Going Places

by Kathryn Berla

  “Tell your dad I’ve got it under control. I’ll be right over.”

  “Okay,” Fritzy sounded doubtful.

  “Don’t let him call the police. Promise me you won’t.”

  “Okay, I got your back. You want me to go over there until you get here?”

  “No, better not. I’ll be there in ten.”

  “Ten’s kind of fast.”

  “Let me get going. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Those days my car was on auto-pilot to the Fritzy/Pirkle zone. I parked in front of Fritzy’s house because . . . well, because I didn’t want to park in front of Pirkle’s. As long as I was on Fritzy’s side of the street, I felt the safety and strength of her nearness. Not that I was scared of Pirkle, just that he made me somewhat nervous during his evening Jekyll to Hyde transformations. Parking in front of his house made me a little less brave. A little more isolated. Funny the difference twenty or thirty feet of asphalt can make.

  Fritzy was waiting outside, just like I knew she would be. She was wearing a long pink bathrobe which seemed excessively girly for her. Freed from its normal braid, her thick chocolate-colored hair flowed softly down her back, nearly to the middle. She looked amazing.

  “I think he’s calmed down,” she said. “I haven’t heard anything for the last five minutes.” Her breath smelled like toothpaste.

  “Might be my fault. I was asking him a bunch of questions about fighting in the war and about his daughter, too. Probably shouldn’t have done that.”

  Our voices were soft, whispers really. I’m not sure if we were trying to be discreet or if we were just afraid of the sound of our voices discussing things we didn’t understand.

  “Something’s gotta give, Wheeler. My dad says he can’t be living there on his own if he’s losing it.”

  “Losing it? Who told your dad he was losing it?”

  Fritzy looked down at the ground and kicked the curb. She was wearing fluffy pink slippers that made her feet look twice their normal size. I leaned against my car.

  “Maybe I did,” she said.

  “I told you stuff in confidence. And then only because you were part of the business. You weren’t supposed to say anything to anyone.”

  “You’re right, I apologize. But isn’t it better he knows? The man’s safety might be at stake. Why should we keep it a secret?”

  The grass, black and damp with dew, glistened under the moon. A celestial reflection nestled in the corner of Fritzy’s eye. Nothing in that beautiful night or that beautiful girl fit with the reality of why I was there.

  “Never mind. Your dad’s right. My mom says the same thing.”

  “So what’re we going to do?”

  “We . . . I’m going to go over there and talk him down. I think I know how to do that now. It’s mainly just listening and staying calm until something inside him clicks. Anyway, thanks for calling.”

  “What about next time? You know it’s going to happen again.”

  “I’m going to talk about it. I just have to be straight up with him, but not tonight. I’ll do it during the day.”

  “Sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “No. He’s used to me so it’s better if I’m alone.”

  >>>

  I put my ear to his front door but heard nothing. I knocked and then rang the doorbell. What if he’d managed to fall asleep? All the lights were on, but that wasn’t unusual. I waited. Fritzy was sitting on the hood of my car, so I waved her away and motioned I was going around to the back. I wasn’t so sure about using the key again, remembering the last time when Pirkle had been waiting inside with a baseball bat. I wondered if he kept a gun in the house.

  I knocked on the kitchen door but he didn’t come to open it. I peeked through the sliding glass door that opened onto the backyard but saw no movement in that room or the hallway beyond. Then I backed up until I could see the rearward facing bedroom window on the second floor, the only one that wasn’t lit up. Sure enough, I could make out Pirkle’s silhouette framed by the curtains. I waved both hands back and forth above my head but he didn’t move. I imagined the binoculars pulled close to his face; the circular window facing him, the subject of his focus. I pulled out my cell phone and called his number. It rang a few times before his shadow disappeared from the window. Then a few more times until I was sure it would go to voice mail. Then silence on the other end.

  “Hello?” I said to the space on the other end.

  Nothing.

  “Hello,” I said again. It wasn’t dead space. I knew he was listening. His silhouette reappeared in the window.

  “Chuck?” His voice was tenuous, incredulous.

  “It’s Hudson, sir. I’m down here on the lawn.”

  “Chuck,” he stated it that time like it was no longer subject to negotiation.

  “I told you, sir. It’s Hudson. Hudson Wheeler. I’m outside in your backyard. Can I use the emergency key to come in?”

  “Hudson Wheeler. What do you know about war, Hudson Wheeler? A mollycoddled, pimple-faced kid like you?”

  I have to admit I took a little offense despite the fact I knew I wasn’t talking to a man in his right mind. I wasn’t sure what “mollycoddled” meant, but it didn’t sound good. And I’d always taken pride in my best feature, which was an acne-free complexion at the age of eighteen.

  “I know nothing about war, sir. Nothing at all.”

  “You’re damned right you don’t.”

  I took a seat on the molded plastic chair I’d sat on earlier in the day. For the first time it occurred to me to check out the round window of Scolari’s house. The light was on but no signs of life.

  “Can I come in, sir?” I asked again.

  “Permission denied.”

