Spud

by Patricia Orvis

  “Jack, I’m so sorry. I’ve tried to call and stopped by, but your parents always said you weren’t quite up for talking or for company. How are you?” She’s come closer, grabbed my hand. Mike looks sick and about to talk again, but Deena cuts him off.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s a dumb question. Of course you’re not good. Oh, why? You don’t deserve this. Spud didn’t deserve this. I don’t get it. I’m so sorry.” She kisses my cheek and sees I may cry, so she avoids my eyes by hugging me. She’s so sweet and smells like cotton candy. I want to hug her, hold her forever, let her wipe my tears and tell me everything will be all right. But that can’t happen.

  “Deena, let him be.” I’m speechless as Mike takes Deena’s hand and pulls her from me, leads her inside and glances at me once more, a look of sorry or something, and a look of sick, on his face.

  Well! Now I’m really confused. I lose my best friend, who was hanging with my worst enemy. The enemy says sorry and seems to want pity. His gorgeous girlfriend still by his side. How do I sort this out? I don’t have time, as it’s near time to get the ceremony started, and I have a job to do…

  Last night, at the wake, I told Spud goodbye, kind of. It was so hard, like a movie, or a book. These things are only supposed to happen in movies and books, make-believe. How do you really tell a best friend goodbye? I’m not sure I’m handling all this the right way. Is there a right way? I can’t get into how unreal it was to talk to his dead, stiff, pale body, and he couldn’t even talk back. I just want all this over with.

  Carrying a casket that holds your closest buddy is not a task I would ever wish upon anyone. It’s all you can do not to want to drop it and run, yet you still want to hold it with all your strength, and make sure it’s safe. Un-freaking-believable.

  The funeral ceremony is huge, tons of family and close classmates. Hot at the burial site. I can’t even concentrate on the words the preacher guy is saying. My tie is suffocating, too tight. This suit is too black, attracting heat. The shoes are making my feet sweat. This whole deal sucks. It’s all too much. Let’s just get out of here, please!

  Roasting at the reception, too, as the AC isn’t use to cooling hundreds of people at a time. This is about all I notice, as it’s mostly a blur. Nothing but time, waiting for this all to end.

  Now that this much is done, how the hell do we deal with what’s to come?

  Chapter 9

  Still, several days later, I bet you won’t be shocked to hear, there’s been no relief in the dumb heat, of course. You knew that. The death totals are growing by the day, people suffering from heat stroke, fires taking houses and apartments and lives, and more kids drowning as they try to stay cool. Of course, too, I’m still trying to wrap my head around the idea that Spud is gone. One minute I can accept it and deal, and the next it makes no sense, and I’m convinced it’s all a dream. I’m going crazy, I decide. I must be.

  In my mesh track shorts and a random white tee shirt, I take the garbage can out to the end of the walk for pickup in the morning. I figure doing some chores around here again would help Mom out and kind of show it’s not her I’m mad at. If anyone, really.

  Task accomplished, not without having to fight off the flies and gnats that seem to be so attracted to any garbage in this heat, especially hot stinky garbage. I walk back to the front door and have a seat on our porch, alone, and stare at the dead, brown grass in our front yard. I guess it’s a step up from staring at my white walls. Mom’s out back of the apartment, cooking dinner on the grill. More burgers, I assume, but that’s okay. She grills them perfectly, mouthwatering. Dad’s at Uncle Ned’s, and Zoë’s watching some dumb television crap. Some Full House episode, and I can occasionally hear the laugh track from my spot outside the open screen door here. She hasn’t been to her second home, the pool, at all since Spud’s death. I’m not sure why.

  Across the street, some kids are fiddling with the fire hydrant. I should tell them that’ll get them in some serious trouble, but I don’t. I just watch. Two boys, about eleven-ish, in swim trunks. The fire hydrant is actually a little off down the road, but still across. One of the boys finally gets it open, and the water starts to spurt all over the place.

  “Freakin, eh! Sweet!” They yell and dance and splash around, just as three more boys and two girls, nearly the same age and dressed for this, arrive on their bikes. They are splashing, dancing, looking up at the sky in relief. Having fun. What’s that like? But, no doubt this little adventure is killing the water pressure in the houses here, and somebody’s gonna start yelling. Yep.

  “You kids! What are you doing?” Helen, an older lady three apartments down, starts shouting, her head out her front door. “Stop that! That’s it!”

  They just crudely laugh at her, and one shouts, “Old lady, come show us yer stuff!”

  Another teases, “Her in a swimsuit…eeewww! The wrinkles!”

  How mean. I hope she does call the cops. I keep watching. One boy is chasing the girls around and around, and it’s getting muddy. They’re going to start slipping and someone will likely get hurt. These are kids I haven’t seen before, so they must have been smart enough to choose a hydrant that was away from where they lived so their parents couldn’t yell at them.

  “Ahhh!” One boy shouts, as he has slipped into the hydrant, toes first. “My fricking toe!”

  “Come on, sissy. Get up,” another says, plopping the boy gently across his wet head of black hair, but the injured boy scoots back out of the way, rubbing his foot.

