Behind the Curtain

by Peter Abrahams

  “Of course I’m going,” she said. “Did he say acne?”

  “Acne?” said Joey. “There was something about liver. I hate liver anyway.”

  School sucked in many ways, but the goofy part came close to making it all worthwhile. Ingrid restrained a crazy impulse to pat that untamable Indian feather thing at the back of Joey’s head. Up front, Mr. Porterhouse did some erasing on his puzzle, then chewed on the pencil, deep in thought. Ingrid remembered she still hadn’t learned the word for giant midgets. And that almost reminded her of something else, something maybe important. Oh, yeah, MathFest. Mustn’t forget.

  A kid with his face painted red ran through the parking lot by Red Raider Field waving a red banner and screaming, “Are you ready for some football?”

  “What happens in other countries on Friday nights?” said Stacy. “Like Norway.”

  “I guess they just sit around,” said Ingrid. She stood by Mr. Rubino’s top-of-the-line Weber, grilling the last of the burgers for the Booster Club. Dad, former Red Raiders star quarterback, was president and Mom was treasurer.

  “I always liked the sound of Norway,” Mia said.

  Over on the field, the band struck up “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Spangled: Ingrid loved the word. Maybe it didn’t make sense, but that was America to her, summed up. She got rid of the rest of the burgers at fire-sale prices, gave freebies to Stacy and Mia, shut off the gas. They were in their seats—top row, fifty-yard line on the home side, right above Mom and Dad—in time to see Rocky Hill run the opening kickoff all the way to the Echo Falls thirty-yard line.

  “Nice shade of blue,” Mia said. Rocky Hill did wear sparkling sapphire-blue pants, but was that the point right now? Mia really wasn’t much of a football fan.

  A fact Stacy picked up on right away. “Do they have football in New York?” she said.

  Mia rubbed Stacy the wrong way sometimes. Most of what they had in common was being friends with Ingrid.

  “Not that I ever saw,” Mia said, which was probably the simple truth. But Stacy thought Mia was giving her attitude—Ingrid could tell just from the way Stacy let out her breath.

  The defense ran onto the field. “Hey,” Ingrid said. “Ty’s starting.” There he was, number 19, in the secondary on the near side, bouncing up and down.

  “Bobby Moran rebroke that arm yesterday,” Dad said.

  Ingrid spotted Bobby Moran, one of the stars of the team, on the sidelines in a sweatshirt and jeans. His cast, attached at an awkward angle to a chest harness, went from shoulder to fingertips. His eyes were on Ty.

  “Ty’s just as fast, maybe faster,” Ingrid said.

  “Takes more than speed,” Dad said.

  “For a cornerback against a passing team?” Ingrid said.

  “They won’t be passing tonight,” Dad said.

  “Why not?”

  Rocky Hill came to the line of scrimmage. “Sweep,” said Dad, more to himself; he was uncanny about knowing what was about to happen in football games. “Going at him right off the top.”

  Rocky Hill’s quarterback took the snap, handed off to the running back. Sweep to the near side, the running back following a huge lineman, number 61, both of them kicking up clods of dirt. They turned the corner. Ty came up to meet them, hardly hesitating at all. That was bravery. Ingrid understood at that moment how much Ty loved football, like nothing else in his life. The lineman knocked him down and then the running back ran over him. Touchdown. Ty jumped right back up.

  “Going to be a long night,” said Dad.

  The very next time Rocky Hill got the ball, they tried that sweep again. The lineman bowled Ty over. The running back stepped on him on his way by. Ty got up, not so quickly.

  Dad shook his head. That pissed Ingrid off. “The linebacker’s not even getting there, Dad,” she said.

  Mom glanced back in surprise. “So it’s not Ty’s fault? How do you know that, Ingrid?”

  Ingrid shrugged. But this wasn’t rocket science or brain surgery, the two jobs people always used for defining braininess, leaving out for some reason detective or criminal mastermind. This was just football, and she’d been watching lots of it—all Ty’s games this season and, just lately, Joey’s Pop Warner games as well.

  “Forget about the linebacker,” Dad said. “Ty’s got to fight off that block.”

  But what about the end? Ingrid thought. Where was the Red Raiders end, that enormous kid from the Flats, son of the crabby guy at the Sunoco, number 88? Shouldn’t he be out there, trying to slow down 61? Wasn’t he supposed to push 61 wide, giving the linebacker a lane?

