The Absolute Value of Mike

by Kathryn Erskine

  I also posted a world map, with Romania on the right side of the screen and Pennsylvania on the left, with all those countries and that huge ocean in between. I started building a LEGO bridge from Romania to Pennsylvania, each block representing $1,000. We had just over two of the forty LEGO bricks that we needed. We were only as far as Croatia. We had a lot of building still to do. But I was determined to complete that bridge.

  “I like the LEGO idea, Mike,” Past said, “but are you sure blue is a good color? We’re about to hit the Adriatic Sea, and there’ll be a lot of blue Atlantic Ocean to cover, too.”

  I looked closely. “The oceans are more turquoise. Blue LEGOs are fine.”

  Past shrugged. “Okay, I just thought—”

  Just then, Karen buzzed up to our bench on her moped, waving a DVD. “It’s a video of Misha!”

  “Great!” I said. “Can I put it on the Internet?”

  Karen beamed. “Of course! But I want to watch it again right now, okay?”

  I popped the DVD into the laptop and scooted over next to Past. Karen sat on the other side of me as we watched the screen, waiting.

  The image began with a burst of color from bright walls and big windows, and noisy chatter, mostly from women who were bustling around a large room. There were lots of tiny tables with four kids each, sitting quietly.

  I adjusted the laptop screen to shield it from the sun and scanned the tables that were in the camera’s view, but I couldn’t find Misha. “Where is he?”

  “Behind that orphanage worker with the white uniform,” Karen said.

  “All of the women have white uniforms,” Past observed as we squinted at the screen.

  “The large woman. There.” Karen pointed to the left side of the screen.

  I craned my head around as if I could peek behind her. “Why doesn’t she move?”

  “She does,” Karen assured me. “Just wait a minute . . . there he is!”

  Misha wore a blue plaid flannel shirt and sat at a little table next to two girls, with a bigger boy across from him. They all looked expectantly at the noisy, chattering women who served plates of steaming food, pasta of some sort.

  “They’re so quiet,” Past said. “The children, I mean.”

  “And polite,” said Karen. “They don’t touch their food until everyone is served and they say grace.”

  The women were babbling away and, of course, I had no idea what they were saying since they spoke Romanian, I assumed. After everyone was served, one of the women picked up a pitcher of milk from a sideboard near Misha and went table by table, filling each kid’s plastic cup. A crash off camera stopped her just before she got to Misha’s table and she scurried away, stage right.

  “Hey, you forgot Misha!” I said.

  It was as if he’d heard me! He looked straight at the camera! Pleadingly. Just like in the posters. It was eerie.

  Then he looked offscreen where the milk pitcher had disappeared, but the woman didn’t return. He raised his hand. You could hear the commotion and several women talking at once, but no one responded to him. Finally, he sighed and put his hand down.

  The other three kids at his table stared at their empty cups but did nothing. Misha looked at them, then over at the sideboard where the milk pitchers sat, then off camera where the hustle and bustle was still going on. He stood up and walked over to the sideboard, struggling to lift a full pitcher that seemed half the size of him. The kids at his table looked at each other, wide-eyed. One of the girls giggled and covered her mouth. The bigger boy’s eyes kept darting off camera, as if he were the self-appointed lookout.

  Misha walked carefully back to the table with the heavy pitcher wobbling in his hands. The three kids stared at him as he slowly lowered the pitcher and, with his hands shaking a little, rested the pitcher on the lip of a tiny plastic cup.

  “Hold the cup!” I yelled. “Somebody hold the cup or it’s going to—”

  Too late. The cup tipped and milk splashed all over the table.

  All four kids froze, eyes wide, staring at the wet table. Slowly, Misha put the pitcher down, laid his shirtsleeves right in the mess, and moved his arms back and forth to soak up the milk. At that point, a piercing male voice made both Past and I jump. It obviously came from right behind the camera, and whatever the cameraman said brought two women over to Misha’s table. The video turned to fuzz and static, but not before you heard some shrill chatter that had to mean Misha was being scolded.

