by Maria Padian
“You boys have a late night?” he asked as I approached. Trace of a smile.
“More like an early morning,” I replied. He tossed me a pair of work gloves, then turned to the mound of thick logs a few paces away. He wrapped his arms around one of the biggest and heaved it onto the splitter. Then he grasped a lever and pulled. A hydraulic wedge slid smoothly toward the log, nudged up against it, then pressed into and through it. The chunk gave way with a loud crack and two fat halves thudded to the ground. Uncle Paul picked one up, replaced it on the splitter, and aimed the wedge again. This time the oak split into neat, three-sided pieces. He grabbed one in each hand and flung them onto the growing pile.
“Where’s Mr. Plourde?” he asked.
“He’s coming,” I said, trying to sound convinced. I had no idea whether Donnie would make an appearance. In fact, I pretty much doubted it. The last time I’d seen him—nine hours earlier, actually—he hadn’t looked like someone who’d be in any shape for manual labor in the morning.
Lila Boutin’s big brother had fixed us up with a case of Bud Light, and a bunch of us had headed out to the football field. Some of the girls brought blankets, and we were lying in the middle of the dark field, looking up at the black sky and knocking back a few cold ones. It was one of those September nights—no bugs, not cold yet, with a few random shooting stars that hadn’t burned themselves out in August—when you could fool yourself into thinking maybe Maine isn’t the most dead-end, godforsaken state in the union. That was my mood when Donnie jumped up from his blanket. He shook himself like a horse covered in flies.
“This is so lame!” he exclaimed. “What, are you people just gonna lie here?”
“Sounds good to me,” I replied. In the darkness, Cherisse’s hands were straying into some fairly interesting places, and I was thinking this was about as far from lame as I could imagine.
“I gotta do something,” Donnie said, more to himself than to any of us. I could see him move his feet restlessly. See his head tilt back as he finished off his beer.
“Don’t step on me, bro,” Jake Farwell said, followed by a female squeal and “Ouch!”
“What the hell, Donnie!” I heard Lila exclaim. “You just kicked Devon in the head!”
“Sorry,” Donnie mumbled, stepping away from the bodies and blankets on the ground. “Whaddaya say, Tom-boy?” he added. “Wanna give me a ride?”
“Nope,” I managed before Cherisse covered my mouth with hers. Donnie breathed out impatiently.
“Gotta find my man Pepper. Who’s coming?” he said. Greg Pepper is this guy who sells weed and lives in probably the sketchiest part of the city. I started to tell Donnie to shut up and sit down and try to find the Big Dipper or Orion’s belt overhead, but that’s about when Cherisse found my belt, so I wasn’t saying a lot to Donnie. George Morin, who’s pretty much a stoner and also has a car, got up. “I’m with you, man,” he said, and Donnie slapped him five. Then the two of them walked off without another word to the rest of us.
“ ’Bout time,” I heard Lila mutter. “That guy is so hyper.”
“No hating on Plourde,” Jake said to her.
“Why the frig not?” Devon snapped, sitting up. She had her hand on her just-kicked head. “The guy’s crazy. He’s always drunk or stoned, or trying to get drunk or stoned.”
“That’s funny, coming from someone who’s out here drinking beer,” Jake replied.
Devon shrugged. “I don’t know why you guys defend him,” she said. “He’s a loser.”
There isn’t a whole lot that can distract me from the charms of Miss Cherisse Ouellette, but even the wounded Devon wasn’t allowed to run Donnie down in my presence. I shifted Cherisse off my chest and raised myself up on one elbow.
“Hey, Devon, can I ask you something? What’s your problem with the word ‘fuck’? We all know you won’t do it, but can you not even say it?” Burst of laughter, even from the girls.
“Hmm. ‘Frig.’ Aren’t those the first four letters in Devon’s other favorite word?” Jake said. I knew where he was going right off, but there was a pause as the rest of them scrolled through their mental spell-checks. Lila got it first.
“Oh my God, that’s so mean, Jake!” She leaned over to slap Jake but hit Cherisse instead.
“Ouch! Thanks a lot, Lila,” Cherisse said, but you could tell she wasn’t really hurt. She whispered quietly to me, “What favorite word?”
I pressed my lips against her ear.
“Frigid,” I breathed.
She gasped, then tried to stifle her giggles in the front of my shirt.
Meanwhile, Devon got up. She yanked her blanket from the pile and searched for her shoes.
“I have just one thing to say to you people,” she said. “Fuck. You.”
Jake whooped, then applauded.
“And you two,” she hissed, turning to me and Cherisse. “Why don’t you fucking get a room?” She marched off, trailing her blanket.
“Hey. That was two things,” I called after her. Everyone laughed. Poor Devon.
Not too long after that the beer was gone, Cherisse was making noises about clearing out, and we heard hollering from the parking lot. We didn’t know whether it was cops or kids, so we grabbed our stuff and ran behind the bleachers. From there we could see the lot.
It was Donnie. He was standing straight up through Morin’s sunroof, whooping like a madman as the car spun donuts. When it turned sharply, Donnie’s whole body swung and it looked like he was going to be flung up and onto the pavement. Somehow he held on, and after a victory lap that left the smell of singed rubber, the two of them peeled out and disappeared into the night.
