Criss Cross

by Lynne Rae Perkins

  They greeted each other, then Dan said, “So, what happened to your legs?”

  He asked with genuine interest. The man, who introduced himself and shook Dan’s hand, found that refreshing. It was a pleasant change from the more frequent reactions of pretending not to notice that he didn’t have legs, or ignoring him completely. He didn’t blame anyone, but this felt better. He told Dan, briefly, how he had been separated from his legs. It was a war story.

  “That sucks,” said Dan. What he said was exactly true, and heartfelt. He asked the guy a few questions about how fast he could go, how much ground he covered in a day, how high a surface he could lift himself up to, then their conversation shifted to other topics. Sports. The heat wave.

  Dan’s bus came. He said, “See you around,” and got on.

  He had been a decent human being without even trying, or thinking about it. He could do that.

  Now, with an equal lack of effort, he handed the driver a transfer he had found on the sidewalk and took the last available seat. Casting his gaze outside the window, he pretended not to notice the woman with a toddler on her hip who had gotten on behind him.

  First come, first served, he thought.

  The scales tipped back and forth. It was so hard to tell what he might come back as in another life, or even who he would turn out to be in this one.

  CHAPTER 33

  A Pig Roast

  When Phil mentioned that there was going to be a block party on their street, Hector said, “Hey, maybe I should bring up my guitar and play a few songs.”

  Phil looked over at his friend and said, “Are you serious?”

  “I need to practice playing in front of people,” said Hector. “Do you think it would be okay?”

  Phil shrugged.

  “I guess so,” he said. “I don’t think anybody would care. But are you thinking that people will be, like, paying attention, or singing along? Because if it’s more than one or two songs, I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “That’s okay,” said Hector. “I can be background music. Or if it seems really stupid, I can always just stop. Or not do it. What else is going to happen?”

  “Nothing,” said Phil. “It’s just a party, like a picnic, in the middle of the street. They’re going to put roadblocks at both ends. We’ll drag out everybody’s picnic tables and put them all together. The big event of the evening is that Lenny and his dad are going to roast a pig.”

  “They’re going to roast a pig?” echoed Hector.

  “A whole pig,” said Phil. “They made their own pig roaster.”

  “A pig roast,” said Hector. “So it’s going to be kind of like a luau.”

  “Hnh,” said Phil, a sound that was not quite a laugh. It was about one-sixth of a laugh. “Only in that one small way,” he said. “In every other way, it won’t be anything like a luau.”

  “I wonder if I have time to learn ‘Tiny Bubbles,'” mused Hector. It was the only Hawaiian song he knew, although the only Hawaiian thing about it was that it was sung by a singer named Don Ho, who was from Hawaii.

  “I wouldn’t go to any trouble,” said Phil. He could almost see Hector’s brain working.

  “It’s a great song,” said Hector. “I’d want to learn it anyway.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Roasting the Pig

  Leon and Lenny had made the pig roaster themselves, out of an old fuel oil tank they found in their basement. In a way, that’s how the block party got started, because once you make a pig roaster, you want to try it out, and it takes a lot of people to eat a pig. And a lot of hours to roast one.

  They got out of bed at three in the morning and bumped softly down the dim, blurry hallway into the kitchen. Lenny flicked on the light over the sink and they both stood there, frowning and squinting. Leon plugged the cord of the waiting percolator into its waiting wall socket, the red light went right on, and the gurgling started up. It sounded so awake.

  Outside in the cool quiet of the night, they started the truck and drove the roaster to a spot on the side of the street that was close to where the party would be, near the streetlight, and where there would be shade most of the day. Leon emptied the bags of charcoal into the bottom of the tank and fussed around getting it to burn, while Lenny lifted down a sawhorse with reflectors nailed onto it and a couple of lawn chairs. They were both trying to be quiet; every bump and scrape seemed to tear holes in the silence. Far off, down by the river, a train blew its whistle and rumbled through town. Another person awake.

