Angie turned in the direction of the kitchen and cupped one hand beside her mouth. “Ralph!” She really bellowed it out. “We got trouble up here!”
Not three seconds later Ralph came banging through the swinging kitchen door. A big guy with a potbelly. Holding a cast-iron skillet. The jocks made it out the door in about half the time it would’ve taken Ralph to get over to their table.
I looked over at Will. He wasn’t eating his sundae. I went back to eating mine, because I didn’t want it to melt. I didn’t want to waste it.
“Thank you,” he said. I thought he meant me. And I hadn’t done anything. Then I realized he was talking to Angie and Ralph.
“Sure thing, honey,” Angie said.
I ate seven or eight more bites of sundae.
I said, “I’m sorry, Will. I guess this was a bad idea. I guess a good idea would have been more like, buy a gallon of Häagen-Dazs and eat it at my house.” Silence. Long silence. “But seriously, eat your sundae, dude. It’s a total waste if it melts. Don’t let them do that to you.”
More silence. Then he slid his sundae over in front of me.
That was a tall order. Even for me. But I couldn’t stand to think of all that good food going to waste. So I gave it my best shot.
I walked him all the way to the corner of his street. Finding lots of reasons to look over my shoulder. But they were never back there. I was surprised. I was fully prepared for the onslaught. But they were never there.
Meanwhile, I was trying to talk him into coming over to my house. “Wouldn’t it be so much better than being home with your mom’s new boyfriend?”
“They’ll be gone,” he said. “They have a date.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“A thing like that I couldn’t make up. Seems romance is very important. Especially now that they’re forced to spend so much time sleeping apart.”
“They actually said that to you?”
“Oh, yes indeed. I am in hell, all right. Yes, she said that. But what she didn’t say is that she can’t stand being in our house. Every time she passes Sam’s room, she bursts into tears. But she refuses to talk about that. She won’t even say his name. She just makes up a million excuses to be out.”
“You should still come over. You shouldn’t be alone.”
“It’ll be nice to be alone. Let it go, Ernie. I’m fine. It’s all over now. Everything is fine.”
By now we were almost at his corner.
“What do you mean it’s all over now?”
“Just a figure of speech,” he said. Walking away.
“Will? Are you going to be okay?”
He waved without turning around. He never answered me.
I was almost all the way home when something truly bizarre happened. The hood of my sweatshirt got caught on something, and it stopped me in my tracks, yanked my head backward, and made me choke, all at the same time.
I think it should be obvious that hoods don’t catch on anything as you’re walking down the middle of a sidewalk. Your hood stays behind you. So if you don’t snag on anything—and why would you?—neither should your hood.
Maybe that part went without saying. But you never know.
It all got a tiny bit clearer when I heard a jock voice from a few paces behind me.
Rusty said, “Hey, I hooked a big one!”
“Whoa! Think you can land that one? That looks like a giant blubberfish to me.” Mike/Dave.
I had no idea what was holding me. I didn’t really want to know. Nobody was literally holding on to my hood. I knew that because their voices were too far away.
I decided to put Mike/Dave’s question to the test. I was a big fish. Maybe I could break the line and get away.
I kept moving. In the direction I’d been pointing to begin with. And I pulled hard. But I wasn’t moving fast, I couldn’t breathe, and it was beginning to freak me out.
Rusty kept yelling, “Get the net, Davey. Get the net!” Which didn’t help.
I reached around and felt for the “line.” Grabbed it and pulled it forward so I could really see it. Plain white twine. Definitely too strong to break. Then I grabbed hold of the hood and wrenched it around so I could see what they actually had me by. It was a real fishhook. A treble hook with a lure attached. And one of the three hooks had gone clean through my sweatshirt hood. And I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get it out again. They have barbs to keep them in place. So just unhooking it from my hood was not an option. I’d need to cut through the metal of the hook to get it out again.
I yanked hard, but no give. I yanked again. Just at that same moment, an old lady ran across the street, yelling, “What are you doing? What are you doing to that poor boy?” Unfortunately, that was the moment they dropped the “rod” and ran. So I yanked, expecting all this resistance, but there was nobody left to resist. My handful of string just came flying forward, and my hood came with it, and I felt a sharp pain in the back of my scalp. Because a fishhook had just lodged there. Now, apparently, I had one hook in my hood and another in me.
Great.
The old lady caught up to me as I was trying to feel how to get it out again.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “What awful boys. Why would anyone do such an awful thing?”
I said, “I only hope that’s the worst thing they ever do.” Sounding more casual than I felt. Inside, where it counts, I was shook. “Can you just pull it out? I mean, from my head.” As I said before, getting it out of my hood would be trickier.
“Oh, dear. I can’t see around your sweatshirt hood. Let me move your hood.”
She pulled on it slightly, and I yelled out loud. “Ow! No. Don’t move the hood. It still has a hook through it. We’re stuck together.”
“I can’t even see what I’m doing. And I’m afraid it’s going to bleed if I just pull.”
Tell me. It’s not like I never stuck myself with a fishhook before. They don’t like to go backward. They’re built to resist the reverse gear. If they hook all the way through the skin, you’re better off to cut the barb end with a wire cutter. Because it will definitely tear flesh otherwise. But if it’s just sticking in there, you really have no choice.
