Turtle Boy Page 10

  I move along the edge of the pond, about fifteen feet, where the water is a bit clearer. I spot my reflection—ripply and distorted, swampy green. I tell myself I only need to get in the water for a second—RJ didn’t say I needed to swim across the pond, or even that I need to submerge my head. I can get in, get out, dry off, and be done.

  But then I’m starting to tell myself stories. I don’t have to do this. I don’t swim in ponds—there are leeches in the water. I can’t do it.

  I’ll tell RJ that I swam, though. I can exaggerate a little. He won’t know the truth.

  While I’m considering this choice, my body has already begun to move, getting dressed—first pants, then shirt. Before I’ve even made up my mind, I’m on my bike, riding home as fast as I can.

  I’m in my room. I’m not in the mood to study my Torah portion. I set up the practice pad on my bed, sit cross-legged in front of it, and begin playing: Boom-boom pack! Chaka-laka. Boom-boom pack!

  My sticks don’t flow, and the rhythm turns into a train wreck. Why does it look so easy when RJ does it? I try it a few more times, but I can’t get it.

  I drop the sticks and pick up the Bar Mitzvah sheets Rabbi Harris made for me, my Torah portion in Hebrew and English. I lay them out on my bed and start singing the trope. I make it through a verse without a single mistake. I feel pretty good about it until I skim the rest of the pages—I’ve only learned one verse out of a hundred.

  “Will! Come get the phone.”

  Normally, it would be Max, wanting help on his homework. But Max and I aren’t talking to each other, so why would he be calling?

  “Dude, dude—we have a major problem.” The voice is hushed but urgent.

  “Max?”

  “No, it’s RJ. Something’s wrong with Grampy.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “His eyes are swollen shut and he won’t eat. All he does is hide in the Herp Hotel.”

  I consider what might cause a turtle’s eyes to swell shut and make it stop eating. It could be a serious infection. That would require a trip to a specialist vet.

  “What sort of water are you using in his tank?” I ask. “Are you using distilled water, like I told you?”

  “Well, my dad couldn’t come for a few days,” RJ explains. “He’s been on a long trip, so I used water from the bathroom.”

  “Problem solved,” I say. “We’ll switch to distilled water as soon as we can.”

  “But he’s not eating!” says RJ. “I think he’s dying, Will!”

  “Turtles don’t like change,” I explain. “If they get moved from one terrarium to another, they sometimes refuse to move or eat for a few days. Try feeding it something really tempting. Like…if they serve you meat for meals, you can give it a little piece.”

  “We just had ham for dinner. Is he allowed to eat ham? Isn’t he a Jewish turtle?”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “He’s Reform. It’s his choice.”

  RJ is quiet for a minute, as if considering this.

  “Yes!” says RJ, startling me. “YES! It’s eating the ham!”

  “Don’t give it too much,” I say. “It can’t live on people food. Tomorrow I can bring some extra gut-loaded crickets, and medicine drops for its eyes.”

  After we hang up, I get ready for bed, and Rabbi Harris’s words strike me as I climb under the blankets—words that burned the first time I heard them: Ralph is dying….We’re no longer talking about “someday.”…If you’re going to be able to support Ralph, you need to know what he’s up against.

  I hear those words again and again. I lie in bed, tucking my limbs under the blankets, as if the feelings can’t find me here. But they do, and I groan. I need to chase these feelings away.

  I switch on my lamp and grab the drumsticks and practice pad. I hold one stick in each hand, the way RJ showed me. Their balance feels good. I bounce the tip of the right stick off the pad, then the left stick, and it works, the rhythm comes to me: Boom-boom pack! Chaka-laka.Boom-boom pack! Chaka-laka. I play for a long, long time, the rhythm of endless ocean waves chasing one another up the beach. I won’t say it’s making me feel better, but it is making me sleepy.

  At Herb’s Herps, Gwen is showing an iguana to a guy in a puffy blue coat. The guy reaches out to stroke the iguana’s back.

  “Look who’s here,” Gwen says, suddenly seeing me. She jiggles the iguana as she talks, as if it’s a puppet. “Fellow iguanas! Make way for the Turtle King of Horicon!”

  I don’t like how she’s holding the iguana, and I’m not in the mood for her games.

  “I need some anti-chlorine drops,” I say.

  “Let me know if you need anything else, sir,” she says to the customer, putting the iguana back in its terrarium.

  “Anti-chlorine?” she says. “Are you not using distilled water?”

  “Duh!” I say, incredulous. “I use gourmet distilled water. This isn’t for me; it’s for a friend. He lives in a hospital, and he doesn’t have distilled water lying around. He’s new at all this, so it’s not his fault.”

  I’m surprised at how defensive I am of RJ. I don’t want anyone thinking he’s done something bad.

  “Anti-chlorine drops are over by the tropical fish,” Gwen says.

  “And I need a bottle of Medi-Eye,” I add.

  “Medi-Eye?” asks Gwen, handing me a box off the shelf. “It has an eye infection? Are you not filtering the water?”

  “Of course I’m filtering the water! I’m using a Repo 5000!”