  “Go see if that coffee is ready and put it in the thermos,” said Leon, the first words that had been spoken aloud.

  “Okay,” said Lenny. He was feeling somewhat alert now.

  In the kitchen he poured the coffee into the thermos. He screwed on the lid that was like a plug, then the one that was a cup, and then he thought maybe he would have a cup, too. He took a mug from the cupboard and poured some half-and-half into it. He considered the bowl of sugar cubes and put five cubes in his pocket.

  After they got the pig into the roaster, Leon said that Lenny should go back to bed. But Lenny said he wasn’t tired. So they sat there in the lawn chairs on the asphalt, just out of the reach of the streetlight. A pleasant warmth radiated from the roaster. They sipped their coffee. Lenny had tasted coffee before, without getting what the big attraction was. He didn’t really get it now, either. The warmth of it was nice, though, in the chilly hours before dawn. It felt nice in his hands. The taste was almost tolerable with the half-and-half. He had dropped in one sugar cube, but he hadn’t brought anything along to stir it with, so it was dissolving at the bottom of the cup, waiting down there in a soft tasty lump.

  Leon smiled to himself as Lenny’s head started to bob. Who but a kid could fall asleep sitting up in a lawn chair, drinking coffee? He gently removed the cup from Lenny’s hands and set it on the street, then reached into the truck, pulled out a jacket, and draped it carefully around Lenny’s shoulders. Lenny’s eyelids fluttered, then closed again.

  Leon sat back down and poured himself a little more coffee. He was used to being awake in the middle of the night. He liked it. A cricket was chirping, slowly. There was a way of telling the temperature by how far apart the chirps were. Faster chirping meant warmer air, which everyone knew, but it was more precise than that, you could multiply it by some number, he thought, and get the temperature. And locusts, which made a lot of noise, too, but in the daytime, had a seven-year cycle. So you would know seven years had gone by, just in case you weren’t keeping track. Or was it seventeen years? He closed his eyes while he tried to remember which it was. It felt good to have his eyes closed, and he forgot to think about it, whatever it was he had been thinking about.

  CHAPTER 35

  Sarong

  The coincidental thing was that Hawaiian music seemed to include guitars. Hector found a picture in a magazine of a luau and there was definitely a guy playing a guitar. The outfit the guy was wearing was pretty wild. He was wearing an ordinary white shirt with a button-down collar. The sleeves were rolled up halfway. But then, instead of pants, he was wearing something that must have been a sarong, of shimmering silk, and then flip-flops. He also wore, of course, a lei of flowers. It was an unexpected combination, the oxford shirt and the sarong, but the more he looked at it, the more authentic it seemed. It looked really good, in fact. Hector had an oxford shirt. He also happened to have a sarong. Or at least he knew where to find one.

  “Wait a minute,” said Rowanne. “Who said you could use that?”

  “Will you help me tie it?”

  He showed Rowanne the picture in the magazine.

  “I have a gig at a luau,” he said. “Actually, it’s just a block party, but they’re roasting a pig.”

  “Someone hired you?” she asked.

  “Not exactly,” he said. “Actually, they don’t even know I’m coming. Well, Phil knows. It’s on his street.”

  “I see,” said Rowanne. She studied the picture carefully.

  They
tried several approaches to wrapping her India-print bedspread around Hector before they came up with an arrangement that both resembled a sarong and would not fall off.

  “Your cutoffs are making it lumpy.”

  “I’m not taking off my cutoffs,” said Hector.

  “Well, can you at least take your wallet out of your pocket?”

  “The shirt hangs over that part anyway; it won’t show. Can I borrow your flip-flops?”

  When Hector put on his shirt and slung the guitar over his shoulder, he and Rowanne were both surprised at how well he had turned out. The fabric was bunched up in some uncomfortable places that made him think that the Hawaiian guys must do it a little differently, but visually it had the right effect.

