I slide onto my chair and show her the letter from Royal-T. “This is so great.” I feel like I’m going to explode from excitement. “SO GREAT!”
“Shhh!”
“Sorry.” I smooth the letter in front of her, on top of the papers about Zeyde’s memory-care program. “We won,” I say softly. Then I can’t hold it back. “WE WON SOMETHING BIG!”
“What?” Mom asks, her eyebrows arching as she scans the letter. “What big thing did we win? Are you sure, Ben? I don’t see it in this letter.”
“I don’t know.” I’m bouncing in my seat. “That’s how these things work. I’ve read all about them on the sweeps message boards. These letters say you won a prize but don’t specify which one. But when you get an affidavit to sign like this, it means it’s a big prize. Really big!”
Mom holds the letter to her chest. “Well, what do you think we won?”
My hand trembles as I run it through my hair. “I don’t remember all the prizes. I was focusing on the grand prize—ten thousand dollars.”
“TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS?” Mom screams.
“Shhh.” I point toward my room.
Mom’s voice trembles. “Do you think we might have won ten thousand dollars, Benjamin?”
“Maybe,” I say, but inside I’m thinking, Yes, yes, YES—my first grand-prize win ever. YES!
“Oh my …” Mom leans back in her chair and fans herself with the letter. “By the way, what a terrific slogan you came up with!” She flicks the letter. “That’s absolutely excellent.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I feel my cheeks heat up from the compliment. “I couldn’t have done it without Zeyde, using the word ‘throne’ for toilet. That’s what gave my slogan that extra zing thing.”
Mom smiles, and I grab my sweepstakes supplies to rummage through and see if I can find the letter with the contest information, listing all the prizes, but I have a ton of old newsletters and junk in the box and can’t find it. “I might have thrown it out.”
“That’s okay,” Mom says, catching her breath. “It will be a really nice surprise when it arrives.”
“Mom, we’ve got to get this affidavit signed and back to them right away.”
“Where do I sign?” Mom asks.
I point to the line for her signature.
While Mom signs, I ask, “Could you please send this out certified mail tomorrow?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I screech, panicked.
“Because tomorrow’s Sunday, Ben. The post office is closed.”
“But it says we have to get this back to them within seven days or we forfeit the prize. And it’s probably been sitting in our mailbox a couple days already.”
“Let’s mail it today. I think the post office on Rising Sun Avenue will still be open.”
“Yes!”
“Let me grab my purse.”
I pace the room, rereading the letter.
“By the way,” Mom says, putting the letter into the return envelope. “I took my test this morning.”
“What?” That’s why she wasn’t home today. How could I forget? It’s the most important part of the Grand Plan!
“I was at the Prometric Test Center at 601 Walnut Street. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I think I did great. All that studying seemed to pay off.”
I give Mom a fist bump. “Best day ever!”
Now I know Dad had something to do with making this happen. He’s making sure we follow the Grand Plan even though he’s not here anymore. Mom took three tests before Dad died, and somehow he made sure she took the fourth and final test, despite all the problems we’re having. Even though it must have been so hard for Mom to get back on track and take that last test after losing Dad. She was so sad for so many months, she could barely do anything.
“Mom, do you think Dad has something to do with all this?”
She lets out a breath. “Benjamin, I think … we’re finally getting our footing back. At least, I am. And it’s a good feeling, let me tell you. It’s been like wading through a thick fog since your dad died.”
The word “died” jabs at my heart. “I know what you mean.” I think of my visit to the cemetery, to Dad’s grave. “It’s been really hard. But we’re finally doing better. Right? Finally following Dad’s Grand Plan, just like he wanted.”
Mom nods.
“Hey, Mom, guess what.”
“What?”
“WE MIGHT HAVE WON TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!”
“Shhh!”
From a few feet away, I hear, “What are we shushing?”
I jump.
Zeyde stands there in pajamas and slippers.
