Turtle Boy

by M. Evan Wolkenstein

  (2) This, Rabbi Harris will give you.

  (3) is a surprise. I’ll have my dad bring it to your home.

  RJO

  I put the letter down. I can’t believe RJ was thinking about me during his final days.

  Rabbi Harris opens the drawer again and pulls out a small brown box. On the lid, it says Will.

  I open it. I reach in and pull out RJ’s necklace. I hold it up to my eyes. It’s hundreds of tiny shell fragments, rough and irregular, strung together like the spine of some fantastic serpent.

  “You want to put it on?” asks Rabbi Harris.

  No. No, no, no, it doesn’t belong on me. It’s still his.

  I hold it to my forehead. Part of me wants to put it back in the box, but the other part, the part that controls my hands, loops it around my neck, once, twice, then closes the clasp.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s December 31, the last day of the year. My face no longer pulses with constant pain, but still, it’s sore from the moment I wake up until I fall into bed.

  Mom makes thick soup. Every night, it’s potato soup, cheese soup, or tomato soup. Nothing tastes good. I also drink these gross protein things that come in a blue can. They taste like chalk, but I prefer them because when I drink one, Mom doesn’t make me come downstairs for dinner. I stay in my room. I lie on my bed.

  On my nightstand are RJ’s headphones and the little brown box that RJ’s shell necklace came in. I love the necklace. But I hated taking it off and seeing it at night, like an artifact of someone once great and living. So I decided I’m never going to take it off.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  “Hey, honey,” Mom says. “Did you want to come down for a little New Year’s celebration? We can have ice cream. Or, hey! I can make you a shake! I promise, I won’t sneak any protein powder in it.”

  I stay silent.

  “Okay,” she says. She comes over and tries to kiss me on my forehead, but I roll away. I don’t want ice cream. I don’t want anything good or fun or nice, not while RJ’s gone. And he’s gone forever, so maybe no more ice cream forever.

  She leaves, and time passes. Maybe I should go to sleep.

  It must be close to midnight.

  New Year’s. Who cares?

  I wake up, and I don’t move. It’s Wednesday, the first week of school after winter break. I’ve missed two days already—my face hurt too much to go to school.

  Eventually, Mom comes to get me, but I won’t get up.

  “I will not allow you to stay home past Friday,” she says. “You understand?”

  She sounds angry, but I know she’s only pretending. She’s actually scared.

  “And I think you need some grief counseling,” she says. “I’m going to get a referral from your school.”

  I don’t say anything, and I don’t move.

  She goes to work, and I stay in my room. Everything feels hollow and drained of life. I haven’t touched my drums since before RJ died. Glass terrariums line the walls, empty except for the herp hotels, the pumps.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s about 3:45 when the doorbell rings. It’s Shirah, and she pushes past me, holding up two big cups. “Jamba Jews!” she says. “Get it? Jamba Jews!”

  “Yes, I get it,” I say. “Thanks. I am so sick of soup.”

  She hands me the cups and takes off her coat.

  “How’s the healing?” she asks. “Still a lot of pain?”

  “It’s not as bad as it was,” I say.

  “So you’ll be there on Saturday, right?”

  I look at her blankly.

  “Max’s Bar Mitzvah!”

  Wow. I completely forgot about that.

  “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “You have to come, Will,” she says, her tone changing. “I know you’re sad because of RJ, but Max really needs you. You have to be there.”

  “So, you guys are going out now, huh?” I say.

  She nods. “I guess so,” she says. “Is that weird?”

  I shrug. I’m not jealous of Max, exactly, but the two of them together…it feels…odd. And a little lonely, like they’ve left me behind.

  She looks at her watch.

  “I guess I should probably get back to volleyball practice,” she says. “I’m in some kind of rut and I need all the drills I can get. Here…” She takes a big sip of the Mango Tango. “I’ll leave the rest for you. It’s good.”

