“Hey, you! Boy!”
I look up. Leo, Shelleby’s husband, hulks over me, his Paul Bunyan-like frame eclipsing the sun.
“Your goddamn uncle gave my wife the clap!”
“Er—sorry.”
“You tell that sorry son of a bitch that I’m outta jail and he can’t hide in your house forever. You tell him we got us a score to settle.”
He spins on his concrete-encrusted cowboy boots and swaggers back to his truck. What exactly is this clap?
As expected, I find the back door of our house locked. Then I notice someone leaning against our backyard fence—a large brown-bearded guy in a dirty T-shirt; he has to be Leo’s brother. With trembling hands I slip the key out from beneath the ceramic bullfrog and thrust it into the lock. Once inside, I bolt the door and exhale.
Upstairs I find my bedroom door locked and jiggle the handle. “Uncle Ray, it’s me.”
“You alone?”
“Uh-huh.”
The door cracks; Uncle Ray, looking haggard, peers out, then opens the door all the way. “What happened to you?” he asks, relocking the door behind me.
“The outcome of your swell advice on standing up to Brett.”
The curtains are drawn, and Uncle Ray is in desperate need of some deodorant.
“You didn’t tell the Neanderthal Brothers I was here, did you?” he asks.
“ ’Course not.”
“Story is, you haven’t seen me, you have no idea where I am. Understand?”
“Uncle Ray, how many more people are going to show up here looking for you?”
He hobbles to the window and carefully peeks out. “He and his fellow mouth-breathers have been out there all afternoon.”
“Why don’t you call the police?”
He shakes his head and lets the curtain fall back into place. “Hey, where’d you put my gun? Can’t find it anywhere.”
“I threw it in old man Krause’s pond.”
Stricken, he faces me. He winces and smites his forehead with his right palm. “You didn’t. Please tell me you didn’t.”
“I was afraid you were going to kill yourself!” I say.
“Does your old man have a gun?”
“This is Dad we’re talking about.”
He rubs his temples. “Listen up,” he says. “When it gets dark tonight, you’re gonna help me get into the trunk of your dad’s car, while it’s still parked in the garage. Then you’re gonna drive me down to the rail yards, and I’m gonna hop a freight out of this bad-luck burg.”
“Uncle Ray, I’ve driven exactly once in my life! Besides, those guys will just follow us.”
He nods, looks down at the floor, and resumes rubbing his temples.
“Plus,” I say, “I have my talent show tonight.”
“Your show! This is my life we’re talking about here! Hold on, I’ve got it! Saw it in an old gangster movie: late tonight you’ll go outside dressed like me, right? You start walking away down the street and they chase you down, thinking you’re me. Meanwhile, I climb in their car and drive off.”
“And I’m left to face them? I don’t think so.”
Uncle Ray bites the corner of his lips, continues rubbing his temples.
“Maybe Dad’ll have an idea,” I volunteer.
“No,” Uncle Ray says. “We’re not involving him in this. Absolutely not! This is our problem.”
“Don’t you mean your problem?”
He collapses in my desk chair and buries his face in his arms. “I’m so screwed.”
As I look around, I see my magician’s cape and hat on the dresser, and the idea strikes me like an epiphany. “I’ve got it,” I say. “I know how we can get you out of here.”
He raises his head, looking at me. “What? Tell me! Talk to me!”
“I promise I’ll get you on a train tonight on one condition.”
“What?”
“You have to call Cookie, talk to her, and tell her goodbye.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not good with shit like that.”
“If you can sweet-talk her into falling in love with you, the least you can do is give her a decent goodbye. Do it or I won’t help you.”
“Shit. Jesus H. Christ. Damn it. Oh, all right.”
“Roger, did you notice there’s two men in a pickup parked across the street?” Mom says that evening at the dinner table. “They seem to be watching our house.”
Dad, chewing his Shake ’n Bake chicken, leans forward in his chair, pushes back the curtains, and squints out the window. “You don’t say.”
I exchange worried glances with Uncle Ray, who is seated across the table from me. I clear my throat and say, “Uncle Ray is going to go with us to the talent show tonight.”
