Inside Hudson Pickle

by Yolanda Ridge

  “So, it was more likely wood?” I asked as I watched Uncle Vic pull stuff out of the closet, seemingly at random: jackets, shoes, a stack of papers, a suitcase. The way he patted down the pockets of his coat and searched the smallest corner of every drawer, I couldn’t help but think he was looking for something specific — like a pill bottle.

  “It was definitely fueled by the wood catching fire. Yes.” E. O. nodded in approval. “But that wasn’t the cause. Something had to ignite the wood. The kettle couldn’t have done it on its own. We just can’t figure out what it was.”

  “Maybe there was some olive oil nearby?” I ran my hand over the scorched countertop. It felt rippled and rough, like a patch of ice that’s melted and frozen over and over again. “He does like to cook.”

  “But not necessarily tidy up,” said E. O.

  I surveyed the small room, trying to see it through E. O.’s eyes. I was used to the clutter and the chaos of Uncle Vic’s apartment. But even I was surprised by the mess that appeared behind every closed door.

  Uncle Vic had finished his search through the closet. He pointed toward the bedroom. “I need to look for my guitar.” The rest of the apartment was more like a recording studio than a place to live — he was going to be totally crushed if his equipment looked anything like his kitchen.

  “Hudson, you stay here.” E. O. led Uncle Vic through the living room. “We’ll be quick.”

  I slumped into the chair next to Uncle Vic’s tiny kitchen table, even though it was covered with soot. A stench — like some weird combination of body odor and wet dog — covered everything, but I could smell something else as well. Something acidic, like the chemicals we used in science lab.

  I looked around the kitchen again. The stove didn’t look like it would ever cook another meal. The oven drawer hung crookedly from its tracks. Chunks of ash covered the floor.

  My chest tightened, and I knew I needed to get out of the apartment. The last thing I wanted was another asthmatic reaction.

  I stood up and checked my pockets for an inhaler. As I tugged at the information package E. O. had given me, my inhaler fell out and dropped to the floor. I bent over to pick it up, accidently kicking it with my clown-sized sneaker. It skidded across the floor and under the oven.

  I dropped to my hands and knees, relieved to find the air close to the floor easier to breathe. The stars floating in front of my eyes disappeared. I pulled open the oven drawer, jerking it up and out until it rolled clear of its tracks. Under the oven, the mouthpiece of my inhaler smiled back at me. I grabbed for it like it was a ball about to roll out of bounds. Even though I was feeling better, I took a puff, staying low, where the air seemed clearer.

  Staring at the diamond-printed linoleum, I became mesmerized by the repeating pattern. My eyes followed the black lines that crisscrossed under the oven. That’s when I noticed something tucked under the far corner. A piece of fabric. I recognized it; it was from one of Mom’s old tea towels. There was nothing left of the cloth besides a small strip of brown and yellow.

  “Just a couple more questions to help finish up the report.”

  At the sound of E. O.’s voice, I got to my feet. He was talking to Uncle Vic.

  “Have you received any threats lately?”

  Stars reappeared in my peripheral vision as I stood listening. I took a couple of deep breaths, counting each one slowly, the way I did when I was setting up for a foul shot.

  “I don’t think there’s anyone out there who wants to hurt me.” Uncle Vic walked into the kitchen carrying a small amp. A huge duffel bag hung across his chest and over his shoulder. But no guitar. “Not since the days of my old band, Scream Soda.”

  “You were threatened then?”

  Uncle Vic shrugged. “It was nothing serious. I never felt we were in any real danger. And we appreciated the publicity.”

  “Was anyone apprehended?”

  “No.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I dunno. I was in college — maybe ten years ago?”

  “Probably not relevant, then.” E. O. held open the plastic flap and motioned me outside.

  I pushed through the plastic and took a deep breath of cold, crisp air. Bile rose in my throat. I started to cough. I couldn’t stop.

  Stumbling into the bushes, I put my head between my knees. I counted breaths in my head, thinking I had things under control. And then I retched.

