by Paul, Lawton
"What are you doing?" Matty asked. He knew I was up to something.
"Waiting for Hailey." And soon enough, she came bouncing out, long brown hair, green eyes, curvy little body, tight jeans. I drank in the sight of her until my view was obscured by a large, orange letterman jacket--her boyfriend, Jake. They walked together towards me and Matty. He was impossibly tall and wide. My eyes kept going right back to Hailey and I couldn't keep my eyes off her until they were right on us.
"What you lookin' at little man?" The tall boy said, stopping right in front of me and Matty. I couldn't think. Couldn't speak. Then he softened a bit. "Oh, you're Tyler's little bro. Alright." He was close now. I was about eye level with the large N on his jacket. It had little gold football pins on one side and little round basketballs on the other. He put his hand on my head and messed up my hair. "Keep your eyes off my stuff." He smelled like soap and sweat and aftershave.
He walked away, his arm around Hailey. Matty looked at me, "Dude, do you want to die?"
"I'm going to Marine World," I said.
After fourth period I met Matty at the cafeteria for lunch. It was a huge room with a long rows of tables. Standing at one corner, the people on the other end were so far away I could barely recognize them. I thought about how the old man loved to describe everything in nautical terms: if I put too much milk in my bowl he'd say, "You could float a battleship in there."
The NSHS cafeteria would certainly fall into the "as big as the deck of an aircraft carrier" category. On one end was the kitchen and the other was a stage. An orange curtain with gold tassels hung down hiding the wooden floor. Above that in gold: NORTHSHORE FIGHTING TIGERS! There are no tigers in North Shore, I thought. Other names came to mind: FIGHTING CRABS! FIGHTING SHRIMP! FIGHTING FLOUNDERS! None as intimidating as a fighting tiger, but all much more real. I could get behind some fighting crabs.
The lunch ladies all wore white aprons and hair nets, and all could play on the D-line of the Fighting Tigers in a pinch. Lunch came in thirty minute blocks and this was the 10th graders' turn so pretty much every 10th grader was here. Matty and I fell in line, each with a plastic tray and a spork. We slowly moved down the line, holding out our trays, each lunch lady wielding a huge aluminum spoon. When I came to the first lady, she jammed her spoon into a mass of noodles coated with an orangish glaze, then slammed an oval-shaped lump onto my tray. Each tray had a large section for the main dish, and three other sections for the sides. Then she tapped the spoon on the edge of the metal vat holding the spaghetti, and drove the same spoon right into the corn and wham, right into one of the small sections of my tray. Amazingly, not one kernel of corn was out of place. After a few more spoons, we grabbed a small carton of milk and headed for a table.
On the way I ran into Bobby Cox, a tall, skinny kid who lived down the street from Matty. He was going on about a letter from some Jewish school that he'd swiped from his mailbox before his mother had seen it. If she found it he'd be off to a boarding school and have to study Hebrew. And all of this was fine and dandy and I nodded and said, "Bummer, dude. Don't let her find it." Or something like that. But mainly I was just scanning the room for the brown-haired girl in tight jeans. I was skinny, but fairly tall for a 10th grader so I could see over most of the confusion, but it was tough to spot her. Bobby had stopped talking so I said good luck. And then I saw her at a table in the center of the floor with a girl named Cindy something, and another girl I didn't know.
I looked around for Matty, but found Johnny. He was walking fast down the middle of the room towards the stage with little Billy trailing. Most kids just got out of Johnny's way. I watched him glide through like a shark. Even from here I could see the muscles in his arms. His biceps were like little round mountains partially hidden by the sleeve of his shirt. He'd been pulling traps all summer. I held my tray with my left hand and felt my own bicep with my right hand. Not much there. Johnny was walking with a purpose. I realized what was happening too late. Just in front of him was a short, skinny kid with a green t-shirt: Matty.
Johnny pushed Matty hard from behind and his tray went flying, hit the floor with a crash with him on top of it. He landed on the little milk carton and it exploded white. His jeans got wet and he had spaghetti on his shirt. Green beans everywhere. Everyone rushed in to see what had happened, making a big circle around Matty, who was still on the floor.
