by Pete Hautman
I try to introduce a little variation by saying the actual name of the card. I turn up the jack of hearts and say, “Jack of hearts.” Mal is okay with that. But when I turn up the king of diamonds and say, “Queen of spades,” his lower lip comes out and the skin around his eyes gets tight, so I stop doing that. Clearly, one of Mal’s Rules is that I call the cards by their correct names. I’m impressed that he knows them.
I get a reprieve when the doorbell rings. It’s HeyMan. Or at least I think it’s Hay. It’s hard to tell with the felt hat and the giant wraparound sunglasses.
“Let me guess. Hollywood McDork.”
“Close,” HeyMan says. “Reginald Simon Mankowski.”
“Secret identity?”
“Reginald was my grandpa. I was going through some of his stuff. He used to wear these glasses all the time for his cataracts. They fit over regular glasses — that’s why they’re so big.” He tips his hat. “This was his hat. What do you think?”
“It’s you.”
“He had some cool ties, too. I’m thinking of reinventing myself. Back to the sixties.”
“Has Cyn signed off on this?”
“I’m going over there later.”
“Of course,” I say, feeling resentful of his freedom. Some days I really hate being stuck at home.
Actually, I hate it all days.
“What’s the matter?” HeyMan asks.
“Nothing.”
“Okay,” Mal says. He is still sitting on the carpet with his cards.
“Hey, Mal,” HeyMan says. “How’s it going?”
“Okay.” Mal raises his head and looks at HeyMan. To my surprise, he looks straight at Hay’s face without looking away.
“Playing cards, Mal?”
“New game.” I explain the rules. “You want to play?”
“Uh, no thanks. I just wanted to run my new look past you.”
“Mal had a bad meltdown last week.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I guess I just want him to know what I have to deal with. HeyMan has never witnessed a Mal meltdown, so he doesn’t really get it.
“His headphones died,” I say. “He freaked out right in front of the Johnstons’.”
“Is he still listening to that same song?”
“Yeah. It’s the only way he can deal.”
“Needs his tunes. I get it.”
No, you don’t, I want to say.
“I don’t think it’s the music so much as the insulation.”
HeyMan looks confused, so I explain.
“There’s too much going on for him to process. He can’t handle sudden noises, or noises from things he can’t see. It makes it so he can’t think.” I’ve never said that out loud before, but once I hear myself say it, it makes sense. The headphones aren’t so much bringing him music, they’re a filter between him and the noisiness of the outside world.
That gives me an idea. “Can I borrow those glasses?”
“What? No way! I just found them.”
“I’ll give them back. Come on.”
“I wanted to show Cyn.”
“She already knows you’re a dork. Give me the glasses.”
HeyMan backs away. “You’re being weird. And Cyn doesn’t think I’m a dork.”
“Seriously, Hay. Just for today. I’ll bring them back to you tonight.”
He takes off the glasses. “What are you gonna do with them?”
“I’ll tell you if it works.”
After HeyMan leaves, I get Mal’s Hawkeye hoodie out of the dryer and help him put it on. I take his headphones off the charger and tie his shoes on just right.
“Mal, I want us to try something new, okay?”
“Okay?” he says doubtfully.
I show him HeyMan’s sunglasses. I put them on my face. “Pretty cool, huh?”
Mal is interested. He looks straight at me, right into my eyes. That gives me a shiver — Mal never looks anybody right in the eyes, but he can’t see my eyes when I’ve got the glasses on, so it’s okay. I take off the glasses; he looks away.
“You want to try them, buddy?”
Mal stares at the glasses.
“Come here. Let’s look in the mirror.” I guide him over to the full-length mirror by the front door. I see us standing together, me and my brother, and I realize how similar we are — same color hair, same nose, same chin, same eyebrows. But we are different, too. The way we hold our mouths, the way his shoulders are pulled in tight, the way I am looking straight at our reflection and he is staring off to the side. I put the glasses back on. His eyes shift. He is looking at me in the mirror now.
