Okay for Now

by Gary D. Schmidt

  But you know what the two guys did?

  That's right.

  They circled. And circled. And circled.

  I think you can imagine what the So-Called Gym Teacher did. If it had been legal, I think he would have called in firing squads. But since it wasn't legal, he told us that he was going to give every boy in class a big fat zero for the day, and we could see how we all liked that, yes sirree, buster.

  We all went in to get changed. We were still laughing.

  No one in the locker room looked when I took my shirt off.

  Maybe the Snowy Heron is going to come off pretty badly when the planes come together. Maybe. But he's still proud and beautiful. His head is high, and he's got this sharp beak that's facing out to the world.

  He's okay for now.

  On the first Saturday of December—the month that Lucas was coming home—I waited for Lil outside the library after the deliveries. It was cold, and I'm not lying. The sky was iron, and Mrs. Windermere's coffee had worn off way before I got back into town, even before I passed the open meadow. A few snowflakes blew past in a hurry, which is how most people went by too, all huddled together and their heads down and their arms close in. So you can see it was kind of noble for me to wait outside for her. But I hadn't really talked to her since Thanksgiving, and I guess I wanted to make sure that she wasn't still thinking of my stupid "Shows how much you know" like I was still thinking of Principal Peattie's stupid ... what he said.

  She came up the street with a load of books and stomped up the six steps to where I was waiting and I said, "Hey," and she said, "Hey," but she said it in a way that meant she wasn't really saying "Hey," she was really saying, You are such a jerk and I wish you would drop into some crack, so I knew she hadn't forgotten.

  "Are you coming into the library?" I said, and she looked at me like she was generating aggression and she said, "Not now."

  "I wish you would," I said. "It's not much fun just drawing with Mr. Powell."

  "Oh," she said. "I didn't realize. Well, I don't know very much about it, do I?"

  "If we stop in at your dad's deli, we could get two Cokes," I said.

  "Do you have any money?" she said.

  "No."

  "Then what you're really saying is that if we stopped in my dad's deli, I could get you a Coke, right?"

  I shrugged and smiled.

  Lil Spicer shook her head, and then she laughed, and I'm not lying, she smiled too. "You know," she said, "you should smile more often." She handed me her books and took my arm. "Let's go," she said.

  That afternoon, after our Cokes, I drew that Snowy Heron like I was John James Audubon himself. Except my heron, he was strutting out into the world like that hunter would never, never come.

  Finally, finally, finally, in the middle of December, we drove down to New York City in my father's new pickup, my father, my mother, and me. We left my brother home, first because we wouldn't have room for him in the pickup once Lucas got there, and second because my father wanted him to move the furniture around in our bedroom upstairs so that we could fit another bed in. This wasn't going to be easy, which my brother had pointed out and which my father had answered with ... you know.

  I sat between them. My father was glaring at the cars on the expressway as if he were daring them to try, even try dinging up his new pickup. I wasn't sure why he was so all-fired worried about it—it was already pretty dinged up. You don't get a whole lot for a hundred-dollar down payment, I guess. But whenever someone closed in on him, he rolled his window down and let them know, even though they had their windows rolled up because it was about zero degrees outside. Of course, when my father opened his window, it made it about zero degrees inside too. And it didn't get warm again, because the heater didn't work in his new pickup. I guess he forgot when he bought it that we weren't living in, say, Miami.

  My mother was wearing her best blue coat. She looked out the window too, most of the time. It was like she was trying to peer across the miles, right into the city, to find Lucas. Every time a bus passed us, she looked into all the windows. Who knew? He might be there.

  Me? I was watching for Joe Pepitone whenever a Ford Mustang drove by, because Joe Pepitone is the kind of guy who would drive a Ford Mustang.

  We got lost three times in New York City because, my father said, no one knew what they were doing when they laid out all the streets. Nothing made sense. And if you were there, you wouldn't either have pointed out that it made perfect sense since the whole city is on a grid. You know you wouldn't.

