Also Known as Rowan Pohi

by Ralph Fletcher

  Big Poobs scooped out one last handful of dirt. "Done."

  "Where's Rowan's stuff?" Marcus asked me.

  "Here." I handed him two envelopes: the acceptance letter and the information packet.

  "I'm keeping the Whitestone pen," Poobs announced.

  "No, you're not," Marcus told him. "We agreed: everything goes into the grave."

  "Oh, all right."

  Poobs dropped in the pen, and we covered Rowan's things with the dirt we had dug out. The two envelopes and all that loosened dirt pushed the grave an inch higher than the surrounding ground. Marcus stood and used his boot to tamp it down.

  Big Poobs shined his flashlight up at himself, casting weird shadows on his face.

  "This isn't how I pictured it. I mean, how we'd bury him."

  "What's wrong now?" Marcus asked impatiently.

  Poobs glanced around again. "I don't know. It's such a crappy place."

  Marcus swore. "What did you expect, Arlington National Cemetery?"

  "Just someplace better than this," Poobs murmured. "I mean, for me, it wouldn't matter. I honestly don't care where they bury me. But Rowan was different from us. Rowan had a chance to be somebody."

  "Rowan was a figment of our imagination," Marcus shot back. "C'mon, let's finish this."

  "Okay," I said. "Does anybody want to say anything?"

  There was a long pause. For some fool reason a wave of sadness—the real kind—washed over me.

  "He will be missed," Big Poobs finally said.

  "Uh-huh," I agreed. My throat felt so tight I didn't trust myself to say more than that.

  "Bye, Rowan," Big Poobs said softly.

  We started to turn away, but Poobs grabbed my arm.

  "No one will even know it's here," he said. "Shouldn't we mark it somehow?"

  "How?"

  Big Poobs crouched down. Using one of the sharp sticks, he wrote three letters in the dirt. Then he stood and flashed a narrow beam of light onto the ground.

  R I P

  I stood there without moving.

  Rowan Ian Pohi.

  Rest In Peace.

  TEN

  SUPPER ON SATURDAY NIGHT WAS HOT DOGS PLUS MACARONI and cheese. My father didn't have to work on the weekends, so we ate earlier than usual. Saturdays he usually went to a seven o'clock AA meeting.

  The weather forecast called for T-storms that would bring in cooler temperatures, but the storms hadn't come. It was one of the warmest days of the summer.

  "Did you buy Popsicles?" I asked my father as he was cooking.

  He shook his head. "What I would really love right now is a cold beer."

  That jolted me. "But you—"

  "I know I can't have one." He rolled the hot dogs in the fry pan. "But that don't mean I don't want one somethin' fierce."

  Doesn't mean, I mentally corrected him, though I didn't say it out loud.

  He ripped a paper towel off the roll and used it to wipe his face. "Haven't you ever wanted something real bad even though you know you can't have it?"

  "Yeah," I admitted. A picture of that tall Whitestone girl flashed through my head.

  "Well, all right, then." He turned off the heat under the pasta. "Tell Cody it's time to set the table."

  I found Cody in his bedroom. Today the feather stuck in his hair was from a pigeon, a germ-riddled bird if ever there was one. He stood with his back to me, bending over the middle drawer of his bureau. When he heard me come in, he quickly closed the drawer.

  "What are you doing?" I asked.

  "Nothing."

  That got me suspicious, but I didn't let on. "Wash your hands. You need to set the table."

  Ten minutes later it was time to eat. While my father and Cody were sitting down, I slipped out of the kitchen and into Cody's bedroom. I opened the middle drawer of his bureau.

  Son of a bitch, there it was.

  The bear-claw Indian necklace.

  The little thief.

  I stormed back to the table and got in Cody's face. "Do you have something to tell me?" I demanded.

  I gave him a moment to come clean, but he said nothing. From his innocent expression you would have thought he was rocking a halo instead of a pigeon feather on his head.

  "What's wrong?" my father asked.

  When I took the necklace out of my pocket, Cody was outraged.

  "That's mine! You took it from my room!"

  "You stole it!" I yelled.

  "I did not!" Cody shouted back.