“That’s great,” Dad says, and smiles at Uncle Ray, who nibbles a drumstick.
Uncle Ray fakes a grin. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The phone rings and I answer. “Eckhardt residence.”
“This Doc’s boy?” a deep masculine voice asks.
“Yes.”
“You tell your daddy if he’s gonna take care of a nigger whore with AIDS, he’s just lost my business.”
“Who is this?”
Dial tone.
Dad throws me an inquisitive look.
“Telemarketer,” I say as I hang up the receiver. It rings again. “Eckhardt residence.”
“This is Gary Mills at the hospital. Let me speak to your father.” He sounds angry.
I hand the phone to Dad. “Mr. Mills.”
Dad grouses, “What is it, Gary?”
For the next few minutes Dad nods and listens, then says, “No, I will not transfer her. . . . That’s not the nurses’ or the hospital board’s call to make. . . . Gary, I will not give in to their hysteria. And you shouldn’t, either. . . . She’s my patient and she’s going to stay right here until she’s healthy enough to leave. Goodbye.”
Dad hands me the phone and says, “I’ve never heard such nonsense in all my life.”
I hang up the phone. My dad’s battling people who are more paranoid than he is! And he’s being so calm, so sensible.
“How’s she doing?” Uncle Ray asks Dad.
“Since when do you care?” Mom says to Uncle Ray. “Since when do you care about anyone but yourself?”
We all stare at her in silence.
“That woman’s life could very well be ruined because of you!” Mom continues, gathering steam. “And you’ll just move on to some other floozy, like you always do. You only hurt people. That’s all you’ve ever done! You swoop in all flashy, and then—and then you offer nothing lasting, and—poof!—you’re gone.”
Mom’s bottom lip is quivering as she bolts and disappears down the hallway. Dad gives me a sidelong expression as he stands and goes after her. Uncle Ray and I remain in the silence, and I think about how Mom might still be in love with my uncle Ray. And how she’ll never admit it to anyone including herself.
A half hour later a composed Mom helps me get into my tux and cape while navigating my sling and bandages. Then we all pile into her Buick. As we start down the street, I glance back and see Leo’s pickup following us. Uncle Ray sits low in his seat. His hands are trembling.
Cars and people jam the street in front of the junior high school.
“Why, would you look at this turnout,” Mom says.
“Uh, Dad, you better drop us off by the front door,” I say as I look back at Leo’s blue truck, four cars behind us. “Uncle Ray can’t walk too far.”
Dad nods and steers us toward the entrance.
Uncle Ray, Mom, and I join the throngs flowing into the auditorium. I see Leo leap from his truck, but the milling crowd prevents him from catching up to us.
In the foyer Mom stops to greet Principal Cheavers while I lead Uncle Ray down the aisle. I notice an empty seat beside Sheriff Bottoms and his daughter, Geraldine. Before I can tell Uncle Ray to take it, he already has. Leo is standing by the entrance, scanning the crowd.
; Backstage is preshow chaos. Kenny Stone, playing the scales on his tuba, sounds like an elephant after a chili-dog-eating contest. Regina, in leg warmers and pink tights, does some sort of stretching exercises. Beside her some guy with a green Mohawk . . . wait! It’s Howard. I can’t believe it’s Howard! He’s totally shaved his head except for the spiked green strip down the middle. He’s wearing a neon green nylon tracksuit, matching green wristbands, and Adidases.
“Howard?” I say.
“Name’s Spike.”
“I—I hardly recognized you.”
“That’s because I’m Spike, the new me I’ll be in high school. I’m making my debut tonight.”
Is this horrifying or awesome? Both?
“Now excuse me while I prep,” he says, and struts away as Charity, looking very sexy in a black and red sequined leotard, white bow tie, and bright red lipstick, rushes up to me.
“Wow! You look great,” I say, then pull her into a corner and give her the lowdown about Uncle Ray.
Twenty minutes later the talent show is under way. While the Thornbury triplets, Angie, Alice, and Andrea, play “Three Coins in the Fountain” on their flutes, I peer out from behind the side curtain. Uncle Ray, still seated beside a snoozing Sheriff Bottoms, casts a nervous eye at the door, which Leo and his brother flank like burly sentries.