It happened right next to Hailey's table. She jumped in front of Johnny as he walked away. "Why don't you pick on someone as big as you! You coward!" Johnny just smiled and sidestepped around her, Billy in tow. Hailey's fists were clenched. Then she took a deep breath, moved some hair behind her ear, and started scanning the room like a gunnery sergeant hunting for a target. She did a half turn then stopped when she got to me. I was standing there still holding my tray, paralyzed like a rabbit with nowhere to run. She stared straight into my eyes, jabbed a finger in Matty's direction, "Aren't you his friend?" She waited for an answer. I looked down at my own tray, green beans all accounted for, but no longer hungry.
It was too much.
"Johnny!" I yelled it as loud as I could. The whole cafeteria went quiet. Everyone had moved back, making the circle larger, with Matty still on the floor in the center. I stepped into the ring still holding my stupid tray.
Johnny ran up to me, "What are you gonna do, Seagull?" It was an excellent question. I knew he was going to kill me, but right then I didn't care. The fear had been replaced by anger and shame. All I wanted to do was hurt him in some way. He was so close that his chest was pushing against my tray. I couldn't speak. I was worried some odd squeak would come out instead of words, like a mouse before the snake strikes. So I did the only thing I could think of. I pushed my tray full of spaghetti right into him. The tray hit the floor at his feet and several long noodles stuck to his shirt, glued on by North Shore High spaghetti sauce.
People who've been in car accidents always say things like, it happened so fast, or one minute I was driving and the next I was in a ditch. There's a loss of control where everything happens all at once and you are there to witness it, but the strange part is that things sort of slow down at the same time.
That's how it was with Johnny right then. I was watching this tiny moment in time, frame by frame. I could clearly see half of a green bean standing, amazingly, upright on Johnny's shoulder, like a little green soldier at attention. I thought how funny it looked. Do you guys see that? The next frame was Johnny's red face, his eyes narrowed. And then his body lowering and turning slightly like a pitcher winding up. And then all I could see was bright white and I didn't know or care where I was because with the white light there was a pain emanating from my nose that blocked everything else out. There was nothing but the fire of pain like someone was drilling a hole in my face.
My hands instinctively went to my nose. The pain started to throb. Big monster throbs. The pain went away for a split second and I realized I was on the floor and there was a lot of talking and yelling. Then all white pain and I was gone again. Then back to the floor. I looked up and there was Johnny standing over me. His mouth was moving but the sound was off. He stood up and the sound came back and I caught the tail end.
"...and run home to your momma!" He turned to walk away.
"His mother died in a car accident," Matty said. "You don't know shit." He was standing beside me.
Johnny squatted down next to me. "Is that the crap the Old Kraut's been feeding you?" He was calmer now. "Y'all don't know shit." He grinned, spit on the floor and walked off.
I jumped up, both hands balled into fists, and the room started to spin. Matty held on to me and we swayed like two dancers. "You don't know anything about me!" I yelled at Johnny. He just kept walking. And then my legs got wobbly and Matty eased me back down to the floor.
Soon after a teacher arrived on the scene. I was still sitting in what remained of our lunches, orange and green and wet. Matty's milk had blasted out all white, but it didn't make his shirt white--just a big, dark, wet spot. T
he teacher was a lady wearing a blue sweat suit. Matty was talking to her in his calm voice like they were in the library. Johnny was gone. Most of the kids had returned to their tables except Matty and Hailey. The show had ended. Matty didn't mention Johnny.
I had a salty taste in my mouth and my lips were wet. I tried to wipe off the milk with my hand but my fingers came back glistening red. My nose was bleeding. The custodian showed up with one of those big roller buckets full of water on wheels. A mop was sticking up like the mast of a tiny sailboat. He had light blue coveralls. He was thin, with brown skin and long, greasy hair. A river rat for sure.
"Y'all get caught in a blender?" he said. He leaned in closer, reached into his pocket and handed me a towel for my nose. "Most times, they who done it got to clean it. But y'all boys look like you been through the ringer. And that one gotta go to the clinic," he said, pointing at me. Hailey was still there, furrowed brow, lips tight.
The teacher lady was in my face now. One hand on the back of my head, she gently examined my nose like a doctor.
