Josh paused before answering. He looked down at Peter from the ladder. “You know, the way I see it is this: I look at myself as the caterer, the one who makes the stuff. I didn’t create the invitation list. I’m just here to serve. It’s one of those things that I figured I won’t have to search for the answer. It will show itself. He works in mysterious ways, you know.” Then Josh pointed to the cats and smiled. “Maybe them.”
Peter was listening so intently to Josh’s answer that he didn’t notice another spectator had joined the cats until he heard a long, throaty cough come from the bottom of the driveway. It was one of those coughs that you knew when the person finally finished, there was an urge to spit.
An old woman was leaning forward over a metal walker, a wide-brimmed, yellow sun hat covered her face and most of her bony shoulders. She wore thick, round glasses over well-formed wrinkles and sun spots.
“Damn pollen,” she muttered.
Josh placed his hammer on the roof, looking slightly annoyed at the distraction. “Can I help you?”
The old woman shuffled up the driveway past the cats, the legs and squeaky wheels of the walker making twice the noise of her feet clad in worn cotton slippers.
She stopped next to Peter and caught her breath. She smelled like mothballs and stared at Peter through the thick glasses, giving the impression that she was looking at him through a jar. Her head tilted up in the direction of Josh on the ladder.
“So, I guess it’s crunch time, boys,” she said; her voice was deep and raspy. She was wearing a long, floral jacket much too warm for the weather, and she fumbled in one of the deep pockets until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and slowly put one to her mouth.
Josh climbed down the ladder and sighed. “Maybe it’s more than pollen that’s affecting your cough,” he said.
“Shut up,” she said, without looking up. She lit the cigarette skillfully.
Josh looked at Peter and raised his eyebrows. He stood in front of the woman and smiled.
“I’m Josh, and this is young Peter.”
“I know your names. You think people aren’t talking about you? It’s not like you’re planting a tomato garden over here,” she said, a trail of smoke leaving her mouth and curling into the air. She shook her head. “My mind is good, unlike my poor husband. Every day is new to him. He’s like an eighty-year-old infant.”
Peter looked to Josh. He planned on leaving the entire conversation up to him.
“I assume you live here?” Josh asked.
“Not by choice. My husband’s idea—wanted to be near the grandkids and to golf all day. Well, he’s gone. St. Joe’s Nursing Home. People kept finding him roaming the golf course. Probably thought he lost a ball instead of his marbles. I couldn’t take care of him anymore. And the kids and grandkids can’t be bothered. I don’t live here—I’m stuck here.”
Josh nodded. On some level, Peter could relate too. He kicked a pebble across the driveway.
CJ came out of the garage, probably at the sound of an unusual voice, and made her way to the sitting cats.
The old woman pointed to the ark with her cigarette. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Marge lives two houses down. We’d watch sometimes while we drank tea in her living room. We’re not nosy bodies; I’m not, can’t speak for her, but you run out of things to talk about after a while, especially with Marge. At first you looked like you couldn’t buy a clue.”
Josh smiled at this.
The old woman continued, “It was harmless fun at first. But at the club we heard you were building Noah’s Ark, and Marge and all her bridge friends thought you were blasphemous. And the husbands said you’re some drug-crazed lunatic.”
Peter looked up at Josh to see if he was getting angry, but he seemed amused with all of it. CJ was petting the cats while keeping one eye on the smoking lady.
“Henry wasn’t like that, when he was still Henry. He was kind and gentle. Never liked to speak bad about anyone. I was always the one to stir the pot. I got sick of listening to those guys. I told them if they had any guts, they would come over and say it to your face. They just went back to sipping their gin.”
“I guess I should thank you for sticking up for me.”
“Oh, horseshit.” The old lady lobbed her half-smoked cigarette over the driveway onto the lawn. It smoldered on the dry grass. “I just have a little devil in me, that’s all. You should get your hair cut. Even Marge started feeling bad for you after a while—she thinks you’re setting yourself up for a fall. She wanted to come over here and read some Bible verse to you, but every time she worked up the nerve, you were walking around half naked. Don’t you own any shirts?”