  The coaches were talking on the sideline.

  “They’re going to move Ty to the weak side,” Dad said.

  Next series, they moved Ty to the other side.

  “As if they won’t be able to find him,” said Dad.

  Mom turned, gave him a look. Dad, gaze fixed on the field, didn’t catch it, but Ingrid did. It wasn’t an angry or irritated look—she’d seen looks like that going back and forth between her parents, what kid hadn’t?—but more puzzled, as though she didn’t quite know him.

  Toward the end of the second quarter—Rocky Hill 14, Red Raiders 7—they found Ty again. A sweep to the weak side, 61 still leading it, untouched. This time Ty was a little more hesitant coming up—Ingrid wanted not to see that but couldn’t help herself. He plugged the hole, in a crouch, hands up, tried to slide off 61, spin around in time to tackle the running back. Ty was so quick it almost worked. But 61 was pretty quick too, especially for someone his size. He lifted Ty right off the ground. Ty landed flat on his back just as the running back ran over him one more time.

  Ty lay there for a moment, then rolled and pushed himself up. He took a few wobbly steps toward the wrong sideline, turned, walked to the Red Raider bench, actually recovering enough to jog the last few steps. The coach met him on the sideline, put a hand on Ty’s chest. He yelled something, his nose practically touching Ty’s face mask. For a moment, Ingrid thought he was yelling encouragement, like nice try or not your fault, or not entirely one hundred percent your fault. Then she saw spit droplets flying from the coach’s mouth, silver under the lights, and realized he was beside himself with fury. He stayed there in Ty’s face, some of his words—like “piss poor”—carrying all the way up to the top row. Ingrid felt herself turning red, as though she were on the receiving end. She saw that Mom had reddened too. A lumpy muscle jumped in the side of Dad’s face. Ty went to the end of the bench, sat there, head down. No one talked to him.

  “Can you punt for a field goal?” Mia asked.

  Ingrid rode to Stacy’s house in the Rubinos’ pickup. RUBINO ELECTRIC read the gold lettering on the door. NO JOB TOO BIG OR SMALL. A great slogan, in Ingrid’s opinion. Said it all. And true: Mr. Rubino was a genius when it came to electricity. He’d turned the Rubinos’ family room into a kickass entertainment center complete with a real popcorn machine and a robot that rolled around with a tray of drinks. Even the sound system in the pickup, now playing a song about strawberry shortcake and broken hearts—Mr. Rubino loved country—rocked. Mr. Rubino was also lighting director for the Prescott Players, famous in local lighting circles for how he’d handled the Cheshire Cat’s smile in Alice in Wonderland.

  “How’s the script look, Ingrid?” he said.

  “Haven’t seen it yet,” said Ingrid. Every year, the Prescott Players put on The Xmas Revue at the high school, directed by Jill Monteiro, the leading drama teacher in Echo Falls and a genuine off-Broadway actress, with kids from the school system in all the roles. There was lots of singing and dancing, plus a scene from a play or two. This year the High School Theater Club was doing a sword fight from The Mask of Zorro and the kids from Ferrand Middle the scene from The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy and her friends finally meet the wizard. Did Ingrid have the lead role? Yes, she did, but the truth was there hadn’t been much interest in The Wizard of Oz, the kids preferring a spoof of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet that Brucie Berman had written
, or rather claimed to have written, although it came off the Internet and was nixed by Jill Monteiro in any case; and in the end no one else auditioned for Dorothy.

  “That sword fight’s gonna be awesome,” said Mr. Rubino. “Bobby Moran stuck one of those suckers right through the auditorium wall.”

  “Bobby Moran’s in the play?” Ingrid said.

  “That’s how he rebroke his arm,” said Mr. Rubino.

  “Not football?”

  Mr. Rubino shook his head. “Swordplay.”

  The Rubinos lived in the Lower Falls neighborhood, not as nice as Riverbend but they had a great house with lots of additions Mr. Rubino had built himself, sprawling all over the place. Just as he pulled into the driveway, the Firebird pulled out, the tires squealing as it sped away.