  "He stole it from Kopsky's bead store," I explained to my father.

  "Give it here," he ordered.

  He fingered the necklace with his big, dark hands. Then he glanced up at me. "Didn't Grandma give him ten dollars?"

  I folded my arms. "Yeah, but that necklace cost a hundred. He spent the ten on a toy tomahawk."

  "Uh-uh!" Desperately, Cody shook his head.

  My father gave him a level look. "Did you steal this?"

  Cody's lower lip trembled. "But—"

  My father cut him off in midsentence. "But nothing! You know what they do to people who steal? Huh? They put them in jail! You want to go to jail?"

  Like me? he could have added, but I guess he didn't have to.

  Cody wasn't completely stupid. "They don't put little kids in jail."

  "They can put you in juvenile detention." My father glared at Cody. "That's no walk in the park, mister."

  What would Mom do? I wondered. Immediately I knew the answer.

  "We gotta go to the store so you can give it back," I told Cody. "You've got to tell Mr. Kopsky you took the necklace, and apologize."

  Cody's eyes were wide with panic. "I can't go back there! He'll be so mad! He'll yell at me!"

  My father swallowed a bite of macaroni. "You should've thought about that when you stole the necklace. Bobby's right. You're going back right after supper."

  "No!" Cody protested.

  "Be quiet," my father said sharply. "I've heard enough from you."

  Cody had lost his appetite, but my father made him sit there while we finished eating. By the time we had cleaned up the kitchen it was five o'clock; on Saturdays the bead store stayed open until six. I put the necklace into a small paper bag. I found my brother in a corner of the den, trying to look invisible. Turf was curled up nearby. My father was there too, watching a TV show about bass fishing.

  "C'mon," I told Cody.

  "No!"

  "You don't got much choice in the matter," my father said. "Get going with your brother. And put some snap in your step."

  Cody started to cry. "But I don't want to go, Daddy."

  My father put his big hands on Cody's shoulders. "Sometimes you just gotta face the music. You'll feel better when it's over."

  "I will not," Cody whimpered, but he followed me out the door anyway.

  My brother shuffled his feet, walking as slow as humanly possible all the way to Kopsky's. I felt sorry for the kid. From the tragic look on his face you would have thought he was being dragged off to the guillotine.

  "I don't wanna go," he kept moaning. "He's going to be so mad at me, Bobby."

  "Maybe not," I said. "He might even appreciate that you're honest enough to admit what you did."

  "He will not! He's gonna yell and scream. He's probably gonna hit me!"

  I shook my head. "I won't let him do that."

  That brought some temporary relief to Cody's face, but a moment later he looked miserable again. He halted on the sidewalk.

  "I'm not going, Bobby. I'm staying here. You bring it back."

  By now I'd just about run out of patience. I grabbed his hand and yanked him off the spot. "You're going to that store if I have to carry you there myself."

  My brother was a total wreck, tears streaming down his face, by the time we entered the bead store at five thirty. I was nervous too. Even though I'd tried to reassure Cody, I honestly didn't know how Mr. Kopsky would react. The store was practically empty when we walked in. Kopsky was standing behind the counter, pe
r usual, a toothpick between his teeth.

  I cleared my throat.

  "We came here," I began, "because of, well ... it's about my little brother."

  Cody had moved directly behind me. When I swung around to present my brother, Cody swung around too, hiding behind me. This happened three separate times, and it would have been funny if it wasn't so pathetic. I finally grabbed him and pulled him forward, front and center.

  I handed him the paper bag. "Give it to Mr. Kopsky."

  Without looking up, Cody placed the paper bag on the counter.

  Mr. Kopsky picked up the bag and peered inside. He tilted it, allowing the necklace to slide into his big hands.

  "He didn't pay for it," I explained.

  I had a slim hope that Mr. Kopsky might nod, or show by his expression that he understood, but the look he gave Cody was a hard one. "He stole it, you mean."

  Cody's eyes were fixed on the floor.

  "Tell him," I urged.

  My brother tried to speak, but no sound came out.

  "Louder!" I ordered.

  "Sorry," Cody said in a hoarse whisper. He didn't look up.