“It has to come out,” I said. “Here. I’ll do it myself.”
And I angled the barb as best I could and pulled hard. Swallowed the scream so as not to freak the poor old lady.
“Oh, dear,” she said, peering at the back of my head. “It’s bleeding a lot. Here, let me get you a tissue.” She rummaged in her purse and handed me a clean pink tissue folded into quarters.
“Thanks,” I said, and dabbed at the spot. Then I looked at the tissue. Alarmingly bloody.
On the sidewalk at my feet lay a plain stick with a three-or four-foot length of twine tied on. I picked it up and pulled the string off the end. Then I wrenched my hood around and examined it more closely. An old rusty minnow lure with three hooks. One bloody. Another still stuck in the fabric. Just my luck. They thought fishing was dorky, but they knew where to get their hands on a hook. I wondered if I’d ever know where it came from. Then again, did I really want to?
I walked the rest of the way home. Using the pink tissue to stall the bleeding from the back of my head. Trying to remember when I’d last had a tetanus shot. Trailing the length of string from the fishhook, still lodged in the back of my sweatshirt hood.
Did I mention that it was not a great day?
I stopped in the garage first and got down my tackle box. Pulled off my sweatshirt—very carefully—and cut the hook with my wire cutters. Threw the two pieces of hook and the string in the outside trash before going inside.
When I got in the house, my mother was in the kitchen, cooking.
I stuck my head in. I was careful to face her at all times so she wouldn’t see the blood on the back of my hair. I couldn’t hold pressure to it while she was watching. I could feel a trickle of blood roll down my neck.
“I’m making you a surprise,” she said. “A special treat.” I tho
ught, Okay, what’s the most fattening thing you can possibly think of?
She said, “Homemade macaroni and cheese.” Yeah. That should do it. She makes the sauce with extra-rich milk. And about a pound and a half of cheddar cheese. No exaggeration. Then tops it all off with heavily buttered bread crumbs. But it really is fabulous. And I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. Not now. It was a surprise for me. A special treat. Only the cruelest son in the world would tell her now.
I had no idea how I was going to eat any of it after my one and three-quarters banana splits. But somehow, for her, I knew I’d manage.
“It smells wonderful,” I said.
Then I went into her bedroom and snuck her little hand mirror off the dresser, and took it in my bathroom and used it to look at the back of my head in the bathroom mirror. I kept pressing, but it didn’t want to stop bleeding on its own.
I had done a bad job pulling out the hook. I forgot the part where you calm yourself and do it carefully. Do it right. I’d really ripped my scalp doing it in a panic.
I would have to hold pressure on it till it stopped bleeding, then wash the blood out of my hair and hope that didn’t start it up all over again.
All before dinner.
While I was waiting I thought about Will and how glad I was that he got home safe before this happened. Better me than Will. Especially today. I’m not sure Will could take it today. I’m not sure his poor back would hold one more straw.
About seven o’clock I was doing some research online, for my history homework, and I got the jingle. It was Will. Of course it was Will. Who else would instant-message me? Unless, of course, they were delivering a death threat.
i just want to say youve been a good friend ernie i just wanted to thank you for being my friend
I know that sounds like a nice thing to say. But it scared me. Just the fact that he would get sappy like that. I wrote him back right away.
DONT TALK LIKE ITS THE END OF THE WORLD
no its fine everything is fine now
SERIOUSLY DUDE ARE YOU OKAY YOU DONT SOUND OKAY
ive never been better everything is okay now
YOU SURE YOU DONT WANT TO COME OVER
yeah
WANT TO DO SOMETHING TOMORROW
goodbye ernie thanks for being my friend
WAIT WAIT DONT GO AWAY WHAT DO YOU MEAN GOODBYE
I waited. No answer. I rang him back. Nothing. Then I saw his little symbol disappear off my messenger list. He’d gone off-line.
I grabbed up the phone and called him. No answer.
Now, what do you do in a situation like that? What the hell kind of position does that put me in? Was I supposed to run over there and see if he was okay? I would have, in a heartbeat. But I knew he probably wouldn’t answer the door if he wouldn’t answer the phone. So what good would that do?
Or was I supposed to call 911 and tell them we might have an actual emergency on our hands here? And then, what if I was wrong? What if all these ambulances and police cars went screaming over there, and they broke down his door with an ax or something, and it turned out he was just in there trying to be alone? But if you’re just home trying to be alone, why message your best friend and say goodbye? That led me to an even worse question. What if I was right? What if no police cars or ambulances went screaming over and we really did have an emergency on our hands?
I picked up the phone and called 911.
The dispatcher lady kept trying to get me to calm down and give her really specific information. I guess I was trying to explain too much about his message, and his awful day, and other stuff she couldn’t really work with. So I gave her his address.
But she kept saying, “What is the nature of the emergency?”
I got more direct and said he might try to do something stupid. Clearly that was not direct enough.
She said it again. “What exactly is the nature of the emergency?”
