The Bad Kid
Page 15
WATCH WHERE YOU STEP
Know thyself, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.
—Sun Tzu, philosopher
When I got to Guillaume’s, it was late afternoon. The front door was still locked, so I cut through a dark, stinky alley and slipped through the side door to the kitchen.
Cooks wearing white jackets and orthopedic shoes chopped meat, boiled bones, and twirled around each other like dancers with knives on a stage of smoke and flames. Chef Guillaume stood beside a woman covered with vegetable tattoos. He opened his arms wide. “Comment ça va, Claudeline?”
“Hunky-dory,” I said. “You?”
Guillaume puffed his cheeks. “Stress, always, suffering. But no matter. My soul has developed a taste for misfortune. That’s Camus. French philosophy, hmm?”
“That stuff’ll kill you, Guillaume.”
“Stress, yes, I know it,” he said.
“Not stress,” I said. “Philosophy.”
I pushed open the double doors to the front of the house (that’s “dining room,” in restaurant lingo) and observed. Dim lights. Empty tables. My mother, sitting on the banquette (restaurant lingo for “padded bench”), rubbing leather menu covers with oil.
I took a seat across from her and played with the white flower in the glass vase.
“’Sup, Mom,” I said.
Observe Mom, zapping me with her eyes like they’re a metal detector. “Who wants to know?”
Me, playing it casual. “Oh, nobody. Hey, I just thought of something. You know that neighborhood girl who is sick? Astrid, or Ant-face, or whatever?”
“You don’t know her name?”
“Allison?”
Mom, rolling her eyes. “Why are you so fascinated with this subject? There are people in this world who pretend to be something they are not, because they are slime! What else I can tell you?”
Me. “Huh?”
Mom, wiping under her eye like she’s fixing a makeup problem: “Tired of thinking about this junk already today.”
Me. “Wait. What are you saying?”
Mom. “What did I say?”
“Are you telling me you’re not friends with Alma Lingonberry?” says me.
“I am reiterating to you that there is no such person,” says Mom.
“You know Alma isn’t real?” I yell.
“How many times have I told you that?” is what Mom yells back.
“You have definitely never told me that!” yells me.
“Well, how obvious is it?” yells Mom. “What, it’s not obvious?”
Me, forcing a laugh that I can only describe as sounding like a fake poet fake dying. “Of course it’s obvious! I’m just saying! So why do you always have her flyers? And—”
Mom, stopping me with her hand. Her wedding ring, catching the light, shooting it another direction. “I remove those eyesores from the streets. But—as you know—somebody in our family spends a fair amount of time stealing them from me. Half paranoid I see ’em back out on the same poles I snatched ’em off of, but that seems like an awful lot of effort for you.”
Observe my brain, break-dancing out of the restaurant, down the street, up an imaginary fire escape into the clouds.
Me, saying, “Dad.”
Mom, folding napkins: “Dad what?”
“Dad’s been—” Dad’s been taking your flyers, without telling you. I don’t even believe myself.
Mom, looking down her long nose and arching her eyebrows: “Right, Claude. Dad’s been taking the flyers I’ve been ripping down every night on my way home from work. Not you. Well then, I guess I’ll talk to Dad about leaving my stuff alone. Seriously can’t figure out what your obsession is with this, Claude. It’s not like you’re the type those slimeballs target.”
Target? Who is Alma Lingonberry, a sniper?
I can’t resist. “What type of person do they target?”
“Lonely individuals,” says Mom. “Highly sheltered people who’ve got no clue how life is in the streets.”
The first time I open my mouth, all that comes out is a sigh. Where to begin, with that comment?
Me, putting my head in my hands. “So who’s doing this, Mom? Who is Alma Lingonberry? It’s back to being Dad. But then again, it ain’t Dad, seeing as how he’s a rat and whatnot . . .”
Mom, slowing down. “What do you know about rats?”
Me, backing up. I don’t wanna tell her I’ve been spying on Dad yet. Not until I know more.
