The Janitor's Boy

by Andrew Clements

  Lois vanished from the doorway.

  Jack said, “Okay, Mom.” He pushed his chair back from the table, stood up, and walked out to the front closet to get his backpack.

  It was the old go-wait-in-your-room situation. No decision. A hung jury. He headed up the stairs.

  As Jack passed Lois’s room she opened her door six inches, smiled sweetly, and stuck out her hand.

  Jack thought, Here I am, waiting on death row, and she wants her stinking dollar fifty!

  But there was something on Lois’s palm. She batted her eyelashes, nodded down at her hand, and whispered, “Hey, Jack, want a piece of . . . gum?”

  Lois got the door shut and locked just in time.

  Jack put his face next to the door and hissed, “You are dead meat, funny girl.”

  Lois giggled and said, “I think I shall need two dollars. . . . Yes, two dollars will be enough. For now. But no coins—nice, crisp bills, please.”

  Jack kicked the bottom of her door and went down the hallway to his cell.

  Chapter 9

  Boy TeRRitoRy

  Jack’s mom had known her husband since they went to Huntington High School together. Helen Parkman had first met John Rankin when he was in eleventh grade and she was in ninth. She had watched him catching touchdown passes for the Huntington Heralds during Friday-night football games. She had seen him at dances with his girlfriend, a cheerleader. She had seen him washing cars on Saturdays at his dad’s used-car lot.

  Helen Parkman had watched John Rankin from a distance. They knew each other, but they had never really been friends, not back then. John’s family had some money, and they lived on the nicer side of town. Helen’s family didn’t. It was as simple as that. John Rankin was a golden boy, one of those kids “Most Likely to Succeed.”

  Then one day in the spring of 1967, just two months before his high school graduation, John Rankin disappeared. He had joined the army. It made quite a stir at Huntington High School. A lot of boys were getting drafted into the army because it was the middle of the Vietnam War. But no one was signing up for military service on purpose, not the infantry, and not for a four-year hitch. John had just turned eighteen, he had been accepted at a good college, and he might not have had to go into the service at all. There were savage pictures of the war on the evening news every day. It seemed like you’d have to be crazy to join the army.

  It was a mystery back then. Why did he leave? When had he come back? How did he end up as the janitor at the high school?

  Now Helen Rankin knew all the hows and whens and whys. Now she understood. And it all made perfect sense in the flow of her husband’s life, in the long view.

  But how could she help an eleven-year-old understand all that?

  And how could she help her husband not feel hurt to learn that Jack was embarrassed—ashamed to have his classmates know his father was the school janitor?

  Helen Rankin was a strong person. She had taken courses at the local junior college, and now she worked as a paralegal secretary for the town government. She had the respect of her co-workers and her boss. She took good care of her kids, and she and her husband made a good home for their family.

  The only thing that made Helen feel helpless was this—being caught between her husband and her son.

  She had a name for the feeling.

  Helen Rankin was lost in Boy Territory.

  When John Rankin’s pickup pulled into the driveway at quarter of six, everybody in the house heard it.

  For Jack it meant that the rest of his jury had arrived.

  For his sister it meant that there would be more drama, more adventures in spying.

  For his mom it meant that a delicate balancing act was about to begin.

  Helen Rankin looked through the window over the sink. John didn’t get out of the truck right away. When he did, he looked tired. She met him at the back door with a hug and a kiss.

  He smiled and held her at arm’s length. “So how’s my best girl?”

  She smiled back and said, “I’ve been better. I hear from Mr. Ackerby that you’ve got a new assistant for the next three weeks.”

  Helen hadn’t been planning to bring up the subject so soon, but it seemed the most honest thing to do. No sense pretending they weren’t both thinking about it.

  Following his wife up the steps to the kitchen, John said, “That’s a fact. Jack cleaned the desk he gummed up today. Took him most of an hour, but he did a good job. ‘Course, the shop’s a wreck, and I hate to think what his clothes are like. I’ve never seen such a mess.”

  John pulled out a chair and straddled it, his elbows on the seat back. Helen started peeling carrots at the sink. She asked, “Any idea why he did it?”

