Dunk

by Lubar, David

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said, looking toward Mom. She’d fallen into a stunned silence, like a deer dropped in the middle of a busy highway. This was bad, but I knew it wouldn’t get any worse. I was clean. No drugs. They could search the house one atom at a time and they wouldn’t find anything illegal. “It’s okay, Mom. You’ll see.”

  I walked over to Malcolm. “Nice going. You got Gwen in big trouble.”

  “Or out of big trouble,” he said quietly, not even bothering to look at me.

  At least I’d be out of trouble soon, too—with the cops, that is. I knew there’d be trouble with Mom when they left.

  “Got it!” Costas shouted, stepping back from the closet.

  Anger replaced my fear. He was setting me up. If he’d found anything, he’d planted it.

  Costas turned around, holding an old shoe box. “Drug money,” he said as he dumped the cash onto the table.

  Manetti whistled. “Jeez, kid, you make more than I do.” He put on a pair of rubber gloves and started counting the money.

  I hadn’t bothered to keep track of it. I’d just tossed whatever Bob paid me into the box each night. I tried to guess what was there. I’d worked nearly every day for the last two weeks. Bob usually gave me twenty. Sometimes more. There was money in it from before, too, when I’d been running errands.

  “Three hundred and seventy-eight bucks,” Manetti said. “Looks like you’re going to take a ride, kid. You might as well tell us now. Make it easy on yourself. I’m sure the lab guys will be able to find traces of drugs in here.”

  “It’s not drug money,” I said.

  Costas laughed. “You must know the world’s most generous tooth fairy.”

  Manetti ignored his partner and asked me, “Then where’s it from?”

  I looked over at Mom. I was doomed either way. If I admitted I was working at the Bozo tank, she’d know I’d broken my promise. But if I kept quiet, they’d drag me back to jail. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t done anything. I’d heard plenty of stories about innocent kids who were arrested and ended up spending months in jail before the mistakes got straightened out. The last thing I wanted was to show up on some TV news magazine as an example of how far the system could go wrong. No way I wanted my new best friend to be some guy with a nickname like Killer or Mad Dog.

  “I’ve been working,” I said. I glanced at Malcolm, knowing he’d back me up.

  But he wouldn’t catch my eye. It was like he didn’t want anyone to realize he was there.

  Oh, my god. Another thought hit me. The cops still believed he was my dad. If he talked with them, they’d say something like Your son is in a lot of trouble. Mom would tell them That’s not his father. Then Malcolm would be screwed. And Mom would find out about my trip to jail.

  “Where’ve you been working?” Manetti asked.

  “The dunk tank,” I said. I wanted to point to Malcolm and say Ask him. So what if he got in trouble? He deserved it for making that phone call. I imagined him sitting in a jail cell. Jumbled images raced through my mind. The cell turned into the dunk tank. I saw him falling again and again while Stinger, dressed as a cop, nailed the target. Then Stinger became Saul, the old bank robber, making conversation. So, you got a wife? Any kids? Tell me about your family.

  Costas shook his head, as if he didn’t believe me. Crap. I realized he’d heard me make the same claim the night on the boardwalk when I was trying to sneak into the tank. He hadn’t believed me back then, either, To him, I was just a liar and a thief. And now a drug dealer. “Can you prove it?” he asked.

  Not tonight, I thought. The tank was closed. Bob was gone from the boardwalk until tomorrow. I didn’t even know how to get in touch with him.

  “He works with me,” Malcolm told them. He got up and stepped away from the couch. “Our boss is a pig. Check the bills. There’ll be ketchup or mustard all over them.”

  Manetti looked down at the money and then at his gloved hands. “That’s disgusting.”

  Malcolm pulled a card from his wallet. “Here’s his name and number. Bob Kirkhaus. It’ll check out.”

  “You’ll vouch for your—”

  “Absolutely,” Malcolm said, cutting Manetti off before he could say the word son.

  “Okay,” Manetti said, putting the money back in the box and peeling off the gloves. He took the card from Malcolm, then looked back at me. I noticed that Malcolm had slipped a couple steps away, removing himself from the conversation again.