  "He knows he did the wrong the thing, taking it without paying," I explained. "He—"

  "You're the Steele kids, aren't you?" Kopsky said.

  "Yeah."

  Kopsky's upper lip curled back in a sneering smile.

  "I know what your father did. I read all about him in the newspaper. Iron Steele."

  I worked my jaw. "That has nothing to do with this."

  "Oh, really?" Kopsky stared from Cody to me like we were repulsive things he had found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't call the police."

  At that word Cody rocked back; I could feel his whole body trembling.

  I tried to work up a smile. "He's only five," I said lamely.

  Kopsky glared. "Your daddy went to prison. Now your brother admits to robbing my store. I guess it runs in the family."

  That's one thing about me. Push me; fine. Push me hard; I can handle it. But push me too far—watch out.

  "Go outside," I told my brother. "Wait for me."

  Cody didn't need any prodding. He vanished, banging the door behind him. Then it was just Kopsky and me. The smirk on his face made me sick to my stomach.

  "You shouldn't talk to a little kid like that," I told him.

  "How dare you lecture me!" Kopsky shouted. "Get out of my store! Get out or I will call the police!"

  More than anything in the world I wanted to grab Kopsky by the shirt, pull him over the counter, and tune him up good. But that would have been disastrous. I knew that my only option was to leave. Reluctantly, I walked to the door.

  "Don't you ever come back to this store!" he called after me.

  ELEVEN

  I RAN FIVE MILES THAT NIGHT. IT WAS A HAZY EVENING, BUT even so, I could still look up from the pavement to see the White-stone buildings glowing on the hill.

  Haven't you ever wanted something real bad even though you know you can't have it?

  It was easy to pick out the rounded dome of the planetarium that had just been built. That, in a nutshell, showed the difference between Whitestone Prep and Riverview High School. They had just completed construction on a twenty-five-million-dollar, state-of-the-art planetarium. We couldn't even get our parking lot repaved.

  Later I stuck my head back into the book I was reading, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. My favorite character was Chief Broom, the big Indian guy who never speaks to anyone in the mental hospital so people assume he's stupid. He has plenty of deep thoughts in his head, but he keeps them hidden. Everybody in the hospital thinks that Chief Broom can't talk—everybody but Randle McMurphy. Only McMurphy understands that Chief Broom isn't some kind of retard. McMurphy knows how strong the big Indian really is. He keeps encouraging him to bust out of that hospital, get away from Nurse Ratched, but Chief Broom doesn't leave. I guess he's too afraid.

  I read for as long as I could, but when the words started swimming I snapped off the light and closed my eyes. Usually a long run left me so tired I'd fall asleep within minutes. But sometimes it worked in reverse. All that exercise and fresh air jacked me up like caffeine, and I'd lie in bed wide awake.

  That's what happened now. I started thinking about Mom. Her cooking. The way she could take bad things and turn them into good. Like she'd take a bunch of limp vegetables and somehow whip them into an amazing stir-fry. Or if the milk in the refrigerator was sour, no problem: she'd use it to make hermit cookies with molasses and raisins.

  Thinking about Mom always dredged up sadness, so I jumped from her to other people. My father. Cody. Mr. Kopsky.

  I guess it runs in the family.

  That smug look on his face put a bad taste in my mouth. To rinse it out, I thought about that tall blond Whitestone girl.

  One person I tried not to think about was Rowan Pohi. Inventing him had been fun at first, but picturing his grave in that empty city lot made me feel unexpectedly sad, so I pushed him from my mind.

  My thoughts circled back to One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. It hit me that Big Poobs was kind of like Chief Broom: both of them looked like big dumb guys, only they weren't. Poobs really was a smart kid, even if he didn't necessarily know it himself.

  Sometimes I felt like Chief Broom too. Bottled up. Stuck with the wrong parent in a cramped apartment with a little brother who was convinced he was a full-blooded Native American. About to enter tenth grade in what was probably the worst high school in the city, or close to it. They say you're not supposed to feel sorry for yourself, but some nights I couldn't help it. I felt trapped, like one of those houseflies Turf liked to catch and hold, alive but doomed, in her mouth. I wanted to bust out too, but I didn't know how.

