Armstrong and Charlie

by Steven B. Frank

  I start my training at the Mulholland Tennis Club, a ten-minute walk from our house. Built in 1966 when I was three and Andy was four, it looks like a steel and glass spaceship that landed on the hill above Crest View Drive. There are six tennis courts, a swimming pool, and a dining room with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the valley and the city below.

  Next to the men’s locker room is a gym. It has a punching bag and a set of weights that can challenge anyone, from a boy to an Olympian. The sign says NO ONE UNDER 16 ALLOWED IN THE GYM WITHOUT ADULT SUPERVISION. It’s a rule clearly stated in bold print. But if I’m going to kick the ass of a kickboxer’s son, the Rules Boy is going to have to break some rules.

  My routine is the same every day. I switch on my radio and get to work. First the barbells—​ten curls of two pounds each. Next the long bar—​up to the waist, then to the shoulders, and finally overhead, like I’ve seen a Hungarian weightlifter do on ABC’s Wide World of Sports. From there I go to the bench press and try to lift a little more each time. After one week, I’m up to five pounds on the barbells, twenty-five on the long bar, and fifty on the bench press.

  One Saturday I’m on my back, bench-pressing to the sound of “ooga chaka, ooga chaka” on 93 KHJ, when I hear somebody bark, “No kids allowed in the gym!”

  I look up and see the grouchiest, grinchiest, nastiest member of the Mulholland Tennis Club: Morley Drecker. Or, as he’s known to everyone under sixteen, Baldheaded Booby.

  My stack of weights clatters down.

  “That’s without adult supervision, Morley. Last time I checked, I was over twenty-one.”

  In limps Annette DeWitt, her tennis racket tucked under one arm and a bag of ice in one hand. She wears a supershort tennis skirt, and she’s all skin all the way down to the purple puffballs on her ankle socks. Annette is a friend of my mom’s and a member of her consciousness-raising group. They get together once a month while the husbands play cards, and they talk about women’s issues.

  They got the idea from the first Ms. magazine, which my mom keeps on the top of the stack even though it’s two years old. On the cover there’s this modern-day Hindu goddess juggling tons of household tasks. She has eight arms and they’re all busy. One is holding a steering wheel, one frying an egg, one answering the phone, one ironing, another typing, one dusting, another holding a mirror, and the last one holding a clock. Plus she’s pregnant.

  My mom used to be like that. Super Mom. But since Andy died, she’s down to two arms. Sometimes none.

  Baldheaded Booby goes out of the gym. Annette sits on the seat of the leg press, holding the ice pack to her ankle.

  “How’s your mom, Charlie?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “We’ve missed her at the CR meetings.”

  “Maybe she’ll come to the next one.”

  “She has to. It’s at your house.”

  I take the key out of the fifty-pound stack and slide it in at sixty.

  “I can never lift more than fifty pounds,” Annette says, striking a match. She lights a Virginia Slim, takes a deep puff, and sees me staring at her cigarette. Last year, forty-one thousand and forty-two people died from chronic lung diseases. Cigarette smoking was the leading cause.

  She blows out the smoke as far from me as she can.

  “I started at twenty, two weeks ago,” I say.

  “Now you’re up to sixty. That’s impressive, Charlie.”

  “Well, I’m in training,” I say, hoisting the stack of weights. A small window opens, and I can see the glowing tip of Annette’s cigarette. “For a fight.”

  She blows out a long, thin stream of smoke while I tell her all about the new kids at Wonderland, especially Armstrong and how he’s been trying to boss us. Then I set down the weights, sit up, and lean so close to her that I could take a puff of her cigarette.

  “He’s black,” I say.

  I say it in a whisper even though we’re the only ones in the gym.

  Annette nods as though that explains everything.

  “I’m going to stand up to him, though.”

  I take up a boxer’s stance in front of the heavy, hanging bag. My dad has shown me a few moves—​a head fake followed by a right hook, a double jab with the left, an elbow for when you’re in close.

  Annette watches me. Watches and puffs. Then she says, “It can’t be easy for him, coming to a new school far from home. Imagine if you’d been bused to his neighborhood.”