  That wasn’t at all ambiguous. I waited for him to hang up on me but he didn’t. We were two shadows conversing via radio frequency signals.

  “Are you looking at the round window again?” I asked after a few minutes.

  No response. He stood as straight and still as a sentry guard at the gates of a fortress.

  “Mr. Pirkle, sir?”

  No answer.

  “Why did you think I was Chuck? He was your best friend, right?”

  “A man couldn’t ask for a better friend,” he mumbled into the phone and for the first time I detected a slur like he’d been drinking. Maybe he had. Maybe that’s what this was about.

  “Could you tell me a little about him? What was he like?”

  “You want to know about Chuck, Hudson Wheeler, if you really are who you say you are? I’ll tell you about Chuck. I heard him call out my name that day so I crawled on my stomach and elbows to get to him. Bullets flew over my head, hitting the dirt to the right of me, to the left of me, in front of me. Everywhere but right at me. When I finally got to Chuck, he was in a bad way. I can’t move, he said. Put your arms around my neck, and I’ll carry you on my back, I told him. I could crawl back the way I came with him on my back. I could get him to a safe spot until a medic could treat him. But Chuck couldn’t move because his legs were blown off. Both of them. He died in my arms about a minute later.”

  “I’m real sorry, Mr. Pirkle, sir.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet you are. Sorry you asked. You think your government teacher will like that story?” His voice was gravelly and choked.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” was all I could think of to say, and I truly was.

  We resumed our silent communication and then I heard a beep. I cursed my discharging phone battery.

  “What was that?” Pirkle asked.

  “My battery,” I said. “It’s dying.”

  “Dying,” he repeated, and I wished I’d chosen a different word.

  “Mr. Pirkle,” I said. “There’s something I want you to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  �
�Fritzy . . . your neighbor. She isn’t my girlfriend. She’s just a friend.”

  “And why’s that? Afraid you’re not man enough to handle a big girl like her?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why then?”

  His voice was smoothing out. The words were flowing again instead of sputtering. I thought he might be back in a world where anything was possible. Where love was possible.

  “I’m in love with someone else.”

  “Love, hah!”

  “But she doesn’t love me back.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not what she’s looking for. What she wants.”

  “Then cut your losses and move on.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “You just do it. It’s part of learning how to be a man. You just do it.”

  “Mr. Pirkle, sir?”

  “I’m still here.”

  My phone beeped again. It seemed like time was always running out.

  “When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me if I could put salt on a bird’s tail, I’d be able to catch it.”

  Pirkle chuckled.

  “So I was always trying to get close enough to a bird to put salt on its tail, but it flew away when I got too close.”

  The shadow in the window shifted. I knew he was looking down at me.

  “Then I tried throwing salt at them, hoping enough of it would land on their tails to keep them from flying off. But it never worked.”

  “You know why he said that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I finally figured it out. If I got close enough to a bird to put salt on its tail, I’d be close enough to reach out and grab it. But that could never happen because a bird would never let me get that close.”

  The phone beeped one final time and then nothing but dead space.

  “And that’s the way it is with Alana,” I said to no one but myself. “Whenever I get close enough, she just flies away.”

  I glanced at his window but Pirkle was gone. I turned and looked at Mr. Scolari’s round window. The light was off. When I got back to my car, Fritzy was nowhere to be seen, and her house was dark. I drove home and fell into a deep dreamless sleep, interrupted only by my alarm the next morning.

  Is there a right way . . .

  . . . to greet someone the first time you see her after declaring your unrequited love? Act cool in a way that borders hostility? Pretend nothing happened? Both of the above?

  “Are you mad at me?” Alana asked while I unrolled my yoga mat.

  I wanted to beat her to class that morning. To be positioned on my mat, looking every bit the transcendent yogi far above such earthly matters as making a fool of myself. Unfortunately, it didn’t work that way.

  “Why would I be mad at you?” I hated it when people said that, knowing exactly why they were mad at you.

  “I mean . . . are you upset with me?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Penelope still wasn’t there. Neither was Gus.

  “Where are the lovebirds?” I asked, lifting my chin towards the empty space by my side, normally occupied by Penelope.

  “You don’t know? Gus dumped her over the weekend.”

  “What? No, I didn’t hear. I was busy on Sunday.”

  As if that had anything to do with why I didn’t hear. I just wanted Alana to know I wasn’t sitting around the house pining away for her.

  “I was on the phone with Penelope most of the day. Where were you?”

  “Fritzy invited me to a retreat that went on all day.”

  In the pre-declaration-of-love world, I avoided talking about Fritzy to Alana. Now it didn’t seem to spark any jealous reaction that I could tell.

  “So what happened with Gus and Penelope?” I asked coolly.

  “Gus hooked up with some junior girl, Chelsea something.”

  “Hooked up?”

  “Well, I don’t know if they actually hooked up, but anyway, they’re together, and he dumped Penelope.”

  No more “ha ha ha?”

  “Why aren’t they here?”

  “Penelope called in sick, and Gus is transferring out of yoga.”

  “He’s allowed to do that?”

  “I guess. As long as he transfers into a comparable class—any other zero period PE.”