  “Now where the hell’s he going?” said Mr. Rubino. He watched the Firebird till it vanished around a bend, his forehead wrinkling up. Mr. Rubino had a round friendly face with a big bristly mustache. Ingrid had never seen it worried like this. For a moment he looked like someone she didn’t know. “And I told him three times to stick a bulb in that taillight.”

  They went inside, Mr. Rubino first straightening a garden elf in a flower bed by the door.

  “Ellie,” he called, “where’s Sean off to?”

  No answer.

  “She’s back on four to midnights,” said Stacy. Mrs. Rubino was a nurse at the hospital, up by the soccer fields.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Rubino. “Right.” His body sagged, as though he felt tired all of a sudden. He popped open a can of Bud from the fridge, sat at the kitchen table, but didn’t even have time for a sip before the phone rang. He listened for a few seconds, then said, “Did you try the circuit breakers?” He listened some more and said, “It’s that box under the cellar stairs.” And some more, before saying, with a little sigh, “Be there in ten minutes.” He put the beer back in the fridge.

  Stacy and Ingrid went down to the entertainment center, reclined on the recliners. They watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, one of their favorites, on the gigantic screen. The popcorn machine made popcorn with tons of butter. The robot brought a Coke for Stacy, Fresca for Ingrid.

  “This is the life,” said Stacy.

  “Wouldn’t change a thing,” said Ingrid. She and Stacy went all the way back to before they could even walk and talk. There was a photo to prove it: two tiny girls splashing around in a tiny plastic swimming pool, not wearing bathing suits for some reason. What was that all about? Did people get stupid the moment they had kids?

  “I love this part,” said Stacy, “the car going through the window.”

  Ingrid loved it too, but something about the scene made her say, “What’s up with Sean these days?”

  Stacy bit her lip. “You think something’s up?” she asked, her voice quieter than normal. Normally it was kind of booming, but she just wasn’t the same person when it came to her brother. “Like what?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t know,” Stacy said. “He’s flunking every course. And the DUI thing cost my dad a thousand bucks.”

  “Your dad paid?”

  “Sean’s broke. All the money he made last summer goes into that stupid car.”

  The Ferris Bueller credits scrolled by. “How about Happy Gilmore?” Ingrid said.

  “Sure,” said Stacy.

  But they couldn’t find it.

  “Maybe it’s in Sean’s room,” Stacy said. “He got a new DVD player.”

  “Your parents gave him a DVD player?”

  Stacy shook her head. “Some friend of his didn’t want it anymore.” She pressed a button and the robot came over.

  “I’ll go look for the DVD,” Ingrid said.

  “Okay,” said Stacy, reaching for another Coke.

  Ingrid went upstairs. Sean’s room was at the end of the second floor. Like Ty’s, it was a horrible mess, the smell a little off. But there were differences. For example, posters of sports heroes covered Ty’s walls. Sean’s were bare, except for bits of masking tape where posters had once hung. Just a little thing, a trifle, but it had to mean something. Sherlock Holmes’s whole method was based on the observation of trifles.

  Where to even begin a search in this squalor? Ingrid chose the bottom drawer of Sean’s desk. Was that really where he’d keep the Happy Gilmore DVD? Probably not. There was just something about that bottom drawer, the hardest to get to.

  The bottom drawer of Sean Rubino’s desk was crammed—packets and packets of wrinkled homework, most undone or partly done; old magazines, all of them about cars and drag racing; and down at the bottom a baseball glove. Ingrid remembered that Sean had once played Little League. Wasn’t there some story about the field getting torn up late one night? She took out the glove, put it on, went to punch her fist in the pocket.

  Ingrid paused, fist in midair. A roll of money lay in the pocket of the glove. A big fat roll, like a gambler might have in some movie. She counted it: $1,649.

  “Hey,” called Stacy, coming down the hall. “You find it?”

  Ingrid saw herself as others, even a best friend, would see her now—a snoop—and made a snap decision not to tell Stacy, at least not yet. Maybe all that money was somehow perfectly innocent. And if not, wouldn’t it be better to first get a few more facts? Theorizing without data was a capital mistake, as Holmes told Watson in “A Scandal in Bohemia.”

  Ingrid folded the glove around the wad of money, stuck it back in the bottom of the drawer, exactly as she’d found it.

  “Let’s watch something else,” Ingrid said.

  “Fawlty Towers?” said Stacy, coming into the room.

