early on, Herb tried to chalk the pings up to Nick being awkward around a person with a disability. Herb experienced it every day. But then there would be a look in Nick’s eye, a discreet facial expression or a conversation where the things left unsaid weighed heavier than the spoken words, and the pings rattled around like pennies in a cookie tin. He wanted to embrace Nick for the person he was, flawed like everyone else, but there was something more, something slippery that prevented Herb from getting to that point.

Herb felt awful about the situation, the strain it put on his sister during his visits, but the pings never disappeared. He hoped the plans for this visit hadn’t caused too much trouble. He also hoped that at some point he could salvage some sort of relationship with his brother-in-law, but right now he hoped Nick’s business trip was a long one. He was getting very selfish in his old age.

Peter entered the living room and plopped down on the couch.

“Mom said she called in my medication prescription this morning. Can I bike into town and go get it, Uncle Herb?”

“I want to go too!” CJ said.

Peter melted into the couch. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because Uncle Herb can watch you now. You don’t have to bug me all the time.”

Herb knew CJ’s insistence on shadowing Peter had to be a drain on the boy, but for a split second, Herb himself felt insecure, trying to gauge if Peter had reached the age when he’d be embarrassed to be seen publicly with his disabled Uncle. It was bound to happen, but Herb’s sudden and sharp anxiety unsettled him. Maybe this vacation wasn’t such a great idea, he thought. His home and work (delivering interoffice mail at a nonprofit agency) kept him sheltered and safe. Complacency and routine had its advantages. Now the emotions being stirred were things he hadn’t felt in over two decades.

Herb tried to be diplomatic; this was all so new to him. He asked Peter if it was okay if they all went.

Peter gave in reluctantly.

“I-gush-e-shoe-oh,” Herb said. I guess we should go.

As Peter and CJ removed their bikes from the garage and strapped on their helmets, Herb wondered if his anxiety was something more. If he unconsciously knew he was in over his head. CJ ran to the garage and returned with two tall, bright orange fluorescent flags. She stuck one on the back of her bike and wiggled the other between the seat padding and metal frame of Herb’s wheelchair.

“There, Uncle Herb. So cars can see you. Peter won’t use his anymore.”

This did little to ease Herb’s uncertainty, but he appreciated the gesture.

Peter checked his tire pressure with a hand squeeze and CJ followed suit, even with her training wheels which were plastic to the core. They headed out: Peter and CJ circled the slow surge of Herb’s motorized wheelchair like sheepdogs. Herb’s nerves were getting the best of him, with the worst-possible scenarios playing out in his head. They were good kids, great kids even, but still kids. If CJ had one of her excited lapses in judgment and ran into the street or something—his limitations as a chaperone made him shudder.

These feelings only escalated as the group made the right turn off Ranch, passed the pavilion, and headed to the exit. Beyond the hedges and gates separating Willow Creek Landing from the rest of the world, cars flashed by, zipping down the two-lane road at high speeds.

Peter pedaled ahead, then stopped his bike at the guard booth and waited. He didn’t like biking so slow, giving the sun ample opportunity to roast exposed areas of skin. He saw the queasy look on his uncle’s face as he approached.

“Maybe I should go by myself,” he said.

Selection seventeen on Peter’s “Sucks Rocks” list: Slocin Road. Peter had two recurring dreams since moving into the Creek, both involving balls. In one, he sat in his backyard minding his own business, when a sharp whistle would crack the air. He’d look up to see a small marshmallow, the ones found in instant hot chocolate packets, hurtling toward him through the sky. He’d hear a distant shout of “Fore!” but it was always a split-second after realizing the marshmallow was a golf ball that had just penetrated his eye socket with a sickening slurp. The rest of the dream usually consisted of Peter knocking into trees and lawn furniture, trying to acclimate himself to the life of a cyclops. In the other dream, he chased a rolling tennis ball. He was either on a tennis court or the elementary school in his old neighborhood where he and his friends played stickball. The second he lifted his eyes with the ball in hand, he was standing on the divider line in the middle of Slocin Road with a giant tractor trailer barreling down on him—the truck’s thick, steel grille the exact height off the road as Peter’s face.

Peter understood why the color drained from his uncle’s face; he felt the same way the first time he biked on Slocin.

“It’s not too bad,” Peter said as they reached the gates and silently contemplated the width of the road’s shoulder. He pointed to a side street fifty yards away. “We just have to make it to there, and then we can take the back roads to town.”

Herb studied the traffic pattern: two lanes in each direction with a steady flow of cars, and the nearest traffic light a half mile down the road. Cars would have no reason to drive under sixty miles per hour.

