Armstrong and Charlie

by Steven B. Frank

  I push open his bedroom door. Patches is there, rah-rah-ruffin’ at me from the top of the bed, his paws stretched out over Mr. Khalil’s chest like he’s guarding a toy.

  “Patches?” I say. “What in the world—”

  All of a sudden I remember that time we stepped in footprints and put our palms in handprints at the Chinese Theatre. Afterward we went to a place called the Hollywood Wax Museum, where you could see life-size copies of famous people made of wax. I remember hiding behind Daddy’s leg because I was scared the wax people would jump out and grab me, and their touch would be like the Midas touch, and that’s where I’d stay forever, a living boy trapped inside a wax body.

  My sisters teased me cruel about it. “Armstrong, those people are as likely to grab hold of you as a dead man is to get up out of his grave.”

  Well, imagine Ebony’s scream when one of them wax figures grabbed hold of her arm. The museum had put a real person in with all the wax ones. He jumped out and nearly stopped my sister’s heart.

  So with wax figures, you never know if they’re for real or not.

  But with people, you know. Right now Mr. Khalil is lying in his bed like he’s made of wax. I’m scared to get close in case Patches won’t let me. But when I take one more step, a half one, into the room, Patches leaps off the bed and comes to me. He shoves his nose into my hand like he always does when he wants some love.

  I take another step toward the bed. Mr. Khalil is so peaceful, so still. He could be in a deep sleep from one of those pills he told me about.

  I take another step and touch his hand. It’s cold. I feel for a pulse by his wrist. Nothing there. I sit on the edge of his bed, and I can’t help it—​my tears start to come.

  In the kitchen, the kettle whistles up to a scream. It gets louder and louder, and I think if it gets loud enough, it might wake him.

  But my old friend Mr. Khalil will not be waking anymore.

  · 16 ·

  A Thousand Flags Away

  Charlie

  EVERY MOTHER’S DAY MORNING, Andy would get up early and go out to the backyard with Dad’s clippers and cut the last of the calla lilies on the hill. In midwinter, when they come up from the ground, they stand tall and rolled up tight. Week by week they open into these perfect cone-shaped flowers, white with a bright yellow stick—​a spadix, Dad called it—​in the center.

  “The calla lilies tell time,” Andy would say. “It’s February when they come up from the ground. March when they start to unroll. April when they’re ready for the Passover table. May when just a few are left standing on the hill. June when they fall down.”

  We were never allowed to cut them before Passover. But when Andy would bring in the last ones for Mother’s Day, Mom would say, “Is it May already? This year sure has flown by.”

  Today is the first Mother’s Day without him. I wake up early and go into the garage. It smells of WD-40 and rusty screws, chrome polish, and S.O.S pads. I reach up and grab the clippers off my dad’s pegboard.

  I’m about to turn and go when I notice the dome light on in his car.

  “What’s that, boys?” I hear a voice say. “You want me to lie down? Okay, fellas. You’ll get no trouble from me. Here you go. My wallet. And my watch. I won’t look up before I count to a hundred … One, two, three, four …”

  Inside my father’s car, an arm rises up over the back seat, then a head, a shoulder. I see my father climb into the front. He doesn’t see me.

  “Six … seven … eight …” he counts.

  He grabs the steering wheel.

  “Nine … ten!”

  He grips it like a throat.

  “Animals! You son of a bitch! I’ll run you into the ground!”

  He puts his hand on the gearshift and makes like he’s putting the car in reverse. He throws his arm over the seatback, whips his head around, and looks out the rear window.

  Then he swings his head around again, pretends to shift back into drive, and says, “Now you!”

  Again he grips the wheel with two hands. And he rages, “WHERE’S YOUR GUN NOW, YOU GODDAMNED BAS—”

  I cover my ears and pray for it to end.

  Andy would always cut the flowers, and I would write the note. Happy Mother’s Day to our best friend. Or Dear Mom, You never go out of bloom. Or Don’t worry, we didn’t drop the vase. Love, Andy and Charlie. Or Love, Your two and only.