Josh looked down at his bare chest.
The old lady cleared her throat. “Yeah, well, I told Marge I’d come down today. ‘Better late than never,’ I told her. She wants me to read a Bible verse to you. I told her she talked about it so many goddamn times I had the thing memorized, which is something else since I haven’t set foot in a church in years.”
Josh smiled gently.
The old lady cleared her throat again and started, her voice gruff yet clear. “Genesis 9:11. ‘Never again will all life be destroyed by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.’”
She finished and nodded her head emphatically. “Not bad for an old heathen like me,” she added.
“Thank you,” Josh said, and then waved to the house the old lady had pointed out earlier. “Thank you, Marge,” he shouted.
The old, smoking lady grabbed a hold of her walker and turned it back down the driveway. “At least she’ll be off my back now.”
“I’m glad,” Josh said.
The old lady wasn’t in a rush to leave. She turned back to Josh. “Whatever happens, at least you have a boat out of the deal. If you can call it that.”
Josh nodded and waved goodbye, but the old lady stood there as if she was waiting for a bus. Eventually, she shrugged and mumbled something, then started hobbling down the driveway. She stopped one last time as she reached the street. “Might not be a flood, but the rain is definitely coming. My knees haven’t hurt like this in months.”
Josh watched as she made her way back to Marge’s house. Peter was staring at him, looking for some sort of reaction to help make him understand what was going through Josh’s head.
After standing there in silence for several seconds, Peter asked, “Did you know about that verse, Josh?”
Josh shrugged. “Nah. I’m not that strong of a reader.”
He patted Peter on the head as he passed and said, “Time to get back to work.”
CJ called for them. She was holding the two cats in the air by their tails, their front paws thrashing the air in an attempt to grip pavement. “Look!” she shouted. “One boy and one girl.”
Lunchtime
CJ was glad to cut out of camp. She told Uncle Herb this several times as he sat across from his niece during lunch, admiring her as she slowly peeled apart her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, licked one side, then the other. It was like watching a painter at work; there was passion, creativity, meticulousness, and a spiritual nature to the entire experience. Uncle Herb could think of nothing he enjoyed or appreciated more.
As he watched her, Herb could almost taste the peanut butter. The last time he enjoyed peanut butter, he was around Peter’s age, concluding then that the trouble outweighed the benefits. He didn’t have the muscle control in his mouth that peanut butter required. Herb remembered tears of relief welling in his eyes after one clump had finally dropped on its own accord from the roof of his mouth.
Herb looked across the table at Peter. Little, dark saucers sat underneath his eyes, and his skin was a sickly white. Even Herb himself had a tan, now on both sides of his face.
“CJ, Mom told you not to eat your sandwich like that. It’s too messy,” Peter said.
Herb appraised his nephew. He had an edge to him since coming in from Josh’s
house. Herb questioned himself—was he watching the kids close enough?
“So?” CJ said. She continued licking the insides of the sandwich. She kept the bread so close to her mouth that a dot of jelly appeared on her nose.
“So don’t do it.”
CJ opened her eyes long enough to stare at her brother in defiance, then went back to her sandwich.
“CJ!”
Uncle Herb intervened. He nodded slowly. “Pita, o-k.”
“If I have to be her babysitter every day, she should have to listen to me!” Peter shouted, and stormed away from the table.
Herb watched his nephew run to his room, and suddenly he felt like a fifteen-year-old boy again.
It had been a Friday night, but it wasn’t Herb running to his bedroom. He wished it was him—but it was Abby. Jon O’Leary had asked her on a date. He was good looking, popular, a talented soccer player. She used to tell Herb everything, and Jon was a constant subject. Their mother had suggested to Abby that maybe it would be nice to bring her brother along considering he’d be mainstreaming into the public school system next year (though he was three years older than Abby). A good opportunity to meet people, she’d said. Herb didn’t want to go. He knew this date was important to Abby. He knew the drag he’d be on her. No one wants to bring their brother around, but Abby felt the pressure of having a disabled brother. Herb knew that even back then. He remembered how her face flushed and her eyes welled. He tried to get out of going to help his sister, but their mother wasn’t hearing any of it, thinking he was just being shy. It was a no-win situation for Abby, and Herb felt for her. The night wasn’t a total disaster, but Jon O’Leary never called Abby again.