“Dad’s a rat, you know? Like a dude who keeps the night owls company? Fat, beady-eyed? King of the rodents?”
“What night owls?” says Mom, and then, “Wait. Who’s fat? Dad?”
Which I pretend not to hear, and the rats trail off into the long, mixed-up night.
“Listen, Claude,” says Mom, flipping her hair. “Slimeball scam artists have been around since the dawn of time. And they’re always fishing. Stay outta their nets.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I say.
“No problem,” says Mom, looking satisfied.
Let us now collect our observations and examine them.
Mom only had Alma flyers because she was taking them off the streets. It’s gonna take a while to adjust to this information, because it is insane.
My language arts teacher used to tell us, “Say everything as clearly as you can.” My mother must’ve gone to one of those low-performing schools where they tell everybody to talk in circles until the people around them are as hurt and confused as possible.
What we’re left with are two questions: Why would Dad take Mom’s flyers? And why wouldn’t he tell Mom he was doing it? Out of the corner of my eye we observe Phil, walking into the restaurant, wiping rain droplets off his bald patch. Phil could help us make sense of this, if we could get him to talk without accidentally mentioning rats. I decided to conduct another interview, on the fly.
Mom neatened her stack of polished menus. She already looked tired, and the restaurant wasn’t even open yet. For once she reminded me more of a mother than a fashion model.
“I’m gonna get some clams before we open,” said Mom. “Want some?”
I wished I could say yes. “I gotta take care of something kind of urgent right now. Tomorrow?”
“Whatever,” said Mom over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen, her gray dress moving under the soft lights like the sea when the wind passes over and the water ripples.
I headed to the bar.
Phil dropped the wet highball glass of iced pineapple juice on a cocktail napkin beside my fist. He skewered two cherries and a slick black olive with a toothpick. Glunk.
“A Claudeline special with all the bells and whistles. You’ve always had a sophisticated sensibility for a kid.”
“I don’t feel that way lately,” I said.
“Life experience. That’s all you’re missing, Claude. You still got lessons to learn out there.”
“Phil, I gotta ask you about something important.”
Behind Phil, Mom appeared in the big square window to the kitchen. When she saw me talking to Phil, she did a double take. “I thought you were leaving?”
“I am,” I said. “In five minutes.”
“Five minutes,” said Mom in her I mean it voice.
I nodded, and she disappeared.
Phil looked over his shoulder at where Mom had been. “How a woman with a face like your mother’s can curdle milk by the gallon with one look, it never made sense to me. Does it to you?”
I felt a little guilty, but I laughed.
“Learned a new word from my angel niece that describes your mother and me perfectly. Frenemies. It means friends plus enemies.” Phil cackled.
“You’re totally frenemies,” I said.
Phil hauled a rack of clean glasses from one side of the bar to the other. “Anyways, Claude, what’s up? You neighborhood punks need help working out a prank? Tell ya who’d be an easy target. That bodega on the corner by your place. Schlub works twenty-four hours a
day. Sleep deprivation. I’d clean him out bit by bit till he ain’t got nothin’ left to hock but dog chow.”
I’d stopped stealing from our bodega once I bought the green beans, but I didn’t feel like getting into the concept of thinking about other people’s feelings with Phil at the moment. No need to frighten the man.
“Not a prank, or whatever. It’s the sick-girl scam,” I said. “Alma Lingonberry.”
“Who now?” said Phil.
“The sick girl, with the flyers everywhere?”
The wrinkles around Phil’s eyes made starbursts. “Funny-lookin’ kid?”
“That’s the one,” I said. “Have you heard anything about her? On the streets, I mean.”
Phil shook his head slowly. “Kiddo, I’m too old to keep track of that kind of stuff.”
“Well, if you had to guess. Who do you think’s behind it?” I said.
“You lookin’ for a cut or somethin’?” asked Phil, winking.
“Somethin’ like that,” I said.
Phil made his bottom lip puff out and looked above me, like the answer to my question was across the street.