“You want to try them, Mal? Try on the glasses?”
“Okay.” I can tell he is nervous. I take off the glasses. His eyes follow them. I put them in his hand. He turns them this way and that, examining them from every side, the way he would a new leaf. After about half a minute, he puts them on. They cover half his face.
He looks in the mirror, and he smiles.
Mal is transformed. With the enormous glasses and his headphones and his hoodie, he looks like a normal kid pretending to be a rap star. We step out the front door into the bright afternoon sunlight. He looks to the left, to the right, and up at the wispy white clouds.
Mal never does that. Mal is strictly ground oriented.
We walk down the front walkway, and I swear he has grown six inches. I’ve never seen Mal walk like this. We turn left at the sidewalk, and all the time his head is up, and he’s looking around, and I am thinking that a miracle has occurred. We get to the end of the block. Mal turns left, our usual route.
“Mal,” I say.
He stops. I point in the opposite direction.
“Want to do some exploring?”
Mal turns to face me.
“Try something new?” I say.
He doesn’t move. I start across Elm Street, then look back to see if he’s coming.
Mal steps off the curb. Together, we head into the unknown.
This can’t be real, I think. But Mal seems fine. Better than fine. We are walking like two normal people. Two brothers taking a stroll up Elm Street. I imagine him talking:
Love my new glasses, big bro. How come you never thought of this before?
“I didn’t get it, Mal. I thought you didn’t look in my eyes because you didn’t want to see them. I had it backwards, buddy.”
Yeah, well, this is great. I can go anywhere.
“That’s good, Mal. Now we can do all kinds of stuff.” I’m talking out loud, just me, but it feels like a real conversation, even though he’s not really talking and he probably can’t hear me with “Let It Go” playing on his headphones.
I love being able to talk, David.
“It’s nice, isn’t it? You can tell us what you need.”
That’ll be nice. You guys just never seem to get it.
“I know, Mal. I’m sorry.”
Like right now, I’m sort of hungry.
Uh-oh. I forgot to load up his pockets with Cheerios. I brace myself for a meltdown, but then notice that he is not digging in his pockets. His hands are swinging at his sides.
You know what would be great? Pizza.
Was that him or me?
I say, “You want to go get a pizza?”
“Okay,” Mal says.
I can’t believe we’re doing this. It’s nine long blocks to Pigorino’s. I count them off, checking on Mal every few steps. He’s doing fine. Can he do it? There are cars driving past us, a couple of barking dogs, the distant horn of a locomotive, unfamiliar buildings and trees and kids on bikes and a hundred other things with the potential to overwhelm him, but Mal remains invincible.
As we reach downtown the number of distractions doubles — people on the sidewalk, cars pulling in and out of parking spaces, a man dollying boxes off a truck, a woman mowing Vaccie’s meadow. Mal stops to watch her. He points at the cow.
Vaccie.
“That’s right, Mal. Vaccie. The big cow.”
We’re o
nly a few steps from Pigorino’s.
“Let’s go inside, Mal. Let’s get a pizza. You can have the crust.”
Mal lets me guide him through the door. Vito, as usual, is manning the counter. He looks up.
“Hey, who’s this? Is this your brother?”
“This is Mal,” I say.
Mal is looking around at the tables, the flags on the walls, the turning fan overhead. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so nobody’s there. Mal is sniffing the air, working his nose like an excited dog.
“He a big eater too?” Vito asks.
“Mal’s a specialist,” I say. “He only eats certain things.”
“I get that,” Vito says. “I don’t eat okra.”
I order a pepperoni to go.
“Mal, it’ll be a few minutes. Do you want to wait here, or go back outside and look at the cow?”
Mal doesn’t move, so we sit down in one of the booths. Above the booth is a picture of the Colosseum in Rome. Mal stares up at the ancient building with the broken-off top.
