Bones of a Saint

by Grant Farley

  “And how long have you been charging kids for ‘protecting’ them on public streets?”

  He stops laughing. Now he’s thinking about it.

  “Besides,” I say, keeping it rolling so he can’t think on it too long, “guys will want to pay.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Paying makes them a part of it. If they want to be a part of it—and who won’t want to be a part of someone dying on the Banzai Run—they gotta pay. You can even say I won’t do it unless you raise so much money. Like one of those events where guys run so many miles for charity.”

  “I like that . . . a benefit fundraiser for the Blackjacks. You know, if you weren’t such a loser, you could have been sitting here one day.” His hand reaches out, and his fingers curl for me to move closer. He leans forward like it’s just the two of us. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says in a singsong voice. “You’re thinking you might be able to survive that Run. In fact, maybe . . . just maybe you got an angle. Some angle I haven’t thought about yet. Yeah, that would be just like you.”

  “Yeah. I got an angle. And I’ll tell you.”

  “Well?”

  “The angle is that I don’t care if I make it or not.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’m free either way. If I make it, I’m free. If I don’t make it, then I’m free in a different way.”

  “Welcome to Suicide City. It runs through your family.”

  His words gut-punch me.

  He spreads his lips and shows his teeth like he’s supposed to be smiling. “I’m beginning to like this idea.” Then his mouth tightens and his voice goes so low I lean closer to hear. “If I think you’re holding back on that Run, if I so much as suspect you’re not going all out, the deal is off. Then you’ll be begging to die quick.”

  “There’s only one way to do the Banzai.” I breathe slow and deep. “Balls out.”

  “Then it’s set. You’ll do it Friday. Seven thirty a.m. And no helmet, or any of that other new BMX armor crap.”

  “Can’t afford it, even if I cared.”

  “And if you chicken out, or you try and pull a fast one, then think about your brother.”

  “Charley? What’s that supposed to mean? He’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “He does now.”

  “He’s only a pain in the ass, anyway.”

  “Nice try. You screw us over, do any double crosses, and it won’t just be you that suffers.”

  “Then there’s two sides to that deal. If I do make the run, no matter how it turns out, you leave Charley alone.”

  The wicker chair groans as he makes a half shrug, half nod.

  I turn to leave.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot to tell you,” he says.

  I turn back, still feeling the ache in my gut.

  “We know about your little scheme.”

  “What scheme?”

  “Where you been getting the loot.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about how you’ve been buying stuff instead of stealing it from the old man. We’ve had a great time watching you. Nice of you to spend all your money at that old witch’s Emporium, and still leave all the old man’s stuff for us to take when we want.”

  I turn to leave again. There’s nothing else to say.

  “No matter what happens, RJ,” he calls, “the old man is ours. This deal don’t got nothing to do with him.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Neon Blues

  I’m kneeling on the hardpack dirt in front of Charley, who’s stretched out in a beach chair in the shade of the Silverstream as I wash his messed-up foot one last time. Mom has taken the other sibs for the afternoon, and I want to finish with Charley before they get home. The odor of Epsom salt, baking soda, and rosemary swirling in warm water wafts out of the old pickle bucket next to me.

  I massage deep into the muscles, feeling how the foot has now stretched longer than a child’s and spread wider than mine. Only one toenail is left, and it’s not clear which toe it nails. At least there aren’t sores and blisters no more. Instead, the heel and arch have hardened into deep callouses that’ll keep him from hurting.

  “I don’t know about you, Charley, but I’m thinking our toe show days are long gone.” I knead my thumbs into the ball of the foot, digging for pain, but he only returns that smile. “You still think there’s some Greater Purpose to it all?”

  He nods.

  “Damn you.” I might feel like one of those shoe salesladies, but there’s no way I’m dripping any tears on that sorry appendage. No freaking way. I dry the pink skin with an old cloth and then slide the Chuck back on. He don’t wear socks. Then I stand, lug the bucket over to the weeds, toss out that gunky mess, and return to Charley. He’s still sitting there like some garden cherub.

  “You think you’re some kind of prince just ’cause I massaged your feet again? Lace up and follow me. I ain’t done with you yet.”

  I lead our sorry two-kid pilgrimage to the unlit cante bury.

  “You might have to take over the sign, so pay attention.”

  Charley stands facing me beneath the tubes.

  “This time of day is called the blue hour. You know, when it’s not day no more, but it’s not night, either? That’s the best time to do the sign.”

  Even though other guys are freaked by his stare, I’ll honestly miss it. I lug the rickety aluminum ladder under the sign and unfold it. Then I pull the old sock out of my back pocket.

  “Take this. No, it ain’t for your foot. You’re going to need to clean the sign once in a while. But you shouldn’t use soap and water, or any of that spray stuff. You got that? So what I do is, I wear the sock like a glove. That way I can feel the curve of the tube through my hand. Then I run the sock over the tubes to wipe off the dirt.”

  Charley nods and pulls the sock over his perfect little hand.

  “Okay, here’s the tricky part.” I hold the bottom of the ladder. “You’re gonna climb up.”