  When we finally found the Port Authority bus station, we drove around it eight times because he wasn't going to park in one of those garages where they take your money and then go joy-riding in your truck. Not him! He was going to find a spot on the street—which we finally did about a half mile away, which took a whole lot longer to drive than you might think because we had to creak through a Stop the War protest that was spilling into all the side streets. By the time my father edged the pickup into a spot, my mother was near frantic. When he finally switched off the ignition, she got out and I got out and my mother started to walk toward the Port Authority. "Just hold on," my father called.

  "If we don't hurry," she said, "we won't be there when his bus pulls in."

  "So what?" he said. "He's been gone a—"

  My mother didn't wait for him to finish. She turned away and began walking.

  I could have cheered.

  We were there on the bottom level of the Port Authority when Lucas's bus pulled in. My father, a couple of minutes after.

  I wish I could tell you what it was like, watching my mother smile while the bus parked. I wish I could tell you.

  But maybe you know, and I don't have to.

  There was the smell of diesel, and the screech of air brakes, and the big engine of the bus echoing off the cement walls and ceiling. There was the crowd of people all looking for someone they cared about who was on the bus and coming home for Christmas. There was the driver switching off the engine, taking off his hat and stretching, pushing back his hair. He reached forward and pulled a lever and the doors opened and he got out and stretched again, then walked over to the luggage bins and bent to open them. And there were the passengers starting to get out, and they weren't Lucas, and they walked slow and unsteady, like they'd been crinkled up for a while in a seat too small. And one by one they turned to the crowd and waved at someone, and that someone would run up and they'd hug and kiss and then go find their luggage.

  That's how it was, one by one everyone coming off the bus, holding the rail as they stepped out, until everyone was off the bus and the bus driver was standing by the empty luggage bins and closing them up and then he looked over at us.

  "You folks waiting for a kid in a wheelchair?" he said.

  "No," said my father.

  But my mother gasped, and then she was running. She flew past the bus driver and up the stairs of the bus. We could hear her steps as she ran to the back.

  I came up behind her, and this is what I saw: My mother was kneeling down in front of my brother Lucas. One of the overhead lights was shining brightly on her hair, turning it all gold. She held Lucas's face in both her hands. Her blue coat was spread out, and it covered them both like wide wings, covered even the chair my brother was sitting in. She was kissing him, but I couldn't see his face until she reached to hold him close to her, and she put her head beside his. Then I could see him. I could see the wide gauze bandage across his eyes.

  And oh God, it wasn't until she stood and turned to me that I could see why Lucas was in the chair: Both his legs were missing. Above the knees.

  My mother looked at me. That smile.

  Next to them stood a smart soldier, his uniform perfect, his hat off and under his arm, looking away like he wasn't supposed to be seeing this.

  I walked down the aisle, touching each of the seats as I passed them. My mother watched each step I took. When I was in front of the wheelchair, she put her hand on the back of my bro
ther's head, and he leaned into her.

  "Lucas," I said.

  He tilted his face up to me. "Hi, Doug," he said. He reached out and I took his hand. It was trembling a little. "I got dinged up," he said.

  "A little bit," I said.

  He smiled.

  I never saw it before, but he smiles like my mother.

  The soldier and I got Lucas down from the bus. It wasn't easy, and I think we hurt Lucas twice trying to get him down the bus steps, and again when we crowded him into the elevator. And again when we crowded him out of the elevator. But he never said a thing, and when we finally got him on the ground floor, he reached out and the soldier shook his hand and Lucas said, "Thank you, sir," and the soldier said, "It was an honor," and he saluted Lucas—who couldn't see him, but Lucas saluted back as if he somehow knew. Then my mother took his hand and I got behind the chair and pushed him through the Port Authority and out onto the street.

  "Where are we?" he said.

  "New York City," I said.

