by K. J. Reilly
Then, later, when Benj was clearing plates and I was emptying the trash, he came over to me and said, “Hey, Joel, are you going to Alison Newbury’s party on Friday?” And I said, “No,” mainly because I was thinking about the war in Iraq and suicide bombers and Rooster’s Purple Heart and Spindini killing his buddy with friendly fire.
It’s hard to go to parties when you think about things like what it would be like to shoot your buddy by mistake or sit wedged up against a wheel well of a Humvee with orders to shoot anything that fucking moves. Besides, it wasn’t really a real party anyway because it was going to be held in the woods behind Alison’s house, not in her house, and it was BYOE plus ten—which means Bring Your Own Everything including alcohol and drugs and snacks and whatnot, plus ten dollars presumably to pay for Alison’s alcohol and drugs and snacks and whatnot since she was having the party but supplying the woods only.
It was a good thing that I didn’t go to Alison’s woods party ’cause the cops were there waiting for everyone on account of the fact that Alison went retro and printed up a flyer and ran off five hundred copies at Staples and handed them out to everyone at school and kids read them and then dropped them on the floor and put them in trash cans everywhere. They were all over, in the hallways by the lockers and in the trash in the classrooms—there were so many on the floors and seats of the school buses that the bus company called the school to complain—and someone handed one to one of the aides in the cafeteria by mistake and one person left one right on Mrs. Plummer’s desk which was the worst place to leave it since she was the secretary to the principal. The cops staked out the woods and were waiting for everyone to arrive at 9:00 p.m. and then they confiscated all the drugs and alcohol and called everyone’s parents and Alison was basically screwed.
Half the school was now grounded for the rest of their lives.
Except for Eli, who would never go to a party like that and was probably at home making food for shut-ins or one of those other things she did that made her such a good person, and then there was me who stayed home to read Jace Winnie-the-Pooh and think about what it would be like to be told to sit in the dark and shoot anything that fucking moves and then to come home and try to choose a new career like house painter or schoolteacher or maybe gun salesman or arms dealer or golf pro. I read the chapter where Pooh and Piglet are trying to catch a Heffalump in a very Cunning Trap and the whole time I was thinking about whether Pooh should be wearing underpants and what color they should be and then when Jace fell asleep I went to the garage and took the gun out of the plastic bag and unwrapped it from the rag and sat in the back by the bricks on the cement floor in the dark pointing that gun in one direction telling myself not to breathe too loud and to shoot anything that fucking moves and it was pitch-black and my hand was twitching and the hammer wasn’t cocked but there was one bullet in the chamber and I knew that ’cause I put it there. I had to check how to load a gun on the internet ’cause Jackson didn’t have any guns, even though you would think he would, but Jesus, Mary said, “Not with kids in the house, Jackson.”
I got jumpy after only fifteen minutes, not eight hours, and I was scared even though I was in my own garage in my own yard at my own house and there were no enemy soldiers and nobody was trying to kill me and there were no dead kids or suicide bombers or market-places blowing up and none of my buddies were sitting near me with guns pointed in all directions, there was just me wondering about friendly fire and what it would look like in my yard if I had night-vision goggles on.
I was just there with my own thoughts and that was way scarier than I thought it would be.
After two hours I put the gun down and texted Eli, A lot more soldiers than you’d think died in friendly fire accidents in Operation Iraqi Freedom not just the guy Spindini shot by mistake and you get put to death by hanging in public in Iran for reading a book with a gay person in it and I just read Winnie-the-Pooh to Jace. Then I typed, And we should tell Mrs. T that homeless people can get SNAP benefits and that’s basically a card with free money from the government for food if you don’t make enough money to buy food and don’t have food and I have a gun with a bullet in it and we should be really grateful to Spindini and the Colonel and Rooster and all of them because they are fighting for our right to free speech and I am going to read all of the banned books I can. And then I saved the whole thing to draft and just typed, Do you get an Auto F for saying what you really feel? and sent it.
Eli texted back, Joel, just raise your hand first and STOP WORRYING ABOUT AUTO Fs, and I typed, I’m trying, and she sent back five emojis of yellow hearts that were bigger than any I had ever seen in my entire life.
I didn’t know what that meant and my hand froze and I searched for the right thing to text back but my choices were between real words—and I didn’t know any good ones—or stupid pictures of a thumbs-up or a cute dog or a flower or an airplane or a traffic light or gas pump or french fries or a wink face. So I sent her an emoji of a piece of cake with exploding sprinkles but I had to put the gun down again to do that. Then I typed, Thanks, and she wrote, For what? And I wrote, For making me feel better, but I didn’t tell her I had been holding a gun and was worried about things like SNAP benefits for free food and talking animals and underpants and Humvees and friendly fire and what happens when your buddy dies. Then I put the gun back in the bag in its hiding place and went back into the house and found Jace asleep in my bed and when I tried to carry him back to his room he woke up and said, “I can’t sleep in my bed ’cause it’s wet,” so I put him back in my bed and then climbed into the top bunk and tried not to think about anything at all.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO ELI 2:35 a.m.