  He grabs the metal and lifts his good foot onto the first rung, then pulls the big foot after it. The ladder shifts. I hold it still. He climbs the second step and it wobbles and I clutch it tighter. A third step and more wobbling and I brace my feet. I look up. He’s high enough to reach the C, but he’s going to need another step to touch the rest of the word. I wrap my arms around the ladder.

  “Okay. One more.”

  The wobbling stops. He’s drifted into his safe place, and the ladder’s gone perfectly still. I don’t have to hold it now, but I do just in case. He runs his socked hand gently along the C and up the A, and then steps to the top rung to reach the highest curve.

  “That’s enough. Come on down now.”

  He descends as easily as some wannabe angel out of the sky, and then I wrestle the ladder to the other side and we do it all over. When he’s back on solid ground again, I hug him.

  “Good job. Look at me.” I make sure he zeroes in on my eyeballs. “You never do this alone. You have the twins, or Amy if you can get her to do it, spot the ladder for you. Now you take the ladder and collapse it.”

  He wrestles it down, but I don’t help him.

  “Okay, now slide the ladder under the ivy there against the fence. Even if someone sees it there, they won’t bother to steal that clunky thing.”

  Then I kneel below the sign and find the heavy plug in the weeds.

  “It’s grounded, so it’s pretty safe. Still, don’t try this if it’s raining, or even foggy. The socket is down here against the supporting post.” I look up to see if he’s paying attention, and he nods. “It’s the argon that gives the tubes their blue. But the gas ain’t getting to that middle section no more. Nothing we can do about that now.”

  I plug it in, and cante bury buzzes and then hums. I stand. Charley and me are bathed in that blue
light.

  “I’m going to need you tomorrow, Charley.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s for the Banzai Run.”

  “I know.”

  “Tomorrow, you’re going to be my squire, like back in King Arthur days. A knight always had a squire to stand by him and hand him his shield or whatever, and then he’d watch him win the joust or kill the dragon, that kind of thing. You’ll do that. Be my squire.”

  “What about Manny?” he asks.

  “What about him?”

  “Won’t he be there?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “He don’t want to be a part of it.”

  I wait for the next why, but he just nods.

  “I might get hurt tomorrow. You understand?”

  He nods again.

  “I mean real bad hurt.”

  Charley’s body goes still and he begins to drift into that invisible place.

  “Stop it.” I grab his shoulders and stare into his eyes. “I see you, Charley. I see you.”

  “You’re hurting me,” he says.

  “Well, you save your superpower thing in case you run across Blackjacks. Don’t waste it on me.” My fingernails are dug into his shoulder, and I pull back.

  “Okay.”

  “One last thing. The old man at the Miller place. He’s close to dying, but—”

  “I’m sorry, RJ.”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?”

  “I should have been a better lookout. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

  “Have you been thinking it was your fault this whole time?”

  He nods.

  “Oh, Charley.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Banzai

  I straddle the great Banzai Flyer at the top of the Run.

  “This is stupid.” Charley is sitting on the curb next to the Stingray that’s now his, staring and muttering.

  Even at seven thirty a.m. it’s hot and sticky. There’s a low, sad fog that’ll burn off sometime on the other side of this. I smell my own scared sweat and the bike’s wax and oil and the asphalt underneath.

  “This is the stupidest.”

  “You’re not sounding like a squire, Charley. You got to be strong.”

  Guys stand in clusters down the run. The Banzai Flyer deserves better. I guess I pictured something heroic with the sun shining off the Flyer and crowds of people cheering and screaming and then I soar down the Run like a flipped-out tumbler. Whatever happens, it won’t be that.

  Damn you, Manny. I thought for sure he’d be here last-minute.

  My eyes make one last pretend run: Down that first steep block that gives you the speed and on into the first intersection. No problem. There’s a stop sign going the other way, so as soon as a car brakes, the driver will look up and see you Banzai-ing down the run and have a spaz attack and let you fly on by. Down the second block with a second stop sign. A heavy-duty bump to handle right in the middle of the road. Down the third block to the first traffic light. An official lookout is waiting there. He’ll eyeball the street going the other way and lift his arms up in the all-clear sign. Down two more blocks and another light. Another official lookout. Down the last block, where the Banzai Run dumps onto Murietta Street at a T intersection. As you cross that intersection, you angle for that crazy driveway that takes you onto Mr. Anderson’s tomato field.

  I twist the taped-up handlebars, waiting for both lookouts to have their arms raised at the same time. That’ll be the signal to go for it. The theory is that if you’re fast enough and lucky enough, you can make it through both lights. Of course, since no one has really made it, it’s only a theory. The two official lookouts are Jokers.

  Then I see Theresa sitting on the roof of a house halfway down the Run, where she has a clear view all the way to the end. Her knees are up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs. Her ponytail is undone and her hair hangs around her shoulders like a shawl.

  What sucks—really sucks—is that seeing her makes me care whether I’ll make it.

  The Ace stands at the bottom of the Run.

  The first lookout has his arms raised.