“Great,” Herb muttered to himself. All the consequences of his next decision circled like a carousel in his head. Turning around and going home would certainly disappoint the kids and maybe even set the tone for the rest of Herb’s stay. But going? He refused to let himself imagine the unimaginable. He was paralyzed enough.

So, Herb did what he always did when he felt himself at a crossroads. He lowered his head in prayer.

Cars slowed as they entered and exited Willow Creek Landing, lowering their sunglasses or phones to peer at the man in the wheelchair, his head bowed, and the two children on bikes huddled around him. One or two drivers came close to stopping and offering assistance, but then the boy would smile bashfully or wave, and the drivers would wave back and continue on their hurried way, relieved on several levels while still feeling a personal rush for reaching out enough to achieve Good Samaritan status in their own minds.

“Uncle Herb?” CJ asked, after several minutes of silence.

Peter stuck a finger to his lips to quiet her.

CJ leaned in closer to the wheelchair, shooing her brother.

“Uncle Herb,” she whispered, “don’t worry if you’re scared. I’ll protect you. I have my lasso. I’ll walk right next to you.”

Peter rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “Like a lasso will do anything against a speeding car.”

“It will!”

The lasso discussion had little time to spiral into an argument. Herb’s head rose.

“Eddie,” he said. Ready.

They waited until there was a break in traffic and no vehicles could be seen as far as the nearest bend. This would give them at least five seconds of car-free travel. Herb motioned for Peter to go, warning him to stay completely to the outside of the shoulder. When Herb was praying, asking for help, a sign to lead him, it was CJ’s interruption that dictated his decision. By “protecting him,” she would remain on foot and on the inside of Herb, a barrier preventing her from getting any closer to the road. There would be no losing control of her bike or judgment. Caution was in Peter’s nature, and Herb felt confident as Peter hugged the grass outside the shoulder, pedaling straight and steady.

But then Herb heard the sound of approaching cars in the distance. He prayed with his eyes open for traveling mercies as he braced himself for the deafening roar and manufactured wind gusts.

“It’s okay, Uncle Herb,” CJ said in a soothing voice. She led her bicycle on foot in perfect stride with Herb’s wheelchair.

The deafening roar never did come. An elderly couple driving a hatchback economy car passed first, their eyes nowhere near the road but staring stupefied over at Herb and CJ and the parallel orange flags sagging lifelessly from their poles above them. The couple muttered declarations like, “in all the years” and “I never,” and unwittingly turned into the grand marshals of a parade of rubberneckers, filled with slow-moving floats of curiosity, amusement, or mild annoyance. Herb praised the good fortune.

* * *

The group reached Main Street, and Herb decided he had lived through enough adventure for one day. He parked next to a shaded bench and told Peter he could run to the drugstore on his own since he would be in sight the entire way. CJ had packed some picture books in the mesh storage unit underneath Herb’s chair, and she grabbed one and headed to the bench.

The sun’s glare washed out the colors of the bouquet shops and restaurants dotting both sides of Main Street, constructing an image resembling a collage of overexposed photographs.

“When is it going to rain, Uncle Herb?” CJ asked, peering to the sky.

“Ah-de-no.”

The picture book played music, and CJ hummed along with the song. Main Street buzzed with cars, and a periodic honk would produce a face and waving hand behind a window of a passing car.

“Wow, how does everyone see us over here? We’re not even on the sidewalks,” CJ wondered aloud.

Herb looked up at the obtrusively bright orange flags, but only smiled.

* * *

As Peter reached the plate glass window of Handley’s Drug Store, he braced himself before opening the door. He knew the magazine rack of Handley’s was a local hangout for some of his schoolmates until Mr. Handley would whisk them off for loitering. The store was air-conditioned—a reason to go anywhere these days. Peter was thankful for Uncle Herb’s suggestion to go solo. This way he could move stealthily. Just like his list of goals for the school year, the summer was more of the same: if Peter couldn’t fit in, he wanted to be invisible—entirely impossible if he, CJ, and Uncle Herb had all went to the drugstore. In Wonder Woman attire or not, attention followed CJ like dirt to Pigpen. Ladies would approach her in the supermarket to comment on her big, golden curls or her large, blue eyes. Only her family commented on her largest feature, which drew the most attention: her mouth.

Peter stared at his shoes as he entered the store and beelined down the cosmetics aisle to avoid the magazine rack in the front of the store. He took the milliseconds of silence as a good sign, glancing behind his shoulder once he was halfway down the aisle.