"Well, I've seen worse from a basketball to the face. It's not broken. But you've got a pretty good cut. I think you're gonna live." She smiled. "You wanna tell me what happened?"
Matty answered the question. "I tripped on a backpack on the floor. Then Jesse fell over me. Just like I said." The PE teacher gave him a sour look.
"Yep. That's it," I said.
"So if I ask any of these kids what happened, they'll say the same?" she asked.
"I don't think many people saw the actual fall. Just the end result," said Matty.
"They fell. I was sitting right there," Hailey said, pointing to her table.
"I don't buy your story for a second, but I've got to go and Standish isn't here." She looked around for a moment, then back to us. She massaged her temples. One hand on her hip. "Ok. Fine. It was a fall. But no more little falling incidents in my cafeteria. Ok?" We nodded. "Roger, please make sure these two get to the infirmary and then take care of this mess," she said, then headed for the exit near the stage. Matty was smiling. We had avoided the principal's office.
"I'm sorry about your mom. I didn't know," said Hailey.
"I'm fine! You don't need to take pity on river scum." I motioned at her table with a bloody finger. The red towel muffling my voice. Roger, the custodian, was leading us to one of the exits. She turned to her table and started getting her books together. I just wanted to go home.
snoop
The night after The Great Spaghetti Incident, as Matty had started calling it, I couldn't sleep. So I just lay there in the dark, quiet room. Pulses of pain shot through my face almost in time to the ticking of the big clock on the wall. If I opened my eyes the little white bandage on my nose that hid my two black stitches was the only thing that really registered. So all I could do was think, but one thought kept coming back: Is that the crap the Old Kraut's been feeding you?
I couldn't get any info out of Johnny. So I figured the next best thing was to see if I could dig something up on my own. The old house, built in 1928, was full of mysteries. There were drawers that no one had opened since before I was born, and dark closets with dusty boxes full of black and white photos with small white borders. Every old coin, lost button, stray rider-back playing card or dried up fountain pen had a story to tell. Snooping was in my blood, and if the old house had secrets, I would find them.
The next morning I decided to inspect the walk-in closet in the living room by the TV. AJ was in the kitchen and the old man and Tyler were in the garage making loud banging sounds. I left the TV on for a little background noise, then turned the glass door knob softly so AJ wouldn't know what I was up to. I stepped inside, closed the door, and started waving my hand around in the darkness above my head in search of the pull string light switch that hung down from the ceiling. Even though it was dark, in the closed, tight closet I wasn't afraid. Crammed in between the old man's thick, wool coats, AJ's dresses and the door, all alone, I felt at home. Safe.
My fingers found the light switch and I reached up onto the top shelf, grabbed the cigar box and sat down cross-legged on the wooden floor. Most of the pictures were black and white. AJ standing there with Uncle Art, his arm around her. She was young and beautiful. Her hair done up like some 50s movie star. Uncle Art, smooth faced, dark hair slicked back, in a suit. AJ and her sisters at the beach. Me and Tyler: two little kids standing side by side on the dock, uncle Art's old wooden Chris Craft boat in the background. And the picture of my mother and father.
I looked at it for a long time, waiting for some bit of realization. She looked happy. The man standing next to her had his arms folded in front of him. A half smile. I tried to imagine what color momma's dress was. I hoped it was blue. My nose started to itch--I touched the skin near my two stitches. Tyler said if I had a scar it'd make me look tough.
Momma was smiling in the picture, but her eyes said something else. She looked like AJ right before Tyler left to go camping for the whole weekend with the baseball team, or just after he'd gotten his learner's permit and was about to drive the old man to Pic-N-Save for the first time. I held the picture with both hands and focused. The curved fender of the car partly obscured a palm frond. I imagined it light green. It must have been summer in Florida. Momma's dress had short sleeves and the man had unbuttoned his jacket. There were puffy white clouds in the sky. I wondered why she was worried.
Y'all don't know shit. Johnny was right. I didn't know shit.
I put the picture in my front pocket, closed the cigar box and put it back on the top shelf. I leaned back between a flowery dress and a long wool coat until my back touched the rear wall of the closet. I could see something about the length of a golf club leaning against the corner. I grabbed an old golf shirt with a little embroidered bear on it and put it right up next to the bottom of the door so the light wouldn't leak out into the living room. Then I started crawling through the musty, moth-ball smelling clothes to the far wall.