  “You okay?” E. O. had his hand on my back.

  I wanted to push him away, but before I could do anything, I barfed again.

  E. O. kept his hand on my back.

  When I was sure there was nothing left to come up, I wiped my mouth with the side of my hand and tried to slow my breathing. “Sorry.”

  “No. I’m the one who should be apologizing.” E. O. led me away from the pile of puke and back to the walkway where Uncle Vic waited, casually checking his phone like he was waiting for a bus or something. “I shouldn’t have let you inside. There could still be heavy-metal toxins in the air.”

  “The kid has asthma.” Uncle Vic said this like he was ratting on me.

  The words kid and asthma twisted together in my cloudy brain. I clenched my fists in frustration. I was embarrassed because I’d puked in front of E. O. I was angry that he was the one helping me instead of Uncle Vic.

  I dug my fingers into my palm and, without thinking, let out a quiet growl — the same noise I used to make when facing a tough opponent on the ice. In a busy arena, no one ever heard it. But here …

  “Hudson?”

  Uncle Vic and E. O. were looking at me like I’d just sprouted horns. And in a way, I felt like I had. I was ashamed, mad and totally fed up with everything: my asthma, my classmates, my family … Mom keeping secrets was hard enough — but Uncle Vic? I locked my jaw and glared at him, fighting the urge to lash out.

  “Hudson?” E. O. said again.

  I swallowed. The sour taste of vomit burned in my throat. With a grimace, I turned to E. O. Next thing I knew, I was telling him what I’d found in the kitchen. Never once did I look at Uncle Vic.

  “Wow, you’ve really been paying attention!” E. O. said when I was done. He scribbled something in his notebook and then put it away. “Good detective work, Hudson. I’ll get this information to the guys so they can investigate further. I think it could be the clue we’ve been looking for — I can’t believe they missed it.”

  “I didn’t think it was that big a deal.” With a shrug, I tried to blow off the praise, even as it melted through the edges of my anger.

  “Do you remember what I said about ignition material?” E. O. pointed his index finger toward his temple, signaling me to think. Or maybe he was suggesting that I was smart. Hard to tell. “That could be it.”

  Uncle Vic raised his hand for a high five. “Well done, kid!”

  I punched his hand, hard, releasing some of the tension inside me.

  “The kid has strength,” Uncle Vic said to E. O. as he shook out his long, bony fingers.

  I quickly lowered my fist. I wanted to believe that the kitchen towel explained everything, but I couldn’t erase all my doubts about Uncle Vic with one punch.

  E. O. checked the time. “Sorry to rush off, but I have to pick up my son. His hockey game is over in fifteen minutes, and I’d really like to catch the end of the third period.”

  “You’re a hockey fan?” I asked E. O. as I followed him around the side of the house.

  “Huge,” he answered. “I used to play, but now I just watch.”

  “Who’s your team?”

  “Blackhawks. All the way.”

  I felt a stab of disappointment as we continued our single-file trek to the car. Most people who lived in Bluster rooted for the Sabres, but there were a lot of old folks who cheered for the New York Rangers because they were part of the Original Six. There were also hardcore F
lyers, Islanders and Penguins fans, because of geography, and some Red Wings and Blackhawks fans, because those were the teams that actually won Stanley Cups. Was E. O. one of those guys who only backed a winner?

  “What about you, Hudson?” E. O. asked when we’d reached his truck. “You a Sabres fan?”

  “Uh — I don’t really follow hockey.” My voice cracked.

  Uncle Vic shot me a funny look but didn’t say anything. Instead he turned to E. O. “Thanks for your help,” he said as they shook hands.

  “No problem, Victor.” E. O. got into his truck. “Good luck with your report, Hudson. If you need more information, or if you have any more clues for us …” E. O. raised his eyebrows in the direction of Uncle Vic. “Please call.”

  I gave him a meek thumbs-up before burying my hands in my overstuffed front pocket.

  “Oh, and hey —” E. O. slammed the door and started the ignition in one smooth motion. “I might see you at career day.”