  “My parents would never let that happen.” I fling a right jab at the bag.

  “No, I don’t suppose they would.”

  She stabs her cigarette into the loopy M of the Mulholland Tennis Club ashtray. “Well, my ice has turned to water, Charlie. Remember, that boy is probably as frightened of you as you are of him.”

  Armstrong, scared of me? Her ankle’s not the only thing that’s twisted.

  · 4 ·

  The Bull and the Crab

  Armstrong

  LUNCHTIME ON MONDAY, we break into teams for basketball. Ross sets the rules: winners take it out, you call your own fouls, free throws are one plus one. Shoot for teams and do-or-die to start. Game ends when the bell stops ringing.

  Teams go like this: Otis, Alma, Shelley, and Ross against Jason Vale, Alex Levinson, Dezzy, and me. That girl Ross is stuck on—​Leslie—​stands on the sidelines swinging her red click-clacks, which click and clack like a timer for the game.

  Because we’re roughly the same height, me and Ross end up guarding each other. I score more times than he does, but he passes for more points. We foul each other a lot, but neither one calls it. One thing I notice, he’s getting to be pretty strong.

  I get the ball and Ross is on me tight. I fake right, spin left. Up for a jump shot.

  Swish.

  “In yo’ eye!” I crow.

  Score’s 22–20, my team in the lead. Ross is dribbling and I’m guarding him close. We look like a couple of bumper cars at Kiddieland. He bounces off me, spins away, dribbles by. Takes about five steps into a lay-up.

  Bank-swish.

  “Go, Charlie!” the girl with the click-clacks cheers. She’s not the only one. Feels like the whole school is rooting for him.

  “TRAVELIN’!” I yell.

  “What?”

  Charlie Ross comes marching up all outraged, like he thinks he didn’t take those extra steps.

  “You were travelin’.”

  “I’m allowed two steps.”

  “You took five. And I know you appreciate the rules of the game.”

  “No way,” he says. “Basket counts. Tie game.”

  “That’s not right,” I say. “You were traveling, Ross, and you know it. Now, either you admit to the traveling and that basket doesn’t count … or I kick your ass so bad, you’ll be renting equipment from your own daddy.”

  I don’t want to get in a fight with this boy. But if he swings, I’ll end it real fast.

  Charlie

  Armstrong is threatening me in front of my teammates, schoolmates, and Leslie Maduros, whose click-clacks are neither clicking nor clacking. I can’t back down in front of her and everyone else. Can’t let this newcomer push us around. I think about the gym at the Mulholland Tennis Club, where I’ve gone from a measly twenty pounds on the bench press to a manly sixty. I hear Keith’s voice in my head: If you don’t kick his ass in front of the whole school, Charlie Ross, he’ll boss you all year long.

  And my father’s: Some things are worth fighting for.

  I’ve got the basketball in my hands. All I have to do is fling it in Armstrong’s face, and when he puts up his arms I’ll …

  Punch him in the gut!

  Kick him in the balls!

  Knock him to the ground!

  The schoolyard will be ours again.

  I look Armstrong straight in the eye, my upper lip snarling, my arms trembling.

  He looks at me, calm as Kung Fu Caine.

  “I might have taken an extra step,” I say, just as the bell rings.
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  Armstrong

  “We win!” I shout.

  I turn to my team. Raise my hand for high-fives.

  But no skin comes.

  INCIDENT REPORT

  Submitted by: Edwina Gaines, Yard Supervisor at Wonderland Avenue School

  Date of Incident: Thursday, October 10, 1974

  Time: 1:05 p.m.

  Location: the boys’ bathroom

  After lunch, when the yard was tidy, I made my customary rounds of the boys’ and girls’ bathrooms. The girls’ was quiet and empty. On my way into the boys’, I announced, “This is Mrs. Gaines, stepping into the boys’ bathroom.”

  I checked to see that the stalls were empty, but the third one was latched.

  “Is someone in here?” I said.

  I heard a quick gasp of breath, like a cry suddenly covered up.

  “Who’s there?” I said. “What’s wrong?”

