Summerlings

by Lisa Howorth

  “I don’t want to, either, but what we want doesn’t particularly matter. What your grandmother wants is law. As you ought to know. Give me that foot.”

  I stuck out my leg across his lap. “This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” he said, putting on his reading glasses.

  “That’s such a giant lie!”

  Brickie chuckled, unwrapping a clean towel in which Dimma had left the instruments of torture: a gleaming sewing needle and tweezers, cotton balls, and peroxide. “All you have to do is hold still, and I’ll have it out in a second.”

  “Oh, sure.” I was trying not to cry.

  Picking up Dimma’s sterling table lighter, Brickie clicked it and held the needle in the flame to sterilize it. Then he unceremoniously poked the needle into my foot, and, of course, I shrieked and tried to jerk away. He had a good grip on me, though. “Could you try being just a little stoic?”

  “What’s that?” I whimpered.

  “Stoic means you try to endure things that hurt and don’t let them bother you.” He dug around and squeezed the inflamed spot, drawing pus and blood.

  “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I yelled. “Stoic sounds like stupid to me.” I was about to say that he should be sorry for torturing me since I’d nearly died, but I thought better of it. I tried to concentrate on the top of Brickie’s head, where his faded red hair had thinned so I could see the tender geography of his scalp, the moles and age spots, which gave me a pang. Even though at the moment I was angry with him for tormenting me, I would miss him if I were dead. It also crossed my mind to ask about why he was being mean to my father, suing him—I was thinking about jail and wondering if Daddy had the money to avoid it—but I thought better of that, too.

  Brickie traded the needle for the tweezers and plucked the splinter out, holding it up triumphantly. “Mission accomplished!” Then he rubbed some peroxide in the wound—hard—with a cotton ball, causing another “Ow!” and stuck a Band-Aid on it. “Dr. Dimma was right—it was infected. See—that took all of four minutes, you big baby.” He laughed and patted my leg.

  “Hmpf. The next time you get something cut open I’m going to laugh at you. Like your hemorrhoids.”

  “I would not advise that,” Brickie said. “Now let’s have some Honeymoon and watch the show.” He went to the kitchen to get our ice cream and I used the time to soak a new cotton ball in peroxide and stroke it across my hair, thinking I might achieve a blondish Troy Donahue look. Elena would love it. I wished I could dye it the platinum color of my mother’s hair, but that would mean smearing revolting blue glop that smelled like rotten eggs on my head.

  Brickie returned with two big bowls. “Are you sure Peter Gunn won’t be too frightening for you?” he teased.

  “The only thing I’m frightened of right now is you,” I said. He gave an ice-creamy chortle and we waited for Peter Gunn to begin. “I hope you managed to have some fun at the beach before you were so tragically wounded.”

  I thought, If you only knew, but said, “I met one of the guys who dropped the bombs on Japan.”

  “Really.” He seemed interested. “Was it your father’s friend from Baltimore?”

  “Umm…Lieutenant Beser?”

  “He’s a hero. That’s nice that you got to meet him.”

  “I don’t get it about heroes. He didn’t save anybody.”

  “Well, what he did put an end to the war, so he saved a lot more Americans from dying.”

  Just what my father had said. I thought about our war reenactments, like the cruel debacle with Kees and Piet and their Airstream. “We like war, but is playing it the same as guys having real wars? I mean, why do people keep having them?”

  “You boys playing war is different—you’re just children, and you like winning, like a baseball game. There are real wars because people have to protect what’s important to them. And war is terrible; no one ‘likes’ it.”

  It didn’t seem so different to me. “But America likes winning, too.”

  Brickie shook his head. “There’s always going to be a lunatic around to start something, like Hitler, and something has to be done about it. Americans don’t start wars, we end them.”

  “Why can’t we just do like the Romans? You just put the presidents and kings and dictators in a ring, like gladiators, and let them fight it out. Whoever doesn’t die wins, and all the regular people don’t have to get killed.”

  “It just doesn’t work that way. But philosophically, it’s a good idea.” I was glad to get some credit for a change.