  This year I wish I could write Dear Mom, a terrible thing happened to Dad. He made me promise not to tell. Ask him, okay? He needs your help. Love, Charlie.

  Instead I write Dear Mom, Happy Mother’s Day. Love, Charlie.

  I leave the calla lilies in a vase by her Mr. Coffee machine. That way she’ll see them first thing when she comes downstairs.

  Armstrong

  When my grandma passed, she nearly turned one dead person into nine. We spent three whole weeks going through her boxes of old clothes, stacks of finger paintings from when we were little, post cards she kept from all her friends who had gone, jars of candy, matches from every restaurant where she ate, shoes that her first husband wore, shirts from her second, old records she was too deaf to hear, seashells and sea glass and other bits and pieces she liked to collect on her walks.

  If I live to be an old man, I’m going to have a garage sale every week starting when I turn eighty-five. That way I’ll unload before I leave.

  Like Mr. Khalil did. Other than his clothes, he left just one box of papers, some tools, and all those books. His library’s the one thing he held on to all his life.

  “How in the world did that man find time to read all these?” Cecily asks.

  “When you live to ninety-five,” my daddy says, “you’re blessed with a lot of time.”

  We stand there looking up at his shelves. Must be close to a thousand books here.

  “What are we going to do with all these?” Ebony says.

  “Can I keep a few?” Charmaine says.

  “Can I?” Nika says.

  “I want some,” Lenai says.

  “Me too,” from Cecily.

  “You’ll have to ask Armstrong,” my daddy says. “They’re his now.”

  Mine?

  “Armstrong,” Mama says, “we have something to tell you. Something to read to you.”

  She looks at my daddy. He lifts a folder from Mr. Khalil’s desk and reads aloud from a letter.

  “I, Solomon Khalil, of Los Angeles, California, being of sound mind and memory, and not acting under duress or fraud, do hereby make, publish, and declare this my last will and testament. First, I direct that all my just debts and funeral expenses be paid. Second, I nominate my attorney, Stuart Friedman, as executor of this will. Third, I give and bequeath unto my friend, Armstrong Le Rois, a minor, all the contents of my home, including my books and my dog, Patches, with the request that he read the books and look after the dog. Fourth, I give and bequeath unto the executor the proceeds of my estate, to be placed in trust for the use and benefit of Armstrong Le Rois, and to be used in the following manner: All proceeds shall be invested in a fund for the exclusive purpose of paying for Armstrong’s college education. Upon his graduation from a college or university, any remaining funds shall be used to pay for his pursuit of an advanced degree, if he so desires, or be held in trust for him until he attains the age of thirty, at which time the balance shall be paid over to him. In witness whereof, I have here set my hand.

  Solomon Khalil.”

  “Does this mean Armstrong is going to be rich?”

  “No. It means Armstrong is going to go to college.”

  “And he’s got himself a dog.”

  I reach out and take the letter from my daddy’s hand into mine. I bring it close to my face, and the whole world disappears except for that letter. I read it again and again. Some of the words jump out like flowers you might see in a time-lapse film. Give and bequeath … Armstrong Le Rois … college education … trust … benefit … friend.

  The words go out of focus from the tears in my eyes.


  Charlie

  I’m not allowed in the living room tonight. It’s Mom’s turn to host the consciousness-raising group.

  But I am allowed to sneak a chocolate-chip roll from the platter in the dining room. And I would have gone straight back upstairs without stopping if I hadn’t just heard Kay Kahn tell the group that her husband, Harry, “has been depressed lately.”

  She says his business has slowed down. She says he won’t talk about it with her. All through dinner, all night long, the only voices she hears come from the TV or the kids.

  “Marty hasn’t been himself either,” my mom says. “It’s almost a year since we lost Andy. I think he’s finally starting to grieve.”

  “Does he talk about him?” Annette DeWitt asks.