  “It would be even better if I had a lei,” he said.

  “Oh, well,” said Rowanne. “You have nice calves,” she observed. “No, really,” she said, when he looked to see if she was being sarcastic. “It’s interesting. I don’t know why, but wearing a skirt makes your legs suddenly seem very masculine. Too bad you don’t live in Hawaii. Because except for this special occasion, I don’t think you could pull it off here.”

  In light of that thought, she added, “Do you want a ride?”

  “It’s only a fifteen-minute walk.”

  “Fifteen minutes in Seldem in a sarong?”

  Hector wasn’t worried about walking around Seldem in a sarong. He had always been able to get away with things. The flip side was that no one took him seriously. But he wasn’t worried about that right now, either.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I can do it. But can you pick me up later? Like at ten-thirty or eleven? Unless I call earlier.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Flip-Flop, Necklace

  Hector ran across the street to beat a car that was coming down the hill. It was a stupid thing to do in a sarong and flip-flops carrying a guitar case, especially when he was not even used to walking in flip-flops. He should have waited, but oh, well. One of the flip-flops came off and he had to finish crossing with one off and one on and wait for the car to pass. It drove right over the flip-flop, but the flip-flop was resilient. A little soiled, but still springy. When he picked it up, he saw something that had not been so lucky. A gold necklace lay flattened, embedded in a patch of tar.

  No cars were coming just then, and he picked at a part of the necklace with his fingernail until it lifted free. As he gently tugged the rest of it up, it left behind a precise impression of itself. He carried it with him back to the sidewalk and took a closer look.

  The chain seemed to be okay, but the catch was broken and the middle was damaged. It had several little hooked-together pieces, letters maybe, that seemed to have been folded over before being driven on many times. Hector pried them open to see what the secret message from the universe would be. But it wasn’t a secret message. It was a girl’s name. The bent letters spelled out Debbie.

  Hector considered it, then put it in his shirt pocket, picked up his guitar, and headed up the hill. He could present it to Debbie Pelbry at the block party, as a sort of a joke. It could be funny. He could make her laugh.

  CHAPTER 37

  On the Roof

  Having wandered aimlessly into the Karposkis’ backyard, someone noticed the ladder leaning against the house. Almost but not quite without thinking they climbed it, up onto the lower part of the roof, then from there to the higher section of the split-level roof. They sat up there like a flock of large birds along the peak, roosting in the dark. Hector had removed his sarong for easier climbing, and wrapped it around his shoulders like a shawl.

  The adults down at the block party floated through the mellow colored lights like fish in an aquarium. They moved into a conga line, each person’s hands on the shoulders or hips of the person in front, winding around and bouncing. The music from the record player was blurred by the distance, so were their laughter and shouts. Watching was compelling and hypnotic, like gazing into a fire in the fireplace. Like children at the fireplace, the youths on the roof faced into the glow, their faces, shins, and forearms glowing, with darkness all around them. This cozy observation was made in the murky recesses of Hector’s mind, and when he began singing “chestnuts roasting on an open fire” in a Mel Torme voice, even he didn’t know why. But it seemed like a good idea. Everyone thought so. They all joined in.

  Rowanne, who had parked the car next to the roadblock, walked up the dark street and heard Hector’s voice above the others. She smiled to herself and followed it. When she reached the Karposkis’ house she saw them and, between verses, called up softly, How did you get up there? Someone called back about the ladder, and she went around and climbed up, too.

  By that time the song was ending, and conversations sprouted along the roofline while they watched the party/aquarium/bonfire, or just enjoyed sitting on a roof in the dark, bracing themselves slightly on the rough shingles against the slant.

  Hector asked Rowanne over his shoulder if they could stay a little longer and she said sure. Planting one foot up on the higher level, she hauled herself up onto an available space at the close end, beside Debbie, who said, “Hi.”