That’s when I remembered: There was a reason my grandfathers liked Phil’s old tavern so much. Phil knew nothing.
“I get it Phil,” I said. “If you see somethin’—”
Phil and I finished the sentence together: “Don’t say nothin’!”
When Phil’s cackling trailed off, he said, “Tell ya what, kiddo. I’ll keep my ears open, all right? For you.”
He reached for a bowl of bright yellow lemons and smiled a half smile that made me wonder, out of nowhere, if he was happy. Which made this the perfect opportunity to test out my new style of being a better listener.
“How are you feeling, Phil?” I asked.
“Tired of workin’,” he said. “You know why people become bartenders, Claude, instead of doing something really intelligent?”
“Why?” I asked.
Phil grabbed a cutting board and a knife. “I was askin’.”
I hopped off my stool. “I’ll keep my ears open,” I said. “For you.”
When I got home, I texted Brett and Lala. Mom’s off the hook. Waiting for Dad. Then I settled in on the green leather couch. Streetlights and a lonely tune from a distant saxophone seeped in through the windows. I listened for a while, then turned on the television and started flipping channels. I hit a rerun of Law & Order about a cop who went psycho, and I fell asleep.
In the middle of the night I noticed Dad beside me, watching a cooking channel with the volume low. I was covered in a blanket, and my sandals were off. I cuddled my head against his leg. He felt cozy, for a rat.
“Too loud?” whispered Dad.
“Hm-mh,” I said, already back asleep.
When I caught myself, I bolted upright.
“Dad!” I yelled.
Dad jumped. “Nightmare?” He put his hand on my back.
“Dad,” I said. I checked all his earrings, the silver hoops and balls and the black scorpion, and all his rings, the fish and the knots and the silver bands. He was my dad no matter what. He was here, and he was alive.
Dad waved his hand in front of my eyes. “Are you awake?”
While I’d been asleep, an idea had flown into my brain. It was flapping its wings and kicking my head like a rooster in a cockfight. I had to grab its leg before it flew away. But first, the truth.
“Father, I need you to be completely honest about something,” I said.
Dad chuckled. “Father?”
I gave him my statue stare. “Why are you helping Alma Lingonberry? You do know the whole thing is a scam.”
“You sound like Mom,” said Dad. “Fine. You wanna talk about this?”
I threw my hands in the air. “Ya think?!”
Dad stretched his neck and cracked his knuckles. “Claude, you gotta understand. Growing up like your mother did, Sara doesn’t trust nobody. But me? I remember when my ma was dying. It was rough. I am all for that stuff—making friends, lending hands, and what have you. For a while I was embarrassed. The guys gave me a hard time. Believe that. But you know what, Daughter? Lately, I feel good about me. See, I made changes. Me and the guys are gonna raise a few thousand more for that kid too. Mom can live her life paranoid if she needs to. Taking those things down as fast as I can put them back up. We’re Heckle and Jeckle out there.”
To be sure I was all the way awake, I pulled out an arm hair.
I yelped.
Unbelievable.
Only one question remained.
“Who are Heckle and Jeckle and what do they have to do with this?”
“Old-school cartoon,” said Dad, smiling, with the teeth.
My parents weren’t evil. They were just insane, like everybody else.
I sighed, like, four times.
Dad pointed at me. “See, I told your mom we should get you checked for asthma. That stupid expressway makes all the kids sick—”
“It’s not asthma, Father. I am fried. And I got a favor to ask.”
The idea, from my dream. I wasn’t sure about the details yet, but (minus the dancing piranhas and the singing snowman) it felt like the next step.
“Name it, shorty,” said Dad.
“I need an appointment ASAP with your man in the FBI. It ain’t about Grandpa; I’ll let you handle that.”
“You what?” said Dad.
“A meeting,” I said. “That’s the next step.”
I rubbed the inside of my ear and yawned loud as I snuggled beside Dad’s leg. Sleep was dragging me off again, and I had no desire to fight it.
