Mr. Thomas says a few words about cats in general, things like: “We know they love to eat mice,” and “I’m sure he played so much with yarn when he was a kitten.” Most of the women cry and the men look serious. Then I pat the dirt with the flat of the shovel to smooth it out.
One of the neighbor men says, “Mind if I pray over this?”
Mrs. Calhoun nods and the man prays for a long time, talking about souls and heaven and angels and demons and animals and purgatory and the coming of the new kingdom in Revelations. Then he says, “Amen,” and we all say, “Amen,” and that’s the end of the service.
When I get home, I go straight back to my grandma’s room. She’s sleeping, as usual, so I start to close the door. But as I do, she opens her eyes and says, “Wait, sweetie.”
I say, “Oh, sorry to wake you, Grandma.”
“No, no, I was awake. I slept all day, so I’m fine. Come back in here and talk to me. Tell me what’s new with you?”
“Well,” I say, “guess what happened at Mrs. Calhoun’s tonight?” I sit down on the side of her bed.
She scooches herself up onto her pillows. “What happened?”
And this is what I’ve wanted, what I was hoping for. This is why I put the caimans in the lake in the first place. I wanted stories for Grandma, stories to tell her, stories to talk about.
I get in bed next to her and tell her all about the caiman and Mr. Fluffers, about scaring it off and digging a grave.
When I’m done, Grandma makes a clicking sound in her teeth. “Well, that is just plain wild. That is”—she shakes her head—“that is ridiculous.”
50-FOOT MONSTERS
The next day, the killing of Mr. Fluffers is on the morning news. A news van is parked in front of Mrs. Calhoun’s house when Creature and I dribble down the road toward Gilham Park. We stop and watch the station interview a few neighbors, who are happy to be on television.
It shouldn’t be much of a story since the remains of the cat are already in the ground and the caiman’s nowhere to be seen, but Mr. Gilligan tells the news crew that he “saw the monster,” and it looked to him “like a 10- or 12-foot alligator.”
“10 or 12 feet long.” The newsgirl repeats that in a serious tone.
“Yes,” Mr. Gilligan says. “Someone musta released it when it was little and it’s been growing fat for years on the geese and bass and ducks and whatever else it can eat in this lake.”
The newsgirl nods like she’s listening to a church sermon. “And what do you think will happen next, sir?”
Mr. Gilligan blinks a couple of times. “Well,” he says, “it’ll probably be 15 to 20 feet long by summer’s end, so it’s only a matter of time before a person gets eaten.”
The newsgirl likes that quote a lot, and she shakes her head before turning to the camera and frowning. She pauses for effect, then says, “There’s a monster in this lake, and we haven’t heard the last of it yet. People may be next.”
After the cameras are turned off and we start dribbling down the road, Creature says, “Wait, why didn’t you interview with that news lady? I thought you and Mr. Thomas were the only ones who were actually there on the porch with it and saw what it was.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t want to be on the news.”
“No 15 minutes of fame for you, baby?”
“No thanks,” I say.
“I guess last year you got your 15 minutes of glory, didn’t you.”
“Of glory?” I say.
“Okay, 15 minutes of infamy. Sound good?”
—
The Animal Control vans are out at the lake when we come home from our workout. Creature and I stand and dribble and watch them. They search and talk to each other. Search some more.
I mow and weed out the borders of two east-side homes in the afternoon, and every once in a while I stop and look back across the lake at the Animal Control officers searching for the caiman on the trailer-park side.
It’s Friday, so when I finish my yard work, I knock on the front doors of all my houses to collect my money for the week. Seven pay me in cash and two pay me with checks. Three people aren’t home. At Natalie’s house, I put on a clean T-shirt and smooth the wrinkles. But no one answers the door.
