“Well,” Katie announced with a loud sigh, as though it were of prime importance, “I’ve got homework to do. Excuse me.” She hurried after her brother.
Marge set about gathering up the shredded wrapping paper, balling it up and tossing it into the fireplace. Jack remained seated, a thoughtful look on his ruddy features. Marge threw the last of the paper into the fireplace, and then turned to her husband.
“I don’t think your brainstorm went over too well,” she began hesitantly.
“I don’t think you should force him to play sports if he really doesn’t want to.”
“I’m not forcing him to do anything,” Jack replied testily. “I just want him to try, that’s all. And I want him to be acceptable to the other kids.”
“So do I,” Marge agreed. “But I want him to be happy, too.”
“You think I don’t?” Jack asked, sharply.
“I think you think that’s what you want,” Marge answered carefully, “but I’m not so sure it’s true.”
“When I figure out what you just tried to say, I’ll come up with an equally stupid reply.” He snatched up the TV remote control from the small table beside his chair and switched on the television, signaling an end to the conversation. Marge sighed and moved around past the kitchen table to the refrigerator. A beer would taste very good about now.
In his room, Bradley Wallace angrily shoved the blue jeans to the very bottom of his short-sleeve shirt drawer, hoping his mother would forget about them, but knowing full well she wouldn’t.
The super ball he could take to school, but probably wouldn’t because Wagner would no doubt get hold of it and toss it into the street or something. As for the football, he wanted to chuck that right through his window - how’s that for a forward pass, Dad?
He sat down on the bed and stared at the brown leather on which was written Roman Gabriel’s signature. What kind of a name was “Roman,” anyway? The door suddenly flew open and Katie burst into the room like a cyclone, startling the boy. She marched to the bed and stood glowering at Bradley Wallace. He could feel another lecture coming on, and silently cursed himself for not locking the door. But, to his amazement, when she spoke, her voice had lost all trace of condescension. It was almost compassionate.
“Look, Bradey,” she began softly, “I know you don’t like football, but he means well.”
This was the first time she’d ever spoken to him like a fellow human being, almost an equal, instead of some lowly cockroach to be absently squashed under her domineering foot, and Bradley Wallace was so taken aback, he blurted out his true feelings without fear of derisive reprisals on her part.
“If he means so well, why doesn’t he just leave me alone?”
She sat beside him on the bed, and spoke with surprising gentleness for someone he always thought of as the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Let me explain something to you about Dad. He always wanted a son so he could do all those things fathers and sons are supposed to do, like play sports. I mean, he just doesn’t know any other way, and he likes things to be the way he expects.”
Tears welled up in his eyes, and he tried to control his erratic voice. “I know I’m not like the other boys, but I’ve tried to be what he wants. I’ve played little league, and Pee Wee Basketball, and Pop Warner football because he wanted me to. But I’m terrible at those things, and I don’t really like ‘em, anyway. I can’t help it.” The teardrops rolled down his cheeks and dropped onto the bicycles patterning his bright red bedcover.
Katie’s gaze took on a harder edge. “Look, you’re getting too old to cry. Besides, boys aren’t supposed to cry.”
He knew that, but couldn’t help himself. “I just think you should try harder,” Katie advised. “If you do, maybe he’ll ease up on you.” She stood and gazed down at him as he swiped the tears away from his reddened eyes. “Just don’t be so weird, okay?”
He nodded, realizing she didn’t really understand what he was feeling. But then, how could she when he wasn’t even sure he understood it?
Katie left him alone then, carefully closing the door behind her, a marked contrast to her abrupt and blustery entrance. He momentarily considered locking the door, but his parents always had a cow when he did that. He remained seated on his bed and wiped his tear-streaked face with the spread to clear away all traces of his bawling. He sure was a baby sometimes, but it just seemed like he’d start crying all of a sudden and not be able to stop. He stared for a time at the football in abject silence, and then tossed it into a pile of other junk underneath the white, Formica-topped counter next to his bed.