When I pulled away the last coat so I could see what was leaning in the corner I was nose to nose with a large animal. I jumped back and my foot hit the thing leaning in the corner and it started to fall towards me. I caught it on the way down before it hit the floor and made a noise. All the while waiting to feel the claws of the animal tearing into me. Left hand still holding the long, heavy thing, cheek touching the floor, I looked back at the animal. It was the head of a deer mounted on a wooden plaque. Big, black glass eyes shined, lifelessly, in the dim light like marbles. The deer had huge horns with eight sharp points.
The long heavy thing was inside a soft vinyl cover. I unzipped it and inside was the old man's Winchester. I'd never seen it up close. It was beautiful. The wood was light brown and smooth but had little crosshatched ridges where your hands go so they wouldn't slip. The scope was black metal. There was a small handle, like a gear shifter on the right side. I tried to push it forward or back, but it didn't budge. Then tried to go up and it moved. Most mechanical shifters had a little play either way, like the shifter on the old man's boat. But this little knob moved with no movement except straight up, and then slid straight back with a satisfying chunk sound when it was back as far as it could go. There was a wonderful beauty and precision to it. I moved near the wall so I could hold the rifle up and pretend I was going to shoot something. My right hand fit perfectly into the middle part of the gun and my index finger naturally settled, ever so gently, on the trigger.
I turned to put the gun back into its cover and noticed the deer, still staring at me. I felt guilty. "So this was the gun that did it, huh?" I said to the deer. "One moment you're a bad-ass eight point buck bounding through some pine forest, soft white sand under your little hoofs. Then bang, you're hanging on some dude's wall. Sorry, on the floor of some dude's closet. What's your name? How about George?" I put the gun back in it's cover and leaned it in the corner. "I bet you could tell me some stories. What do you know?" I stared hard into George's glass eyes for a few moments. Then I noticed some rol
led up papers behind the plaque.
The first one was a map of the river. I spread it out on the wooden floor near the door just under the light bulb so I could see better. The old man had carefully marked out coordinates from the house to the entrance to the trestle, to the channel marker, then to Eastport. He'd written "Eastport line" in his beautiful, flowing cursive. Rock Island was there on the map, but he hadn't made any notes there yet. There was a smaller piece of thin paper. It was a list of things with prices: 2 rubber stoppers, 1 two-liter volumetric, 4 ft. 3/4" copper tubing, and some other stuff. There was a note at the bottom in pencil: Tell Jackie he can drill the stoppers. I'm out of the pre-drilled. No loss. $42.38.
Another was a flyer for a boxing match in the Las Vegas Convention Center, June 5th, 1952, 6:30 P.M. Middleweight World's Championship. No TV. No Radio. 15 rounds. Gene Fullmer vs. Jackson Palmeri. There was a picture of each boxer under his name. Fullmer was short and thick with muscles like a bulldog, standing with his arms to his sides. Small boxing gloves, black, lace-up boxing shoes that came up to the calf. White socks sticking up at the top. Palmeri had the same small gloves, but his left hand was out and his right back near his body. He didn't have the menacing look like Fullmer. His face was calm and even though he had the round muscular shoulders and arms, he was leaner and longer than the bulldog. The bottom of the flyer listed the prices. Ringside: $30. Reserved Main Floor: $20. General Admission: $5. Then at the very bottom: Market Town Liquors, Esquire Lounge, Blue Union Restaurant, Derby Sports, Mint Cafe.
There were too many little pieces of paper to investigate. More hand written receipts. A big stack of old crab logs: 218 lbs. on Tues., June 5th, 1973. Under the logs was a book: Perry's Chemical Engineers' Handbook. The edge of a photo was sticking out of the top. It was the boxer, Palmeri. This was the original photo that was used to make the flyer. He was standing there just like he was in the flyer, but the photo showed the wooden-floored ring and in the background I could just make out another boxer sitting on the floor and some others sitting in chairs. Written at the bottom in white: Jackson Palmeri, 1952. I hoped he beat Fullmer.