  Next afternoon I met Marcus and Big Poobs at the IHOP. School would be starting in less than a week, and none of us was looking forward to it. We drank our sodas and talked about girls, movies, money, video games, then girls again.

  "Think Rowan Pohi had a girlfriend?" Big Poobs asked, leaning back in the booth.

  "Are you kidding?" Marcus replied. "Chicks were all over him."

  "I had a dream about Rowan," Big Poobs said.

  "You did?" I said.

  Big Poobs nodded.

  "What did he look like?" Marcus asked curiously.

  "Straight brown hair," Poobs said, trying to remember. "He was taller than I expected. About six two."

  For a minute, nobody said anything.

  "Rowan Pohi was a freak," Marcus declared.

  I shook my head. "No, he wasn't. He was like a regular kid."

  "Think about it," Marcus continued. "He came into the world in a freakish way. And it was a freak illness that took him out."

  I groaned. "Don't bring that up again."

  I was bored all week, and by Saturday night I was going nuts. Poobs was working a double shift at Vinny's. Marcus was in Vermont visiting his father. By nine o'clock I felt like I would explode if I stayed in that apartment one minute longer, so I decided to go out for a run. My father appeared at my bedroom door just as I was lacing up my shoes.

  "You going running now?"

  "Yeah, why?"

  He shrugged. "It's awful late."

  That surprised me. These days my father mostly let me do whatever I wanted; it was unusual for him to comment on my plans, one way or another.

  "There are streetlights the whole way," I said. "It's totally safe."

  "Here." He tossed me something; I caught it in the air. "Put that around your wrist."

  It was a small light attached to a strap.

  "Where'd you get this?"

  "Universal Sports."

  "You bought it for me?"

  He shrugged. "Wasn't expensive."

  I looked down. "Well, uh, thanks."

  "Be careful," he said. "There are plenty of knuckleheads driving around out there."

  The wrist-light was perfect. It weighed next to nothing, so I barely noticed it while
I ran. I tried to imagine my father going into Universal Sports, picking it up from the shelf, and paying for it at the checkout counter, but the picture didn't come into focus easily. I couldn't remember the last time he just went out and bought me something.

  The weather was a perfect 72 degrees. I felt great, locked-in but loose, and decided to sprint the last quarter mile. I ran full bore until my quads burned and my heart was hammering in my chest. Still I kept going. I sprinted four long blocks, and I would have gone two blocks more except a red light forced me to stop. I stood on the sidewalk, hunched over, catching my breath while the sweat trickled down my upper back. As I was wiping my forehead I happened to glance up at the street sign.

  Sibberson.

  I felt an unexpected tug inside me.

  Isn't life weird? We truly think that we are the ones making plans. We are convinced that we are making the important decisions in our lives. But maybe not. Maybe other forces are at work to make us do this or that.

  Like now. I was supposed to follow my regular route home. But standing at the street corner, I felt a definite crosscurrent pulling me hard right. When the light changed to green, I hesitated. Before I realized what was happening, I found myself on Sibberson, fast-walking toward Spence.

  The sky was dark by the time I reached the abandoned lot; I was glad I had the wrist-light.

  What was I doing there? Why was I standing at that lonesome spot where Rowan was buried? To bear witness? Pay my respects?

  I didn't know. I simply stood there, breathing, holding on to the chainlink fence and staring into that dark lot.

  Goodbye, Rowan.

  And that was it. I got a feeling of peace, like now it really was finished and I could go on with my life. Closure: isn't that the word? I was glad I'd come. I turned to leave, but as I did, a small noise reached my ears.

  Pffff. Puffff. Pfff-pffff.

  Rain. The first droplets were fat. Each one made a soft, distinct sound as it struck the dust. Pfff-pufff. Pufffff. Pifffff. The sound paralyzed me; I stood frozen to the spot. The rain started falling harder, until soon all those separate pfffffs combined into one ragged noise that grew louder and louder still, like when you're making popcorn and it builds to the point when suddenly all the kernels are popping at the same time.