  The other four cops headed out, leaving Costas and Manetti to wrap things up.

  “So how does this Anthony know you?” Manetti asked.

  “We like the same girl,” I told him.

  “Isn’t she lucky,” Costas said with a snort.

  I ignored him and asked Manetti, “Did any girls get arrested?”

  He nodded. “A couple.”

  I wanted to ask if one of them was a redhead, but Officer Costas grabbed my shoulder.

  “Wait,” he said. “I’ll bet the kid doesn’t have a work permit.”

  “Shut up, Costas,” Manetti said.

  His partner stared at him. So did everyone else.

  “What did you say?” Costas asked when he finally managed to speak.

  “I said shut up. Leave the kid alone. Come on. Let’s go find some real criminals for you to snarl at.”

  Costas shrugged and released me.

  Officer Manetti stepped over to Mom and said, “Listen, ma’am, I apologize for the search, but we have to follow up on these things. We have to do our job.”

  Mom nodded. “I understand.”

  But as the police left, I wondered how much of the rest of it she’d understand.

  35

  “WORKING?” MOM ASKED. “AFTER EVERYTHING I’VE TOLD YOU? After all the times we’ve talked about it, you sneak behind my back and get a job?”

  “It’s not really a job. I’m only there a couple hours a night,” I said. “It’s not full-time or anything.”

  “Chad, you’ve been lying to me.” She shook her head and looked away.

  I knew what was going through her mind. Dad used to tell her he was working when he wasn’t. Now I was doing the opposite. Either way, each of us had lied to her. And I’d just lied again. It wasn’t a couple hours. It was three or four.

  “At least I’m not a drug dealer,” I said. That should be worth something. She could be stuck with a kid like Anthony. Of course, Anthony’s mother probably believed her son was an angel.

  Mom didn’t answer.

  “It’s my fault, Mrs. Turner,” Malcolm said, stepping back into the scene and turning on the charm. “I asked Chad to help out. If you’re going to be angry at someone, blame me.”

  “No,” I said, moving between Mom and Malcolm. “Nobody forced me to do anything. I made my own decision. I’ll take my own blame.”

  Malcolm started to speak, but I held up my hand to silence him, then turned toward Mom. “It was my own choice.” I wasn’t going to hide behind Malcolm. I didn’t want him to get me out of trouble by charming Mom or playing some role that would distract her from what I’d done. I was going to take responsibility. I wasn’t going to run and duck. Not like my dad. I wasn’t going to find someone else to blame.

  “Maybe I should let you two talk,” Malcolm said.

  Mom and I both nodded.

  Malcolm looked at me, and then at Mom. “I’m sorry my phone call caused all this trouble. But I’m not sorry I made the call. A very nice girl was about to stumble into a whole lot of danger.” He looked back at me as if hoping that I’d understand. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

  I was really pissed at him for calling the cops. And grateful. Why couldn’t anything involving Malcolm ever be simple? Either way, I wasn’t about to let him off the hook too easily, so I changed the subject. “Thanks for explaining the money to them,” I said. I thought about that day when he hadn’t helped me, the day he’d stayed on the bench and let the cops hassle me after Anthony stole the sunglasses. It
seemed part of the distant past now. Something that had happened to two other people.

  Malcolm grinned, then spoke like a crook from an old gangster movie. “He was wiff me, officer, wiff me da whole time. Honest.” He bowed, spun around, and walked out the door.

  Mom sat down at the table.

  “You can’t blame me for the cops coming.” I took a seat at the other end.

  “That’s true.”

  “But I guess I did stuff you told me not to do.” I had to admit my other lie. “Actually, it’s not a couple hours. It’s more like four. But that’s still really just part-time. It’s not a full workday or anything.”

  A trickle of tears ran down her cheeks, making me feel like the rottenest son in the world. She deserved better. She’d grown up so poor and then, at sixteen, been swept away by a guy who’d filled her head with dreams and promises. There’d been nothing but hard work and heartbreak. Now I was just adding to the burden. I tried to read all the emotions playing across her face.

