Allergic to Dead Bodies, Funerals, and Other Fatal Circumstances

by Lenore Look

  “And this is helping you, isn’t it?” asked Calvin.

  “Yup,” I said.

  “Then don’t worry,” said Calvin. “I’ll help you cross the streets. I’m a Boy Scout.”

  Calvin started off toward town, and I marched right after him, turning only once to see if Anibelly and Lucy were following. They were not. There was no sign of them. It was just me and Cal. It’s hardly ever just me and Cal doing something together. It was terrific! Calvin’s super-duper! He’s the captain of our ship, that’s for sure.

  And Calvin was right. The long march into town practically tattooed the Great Wall of China to my brain where I would never forget it.

  And it was a good thing Calvin’s a Boy Scout. There’s no sidewalk on Cambridge Turnpike on our side of the street all the way from my house to Ralph Waldo Emerson’s house. Worse, I spotted the spooky Mr. Emerson on his riding mower! How Calvin got us safely to Main Street after that, I have no idea (my eyes had squeezed shut from the Emerson House on), but eventually, there we were in front of the toy shop, where Calvin always stops to look in the window.

  Calvin got very, very quiet.

  His breathing slowed.

  His body leaned forward, like one of my carved sticks against our fence.

  His eyes grew big and round.

  Looking at toys in a toy shop window changes Calvin the way looking at historic battlefields changes my dad. You can tell it’s still my dad, but his face is different—he looks like he’s in two places at once. And Calvin looks the same way standing in front of the toy shop—his body was there, but his mind was lost.

  “Wouldn’t you love to have that stuffed dinosaur?” asked Calvin.

  “No,” I said.

  “How ’bout that crane with the pulley action?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. But Calvin never asks if I’d like to have something he’s already picked out for himself, so I pressed my nose to the window to see what he was looking at.

  I looked to the left.

  Then I looked to the right.

  Then I looked straight ahead—and there it was: Sherlock Holmes’s Limited Edition Detective Kit.

  My heart stopped.

  My breathing stopped.

  My tongue fell out.

  “I’d sure love to have that detective kit,” said Calvin.

  “I’d sure love to have that detective kit too,” I whispered.

  “How much money have you got?” he asked.

  “None,” I said.

  “I mean at home,” said Calvin.

  “A lot,” I said. I had a bunch of coins and a wad of one-dollar bills rolled up inside a glass jar that used to hold nothing but organic pomegranate jam. Calvin knew it. And I knew Calvin was broke, like he always is, which is a funny way to say that his jar was empty, not broken.

  “Let’s go get it,” said Calvin. “Then we can come back and buy the detective kit together and share it.”

  “No!” I said, stamping my foot on the sidewalk. “You can’t stop the March of History to shop.”

  “No worries,” said Calvin. “Shop now, march later.”

  Oooh, it really flipped my pancakes. That’s another thing about Calvin. He’s a procrastinator. The more work that needs to be done, the longer he likes to put it off. Just ask him about his science fair project.

  “You can’t be a detective without fingerprint dusting powder,” he added. “How ’bout we go halfsies on it?”

  “I don’t want to be a detective,” I wailed. “I JUST WANT TO SEE WHERE THE REST OF HISTORY’S GONNA BE!”

  Heads turned.

  A little dog on a leash sniffed my ankles.

  A stroller hurried by.

  “Okay, okay,” said Calvin. “Quit your hollerin’.” Then he taped my drawing of a leaf to a parking meter in front of the toy shop. A leaf? What did a leaf have to do with history???

  After that, a fire hydrant was Ben Franklin.

  Then a hen in jail got stuck to the front of a mailbox. Strange.

  But Calvin was right. I could now see the right order of everything in a way that I wouldn’t forget. It was terrific!

  “Is this what they mean by a hysterical town center?” I asked.

  “Dude,” said Calvin, glancing up the street and looking very pleased. “Now you’re gonna eat your test.”

  “Eat it?” I asked. “I only want to pass it.”

  “It’s an expression,” said Calvin. “It’s a way of saying it’ll be as easy as eating pizza.”

