The Amazing Adventures of John Smith, Jr. AKA Houdini

by Peter Johnson

  “I think you’re wrong, Houdini. Angel was already here, checking to see if I was okay. He looked pretty freaked out.”

  “He should’ve been freaked out,” Jorge said. “He almost killed you.”

  “Maybe he just wanted Houdini to get a little banged up,” Lucky said.

  “Ain’t that bad enough?” Jorge said.

  After arguing for a while, we eventually agreed that whatever Angel’s motives were, something had to be done. As we talked, a plan was forming inside my head. It was like watching a worm crawl out of its hole. I could see its head and a little bit of its middle but its tail was underground. Still, the head would be a good place to start. I was going to tell Lucky and Jorge my idea but then remembered that the real Houdini had once said to never prepare your audience for a trick, especially if you hadn’t completely thought it out. The goal was to surprise everyone, even yourself.

  NINE IDEAS FOR REVENGE ON ANGEL I DIDN’T USE, AND ONE CRAZY ONE OFFERED BY JORGE

  1. Dump a handful of ants down his back when he nods off in class.

  2. Tie him to a telephone pole and give Wiffle ball bats to he guys he used to whack.

  3. Before he gets to the bathroom stall where he skips classes, rub the toilet seat down with Bengay.

  4. Pay Fiona Rodriguez to smile at him all day, and then to scream when he comes on to her.

  5. Smash the headlights on the crack dealer’s Lexus and tell him Angel did it.

  6. Send Angel a box of chocolates with Da Nang’s poop rubbed on the bottom of each piece.

  7. Take a cell phone photo of Angel on the can and email it to the entire eighth grade.

  8. While he’s wrestling, cut off the combination lock on his locker (my father has a tool), then replace it with a new one, and watch him spend hours trying open it.

  9. At lunch give him a giant soda laced with two cans of Red Bull, and watch him spin out for the rest of the afternoon.

  10. Burn down his mother’s cleaners. (“Just kidding,” Jorge said.)

  “FOUND TO BE MISSING”

  Whatever my plan was, it didn’t matter because everything changed very quickly when I came home and discovered bad news.

  My mother said she’d been trying to reach me all day on my cell phone, which I’d recently bought with money from our leaf business but I had left it at home, afraid I’d lose it while leaf diving. I could tell she’d been crying, and she asked me to join her in the kitchen.

  “Where’s Dad?” I said.

  “In the backyard, smoking.”

  “Did Franklin die?”

  “No, he’s missing. He’s been found to be missing.”

  Found to be missing? I let that phrase float around in my head. How can you be “found to be missing”? If you’re “found,” then you aren’t “missing.” I knew these were stupid thoughts, but they kept me from imagining Franklin dead.

  “How can they lose a guy?” I asked.

  “There was what they called a skirmish and he got separated. They said there’s no reason to believe the worst, but they honestly don’t know when they’ll have information. They were pretty upset because one soldier called another on his cell phone, and that soldier put it on his blog, then the newspapers got it. They wanted us to know before people started calling.”

  “On a blog?”

  “I guess things like that happen now. All I know is he’s missing.”

  I sat stone still, and she started crying again. It was the first time I’d seen her weep and moan like that, as if someone had driven a nail into her forehead, so I hugged her, my arms shaking with each spasm. My father came in shortly afterward. He stared at us, then went back outside. He was angry, and when he got like that, he always wanted to be alone. To him, that was better than drinking or crying or smashing something.

  When my mother calmed down, she tried to say the name of the city where Franklin was last seen but had trouble pronouncing it.

  “Just write it down,” I said. She printed the word “Mosul” on a yellow sticky note and handed it to me. “Mosul,” I said to my father, when he returned from his cigarette. “That’s the city where Franklin was.”

  “Who cares what the name of the city is? Obama promised he’d get everyone out of there and nothing’s happening.”

  My mother shushed him, saying the president was doing the best he could.

