Shelter
Page 33
But even as I think that, I can start to feel my grip slipping. Behind him, I see that paramedic with the sandy hair and the green eyes. He is giving me that same heavy look. I yell, “No,” and hug my dad harder, dig my face right into his chest. I start to cry onto his favorite blue shirt. But my dad is fading away now. His smile is gone.
“No!” I shout again.
I close my eyes and hold on tighter, but it doesn’t do any good. It’s like trying to hold on to smoke. The dream is ending. I can see consciousness making its way in.
“Please don’t leave me,” I say out loud.
I woke up in Myron’s basement, sweating and panting. I put my hand to my face and could still feel the tears there. I swallowed hard and got out of bed.
I took a shower and headed to school. Rachel and I worked on our project some more during Mrs. Friedman’s class. At one point, Rachel asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“That was like your fifth yawn.”
“Sorry.”
“A girl could get a complex,” she said.
“It’s not the company,” I said. “Just a bad night’s sleep.”
She looked at me with those big blue eyes. Her skin was flawless. I wanted to reach out and touch her face. “Can I ask you something personal?” she asked.
I gave her a half nod.
“Why do you live with your uncle?”
“You mean, why don’t I live with my parents?”
“Yes.”
I kept my eyes on the desk, on a smug picture of Robespierre from early 1794. I wonder if the smug Robespierre had any inkling what the next few months would bring. “My mother is in rehab,” I said. “My father is dead.”
“Oh,” she said, her hand coming up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude or . . .”
Her voice just sort of faded away. I lifted my head and managed a smile.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Is that what you dreamed about? Your mom and dad?”
“My dad,” I said, surprising myself.
“Can I ask how he died?”
“A car crash.”
“Is that what you dreamed about?”
Enough, I thought. But then I said, “I was there.”
“At the car crash?”
“Yes.”
“You were in the car?”
I nodded.
“Were you hurt?”
I had broken ribs and spent three weeks in the hospital. But that pain was nothing compared to the vision of watching my father die. “A little,” I said.
“What happened?”
I could still see it. The two of us in the car, laughing, the radio on, the sudden jar of the crash, the snap of the head, the blood, the sirens. I woke up trapped, unable to move. I could see the paramedic with the sandy blond hair working on my too-still father. I was trapped in the seat next to him, the fireman working to free me with the Jaws of Life, and then the sandy-haired paramedic looked up at me; and I remember his green eyes with the yellow circle around the pupil—and the eyes seemed to say that nothing would ever be the same.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Rachel said with the most gentle voice. “We’re history partners—it doesn’t mean you have to bare your soul. Okay?”
I nodded gratefully as the bell rang, chasing away that image of the sandy-haired paramedic with the green eyes. At lunch, Ema and I filled Spoon in on our late-night visit to Bat Lady’s house. He looked hurt.
“You didn’t invite me?”
“It was like two in the morning,” I said. “We figured you’d be asleep.”
“Me? I’m an up-all-night party animal.”
“Right,” Ema said. “By the way, do your jammies have feetsies?”
Spoon frowned. “Tell me that epitaph again.”
Ema handed Spoon her phone. She had snapped a picture of it with her cell phone camera:
LET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,
AS WE BECOME OLDER,
AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.
Two minutes later, Spoon said, “It’s a quote from Richard Jefferies, a nineteenth-century English nature writer noted for his depiction of English rural life in essays, books of natural history, and novels.”
We looked at him.
“What? I just Googled the quote and read his bio on Wikipedia. There is nothing on that childhood lost for children quote, so I don’t know what that’s about, but I can do more research later.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“Why don’t we all meet after school and go to the library?” Ema suggested. “We can see what we can find out about Bat Lady from the town archives too.”
“I can’t today,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I have a basketball game,” I said.
I didn’t want to go into detail. I had a plan. I would go down on the bus to Newark like I did most days. I might even play a little with Tyrell and the gang. Then, with Ema and Spoon safe here in town, I would visit Antoine LeMaire at the address near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge.
So that was what I did. As soon as school ended, I walked to the bus stop on Northfield Avenue and hopped on the number 164. First, I took out my cell phone. I had one picture of Ashley, dressed in her prim sweater, her smile shy. I made it my default screen so if I needed to show it to anyone, I would have it at the ready.
There was a light mist of rain, so we had fewer guys show up for pickup basketball. Tyrell wasn’t there. One of the other guys told me that he was studying for some big test at school. We started playing, but the rain kicked in, so we called it off. I changed back into my school clothes, and using the directions I’d gotten online, I started to walk over to Antoine LeMaire’s address.
The rain was coming down hard now. I didn’t mind. I like rain. I was born in a small village in the Chiang Mai province in northern Thailand. My parents were helping out one of the hill tribes called the Lisu. The shaman—the sorcerer, medicine man, one who acts as a medium between the visible world and the spirit world—gave my father a list of things I must do during my lifetime. One was to “dance naked in the rain.” I don’t know why I’ve always liked that one, but I do. I’ve done it, though not recently, but ever since I was old enough to understand the list, I have always had a funny appreciation for the rain.
When I arrived at the address, I was surprised to see that it wasn’t a residence near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge—it was the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. I looked for an apartment on the top, but there was only the lounge entrance. A huge black man stood in front of it. There was a frayed velvet rope and a big pink-once-red awning. On the awning was a silhouette of a voluptuous woman. The door was blacked-out glass with faded lettering. A sign read: 50 LIVE BEAUTIFUL GO-GO SHOWGIRLS—AND TWO UGLY DEAD ONES.
