Spud

by Patricia Orvis

  “By the time the cops and you what? Finish, asshole!” Really, the patience is not here. Not for this.

  “By the time we got back to the shore for them, Mike and Steve reached it, but no Spud.” His voice lowers, “He’s gone, man. Couldn’t make it. Freaking gone. There ain’t anything they could do to keep him up. It was too much in that current, the wind, Spud was fighting them all the time.” Now, his words are quaking so horribly, I can hardly understand him. His head’s down, and he’s shaking, trying not to cry so much.

  What? Spud. My God. How did I miss that? Those three got out of the car and not Spud. I must have known, have felt it, deep down. That’s why it all made no sense.

  For real, what is he saying? He’s nuts. Spud is gone? Where the hell did he go? Is he kidding me? My best friend is gone? Where the hell to?

  “What? I don’t get it! What the hell did you do? Where’s Spud, Tyson? Where? What the hell did you do? You asshole! Why didn’t you save him? Why’d you let him even jump? Why?” I shout, grabbing Tyson by his bare, red shoulders and start shaking him, his head and hair flopping with my efforts.

  “Gone where? You asshole! What did you freak-ass idiots do? Where the hell is Spud?” Now, I’m crying like a baby, and a cop pulls me away from Tyson, who is not even trying to shake me off, just letting me pummel him further.

  “Calm down, son,” this tall, muscular cop says, stressed and in a hurry, it seems. “Come on, leave him alone, ain’t his fault,” his voice is loud and stern, but protective toward me. He leads me a bit away from the river to gather my thoughts.

  I’m still crying, still rambling, asking why? crying why? still shocked as freaking hell. What the hell? What to say? What to do? I let him take control, as I can’t think for myself.

  His strong, huge hands are on my shoulders, but standing behind me as he explains the same things Tyson just said. I don’t want to look at him. I’m furious and frustrated and heaving tears. All I can do is keep asking “Why?”

  At this, I hear lots more chaos, more cars arrive. I turn to see my parents through my water-clouded eyes. There’s also Spud’s dad and step-mom, Uncle Ned, and a few from his gathering, all over by the cop cars and ambulances. This is real, I’m thinking, this is real. I can’t fathom all the people, the sound of disbelieving voices, the flashing of the ambulance lights. The damn heat. Something horrible has happened. More cops, lots of official looking stuff. Ma has somehow appeared next to me, and I collapse into her, against her sweet smelling shoulder, my tears keep coming. I have no clue. What has happened? Oh my, I can hardly breathe. Suffocating out here. Things are getting so fuzzy, and everyone seems to be talking at the same time. Just stop!

  What will happen? Between my disbelief, the river, Mom, my shock, the alcohol, my nap, my tears, my pounding head, this blasting awful news, I faint.

  “Jack? Jack?” Mom is standing over me, her hand on my forehead, and I’m laying on a couch. With further looking around, I realize it’s in Ned’s family room, the kitchen off to the side where I hear many voices. Please, not more muffled voices.

  “Oh Jack,” she bends to hug me and I take in her cottony summer perfume. “I’m so sorry.” She’s crying, lightly, but still. Now she sits on the floor next to the couch, hand on my head.

  “What?” I ask, trying to sit up. I don’t get it. Why’s she sorry? Am I sick? I feel sick, my stomach is nauseous, and my head feels like it’s been pelted with a hammer.

  “Jack, Spud….”

  Spud. Oh no, it’s real. I remember. It’s really real.

  “Spud?” Not great with my words and comprehension, it’s all I can mumble. I still don’t want it to be true. I’m growing increasingly alert now, my chest in panic again, like there’s that Nina Patton girl sitting on me.

  “Jack…, the river; he had cramps and panicked. He’s,”she can’t finish and doesn’t even have to.

  “Oh, God. No.” I don’t know what else to say. How can this be true? One minute he was there, and now he’s not? This can’t be. My best friend. My best best buddy. Oh God, his parents…his girls… his guitar playing. What about all that? I can’t look her in the eye, and I am staring at the turned-off television across from the couch.

  Mom’s saying something, but I can’t comprehend. It’s all like blah, blah, blah. She sounds like the lady, the mom, in the Charlie Brown cartoons. Mwa Mwa Mwa. Can’t make it out. Nonsense. It’s too hot. It’s too fast. The room is taking on a swirling like a carnival ride gone haywire. The white walls are fading into swirls of white and blue and black, swirling like a tie-dyed shirt. Making me dizzy. Why can’t things stay focused. Why do I keep feeling sick? Why can’t I face this? Where is Spud, though? His body. Man, who wants to think about that? But did they find his body? Maybe there’s still hope! I realize I’m not getting these words out; they’re stuck in my head. Mom’s talking, as others have come in the room, and I can’t talk back. I’m a mess, a head pounding, sweat-drenched, blubbering mess, and it’s not gonna get any better.