  Brickie plucked at a nostril, and, feeling that I now had the moral high ground, I said, “Stop picking your nose, Brickie.”

  “I am not picking my nose, John. I had an itch. And you’re certainly not one to talk about nose-picking.”

  I still had my doubts and persisted with my interrogation. “But it seems like people do like war. Beau Shreve said his dad said that American spies knew that Pearl Harbor was going to happen, but nobody tried to stop it because we wanted to get in the war.”

  “Yes, I know that theory. It’s very complicated, son. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

  I hated that answer, which I often got from my grandparents. “Why do we make such a big deal about Russian spies? Don’t we spy on everybody, too?”

  Brickie sighed. “Why don’t you eat your ice cream? I’m spying on your bowl right now, and you’re letting it melt.”

  “I like it all melty, like a milkshake. That’s the best way to eat it.” I stirred it around and stirred around some thoughts in my head. “So if you think I should eat my ice cream before it melts because that’s the best way to do it, and I don’t believe that, it’s like Commies and Americans—we have to fight about whose way is the best, and make everybody do it the same?”

  “Good God, son. How many Cokes did your grandmother let you have today?”

  “Three,” I said. “It would have been four but Estelle took one away from me. Do you know any spies? Do you know somebody named Guy Fitch?”

  This seemed to take Brickie aback, but he said, “How do you know that name? No, I don’t know him. And nobody knows who spies are because they have to keep their jobs secret.”

  “Maari Andersen thinks you’re a spy.” This was a lie; it had been the Shreve boys who’d said it, but I knew they’d beat the crap out of me if I told on them and got them in trouble.

  Brickie laughed. “Well, consider the source of that ridiculous idea. Maari needs to be worrying about her…unusual family, not yours. I think you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah. I’m glad you’re not a queer.”

  “We don’t say that word around the Andersens. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  I wondered why all these words existed if people weren’t supposed to use them, but instead asked, “Do you think I’ll ever be in a war?”

  “I certainly hope not. But you never know. Things are always happening in the world. It’s possible that in ten years or so, when you’re old enough to be in the military, it could happen.”

  I was mildly alarmed. “Where would it be?” Talking about and playing war were okay, but the idea of actually being in one startled me.

  “Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, Cuba’s a mess—the Communists have taken over there. And Communism is spreading everywhere, and needs to be stopped. We didn’t fight a world war to give people freedom just to have it taken away again. We got Korea under control. Just this summer, some American military advisers were killed in an Asian country called Vietnam, and it’s a problem area. Not to mention Russia, of course, which is the cause of all the Communism, and is a terrible threat to us.” He looked away for a moment, then turned back to me. “And yes, you’d probably have to go. When your country goes to war, it’s your duty to defend it. And, since you apparently like war, that should be fine with you, right?” He raised his beetley brows, loo
king me in the eye.

  “I might change my mind. And I’m not going if Liz doesn’t have to go, too. Why don’t girls have to fight? And I’m not going without Ivan and Max, either.”

  “Jesus, you are hopped up. Can this discussion be over, do you think? The show’s about to start.” He put his feet up on the coffee table and retrieved the remains of his pre-dinner Scotch, offering me a sip. I took a big one, shuddering from its burn. Picking up my bowl, I drank my ice cream, melted to perfection, to quench the heat of the Scotch and keep from coughing. Brickie said, disapprovingly, “Where did you grow up? China?”

  I coughed, burped, and grinned. “Uranus.”

  “Very funny. I don’t want you to say another word while we’re watching the show. Think you can do that? Or do I have to go get the duct tape from the kitchen drawer?”

  It seemed to me that our conversation had just gone in a big circle, but I didn’t say that. I said, “That’s playing Quaker. Ivan can go the longest without talking. If you duct-tape my mouth, stuff will have to come out of my nose when I cough.”

  “Those are your last words, my friend.”