I realized I was trying every way in the world to keep from saying it. And I had to stop that now. It was the truth, and I had to spit it out. I had to be a man and face those really harsh words.
I said, “I think he might try to kill himself.”
“So you’re saying there’s a possible suicide in progress at this address?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll get an emergency response team right over there.”
I hung up the phone and just sat there. I felt like I couldn’t move. Like I was paralyzed. I was thinking, What did I just do?
I couldn’t possibly bring myself to wish I was right. Of course I didn’t wish that. But what a mess if I was wrong! I was in this weird situation where it was impossible to hope for the best. It was almost like there was no best to hope for.
It was just a bad night no matter how you slice it.
When I could move again, I got up and found my mom in the kitchen. Cleaning up the dishes. Also polishing off the leftovers.
“I’m going over to Will’s,” I said.
“On a school night?”
“It’s Friday.”
“Oh, that’s right. So it is. T.G.I.F.”
“Thanks,” I said, and got out as fast as I could. Or tried to anyway.
“Ernie, wait.” I froze, wondering what now. “You have blood on the back of your hair.”
Great. Just great. Good moment for that, all right. All that washing. Twice. And it still had to bleed a little more. Just enough so my mom could bust me.
“Oh. That. Right. It was stupid. I stuck myself with a fishhook. I was practicing casting.”
I turned around to look, to see how the lie was going over.
“Practicing casting?”
“Right.”
“But you’re the best at casting.”
“Oh. Well. Sure. Because I practice.” She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “Can we talk when I get home from Will’s?”
“Sure. I guess. Sure, honey. You want a ride over there?”
That was a good question. Did I? It would be faster. But then my mom would see the ambulance. She’d freak out. And she wouldn’t just drop me there. She’d be with me through the whole fiasco. I love my mom, but she’s not so good in a crisis. I’d be spending the whole time keeping her calm.
“No, that’s okay. Thanks. I’ll walk. It’s good for me.”
I ran out before she could answer.
When I got to Will’s house, I was so out of breath I was worried I might be about to have a heart attack. And I wasn’t running, either. Just walking as fast as I could. I mean, as fast as I could without dying.
There was a police car there, and an ambulance in his driveway.
One of the cops was talking to the two EMT guys. It didn’t look like they were doing very much. It didn’t look like enough.
I went right up to the other cop. The one who was still standing by the squad car.
“I’m the one who called 911,” I said. “Will’s my best friend.”
“Is he in there alone?”
“Yeah, his mom and her boyfriend are out for the evening.”
“We’re going to have to break down the door.”
I got this sudden cramp in the pit of my stomach. What if Will had clicked off-line and then walked out the door? What if he wasn’t answering the phone or the door because he wasn’t even home? What if this was all a terrible mistake?
But he said goodbye. Why would he say goodbye?
“What if I’m wrong?” I asked the cop. “What if you break down their door and I’m wrong?”
“What if we don’t break down the door and you’re right?”
“Right,” I said. “You better break down the door.”
The two cops got this battering ram out of the trunk of their car. It wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t big and impressive, like in those old movies where somebody storms a castle with a battering ram that’s like the trunk of a giant tree. It was just this iron thing about a foot and a half long, or maybe two feet, I don’t know, with a handle on each side. The c
ops each took one handle and carried it up to Will’s front door. The whole inside of me felt numb and cold, like it was floating in a freezing ocean. They swung it back, then hit Will’s front door once. It broke open, but it didn’t swing wide, because the security chain stopped it.
That’s when I felt something in all that numbness. Something like a little electric shock. Because you can’t go out and put the chain on behind you. If the chain is on, you’re home.
They hit it again, and the door swung wide, and long splinters of wood flew around at the end of the chain.
The EMTs went running in.
We waited. And waited.
“Do I have to wait here?” I asked the cops.
One of them said, “No, you can go home now, son.”
That was so not what I meant.
“I mean can I go in and see if he’s okay?”
“Oh. No. Let the EMTs do their job. You wait out here with us.”
So I waited. And waited. And waited.
Then they came back out with Will on a stretcher. And I didn’t feel anything inside. I don’t mean I didn’t care. I just mean it was all dead in there. Whatever there was to feel, I couldn’t feel it. Yet.
“Is he okay?” I yelled out.
“He’s still with us,” one of the EMTs yelled back.
“I need to go with him,” I told the cops. “Can I go to the hospital with him? I’m his best friend.”
“I think that’s just for blood family,” he said.
So I just stood there on the lawn until long after the ambulance roared away with the siren screaming. Then I got tired of standing, so I sat on the lawn. Long after the cops finished their report and drove away.
Then I got up and closed the front door so they wouldn’t get robbed, and so Sampson wouldn’t get out. I had no idea where Sampson was. I had no idea why he didn’t bark during any of this. But he was in there somewhere. And I didn’t want him wandering off after I left.
Then I walked home.
My mom drove me to the hospital.
She didn’t say much. Thank God. She was pretty much silent all the way there. But she frowned the whole time. And I had a bad feeling I knew what she was thinking. And that it was something along the lines of, Maybe you shouldn’t be friends with this Will boy if it’s always going to be some disaster like this.
Diary of a Witness Page 6