  Listen to me, god dammit! If they haven’t found him, if there’s no body, then maybe it isn’t true! Help me! I can’t get the words out, and the struggle is too much. Nina, get off my chest! Stop the pounding in my head, please. My hands are cradling my head, trying to stop the pounding and the loud wailing of the sirens. Why won’t they stop wailing? Are they really wailing? It’s like they’re in the next room! Please, make them shut off. And those stupid walls, who painted them that way, all spinning so fast… All spinning so fast. Oh, Spud. Spud. Spud.

  Chapter 7

  Staring at my own white ceiling. What else is there to do? Nothing. No point. Mom has tried to come in to my room and talk, get me to move from my bed, made offers of ham and cheese omelets. Nope. Tacos. Nope. Oreo cookies with milk. God, no. Spud loved Oreos, drenched in a tall glass of ice cold milk, all soggy. We could eat a bag in a sitting. Yum.

  Zoë has tried to get me into a Mario Brothers or Monopoly game. Nope. I want them to go away. It’s been two days of this. Leave me the hell alone.

  Every now and then, I toss a tennis ball against the wall across from my bed and catch it and toss it again, but that’s only until it happens to not bounce back very well and land on the floor, and then I don’t want to get up to get it. Also, I might find myself lost staring at my huge poster of Kelly Kapowski, from Saved By the Bell, that’s been on my wall since last year’s birthday money splurge. She’s pretty cute with her long brown hair and friendly smile. The pink halter and too-short cut-off denim shorts do wonders for her body. She’s hot. Ahh. Another world. I wish I was in fake television land.

  Why do we get to still be here, still live and breath, watch our favorite shows, eat juicy steaks and burgers and sweet Oreos, play Nintendo and Monopoly and Scrabble, go swimming, watch the White Sox, live life, have laughs, but not Spud? Why is that?

  And Zoë? She never even liked him! What a hypocrite sister! How can she pretend to care? She probably is glad! I bet they all are just freaking fantastically happy! They all said, so many times, “Spud’s bad news. He drinks, he smokes, he steals, he will get you in trouble, Jack!” What did they know? Screw ‘em all! I don’t want their stupid-ass pity. They all suck! I hate them!

  Unable and not wanting to move, I’ll keep staring at my ceiling, tossing my ball, talking to Kel
ly. Staring at pretty Kelly.

  I know, really, that I should shower, should eat a proper bit of food, should get some movement, but truly, I don’t care what time it is, or what day. Because Spud should still be here, and he’s not. That’s way out of the rules here. So why should I give a flying felony about rules or what’s right? I just don’t want to take part in the dumb, hot, unfair world. Why anyway? It can all end in a minute! And why Spud? Damn damn damn! Talk about July of ’95 going into the record books. Spud was right on the mark with that comment.

  A light knock on my door. Leave me alone. Now what? I’m not answering. Let them knock.

  “Jack?” Ma’s soft voice is on the other side. It’s hard to be angry with her, but I’m going to be mad at them all. I ignore her, pretending to sleep. I hate myself.

  “Jack?” She opens the door and steps into my oven of a room. I’ve got windows closed, blue curtains closed, don’t care that there’s no AC in here. The gray carpeting doesn’t make it any cooler, either. It’s quiet, my television is off, no radio is playing. Just a quiet, stifling oven. Sweating my ass off, but I don’t care. I can lie in my undies with my guitar pick necklace, no shirt, all the rest of my life if I have to.

  “We really need to talk, honey. I know this is hard, and I’m so sorry. But there’s the wake and funeral, and we need to talk about things and get ready.” She’s on the edge of the bed, stroking my hair that’s wet from sweat, looking at the wall away from me. She knows, like a mom just always knows, that I’m really not asleep.

  “Why don’t you talk, honey? Tell me how you are. I know it’s hard. Cry. Talk. It might help.”

  “I,” I pause because I just can’t yet. “No. Please, can’t this wait, just an hour or so? Please?” An hour? How about a lifetime.

  “Okay, rest. I’ll be back in a while. You want anything?” She gets up. Looking around the dusty, stuffy, lifeless room. You can tell she’s distressed by the crinkle in her forehead. Her startling green eyes are full of concern, not twinkling with laughter like normal. Am I causing this?

  “No.” I turn over as she leaves and lets me hear her sigh of distress, and I don’t even thank her for trying. I’m being rude now, and I cannot help it. I’m so mad at this whole world. How on earth can life change in just one, carefree moment?

  And a funeral. How can I face Mike and all of them? They practically killed Spud! How can I carry my best friend’s casket? How can I face everyone?

  I have to. Damn, I know I have to.

  Chapter 8

  The heat certainly hasn’t let up, suffocating the masses still, as we’re all gathered at the funeral home in Marseilles. Besides all of the family and relatives, there are many friends. Everyone liked Spud. There was even a separate wake last night just for school kids, and then, of course, there’s the usual one for close friends and family. It’s crazy stuff.

  Somehow, I have managed to get off my bed, put on the required clothing, and do what I’m supposed to do. I’ve moved along like a robot, a puppet doing what I’m told to do, but now around all the people again, I’m feeling a tad more human.

  The latest I’ve heard, 376 deaths is the newest total. Well, I’m adding Spud. 377. The one- hundred-plus degree day is evident on all the sweating bodies, matted hair, running makeup, and of course, we have to be dressed in black. On the way over, the guy on the radio declared more deaths in the area from the heat. It’s mostly the older people, and there have been drownings, too. It’s awful.