  “Damn!” the mouthy girl says, starting to redo her brown, wet ponytail. “The cops.”

  Down the dusty road there is a cop car, just turned onto the street. Thank you, Helen. We can usually count on her to get the cops out here when there’s something going bad. She seems to have eyes everywhere. People tease that she has cameras in her yard. Who knows? But the way she seems to always take care of any disturbances, I tell you. We think she has one of those cop radars pointed out her front window and knows all speeding cars. She also is thought to have eyes in the back of her head, for real, and sometimes we even tease she might be a spy. For whom or what? I don’t know, but it makes good conversation.

  However, my parents get along real well with her and Kenny, her husband. In fact, they’ve been like grandparents to me and Zoë since I can remember. Taking pictures of us on Halloween and in front of Helen’s Easter egg tree every Easter Sunday. Surprising us with little gifts here and there. Baking banana nut bread. Hugs and small talk. Kind of nice. I like them, usually. Plus, Ma often has coffee or tea with Helen, to be nice, give her some company, and I think Helen comes across sort of like a mom to my mom. Especially since my grandma died when I was in second grade, and Ma misses her family for sure, as all of them are still in South Carolina.

  Then, Helen and Kenny have no family around here, as all their kids are grown and live far away, though some rumors say the kids hated how picky and strict Helen and Kenny were and wanted to get as far away as possible. Honestly though, all people, even Helen and Kenny, still need caring, closeness, and friends, right? I’m glad my parents get along with them instead of cause any problems like some adults do around here just to make Helen and Kenny mad. Plus, Helen makes the best fudge ever and gives us a yummy plate every Christmas. She’s not so bad, if you’re on her good side. I guess Ma and Dad
know that’s important in this small town. Keep things civil and nice, and don’t cause trouble, and life will be much easier.

  Now, three of the water-hydrant-delinquent boys quickly hop onto bikes, scream “Hell, no,” and “Damn,” and “Let’s beat it,” and the others remain. The cop approaches but hasn’t gotten out of his car. Through the window, I can barely make him out, but I can at least tell it’s not Mike’s dad. Thank God. I don’t want to see anyone in that family, but this cop probably doesn’t want to get wet. I’m not sure what he’s saying, but the kids look pretty damn scared. He’s likely threatening them, because the city’s gonna have to get that thing stopped somehow. It’s a bit serious.

  The kids start running from him, truly afraid of the mess they have caused, but it’s no use. In this small town, the cop will follow and get to the parents and take care of it. They’ve cut through a yard to the next street over, and the officer turns the squad car around and follows. Well, not through the yard, but you get the drift. Then, as he leaves the road, a fire truck approaches, so it can deal with the hydrant correctly, I assume.

  Well, that was a nice diversion from my thoughts. For real, the kids just want to cool off, and for a minute, I thought about joining them, if I only had the energy.

  The fireman gets the hydrant closed up quickly and takes off in his truck. Surely the kids will face some serious music when the cops talk to their parents. Dumb kids. They got the idea from the news, I’m sure. Kids in Chicago were in last night’s broadcast again, as they opened up hydrants near this one run-down neighborhood where they didn’t have any AC, causing serious water pressure issues. Then, when the police came and demanded they get away so the hydrants could be closed, the people shouted at the cops to go away and let them have relief and threw rocks at officers, again. Don’t they get that it doesn’t work that way? You can’t throw rocks at cops and think it’ll help. It was a huge deal. And they weren’t just kids, but some adults, too. Everyone looking for a way to beat the heat.

  Why are we suffering so much? Heat and fires and sweating and icky-sticky and drownings? God, my heart can’t get any heavier.

  Now that the show out here is done, my focus drifts back to where I’m sitting, and I hear the TV inside. A news report. Well, certainly, another one. Why not? How convenient. How obvious. Our channels are all Chicago based, so this little story about the hydrant across the street won’t make the news, but it’ll make town gossip, for sure. Anyway, I hear it:

  “A new shocking story to report,” the serious sounding lady on the tube reports. “Two young children are victims this time. The owner of a childcare center took a group of ten small children to a nearby air conditioned movie theater in her Ford Bronco vehicle, to get out for a bit, have some fun, and still stay cool. It ended up very uncool and certainly not fun for two of those children.

  “Allegedly, after the film, the tired-out group was back at the childcare center and napping when Ms. Linz went out to her car to make a run to pick up an afternoon group of children when she discovered two boys that had been left inside the roasting hot Bronco. Workers at the center carried them in and called 911, but it was too late. They were already dead with body temperatures of 107 and 108 degrees. A complete tragedy, another for the books in this continued heat wave…”

  A groan from the living room, then a sigh, and the channel is changed a few times, likely by Zoë, and the next thing I start to hear is a commercial for the fruity cereal Trix… silly rabbit, I think.

  Chapter 10

  Suddenly, Zoë steps onto the porch and sits beside me. I’m still angry with her and wish she’d just go back in and watch her crap TV. However, a human beside me right now feels safe. Still, she never really even liked Spud, always got bitchy when he was around, jealous. It pisses me off. She better not throw me pity. It’s like I want her here, next to me, but I also don’t.