“Dad,” Mom says, patting her heart. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
“I’m sneaky like that,” he says. Then he pulls up the collar on his pajama top and says, “Frankly, Shelley, I’m a pretty amazing guy.”
I laugh, glad Zeyde sounds good today.
“You know who else is a pretty amazing guy?” Mom asks, grabbing me to her. “Your grandson.” She gives me a noogie. “He might have won us some big money.”
“Mazel tov,” Zeyde says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me in tightly.
“Yup,” I say. “Maybe ten grand.”
“Whoa!” Zeyde leans back. “Do you know what that would mean?”
“What?” Mom asks, now standing by the door.
“It means we can finally buy some good toilet paper.”
And we all crack up.
But then Zeyde kneels in front of me, and I can tell it hurts him to bend like that, because he groans a little. “Boychik,” he says, grabbing my hand with his soft, veiny one. “I’m sorry about what I did to your fish.”
I think that if I’d given Zeyde more of the good toilet paper from my closet in the first place, it wouldn’t have happened.
I think about how Toothpick forgave me for ruining his birthday today.
I remember how Mr. Taylor made me feel better when I was bawling like a baby in the museum’s bathroom.
I help Zeyde up, wrap my arms around him and say, “It’s okay.” I pat his back. “It’s okay, Zeyde.”
And this time, the words don’t feel like a lie.
As soon as Mom and I come back from the post office, I borrow glue, tape and a needle and thread from Mrs. Schneckle, then go into my closet and pull out the ten rolls of Royal-T toilet paper I’ve been saving.
“Boychik, you’ve been holding out on me.”
“Sorry, Zeyde. I was saving it for something important.”
He climbs onto his bed, opens a book and leans back on a pillow. “Nu? I’m not important? What are they for, then? Wiping the queen’s tuchis?”
“Gross.” I show Zeyde the flyer from the museum. “I’m going to make a wedding dress out of toilet paper.”
Zeyde tugs at his ear. “My hearing must be going, because I thought you said you’re making a toilet paper wedding dress.”
“I am. And Toothpick’s going to do the makeup to go with it.”
“Somebody getting married?” Zeyde asks. “A couple of plumbers, maybe?” He laughs at his own corny joke.
I love when Zeyde’s doing well, when his thoughts are clear and what he says makes sense. I wish he could be this way all the time. “It would be so cool if we could win a prize in the costume contest,” I tell him. My heart speeds up, because I know I already won something big from the Royal-T contest. And I can’t wait for it to be delivered, so I can find out what it is.
“A toilet paper wedding dress. That’s great,” Zeyde says with his words, but his face lets me know he thinks I’m crazy. “Let me know if I can help.” He holds up his book. “I’ll be right here reading about double-crossing secret agents and international intrigue.”
“I’ll let you know,” I say. But this isn’t something Zeyde can help with, so I get back to work.
I try weaving several sheets of Royal-T toilet paper to make a square of fabric, but it
doesn’t work. Then I try layering sheets on my bed, but I need something to hang the toilet paper on while I work on it. The people from one of the videos I watched had a mannequin. Maybe Mom can stand there while I make the dress on her.
I knock on her bedroom door.
“Enter if you dare.”
I dare. Mom’s on her bed, looking at a photo album.
“Come look,” she says, patting the space beside her on the bed.
At the beginning of the album are photos of Dad and her lounging at the beach, eating cotton candy at Great Adventure, smashing cake in each other’s faces at their wedding and kissing each other on their honeymoon at some hotel in the Poconos that has a champagne glass that’s way taller than they are and is actually a swimming pool. I don’t remember seeing this photo album before.
The next photos include me when I was a baby. In one of them, Dad holds me in one hand and a bowling ball in the other.
“When you were born, you were a big baby, but you still weighed less than Daddy’s bowling ball.”
“I didn’t know Dad bowled.”