  John pulled his note from Mr. Ackerby out of his shirt pocket and tapped it on the chair back. “Well, the vice principal says it was just vandalism, but I think there’s more to it, don’t you? And you know what? I helped Ackerby plan and organize that move all last summer, so you’d think he could put two and two together—I don’t think that guy has it figured out that Jack’s my son.”

  Helen kept peeling carrots, but turned and nodded toward the table. “I’m sure he doesn’t know yet. That’s the note . . . to the parents.” Helen went to the refrigerator and got out a head of lettuce, glancing at John’s face as he opened the second letter and started to read.

  Turning back to the sink, she kept her voice even and asked, “What do you think? Is Mr. Ackerby right? Do you think Jack was angry?”

  John Rankin didn’t answer right away.

  Helen wasn’t sure what was coming. This was Boy Territory.

  John started slowly. “Here’s how I see it. We know Jack had to do it on purpose, and he knew a desk that messy would end up down in my shop. So I’m guessing that Jack’s mad at me. It’s been like he’s wanted nothing to do with me for a long time. He hasn’t said a word to me at school so far, not until last Monday.”

  Then John told Helen about cleaning up the floor and saying hi to Jack in his math class—and about the collision in the hall.

  It was the perfect opening. Helen said, “John, I think Jack was very embarrassed by that. I think that solves the mystery.”

  John spoke slowly. “I know he was embarrassed by that fall in the hallway—but you mean he was embarrassed about me, right?”

  Helen nodded.

  There was an awkward silence. John said, “Makes sense. Smart, good-looking kid, and his old man’s the janitor.”

  Another silence.

  Then John said, “And thanks to Ackerby, now Jack’s a janitor too. John Junior, the little janitor. He’s really going to hate me now.”

  Helen turned around and said, “It’ll all work out. You know Jack could never hate you, John.”

  John shook his head. “You’d maybe think different if you’d seen what he did to that desk.” With some bitterness in his voice he added, “Of course, Jack doesn’t stop and remember that he’s never gone to bed hungry in his life, and that when he needs a new pair of shoes, there they are, just like magic. He’s happy to have the money I make by cleaning up after people, isn’t he?”

  John stood up stiffly and walked to the side window. After a minute he said, “But there’s no use getting mad about it. I just wish I knew what to do.”

  Helen wished the same thing. She said, “Well, you’re going to see a lot more of each other during the next three weeks. It’ll work out all right. I’m sure it will.”

  John Rankin hoped she was right.

  Chapter 10

  RumoRs

  Jack couldn’t believe it.

  Dinner was a breeze. No yelling. No angry silences. His dad seemed a little quieter than usual, but that was about it. Jack kept quiet too.

  There was some chitchat about school assignments and grades. Mom had some news about Aunt Mary and Uncle Bob driving up from Des Moines to visit at Thanksgiving. Ordinary dinner talk, with Mom doing most of the talking.

  Lois was disappointed. She had been
hoping for fireworks, a major scene with red faces and everybody spitting mad. Just once she wanted to see a big family blowup—with Jack as the target, of course. She stabbed her fork into the last piece of macaroni on her plate, ate it, drained her milk glass, and asked to be excused from the table.

  As bedtime approached, Jack took inventory.

  He wasn’t grounded.

  He still had full telephone privileges.

  His allowance was intact.

  Jack was pretty sure he could even get away without paying Lois her hush money.

  It was almost like nothing had happened.

  Jack was expecting a long, serious talk at bedtime, but it didn’t happen. Mom said she was sure he had learned his lesson, and Jack said he was sure he had. She kissed him on the forehead, tucked the covers around him, said, “Sweet dreams,” and shut his door.

  Down the hall Jack heard his dad open Lois’s door and say, “Good night, sweetheart.” And he heard Lois say, “G’night, Daddy.”

  “Little Miss Perfect,” Jack muttered.

  Then Jack heard his dad’s footsteps come toward his door. He thought, Oh boy, here it comes. He braced himself and quickly decided to pretend he was asleep.