“Thank you, girls,” Principal Cheavers says into the microphone. “Next up we have . . .” He squints at the paper he’s holding. “Spike Bachbaugh!”
Charity and I watch from the wings as the stage goes dark. Moments later a spotlight comes on to reveal Howard posing in the center of the stage, hands in the air, legs spread. A boom box sits behind him. Fast-paced rap music kicks in, and Howard starts break-dancing, spinning and thrusting across the stage like a human funnel cloud. Although he lacks any gymnastic agility or sense of rhythm, Howard’s clearly putting everything he has into this high-energy routine. I glance out at the audience: some people look confused, others horrified, many are snickering. Then Howard moonwalks fluidly across the stage—not Michael Jackson, but not bad, either. I can’t believe this is Howard, who spends a minimum of four hours a day on the sofa watching TV. With one leg straightened low to the ground, he whips it in circles around his body like a helicopter blade. Who knew?
The spotlight goes out. The music switches to the electrofunk of Styx’s “Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto” and a strobe light flashes. Howard, his posture stiff, his joints bent in unnatural positions, keeps pace with the beat and dances like a robot, his angular movements starting and finishing with exaggerated jerks. He has amazing control of his body, a perfect humanoid robot. As the song crescendos, theatrical confusion crosses his face, as if he is malfunctioning. He slowly, mechanically falls to the ground. The song ends with Howard—Spike!facedown on the stage, his batteries dead.
When the regular stage lights come up, there is silence. I clap loudly and whistle, and suddenly everyone is applauding wildly.
Howard lifts his head, looks out at his newfound fans, and grins.
“Yeah, Spike!” I yell.
From behind the curtain I hear Principal Cheavers say, “Next up we have the Great Linguini and his lovely assistant, Miss Lulu.”
Applause. I check to make sure that our phone-booth-like plywood Chinese vanishing box is in place and my top hat is on just right. “Miss Lulu” takes my hand in hers, squeezes it, and smiles reassuringly. God, she’s pretty. I inhale deeply as the curtains split and the spotlight blinds us.
With my good arm and Charity’s help I perform some standard audience warm-ups: now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t card tricks and pulling scarves from the air while telling corny jokes, establishing banter. The applause is generous but not overwhelming—just as I had planned. Then I notice that Sheriff Bottoms is standing up and walking out of the auditorium. Uncle Ray looks at me with pleading eyes.
“And now, for the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” I say quickly. “Our final number, our pièce de résistance, our coup de grâce. I’m going to make someone from this audience completely disappear right before your very eyes! May I have a volunteer, please? Someone who does not fear the unknown.”
About fifty hands shoot up.
“Miss Lulu, will you please select our volunteer.”
Charity steps off the stage and into the audience. Placing her hand on her chin, as if having to make a very tough decision, she scans the crowd. Finally she points to Uncle Ray. “I have our volunteer, Great Linguini!”
I glimpse furtively at Leo and his brother, who are halfway down the aisle and exchanging “what the hell is going on?” looks.
Uncle Ray follows Charity onto the stage.
“Sir,” I say as I place my right hand on Uncle Ray’s shoulder. “Have you ever disappeared before?”
Uncle Ray shakes his head.
“You’re a brave soul, a brave soul. Are you prepared to disappear from the world as we know it?”
“Yes, Great Linguini, I am.”
“Very well, then.”
I pull open the curtain. “Sir, would you please step inside.”
The drumroll starts as Uncle Ray gets into the box.
“Good luck in the land of the unknown,” I say.
He looks me in the eye and whispers, “Thanks for everything, kid.”
A knot rises in my throat. Swallowing hard, I pull the curtain shut and wave my wand. The drumroll swells. Charity spins the box around three times as I watch Leo and his brother creep down the aisle toward the stage.
“Miss Lulu” stops the box, leaving the curtain side facing the audience. The drumroll crescendos. Then, a rapt silence. I pull back the curtain: Uncle Ray is gone. Applause erupts!