  Finally, everyone settled down, and we ended up in separate rooms: my mother in the kitchen making dinner, my father on his recliner watching CNN, and me in my bedroom, where I stared at Franklin’s bed. I grabbed the football he’d given me and tossed it from hand to hand. Then I went to my desk, and Googled Mosul. I found a site having nothing to do with the war, which was good because I didn’t want to think about war. I wanted to know about the city—how large it was, what the people ate, how many churches and schools there were, what language they spoke, what god they worshipped. I needed to believe Franklin would fall into the hands of a family who hated war as much as we did.

  Mosul was about 250 miles northwest of Baghdad. I learned that the fabric “muslin” was manufactured there and that the population was 1,800,000 people, and that the mayor’s name was Zuhair Mohsin Mohammed Abdulazeez (no kidding). I learned that the people spoke Turkish and Armenian and Iraqi and Arabic, and that in the seventh century, Mosul was the capital of Mesopotamia, an area where the Tigris and Euphrates rivers met. In ancient times, it was real famous, kind of like New York City. I also discovered that Mosul had the most Christians of all the Iraqi cities and that many of its artists specialized in paintings called miniatures. None of this information made me feel great, but it was better than going to the bathroom and puking.

  When I shut down the computer, I lay on my bed, reading Franklin’s most recent letter. I had written him about our leaf business, boasting that when he returned I’d take him to the best restaurant in Providence, making sure it had peanut butter cookies. I also said there’d be a happy ending to his stay in Iraq and that he’d return a hero. He had sent back one of his usual short responses: “Staying alive here, Scout. There are no happy endings. Just endings.” At first I was confused by that last sentence, but now it was beginning to make sense, as if he knew the rules in Iraq were different, and that any ending would be fine with him as long as he got home. Thinking about Franklin’s words, I skipped dinner and fell asleep on top of my covers, fully dressed.

  I woke up at three a.m., soaking wet. It was dark, except for the faint light of a streetlamp that made everything hazy. I opened my closet, searching for anything of Franklin’s, but he had cleaned house before shipping out. I was about to close the door when I spotted something shiny in a corner. It was a grip strengthener Franklin would squeeze during football season, though he’d also work it whenever he was tense.

  I picked it up and held it in my hand. It looked like an old-style can opener, its grip coated with blue rubber and shaped to fit the fingers of a hand. At first I had trouble grasping it because after years of being punished by Franklin, the rubber was molded to his grip. Finally, I maneuvered my fingers into the grooves and squeezed tightly. As I did, I remembered the night before he left.

  I woke just before daybreak and noticed he wasn’t in bed. Halfway down the stairs, I spied him on the living room couch staring mindlessly into space, squeezing the grip over and over again. He wore just boxer shorts and I could see his chest muscles heaving as if he were trying to catch his breath. He looked surprised when he saw me, but then smiled.

  “What’s up, Scout?” he said.

  “You okay, Franklin?”

  “Just a little nervous. You should go back to bed.”

  “Nervous” wasn’t a word I’d ever heard Franklin use, so I asked if I could help.

  He smiled again. “How about something to drink?”

  I nodded and went to the kitchen, where I poured a glass of orange juice. When I returned, I handed it to him. “Do you mind if I stay?” I asked.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I need to be
alone.”

  “Sure,” I said, slowly climbing the stairs, glancing back at him on the way up.

  Remembering that night, I continued to squeeze the grip, then lay down on my bed, sliding it under my pillow. I stared at Franklin’s bed, and for a second I thought I saw him, his hands locked behind his head, his feet crossed. Did that mean he had died? Was he coming back to say good-bye?

  I shook myself half awake, then went to my computer. I tried to write but couldn’t, so I went to his bed and crawled under the covers. Lying there, I could feel the soft mattress give in to my weight, and I thought of our years spent together in this room, talking and sleeping.

  That memory got me through the night.

  “GET YOUR BEHIND IN HERE, BOY”

  It didn’t take long for the bad news to spread.

  “People need dead heroes to take their minds off their stupid lives,” my father said.

  “Don’t ever say that again,” my mother yelled. “I won’t hear about Franklin dying in this house.”