  “He talks about his business. He talks about numbers. But not about our son.”

  I wish I could say something. I wish I hadn’t promised not to tell.

  Armstrong

  Monday morning I find Ross and tell him what I’ve been waiting all weekend to tell.

  “Guess what I got?”

  No guess.

  “It has a tail.”

  Still no guess.

  “One that wags when I get home from school.”

  Still no guess.

  “A dog, silly.”

  “That’s nice.” His tone says he doesn’t care.

  “Don’t you want to know how come I got this dog?”

  “Huh?”

  “I say, don’t you want to know how come I got this dog?”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  “It’s part of my inheritance. From old Mr. Khalil.”

  “Who?”

  “The man I’ve been looking after. I told you about him, remember?

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Ross seems like he didn’t get much sleep last night.

  “Well, the thing is, he died over the weekend.”

  Now Charlie Ross looks at me like I got his attention.

  “For real this time?”

  “For real this time. Had a heart attack in his sleep. But don’t worry—​he fed the dog first.”

  “I’m sorry, Armstrong.”

  “Everyone says he was ninety-five. Lived a good life. But it still hurts to lose a friend.”

  If anybody should know about that, it’s Charlie Ross. Man, what was I thinking that time I paid him no respect about his brother? Earlier this year Mr. Mitchell asked us to write about a time machine. If we could go back to any time in history, where would we go? I said back to when the first humans appeared in Africa so I could prove that all people came from black people. But now I’d like to change my answer to that day in the bathroom with Charlie Ross. Have what my daddy calls a do-over.

  “His name is Patches, by the way.”

  “Huh?”

  “The dog. Probably named for his missing fur. He’s my responsibility now. And he’s real friendly, Ross, especially to boys. I think you’re going to like him when you meet him next Friday.”

  “Next Friday?”

  “That’s when my mama and daddy said you can come sleep over at our house, if it’s okay for you to be out on Shabbat.”

  “We’re not that religious,” Ross says.

  “Good. Oh, and do you like pancakes? I found a recipe that Mr. Khalil handwrote in a little book of his. I’m going to fix ’em for you. But we’ll have to be up early or my sisters’ll eat the whole batch.”

  “I have to ask my parents.”

  “Ask ’em soon, okay?”

  “I will,” he says in a robot voice.

  Maybe Charlie Ross doesn’t care for dogs.

  Charlie

  Would it be safe in his neighborhood? Would it be safe to even ask my dad?

  Armstrong

  “Say, Ross, you ask your parents about coming over to my house?”

  “Not yet,” he says, “but I will.”

  I ask him again the next day.

  “Not yet,” he says, “but I will.”

  And the day after that.

  “Not yet,” he says, “but I will.”

  We’re running out of days.

  Charlie

  Thursday night at dinner, Mom asks the question that Dad used to ask every night but hasn’t asked once since what happened in the alley behind Ross Rents. “What stood out for you about this day, Charlie?”

  I tell her not much because it’s the truth. We’ve gotten all the way to Finland in geography and all the way to gold in the SRA box. In math, even Jason can multiply fractions now. We’re all pretty much ready for junior high.

  I look over at my dad. His eyes are on his plate.

  Finally, to stop the silence, I say, “Mom, Dad, Armstrong wanted me to ask you if I can sleep over at his house next Friday.”

  Mom starts to say, “I don’t see why not,” but the “not” runs into my dad.

  “I’m afraid that isn’t such a good idea, Charlie,” he says. “Armstrong lives in a rough neighborhood. It wouldn’t be safe for you to be there at night.”

  He gives me a look that’s just between us.

  Armstrong

  “There goes Houdini’s house.”

  “Hou-what?”

  “Houdini.”

  We’re on the way to school, waiting to turn from Laurel Canyon onto Lookout Mountain. Otis just leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Who was he?”

  “Only the greatest master of magic that ever was. And that’s the house where he lived after he died.”

  I look at Otis with one of my eyebrows up and the other one down. The logic of that just doesn’t make sense.