“He was in a league—the Northeast Philly Kingpins.” Mom turns the page and points to Dad standing with a bunch of other people, wearing matching collared shirts and holding bowling balls. “There’s your dad with his bowling buddies. They played every Tuesday at Cottman Lanes.”
I touch the picture. “His bowling shoes look ridiculous.”
Mom laughs. “I always threatened to throw away those ugly things when he wasn’t looking.” Mom pushes the hair off my forehead. “But don’t you know, they’re still in my closet.”
“How come I don’t remember Dad bowling?”
“He started working more.” Mom shrugs. “And bowling less. Gave up his bowling league a long time ago. But don’t you remember that bowling party we had for your eighth birthday? It was really fun. Your dad wore his ridiculous bowling shoes that day.”
“I kind of remember,” I say. “Wasn’t there a giant inflatable bowling pin that everyone signed?”
“Yes,” Mom says. “The bowling alley gave that to you. All your friends autographed it. I don’t know where that thing got to.”
“We should go bowling sometime,” I say.
“We should,” Mom says. “You could bring Toothpick.”
“And I could wear Dad’s old shoes.”
We look at each other and shake our heads at the same time.
Mom closes the photo album and lets out a breath. “You know, it feels good to be done with that accounting test, but a little sad. I used to spend almost every spare minute studying. And now …” She shakes her head. “I know it’s dumb, but I feel a little lost now that it’s over.”
I nudge her with my shoulder.
“Hey, at least by the end of the month, we’ll find out if I passed, then I’ll get a good job. With benefits and everything. Won’t that be great, Ben?”
“So great. Mom?” I want to tell her what happened with Angus in the locker room. I want to tell her about the rent money that got stolen. I want to tell her everything that happened yesterday, like me walking a million miles to the cemetery by myself. But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “What happened to Barkley? I mean, I know what happened, but … what did you do with him?”
Mom touches her head to mine. “I placed him in an empty pancake box, said a little prayer and buried him under that little patch of grass behind our apartment building. You mad?”
I take a breath and think about what she just told me. “You said a prayer for him?”
Mom nods.
“That’s good. A prayer is nice.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“A pancake box? Really?”
She shrugs. “It’s all I had handy.”
“Mom?
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Do you think you’d be able to stand still for a few hours while I make a toilet paper dress on you?”
“Well, it’s not every day someone asks me that!”
“I don’t know why not.”
“Hmm. While I don’t have to study anymore, I do have to finish filling out those papers and get them to Mrs. Schneckle so we can get Zeyde in that program. Exactly how long would it take?”
I think about crafting an entire dress from toilet paper. “Pretty long,” I say.
“Maybe there’s someone else you can ask or … does it have to be a person?”
“What?”
Mom goes in her closet, which extends back pretty far. She pulls out a bunch of stuff, then drags out a man’s body.
“What the—?”
Not a body exactly. Just the top half. A man’s torso on a pole with a wide base. And the half-body is all beige.
Mom sets it upright and punches the fake man right in the face.
“Mom!”
She cracks up. “Want to punch it? It was your dad’s.”
“Why did Dad have half a man? With no arms? And six-pack abs?”
“Sparring practice,” she says. “It’s a punching dummy. Your dad got into sparring, oh, about eight or nine years ago, but when he got punched really hard in the nose once at the gym, the punching dummy went into the closet and his sparring hobby went by the wayside.” She jams her fist into its face again so hard the strange half-man leans backward. “Ooh, that feels good,” Mom says. “I should do this more often.”
“You’re weird.” I get up to examine the punching dummy and wonder what other interesting Dad things Mom might have hidden in her closet. I love discovering things I didn’t know about Dad. “Thanks,” I say. “This might work.”
I drag the half-man thing into my bedroom.
Zeyde lowers his book. “Aaah! You trying to give me a heart attack? What is that thing?”
“My dress model,” I say, laughing. “Actually, it’s Dad’s old punching dummy.”
Zeyde shakes his head. “You’re meshugge!” And he goes back to reading.