  The footsteps stopped. Then they began again, but his dad had turned around. Jack listened until his dad started down the stairs.

  “That’s fine by me,” Jack said aloud to himself. “The last thing I need is a little sermon from the Broom King.”

  So the public part of Jack’s long Monday ended.

  But Jack’s private day wasn’t over. He lay awake for almost an hour.

  Tuesday was coming. Jack looked at his alarm clock. The bus would arrive at his corner in exactly ten hours and twelve minutes—no, eleven minutes.

  On Tuesday he’d have to go back to school.

  Back to the scene of the crime.

  Tuesday morning came right on schedule. The bus ride was uneventful, which was good. Jack needed to be on time so he could get rid of the letter his mom and dad had signed. He had to get it back to Mr. Ackerby.

  Jack didn’t go to his locker. He went right to the office, arriving there just as the sixth-grade buses were pulling up at the curb on Main Street. Jack chose that moment on purpose. He knew that Mr. Ackerby always met the morning buses out front.

  He walked up to the school secretary’s desk and said, “Excuse me. . . . Mr. Ackerby said I had to bring this letter back to him.”

  Mrs. Carter looked up from her computer screen, and her eyes flickered as she recognized him. “Oh . . . yes. Jack Rankin.” Jack blushed a little.

  She looked him in the face, trying to connect the story she’d heard with this polite young man standing in front of her desk. He certainly didn’t look like a troublemaker to her. Still, she thought, looks can be deceiving.

  Mrs. Carter held out her hand. “Mr. Ackerby’s not here right now. Leave it with me, and I’ll be sure he gets it.”

  Jack handed it to her with a polite smile, said, “Thank you,” and left.

  Easy as pie. Jack had passed the Note Return Test with flying colors.

  It wasn’t that he was afraid to meet up with Mr. Ackerby again. Jack just didn’t see what good it would do. They would meet again, guaranteed. And whenever that was, that would be soon enough for Jack.

  A school is like a small town. Even ordinary news travels fast.

  But a really juicy story that involves crime and punishment can easily hit speeds of one or two hundred mouths an hour.

  By eight forty-five on Tuesday morning the legend of Jack the Gummer was just hitting warp speed.

  Jack’s best friend was Pete Ramsey. The spelling of their last names had kept them sitting next to each other almost every year since kindergarten. This year they had the same homeroom and their lockers were side by side.

  Jack had just pulled open the metal door when he noticed Pete. Pete had recently started wearing cologne, and Jack could always tell when he was in the area. Today Pete was also chewing gum—Juicy Fruit, Jack said to himself.

  Without looking around, Jack said, “Hi, Pete.”

  There was no answer. Jack turned, and Pete was there, but he was just staring at him, his mouth open, gum on his tongue.

  Pete said, “What are you doing here?”

  “Uhh . . . standing at my locker?” asked Jack. “Is that the answer? Do I win the big prize?”

  Pete was serious. “I thought you got expelled.”

  “Expelled?” said Jack. “What for?”

  “For swearing at Mr. Pike during chorus and then sticking gum all over Mr. Ackerby’s desk. Did you call Mr. Pike names—or what?”

  Jack said, “Who told you all that?”

  “It’s everywhere,” said Pete. “I heard it waiting in line down at the school store.”

  “Well, it’s not true,” said Jack. “All I did was stick a bunch of gum on the bottom of a folding desk—one desk. I got caught, and now I have to stay and clean off gum after school. That’s all.”

  Pete said, “No swearing?”

  “None,” said Jack.

  “No big fight with Mr. Ackerby?”

  Jack shook his head. “Nope. He yelled at me, and he sent a note home to my folks, but I’m not even grounded.”

  The facts were pretty boring, and Pete lost interest immediately. As he began to dial his combination he shrugged. Then he said, “Hey, Little League registration is at the new high school gym this Saturday. You going?”

  Jack leaned against the lockers and listened to Pete. He said “uh-huh” and nodded at the right moments, but he was thinking about the outrageous rumors.

  Then, above Pete’s chatter, Jack heard Luke using his best stage voice.