  There’s one small problem with the Great Banzai Flyer. The brakes. It’s got pedal brakes, but if you lean back with all your weight, the best you can hope for is a big hum and a little slow. There’s no point even thinking about brakes now. I’m going to the bottom all-out. No brakes. No slowing. No matter what.

  The second lookout is raising his arms so that both lookouts got their arms all the way raised at the same time.

  “This is ultra stupid.” Charley stares at the curb, refusing to look down the Run.

  A sound drifts up at me from the small groups of guys lining the street: “Banzai, Ban-ZAI, BAN-ZAI!”

  I lean back and push off, my toes giving a last grab at the asphalt.

  “BBBAAAANNNNNNNZZZZZIIIII!”

  My stomach drops down to my butt as I fly off the end of the world. The wind sucks my scream inside out. I’m in for the ride and nothing can stop it now.

  I scrunch up near the handlebars, squinting my eyes against the wind . . . my feet trying to push through the pedals . . . my whole body all-out scared.

  “BAN-ZAI!” rips out of the wind as I fly past the first group of guys.

  The tape on the handlebars is soaked with sweat. But this isn’t how it should be. If I’m going to fly, it’s got to be full-bore crazy. I force myself to sit up. Screw all of them! Then something happens. I stop moving. One second my tires are spinning a mile a minute and I’m flying by parked cars and light posts, and then it’s like I’m stopped. Just sitting there. And the world is flying by me. Car door handles and hubcaps shoot past going uphill, curb numbers wiggle by like supersonic worms, the asphalt rolls by underneath me, and I’m just sitting there, kicking back, feeling the ground spin.

  “BAN-ZAI, BAN-ZAI, BAN-ZAI.” The chant drifts past the whistling in my ears like something out of a dream.

  The first block is gone and there is no point pedaling ’cause I’m going too fast for it to do any good. I keep my eyes squinted against the wind and focus on the street—a bump or crack could mean a total wipeout.

  The first light is red for me, but the lookout has his hands raised in the all-clear sign. It wouldn’t make a difference if they weren’t. I fly through the intersection, my feet trying to push clear through the pedals. A bump in the road rushes at me, then rises up under the tires. I crouch down and lift off the seat as the bike sails into the air and comes down cleanly, back tire first. Damn, I’m hot.

  Some old guy is backing out of his driveway without even bothering to look up the street. Careless drivers are a real pain. He turns his head. We stare into each other’s eyes, and that expression on his face makes me almost laugh. He slams to a stop. But his bumper hangs out in the road right smack in front of me. I swerve and clear it with inches to spare. No problem. Until I try and straighten out. The front wheel starts to wobble right up through my gut. The cars parked along the opposite curb are flying at me. But the good old Banzai Flyer rights itself in the nick of time, and I’m zooming downhill again. Any other bike would have eaten it right there.

  Now it’s just the blur and twist of the road and the wind ripping at me. It’s like I’m in this other world where there’s no real time, no Blackjacks, no old man, no suicides.

  I’m just free-falling.

  The tires skid on oil, jerking me back to the for real, and I straighten out. The second lookout is flying at me, his arms raised in the all-clear sign. He’s laughing. He keeps looking at me, then down the street, then back at me. And all the time he’s just laughing.

  The light is red. I fly into the intersection. I don’t really see the car. More like I feel it. Barreling right down on top of me. A black force screaming at me from the right side. The squ
eal of tires. Smell of rubber. The rush of air at my backside as that car misses me by inches.

  “BAAANNNZZZAAAIIII!” I scream. Nothing can get me! I laugh. Nothing!

  I’m just free-falling . . .

  Free-falling . . .

  Freeeee!

  The bike tilts forward as it hits the last two, steepest blocks. The Ace’s face is buried in the shadow of his baseball cap.

  Anderson’s driveway is flying up at me just to the left.

  I’m past the last house and humming toward the final T intersection.

  I’m going to make it!

  And there it is, just ahead and to my right, barreling straight at where I’m going to be . . . one of those huge tractor trucks with the high wheels looking like a giant bug, hauling two trailers with slat sides bulging with tomatoes. My only chance is to clear the T and make the driveway before it passes. I fight against legs trying to push back on the brakes.

  I see the bugs splattered against the massive truck grille rushing at me.

  God, if only I could pull out and fly back up to the sky.

  The truck’s horn blasts against me.

  Screaming-humming-screeeching . . .

  A burning smell.

  Acid in my throat.

  Then I’m flying.

  Really flying.

  Blackness . . .

  . . . I wake up staring up into that empty sky.

  People are standing over me. Jesus, what a mess, some guy is saying. I know I’m hurt, but I don’t feel nothing. Except this wetness on my belly and legs. There’s this funny smell. My hand is almost too heavy to lift. I run it across my belly and legs. It touches something wet and sticky. I lift it in front of my eyes. Red.

  Then blackness . . .

  When I wake up again, I’m still in that field, except I’ve been moved. A man in a white jacket stares down at me and I’m on this stretcher thing with wheels. That huge tractor truck is halfway onto the field. The trailers are sort of rolled over in the soft ground. Man, there are tomatoes everywhere.

  “Am I dying?” I hear myself whisper.