“Guess he found Pepper,” Jake said, and we all cracked up.
A few monster chunks into it, Uncle Paul and I had a rhythm. He would heave; I’d manage the wedge; he’d position for the second bite; we’d both toss the splits. Neither of us spoke, which was fine by me. I was enjoying the thought-free zone of splitter hum and repetitive motion. Paul can be good like that. He’s happy to work alongside you without pulling conversation out of your head.
Not that morning, however. He’d been at the soccer game.
“I see your coach is starting some of those Somalis,” he said. The wedge slid forward. I waited for the crack before speaking.
“Yup,” I said. We grabbed the splits. Tossed.
“How’s that goin’?” he continued.
“Fine.”
Better than fine, I managed to not say, as it probably would have pissed him off. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him what my role had been in getting Saeed out on the field.
That day when Saeed wore the Manchester United shirt, I’d told him that if he played soccer, he should come to a meeting with Coach after school. I don’t really know how I communicated that to him, because I’m sure as hell no Mike Turcotte when it comes to African charades (that’s what we call Turcotte’s attempts at talking to these kids), or how he managed to understand, but he showed up. And brought three other Somali guys with him.
After Coach Gerardi gave his talk and dismissed everyone, he signaled me over. Saeed was standing with him, holding a sheaf of papers: permission slips, medical forms. All the things you need to fill out if you want to play sports in high school.
“Tom, this young man says you invited him to the meeting today?”
I nodded. I wondered if I was in trouble. Coach doesn’t really talk; he growls.
“Well, he’s going to need some help filling out these forms,” he said. “Think you can do that?”
I’m captain of the soccer team. Did I really have a choice?
“Uh … sure,” I told him. “But doesn’t guidance have translators who help with that?”
“They’re gone for the weekend,” Coach said. “He needs these by Monday.” He turned on his heel and walked off, leaving me standing there, stupidly, with Saeed.
“Okay, well …” I grabbed one of the sheets from Saeed and pointed to a line. “Your mother o
r father needs to sign here. Their name. That gives you permission to play soccer.” I slowed down, pronouncing each word carefully, but he still looked confused.
I tried to imagine how Turcotte would act out “permission slip.”
“I got … no father,” Saeed finally said.
“Mother?” I said.
He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Samira speak English good. So you come. Yes?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Just motioned for me to follow him and headed out of the gym.
We walked. Far. And before long I was in a section of downtown Enniston I pretty much never visit. Right near the police station and the skate park and the bread factory, which fills the air with the most amazing smells. The aroma of hot rolls greeted us when we reached his neighborhood, followed us as we trudged up the stairs that snaked along the outside wall of his four-story wooden apartment building.
His door opened onto this little vestibule cluttered with shoes. Saeed kicked his off, adding to the pile. He didn’t ask me to do the same, but what the heck—I slipped mine off as well. He shouted into the apartment, announcing his arrival. He motioned for me to wait with the shoes while he walked ahead, then rounded a corner into a room I couldn’t see.
A riot of conversation followed, absolutely foreign to me. Somali is a no-holds-barred language. Half the time it sounds like people are fighting with each other, but it’s just that they get that animated. The hands go, too, emphasizing each word. I think you’d render a Somali person partially mute if you tied their hands.
Finally Saeed stuck his head around the corner and waved me in.
They were all in the kitchen and looked pretty surprised about me being there. They were in the middle of making dinner. A big pot of something steamed on the stove, and the air in the room felt thick with cumin and curry. There was this old-looking woman who I guessed was his mother, standing near the pot, and a couple of little boys, and a girl about our age. The little guys were dressed like any American kid, in jeans and T-shirts, but the woman and the girl were in long skirts and head coverings. The girl was seated at the kitchen table, reading the papers Coach had given Saeed.
I stood there, awkward as hell, while no one said anything to me. Finally the girl looked up.
“My mother does not know how to write her own name. But I will write for her on these lines, and she will put her mark, and that is good, I think.” She stared at me, waiting for my response.
“Sure … I mean, yeah. Whatever. It’s not like she’s signing away his endorsement rights or anything.” I laughed at my own joke. The girl didn’t smile. Instead, she turned to her mother and began speaking quickly and pointing to the papers. The mother nodded: yes, yes. I shifted from one foot to the other and back again. I didn’t understand why I was there. If Saeed’s sister could read and all, why had he dragged me home with him?
I watched as the girl carefully wrote her mother’s name on the appropriate lines and pointed to where her mother should pen a big X. They did this very carefully, like they were signing a will or something.
After they finished the permission forms, they moved on to the emergency contact card, where you list people to call in case you get hurt and your parents can’t be reached. You also have to list your family doctor and dentist, with their phone numbers and emails. Also list your health insurance. If you’ve got health insurance.
The girl stared hard at this card and frowned. She said something to one of the little brothers, who ran from the room. We heard the door to the apartment open, then slam shut.
“He gets the phone number for the people next door,” she explained to me. “But we don’t know anyone for the other line. And we don’t know any doctor.”