Lying down atop the bed, Bradley Wallace clapped both hands behind his head and got to thinking about the events of the afternoon. Why couldn’t he remember what he’d said after Wagner challenged him to fight? All he could recall was the three of them suddenly lungeing at him and his running like the wind to escape. But something happened in between. What was it?
He had been daydreaming a lot more lately, especially during class or in church, or sometimes even at the dinner table. But he had never buzzed out like he did this afternoon. Maybe Katie was right - he was weird. His mind then conjured up the image of that strange thing in the warehouse. What was it? Had it really whispered his name? He gazed thoughtfully up at the “Planet of the Apes” poster on the opposite wall and thought that the object he’d encountered was something right out of a movie. It was all so unreal.
Yawning, his thoughts turned to the next day’s episode of “Dark Shadows.” What would Barnabas find in that room? He hoped it would be the missing Julia Hoffman, who’d been kidnapped by Angelique, the witch who had originally turned Barnabas into a vampire back in 1795. Angelique had also caused the death of Barnabas’s one true love, Josette Du Pres. How many times now had Barnabas gone back in time to change history, so Josette might live? So many that Bradley Wallace couldn’t even recall them all. And yet Josette always died anyway. They so belonged together, but never could be.
It was tragic, but maybe there must be a lesson there, he decided. And why did he have the strangest feeling that Barnabas might eventually come to love Angelique, even after all the evil she’d done to him? With these speculations running through his head like frolicking field mice, Bradley Wallace drifted off to sleep.
He was running for his life, lungs searing for lack of air, legs pumping almost beyond human endurance. John Wagner pursued him, steadily closing the all-too-narrow gap between them. And yet, it wasn’t the John Wagner he knew and loathed at school that sought his life, but some hideous wolf-like creature. A werewolf! And instead of getting weaker, as Bradley Wallace was, the Wagner-werewolf seemed to grow in strength, as though each step tapped a secret source of energy deep within the earth that revitalized him.
But Bradley Wallace had no such secret energy, and he was losing ground fast. Wagner’s hot, wolfish breath raised the hairs on Bradley Wallace’s neck, and he could feel the creature’s malignant glare bore through the back of his head like a phaser beam.
He couldn’t escape. There was no way. The faster he tried to run, the slower he actually became. It was like watching a film in slow motion, and his frustration knew no bounds. Then, suddenly, he was calling out to Willie for help. But who was Willie? Was it Willie Loomis of “Dark Shadows?” How could he help?
And then, just as suddenly, without warning, Bradley Wallace felt warmth inside, both in his mind and in his heart. Something touched him, and he knew not what. Maybe it was God. But whatever it was, he felt renewed, a surge of strength and power racing through his body, accompanied by an ethereal lightness that made him feel lighter than air itself. And quite suddenly, he was rising from the Gully floor and soaring up into the night sky.
He hadn’t changed into a bat or a bird, he noted. He was still just a boy.
And yet he was flying, flying as surely and gracefully as any character in fantasy ever had - Superman, or Peter Pan. The rollercoaster-like sensation took his breath away, and his heart beat wildly w
ith excitement.
Far below, in the bright light of a brilliant full moon, Bradley Wallace could clearly make out the figure of his pursuer, now merely John Wagner again, all traces of wolfishness completely gone. Wagner stared upward, mouth agape, still as stone, and Bradley Wallace had to laugh at his enemy’s astonished expression. He soared above the trees, arms spread wide, wind whipping his hair back, pajamas flapping like a flag in a stiff breeze, and then passed out of the Gully and dipped down toward his own house. It seemed so harmless from up here, he thought.
And then he awoke. He was still lying on his own bed, in his own room, still fully clothed, the light on his night table still blazing beneath its futuristic plastic dome-shade. Realizing it had all been a dream, the disappointed boy dropped his head back to the pillow, heavy-hearted and dejected. It had been a weird dream, all right, but at least he’d bested Wagner for once. Too bad that part couldn’t have been true. Gloom settling over him like the first snowfall of winter, Bradley Wallace slipped off his bed and set about undressing.