I bike back to my grandparents’ house and stuff the bills in my jar, hide it again in the zip-up throw pillow at the bottom of the bed. I have hundreds of dollars in there from the last two summers, and the only time I spent anything was when I needed new basketball shoes last winter. Other than that, I’ve saved it all for my mom, in case I need to help her out someday. I daydream about that. Getting her an apartment. Getting her on food stamps. Maybe the Oregon Health Plan too. Or sometimes I picture myself just giving her the cash and telling her that it’s all for her, that I earned it for her, that I want her to have it, that I want her to get her life together and live better. Sometimes I picture all of the men who treated her like garbage, and I want to hand her that fat jar of money and say, “It’s gonna be okay, see? Look at all of this. You could just set yourself up with all this money. Get an apartment for a couple of months. Get a job and start over again.”
—
When I walk out to my tent, I look around. Everyone’s out on their back porches tonight, and I can hear the neighbors next door to me on the other side, the Quincys, talking about the Animal Control officers. Both of the Quincys are half-deaf, so they yell everything. It isn’t hard to hear an entire conversation when they talk to each other.
Mr. Quincy says, “Did you hear what that one officer said earlier?”
“No, I did not,” Mrs. Quincy says.
“Well, he said that a dog probably killed that cat last night.”
“A dog?”
“Yes, and he also said that the old people nearby were probably too senile to know what it was.”
“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Quincy says. “Did the officer really say that?”
“Honest to goodness,” Mr. Quincy says. “I heard it myself from Mr. Anderson.”
I smile to myself, duck down, and crawl in my tent. Lie on my sleeping bag and think about how everyone’s got a story now, something to talk about, something more than what they’re going to eat, their aches and pains, and their medications.
PLANKS
I go down to the park and run a free-throw drill. Two full-court sprints dribbling the basketball, then two free throws. 50 sets is a game. 100 free throws total. It takes more than half an hour and I’m sweating hard.
The park’s drinking fountain is on the wall of the bathroom building, and on the other side of the bathrooms, there’s Natalie. She’s set up orange cones in the grass, and she’s dribbling a soccer ball right and left through the set, turning, dribbling back, and cracking shots off the wall of the bathrooms. I watch her hammer one shot and go retrieve the ball, dribble to the top of the cones, and turn to do it over again. She’s wearing a bright orange sports bra and soccer shorts. She looks super strong. Tan and scary pretty.
She stops when she sees me.
I say, “What’s up?”
“Hey.” She rolls the ball back onto the top of her foot and stalls it there, flips it to the other foot and stalls it on top of that foot too. Then she juggles it a few times, back and forth, before stomping it to the grass.
I look at that thick brace on her right knee. “What did you do to that knee?”
“Tore the ACL last year.”
“Oh, man. How?”
She rolls her ball up and juggles it a few more times. “At practice.”
“Practice? Not even a game?”
“Nope.”
I shake my head. “That’s rough.”
She shrugs. Stalls the ball on top of her foot again, lets it roll slowly off the front of her foot, and settles it underneath the toe of her cleat.
I say, “You’re going to play for Taft, then?”
“I hope so. If my knee’s healed up,” she says. “It’s been 10 months, but it’s not that strong yet. We’ll see.”
While I talk to her, I spread my fingers and try to palm my basketball. But it keeps slipping. I spin it and try again.
Natalie says, “So how often do you practice basketball?”
“Pretty much every day.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m a point guard, so I have to.”
“You’re pretty good,” she says. “I watched you sprint and shoot some of those free throws. You made almost every one.”
“I missed seven.”
“Right,” she says. “Never mind. That’s total crap. You better keep practicing.”
I smile.
“Speaking of,” Natalie says, “want a challenge?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m just asking. Want a challenge or not?” She smiles, has a look on her face like she might’ve slipped something into my food.
“I don’t trust you, but okay.”
“Don’t trust me?”
“No.”
“Okay, fine. You’re scared? We won’t do the challenge, then.” She puts her hands on her hips.
“No,” I say. “Let’s do it. I like challenges.”