  “Mmm,” I said. “I love pizza.”

  It was the best news I’d had all day.

  when calvin and i got back to our house, the first thing I saw in our driveway was my dad’s legs sticking out from under his car, Louise. If you didn’t know my dad or Louise, you’d say that Louise had come sailing out of the clear blue sky and landed on top of my dad, killing him. But if you looked closely, you would see that his toes were sticking up, which meant that he was okay.

  He was just fixing something.

  Normally, I’m so happy to see my dad home from work that I say, “Hi, Dad!” in a loud, cheerful voice and hug him like he’s the best dad that ever walked into my house.

  But not when he’s under his car. Shakespearean mumbo jumbo was coming out from under Louise as thickly as the shiny black liquid oozing down the driveway.

  “Canst thou not minister to a car diseas’d,” came from underneath the car, “pluck from the carburetor a rooted sorrow?”

  I think my dad was swearing at himself in Shakespeare, which is the kind of cursing they used to do in the old days when they had time to really use bad language instead of four-lettered words.

  “And with some fresh oil, cleanse the stuff’d bosom of the perilous particles which weigh upon the engine?”

  Silence.

  Interrupting my dad when he’s underneath Louise is never a good idea. It’s like holding dynamite and asking for a match. So Calvin and I just stood there and listened for a while, not saying a word.

  Then my dad’s cell phone rang.

  Clank! went something heavy.

  “Owwww!” screamed my dad.

  Silence.

  “Hello,” he mumbled, sounding annoyed.

  Silence.

  “What?” said my dad, still underneath Louise. “You saw my boys walking along the side of the road … by themselves?”

  I looked at Calvin.

  And Calvin looked at me.

  “CAAAAAAAAALVIN!” screamed my dad. Calvin and I backed away from the car.

  My dad rolled out on his creeper seat.

  “WHAT’S THIS ABOUT YOU TAKING YOUR LITTLE BROTHER ALL THE WAY DOWNTOWN?”

  “But—” said Calvin.

  “YOU COULD HAVE GOTTEN RUN OVER!” cried my dad.

  Poor Calvin.

  The only time that Calvin is speechless is when he’s busted.

  But the good thing about getting busted with Calvin is that he’s up against the flames while I only get a little warm. It’s like my dad is a roaring fire and we’re a couple of marshmallows on a stick, and I’m the one in the back that doesn’t even turn brown, while Calvin’s the one in front getting blistered.

  But poor me too.

  The look on my dad’s face was that he was going to kill us both if it hadn’t been for our next-door neighbor, Mr. Arlecchino, who appeared from his side of the driveway at that very moment. Mr. Arlecchino has perfect timing. He always comes over just when we need him most.

  “Trouble with the car again, Ho?” asked Mr. Arlecchino, giving my dad a firm handshake and a good ol’ slap on the back.

  “Not any more than usual,” said my dad.

  “Busting your boys again, Ho?” asked Mr. Arlecchino, smiling like a Buddha. He winked at me and Calvin.

  “Grrrrrrrr,” said my dad.

  I like Mr. Arlecchino. He’s very funny, and he likes to give my dad lots of friendly advice, which really annoys my dad.

  “If I were you I wouldn’t worry about your boys
,” said Mr. Arlecchino, chuckling. “I’d worry about your roof.”

  “My roof?” asked my dad.

  “It’s time for a new one, isn’t it, Ho?” asked Mr. Arlecchino.

  “Grrrrrr,” said my dad.

  “Can’t let a roof go for too long,” Mr. Arlecchino added. “No sirreee, or you’ll have coons and squirrels living with you.”

  My dad shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted up.

  “Bad weather’s coming soon,” said Mr. Arlecchino. “You’ll be lucky if the roofers can squeeze you in.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” muttered my dad.

  “Roofing isn’t a hobby, Ho,” said Mr. Arlecchino. “It’s a dangerous job.”

  I looked up.

  I blinked.

  I could see my dad—gasp!—falling off the roof!

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Mr. Arlecchino. “One twist of the ankle on that steep pitch and it’s Do-It-Yourself Ho no more.”