Dad lowered his voice. “How do you know about the FBI, Claude? Seriously. Is it obvious?”
“Not at all, Simon,” I mumbled. “And feel free to let me know if you have any other questions. But maybe make it tomorrow.”
Dad chuckled. “Well, I’d rather introduce you to the FBI than have you bugging me about taking over Pop’s business.” He tucked my hair behind my ear. “The next step, huh? You know what Grandpa used to say about you? ‘Claudeline walks a few steps ahead of the rest of us.’”
“Which means what?” I mumbled.
“It means you’re smarter than we are.” Dad patted my back. “He was right about that much.”
Smart, I thought. I’ll take it.
That’s when sleep yanked me onto the last car of its train, right as the doors were closing.
GOTCHA!
Interviewer: What kind of advice would you give to young people today?
Ágnes Heller, philosopher: None. When I was young I hated it when old people gave me advice.
The next morning, the N train was crammed with passengers. They sat, stood, dangled, and got smashed into smears against doors. Arms floated free from bodies. Strangers practically slow-danced. On the benches, rear ends were wedged so tightly together that when one budged, the whole row went pop! If you dropped your phone, you knew it was never coming back. I cradled mine in my fist and texted Brett and Lala to give them the update: Dad’s off the hook. Heading to FBI interview. Meet at Green-Wood Cemetery, 4PM.
Dad and I were sitting on top of each other, but he was politely looking away to give me my phone privacy. Normally, he took a car service to his meetings with his Friend Downtown. That’s the code I was using in public for his FBI agent—I think I got it from a movie, maybe? But I convinced him to ride the subway. I wanted to feel the whole city hugging me, propping me up, as I got closer to meeting the person who was taking down Grandpa’s business. Even if it was the right thing to do, I still felt sad about it.
A rush-hour train also seemed like the best place to convince Dad that Alma Lingonberry was a fraud. There’s nothing realer than being an ingredient in a massive human sandwich. I figured it’d help him Snap out of it!
“Baffled” is kinda like “scowling”—another word I’ve never heard anybody use in real life. But baffled is what Dad was when I told him the Alma story, from the beginning.
“So you wer
e friends with her?” said Dad. “And she punked you?”
“And Lala,” I said. “And Brett’s mom, and you, and—”
“But so, okay,” said Dad, who was using one hand to keep a large butt in purple stretch pants from nuzzling itself against his cheek. “And you know the kid is not real . . . how?”
He made me explain everything about fifty times. I lingered over the Ferris wheel part, broke down some Chinese philosophy, and threw in some stuff about hearing Grandpa’s warbled voice from the grave, and how even though he was speaking Russian, I somehow understood every word, which was when Dad said, “I think I’ve heard enough, kid.”
“So you believe me?” I asked.
The train whirred in the background. Dad shook his head. “You’re saying your gut instinct tells you she’s not real. Sara said the same thing—but she assumes everybody has something to hide. I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to decide now,” I said. “Let me explain everything to your Friend Downtown.”
“Yeah, well, that dude is his own nonsense,” said Dad.
“What dude? Your Friend Downtown?” I asked.
Dad nodded.
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it,” said Dad, as he leaned his head back against the darkened subway window. “You’re so far ahead of me, Claude, it’s embarrassing.”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “You’re in the lead.”
“Yeah?” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
As soon as I said it, I knew it was true. Dad had some serious courage, ratting to the FBI. If I was feeling sad, he must’ve been feeling something way more complicated. I made a mental note to ask him about that later, when we weren’t on public transportation.
When the train pulled into our stop, we did a mini fist bump (which was all we had room for), shimmied through the crowd, saying, “Excuse me, excuse me, thank you, excuse me,” and leaped onto the platform.
“It’s prob’ly a ten-minute walk from here,” said Dad. “But I always get a black-and-white cookie from this guy on the corner first.”
“Aw!” I said. “It’s your treat for showing up, right?”
“Doesn’t hurt,” said Dad. “Want one?”