CJ finished her sandwich, and Uncle Herb told her to clean up. She dragged the stepstool to the sink and turned on the faucet.
Uncle Herb wanted the best for his sister. She deserved it. But the longer he stayed in Willow Creek, the less he saw signs of the old Abby. This morning, he’d brought up hearing Nick’s voice in the clubhouse. She wasn’t shocked, and this stunned Herb. She knew. She tried to cover by saying he was only in town for a short meeting and then off to Texas again. He was busy and under a tremendous amount of stress. The business was growing. But at what price, Herb wanted to shout. But then Herb put it all together. Nick was staying at a friend’s, spending a lot of time in the clubhouse nearby, and Abby wasn’t too upset. That was not a good sign.
He felt a moist hand on his arm.
“What’s the matter, Uncle Herb?” CJ asked.
He smiled and shook his head. He was always amazed at the perception of children. He wanted to coddle her, comfort her, and offer her a shield of protection. To tell her there was an infinite blue sky in her future. How do you do that when you see dark clouds forming overhead?
Uncle Herb pressed the joystick of his wheelchair, and the chair nudged forward. She laughed, startled. That always got her. He looked at her and winked, and she followed him as he buzzed down the hallway to Peter’s room.
Dusk
For the third night in a row, Peter, CJ, and Uncle Herb had pizza for dinner. The delivery guy looked past Peter after handing him the box as though trying to uncover some great secret to report to the authorities. Peter told him his parents often worked late. He tipped him extra, and the guy shrugged and walked away.
Peter groaned as he flicked the last piece of crust onto the paper plate. After his mother had called to tell them she’d be home late, they were low on options. Who knew how to cook?
A warm breeze circulated through the house. Peter didn’t have much of an appetite, so he wrapped the remaining slices in aluminum foil and dropped them on a refrigerator shelf. He was always the last to finish eating, after preparing food for Uncle Herb and helping CJ with whatever she needed.
Herb rolled in front of the television, which was already on and showing an emergency worker feeding a baby deer with a baby bottle. On the West Coast, the California wildfires were chasing all the wildlife from their homes.
Tension had filled the afternoon. Peter felt exhausted. He didn’t apologize to Uncle Herb or CJ, nor did they seem to expect him to. Peter had felt this tightness inside his body since Josh told him the rain was at hand. The Weather Channel confirmed Josh’s belief, stating the rain would come sometime after nine p.m.
What if Josh is right, Peter thought. Would he wake up tomorrow floating down the street in his bed? No one else seemed to take Josh seriously. According to the old smoking lady yesterday, everyone knew he was building an ark. If people thought it was for real, they’d be lining up down the block trying to get a ticket aboard. Peter glanced out the kitchen window just to make sure this wasn’t the case.
Josh was all alone on his driveway, fiddling with a fishing pole.
Peter hoped his mother would come home soon, so he wouldn’t have to toilet Uncle Herb and get CJ ready for bed by himself. He wanted to go to sleep early and get this night over with.
Rain
Peter slept curled against the wall, fully dressed and dreaming. In his dream, columns of rain assaulted the asphalt street and cement walkways of Willow Creek Landing. The droplets hit the hard surfaces in a deafening rush. Streams formed at curbsides, filling every heat-induced crack and gap in its way. No pothole was too large. The grass and soil drank, unquenchable.
He woke to a voice whispering his name.
“Young Peter, the time is near.”
Peter rolled over and looked at the clock on his nightstand. 11:37. He rubbed his eyes. The sounds from his dream were absent—rain pounding pavement, patches of rumbling thunder, lightning fracturing the sky. Only the soft chirp of a lone cricket dotted the night.
“That bed is not flood-proof, my friend. It’s time to act,” said the voice from outside.