  The menacing, noir Henry Mancini theme cranked up, and we settled in. The episode, “Skin Deep,” was a summer rerun, but that didn’t bother Brickie. “This is a good one!” he said. Peter Gunn was worrying about a rich lady who worked in a flower shop and had been clubbed to death with a fireplace poker. I had some questions but kept my mouth shut. Gunn showed up at a bar. Then Brickie said excitedly, “Listen to this, John! That’s Laurindo Almeida, one of the greatest guitar players in the world!” We listened. It sounded pretty good, like the music that the Montebiancos listened to. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” Brickie said. I wanted to impress him and say that Beatriz told me that that kind of music was Brazilian and called samba, but I covered my mouth and made muffled sounds. “Oh, right. You’re under a gag order. Good man.” We watched some more stuff—I don’t know what—and I began to feel sleepy. Pretty soon I was nestled against my grandfather with his arm around me, sound asleep.

  * * *

  ——————

  I felt better the next day, and after lunch I was finally liberated by successfully convincing Dimma that my cough was gone, although it wasn’t. She was glad about the splinter, but Brickie took all the credit, and she made me wear a sock on my bad foot. I couldn’t wait to get to the boys with all my news about drowning, and vinegaroons.

  I limped over to the Goncharoffs’, my bones still a little achy and my foot sore from Brickie’s surgery. Ivan and Max sat on the steps at the street. Max had been dragging a magnet tied to a string, picking up a pile of iron filings. Ivan was polishing a dime with a ball of mercury from a thermometer he’d broken on purpose. I was glad he didn’t seem sick anymore.

  Ivan shouted, “YAY! You’re back! We didn’t catch anything while you were gone!” as I crossed the lane to them. Then, seeing my battered body, mapped with mercurochrome, and my socked foot, he cried, “Are you okay?”

  “Man, what happened?” asked Max. “That mercurochrome looks like blood! That’s so cool.” I was shirtless because my scabs stuck to T-shirts and hurt.

  “I drownded,” I said, delighted to tell my tale. “It wasn’t cool at all. It was so scary. I think I was dead for a little bit.” I told the whole story, leaving out only the part about losing my bathing suit.

  Ivan looked horrified. “I’m really glad you didn’t die for good.”

  Max was less moved. “Did your life pass before your eyes?” he wanted to know. “Did you see God, or anybody like that?”

  “I saw people. My family, and you guys, I think.” I thought for a minute. “It was kind of like when we pull the legs off Japanese beetles and they can’t do anything, maybe?”

  “That’s why we shouldn’t do that stuff,” Ivan said. He had a point.

  Remembering my other big news, I said excitedly, “But you guys, get this! My dad saw an article in the paper about some rare scorpion things they found downtown. They’re called pirate vinegaroons. There wasn’t a picture, but there might be one in yesterday’s paper. Brickie took his to work before I could see.”

  “Josef probably still has it,” Ivan said, hopping up. “I’ll find it.” He ran up the walk into the house and came right back with the Sunday Post. “Got it!”

  Max and I huddled around Ivan, who found the vinegaroon article on the second page. There was a photograph of one of the vinegaroons, and it was shocking. The thing looked like a scorpion, but seemed more sinister because it was very dark, nearly black, had a long tail like a whip, and fangs, and was huge. It was pictured next to a beer bottle at the Tune Inn, at 331 Pennsylvania Avenue on Capitol Hill, where two of the creatures were found, and was nearly as long as the bottle was wide. Its appearance was terrifying.

  “Gah!” said Max. “It looks like the giant ant in Them!” This was another of our favorite nuclear horror movies. “Is it poisonous?”

  “Let me read what it says,” said Ivan. “ ‘The pirate vinegaroon exists exclusively in the arid southwestern U.S., Mexico, Central and South America, and on some Caribbean islands, but even in those regions it is rare. There is no record of them having been found in any other areas of the United States. According to Professor Marion R. Smith of the Department of Agriculture’…blah blah blah.” Ivan scanned the article for more juicy stuff. “ ‘The pirate vinegaroon is a member of the’ ”—here Ivan had to sound it out—“ ‘Ur…op…y…gi order, known as whip scorpions, most of which possess stingers like the common American scorpion they are related to. But the pirate vinegaroon has both a venomous bite and a whip-like tail that secretes a harmful spray, as well as powerful pincers to catch its prey—insects and small vertebrates.’ ”

  Ivan stopped reading for a minute and we looked at one another, wide-eyed. “Man!” said Max. “It eats animals!”