  He lifted his face up to the air. The bright cold sunshine shone down on him, but he couldn't see it. He was smelling instead.

  And then he turned his head, because he was hearing what suddenly we were all hearing.

  The Stop the War protest was marching toward us, people holding up signs with letters that dripped like blood, screaming into bullhorns, chanting, and sort of looking like the hunter coming across on the horizontal to the meeting of the diagonals, which is where we were standing. When the marchers in the front saw us, they tried to hold back, but the power of the marchers behind heaved them forward, and so instead they turned sideways and skirted around us until we were in a pocket with the crowd touching us everywhere. And you know what they said when they saw my brother in his uniform sitting in a wheelchair with bandages around his eyes, his legs gone? You know what they said?

  They said he got what he deserved.

  They said they were glad his eyes were gone.

  They said they were glad his legs were gone.

  They said he got done to him what he did to Vietnamese babies and how did he like it?

  They said that's what happens when you let yourself get used by fascist pigs.

  My mother tried to get in front of Lucas, but the crowd was so thick and so close that she couldn't work herself around the wheelchair. She looked back at my father, and he pushed himself past her and stood in front of Lucas, who sat there the whole time, facing straight out, even when someone spit on him. He didn't say anything. He just took it, like there was nothing else he could do.

  You know what that feels like?

  It feels like having Principal Peattie tell you that not a single teacher in the whole school gives a rip about you—not a rip—because they all gave up on you a long time ago, like on the day you started.

  That's what it feels like.

  It probably went on like that for only a few minutes, but it felt a lot longer. And when the crowd finally thinned out and the last protester had hated him, we got back to the pickup and my father started it up while my mother and I helped Lucas out of the wheelchair and into the cab and my father swore when he had to get out after my mother came around the front to get in through the driver's side. I got in the back and pulled the wheelchair into the pickup. It was heavier than I thought it would be, and I had to be careful because my father sure hoped I wasn't dinging up his pickup while I was getting that thing in.

  I put the wheelchair down on its side and leaned against it so it wouldn't roll around as we headed out of Manhattan and back up toward Marysville to a house my brother had never seen. And maybe wouldn't see now.

  Not that he was missing much.

  It was a long drive, and I think you can imagine how cold it was for one of us especially. But I kept wondering every time we hit a bump and the stupid shocks in the pickup didn't do a thing how much it was hurting Lucas.

  Probably a lot.

  When we pulled into the driveway, my father got out and went into The Dump. I lowered the wheelchair over the side and jumped out and opened the door. Lucas's face was pretty grim. I'm not lying. My mother had been crying, so her face was pretty grim too. I wasn't sure how we were going to get Lucas out of the pickup, especially without hurting him more. I guess he wondered about that too, because he said, "Doug, if you wheel the thing below me, maybe I could sort of fall into it." It took me a couple of seconds to see that he was kidding, even though there's nothing funny about missing your legs, you know.

  Then the front door of The Dump opened, and I thought it was probably my father coming back to help out. It wasn't. It was my brother. He looked at me; then he looked inside the truck at my mother and Lucas. "Lucas," he said.

  "Hey," said Lucas.

  My brother looked at me again, and then he reached into the pickup. "Tell me if this hurts," he said, and he reached around Lucas and Lucas reached an arm around my brother's neck and he lifted him out, just like that, and set him down in the wheelchair.

  "Thanks, little brother," said Lucas.

  And my brother, my brother Christopher, he said, "Anytime, Lucas. Whenever you want."

  So we wheeled Lucas into The Dump and my father said how did we think we were going to get him up to our room in a wheelchair and Christopher said, "We got it figured out."

  And Lucas gave that smile.

  I really did try to care during the Volleyball Unit in PE that week. But you have to admit, volleyball is not that great a sport. You don't hear Jim McKay announcing the thrill of victory that comes from winning a volleyball game. I mean, slapping a ball around and getting it over a net? What's the point to that?

  There's a reason that no one carries stats about volleyball around in his head.