  “Hey!” I yelled at the screen.

  I felt Past’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, Mike.”

  “But he was just taking care of things since they weren’t,” I said.

  “The next part is better,” Karen promised.

  When the video came back into focus, the kids were sitting at the same tables but all the dishes had been cleared away. Misha’s wet sleeves were rolled up, but I was relieved to see that he didn’t look upset. The women sounded all chipper and in fact started to sing. A piano off camera pounded out a tune I didn’t know, but the kids obviously did because they joined in singing, along with clapping and foot stomping in time to the music. I caught Misha smiling a tiny bit at the foot-stomping parts. That would’ve been my favorite part, too. When it was over, a woman announced something and laughed nervously. The piano started slowly, and just as I was recognizing the tune, although not the woman’s words, Karen identified it for us.

  “They’re teaching the kids ‘The Itsy Bitsy Spider.’ Watch!”

  Sure enough, the kids were being taught the song in English and were trying to follow along. Well, most of them. The other boy at Misha’s table was leaning back on his chair, not really paying attention. The two girls were making a pretty good attempt at singing the song and doing the hand movements. Misha was concentrating so hard on the hand movements that he didn’t seem to be trying the words. His serious eyes darted between the demonstrator offscreen and his own hands, making the crawling-up-the-water-spout movement, then the rain coming down, then the washing out.

  Finally, at the point when I heard the woman’s voice say, haltingly, “One—more—time!” Misha went through the finger movements smoothly, and when he held up his thumbs and forefingers to make a big circle for the sun, he broke out into a huge smile! It was the first time I’d really seen him grin, and it was great.

  The camera shifted and got his face, perfectly framed inside his little hands. And I heard him say one word when he made that big circle. I swear, I heard him shout it out over everyone else. He said, “Sun!”

  14

  ZERO PROPERTY

  —adding zero to a number leaves it unchanged

  —multiplying a number by zero results in zero

  As far as I could tell, the Saint John’s Wort did nothing for Poppy. The deadwood sat in the shop, unmoving, while the unisaw and drill press made nothing but shadows every time I went into the workshop to stare at them. And Poppy still sat in his chair. The rest of us kept at it, though.

  On her way to the flea market Thursday morning, Moo dropped me at Karen’s house to start my day of filming with a video of Misha’s new home. Past didn’t come because he refused to get in Tyrone. He was even reluctant for me to get in.

  “Stay off the interstate,” he cautioned.

  “I don’t know why he worries so much,” Moo grumbled. “Tyrone knows perfectly well how to drive.”

  We got to Karen’s without any mishaps. Her house was straight out of a fairy-tale book, a brick Cape Cod with one of those wooden gnome doors, the kind that’s rounded at the top. The inside was fairy tale-ish, too, and I saw every inch of it, including the kitchen sink, table, and fridge, because Karen made me film everything.

  “Don’t forget Mr. Bubble,” she said in the bathroom. “Oh, and here’s his Superman toothbrush!”

  In the bedroom I had to film each drawer of his dresser, including his “big boy” underwear, then his soccer bedspread, the toy chest, and the bookcase full of books. When she started reading each one out loud,
I finally had to stop her. She looked surprised.

  “Can we limit it to just the books on the top shelf?” I asked.

  It was definitely a video that would need heavy editing.

  But Karen’s pride and joy was in the little fenced backyard: a sandbox. And it was amazing: two tiers with a ramp from the upper-level box down to the larger bottom box. It had every kind of backhoe, front-end loader, and truck that any kid could want.

  “I got them all from the flea market for under five dollars,” Karen explained.

  “Not the sandbox, though,” I said. “You can’t buy something like this. It’s priceless.”

  The normally bubbly Karen stood very still. “You’re right, Mike. It is priceless. My husband built it. He wanted to leave something for Misha.”

  Whoa. “He knew about Misha?”