  Luke said, “Hey, Kirk, look who’s here! It’s Gumbo.”

  Kirk Dorfmann’s locker was across the hall. Kirk walked over, and Luke followed along.

  Kirk said, “Yeah, you’re right. It’s Gumbo, son of Scumbo the Janitor. So, how’s it going, Gumbo?”

  Pete stepped between Jack and Kirk, his shoulders squared and fists clenched. With a sneer he said, “Hey look, Jack. It knows how to talk. I think its name is Tommy Polo Nautica. Run along now, Tommy Polo Nautica. You might get your nice yellow jacket all messed up.”

  Pete was not kidding, and Kirk knew it.

  “Sure,” said Kirk, “no problem. We were just leaving anyway—right, Luke? We want to go watch the janitor fold up the tables in the cafeteria.”

  Luke said, “Yeah, because he’s so talented, y’know? See you guys later.”

  Pete and Jack watched them until they turned the corner at the end of the hallway.

  “Dirtbags,” said Pete.

  “Yeah,” said Jack. “Grade-A jerks. Thanks, Pete.”

  From what Pete had said about the rumors, Jack didn’t know what to expect for the rest of the day.

  But homeroom was normal, and the morning classes, too. Every once in a while Jack would notice a kid looking at him curiously. But when the rumor says you’re expelled and you clearly are not expelled, reality wins.

  Still, as he headed up the stairs after lunch Jack thought he saw two seventh-grade teachers giving him weird sideways glances. Figures, he thought. Teachers gossip too.

  After school there was a note for Jack taped to the door of the supply closet in the workshop. It was from his dad.

  Jack—

  Start on the tables and chairs in the library today. Mrs. Stokely is usually there after school, but if she’s not, you can find Lou down near the auditorium, and Arnie is sweeping on two and three. I’ll be fixing a toilet up on four if you need me.

  Dad

  Toilets, thought Jack. Great. My dad’s in the toilet repair business.

  Jack pushed the door open and went into the supply closet. First, he got a fresh roll of paper towels. The putty knife, the solvent, and the rubber gloves were right where he had left them. Today he planned to use the rubber gloves.

  Then he remembered his dad had said to use a bucket to carry stuf
f around. Why not? Jack thought. After all, he’s the big expert.

  Jack turned around to look on the other set of shelves. There were wet-mop heads and dust-mop heads, mop wringers, handle setups, big cans of liquid wax, two-gallon bottles of ammonia—but no buckets. Jack pulled the door out of the way and found what he needed: two stacks of buckets, metal and plastic.

  Glancing up, Jack saw a gray wooden cabinet hanging on the wall. It had been hidden behind the open door. Shallower than a medicine cabinet, it came out only about two inches from the wall. It was almost three feet wide and had hinges on either side so the doors could open out from the center. A hasp and a padlock held the cabinet doors shut.

  It was an unusual padlock, the old kind—round, and made of solid brass, with rivets and a little flap on the side to cover the keyhole. Jack pushed the door of the closet out of the way to let the light shine on the lock.

  As he took half a step forward to get a closer look Jack discovered something interesting.

  The old brass lock was not snapped shut.

  Chapter 11

  Open SesAme

  An open lock is a temptation for some people. For Jack it was more like an invitation. It wasn’t like he was cracking a safe or robbing a bank. He was only interested in the lock—at first.

  He pulled on it, and the curved shackle swung open on its pivot. Sliding the shackle out of the loop of the hasp, he turned toward the light to get a better look at the thing.

  Cool and heavy in his hand, it was like a work of art. Jack flipped it over and read the words engraved on the back—THE CHAMPION LOCK COMPANY. And below the name was the patent date—1898! It was the kind of lock that stirs the imagination.

  Turning back to the cabinet, Jack was all set to put the lock back just as he’d found it. But almost as an afterthought he flipped the latch off the doors and pulled on both at once.

  There was a soft jingling, and as the doors opened wide so did Jack’s eyes and mouth.

  Keys.

  They ran from the top left of the left-hand door to the bottom right of the right-hand door.