There was a plastic clock on the wall just over the stove, and my eyes inadvertently glanced at it. I’d already been there twenty minutes. It takes my parents about five minutes, tops, to complete these papers every year.
“Tell you what,” I said. I pulled out the kitchen chair alongside her and sat. I motioned for her to hand me the card and her pen. “I’ll put my mother down as Saeed’s second emergency contact. And I’ll write in my doctor and dentist. When you get your own, you can change it. But for now, this’ll work.” I pulled the card toward me and plucked the pen from her fingers. She looked startled, but I began filling in blanks.
“That is … okay?” she asked hesitantly.
I shrugged.
“Trust me: they don’t read these things. They just eyeball ’em to make sure all the lines are filled in.” Saeed’s mother, watching as I rapidly completed the questions on the card, nodded. She smiled at me. This friendly American, helping her son. The girl’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
The last sheet was the medical form. It required a doctor’s signature, proving that Saeed had all his immunizations and a recent physical.
Right. These people didn’t have a doctor in town. There was no way Saeed was going to find one, schedule an appointment, and pass a physical before the season was half over.
I made a management decision, especially because I was already going to be late for dinner. I scrawled something fairly illegible but slightly resembling my doctor’s name on the medical release form.
“Done,” I said, slapping the pen down on the Formica tabletop. The girl picked up the paper and scrutinized my handwriting.
“This is … not true,” she declared, laying the paper down.
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. “It’s a little something we call forgery. And if you want your brother here to go to soccer practice on Monday, you’ll let him hand that paper in to the nice lady at the high school athletic office.” I stared at the girl. She stared back. Saeed, uneasily watching all this, asked her something in Somali.
Her response was sharp, a rapid-fire staccato of words. I didn’t need a translator to tell me what she thought of my helpfulness. Saeed shot back at her, equally fast. Emphatic. The mother looked very concerned.
I stood up. Everyone stopped.
“Let me ask you something,” I said to the girl. “Is your brother healthy?”
“Yes, he is fine, but—”
“Then what’s the problem? Your mother says he can play, right? You’re gonna eventually find a family doctor. And you can go in and change everything on the card after that if you want. But for right now? He’s good to go.”
She shook her head slowly from side to side, lips pressed tightly together. She wasn’t buying this.
I shrugged.
“Whatever. My job here is finished. He needs to hand those papers in on Monday or else he can’t play.” I turned to Saeed and raised my hand. “Dude,” I said. He raised his hand, slapped his palm against mine. “Good luck.”
I don’t know what happened in that apartment after I left, but since Saeed was out on the field next practice, I guess he won. Come to think of it, so did I. Because he was turning out to be awesome.
Not something I felt like discussing with my uncle.
“I saw your girlfriend at the game,” he said. “Danny Ouellette’s daughter.” He glanced at me as he bent to pick up a split. “What’s her name again?”
“Cherisse,” I replied, relieved that he was moving away from a possible Somali rant.
He nodded. “That’s right. Cherisse. Cute kid,” he commented.
I lifted a big log onto the splitter. “Mom’s not a fan,” I said.
Paul laughed.
“Well, that shouldn’t surprise you. You’re being careful, Tommy. Right?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, half muttering. The wedge inched toward the log, but Paul released the lever, halting its progress and cutting the sound.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“I know. Don’t worry. I’m not stupid, Uncle Paul,” I told him.
“I’ve seen plenty of smart guys get stupid over girls like your Cherisse,” he said. “And stupid turns into stuck pretty damn fast, if you know what I mean.” He pulled on the lever again and the wedge continued on its path.
Just then Donnie came round the side of the house. He looked like shit. He was wearing the same clothes from nine hours earlier, only more wrinkled. He had his hands jammed in his pockets and this stupid grin on his face. When he got close, you could see his eyes were so bloodshot even the lids were swollen and red. Uncle Paul leaned against the splitter, arms crossed, checking him out.
“Well, good morning, sunshine,” he said. Donnie shifted from one foot to the other, then back again. One corner of his mouth turned up as he looked at Paul.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“Hell, you’re not late. We’ve got hours of daylight left. You want coffee?” he asked, but it was more like a statement. He pulled off his work gloves and stuffed them into the front of Donnie’s shirt before walking toward the house. “Tommy?”
“No, thanks, I’m good,” I replied.
As Uncle Paul disappeared into the house, I looked Donnie over. He was pulling on the gloves and whistling quietly to himself as he surveyed the mound of wood.
“So what’s the drill here?” he asked easily.
“Are you stoned?” I asked.
“Hell yeah,” Donnie said. He broke out one of his big-ass smiles, the type that’s been keeping him out of serious trouble for years, because who could ever bust the balls of a guy who can smile like one of God’s own angels? Okay, so maybe Sister Marie, our so not-favorite nun from St. Cecilia’s Elementary, could. But no one else. I mean it: no one else.
He strode over to the big pieces, bent at the knees, and wrapped his arms around one. He lifted, staggered toward the splitter.
“Dude, you are in no shape to be standing near heavy machinery, let alone working with it.”