  Now, a woman of my height has a hard time crouching down. But I commenced to leaning over, and then leaning over some more, so that I might peek under the stall and see if I recognized the shoes. It was a pair of black and white tennis shoes. Keds, I believe. A common brand among the boys.

  “All right,” I said, “you don’t want me to know who you are. That’s fine. Except I’m not here to punish. I’m here as a matter of concern of one human being for another. Something must be wrong in a boy’s heart if he’s holding back tears.”

  He, whoever he was, made no answer.

  “Now, you can come out of there and we can talk. Or I can go round to every classroom in this school and interrupt the teaching to determine which child is out of class.”

  At this point the latch slid to the left, the door swung in, and I was looking into the face of Armstrong Le Rois.

  “Armstrong,” I said, “what’s the trouble?”

  “Nothing, ma’am,” he said.

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “It’s a personal matter.”

  “You’re not required to share that with me. I’m just the Yard Supervisor. On the other hand, if there’s something I can do to help …”

  There was a long pause. I waited. I did not want to rush the boy. And it’s a good thing too, because when he was ready he said, “Well, Mrs. Gaines, a friend of mine is dead.”

  “Oh, Armstrong. I’m so very sorry to hear that. Was it sudden? Was it expected?”

  “Expected? Maybe by some. But not by me. I saw him just three days before he passed.”

  “Relative of yours?”

  “A neighbor, Mrs. Gaines. He was the oldest man near where I live. I did some work for him.”

  “How did he die?”

  Armstrong’s hand came to his chin. “I don’t know,” he said. “Heart attack, I guess. I’m the one who found him.”

  “You? What’s a boy having to find a dead old man for?”

  “It was the day I was supposed to come over and read to him from Treasure Island. I knocked on his door and there was no answer. Just the sound of his dog, Patches, barking. So I went around to the rattling old window that he was going to teach me how to fix. I was able to slide it up, and, being small enough, I crawled in. Well, it was an awful thing that I smelled. A worse one that I saw.”

  “Oh, Armstrong, you’d better stop the story. It’s going to upset you too much.”

  “No, Mrs. Gaines. I need to get it out. And you’re so kind to have this chat with me, I have to make it all the way to the end. I went back to his bedroom. The door was open. I still heard Patches barking. I said, ‘Patches, why are you barking at me? You never bark at me anymore.’ So I pushed open the door a little wider, and there was Mr. Khalil lying in the bed. And there was Patches standing over him. Three paws on the blankets and one on Mr. Khalil’s shoulder. Guarding him the way a dog might stand guard over a toy. Or a treat. That’s when I took a closer look at the old man’s face.”

  “And what did you see?”

  “Well, it seems that Mr. Khalil forgot to feed Patches the day before he died. And during that day and a half, the dog must’ve gotten hungry.”

  “Yes?”

  “He had to eat something.”

  At this point I staggered back and put my hand on the washbasin to keep me on my feet.

  “Oh, child!” I said. “You will not have witnessed that! Lord forbid you carry that image to your grave.”

  “Well,” said the boy, “at least now I’m not the only one carrying it, ma’am.”

  I have, at last count, forty-seven sick days at my disposal. As a result of this incident, I will be taking one of them tomorrow.

  Armstrong

  Soon as Mrs. Gaines walks out of the bathroom, I hear a terrible sound.

  The toilet flushing.

  And soon as the flushing’s done, I see a terrible sight.

  Charlie Ross stepping out of the last stall. He’s got this look on his face that says … a) I just had diarrhea, or … b) I heard everything you told Mrs. Gaines.

  “What are you doing in the boys’ bathroom?” I say.

  “Something from lunch didn’t agree with me.”

  The answer is a.

  “Did you hear what I told Mrs. Gaines?”

  He nods his head. Looks like the answer is b, too.

  Then he apologizes. Says he’s really, really sorry. Says he didn’t mean to listen in. Says he wanted to show some sign he was there, but he was so caught up in the story, he couldn’t speak.

  He puts out his hand like he wants to touch my shoulder, but I pull back and glance at the sink to give a hint like maybe he should wash.