  Soon, she’s headed to practice, and I begin thinking—she didn’t say anything about my face. I wonder: Is the change not noticeable?

  I can’t hold back any longer. I go to the bathroom and grab Mom’s mirror and turn on the light. I take a deep breath. I count to three.

  I look.

  It’s my face. My front teeth line up now, the top and bottom teeth banded together, touching. And my chin is a little different. The fold of flesh that surrounded my little turtle chin is gone. But essentially, I look the same.

  I’m disappointed. Really disappointed.

  It’s Friday night. It’s dark out. I’ve been sitting in the room, one light on—too tired to read, too bored to do anything, too sad to play drums. I hear the sound of an engine in the driveway, headlights crawling across my ceiling. The new porch lights turn on; then I hear Mom talking from the door.

  “Will!” she calls.

  I come downstairs, expecting maybe to see Max. Or maybe Shirah. But it’s neither of them.

  It’s RJ’s dad.

  I recognize him from the funeral. With his sunglasses off, I can see RJ got his burning blue eyes from him. He’s very tall and thickly built, wearing a heavy plaid shirt, a puffy vest zipped over it, and a hunter’s cap with earflaps and a brim.

  “Can I make you tea or coffee?” asks Mom. “It’s freezing out there.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” says RJ’s dad. “I’ll only be here a minute.” He turns to me.

  “Will, I’m really sorry we didn’t get to meet earlier. I’m RJ’s dad. Glen.”

  He offers me his hand to shake, the way RJ did on the day we met.

  “RJ gave me some really specific instructions,” he says. “There’s something out in the back of the truck he wanted you to have. Will you come have a look?”

  I’m numb. I’m floating. I put on a coat and follow RJ’s dad outside. We walk down the driveway toward a big white pickup truck. It’s snowing, and the air is full of gentle movement.

  There’s something up there, in the back of the truck, under a blue tarp. A frosting of snow has settled into the folds. RJ’s dad turns a knob for the truck’s rear hatch to drop down. He grabs the corner of the tarp and lifts it off as a gust of wind comes along, billowing the tarp out like a sail.

  It’s a drum set.

  Red. Sparkling under the porch lights.

  “RJ’s prized possession,” says RJ’s dad. “I really hope you’ll take them.”

  The drums are beautiful. The bass drum, the big one, says SLINGERLAND. I remember that name from the very first time I visited RJ. He said he had a beautiful, vintage Slingerland drum set at home. I remember liking the sound of the name—like it’s a faraway, happy place. Under the brand name, someone drew two very deliberate and bold letters: RJ.

  For the first time since I finished RJ’s bucket list, I want something. Deeply. I can’t wait to set them up, grab my sticks, and pound the drums with all my might.

  “Why don’t you take the cymbals?” RJ’s dad asks. “I can carry the shells myself.” He hands me a black nylon case the size of an extra-large pizza delivery box, and with his two thick arms he lifts the drum shells off the truck bed.

  I lead the way and hold the door for RJ’s dad, and we march the drums toward the stairs.

  My mom sees us from the
living room.

  “It’s gonna get loud around here,” she says.

  “Very,” I say, and find myself smiling for the first time in ages.

  We go into my room, and immediately RJ’s dad remarks, “That’s a lot of fish tanks. I don’t think there’s even room for a drum set.”

  I look around from terrarium to terrarium to terrarium. He’s right. They’re taking up every corner of my bedroom. I only kept them because I thought I’d eventually catch more turtles, but I’m done with that.

  “I’m getting rid of them,” I say. “I don’t need them anymore.”

  “I have the truck outside—you want me to take them off your hands?”

  Moments later, we’re moving the tanks downstairs and out the door to his truck. As he closes and locks the back, I notice my mood shifting; I feel lighter. Freer.

  “RJ was a great guy,” I say to Mr. Olsen. I know it’s not enough.

  I think he’s going to speak because he opens his mouth, but then he swallows and clears his throat and claps me lightly on the shoulder. He nods and gives me the smallest of smiles, gets in his truck, and drives away.