  “What?” I said. My surprise was followed by an unexpected rush of excitement as I pictured the display I was going to put together, outlining all the cool things he’d told me.

  “I told my daughter about your project, and it turns out, you both go to the same school,” he said. Or, at least, I thought that’s what he said. It was hard to make out the words because Uncle Vic was already yelling into his phone, trying to be heard over the roar of E. O.’s F-150 engine.

  Before I could ask any more questions, E. O. drove off, leaving us standing on the sidewalk covered in his dust.

  Uncle Vic lowered his voice to a mumble. I watched E. O.’s brake lights as they bounced up and down over the speed bumps our car had flown over about an hour ago. My excitement disappeared faster than it had arrived as another set of images flashed through my mind. E. O. practicing with his son on the outdoor rink they made together in the backyard. Going over plays with him before the big game. Cheering for him in the stands. Sharing a plate of nachos with him while they watched the Blackhawks beat the Red Wings on SportsNet.

  Uncle Vic turned suddenly in the direction of Mom’s parked car. “Guess we’d better get going.”

  I dragged my feet through the dead leaves piled next to the curb, thoughts of my own dad invading my space. Again. What would it be like to have a dad like E. O.? A dad who came to my hockey games. Or my basketball games. Or my birthday parties. Or anything.

  I didn’t even know my dad’s name.

  Chapter Ten

  “I need to make a stop,” Uncle Vic said as we hit the road again.

  I visualized the errands Mom used to drag me on after my Saturday hockey games: grocery store, dry cleaner, post office, bank … It always started at the food court in the mall. We’d replay every goal while I gobbled down something greasy and Mom sipped her second or third coffee of the day. That part was good. But the other stops always took way too long. By the time we reached home, I was bored to death and in desperate need of a shower.

  My stomach growled with hunger. Mom would be furious if we weren’t home in time for dinner. “How long?”

  “Quick. I have to find my guitar and … I was sure it was at the house.” Uncle Vic talked more to himself than me. “Plus, I have to talk to Sage.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “This building up here.” Uncle Vic turned a corner, using his knee and one finger to steer. “A couple of the band members share a studio in there.”

  “Okay.”

  Uncle Vic pulled up to a shabby-looking low-rise. He shut off the engine but left the keys in the ignition. “You wait here.”

  “No way,” I said, glancing around at the seedy neighborhood.

  Uncle Vic looked irritated as he grabbed the keys. “It’d be faster without you.”

  I scrambled out of the car. “I’m not exactly slow.”

  With a sigh, Uncle Vic locked the doors.

  “And besides, you have ‘nothing to say that the kid can’t hear,’” I added, imitating Uncle Vic’s raspy voice.

  Uncle Vic rolled his eyes but didn’t protest as he led the way into the building.

  The studio turned out to be an open room with a small, dirty window looking out onto the parking lot. There was a large desk, covered with papers and a couple of ancient-looking desktops, shoved into one corner. An old sofa sat in the middle of the room, with big, ratty cushions scattered around it. The place smelled like the back of the Zamboni shed at the arena — where people (not me) smoked cigarettes and grass (not the lawn variety).

  “The rent is cheap,” Uncle Vic said as we stepped into the room.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, trying not to stare at a couple of girls — women, I guess, although they looked younger than Uncle Vic — who were trying to hang a poster. A strange guy, with an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, stood off to one side, supervising.

  “Hey, everyone, meet my nephew, Hudson.” Uncle Vic twisted his sunglasses around so they were on the back of his head. “Hudson, this is everyone.” People around the room nodded and waved.

  A woman appeared from behind a curtain of beads hanging in a doorway at the far end of the room. “Hi, Hudson,” she said in a soft voice. She was pretty, with long, straight hair and a flowing beaded skirt that swished around her as she moved toward us. “What do you think of the poster? It cost a fortune, but I think it’ll get us lots of publicity.”

  Uncle Vic whistled. “I like.”

