Читать книгу The Underdog Parade - Michael Mihaley - Страница 14

Night

The carcass of Peter’s air conditioner sat defeated on the carpet below his window, having burnt out over three weeks ago. Peter’s father had promised to fix or replace the AC right after returning from his Arizona business trip, but then it was the New Orleans trip, followed by the most recent trip to Texas. It was depressing for Peter to think of the endless number of cities and states in the country.

Things you can do with a dead air conditioner—a list by Peter Grady. One: stub your toe in the dark. Two: makes a suitable small table or chair. Three: use as an extra hamper.

The heat was relentless, nudging and crowding him. Peter lashed out in bed as if trapped in an invisible net. He peeled back the white elastic band of his underwear and kicked the lone sheet to the bottom of his bed as he sweated and stared into the darkness while imagining himself in an igloo, or making a snow angel in his bathing suit.

Then Peter heard the sound of a footstep, a hardwood plank wheezing in the hallway. Then another. Peter sat up and peered underneath his bedroom door for light. CJ and his mother had the habit of turning the hallway light on when they woke in the middle of the night. No light, but another footstep. Uncle Herb’s room was next to his, and he debated calling out just for show, to let whoever it was in the hall know he wasn’t sneaking up on anyone. It occurred to Peter that he was doing the second dumbest action of victims in horror movies—sitting there. The dumbest, of course, being to look for the cause of the sound. He heard the footstep again, closer this time, and slipped out of bed, tiptoeing to the closet. He stepped over a row of shoes and hid in the back corner. He grabbed the aluminum baseball bat leaning in the corner and lifted it to his chest, feeling the cool metal against his skin. The steps stopped in front of Peter’s bedroom door.

“Peter, are you awake?” CJ whispered from outside the door.

Peter exhaled. He crawled back into bed with his heart still racing, leaving the bat in the closet. The door creaked open and CJ appeared at the foot of his bed above the crumpled mountain of sheets.

“Go back to bed, CJ.” Peter turned on his side. The smoldering large numbers of his digital clock read 11:53 p.m.

“Wake up, please, Peter. There is someone in front of the house, a man. I heard him. He’s right outside.”

CJ’s eyes were egg shaped, and she bit at her bottom lip. She moved around to the head of bed. “I’m serious,” she said, and Peter could smell her breath, an extraordinarily strong, sweet scent.

“Were you eating marshmallows?” Peter relaxed.

She looked away sheepishly.

Then it made complete sense to Peter: why the hallway light wasn’t on, how she could hear someone in front of the house when her room faced the golf course in back. She was making a late-night visit to the kitchen’s snack stash. Marshmallows were CJ’s weakness. Peter was wondering how long she had been doing this when he too heard a low mumbling from outside.

CJ whipped her pointer finger to the window, and leaned her face into Peter’s. “He’s coming this way.”

Peter rolled to the floor and crawled over to the air conditioner. He carefully lifted the shade enough to dip his head under, and CJ did the same, their noses inches from the mesh screen. The one streetlight lit the block in a rusty tint. No signs of movement except for Mr. Terry’s miniature windmill on his side lawn, the sails turning over lazily in the still night.

“I don’t see anything,” Peter said.

“There was someone there, I swear.” CJ’s eyes darted from side to side in disbelief.

Peter sighed, “I’m going back to bed,” but as he started to back away he heard the low, incoherent mumbling again, like a witch reciting a spell in front of a cauldron.

CJ pointed to the window and mouthed, “I told you.”

Their pajamas hugged the contours of the air conditioner. They allowed only the features above their noses to rise up the windowsill.

“Where is it coming from?” CJ said, softly.

A garbage can rattled down the street—obviously the voice did nothing to stop the raccoons’ pillage.

“I’m getting Mom,” CJ said, and she turned, but Peter grabbed her and nodded with his head. A shadowy figure appeared from beyond the hemlock tree. The man walked with the muscled tautness of a stalking tiger, the hair bouncing gently off his shoulders.

“It’s Josh.”

“Josh?” CJ asked.

Peter brought his finger up to his mouth. In this light, Josh reminded him of an animal in the wild. Peter felt like a photographer for National Geographic. Ever since the race, Peter held a fascination with his neighbor—the way Josh decided to do something and did it without caring what anyone else would think or how much he stood out. Peter would never have done that in a million years. This presented a perfect opportunity to study him. Even the way he walked was unusual, and Peter wished he could walk the same way. Josh’s gait possessed a menacing grace; one that would make you feel protected if you walked by his side through a crowd of strangers, but more than uncomfortable if you crossed his path on an empty street.

CJ said, “Who’s he talking to? He’s by himself.”

Josh was pacing slowly in the middle of the street, his head bent to the sky. He was dressed only in jeans.

“He needs shoes for his birthday,” CJ whispered.

Getting a little bolder, they pressed their faces against the screen to hear his words. He spoke in streams.

“He makes me to lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; he leads me in the path of righteousness for His name’s sake.”

“Who does that to Josh?” CJ asked, her words muffled and constricted by the screen.

“Shhhh.”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for you are with me; Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

Peter was pretty sure Josh was quoting the Bible, but he made a mental note to ask Uncle Herb in the morning. Uncle Herb would definitely know.

Just as Peter started to relax, Josh stopped chanting and turned his head quickly in the direction of their window. Noticing this, Peter and CJ collapsed to the ground, their heads colliding on the way down. They rolled around the carpeted floor, both cupping their impacted skulls, their mouths drawn in hushed cries.

There they remained in silence until the pain subsided. After minutes of silence and hearing nothing but the crickets, Peter desperately wanted to know if Josh was still standing in the middle of the street or if he was closer now, maybe at the window screen looking in. Peter couldn’t get himself to look up from the rug. He nodded to CJ and pointed to the window. She stared at him as if he was crazy and shook her head no. She then pointed at Peter and thumbed the window. Peter shook his head diagonally, neither a confirming yes or no. It occurred to him that remaining on the carpet until morning sounded like the best alternative.