  I gasped again.

  Mr. Arlecchino turned and went back into his house.

  My dad turned and crawled back under his car.

  “Thou goatish crook-pated canker ratsbane” oozed out from underneath Louise. “Thine horrid image doth unfix my hair.”

  Mr. Arlecchino can get my dad so riled up that he’ll be moong-cha-cha, or fuzzy in the head, for hours, even days. Sometimes my dad won’t have any memory of what he was doing before Mr. Arlecchino came over, which can be very useful.

  So I hurried inside.

  And Calvin hurried after me.

  when you’re little like me and you have an older brother that’s bigger than you, you can die at any time.

  Worse, it can hurt like wasabi in the eye.

  “Owwwwwww,” I cried. “Owwwwoooww.”

  Calvin had me in a headlock as soon as we were safely in our room. “You could have stuck up for me,” he said. “I was only trying to help you with your homework.”

  A rubber-toy squeak came out of me.

  “You just stood there like a leg of lamb!” said Calvin, who can really kick my butt.

  “Alvin’s gonna die!” cried Anibelly. “Alvin’s gonna die!”

  It was hard to tell whether Anibelly was cheering or crying for help. I couldn’t see her face. The bad thing about headlocks is that you can only see your knees. Then I heard the sound of Anibelly’s feet thumping quickly down the hall and down the stairs. Then I heard her no more. Whether she had gone to get help or was gone for good, I had no idea.

  Lucky for me, I knew the four easy steps to escaping a headlock:

  1. Rotate your body. Put your shoulder and arm against your brother’s chest.

  2. Put your leg behind both his legs.

  3. Fall backwards and trip him over your leg.

  4. Run!

  If you get to step 4 and you’re still staring at your knees and smelling your brother’s armpit, then it’s time to roll out your down-and-dirty, going-to-get-ugly Plan B.

  If I had a Plan B. Calvin is the one with the Plan Bs. I only have emergency plans and survival tips—and those were in my PDK (Personal Disaster Kit), which was—cough, choke—on the kitchen floor!

  I knew that Calvin knew that I knew that he knew that I would’ve died right there in his armpit, if it weren’t for the fact that he had a lot to do. He can never finish anything, including killing me, before he has to move on to the next thing.

  “Calviiiin!” called my mom from downstairs. “Hurry, honey, or you’ll be late for karaaatee!”

  Clunk! Calvin dropped my head like a five-pound bowling ball. Stars scattered. Birds sang.

  Then Calvin was gone, just like that.

  I rubbed my head. Then I ran downstairs.

  GungGung and Anibelly were playing Chinese chess in the living room. And Lucy was doing yoga ball next to them.

  “May I play?” I asked.

  “Hmmm,” said GungGung.

  “I’d really like to play,” I said.

  “When Anibelly and I are done,” said GungGung.

  “Yeah, when GungGung and I are done,” echoed Anibelly.

  It wasn’t fair. Everyone had something to do but me. I had nothing to do.

  So I hurried to the bathroom, then I hurried back.

  “Are you done now?” I asked.

  “No,” said Anibelly, sticking out her Hokey Pokey toe from underneath the chessboard.

  “Where did you boys go earlier?” asked GungGung without looking up.

  “Downtown,” I said.

  “By yourselves?”

  I nodded. It was okay to tell GungGung, who never busts us. In fact, he’s handy to have around whenever I’m in trouble (my mom and dad don’t scream as loud). “Calvin and I did a hysterical tour,” I said.

  “Good,” said GungGung. “Glad you boys are interested in history. There’s a lot of it here in Concord.”

  Silence.

  “As soon as your dad comes in, I’ll be leaving,” said GungGung. “My friend Charlie was admitted to the hospital this morning, and I want to go see him before visiting hours are over.”

  Silence.

  I didn’t know what to say. I might soon be in the hospital too when my dad saw me and remembered our unfinished business. I wondered if GungGung would come visit me.

  Then GungGung’s phone rang.

  “Hello?” he said into his phone.

  Silence.