I return to crafting toilet paper into something that might resemble a wearable wedding dress.
While I braid toilet paper strands, I know Zeyde’s right. I am meshugge! I’ve got to be the only seventh-grade guy in the universe making a toilet paper wedding dress on a fake half-man with no arms.
I drop the toilet paper roll on my bed and ball my right fist. Then I stand on my toes and punch the fake man square in the nose. His head jerks back. It reminds me of the tender lump on the back of my head where Angus slammed it into the lock. I press the sore place and wince. I’m glad the scratch on my hand appears to be healing. Thank goodness—no rabies!
“Nice jab, kid.”
“Thanks, Zeyde.”
I reel back and punch the dummy again. And again. I imagine it’s Angus Andrews and punch it so hard my hand hurts. Take that, Angus. “Wham!” A right hook hard to the cheek. “Pow!” A hard jab to the mouth. “Blam!” A powerhouse punch to the nose. “Hiyah!”
Mom’s right. Punching this thing does feel good!
Toothpick comes over to the apartment Sunday. I hate that he sees the orange eviction notice on our door, but he doesn’t say anything about it when he comes in. And neither do I.
In my bedroom, Pick shows me magazine photos of what he wants to do with the makeup. Brains. Blood. Gore.
“It’s going to be amazing,” Pick says. “I’ll use some of the same techniques for our Halloween costumes.”
“Awesome,” I say, trying to get myself more hyped about Halloween.
“Nu?” Zeyde asks from his bed.
“The costume contest,” I remind him. “At the Mütter Museum. Remember? I showed you the flyer yesterday.”
Zeyde puts a finger in his place in the book and tilts his head.
“Toothpick and I are going to make a zombie-bride costume.” I sling my arm around Toothpick’s skinny waist. “Right, buddy?”
“Absolutely,” Toothpick says, slinging his arm around my waist.
“Interesting,” Zeyde says, positioning the book in front of his face again. Then he lo
wers it. “I know I read this book before, but I don’t remember it, so it’s new to me.”
Toothpick looks at me like Zeyde’s crazy. I don’t tell him that sometimes it seems like he is. I don’t tell him anything about what’s been going on with Zeyde, because that stuff is private family business. It’s bad enough he saw the eviction notice on our door.
“Check this out,” Toothpick says, shoving a picture in my face. “This is what we should do for the contest.”
It looks like a girl’s jaw is showing through her skin—like you can see through to the bone and muscle. “Can you do that?” I ask. “Looks complicated.”
“Watch me,” he says, opening his toolbox filled with makeup and supplies.
I love Toothpick’s confidence.
Right now, I feel like my toilet paper dress is a disaster. It’s uneven and bunching up where it’s supposed to be smooth, but at least I’m finally getting it to look like an actual dress. In fact, the skirt part is almost finished. I’m going to add origami toilet paper roses to it later. “Now for the top part,” I say, trying to remember what I saw in those videos, how they made the sleeves. “This is hard.”
“Who’s going to wear it?” Toothpick asks, pulling out a bunch of things from his toolbox of movie makeup.
“It’ll have to be someone with a broad chest,” I say, pointing to the punching dummy. “That leaves you out.”
Toothpick throws his magazine at me, but I swat it away. “You’re hilarious, Epstein.”
“You know it,” I say, banging a roll of toilet paper onto the side of my head. “We should think about this like any contest. To stand out, our entry should follow the directions exactly, show creativity and a touch of humor. Funny can make a difference in the judging.”
“We’re making a zombie bride, moron,” Toothpick says, holding up a tube of “blood.” “It’ll be gross. It’ll be gory. But how’s it going to be funny?”
“I’ll wear it.”
We both turn to Zeyde.
He’s lowered his book.
“I’ll wear it,” Zeyde says again, and I worry that his mind isn’t working right and he doesn’t know what we’re actually talking about.
Death by Toilet Paper Page 14