“That’s the oldest building in the world, Mal,” I say. I have to almost yell to get through the music in his headphones. “It’s almost as old as the pyramids.” I’m not one hundred percent sure that’s true, but it sure looks old.
Mal turns his attention to the red-pepper shaker.
“Careful with that, Mal. It’s hot.”
He puts it down, picks up the parmesan-cheese shaker, sniffs it, and puts it down, picks up the saltshaker and sprinkles some on the red-checked plastic tablecloth.
“Let’s not make a mess, Mal.”
“Okay.” He pulls his arms off the table and starts to rock. It’s not full-out rocking like he does sometimes, just a subtle back and forth. It’s one of the things he does to calm himself.
“Just keep on rocking, Mal. Rock and roll. Stay Frozen; stay cool.” Sometimes Mal’s rocking indicates a coming meltdown, but not always. “Just keep listening to that song, buddy.”
Vito, leaning over the counter, says, “Does he talk?”
“Not much. Is that pizza about ready?”
“Three minutes.”
“I’ll take it now.”
“You want it half-baked?”
“Yeah. We’re kind of in a hurry.”
Two minutes later, Mal and I are back outside with our half-baked pizza. The woman is using a weed whacker to trim the grass around Vaccie’s feet. Mal has to stop and stare at her. It seems to calm him. He likes steady, buzzing sorts of noises — things like trains and lawn mowers and big trucks on the highway. We watch for a few minutes, then head back toward home. The pizza smells great, even if it is underdone, so I open the box and grab a slice and eat it as we walk. Mal is watching me. It’s kind of doughy, but not bad for only half cooked. I eat the saucy, cheesy, pepperoni part and offer Mal the crust. He accepts it solemnly and puts it in his pocket. By the time we get home, the pizza is gone except for the crusts in Mal’s pockets.
Bridgette’s car is parked in the driveway.
Bridgette is sitting at the kitchen table eating chocolate-chip ice cream directly from the carton.
“Hey, Bridge,” I say.
“Don’t call me that.” She doesn’t bother to look up.
“Okay!” Mal shouts. He’s still wearing his headphones.
“No classes today?” I ask.
She ignores us.
“Okay!” Mal gets even louder.
Bridgette closes her eyes and puts another spoonful of ice cream in her mouth.
“Mal wants you to look at him,” I say.
Bridgette turns toward us as if it’s the hardest thing in the world. She sees Mal in his giant shades and headphones, but hardly reacts. Both Mal and I are disappointed.
“We walked all the way downtown and back.”
“So?” Her face looks puffy.
“No meltdowns. He’s okay if he has the glasses on. It’s like they’re his superpower.”
“Good for him.” Her skin is red around her eyes and pale around her mouth.
“Did something happen?” I ask, trying to be nice.
“None of your business.” If Bridgette were Mal, I’d say she was about to have a meltdown. She puts the top back on the ice-cream carton and pushes it aside. “I need Mom’s number. I left my phone at school.”
“We’re only supposed to call her during the day if it’s an emergency.”
“Do you have her number or not?”
I take out my phone and read off Mom’s number. She writes it down in her ever-present notebook.
“Have you been crying?” I ask, still trying to be nice.
She flashes her eyes at me. “Don’t be stupid.”
If that’s the way she wants it, I can be nasty too.
“Did you get a C on a test or something?”
“That’s your specialty.”
“Did Derek break up with you?”
Score. Her eyes narrow. She starts to say something, but I don’t give her a chance. The words come spilling out of me.
“I figured he would, on account of you’re way too perfect for him. All you think about is your stupid grades, and making everybody else look bad. You know, I do a lot around here.” Her eyes are wet, but I can’t stop myself. “I’m the one that figured out Mal needs headphones, and I’m the one who got him the sunglasses, and I spend time with him while you’re off getting straight A’s and being Little Miss Perfect —”
“Shut up.” She’s full-out crying now, but I don’t stop.