  After he dries his hands, he looks at me real serious. With grandma eyes when you hold out a boo-boo.

  “I’m so sorry about your friend,” Charlie Ross says.

  I feel something stir inside me. Something I can’t keep down. I lean over and check the stalls to make sure nobody else is in here. And when I’m sure we’re alone, I let out what I’ve been holding in.

  A confetti pop of laughter. The kind that shoots milk out of your nose if you’re drinking and along comes a good joke.

  “You believed that? Damn, Charlie Ross, you’re way too gullible. It’s just a story I made up so I could ditch Mr. Mitchell’s social studies test. I was messing with Mrs. Gaines. Didn’t think I’d be messing with you, too.”

  I go on laughing and shaking my head. But Charlie Ross has this new look on his face, like he doesn’t think it’s so funny.

  Then he says, “My brother died in May.”

  That stops the conversation cold. But I’ve got to wonder, is Ross just saying that to mess back with me?

  “For real?”

  “For real.”

  Now I feel, well, not exactly sorry, but surprised. A boy whose brother died. That’s serious.

  “For real real?”

  His head goes up and down. Up and down again. Maybe it’s true. Still, he better not run to Mrs. Gaines and say I lied.

  “You wouldn’t run to Mrs. Gaines and say I lied, would you?”

  “No,” he says.

  I give him the same cold, hard look my daddy flashes me when he’s mad.

  “I won’t tell,” Ross says.

  “Good,” I say, “’cause I got her sympathy now. That’s like a Golden Ticket around here.”

  I start to go, but Charlie Ross’s voice follows me to the door. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose someone,” he says. “If you did, you wouldn’t lie about it.”

  I walk out of that bathroom feeling like I just walked out of church.

  That afternoon, with Charlie Ross’s words still preaching around my head, my feet decide to pay a surprise visit to old Mr. Khalil.

  “Mr. Khalil!” I call out soon as I see him on his porch.

  His head is bowed down to his chin. Hands folded like the newspaper in his lap. I go on in through the gate. Patches won’t bark anymore when he sees me, so I bang that gate real hard behind me.

  Mr. Khalil is lost in a nap. At least I hope it’s a nap. Mama alw
ays says to be careful when you tell a lie. Some lies make themselves come true.

  “Mr. Khalil! Wake up!”

  Not a peep out of this old man.

  I walk right up to his face, lean in close to see if he’s breathing. Mr. Khalil’s got one extra long hair curling out of his nose. When you’re real old, you stop trimming in the small places. If he’s alive, the breeze from his breath should make that one long hair dance.

  It’s not dancing. Looks like a comma hanging from his nostril.

  I look at his chest. A live person’s chest will rise and fall as part of the regular routine of living. Mr. Khalil’s chest is all flat. And stays flat for one one-thousand …

  Two one-thousand …

  Three one-thousand …

  Four one-thousand …

  I killed him. I killed him with my lie.

  Six one-thousand …

  And then, like he just came up from the bottom of a pool, his chest blows up with a big breath.

  “You’re alive! Oh, Mr. Khalil, thank God you’re alive!”

  “Armstrong?” he says, opening one soapy eye at a time.

  “Hi!”

  “Did I sleep all the way to Saturday?”

  “No, Mr. Khalil,” I say, laughing because I’m so glad I didn’t kill him. “It’s Thursday afternoon. I was just walking by and, uh, wanted to see how you are.”

  “And how am I?”

  “You’re perfect,” I say. “But you take a long time between breaths.”

  Charlie

  At lunchtime the next day I find Otis in the library reading Sydney Omarr’s Astrological Guide.

  “Did you know that in a leap year your personality changes, and for one day everybody acts like they were born under the sign of the next month, not their own?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I could do your chart someday, Charlie. If you want.”

  “Sure.”

  He opens up this little notebook he carries around. “When is your birthday?”

  “July the eighteenth.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the time of day you were born, would you?”

  “I can ask my mom.”

  “It’ll help me to know your rising sign. That’s the one that complements your birth sign, which is Cancer.”

  “Okay. I’ll find out.”