  Rowanne said, “Hi,” too, and for a minute or so they sat there, quietly. Then Rowanne, who was more of a conversationalist, said, “So, how’s it going? Are you having a good summer?”

  “It’s okay,” said Debbie. “Parts of it have been pretty good.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Rowanne. “Which parts?” When Debbie hesitated, she said, “I bet they’re romantic parts. Are they?”

  “Maybe,” said Debbie. “I’m not sure.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Rowanne. “Sometimes it’s pretty unclear. At least in my experience. Which I don’t have that much of.”

  “Do you think,” said Debbie, “that if someone comes into your life for a really short time and then disappears forever, that it counts?”

  “Counts?” echoed Rowanne. “As what? As a romance?”

  “I think that’s what I mean,” said Debbie.

  “How short?” asked Rowanne. “Five minutes? An hour? A day?”

  “A few days,” said Debbie. “Three and a half days, spread out over a week.”

  “You’re not talking about one of those carnival guys, are you?” asked Rowanne.

  “No,” said Debbie.

  “I think it can count,” said Rowanne. “I think everything counts.”

  “Do you know Miss Spransy?” asked Debbie. “The piano teacher? Actually, she’s Mrs. Szebo now.”

  “I’ve heard her name,” said Rowanne, “but I don’t know her.”

  “I used to take lessons from her,” said Debbie. “She lives in a tiny little house up in Birdvale. When I was taking lessons from her, her mother lived there, too. It was her mother’s house. Her mother was pretty old, and Miss Spransy was getting older, too, I don’t know how old. A little older than middle-aged, I think, but she had never gotten married, or even left home, as far as I know. I used to wonder about it; she was pretty, I thought. And you could tell she had been even prettier when she was younger. She had nice eyes, really kind eyes, and she was sort of skinny and elegant, although she was starting to thicken up around the middle and get wrinkly. She had kind of a long nose. She always wore a dress and dress shoes, and she always wore a cardigan with a little chain holding the front together but a few inches apart. And she always had a folded Kleenex stuffed up her sleeve.

  “I used to wonder if she had ever had a boyfriend. If she had gone out on dates when she was younger. I wondered if someone had broken her heart, and she could never love anyone again. Or maybe she had loved someone and he died.

  “The piano was in their living room. The living room was tiny, and the piano was a baby grand. There was an organ in there, too. There were doilies and afghans everywhere. I think the two of them crocheted all the time.

  “I remember seeing an article in the Sunday paper, about drawings and paintings made by people who were mentally ill. They showed pictures of fo
ur paintings that a mentally ill person had made, all of cats.”

  “I saw that,” said Rowanne. “The first painting looked pretty normal; the cat looked like a cat. But as the person fell deeper into mental illness—it was schizophrenia, I think—there started to be jagged electric outlines around all of the shapes, and in each painting there were more and more of the jagged outlines in these wild, neon colors until the cat almost completely disappeared.”

  “Except for its eyes,” said Debbie. “And its pointy ears.”

  “Right,” said Rowanne. “They were bizarre. They were beautiful in a way so that you almost thought, ‘Oh, this person is mentally ill, but it’s okay, because they can live in their own world and make these beautiful paintings,’ but then there was also something scary about the paintings so you knew that it was a scary world, and that the person needed to be rescued.”

  “That’s true,” said Debbie. “But I guess I wasn’t thinking about the scary part—I was just thinking about the bright colors right next to each other so they made your eyes vibrate, and how the patterns became so complicated that you had to look to find the cat.

  “Because I saw the article, and a couple of days later I went for my lesson, and when I walked in the door there were all the afghans everywhere, in fluorescent stripes and neon patterns, and with the white doilies on dark wood, and the patterns in the wallpaper and the rug and the upholstery fabric, Miss Spransy and her mother in their patterned dresses almost disappeared into the room. Until they moved. It reminded me of those paintings. It almost seemed like a form of camouflage.”