I like that you make so many lists.
Maybe we could get together and I could make lists with you.
I mean, if that would make you feel better.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO ELI 2:42 a.m.
I have bad thoughts all the time. So I pretty much smash things. And I have a gun in my garage and sometimes when I’m done smashing things I just hold the gun and have bad thoughts.
The gun doesn’t help. I still have the bad thoughts. So it’s probably a good thing that you write things down. I mean, it’s probably better than smashing things or getting a gun.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 2:47 a.m.
Now I have two new sicknesses. One’s called collywobbles and the other is exploding head syndrome. The first one is basically a stomachache and the second one is a bad headache. I’m pretty sure. I mean, I have all the symptoms. For both. My mom just said take Tylenol, you’re fine, Joel, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 2:53 a.m.
I read books now.
A lot of them.
Like all the time.
It’s weird.
Just so you know.
when Rooster came into the soup kitchen, if Eli saw him first, she would find me and whisper, “Joel, I see the bear,” and that would be my cue to go watch his stuff.
Then, every time right after he finished eating, I would walk back inside and go over to him and ask, “Can I get you anything else?” even though I knew he didn’t speak, but just because you never know.
He never answered and he always looked away like I made him nervous and uncomfortable and once, when Benj was watching me try to talk to him, afterward, Benj said, “Hey, man, maybe you should just leave him alone,” and I said, “Shut up, Benj.” Then he said, “The guy just wants to eat and get out of here. It would be better if you didn’t say anything to him at all,” and I said, “Shut the fuck up, Benj, I mean it.” And then I said, “Can I have your socks?” and Benj said, “Okay.”
The next Wednesday after Eli found me and whispered, “Joel, I see the bear,” and I went outside to stand next to his cart, when Rooster was finished eating I walked over just like I usually did and leaned on the table and said, “Can I get you anything else?” But this time when he wouldn’t look at me I decided to try something different and
I leaned in even closer and whispered, “Hold up one finger if you can hear me.”
Rooster didn’t look up but his right hand was on the table in a fist and I watched as he slowly lifted his hand and unfolded his pointer finger and held it up for me just a few inches above the table. Then he quickly put his hand back down and made a fist again.
My heart sped up and I slid onto the bench across from him and tried to make eye contact but he still wouldn’t look at me. Then I whispered real low, “Okay, one finger is yes and two fingers is no.”
Nothing.
“Is it okay that I’m talking to you now?”
One finger. Then a fist.
I was thinking, Holy f-ing shit! and kept the questions coming.
“Is it okay that I bring stuff to where you are living?”
One finger. Then a fist.
“Do you need anything?”
One finger. No fist.
I sat there across from him with my heart racing like the engine in a car trying to climb a hill in the wrong gear. “Can you tell me what you need?”
Two fingers. No.
I sat back. Exhaled real slow. “But you need something?”
He folded one finger back under and there it was. His pointer finger screaming right at me, Yes, I need something.
Since the question of what he needed couldn’t be answered with yes or no, I said, “Don’t leave,” then ran to my backpack and pulled out a pen and a piece of paper and then ran back and sat down across from him again and tried to hand it to him but he just pushed the pen and paper back at me.
At this point he was real agitated and pissed off. His face twitching and his eyes darting around the room like he was looking for a way out.
I looked over and saw Benj watching me from the kitchen door, then Rooster stood up, stepped back, and banged into a chair as he made his way to the exit, pulled the door open, stepped outside, took his cart, and headed up the block. I followed after him, but he gestured with his hand for me to go away.
I followed him for a bit more but stopped where the sidewalk ends.
Then I hung back and just watched as he pushed his shopping cart down the length of road that would eventually take him home.
in his closet.
And when I got home that night after working in the soup kitchen, Jackson and Jesus, Mary were arguing about how to handle it because it had gotten out of control. First, Jace had to have his bedroom door open a little, and then the door had to be open all the way with his light on and the hall light on, and then Pop had to do a “monster check” by opening his closet and looking under the bed and even with all that Jace ended up in my bed or sleeping on the floor in my room curled up in the corner with Lacey. Lacey wasn’t supposed to be sleeping in my room either and while Jesus, Mary and Jackson had given up on that one, they both put all four of their paws down about Jace sleeping with the dog. Jackson said, “Jesus, Mary, he’s got a perfectly good bed in a perfectly good room without any monsters. Why would he sleep with the dog?”
She said, “You sure, Jackson?”
“Am I sure about what?”
“That there are no monsters?”
“Jesus, Mary!”
Then my mom said, “I’m just saying that if Jace thinks there are monsters that makes them real to him.”
I asked Jace, “Why can’t you just stay in your bed?” when he came into my room later that night and climbed into my bottom bunk when I was still up doing homework. I was sitting in the New York Yankees beanbag chair that Jackson got me one Christmas ’cause he really wanted it for himself and then I added, “There’s no such thing as monsters.”
“Yes, there is too.”
“Is too what?”