I am taking my bow when Leo and his brother barge onstage. They search the empty box: tearing back the curtain, shaking it, looking all around it.
“What’d you do with him?!” Leo asks me while his brother tears the box to splinters.
I smirk. “A magician never gives away his s—”
He reaches out and clutches my neck with his gorilla hands, choking me. “Where is he?!”
The audience roars with laughter!
“Where is he?!” He shakes me violently.
I can’t breathe. I try prying off his grip but it is steel.
“Stop it!” Charity screams, and pounds him with her fists. “Let go of him!”
I am going to be murdered right in front of my parents, my teachers, my friends—while they are laughing, stamping their feet, having a good old time. I have the attention I always craved, and I’m going to die for it.
Their laughter soon mutes and my eyes go dim as consciousness fades. Everything is so quiet and peaceful in the darkness. I am three years old, lying in bed in my blue feet pajamas, while Mom reads me Are You My Mother? I am around five, sitting with Dad as we ride the kiddy train around Harker Park. I am ten, looking down at Grandpa Eckhardt all waxy and sleeping in his casket at church. It is night on a gravel road and Uncle Ray is teaching me to drive his Corvette. I am sitting with Charity and Howard at the Frosty Queen and watching Cookie step off that bus.
I hear the audience again. But they aren’t laughing. They sound stirred up, angry even. When I come to, I am staring up at the stage lights. Charity’s gorgeous face is hovering above me. “Les,” she says. “Les, it’s me.”
“Can you hear me, buddy?” Howard asks.
I am lying on the floor of the stage, my neck throbbing.
Nearby, I see Leo doubled over in agony, gripping his hand. “You bit me, you bitch,” he yells. “You bit me!”
Dad and Mom soon join Charity’s and Howard’s hovering faces.
“Les, it’s Dad.”
“Honey, are you all right?” Mom asks tearfully.
I slowly sit up as Sheriff Bottoms lumbers onto the stage and handcuffs Leo to his brother.
Mom, Dad, Charity, and Howard are pulling me to my feet when I hear the applause. I look out and see all of Harker City Junior High—heck, pretty much my entire
hometown—rise to its feet, clapping and cheering. For me.
Life is so . . . odd. But cool!
The moment I can, I slip out the back door of the auditorium. A train engine bellows in the distance, and I move as fast as I can down Walnut Street hill to the rail yard. A freight train is rumbling out of town, gaining steam fast. I come to a stop beside the vibrating tracks, my chest heaving, and eye the passing boxcars. Up ahead I spot a man leaning out of one. Uncle Ray. Waving and smiling big. “Hey, kid! We did it!”
I run alongside his boxcar, calling out over the clanging wheels, “Be careful, Uncle Ray!”
“Don’t you worry about me!”
The train is going too fast for me to keep up. As I slow, Uncle Ray turns around and yells, “Onward and upward, kid!”
“I will! Thanks, Uncle Ray!” I yell back.
As he retreats from view, I feel closer to him than ever. Everything about him, including his flaws, feels larger than life. It’s easy to see why everyone falls for him. Then, in a whoosh, the rattling train and my uncle are gone. I watch the diminishing red caboose light reflect off the shiny rails until all is silent and dark.
“They caught the Kansas City killer last night in Louisiana,” Dad says into his newspaper the next morning at breakfast. “His name is Sam Hanlan. Know what? He looks a little like Ray. Say, is Ray awake?”
I hand Dad the envelope Uncle Ray asked me to give him.
“What’s that?” Mom asks as she comes around the island carrying a plate of toast.
Dad reads the note, says nothing, and hands it to Mom. After finishing it, she’s quiet a moment, then says, “He’s off into the night, just like he came.”
She shakes her head, crosses the kitchen, and places the letter in the trash. “Some people never change.”
“He says he’s sorry,” Dad reminds her. “He thanks us.”
Mom slams the plate on the built-ins. “And what good is it?! Tell me, Roger, what good is it?! He got what he wanted from us and he left.” Mom takes in a deep breath, then exhales. “Can we please forget he was ever here? Please?”
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