  “Mom . . . ? Say something.”

  “It’s my fault,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I haven’t been here for you. None of this would have happened if I was here.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” I said. “You did what you had to. And you are here. You didn’t run off somewhere.” I thought about all those nights when I could have come home earlier. And the mornings when I’d slept late. Worst of all, I thought about those weeks I’d wasted wrapped in my own misery.

  “I’ve missed so much,” she said. “You’re growing up.”

  “Hard to avoid,” I said, trying desperately to make her feel better. It wasn’t a great joke, but I expected to at least get a smile.

  Instead, she shook her head sadly and said, “It’s not going to be the two of us much longer.”

  Oh, man. Those words. I remembered the last time Dad was here. He’d stayed for less than a month. They’d been talking. He must have thought I was asleep. He was getting ready to leave. I heard the door open. We could have made it, Annie, he’d said. We could have made it if it had just been the two of us.

  But it’s not just us, she’d told him.

  He’d grunted as he picked up his bag. This wasn’t the way we’d planned it.

  It’s the way it is, she’d said as the door closed and he walked out of our lives.

  That song, “Just the Two of Us”—I hated it.

  He’d never wanted me.

  But Mom had. She’d let him go. And it had become the two of us—me and Mom. She’d chosen me over him. Now I was growing up. She’d been trying to keep that day from coming. The day when a job, or a girl, or some other inevitable part of life would tear me away from her.

  “I’ll always be your son,” I said. “No matter what I’m doing. No matter where I am.” I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know what promises I could keep.

  “Do you like the job?” she asked.

  I thought about the backbreaking, humiliating, dangerous task of slaving away outside the Bozo tank. “It’s not bad. Beats fourteen hours on a roof.”

  “Just until school starts, right? School’s the most important thing.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.” That was one I could keep.

  She got up from her chair and hugged me. I hugged her back, holding on to her, trying to store the moment in the vault of memories. Storing it against that time when it would no longer be the two of us.

  When we stepped apart, she smiled at me and said, “I’m proud of you, Chad. Very proud. You’re not a quitter. That’s good.”

  “Thanks.” I glanced at the couch and thought about how close I’d come to quitting everything.

  “And Chad?” she said.

  “What.”

  “No more lies. Okay?”

  I nodded. “No more lies.”

  36

  I TRIED TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED TO GWEN. THERE WAS A small story about the raid on page three of the paper the next day, but they didn’t list the names of any of the minors. Anthony’s brother was mentioned. He’d been arrested for possession, resisting arrest, and allowing underage drinking. The cops had also found a couple unlicensed handguns. Between the guns and the drugs, I could see why they’d been so eager to search my place.

  Gwen wasn’t at the Cat-a-Pult that evening. I was afraid she’d been arrested. On top of that, I was sure Anthony blamed me for all the trouble. There’d probably be a fight the next time he saw me. But that’s not what worried me. What if he’d told Gwen it was my fault? What if she thought I’d made the call? She’d never talk to me again. She’d blame me and hate me.

  For all I knew, she was on her way back to Montana. Or juvenile hall.

  “Hey,” the girl at the Cat-a-Pult called to me. “Try your luck? Come on. You look like a winner.”

  I shook my head and walked off.

  At least there were other parts of my life that weren’t hopeless. Jason seemed to be slowly healing. He’d had a couple setbacks, and he was going to need an operation to repair some of the damage to his kidneys, but he was doing better than any of the doctors had expected. They mentioned the possibility of a remission. That’s when a disease goes away. Remissions were rare with what Jason had, but they were known to happen. The doctors couldn’t explain it. But I could.

  I had to work on Malcolm for a couple days before he finally came to the hospital with me. When we got there, he mostly just stood off to the side while I clowned around. Then, when we were getting ready to leave, he found out that Jason liked Saturday Night Live. It was almost as if someone had pushed a button. Malcolm started doing these old routines from the early shows, and Jason cracked up. Malcolm could do the voices perfectly. I loved the one where he put the fish in the blender. We stayed so long, I was afraid Jason’s mom would catch us. I finally had to drag him away.