“Monsters.”
“Show me,” I said.
“You can’t see them.”
“If they’re real we could see them.”
Then Jace ran back to his room and brought in a whole bunch of books like Where the Wild Things Are and The Minpins and I said, “But these monsters are make-believe. They’re just books.”
“No. They’re true. And there are too monsters.”
“So now there are two monsters?” I asked holding up two fingers.
“Youuuuuu…” he said, and then he started to hold his breath, which was one of those things we were supposed to ignore just like the bed wetting and the F bomb so it would extinguish but when he would do it Pop would say, “Jesus, Mary, he’s turning blue, shouldn’t we do something?” And before she could even answer I would just hop up and tickle Jace and end the whole thing because you can’t not breathe if someone is tickling you.
Then Jacey did that pointer finger thing that means come with me, took me by the hand, and brought me to his room and put his finger over his lips and said, “Shhhhh!” Then he opened his closet door and moved some stuff out of the way and in the far back corner of his closet he pointed to a pair of blue sneakers that I hadn’t seen since last summer and probably didn’t fit him anymore. I leaned forward and saw that inside both sneakers was…
What the…?
“Dog kibble,” Jacey said. “I’m sure.”
Then, when I didn’t say a thing, Jace said, “I didn’t put it there and Lacey didn’t put it there because she doesn’t have hands.”
He had a point.
“And in the night I hear the monster eating.”
I said, “Jesus, Jacey, it’s not a monster. It’s a mouse.”
He said, “No way.”
I said, “Way.” Then I said, “Come with me and I’ll prove it.”
I took him into my room, where we researched mousetraps online and then we went downstairs to the kitchen and I asked Pop to drive us to town the next day after school. He said, “What for?” And I said, “For a secret mission,” and he said, “No.” Then I said, “It might solve the monster problem,” and he said, “Really?” I said, “It will just take a ride to town and thirteen dollars and ninety-five cents.”
“And Jace will sleep in his bed?”
Jace said, “No way!”
I said, “Way! But it might take a couple of days to work.”
Then Jackson leaned back in his chair and said, “And you won’t tell me what you’re doing?”
“Nope. Secret brother project.”
Jacey lit up. You could see the happiness spread over his face like it was paint spilled from a can.
I was learning that some problems were easier to fix than others.
I ignored the gun-and-badge-hidden-in-the-garage problem and the 41.2-million-hungry-people-in-the-US problem and the Rooster-won’t-talk problem and the banned-book problem and the Joel-is-too-short problem and set my sights on something I could fix like the monster-in-Jacey’s-closet problem.
After he got home from the station Pop drove me and Jace to Brinkley’s on Main, which was one of those hardware stores that’s been in the same family for generations. When we pulled up in the front Jackson asked me how we were going to solve the monster problem by buying something in a hardware store and I said, “That’s easy. We’re getting a monster trap,” and Jace hopped out after me and added, “A very cunning trap!”
Brinkley’s on Main is a real authentic-looking, old New England country store with a big front porch, a bell on the door, rakes and brooms in the front window, old-fashioned penny candy in big glass jars, and an old dog that didn’t so much guard the place as own it. Yellow lab named Beau with a bit of gray beard sprouting around the muzzle and arthritis in his hind legs so bad that going up and down the stairs out front was something Beau reserved for opening and closing only. He still looked up every time the bell on the door rang and gave a small thump of his tail when he saw you enter, but just enough to indicate you were welcome to come inside. Old Beau no longer had the enthusiasm to hop on up and give you a proper hello and a face lick like I remembered him doing when I was little.
I took Jace downstairs at Brinkley’s and we found the tiniest no-kill animal trap they sold. Olson model number RT-3040-
2. Got a package of two for $13.95. It was labeled for catching chipmunks, as nobody but me wanted to catch a mouse alive. Then as long as we were there, and since Jackson gave me a twenty-dollar bill, I went over to the nail and screw bins and started looking for something to hold pieces of plywood together that might work better than rusty wire and rope, thinking that maybe I could help Rooster fix up his place, when a man I didn’t know came over to me and said, “You’re Jackson’s boy.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, not recognizing him even a tiny bit.
“Your dad’s been working on my truck for more years than I can count.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Been spending some time up in the woods behind the Richardsons’ farm have you?”
It was more of an observation or statement of fact than a question.
I picked up a ¾-inch self-driving flat-head screw and examined it like it was the eleventh wonder of the world and Jacey ran back up the stairs to play with Beau.
“I’ve been workin’ up at the Richardsons’ for goin’ on ten years now,” he continued. “Handyman, part-time farmer. Drive the Mr. and Mrs. to the doctor now and again. Slap some paint around. Things like that.”
I grabbed a small paper bag and started filling it with ¾-inch self-driving flat-head screws and he said, “If some eggs go missin’ from one of the hen houses no one’s likely to notice.”
I looked up.
He nodded.
“You mean…”
“I mean that if a few dozen eggs go missing each week no one’s likely to notice. Not the Richardsons, and not me.”