  I’m at Max’s Bar Mitzvah party. I went to the ceremony this morning. I didn’t sit with the other kids from Hebrew school. I sat way in the far corner. And I left as soon as it was over, so I never talked to Max, but he saw me; he was carrying the Torah down the aisles of the sanctuary and our eyes met. His face ignited, beaming. He brought the Torah a little closer, and he looked me in the eye. I saw his joy, overflowing. I saw his pride. I also saw sympathy and concern. It was more than I could take, and I looked away.

  I’m at his party, though I made sure to show up as late as I could, hoping no one would notice me. My goal: to wander around, find Max, say hi, and leave.

  I’m feeling very self-conscious. I wonder if kids will see my jaw under the flashing party lights and assume the puffiness is a trick of the shadows. I’ve been very private about the surgery. My teachers know, and maybe a rumor has gone around. So far, only a few kids have said anything: “Hey, Will—where’d you get the chin?” one yelled. I didn’t answer. I turned and walked away, and I heard him call, “Can’t you take a joke?”

  A few more kids walk by and glance my way, and one says “Hey, Will, we miss you at school.” But no one says anything more than that.

  From where I’m standing, I can see Max and Shirah and the other kids on the dance floor. I’m happy for Max. Then the song ends, and it’s a slow dance. I turn to get some punch, and I’m filling my cup when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “Having a good time?”

  It’s Max. His forehead is beaded with sweat, and he’s flushed and breathing hard. I’m happy to see him, but my mood has been so grim, I almost can’t handle his joy.

  “Your face looks good,” he says. “The swelling isn’t as gross, and your chin looks sort of chinnier.”

  “Thanks, Max.”

  “Shirah’s over there,” he says, thumbing behind him. “You should ask her to dance!”

  “Wouldn’t that be weird?” I ask. “You guys are going out, and it’s a slow dance.”

  “Why would it bother me? Aren’t you and I best friends?”

  That’s the thing about Max—he often doesn’t think before he speaks, but he’s one of the most honest people I know. He has a truly good heart. I clap him on the shoulder and head over to Shirah, who is standing by a group of volleyball players. The music is loud and slow. Without talking, we get into the same position as we did at All Lacrosse the Dance Floor last October.

  “You want to hear some good news?” she asks. “The chain-link fence is gone. You can just walk right into the Back 40.”

  “That’s really cool,” I say, but my mind is on other things. “Shirah, can I ask you something? Do I look different? Like, do you see any change from the surgery?”

  “Change?” she asks, scanning my face while we rock side to side. “The truth is, Will, I never really saw what the problem was. Your face was always just your face.”

  “Okay, but I’m not asking about that,” I say impatiently. “I’m asking if I look different.”

  She looks at me closer. I’m not sure what I want her to say.

  “Smile,” she says. “Oh, yeah—I can see it. I can definitely see it when you smile.”

  “What’s different?” I ask, eager for answers.

  “You look more like you,” she says.

  I’m standing here, smiling at Shirah like a total goofball—my face one foot away from hers in the dark of the dance floor. It’s the saddest time of my life, at least that I can remember, but here I am, I’m smiling. Sure, it’s because Shirah made me do it. But maybe there’s just a tiny bit of smile left in me.

  Maybe that’s where RJ is.

  I’m gazing into the pond in the Back 40. I haven’t returned since the day we found the bale of Blanding’s turtles—that’s the word for a turtle group: a bale. It’s been four months. The ice has melted, and the first light green buds of spring have arrived, speckling the branches of the trees. This morning, I rode my bike to Herb’s Herps, where Gwen met me at the door with a turtle carrier.

  “How’ve you been?” she asked.

  I shrugged; not the usual I dunno shrug, but one that says There’s no words to describe the way I feel.

  “Me too,” she said.