  She nodded. “We got a DVD just before he died.” She blinked and sniffled a few times. “I know he’d be so happy for me, and Misha. Now we have each other.”

  My knees practically buckled under me. If we failed . . . well, we wouldn’t fail. It just wasn’t an option.

  I was only half paying attention when I was back at Moo’s, recording the promotional video for her vinegars for sale, although I tuned in as she explained her three-bottles-of-vinegar plan. Who needed that many bottles of vinegar—per week?

  Next, she drove me to the bank. “You need to work on Gladys,” Moo explained. “I’ve tried to convince her to play guitar and sing for your video, but she’s so shy. I asked Past to meet you there.”

  The air-conditioning was blasting when Past and I entered the bank, and it felt great.

  “Hi, Gladys.” I sat down next to Past on one of the chairs in front of her desk.

  Past folded his arms and I noticed he wore a new blue button-down shirt.

  “So,” I said, “how about singing for us, Gladys?”

  She pulled the monitor in front of her face.

  I leaned over and tilted her monitor so she couldn’t hide behind it. “Come on, you have a great voice.”

  “How do you know?” Her face was pink except for a white circle around her cheek stud.

  “Everyone says so. I heard you used to sing in church.”

  “That was a long time ago. And I don’t like to sing in front of a crowd.”

  “You sing in a band,” Past said slowly. “How is that not singing in front of a crowd?”

  “It’s a dive bar. It’s dark!” Gladys said. “No one’s listening, anyway. They’re talking and laughing and drinking. They hardly notice me. Mostly they just hear my guitar.”

  She pulled the monitor back to its original position and clicked her computer keys a mile a minute.

  Past’s Bono eyes blinked and looked thoughtfully at Gladys.

  But I wasn’t cutting anyone any slack, not when Misha was at stake. “Come on, Gladys—”

  “By the way, Mike,” she interrupted me, “your dad hasn’t sent that deposit yet.”

  I practically jumped out of my chair. “What! He’s such an idiot!”

  “I thought he was a genius,” said Past.

  “Not when it comes to real life. Hey, can I send him a message?” I reached over her desk before she even answered, bumping her arm.

  “Are you putting moves on my woman?” a slow, monotone voice behind me asked.

  My woman? Was he serious? I swung around to see a short hairy dude in a black skull T-shirt. His dark hair practically covered his face except for a narrow opening where it looked like he was peeking out from behind an almost closed door.

  I heard Gladys’s voice. “It’s okay, babe.”

  Babe? Was she serious?

  “This is Mike and this is Past,” Gladys said, pointing to us.

  “I’m Numchuck,” the guy said in his gravelly monotone.

  “I see,” said Past. “Is that your name or your occupation?”

  “Huh?” Numchuck looked stunned as he peered out from behind his hair, like a door had been slammed in his face.

  I swear, I’m embarrassed was practically written on Gladys’s face.

  “I’m running on empty,” Numchuck said to Gladys.

  “I can tell,” Past said.

  “What?” he growled.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—did you mean you’re hungry? The soup kitchen opens shortly.” Past looked at the dude and smiled. “I’d be happy to tell you where to go.”

  “It’s my truck that’s empty. Needs gas,” Numchuck said.

  Gladys yanked her bag out of a desk drawer and took out a wad of bills.

  Numchuck took the cash and turned to go.

  Past reached out and grabbed his arm. “Thank you, Gladys,” he said pointedly, “for giving me money.”

  Numchuck spun around to face Gladys, immediately grabbing Past in a headlock. “What’d you give him money for?”

  “Hey, let him go!” I yelled.

  From under Numchuck’s arm, Past managed to say, “I was merely indicating that it would be polite for you to thank her for the money.”

  Numchuck released him, sniffing the air. “That’s some weird deodorant you’ve got.”

  Past immediately dropped his arms, then crossed them against his chest, making a quick exit. I followed.