  “Whaaaat?”

  Silence.

  “When?”

  Silence.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  Long silence.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m very, very sorry.” Then he clicked off his phone and said some Chinese words.

  “What’s the matter, GungGung?” I asked.

  “Charlie. Died.”

  “DIED???” I cried.

  “You mean he’s dead?” asked Anibelly, who’s always interrupting our man-to-man talks.

  “Of course it means he’s dead,” I said. “When you die, you’re dead. It’s over. That’s it for you.”

  “Then what?” asked Anibelly.

  “Then you go to heaven on the bus,” I said. It’s true. I’d seen the big bus roll into town that says “Heavenly Tours.” It’s mostly old people who get on and off, stopping at all the dead authors’ homes in Concord to pay their last respects before going to their own final destinations.

  “Isn’t that right, GungGung?” I asked.

  GungGung bent over the chessboard. Suddenly he looked like the burnt end of a Fourth of July sparkler, a crooked finger of ash, about to blow away. He set down the dragon piece that he had picked up when his phone rang. He was going to use it to pounce on Anibelly’s chariot, I was sure of it, but he didn’t.

  Instead, he hung his head.

  “Are you okay, GungGung?” I asked, putting my hand on his shoulder.

  “No,” said my gunggung.

  His eyes closed.

  He breathed in.

  He breathed out.

  He said nothing for a long, long time.

  Finally, GungGung whispered, “I’m in shock.”

  I was in shock too. I’d never known anyone who had died.

  “He was my best friend,” said GungGung.

  I nodded. Charlie was a friend to me too. His nickname was Charlie Chow Fun on account of he loved to eat chow fun, which is yummy rice noodles. I love chow fun too, and sometimes he’d call me Alvin Ho Chow Fun, which always made me laugh. And he’d always have a good word for me.

  “Alvin,” he would say, “you’re coming along nicely.”

  Charlie and my gunggung liked telling stories of the old days when they were building the Great Wall of China together and fighting off barbarian invaders. After that, they stuck around for a bunch of inventions: ice cream, shadow puppets, paper, tea, kites, playing cards, dominoes, gunpowder, matches, the compass. Imagine that! Finally, when China got boring, they moved to Boston, where the excitement was just heating up.

  “It seemed like it
was only yesterday that we were about your age,” my gunggung said. “Then suddenly we were old men.… It all went by so fast. We didn’t even have time to say goodbye.”

  I stood on one foot.

  Then I stood on the other.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Worse, I couldn’t remember what to say. My dad had taught me and Calvin the rules of being a gentleman, and there was a rule about what to say when someone dies, but it was so creepy, I’d forgotten it.

  But Anibelly hadn’t.

  “I’m sorry, GungGung,” said Anibelly, bending her little pipe-cleaner arms around GungGung’s neck.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” said GungGung, wrapping his arms around Anibelly. “I’m really sorry too.”

  “It must feel as bad as when my hamster died,” said Anibelly. “Only bigger.”

  GungGung nodded. “Charlie was a big hamster, all right,” he said.

  Then Anibelly began to cry, not loudly like the way I do, but softly like our washing machine.

  A tear rolled down GungGung’s face as he squeezed Anibelly.

  Then another.

  And another.

  I swallowed.

  I breathed in.

  I breathed out.

  Deep breathing helps when your heart falls out of your chest. I learned this from the psycho who is my therapist, but I could never remember to do it, until now.

  But I still didn’t know what to say. What do you say when it feels like you’ve come to the end of a really great book and there’s no more chapters, but you want it to go on forever?

  “Maybe there’ll be a sequel,” I said.

  GungGung’s eyes popped open. “A sequel?” he asked, looking at me, puzzled.

  Oops. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing to say either.

  “I had a funeral for my hamster,” said Anibelly.

  GungGung nodded. “There’ll be a funeral for Charlie on Saturday,” he said.

  Then he sighed heavily. It was a sad, lonely sound, like the last gasp of the sun when it sets behind Walden Woods.

  “I’ll come with you, GungGung,” I squeaked. “He was my friend too.”