“Okay,” Natalie says. “Here’s how it’ll be. We do four exercises, one right after the other, no resting. And it’s a competition between you and me. Last one still exercising wins the comp. First person to stop loses. Got it?”
“All right. What are the four exercises?”
“Push-ups, then pull-ups on that bar”—she points to the playground bar a few feet away—“then squats to 90 degrees, then a plank on your forearms. Got it?”
“Got it.” I smile. I’m feeling confident. Anything with push-ups and pull-ups is an automatic win for me. I’ve been doing them all spring and summer. I can do a lot of both, and there’s no way Natalie can come anywhere close to beating me on those. The other two exercises I don’t do too often, but how hard can they be?
We walk over to the edge of the playground. Natalie says, “Push-ups, then jog to the pull-ups, then jog back and go right into squats, right?”
“Right.”
“No rest. You ready?”
“Ready.”
“Then go.”
We both drop down and start pumping out push-ups. We’re on the same rhythm at first, but on number 13, Natalie slows down. She does maybe 10 more, but a lot slower on those last few, and I keep cranking, feeling good. By the time I’m in the mid-30s, she’s finished and I see her jog over to the pull-up bar and start doing pull-ups. I keep doing push-ups, pass 40, pass 50, then start slowing down. I go hard, do as many as I can, the last few really slow, and get to 63 before my shoulders give out.
When I stand up to jog over to the pull-up bar, Natalie’s already back from her set of pull-ups. She’s behind me in the grass, doing standing squats, dropping to 90 degrees and back up. I go over to the pull-up bar and do 17 pull-ups, which isn’t my record but is still pretty good for me for a single set.
When I jog back to start my squats, Natalie’s still doing hers. Her face is a little sweaty, but she’s smiling and still doing squats at a good pace. If I had to guess where she was numbers-wise at that point, I’d say well over 100.
She and I do squats next to each other. I pass 100 and she passes 200. I pass 150 and she passes 250. She starts to slow down then. The muscles in my quads and butt are hurting bad, but I can’t show her that they are because she’s still going on squats. I try to squat to the same depth, but I’m starting to fall apart. Finally, Natalie drops down onto the grass, props herself up on her forearms, and goes into a plank position. I do a few more squats, just out of pride, then drop down next to her.
I don’t do well. I start shaking right away. My stomach starts to sag, and Natalie says, “Straight. Bring that up.”
I straighten my body for maybe 10 seconds, but then it starts to sag again.
Natalie says, “Get that shit up or it doesn’t count.”
I straighten one more time, but I have to will myself straight, and when I look at Natalie she’s still in a perfect plank position and I have no hope of winning. I fight as long as I can, but my body breaks down and I slowly sag to the grass.
I lie there panting, then say, “You win. Good game.”
Natalie smiles, rolls over onto her back, and lies there breathing. “Good game.”
I stay down a long time, lie there, watching Natalie. I watch her abs rise and fall, watch the lines of her ribs, then her chest expanding and dropping.
I say, “You knew you were going to win, didn’t you?”
She’s looking at the sky. “I always win.”
“But what if I won?”
“You didn’t.” She smiles. “But small consolation: you made it further than any other guy I’ve competed against. I’ve always done so many squats that the guy has to start his plank first. And by the time I drop down, he’s already defeated. But you’re competitive. I like that.”
“So did I worry you, then?”
Natalie shakes her head. “Oh, hell no. I knew you’d suck at planks.”
“What?”
Natalie smiles again. “You were horrible at planking, super weak, and I knew you would be because all guys are.” She pops up to her feet, walks over and grabs her cones and soccer ball. “I’ll see you around,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll see you around.”
LOCUSTS
Grandma and Grandpa are gone when I get back from the basketball court. I wish there was a basketball game on TV, but even the NBA finals are over. I’m stiff from the workout competition with Natalie, and I can tell that tomorrow I’ll be sore.