  Outside the bank, I had to push Past’s cart because he refused to expose his armpits, requiring him to keep his arms clasped across his chest like they were his armor.

  “He’s a drug-head, Past. Just ignore what he said.”

  “Well, I am a little . . . odiferous.”

  I shrugged, not wanting to admit that Numnut might have had a point. “If you’re concerned about it, do they have showers at the soup kitchen?”

  “I did take a shower when I put on this shirt and I thought I was smelling . . . fresh.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I debated telling him that eBay required clean shirts so I’d have to wash this one, too.

  “No, I think it’s a good wake-up call. I’m thankful, actually.”

  I sneered. “I’m not!”

  “We can learn from all types, my friend. Speaking of which, don’t you need to contact your father about the money? And his diet?”

  I hit a bump in the sidewalk and shoved the cart hard to get past it. The wheels spun wildly and the cart fishtailed until I grabbed it and got it back on track. I wished I could get that much reaction out of Dad. “Yeah, I’ll contact him. But he’s such an idiot.”

  Past reached out his hand and grabbed the cart, stopping it. He quickly resumed his arms-as-armor position.

  “What?” I sounded as annoyed as I felt. His eyes were so sad and serious that I wished I hadn’t sounded harsh. “What?” I said again, more gently this time.

  Past’s Bono eyes looked at me. “You never know when you’ll lose someone.”

  I sighed and started pushing the cart again. “I only lose him in the grocery store because he can’t remember where anything is, even though we’ve been going to the same store for ten years. I can’t lose him in Romania. He has a handler.” I thought of Ferdi. “He’ll put him on a plane—after making the reservation for him and getting his ticket—and send him back to D.C. in a month.”

  “Even so,” he said quietly, “it would be good to keep up contact. And not just for the money. You have news.”

  I thought, uncomfortably, of the nonexistent artesian screw and the math worksheets I hadn’t even looked at.

  “You’re playing an important role in saving a young soul.”

  I snorted.

  “Fortunately, you have an able assistant.”

  I didn’t mention that my able assistant had his arms plastered against his chest, making them useless, so I was pushing his shopping cart of assorted odd items for him.

  “The poor boy has a parent who can’t take care of him.”

  I stopped the cart. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Misha.”

  “He’s an orphan. He doesn’t have parents.”

  Past shook his head. “It’s not
uncommon, I’m afraid. Children are given up for adoption because the parent—sometimes both parents—are unable to care for them properly.”

  “Unable to care for him properly?” I thought of Dad. And me. “Since when do kids get adopted because of lousy parenting?”

  “It’s more common that you’d think. It’s also a matter of money. Often there’s not enough money to take care of a child.”

  “Oh, come on. How can you be so poor that you can’t even take care of your own kid?”

  Past stared at me, and then I realized, How could I be so stupid that I’d ask a homeless guy a question like that?

  I swallowed hard. “I’ll IM Dad when we get back to your office.” And I did. Creatively.

  Hi, Dad. ’Sup?

  Excuse me?

  Nothing. I was wondering what’s happening with the money.

  What is happening with the artesian screw project? I hope you’re recording the developments. What has Poppy taught you thus far?

  Poppy? I guess I’d have to say patience.

  I typed fast, before he thought of any more questions.

  People are focused on a really important project in town.

  What is that?

  I started typing but stopped. He wouldn’t get it. Making YouTube videos to help adopt an orphan? I could say I was working with a teacher because Karen really was a teacher, but then he’d want to know what exactly I was working on. And he wouldn’t be impressed if I said I was working with a minister, either, whatever denomination Karen was. Unless . . .It’s a special project for a minister of education in PA.

  That sounded impressive!What is the project concerning exactly?

  It’s kind of hard to explain. It’s sort of a population study.

  Whoa! I was pretty good at this!That’s a soft “social science” and of less value than real science.

  Yeah. Because why would we want to learn about anything social? That had to do with people. And life. It’s so much better to stick with numbers.