“No!” I shout again.
I close my eyes and hold on tighter, but it doesn’t do any good. It’s like trying to hold on to smoke. The dream is ending. I can see consciousness making its way in.
“Please don’t leave me,” I say out loud.
I woke up in Myron’s basement, sweating and panting. I put my hand to my face and could still feel the tears there. I swallowed hard and got out of bed.
I took a shower and headed to school. Rachel and I worked on our project some more during Mrs. Friedman’s class. At one point, Rachel asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“That was like your fifth yawn.”
“Sorry.”
“A girl could get a complex,” she said.
“It’s not the company,” I said. “Just a bad night’s sleep.”
She looked at me with those big blue eyes. Her skin was flawless. I wanted to reach out and touch her face. “Can I ask you something personal?” she asked.
I gave her a half nod.
“Why do you live with your uncle?”
“You mean, why don’t I live with my parents?”
“Yes.”
I kept my eyes on the desk, on a smug picture of Robespierre from early 1794. I wonder if the smug Robespierre had any inkling what the next few months would bring. “My mother is in rehab,” I said. “My father is dead.”
“Oh,” she said, her hand coming up to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude or . . .”
Her voice just sort of faded away. I lifted my head and managed a smile.
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Is that what you dreamed about? Your mom and dad?”
“My dad,” I said, surprising myself.
“Can I ask how he died?”
“A car crash.”
“Is that what you dreamed about?”
Enough, I thought. But then I said, “I was there.”
“At the car crash?”
“Yes.”
“You were in the car?”
I nodded.
“Were you hurt?”
I had broken ribs and spent three weeks in the hospital. But that pain was nothing compared to the vision of watching my father die. “A little,” I said.
“What happened?”
I could still see it. The two of us in the car, laughing, the radio on, the sudden jar of the crash, the snap of the head, the blood, the sirens. I woke up trapped, unable to move. I could see the paramedic with the sandy blond hair working on my too-still father. I was trapped in the seat next to him, the fireman working to free me with the Jaws of Life, and then the sandy-haired paramedic looked up at me; and I remember his green eyes with the yellow circle around the pupil—and the eyes seemed to say that nothing would ever be the same.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Rachel said with the most gentle voice. “We’re history partners—it doesn’t mean you have to bare your soul. Okay?”
I nodded gratefully as the bell rang, chasing away that image of the sandy-haired paramedic with the green eyes. At lunch, Ema and I filled Spoon in on our late-night visit to Bat Lady’s house. He looked hurt.
“You didn’t invite me?”
“It was like two in the morning,” I said. “We figured you’d be asleep.”
“Me? I’m an up-all-night party animal.”
“Right,” Ema said. “By the way, do your jammies have feetsies?”
Spoon frowned. “Tell me that epitaph again.”
Ema handed Spoon her phone. She had snapped a picture of it with her cell phone camera:
LET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,
AS WE BECOME OLDER,
AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.
Two minutes later, Spoon said, “It’s a quote from Richard Jefferies, a nineteenth-century English nature writer noted for his depiction of English rural life in essays, books of natural history, and novels.”
We looked at him.
“What? I just Googled the quote and read his bio on Wikipedia. There is nothing on that childhood lost for children quote, so I don’t know what that’s about, but I can do more research later.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“Why don’t we all meet after school and go to the library?” Ema suggested. “We can see what we can find out about Bat Lady from the town archives too.”
“I can’t today,” I said.
“Oh?”
“I have a basketball game,” I said.
I didn’t want to go into detail. I had a plan. I would go down on the bus to Newark like I did most days. I might even play a little with Tyrell and the gang. Then, with Ema and Spoon safe here in town, I would visit Antoine LeMaire at the address near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge.
So that was what I did. As soon as school ended, I walked to the bus stop on Northfield Avenue and hopped on the number 164. First, I took out my cell phone. I had one picture of Ashley, dressed in her prim sweater, her smile shy. I made it my default screen so if I needed to show it to anyone, I would have it at the ready.
There was a light mist of rain, so we had fewer guys show up for pickup basketball. Tyrell wasn’t there. One of the other guys told me that he was studying for some big test at school. We started playing, but the rain kicked in, so we called it off. I changed back into my school clothes, and using the directions I’d gotten online, I started to walk over to Antoine LeMaire’s address.
The rain was coming down hard now. I didn’t mind. I like rain. I was born in a small village in the Chiang Mai province in northern Thailand. My parents were helping out one of the hill tribes called the Lisu. The shaman—the sorcerer, medicine man, one who acts as a medium between the visible world and the spirit world—gave my father a list of things I must do during my lifetime. One was to “dance naked in the rain.” I don’t know why I’ve always liked that one, but I do. I’ve done it, though not recently, but ever since I was old enough to understand the list, I have always had a funny appreciation for the rain.
When I arrived at the address, I was surprised to see that it wasn’t a residence near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge—it was the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. I looked for an apartment on the top, but there was only the lounge entrance. A huge black man stood in front of it. There was a frayed velvet rope and a big pink-once-red awning. On the awning was a silhouette of a voluptuous woman. The door was blacked-out glass with faded lettering. A sign read: 50 LIVE BEAUTIFUL GO-GO SHOWGIRLS—AND TWO UGLY DEAD ONES.