  My father apologized, but he was right, and in the morning, just as the Marines had warned, we received phone calls from the newspaper and local TV stations. My father explained it was a family matter, but one of the callers persisted.

  “I think I gave you my answer,” he said, his face tightening, “and if you come here with cameras, I’ll freaking destroy them.”

  I looked at my mother, who decided to let the language slide.

  It was clear the newspapers wanted something shocking or quotable, because their morning story had been short, even though Franklin’s Marine picture took up a tenth of the page. Two months ago, who would’ve thought Franklin and I would’ve been in the newspaper unless we had robbed a bank?

  That day, we stayed home, glued to the TV. I don’t know what we expected, since CNN seemed more interested in some politician who’d cheated on his wife for the tenth time.

  “Isn’t everyone sick of that guy?” my father said.

  As the day wore on, we wandered around the house, trying to avoid each other as much as possible. Lucky and Jorge called, but I didn’t have much to say, except to ask Lucky how his leg was. He said he’d have to use crutches for a week, then maybe a cane, but there’d be no permanent damage. I hung close to home for the rest of the day, waiting for more details, which never came.

  Early in the evening I got pretty upset and decided to Google every site I could find on the war, hoping to discover a recent picture of Franklin eating at a mess hall or playing football. I couldn’t stop imagining him lying dead or being tortured. I felt like my head was going to explode, so I put on my Nikes and snuck out of the house, running aimlessly up and down neighborhood streets, not realizing all I had on was a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

  I ended up on a metal bench near the basketball courts, which were always lit to keep kids from doing anything nasty. I was panting, steam pouring out of my mouth. Sitting there, I thought I must’ve looked like some hyped-up druggie. I looked around, thinking I was only about five when Franklin took me here to shoot hoops. He wasn’t great in basketball, but he was good enough to start. At five, I couldn’t even reach the basket, but he worked on my shot, teaching me to use my legs and follow through. I would have given anything to go one-on-one with Franklin now, body up against him, feel us breathing hard as we tried to juke past each other. I stood and moved quickly around the basket, pretending to shoot jumpers with an imaginary ball. I could feel tears freezing on my cheeks, and I probably would’ve stayed there all night if not for someone shouting, “Houdini, what are you, nuts?”

  It was Old Man Jackson leaning against his fence, Da Nang standing at his side. He pointed to his open front door, light streaming out onto the front yard. “Get your behind in here, boy, or you’re going to freeze.”

  INSIDE JACKSON’S HOUSE: PART TWO

  I wiped my tears and jogged toward the light, relieved to be out of the cold. In spite of the temperature, my shirt was wet with sweat. Jackson told me to take it off, then disappeared, returning with one of his own. “Throw this on while I make you something. All I got is coffee. Do you get hyper on coffee?”

  “No, I can drink it,” I said, sitting on an old couch by the bricked-up fireplace. Da Nang joined me, licking the back of my hand, then lying down next to my feet. I rubbed him under his collar until Jackson returned and handed me the coffee.

  “I put cream in it. A boy shouldn’t drink coffee black.”

  I nodded, though I had no idea what he meant.

  We sat quietly, then I touched Da Nang’s collar and asked how the contraption worked. He tossed me the control box. “Press the red button and see.”

  “I don’t want to hurt him.”

  “Just do it,” Jackson said.

  “I can’t.”

  Jackson grabbed the remote and manically pushed the button, laughing crazily. I waited for Da Nang to start bouncing off the walls, but he never budged.

  “You mean it’s fake?”

  “Of course it’s fake, Houdini. You think I’d zap Da Nang’s brain? When I want him to stop, I snap my fingers like this,” and he showed me, “and that’s our sign. Everyone’s so scared they don’t pay no attention to me.” He laughed loudly. “Now what were you doing out there? Did you have a fight with your parents?”

  “Franklin’s missing.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “No, he’s missing.”

  “How can those morons lose people with all the electronic gizmos they have?”

  “Good question.”

  He rubbed the top of his head. “Well, at least he ain’t dead.”

