I told her, “Gimme a puff,” just being funny.
She didn’t say anything. She kept watching Walter Cronkite.
He had earphones on. Somebody was telling him stuff and he was listening and then he was telling us what they said. It was about ships at sea—their ships, our ships. He looked serious but he didn’t look scared. If Walter Cronkite started looking scared, then I would be scared.
I told my mom not to worry.
She looked down at me.
I nodded my head, meaning I mean it.
She patted my leg and looked back at the television. “I’m not worried, hon.”
But she was worried. Smoking like that. Calling me “hon” like that.
I wanted her to quit watching.
I asked her could I check and see if Soupy Sales was on.
She shook her head, no.
“You like Soupy Sales,” I told her. “You said he was funny, remember? When he did his dance? The Mouse? Remember?”
“Don’t start,” she said, meaning don’t start pestering.
Walter Cronkite was listening to his earphones again, with a frown on his face.
I told her I saw the biggest fattest person I ever saw in my life today.
She told me, “Shh.”
I told her this lady was so fat she probably couldn’t even fit in the bathtub.
“Lou...”
“Or even the bathroom.”
“I’m trying to hear this.”
“I know but listen, Mom, will ya?”
“What.”
I tried to think of something. “Wanna see me do the Twist?”
“That’s all right.”
“You never saw me. I’m really good. You’ll like it.”
She looked down at me.
“Please?” I said.
“Watch you do the Twist?”
“I’m really good. You won’t believe.”
She put her hand on my forehead, checking.
“I’m fine,” I told her, and got up and went over and turned off the television.
“Hey,” she said.
“Watch,” I told her. “Ready?”
She sighed.
I started singing, quiet, “Twistin, twistin, everybody’s feeling great...”
Except, I couldn’t move my arms. I was trying to swing them but I couldn’t, they were stuck.
I sang louder, “Twistin...”
They wouldn’t budge.
“Twistin!”
I tried moving my legs but they were stuck too. I couldn’t move anything. I couldn’t move!
I started crying.
“Come here,” she said, and held out her arms.
I ran to her.
Toby
After sending Ralph away I kept on sitting there, down on the bottom step.
In that movie at school? About the children of Fatima? I hated those kids. They thought they were so special, Mary herself coming all the way down from Heaven to talk to them, just them. Other people would look and look but they couldn’t see her. You had to be special. You had to be precious.
Ever see a picture of the real children of Fatima? The faces on them? Like they could slit your throat, I’m not kidding. Especially the little one. Slit your throat and not even blink.
In fact? I’ll bet they made the whole thing up. Seriously. I’ll bet they got together one day and decided let’s have some fun with people. That’s probably what their last message said, the one the Pope was supposed to open, everyone still waiting to hear. He probably opened it and read it and right away burned it because here’s what it said:
It’s boring watching sheep all day.
I sucked up a giant breath, held my stomach in, bent all the way over and tied my right shoelace as quick as I could, then sat up straight again and let the air out, along with my stomach.
I sat there catching my breath.
Mr. Pappas across the street sat up in his recliner and hollered out some more gibberish, then laid back down again. He’s all worked up today. He thinks this is it, the end of the world. Any minute now, Kaboom!
But he’s wrong.
They’ll have a meeting, or a long talk over the phone. They’ll put together some kind of deal. And nothing will happen. Nothing ever happens, Mr. Pappas. Don’t you know that? By now?
I sat there.
I thought about going back in and getting my boxes.
I thought about at least tying my other shoe.
But I just kept sitting there.
Then Mom opened the door, up there behind me. “Are they gone?” she said.
Stupid question. I didn’t even answer.
“Toby, listen to me. Don’t ever bring anyone into this house again without my permission. Do you understand?”
She waited.
“Do...you...understand?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She was quiet then for a couple seconds. Then she said, “I’m just about to heat up some ravioli. Interested?”
Little slippery pillows with meat inside, smothered in tomato sauce—what an invention.
“Come in and wash up,” she told me.
I love ravioli but I went on sitting there.
“I brought up a can of apricots from the basement,” she added.
I stayed where I was.
“Del Monte apricots...”
“In a minute,” I told her.
“In extra heavy syrup...”
“In a minute, all right?”
She went quiet again. Then, here came the waterworks. “I’m trying very hard,” she blubbered. “I’m trying very hard to forgive and forget...after what you put me through...with that rock, and those...children, those...greasy little godawful—”
“Hey, Mom?” I said, stopping her. I turned around and looked up at her there, all fat and weepy, in her muumuu.
“Well?” she said.
“I was wondering...”
She waited. “Well?”
“Haven’t you got anything else to wear?”
She stared down at me, her mouth open a little.
“Anything at all?” I said.
She kept staring at me, shaking her head real slow. “I don’t even know you anymore,” she said. “I don’t even know who...you...are.”
I nodded. I liked that idea. I liked that a lot.
She kept shaking her head, not knowing who I was, stepping back into the house. She gave the sky a quick glance and closed the door.
Poor thing.
But I was awful sick of that stupid muumuu. In fact, I was awful sick of everything.
I went on sitting there.
Mr. Pappas went on sleeping.
A car went by.
Then all of a sudden I thought of something I felt like doing.
First though, I sucked up a lungful and went after my other shoelace. Then I stood up. I was pretty hungry, very hungry in fact, especially for ravioli. Be that as it may, I headed towards the back of the house, towards the patio, where I kept my bike.
I felt like trying again.
Premier Khrushchev
I appreciate your assurance that the United States will not invade Cuba. Therefore, we have ordered our officers to stop building bases, dismantle the equipment and send it back home.
The H-Bomb and the Jesus Rock Page 10