  “Jack, listen.” She’s not looking at me, and I’m not looking at her, both of us staring into the empty street. She’s nervous, the quiver in her voice, like she’s finally manufactured the courage to say what she needs to say. I’m speechless anyway, so I let her talk.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack. I know it seemed like I didn’t like Spud, but I did. I loved him as a brother, like you did.” Her voice is shaking, trying to hold back her tears.

  “I know I could be bitchy and immature and acted like I didn’t want him around, but to be honest, I was jealous. Here I’d be doing laundry, helping cook dinner or whatever, while you guys kicked back and Mom treated you like royalty. I got so mad! But I now see it’s because Ma wanted Spud to feel loved, too. I feel so stupid.” A pause. A deep breath.

  “I wish I could go back and change how I acted. You know, it’s embarrassing, but I secretly loved when he came over. He’s so hot! I know we’re semi- related, but he’s still adorable. I could stare at him all day, all night. Tela, when she’d come over, just ate him up, he’s such a cutie. (Tela is Zoë’s best friend). She writes his name all over her notebooks at school. She’s so stuck on him.” She pauses to chuckle. Then sighs. “And even though I acted like I didn’t want him around, every time I came home from the pool, or in the door from Tela’s, my stomach fluttered at the thought I’d see Spud in the house when I stepped in. I’m dumb. Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Now she’s looking at me, I see from the corner of my eye. She’s serious here.

  “And I didn’t even know how to act around him. I used to, when we were little, but then as you guys started drifting away and getting into high school stuff, girls, and all those sorts of things, then I guess I got more jealous. Then you never want to play catch with me, or Monopoly, or come to the pool. I was getting defensive and let myself believe sometimes that he took you from me, and that made me mad, yet I still adored him and wanted him around. I was so confused, and he was nice to me, but I could be so mean and bitchy. I feel so bad, and I’m rambling, and I am not making any sense, I’m sure, but it’s something I have to get off my chest. I wish I could go back and change how I acted! I’m so sorry!” She’s crying now, damn. “I miss him so much…” She’s got her head in her hands, sobbing, soft but genuine.

  Now, I start crying a little bit. This is so sad, but I still can’t talk to her. What she has revealed makes sense in a way. Why are girls so complicated? Why couldn’t she just have said this before, you know, Hey Jack, I want to spend more time with you two, but Spud makes me nervous… any suggestions? Doesn’t she realize that would have made my life so much easier?

  “You know,” she says, still looking down, wiping tears with her tanned hand, “I haven’t been to the pool since it happened. I can’t. It terrifies me. I think about going underwater, and then I get images of Spud, panicked and stuck, unable to get up for air. I get all anxious thinking about it, and fear has me so unable to go near that pool. I can’t even take a bath. I hate water, and it’s the damn summer time.”

  This is the first day in my life I’ve ever heard Zoë swear, and it’s the big stuff, now the big one, the worst swear word invented. I feel like the dad in A Christmas Story when Ralphie lets it slip, as they’re changing the tire by the side of the road.

  I can’t let my little sister crumble, even though I’m letting myself. Am I? “Thanks, Zoë. It’s hard. This is hard, and I don’t really want to talk, but let me say something. Don’t get bitter. I don’t know if I forgive you yet for how you’ve
acted. I have so many thoughts going through my head still about all this and just need more time to wrap my head around everything.” I’m not looking at her, still staring, instead, out at the street: the hot, empty street on this hot, deadly afternoon of no relief.

  “But,” I continue, feeling an older-brother type of responsibility, “don’t start swearing and being bad and rough and tough and hating everything. It’s hard, but I just,” a pause for my thoughts, composure, “I just need more time before I can talk much more. It’s not you, really. I’m sorry and wish you had told me how you felt, but now there’s so much to deal with. And the pool? Not sure what to say. I do know that I don’t like the pool. Too many dumb little kids, and the lifeguards are so anal. It’s not my thing anymore, and I bet you’ll grow out of it soon, no matter the incident with Spud. But thanks for what you said, and Zo-- well, just thanks.”

  I can’t talk anymore, and Zoë just touches my shoulder, puts her hands on her tanned knees to get up, and heads back in, just as Ma appears at the door. Zoë goes in, but Ma remains for a second. “Come on, Jack. Dinner,” she says, pausing for a second like she wants to say more, then thinks better and turns back into the house to the kitchen.

  I thought things were smelling pretty inviting, and my tummy has taken on a life of its own with its rumbling, like the thunder I wish could be rumbling with a much needed storm. Maybe some dinner will help fill some of this emptiness in my stomach. Or my heart. Maybe.

  Chapter 11

  “Briiing! Briiing!” Not again, I think as the shrill phone takes me rudely from slumber. I’ve slept in the living room, air on, in order to actually sleep and stay cool, and my sleep was Tylenol PM induced, because I’m sick of thinking at night. This makes me all the more groggy as the phone rings, my weary body obviously not quite ready to meet the world.