  “You both coming back tomorrow?” Jason asked as we left.

  I looked at Malcolm. He nodded and said, “Hard to pass up a captive audience.”

  He got that sad look again when we were walking through the corridors past all the rooms full of sick people, but he seemed all right once we got back on the street.

  “It’s helping,” I said as we headed home.

  “Yeah, it’s helping. If that kid gets any better, we might have to tie him to the bed.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the hospital.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I’ll live.”

  On our second visit I threw Malcolm a line from a Marx Brothers movie and he responded right away with the answer. We did the whole routine for Jason. Then he threw me a line from a W. C. Fields routine, and we did that skit. Between the two of us, we kept Jason laughing nonstop.

  Malcolm came with me to the hospital pretty often after that. The first time Jason’s mom walked in on us while we were clowning around, she exploded.

  “Mom,” Jason said when he managed to get her attention, “they’re my friends. They make me feel better.” He sat up in bed to prove his point.

  She glared at me, but then Malcolm started talking, explaining how good it was for Jason to laugh. I knew enough to stand aside and let him do that performance as a solo. Some audiences were too tough for me. But not too tough for Malcolm. I could see Jason’s mom’s eyes soften as Malcolm turned on the charm. By the time he was done, she’d even agreed to read Anatomy of an Illness. After that, we didn’t have to hide anymore.

  A while later I actually caught her smiling at our act, though she pretended not to. I figured it was only a matter of time before she broke down and laughed. Malcolm and I both enjoyed the challenge.

  I visited Jason every day. And I continued to study the fine art of being a Bozo. Malcolm taught me other things about acting, too. I even started to understand the hard stuff in some of his acting books.

  Finally, in early August, Malcolm told me, “Bob’s giving you a tryout tomorrow. Six o’clock. You ready?”
<
br />   Was I ready to be a Bozo? When I first saw Malcolm in the tank, I thought I could step right in and take his place. I didn’t think that now. I realized how tough it was to do a good job.

  “You’re ready,” Malcolm said, answering his own question. He handed me a paper bag. “I got you a present.”

  I opened the bag and found five tubes of greasepaint and a jar of makeup remover. “Waterproof?” I asked.

  “You bet.”

  I took the greasepaint with me to the hospital the next day. With some help and suggestions from Jason, I worked out my own patented Bozo face. It was pretty cool. I did the usual big red mouth, but instead of stars around the eyes, I made the lids black. And I spiked my hair with gel. Jason said I looked like a punk-goth vampire, but I thought it worked.

  I found out that greasepaint was a lot easier to put on than take off. “I wish you could be there,” I told Jason as I scrubbed at my face with a wad of tissues.

  “Me, too. Don’t worry. I’ll make it before summer’s over.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You will.” I tossed the tissues, gave Jason a light punch on the shoulder, then headed home and killed some time watching movies.

  I went to the Bozo tank at five thirty. Malcolm came with me. “Want help?” he asked when I reached the door of the dressing room.

  “I’ll be fine.” I went inside. It was a dingy little hole—just a closet with a stool, a wobbly card table, and a large trash basket. A mirror hung on the wall. A light bulb from a fixture in the low ceiling threw a harsh glare on the room. The table, covered with blobs and stripes of smeared makeup, looked like an abstract painting. I sat on the stool and unscrewed the caps of my greasepaint, trying to ignore the fact that my hands were shaking.

  I jumped when the door opened, but it was only Malcolm sticking his head in. “So how do you like show business so far?”

  “Great,” I answered, but he’d already ducked back out. I started spreading the greasepaint. Despite the practice, I kept messing up. Finally, after redoing parts of it several times, I got my face looking the way I wanted.

  “Ready?” I asked myself.

  I looked in the mirror and let out a Bozo laugh. Crap, I sounded like a chicken. I tried again and did a bit better.