  The solemn voice on the station relayed news of a group of teenagers in Chicago who got into a scuffle with the police because these kids illegally opened fire hydrants. As they cooled off and splashed around in the spraying, flowing, refreshing burst of water, they also threw rocks at the cops who tried to get them to stop and back away. Obviously, it’s illegal, and also with hydrants flowing, water pressure in the homes suffers, but what else can these kids do, especially in poor areas where they don’t have AC in their homes? I mean, dang, you gotta do something to survive, but that’s such a problem, and they even said that over three thousand hydrants had been opened, so I guess they need to crack down. We don’t even have three hundred of them around here. That’s a crapload of wasted water, but it keeps my mind occupied.

  Everyone’s suffering. There needs to be a break. A big storm to come through, wet us down, cool it off. In addition to the ridiculous temperatures is the drought, and if people don’t get caught up in heat stroke, exhaustion, or the like, there’s always the fires from the dryness, heat lightning, low water pressure, and on and on. It’s the worst, and the ones dying off are older, lonely, and have nobody to look after them. They just keep finding bodies in these poor neighborhoods. People with not enough money for AC, no way to get to a cooler building, like a library. It’s so sad. And then, then… there’s people who drown.

  Trying to avoid any sort of conversation, I have gotten by so far by wandering aimlessly, keeping an eye out for when someone is coming too close so I can jet. I know people want to tell me they’re sorry, give me hugs, and too many already have, but what good does that do? So what if they’re sorry? It won’t change anything.

  So, I figure if I stay too long in one spot, I’ll be approached more and more and have to come up with more than the casual hello that I’ve gotten by with. Of course, when these visitors do come up to tell me they’re so sorry, I do thank them, but then make an excuse to be at another spot, make a restroom run, check on my whatever. You know the drill. I appreciate their concern, but I know I’m going to cry if I try to talk much. I so want to be back in my room with Kelly Kapowski and my safe white walls, away from all this.

  The funeral home is like an actual home, set to feel comfortable and inviting, but the main viewing room reminds me of a church, and there are all sorts of flowers and posters with pictures of Spud and family and friends from birth to the present. The place looks nice but feels fake to me. I saw a picture of us from last New Year’s Eve at Ned’s party, and I had to take it. I want it framed in my room. Spud, another cousin Jay, and I are standing in our coats by Ned’s front door with our arms across our chests and looking tough. Except Ned’s daughter, Cat, is giving Jay rabbit ears, so he looks dweeby. In the background are all the Christmas cards that Ned hung on the wall around the door. It’s a very cool picture. It’s now in my back pocket.

  “Jack.” Just great. Mike’s creepy voice approaches behind me, as I’m now leaning against the pillar on the patio outside the funeral home. Sweating my ass off, and it’s only 9:30 in the morning.

  “Jack, man, I’m sorry. I…,” Mike fades. He looks uncomfortable, of course, in his black suit. His eyes are shifty, and he’s sweating profusely. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, eyes bloodshot, and pale skin, despite all the sun we’ve had. Good. He deserves to suffer.

  “You’re sorry? You idiot jerk! You killed my best friend! Why the hell did you let him jump?” I’m not shouting but clenching my teeth, while talking all stern and low and grabbing Mike by the top of his suit jacket.

  “Jack, I, it’s not my fault. Nobody could have talked him out of it, and it was an accident! Nobody wanted Spud to die! You think I don’t beat myself up every minute of the day over this? Me of all people, Jackson!” His whisper is so intense, the tears he’s fighting back, that I’m in shock. He’s not even trying to free himself, but I let
him go.

  “Jack, it’s well-known that I had it out for Spud, that I gave him trouble! You think people don’t look at me like I wanted this? God, Jack! I hate myself! Why did I have to be Mr. Tough-guy around him and make threats? Cuz, I can’t take them back now! What an ass I was, and I never got a chance to tell Spud I was just being an ass! I mean, he had it all… confidence, guitar skills, cool relatives, girls, freedom! Look at my life… sure I got Deena in it, for now, anyway. And my dad’s an ass! He gets kids in trouble, and I gotta support that. I’m like ‘cop junior’ and the only way to look tough is to eat up the role! I can’t have normal friends, and my parents are so full of themselves, covering up all the crap I get into! I want to be normal and loved hanging with you all at the park the other day! Nobody wanted a tragedy, Jack! Nobody! I’m truly sorry!” He’s crying now, softly, quietly, but I don’t know. He can’t have it that bad! Try losing a best friend, not being there in his moment of tragedy to try and help him!

  “I have no pity for you, asshole,” I sneer and am ready to punch him when I hear…

  “Jack.” Deena’s sweet voice as she steps out of the home. I stop myself, slink back, and lean against the pillar, or else I’ll fall.

  She’s wearing a lovely black skirt and white blouse, her sleek, shiny hair pulled into a messy but elaborate bun in the back of her head. Her gorgeous blue eyes sparkle in the sun and heat. She’s an angel.