CHAPTER 2
“First Encounter”
St. Raphael’s School was located in the heart of downtown San Rafael, flanked by Mission Avenue at its upper end and Fifth Street at its lower. It was also directly across Fifth Street from the 90-plus-year-old Marin County Courthouse, one of Bradley Wallace’s favorite buildings in the entire world. He especially liked the Haunted House the city put on every Halloween deep within the aged structure’s basement jail cells.
A Catholic grade school, St. Raphael’s was one of the oldest in town, having been built on the site of the original Mission San Rafael Archangel, a historical landmark founded in 1817 by a compatriot of Father Junipero Serra. The school buildings, themselves over 50 years old, were designed in the same Spanish stucco, curved red tile-roof style as the simple, rather ordinary-looking, mission. A short distance from the aged structure loomed the massive St. Raphael’s Church, built at the same time as the school. It was an imposing edifice, with a huge bell tower topped by an enormous cross, the biggest Bradley Wallace had ever seen, fronting the entrance. And directly above the giant-sized metal doors, in the center of the bell tower, stood a colossal statue of St. Raphael himself, painted Statue of Liberty green, holding aloft a big cross, making him look, at least to Bradley Wallace, anyway, as though he were trying to ward off a gigantic vampire. The church extended back a long way from the front entrance to the altar, ornately decorated with a large marble cross over six feet high and a gold-brocaded tabernacle, a marked contrast to the simplistic and rather plain, altar of the old mission.
The other school buildings consisted mainly of classrooms, the gym, and the administration offices, all of which were in dire need of a paint job. The present paint was so faded and grungy it could’ve been featured on one of those mold-and-mildew commercials. The play yards were all, unfortunately, made of concrete - no grass for St. Raphael’s students. There were several twisted basketball hoops scattered about the yards, all without nets, of course. And the chipped and pitted old benches looked like they’d done battle with a horde of voracious beavers, and lost. Their ancient, peeling grey paint made them appear leprous, and most of them sagged heavily in the middle, like old horses put out to pasture. St. Raphael’s wasn’t big in the repair department.
Being in the 7th grade this year, Bradley Wallace began each day in homeroom, and was then farmed out to several other teachers for different classes throughout the day. The rationale behind this schedule was purportedly to prepare the students for high school, wherein they would have different teachers for every subject. The seventh and eighth graders had classes in the same wing, which consisted of four large classrooms along a stark, dingy, dimly lit hallway painted an odious bomb shelter green.
Bradley Wallace’s homeroom teacher was Sister Margaret Raphael (a convenient name, he thought, and easy to remember), an elderly, somewhat overweight, but amiable enough nun with white hair peeking cautiously out from under her black veil, a pasty white complexion, bulbous Karl Malden (the actor from ‘Streets of San Francisco’) nose, and grungy, yellowing teeth. She also seemed to always keep both hands hidden away in the pockets of her billowy habit, and Bradley Wallace often wondered how they got pockets in those nun outfits in the first place.
Sister Margaret Raphael was seldom ill tempered, but she did have her limits, and certain banes to her existence, like John Wagner. But then, John Wagner was on everyone’s hit list as far as Bradley Wallace could see. Actually, Bradley Wallace liked Sister Margaret Raphael, even though it was an unspoken rule that kids weren’t supposed to like their teachers. But he couldn’t help it, and he actually felt sorry for her and any others who were harassed by jerks like Wagner.
The one teacher Bradley Wallace didn’t like was Sister Rose, known among the kids as Attila the Nun. She was a veritable monster in penguin clothes that gleefully humiliated students in front of the entire class. She was small, but meaner than hell, with red hair she liked to pet a lot, a hard, pinched face, and a very pompous, self-assured demeanor. Bradley Wallace avoided her as much as possible, but this day she caught him loitering around the drinking fountain outside before school and unceremoniously dumped her black, beat-up old briefcase into his arms, commanding him to carry it for her. Timidly he trailed the slightly waddling nun through the creaky old wooden doors, whose glass panes were dirty and in dire need of a good scrubbing.