I make a three-inch-thick sandwich with turkey and salami slices, cheese, and lettuce, and I mix a big cup of cold Tang. Then I go down to my tent and get the latest book Creature left for me, Drown, and I bring it back up to the house and sit on the couch in the living room, reading and eating. The first story is nothing like anything I’ve read before. The books that Grandma always gives me are slow at the beginning, and almost all of them are set in Europe, in Russia or France or England, a long time ago. But this book is on the island of the Dominican Republic and it starts right off with violence and cussing and a little bit of sex stuff. The older brother’s always getting into trouble, always trying to do things he shouldn’t, and the little brother’s always following along. I like the book a lot, and I sit on the couch and read the next two stories. I’m still reading when my grandma and grandpa get home.
I hear them in the driveway, and Grandpa yells, “Hey, Travis? Are you home?”
I open the front door. Go out on the porch.
Grandpa’s trying to get Grandma out of the car, and he’s struggling to lift her. I jump down the steps. “I’ve got this, Grandpa. I’ve got her.”
“She’s a mess,” he says.
And she is. She has a big smear of vomit down the front of her shirt, chunks of pink in her lap. “Oh, Grandma, I’m sorry.”
She says, “No, sweetie, I’m sorry. I smell terrible.” Her voice sounds like she swallowed a few pieces of sandpaper.
I say, “I don’t care about that.” I get my hands underneath her armpits and pull her out of the car and to her feet. Then I slide one arm behind her back and one arm underneath her knees. “Let me lift you.”
“Thank you, sweetie.” She doesn’t weigh much anymore, maybe 105 pounds, 110 at the most, and it’s not hard to carry her up the stairs and into the house. I take her to the bathroom and set her down on the toilet. “Here, put your hand on the counter. Hold on.”
Grandpa’s behind me. “Thank you, Travis. I can take it from here. I’ll get her into the shower.”
“Okay.”
Grandma says, “This looks bad, but I had fun today.”
“That’s good, Grandma.”
“I really did,” she says. “We had so much fun today.”
—
Out in the kitchen, I take off my shirt and put it in the sink. Soak it in warm water and dish soap. Then I
take a rag and wipe my chest and shoulder where a little bit of vomit soaked through my shirt. I smell there and wipe again.
I used to clean my mom up like this, but she didn’t ever say thank you. Usually she was asleep, her vomit down the front of her. I’d come in from playing basketball or just shooting alone on the back court, and she’d be asleep against the wall, the room smelling terrible.
I’d feel my head filling with blood and then my head would be tight, too tight like that blood was trying to push out from behind my eyes, and I’d have to lean against the wall for a second so I wouldn’t pass out, but then I’d stand back up and I’d get her clothes off and fight her weight as I worked her into the tub. Then I’d run the water and fill the bath, wake her over and over as the water rose. I’d say, “Mom, you’ve got to wake up and clean yourself off. You have to.” I’d put a washcloth in her hand. But she wouldn’t wake up, and I’d stop the water before it was too high, then I’d sit in there, in the bathroom with her, and wait for her to open her eyes.
Sometimes I wouldn’t eat dinner afterward because I wasn’t hungry anymore. My hands would feel sort of numb and I’d lie on the bed and open and close my fingers, and hope for that feeling to go away.
THE CAMPS
I search again in the morning. I have my backpack filled with cookies, the money jar, cold pizza wrapped in foil, dinner rolls, an old Gatorade bottle filled with ice cubes and mixed Tang. I bike down to the DeFazio Bridge, Alton Baker Park, check the Mill Race, the spillway bridge, the picnic area. Find two people sleeping in the middle of the island, both of them men in their 20s, one without a shirt on, a rash covering his back, yellow pus in the cracks.
I hike the river paths on the north bank, the fish camps, the sloughs. Trash heaps. Find a young woman passed out like she’d been hit in the head with a rock and fell that way. But she is breathing, and her right hand still holds an HRD vodka bottle, a few ounces in the bottom like water.
This is the Part Where You Laugh Page 8