  “It’s true,” Otis says. “I’ve been reading about it in this book I got from the library.”

  He holds up Haunted Hollywood: Ghostly Encounters.

  Looks like Otis is moving on from astrology.

  “What’s it say?”

  “It says Houdini used to do all kinds of magic tricks. And for his last one, he told his wife, Bess, that if there was any way to come back from the dead, he would do it. Right there in that house.”

  I’ve been thinking about ghosts lately. Yesterday I went over to Mr. Khalil’s yard and was twisting weeds until I heard the roots crack, and when I looked up, on the porch I swear I saw old Mr. Khalil watching me work. His head was nodding like he approved of the job. Later on, I was in the bathroom washing my hands. I looked in the mirror, and right behind me was Mr. Khalil. I spun around. But he was gone.

  “Well, did he?” I ask Otis.

  “Did he what?”

  “Come back from the dead.”

  “I’m only on page forty-five. I’ll let you know when I finish the book.”

  Before school I step into the boys’ bathroom and find Ross at the sink, staring at himself in the mirror like he’s in some kind of trance. Got the water running, but his hands hang down by his side.

  I shut the water off. “You okay?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. Something’s wrong with this boy. Something’s been wrong with him for a whole week.

  “Everything okay with Shelley?”

  He nods his head.

  “Everything okay with Charlie?”

  There goes that shrug again.

  “Say, did you remember to ask your parents?”

  He nods.

  “And?”

  “I can’t come.”

  “You can’t?”

  “My dad said no.”

  I feel a swirl inside my belly.

  “He say why?”

  “Just that we’re busy.”

  “All the way to June?”

  “All the way to June.”

  Charlie

  It’s what my mom would call a white lie. You tell a white lie when you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings.

  Armstrong

  On Saturday I walk over to Mr. Khalil’s garden. I’m going to plant those tomatoes. It’s late for tomatoes, but maybe I’ll get lucky.

  I miss him sitting on
the porch and telling me what to do.

  I miss talking to him.

  I’d like to ask him, did he ever have a friendship turn cold?

  Charlie

  The problem with telling a white lie is that you keep the truth all to yourself. But what if it’s a truth you have to tell?

  Monday on the basketball court, I make sure to take four steps on the way to a lay-up. It’s so obvious I was traveling, even Alex sees it. The shot goes in.

  Armstrong gets the ball and goes to take it out.

  “Didn’t you see that extra step?”

  “I saw it.”

  “Why didn’t you call traveling, then?”

  “Figured someone else would.”

  “But no one did. They depend on you, Armstrong.”

  “What’s that mean, Ross?”

  “You’re the captain. Always have been. If you don’t make the call, who will?”

  “It doesn’t matter if I make the call.”

  “It does matter. I’m the Rules Boy, remember?”

  “You got your set of rules. I got mine.”

  “No. They’re the same set of rules.”

  “You’re a dumb white boy if you think they are.”

  “Come over to my house again, Armstrong.”

  “You come over to mine.”

  “I told you I can’t.”

  “Same set of rules, huh?”

  Armstrong passes the ball hard into my gut. The bell rings, and he walks off the court. I see him heading for the boys’ bathroom.

  I drop the ball and follow him in.

  “There’s a reason,” I say.

  “I know the reason. And I’m a dumb black boy for forgetting it long enough to be your friend.”

  “It has to do with my dad.”

  “He’s got something against me?”

  “Not you.”

  “Who, then?”

  I look away.

  “Who, then?”

  I look into the face of my friend. And I tell the truth I have to tell.

  “He was mugged. Two men put a gun to his head. They made him lie down in the back of the car.”

  Armstrong looks away for a moment. When he looks back, his eyes are full of tears.

  “Were they black?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I see,” he says. “So we’re all holding the gun?”

  Armstrong

  …

  Charlie

  …

  Armstrong

  In class Mr. Mitchell announces a project we have to do. “A relief map of the city of Los Angeles.”