  “A whip and fangs!” I said. “Read some more.”

  Ivan resumed. “ ‘In order to catch its prey, the pirate vinegaroon will dart out, secure the prey with its pincers, bite it with its venomous fangs, and then eat it live. It is thought that the whiptail’s acid spray is used defensively against animals who try to attack it. The spray smells strongly of vinegar, hence the creature’s name, and can sicken or blind humans temporarily. The pirate vinegaroon is reclusive, making its home in burrows, under rocks, or in wood piles, and is nocturnal, and that fact, along with its rarity, is why few human deaths from its sting have been reported in the U.S.; only about five or six are known. It is very aggressive, unlike other related scorpions who avoid pro…vo…ca…tion, and if disturbed or exposed, the pirate vinegaroon will attack. Pirate vinegaroons can live as long as four to seven years, although the female often dies from starvation and stress after giving birth and carrying up to thirty of her young on her back. The two discovered at the Tune Inn are a male and a pregnant female. Metropolitan Police suggest using extreme caution if unusual insects or spiders are encountered, and ask citizens to contact them in this event.’

  “It says no one has figured out why all the spiders and the vinegaroons are in Washington,” Ivan said.

  I said, “Maybe it is spies doing it. Maybe they did drop a spider bomb on us.”

  Max’s eyes were lit with inspiration, fixated on his obsession. “ ‘Sicken or blind’! Boy, what I wouldn’t give to let that thing loose on Slutcheon!”

  Ivan was quiet, thinking. “They said the two vinegaroons they caught are on exhibit at the National Museum, in the Zoology Department. We could…go see them.”

  “Pfft!” scoffed Max. “We need to catch one, not look at it!”

  I said, “Where is it dry, with some rocks, around here?”

  Ivan said, “There aren’t any rocks at the Tune Inn! A vinegaroon might be anywhere.”

  “And now we know exactly where two are,” Max said very seriously.

 
Ivan and I looked at each other. Then we looked at Max. “I know what you’re thinking, Max,” I said. “No way! You’re nuts.”

  “But maybe it’s not so nuts,” Ivan said. I was about to reason with them when Elena came out onto the porch, swelling our hearts. Max quickly scooped his iron filings into his orange pill bottle and Ivan put his mercury ball and dime into his green one and we ran to the porch to join her. Or they ran—I gimped along more pitifully than was necessary, hoping Elena would notice.

  She seemed her normal self, although pale bruises were still visible on her wrist, and under her makeup, but faded to yellow.

  She brushed some webs off her shoulders, saying, “Ugh! I’m so sick of these horrible things.” Then she flopped on her swing, and, noticing me, exclaimed, “Darling! What’s happened to you?” Elena opened her arms and I fell in, not caring that it hurt, coughing theatrically. She pushed me away after a quick hug so she could survey the damage more closely. “My poor baby! Did you fall off your bike?”

  Max, jealous, said, “That’s not blood, it’s mercurochrome. It’s just some scrapes.”

  “He drowned at the beach!” Ivan added sadly.

  Elena hugged me again. “Oh, no! What would we do without you?” I could think of nothing to say to that and just stayed happily in the hug. She didn’t even seem to care that I was getting some open wound effluvia on her robe. “What about your foot?”

  “Umm…I’m not sure. It might have been chomped by a barracuda or something while I was drownding,” I lied.

  “Pfft!” said Max. “There aren’t even barracudas this far north.”

  “Well, I’m so glad you’re okay, my precious John.” She lit up a lavender Vogue, exhaling luxuriantly.

  To counter my lie, I said, “Elena, Beatriz figured out the entertainment for the Fiesta. We’re just going to do stuff we’re good at anyway.”

  Elena said, “I think that’s a very sensible plan. I know everybody will love it.” She gave us all that big smile we loved, but then squinted at me. “John—your hair! So blond and adorable!”