  I knew I should have said something like “Poor Penelope. Gus is such a dick.” Those kinds of sympathetic statements would have gotten me on Alana’s good side. But all I could think was: Gus Ligety, already on his second relationship before Christmas break, and I still haven’t even kissed a girl. Life is unfair.

  “Wow,” I mumbled.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry about this past weekend,” she whispered as Ms. Senger took attendance.

  I pretended not to hear. Hearing would require a response. A response would require diving into a whole lot of things I didn’t want to talk about anymore.

  >>>

  “Here,” Alana shoved a wad of bills into my hand. “I hope it’s enough to pay for gas.”

  It was passing period, and the money was unexpected. I didn’t care so much about the cash, although I always needed it. What I did care about was what I perceived to be Alana’s self-centeredness. But if I was wrong about the gas money, maybe I was wrong about that too.

  “Hudson, could you pick me up after school today?”

  I thought about the talk I was supposed to have with Pirkle. I could do it early.

  “Where’s Bryce?”

  “I don’t want to be dependent on him for rides home anymore.”

  “O-kay. Yeah, I guess so. You coming over afterwards?”

  “Yes!” she pressed her hands together under her chin and smiled angelically. “Promise you’ll wait for me to walk the dogs. We can do it together.”

  “Okay, sounds good.”

  “I miss Jennifer. I miss them all!”

  “I’m sure they miss you too,” I answered, perhaps not so convincingly. She’d only walked the dogs with me a few times.

  “And Hudson, let’s work on our graphic novels together. Maybe we can get some dinner too.”

  “Your dad’s not around?”

  “He’s traveling this week,” she said.

  “Maybe. Let me see how much work I get done before you come over. I’m way behind.”

  It was true but I was also still playing it cool. And it was a fact I hadn’t overcome my writer’s block—there wasn’t any graphic novel to work on. I could’ve just been honest, but art was where I stood out for Alana. Head and shoulders above the masses. A possible equivalent to the starting quarterback.

  Then, on my way to Pirkle’s I got a text from Alana: I don’t need a ride home anymore. Thanks anyway. Oh, and sorry, but I won’t be able to walk the dogs with you, I’m spending the night at Cherie’s and having dinner there too. See you tomorrow. Love ya! xoxo

  Cherie was in our art class, and lately she’d been spending a lot of time at our table, looking over our shoulders and visiting with Alana. What can I say? Not only was I jealous of Bryce, now I was jealous of Cherie too. And disgusted at myself.

  Cut your losses and move on, Pirkle had said. Part of learning how to be a man.

  How did this magical thing happen where you become a man and learn how to control your feelings instead of letting them control you? When would it happen for me?

  I rang Pirkle’s doorbell, hoping to catch him at home while at the same time hoping I wouldn’t. The talk was a monumental task but avoiding it was worse. I was already dreading my nights, worried when I’d be called to handle the next meltdown. Maybe there’d come a night I wouldn’t be able to talk him down—then what? I didn’t want it to be just my problem anymore.

  “Hudson,” he said, when he opened the door. “Twice in two days?”

  “Could we talk?”


  >>>

  Once again on his back patio. Once again, sitting on the molded plastic chair. My mouth was so dry it felt like I was coughing up my words.

  “What brings you here?” Pirkle asked. “I’m not sure the piddling amount I pay you justifies all these visits.”

  I made a mental note of “piddling.” I thought my rates were high, but if he considered them piddling I should probably consider raising them. If I divided my monthly rate by the amount of hours I’d spent at Pirkle’s, I’d have been way better off sticking with dogs.

  “I’m not sure how to say this . . .” I began and then stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to make eye contact. I froze. Stage fright of sorts.

  “Just say it, son. What’s the problem? You shutting down the business?”

  “No, nothing like that. I want to talk to you about what’s been going on at night.”

  “At night?”

  He was genuinely puzzled; I could see it in his eyes. He looked above my head towards the round window of Scolari’s house. It took all my self-control to resist turning around and doing the same thing myself. The window had become a candle light, and we were the moths, unable to resist its allure. I knew why he looked, but why did I?

  “Maybe you know what’s going on, but maybe you don’t,” I mumbled. “It began a while ago when I started getting phone calls from you at night. And I couldn’t make any sense out of what you were saying. Then there’ve been the times when I’ve come over at night. You weren’t exactly yourself.” A feeling of shame washed over me as though I had no right to accuse this imposing man of such lapses.

  He looked down at his hands which were folded on the table. I looked at them too. Spotted with age, threaded with ropey veins, disfigured by swollen joints, his hands looked ancient. It was a wonder those same hands once held a weapon that helped win a war. That had been bathed in blood while cradling a dying friend. That had held a woman at a USO dance, twirling her around the dance floor while she fell in love. That had held the hand of a little girl with ringlets in her hair. It seemed impossible.

  “Do you remember the burglary?” I asked. He should at least remember it since the two of us had cleaned up the mess during broad daylight. “I’ve been thinking about what happened. I mean, there wasn’t any sign of forced entry, and you didn’t want to call the police.”