  But I really did try to care. And I even tried to care about the Wrestling Unit—not enough to try to win, but enough to keep things going for a minute or two without a whole lot of circling, which the So-Called Gym Teacher announced would get the two circlers two more big fat zeroes.

  And no, I didn't say a thing about my surprise at him being able to understand the mathematical concept of zero. Remember, I got it.

  And I didn't even complain about having to be in the Wrestling Unit at all, which I had reason to, since you may have noticed that James Russell and Otis Bottom weren't there with me even though they had missed most of the Wrestling Unit too. But so what? So what? If the So-Called Gym Teacher wants to be the jerk of the world, so what? If he wants to boom around in his sergeant voice, so what?

  But maybe you can understand a little when I tell you that when the So-Called Gym Teacher hollered at me during Volleyball that I should go after those balls and not act like a Mama's Baby, you can understand why I got the volleyball and was about to throw it as hard as I could into his sneering face, but I held back—and I'm not lying, it wasn't easy—and I told him to shut up, just shut up, and he sneered some more and said I would never throw the volleyball because I knew what would happen to me, and my mother would be all upset, wouldn't she?

  I almost threw it.

  I almost did.

  But I didn't.

  I smiled—the way Lil Spicer likes. Then I took off my shirt and threw it onto the bleachers. I went back and served the stupid ball over the stupid net. Overhand.

  Stats for that game:

  I don't remember. My platoon lost. It's volleyball. Who cares? It wasn't exactly the agony of defeat. It was something a whole lot better.

  But I'm not lying, all that week, the So-Called Gym Teacher did not let up. On Tuesday, he made three guys in the Wrestling Unit run the bleachers all period because they weren't trying hard enough. Guess who was one of the three guys. Then later, during Volleyball, he made two guys clean off the scuff marks from the gym floors with old tennis balls. Guess who was one of the two guys.

  On Wednesday, during the Wrestling Unit, he made two guys run the bleachers all period because they weren't trying hard enough. Guess who was one of the two. And in Volleyball, I had to finish all the scuff ma
rks I'd missed on my side of the floor.

  On Thursday, he had four guys finally wash the sweaty wrestling mats down. Guess who was one of the four. In Volleyball, he told four guys that they were going to stand in the middle of the court and try to retrieve balls that were spiked down to them. We were supposed to dive. You know what that feels like, diving onto a gym floor for forty-three minutes?

  Then he told us that the next day would be the stunning climax of the Wrestling and Volleyball Units.

  Terrific.

  So on Friday, the last day before Christmas vacation, the So-Called Gym Teacher said he had picked random wrestling partners by choosing our names from slips of paper he'd cut up and put into a hat. He held up his clipboard. He said he'd call out the names two by two, starting with the first pair to wrestle.

  Guess who was in the first pair.

  My partner turned out to be Alfred Hartnett. I'll let you guess again: Do you think Alfred Hartnett weighed about the same as me, or about sixteen times more?

  The So-Called Gym Teacher smiled when he called my name and then Alfred Hartnett's. He put the clipboard down on the bleacher and leaned back. "Let's get it going," he said.

  I'm not lying, even if I had been trying, it wouldn't have made any difference. Alfred Hartnett laid an arm across me, and I went down. It was, for the record, his left arm, not his strong side. He was a good guy.

  The So-Called Gym Teacher thought it was hilarious.

  After the period, he went back to his office and left two guys—me and Alfred Hartnett, hilarious—to roll up the mats for Christmas vacation. They weren't so bad because, as you might remember, they'd gotten cleaned off earlier that week. When we finished, we walked back toward the locker room, and I saw that the So-Called Gym Teacher had left his clipboard and the slips of paper on the bleacher.

  I looked at the clipboard.

  Wouldn't you have wanted to know?

  Not a single name on it.

  The So-Called Gym Teacher had set it all up. There wasn't anything random at all, the jerk.