  “We don’t know that yet.”

  “But we do,” he said. He stood and walked over to the photos he had hanging on the wall, pointing to different soldiers. “Now, he’s dead, and he’s dead, and he’s dead,” and he went on and on, finally stopping. “But Franklin could be anywhere. War is crazy, Houdini.” He sat down in an old wooden rocker across from me. “Does Franklin know you’ve been here?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell ’im?”

  “I never thought to.”

  “Do you know how we met?”

  “No.”

  “I was at the market, the one Gregory leveled a few years back. I always knew how much I could carry with my one good arm, but after I left, I realized I’d forgotten Da Nang’s dog food. So I went back and bought a big bag. When I grabbed it, all the other stuff kept falling onto the floor. Every time I picked something up, something else fell. Then, all of a sudden, this big kid’s standing behind me, asking if he can help.”

  “Franklin?”

  “Yep. But I’m suspicious because no one’s ever wanted to help me with anything, and that’s okay, because I like it that way. The next thing I know, Franklin has it all figured out, and we’re both tramping back to the house. When we get here, I throw the stuff inside and say good-bye, but he doesn’t move, just standing there, looking around. So I invite him in and get him a Coke, just like I did for you boys. That’s when we got to know each other.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Like I told you, he couldn’t get enough of Vietnam. At first, I didn’t want to go back there, but then I kind of enjoyed it, like it was easier talking to him than those crazy shrinks at the VA.”

  “What was he like at my age?”

  “Serious, real serious, like he was forty or something. It kind of worried me.”

  I took a sip from my coffee, while he grabbed a book off the shelf, tossing it to me. “He loved reading this,” he said. “You want it? It’s not about politics. It’s about the soldiers, about the kind of guys they were.”

  “I don’t want to think about war right now.”

  “Probably best,” he said, replacing the book, then saying, “You better get home or your parents will be mad. Don’t worry about Franklin. I was with a lot of guys in Nam and I always knew who’d make it and who wouldn’t. I got a good feeling about Franklin.”
<
br />   I thanked him and asked for my shirt back.

  When I got home, my mother was waiting for me, worried. She wrapped a blanket around me and made hot chocolate. I was going to tell her I’d just had coffee at Jackson’s but decided not to. Still, I couldn’t keep my mind from racing. I don’t know if it was the news about Franklin or the caffeine. I probably would have stayed up all night, rolling around in bed, except at around nine o’clock we received another phone call—this one, anonymous.

  RIP

  When the phone rang, my father told us to sit on the couch while he grabbed the receiver. My mother and I searched his face for good or bad signs, but he appeared more annoyed than anything.

  “Who’s this?” he asked. Then, “What?” Then, “Where did you say it was?” Then he hung up.

  “What happened?” my mother said.

  “There’s no news about Franklin,” he said. “It’s about something else. I’ll explain when I get back.”

  “No, you’ll explain now.”

  “Trust me,” he said. Then he told me to grab my jacket. He wanted to take a drive.

  We didn’t speak in the car. We drove a short distance onto I-95 South, then veered off at the first exit, hopping back onto I-95 but in the opposite direction. As we approached an overpass, I saw the problem. Someone who’d meant well had hung a big white sheet over the high wire fence built to keep people from leaping onto the Interstate. In big letters that seemed to glow under the streetlights, we read: “RIP Franklin Smith, Providence’s Hero.” Underneath “hero,” someone had painted a big, red heart.

  “Damn,” my father said, angling our Taurus wagon onto the ramp at the next exit and driving toward the sign. When we reached it, he parked on the overpass, causing a traffic jam. Cars were honking as we walked toward the sign, but it was too high to reach, and whoever had hung it had tied its top edges tightly. It was cold, and besides jeans and work boots, all my father wore was a black T-shirt and a New England Patriots cap. He surveyed the sign and scowled at the motorists, who were leaning half out of cars, screaming at us. He shook his fist at everyone and walked back to the wagon. I followed him, hoping no one would take a swipe at me.