  The poster was blue with white trees in the foreground, and SONIC ENERGY: Change the Way You Think was written across the top in huge, bold letters. The details of an upcoming concert were listed in smaller print below. “What’s the concert for?” I asked.

  “We’re raising awareness,” said the strange guy, his cigarette bobbing up and down between his lips. As he turned toward me, I noticed his T-shirt — a marijuana leaf with the words Free Mary Jane below. If Uncle Vic’s friends were into dope, could they also be into something heavier?

  “Awareness of what?” I asked Uncle Vic.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he replied.

  The possibilities flashed through my mind like advertisements on a Jumbotron. All bad. All illegal.

  “Our band believes in sustainability,” said Uncle Vic. “That’s why we’ve gone carbon neutral — hey, that should’ve gone on the poster,” he said to the pretty woman with the beaded skirt who stood next to him.

  “Keep the poster simple. That’s what we all agreed. We can talk about the carbon-neutral stuff during the concert,” she replied.

  “Right.” Uncle Vic winked. “Sage is always right,” he said before disappearing into a corner of the room, which was stacked with instruments.

  “You’re Sage?” I asked awkwardly.

  With a smile, she nodded. Her dimple reminded me of Willow’s. “You play any instruments?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “You should jam with us sometime. Try a bongo drum or something.”

  “What do you play?”

  “Percussion, mainly. A bit of guitar.” Sage ran her fingers through the ends of her hair, making the bangles on her arm jingle against each other. “Mostly I’m the singer.”

  I wanted to hear her sing.

  I looked around the room as Sage and I stood there, waiting for Uncle Vic. I’d insisted on coming up to the studio so I could snoop — but I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. The place certainly didn’t seem like one of those drug dens you see on TV. Instead, it was relaxed and friendly, like the dressing room after a win. There was a potluck sign-up sheet posted on the bulletin board and incense on the windowsill. Maybe the weird smoky smell was actually incense — patchouli, the kind Mom hated.

  “Found it!” Uncle Vic’s voice echoed off the low ceiling as he emerged from the corner.

  “Your guitar?” Sage’s voice was light and airy in comparison — a bit like Willow�
��s. “Groovy.”

  “I can’t believe it was here the whole time.” Uncle Vic brushed some white powder off the side of the case. “Right next to Jasper’s sax.”

  “Groovy,” repeated Sage. For some reason, the word sounded cool coming off her tongue — not dorky like it would if anyone else said it.

  Uncle Vic swung the case over his shoulder. “Hey, did any of my suggestions pan out?” he asked Sage. “We definitely need a Dex replacement. We’re in deep.”

  Sage shook her head and the beads on her skirt danced. “What about Hudson?”

  I suddenly felt light-headed, like I’d just finished two back-to-back shifts on a penalty kill. A side effect of the incense — or something more? Was Uncle Vic using code now, too? Were they looking for a new drug runner or something?

  “Hudson?” Uncle Vic frowned. “He’s a jock. It’s not his thing.”

  “People don’t fit into those kinds of packages,” said Sage. “You know that, Vic.”

  Packages?

  “Well —”

  Sage raised her hand, cutting him off. “He’s cute, and it could help us attract a younger demographic.”

  Cute? Me? I pretty much stopped breathing.

  Uncle Vic set his guitar down next to the door. “The kid’s way too tall to sell the cute and innocent routine …”

  Whoa, wait a second. Did they want me to sell drugs at school? We’d been warned about that — pushers hiring kids to sell to their friends. But Uncle Vic wasn’t like that. Was he?

  “But,” Sage insisted, “we need an extra …”

  As Sage and Uncle Vic bantered back and forth, talking about me like I wasn’t even there, I tuned them out. Thoughts crammed into my numb, nonworking brain like cars in a parking lot after a game — all moving slowly in random directions with nowhere to go.

  My eyes focused on the white powder on Uncle Vic’s guitar case. Was that cocaine? Was there so much of it in this “studio” that it hung in the air, clogging up my brain? Or was the woozy feeling just a combination of the incense and my empty stomach? I needed some fresh air.