Peter moved into a sitting position and rubbed his eyes. He could make out Josh’s silhouette at the window. He flicked his reading light on and could see Josh sporting a canary-yellow raincoat, the hood masking most of his eyes but not his beard and open-mouthed smile.
The air smelled clean, detergent-like.
Josh pointed through the screen at Peter. “Fully dressed? So you think I might not be certifiably insane, huh?”
“No, well, I fell asleep reading . . .”
Josh’s smile widened. “It’s okay, young Peter. No time to explain. There is nothing wrong with hedging your bets.”
“Has it even started drizzling yet?”
“There will be no drizzling, young Peter. Nope. It will fall upon us out of chutes. Golfins will float helplessly down the street like fallen leaves.”
Peter suddenly felt a pit form in his stomach. He didn’t like the image Josh had conjured, of capable people being rendered completely powerless, no matter how poorly the golfins treated or ignored him. He looked closer at Josh. His wide smile had tapered into a grin, and his eyes looked glassy and unfocused.
“You really think so?” Peter asked.
Josh snorted and threw his hands into the air. “I have no idea, young Peter. I was just being dramatic, taking a little creative license to highlight what some might think of as poetic justice.”
Peter had no idea what Josh was talking about. For a second, he wondered if Josh knew what Josh was talking about.
“Did you come here to say goodbye then?” Peter asked.
Josh pressed his face against the screen. “Goodbye? Hell no! Did you really think I’d leave my trusted assistant behind?”
Peter tried to suppress a smile.
“But I need to tie down some tarps to the ark, to protect against the worst of the rain,” Josh said. “Do you think you can help? I tried, but it’s awful to do by myself.”
“Yeah, sure,” Peter said, but something else was bothering him.
Josh turned around to leave when Peter called his name. “Who else is coming on the ark?”
The tip of Josh’s yellow hood grazed across the window screen. “Well, I’m saving some room for guests who didn’t make personal reservations with
me.”
Peter pictured elephants and giraffes stomping through the gates of Willow Creek. Boy, would they be disappointed when they caught sight of Josh’s ark. But then he imagined CJ trying to get Uncle Herb in his wheelchair as water flooded around her ankles, and he knew he couldn’t leave without them.
“I don’t really know, Peter. Who’d you have in mind?” Josh nodded into the screen. “Maybe at least a devoted uncle and a little girl with lasso expertise?”
Peter nodded.
“Of course. We’ll make room for them even if we have to stand for forty straight days and nights. Are you skilled with a fishing pole?”
“No.”
Josh let out a small sigh. “Well, that makes two of us. We’ll learn. We’ll wake the others once we feel the first drop of rain.”
Peter felt a sense of relief. “What can I bring?”
“I have the necessities. Just give me a hand with the tarps. Then we will have faith with the rest. You know where I’ll be.”And then Josh disappeared.
Peter sat for a moment at the end of his bed. He’d prepared himself just in case Josh did ask him. He was already dressed in his cargo pants with a lot of pockets. But there was a big difference between preparation and actually going through with something. Without waking CJ and Uncle Herb, he tiptoed through the dark into the kitchen and filled one of his side pockets with his orange medication vials. He inhaled a slice of pizza by the light of the refrigerator, then quietly rummaged through the closet for his raincoat. He hadn’t seen it in months.
What should he fill his other pockets with? Toothbrush? Pocketknife? Flashlight? Cheese sticks and individually packaged beef jerky? Peter thought that Chipper the Boy Scout would probably be better suited for this. He felt his heart starting to beat faster; the days of anticipation were gone. Now there was immediacy to his every move despite his constant glancing out windows revealing no signs of rain.
Peter stood facing the front door for several seconds, then turned and walked down the hallway to CJ’s room. Her leg was draped over the bed sheet, her arms resting on her chest in full baby-vampire mode. The red-and-blue outfit, tiara and lasso lay neatly on the rug in front of her bed. Then he stopped in front of Uncle Herb’s room and heard his gentle breathing patterns. He was asleep. Peter couldn’t hear anything coming from his parents’ room, but he checked anyway. The bed was made and empty.
The Underdog Parade Page 17