  “Sounds good.”

  Stacy went over to Sean’s TV, popped a DVD out of the player. “Happy Gilmore’s right here,” she said, looking at Ingrid in surprise.

  “Oh,” said Ingrid, all at once feeling very bad.

  four

  INGRID HAD A DREAM she dreamed over and over, all about being in a snug boat on seas that sometimes got rough. She was dreaming it now, maybe a little late even for a Saturday morning, when her door burst open.

  “Phone,” said Ty, and then came a thump on the pillow.

  Ingrid opened her eyes. The portable phone lay on the pillow and Ty was gone. Beside her on the bed, Nigel opened his eyes too, saw how light it was, and quickly closed them. Mister Happy, her teddy bear and no favorite of Nigel’s, was jammed into the tiny space between the bed and the wall. She was kind of jammed there as well. Nigel had plenty of room.

  Ingrid reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  “Ingrid? It’s Chloe.”

  Ingrid sat up. Chloe Ferrand calling her? Had this ever happened before? No. They’d been friends years ago, back in the time of being too young to make phone calls. In fact, Mister Happy was a present from Chloe, who had an identical teddy bear she’d named Mister Bumpy. But that was then. Now Chloe, the most beautiful thirteen-year-old girl in Echo Falls, with genuine modeling jobs to prove it, went to Cheshire Country Day and they seldom saw each other. Plus when they did, there was even some bad feeling between them, like on the set of the Alice in Wonderland production, when Ingrid ended up with the title role.

  “Hi,” Ingrid said.

  “Busy today?” said Chloe.

  “Huh?”

  “Your schedule.”

  Ingrid didn’t really have a schedule on Saturday, except for soccer. “I’ve got soccer at two,” she said.

  “Is that ridiculous hardware store guy still the coach?” Chloe said.

  “Mr. Ringer’s still the coach,” Ingrid said. Maybe Mr. Ringer was kind of ridiculous, but she suddenly felt loyal to him.

  “We’ll make it for after the game then,” said Chloe.

  “Make what?” said Ingrid.

  “This invitation,” Chloe said.

  “What invitation?”

  Chloe’s tone sharpened. Ingrid had a pretty good ear for tones. This one was all about trying to keep impatience under wraps, like Ingrid was a littl
e slow. “That’s why I’m calling, Ingrid. To invite you over for a swim. After the game. At your convenience. Whatever.”

  A swim. The Ferrands had an indoor pool lit by a huge crystal chandelier from France, installed by Mr. Rubino. Word was that Mrs. Ferrand swam a mile every morning in the nude. Ingrid made one of those quick decisions that felt totally right.

  “Oh,” she said. “I just remembered.”

  “What?”

  Ingrid searched her mind for some excuse she could have just remembered. And then out of the blue came a memory of something she should have remembered, namely MathFest. Oh my God. MathFest, Saturday morning, 8:30. What time was it now? She checked her watch—Fossil, bright red, red being her favorite color, the only one that said COLOR in capital letters. Twelve minutes till noon. Till noon? How could that have happened? By now MathFest was finished, all that wacky number fun a thing of the past. As for the future: Ms. Groome.

  “Well?” said Chloe.

  “MathFest,” said Ingrid.

  “What are you talking about?”

  What was that saying about if life hands you a lemon make lemonade? In this case, she’d handed herself the lemon. “A school thing,” Ingrid said. “Right after soccer till God knows when.”

  “They chose you for math?” said Chloe.

  “Crazy, I know,” said Ingrid. “But thanks for the invitation. Would have been great.”

  Chloe clicked off, no good-bye.

  Ingrid went downstairs, leaving her door open in case Nigel ever decided to get up. A very sharp kind of light filled the kitchen, making everything seem more real than real, like in some modern paintings Mom had dragged her to see at the museum in Hartford. Outside, the sky was a hard, cold blue, the trees in the town woods out back all bare now, winter around the corner. Dad was at the table, punching numbers on a calculator.

  “Hi, Dad,” said Ingrid. “Where is everybody?”

  “Mom’s got a showing,” he said, eyes on the calculator screen. “Ty’s gone for a run.”

  “Thought you had golf today,” Ingrid said. Dad belonged to the Sandblasters, a fanatical bunch of golfers at his club who played at least one round in every month of the year.