He reached the pharmacy department at the back of the store and saw Mr. Handley behind the counter. Mr. Handley was called the Wizard, though never to his face. From the elevated platform behind the counter, Mr. Handley looked like he was seven feet tall, but when he stepped down from the counter, usually to help a customer find a product, one could see that he was no larger than the tallest shelf in the store, providing an Oz-like moment.

“Hello, Peter. I was expecting you. Your mother called this morning,” Mr. Handley said, as he smiled behind the glasses that dangled from the edge of his nose.

Peter looked up at the Wizard. “Yes, sir.”

Mr. Handley handed Peter a stapled, small, white bag. “Your mother asked me to run a tab. I usually don’t do that, but for you . . .” He smiled at his joke and winked.

“Thanks, Mr. Handley.”

Peter stuffed the bag in his front pocket and raced back down the aisle with his head down. When he reached the exit doors, he let out a sigh of relief as he pushed, until he collided with Chipper entering the store.

“Howdy,” Chipper said, his usual greeting in its low, ominous tenor.

“Sorry,” Peter said, sliding fluidly around Chipper and out the door only to bump into one of the goons. The quick change of temperature, and Chipper, dizzied Peter. He quickly considered retreating into the store, saying he forgot something, but Chipper grabbed his shirt and ushered him down the sidewalk. The safety of the store aisles closed with the door.

“Maybe Nemo could help us out, guys. What do you think?”

The goon shook their heads eagerly. Peter didn’t like where this was heading. He concentrated on a crack in the sidewalk as Chipper and the goons formed a triangle around him.

“Hey Nemo, yoo-hoo! I’m up here,” Chipper said, trying to get Peter to look up.

No way, Peter thought. Just do what you’re going to do.

“Nemo, Jason here is working on his first aid merit badge. We need someone to practice splinting and slinging. Can you be our dummy?” Chipper said, which evoked an eruption of goon laughter.

“I have to go,” Peter said. The words fell limply to the ground with no force behind them.

“C’mon, Nemo. I promise no tourniquets.”

Peter shook his head and tried to walk away, but Chipper grabbed him firmly by the shirt with both hands. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“First step, immobilization,” Chipper said in a scholarly voice as one of the goons grabbed Peter from behind.

“Let me go!” Peter said, trying to sound forceful but failing miserably.

Chipper slapped him on the side of his head, the demeaning act more painful than the actual slap.

Chipper glanced down the block. “Oh, I see what the rush is all about, people are waiting for you. Why didn’t you say something?”

Like that would have mattered, Peter thought.

“Who’s that with your Looney Tunes sister, anyway?”

There was no way Peter was answering that question, but then Chipper grabbed Peter’s nipple and turned it like a volume dial.

“My uncle,” Peter said through clenched teeth.

Chipper let out a whooping laugh. “It just keeps getting better and better. What were you doing in Handley’s, buying him a drool bucket?”

The goons’ laughter was delayed, as if they first had to ignore or push down and bury something before rejoining the ridicule.

“You know, Nemo, you should save up and buy a little yellow bus for the entire family.”

Underneath the heavy layers of fear, Peter felt anger boil. He could take the personal attacks, but his uncle should be off limits. His face reddened and his vision blurred. A sudden bang startled them all. Peter felt the grips release him. Mr. Handley was pointing from behind his store’s window.

Chipper waved and smiled. He said under his breath as he waved, “Hi, Mr. Wizard. We’re just taking a stroll down the yellow brick road.” He looked at Peter with disdain. “First your druggie neighbor, now the wizard. You have some luck.”

Peter didn’t agree, but he had no plans to debate the issue. He made a break for it, dashing down the street.

“Run, Nemo, Run!” he heard Chipper mocking him.

Peter didn’t stop until he reached CJ and Uncle Herb. He hid his wet face as he loaded himself on his bike. Uncle Herb and CJ followed naturally.

Herb had seen the end of the altercation. At first, he’d hoped they were friends of Peter, but he was beginning to realize friendship might be a rare commodity for his nephew. Between Slocin Road and watching those boys torment Peter, Herb felt like day two of his vacation had already stripped him raw. He would have loved to rescue Peter, to make him feel protected while instilling a deep fear into those kids, enough to make them think twice the next time they decided to pick on Peter. The painful feelings of inadequacy rushed into Herb, emotions he hadn’t experienced since his own awful adolescence. He was a penguin cursing his flightless wings. He thought being around the kids was a good thing; now he wasn’t so sure.

Peter, CJ, and Uncle Herb traveled home in silence; only the sound of the wheelchair’s motor could be heard above their thoughts.