But Bob, the janitor, wasn’t too good at such things. About all he did do was pick up the paper airplanes that got tossed out classroom windows when teachers had their backs turned. As he followed Rose uncertainly up the stairs and down the hall toward her classroom, Bradley Wallace was afraid to say anything for fear she would fly off the handle. She was a very unstable person, he knew from previous encounters.
He practically had to run to keep up with her lengthy strides, and she eyed him with amusement, inquiring after the book he cradled so carefully under the crook of his left arm. It was a novel Bradley Wallace had read before, The Foe of Barnabas Collins, but he had really liked it and often re-read books he liked, sometimes two or three times. He was an avid reader, and never seemed to get enough.
He held the book out so Sister Rose could scan the cover, which featured a candlelit photo of Barnabas baring his fangs in a menacing snarl, and explained that it was one of a series of books based on the TV show “Dark Shadows.” He became even more nervous when she asked him what this particular book was about, and yet there was a certain amount of excitement in being able to actually talk with someone about his favorite subject, even if that person was Attila the Nun. As he briefly detailed the plot, they entered her classroom and she switched on the overhead lights, interrupting his explanation with an order to deposit her briefcase carefully atop her neatly organized desk.
As he obeyed, she reached out and plucked the book deftly from his grasp, turning it over and over in her hand, as though weighing its literary merits by how heavy it felt. “I’d like to borrow this,” she said flatly. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Actually, he did mind. Bradley Wallace loathed lending out his books because people always bent back the pages or mangled the covers, and he hated that. But of course, he couldn’t dare refuse Rose’s commanding tone. Besides, witch or no, she was a nun and he figured nuns would take better care of borrowed things than normal people. So he agreed, forcing a smile to his lips, and assuring her it was a very good book. She nodded disinterestedly and dismissed him with an idle wave of her hand.
Relief flooded over Bradley Wallace in a wave as he hurriedly fled the classroom.
By this time, the bell had rung and he proceeded past the milling, scurrying students to his homeroom. He spotted Wagner, Raley, and Smith lounging indolently against the water-fountain waiting for the last possible moment to enter their classroom (they were in the other seventh grade homeroom, thank God!). It wasn’t cool for them to sit down early, after all. Bradley Wallace hoped to slink on past unobserved, but Wagner spotted hi
m, wolf eyes blazing with hatred, and muscled his way through the crowded hallway toward him.
Knowing he was only putting off an inevitable confrontation, Bradley Wallace ducked hurriedly into his homeroom and took his seat. Wagner appeared at the open door moments later and caught his eye, mouthing the words, “I’ll get you, Murphy,” before disappearing from view. Bradley Wallace sighed heavily and lifted his desktop to sort out the mess within. Sister Margaret Raphael shut the classroom door and set about calling the roll.
The inevitable encounter finally arrived at lunch period (Bradley Wallace had spent morning recess helping Sister Margaret Raphael run off papers on the copy machine, which he knew wouldn’t enhance his reputation and would no doubt label him a kiss-ass, but she had asked him, and he couldn’t very well say no to a nun, and it did help him avoid Wagner). However, there was no escaping the determined bully at lunch, and Bradley Wallace was ready for whatever might happen. He figured Wagner would be pretty mad about his getting away the night before, and expected the worst.
But even worse than Wagner was the contents of his lunch bag - milk (that was okay), a Twinkie, and a bologna sandwich. First off, he hated bologna - when he and Katie had been little, at the family’s first house in Tiburon, they always used to eat lunch outside so they could take the bologna out of their sandwiches and throw it over the large hedge and down the hill sloping toward the street below, all because their mother never remembered (or maybe didn’t care, who knew?) that both children hated bologna.
Whatever the reason, Bradley Wallace was still given bologna sandwiches regularly, and he still hated them.
He’d also been given a Twinkie in his lunch nearly every day since the first grade, and had come to loathe them even more than bologna.
He could usually trade that off to Mark Zapetini - a rather wimpy kid who wore thick glasses and said dumb things all the time - for a Ho Ho or a Ding Dong. But no one ever wanted his bologna.
A Boy and His Dragon Page 4