  Now, duckweed floats along the edge of the pond in clumps, and here and there, my eyes catch the movement of water bugs coasting from sun to shade or a dragonfly zooming along the surface. All that’s left to do is place the turtle in the water. It’ll do the rest on its own—it’ll swim away, and I’ll never see it again.

  “Hey, little guy,” I say, pulling him out of the carrier. “I think you’ve been locked up long enough, don’t you?”

  I hold the turtle an inch over the water, and it occurs to me that this turtle saved the Back 40. There’s no way to thank a turtle, though, except to let it go.

  Bloop! and it’s done.

  As it swims away, a feeling of relief washes over me. For just a moment, it feels like I can breathe in a way I haven’t been able to for a long while. Then, just as quickly, I’m hit by a terrible reality.

  I never swam in the Back 40.

  I didn’t finish RJ’s bucket list.

  I could do it now. Shuck off my clothes, jump in, and be done with it. But that doesn’t feel right, and I know exactly why.

  RJ didn’t want me to swim in the Back 40. He wanted me to swim in the ocean.

  I’ve never wanted to have a Bar Mitzvah party, and one morning in May, as I’m gathering my stuff for school, Mom asks if maybe there’s something else I want instead, some other way to celebrate the accomplishment of my Bar Mitzvah. Something other than a party.

  “I want to go to Hawaii,” I say.

  I’ve never seen her go that still and that silent that fast.

  “I don’t know, Will,” she says. “I feel funny about that idea.”

  I know what this means: Dad. She’s upset about going on vacation, just the two of us, and it has to do with Dad. Even after all this time. Even after everything we’ve been through.

  “We’ll talk about it another time,” she says, and kisses me goodbye as a way of ending the conversation, and without another word, I head out the front door into the humid spring morning. I’m halfway to the bus when I realize that I’ve forgotten my essay for English class in the printer. I hurry home, open the door with my key, and hear Mom in the living room with Rabbi Harris on the speakerphone. I step closer to listen, staying out of sight.

  “Will wanting to go is a great reason to spend a few days in Hawaii,” says Rabbi Harris. “But it isn’t the only reason.”

  “What else did you have in mind?” asks Mom. I can tell that she knows the answer, but she doesn’t like it.

  “E
rika,” Rabbi Harris says. “When we first met, your husband had been gone for a year but you missed him so much, you couldn’t function, day to day. You couldn’t look for work; you couldn’t have fun with Will; you couldn’t find any meaning in life. So what did we do?”

  “Sat shivah,” says Mom.

  “Right,” says Rabbi Harris. “Seven days of complete grieving, all the Jewish customs—even though Dan had already been gone for more than a year.”

  Dan. My dad’s name. A name I haven’t heard in forever. When Mom and I talk, it’s always just “Dad” or maybe “your dad.” Sometimes I forget he even had a name.

  “You covered all the mirrors in the house with black cloth, and you sat on cushions on the floor, and you wore a black ribbon and people brought you meals for a week. After seven days, you’d completed sitting shivah—you got up from the floor, you took the black ribbon off your shirt, and you went out and found your job. You started doing Saturday movies with Will. But I don’t think you ever fully returned to life.”

  Saturday movies.

  That’s when we started synchronizing watches! For me, it had always been a silly joke Mom couldn’t let go of. Now I see that it’s a custom we invented during a painful transition; Mom’s way of clawing her way back into the light.

  “You’ve tried to move forward,” says Rabbi Harris. “And you’re doing an amazing job. But you’re still holding on. You haven’t let go. Am I right?”

  I hear Mom sniffle. And suddenly, for the first time, I understand her. I know how she feels.

  “It’s time to take the black cloth off the mirrors, Erika,” says Rabbi Harris. “Take Will to Hawaii. That’s where you and Dan went on your honeymoon, right? Make peace with it. Have a fantastic time. And when you come home, return to life.”

  I slip out the door without making a sound, full of a new feeling, a blend of emotions that shouldn’t be able to mix, and yet, here they are within me—two waves rolling in opposite directions: sadness and joy.