“Now Mom is off doing something she’s wanted to do forever but she’s been stuck here because of Mal, and the only reason she can do it is because I’m taking care of Mal now and all you can think about is your problems and you don’t care about anybody except yourself and your stupid boyfriend who doesn’t really like you and —”
I’m interrupted by the blast of a horn. It sounds like it’s right in front of the house.
Bridgette is looking past me.
“Where’s Mal?” she says.
The front door is standing open. I run outside and see Mal and Arfie standing in the middle of the street, facing down a yellow pickup truck.
The red-faced, bearded guy driving the truck leans on his horn again. Arfie barks, then runs back to the house. Mal is not moving.
“Mal!” I shout. He can’t hear me with his headphones on.
The guy in the truck leans out his window. “Get off the street, numbnuts!”
Mal is frozen in place. I run out and grab his arm and pull. It’s like trying to move a fireplug. Bridgette takes his other arm, and we drag him to the curb.
“You should lock him up,” the truck guy says. I recognize him now. It’s Jordan Pfleuger. He went to school with Bridgette. He still lives a few blocks away with his parents. Jordan has always been kind of a jerk.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry don’t cut it, kid. You let that half-wit run loose, somebody’s gonna get killed.”
“Don’t call him that,” I say, walking toward the pickup.
“What? Half-wit? He is, ain’t he?”
“The only half-wit here is you.” I kick the truck as hard as I can. Jordan’s eyes widen. He shoulders open the door, gets out, and looks at the dent.
“Why, you little . . .” He starts toward me with his fists clenched. I know I’m about to get my face smashed in, but I don’t care. He’s about to hit me when Bridgette steps between us and sticks something in his face. I hear a hiss, and Jordan screams. He drops to his knees and clamps his hands over his eyes.
“You blinded me!” he wails. “I’m blind!”
Bridgette is standing over him holding a small spray can.
“Oh shut up, Jordan,” she says. “It’s just a little pepper spray. You’ll be fine.” She looks at me and grins. “I’ve been wanting to do that since high school.”
We get Mal back inside. He’s not having a meltdown — it’s the opposite. Sometimes when he gets really tired, he can hardly walk or keep his eyes open, a
nd between our trip to Pigorino’s and the pickup-truck incident, he’s had a full day. We help him upstairs to his room. He curls up on his bed. I take off his headphones and glasses and pull the bedspread over him. He is asleep within seconds. He’ll probably sleep for hours.
Bridgette and I go back downstairs. We don’t talk about our argument. She puts away the ice cream and grabs her car keys and starts to leave.
“Aren’t you going to call Mom?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’ll talk to her later.”
I follow her to the front door. Jordan and his yellow pickup are gone. I guess he wasn’t blinded after all.
“I’m sorry about Derek,” I say.
She nods. “We’ll work it out.”
“So you’re not actually broken up?”
“He’s just being a jerk.”
“You can always pepper-spray him.”
She shoots me a quick look, sees I’m kidding, and smiles faintly.
“Thanks for taking care of Mal,” she says.
“You can’t have your glasses back,” I tell HeyMan. “Mal needs them.”
“What? No way!”
“They’re cheap plastic glasses. I looked them up online. They sell for fifteen bucks new.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll sell them to you for twenty.”
I hear laughter in the background.
“Is that Cyn? Let me talk to her.”
A second later, Cyn is on the phone.
“Mal has become attached to Hay’s sunglasses,” I say. “Tell him to give them to him.”
I hear Cyn tell HeyMan to let Mal keep the glasses.
“They’re family heirlooms!” he whines.
“David says Mal needs them,” Cyn says. I hear muttering, then HeyMan’s assent. Lately, he will do anything she asks.
“Thanks,” I say. “So what are you guys up to?”
“Going to the Cineplex in Indianola. HeyMan wants to see something with cars blowing up. Want to come?”
I consider it for a moment, but lately it feels weird hanging with HeyMan and Cyn, the three of us, like I’m an extra in their little movie.