  “Not a strong enough filter,” she says. “You’ll accumulate substrata. Repo 5000s are for little fish tanks.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I tested it myself. I used it at home for three weeks.”

  “If it’s fine, then what do you need Medi-Eye for?” She crosses her arms. “Uh-huh,” she says. “Obviously, your terrarium isn’t clean.”

  Gwen walks off and returns with a paper bag. Inside is a brand-new Repo 7000 filter.

  These things are more than fifty dollars. It would take me weeks to earn enough allowance to buy it.

  “The company sends us free stuff as a promo,” she says before I can turn it down. “My dad lets me keep most of it. It’s yours. On the house.”

  “Free?” I ask.

  “Yes, genius,” she says. “ ‘On the house’ means ‘free.’ ”

  RJ is asleep. He’s on his back, and his mouth is open. I don’t like seeing him like this. I want to lock the door, but there’s no lock. I’ll have to be speedy. If Denise comes in while I’m working on the terrarium, we’re busted.

  I pull the curtain away from the shelf, and there’s the Blanding’s turtle, basking under its heat lamp. I tear open the package of Medi-Eye, remove the cap, grab the turtle, and put drops in its eyes. It struggles a little. Once RJ wakes up, I’ll show him the chapter on simple medical care, how to put drops in, tell him when to change the water.

  The room is quiet now—just the sound of RJ’s snoring and the gentle trickle of water through the terrarium filter. I sit down to read, hoping RJ will wake up before I leave, and a few minutes later, his gravelly breathing ends with a loud snort, and he turns and looks at me with wide eyes.

  “What’s happening?” he asks, a look of terror on his face.

  “It’s me, Will,” I say. “I brought some medicine for the turtle. I think it’s going to be all right.”

  He shifts and sits up a little.

  “And I brought you a book,” I say. I lay it on his tray. “This is the book that taught me pretty much everything I know. You should read the sections on keeping a terrarium clean.”

  He looks at me a second, takes a breath, and says, “Thanks, but not gonna happen.”

  “What?” I say. “Why not? It’s super-helpful information.”

  “I’m not blind,” he explains, “but
my sight’s gotten worse. I can’t really read. I can’t see anything beyond a few feet. Like, I can see you’re there, but if you kept your big mouth shut, I might not know who you are.”

  I remember when we first met, when I told him my nickname. He made me come over and stand right by the bed.

  “Secret’s out; might as well put these on,” he says. He reaches behind the pile of drums and pulls out a pair of glasses with the thickest lenses I’ve ever seen. He puts them on and shrugs.

  “I look like a total dork,” he says. “And they barely help, so I don’t usually wear them.”

  They do make his eyes look enormous, but I don’t think he looks like a dork. I don’t think anything could make RJ look like a dork.

  He switches the subject fast, grabbing his drumsticks. “How’s the playing going?” he asks, handing me the sticks. “Let’s hear boom-boom pack! Chaka-laka.”

  He pulls out a clipboard, and I position myself to play. I begin the rhythm and settle into an easy swing. RJ watches and wags his head from side to side, as if watching the beats flow out.

  “Okay, you’re ready for the next step,” he says. “Try this.”

  He pulls a plastic bowl from his junk pile, turns it upside down, takes my sticks, and bounces the right drumstick off the bottom of the bowl twice, followed by the left stick, back and forth: Botta batta botta batta botta batta, on and on.

  I take the sticks back and try it, but he grabs a tip.

  “That’s good,” he says. “But you’re hitting the bowl. Don’t hit the bowl. Let the stick bounce.”

  I try to repeat it: Botta batta botta batta, and each time I screw up, I curse under my breath, but I keep trying.

  “Okay, that’s it for today,” RJ interrupts, lying back against his pillows. “I’m really tired.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. “I need to go home and get ready for synagogue. It’s Yom Kippur tonight.”

  I wonder if RJ will ask questions about it, but it seems like he’s dozing.

  “Did you go swimming already?” he asks suddenly, startling me.

  “Not yet,” I say. “I mean, I will. I’m going to.”

  “You said you’d do it,” he says. “It’s really important.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Fine,” he says, but I can tell he’s disappointed. “If you’re serious about helping me, here’s the next thing on my list, because it can’t wait. It so happens that one of my favorite bands is playing an all-ages show in Madison on October fifth. That’s a week from Saturday. I really, really wish I could go, but obviously, I can’t.”

  I look at him.

  “I want you to go to the show and get a pair of the drummer’s drumsticks.”

  I stare at him and he raises his eyebrows.

  “What?” I say, breaking the silence. “You want me to steal drumsticks from some band?”

  “No, dummy,” he says. “Go to see the show! They’re called Dog Complex. They’re a punk band, so it’s gonna be intense. After the show, tell the drummer, Brett Canto, you want some drumsticks for a sick kid in the hospital. Tell him I’m his biggest fan.”

  The temple is packed. Even the overflow seats are full. Jewish holidays start at sundown, but Mom and I don’t usually go to nighttime services. Kol Nidre is the exception. She always drags me to Kol Nidre.

  I told Mom that the room would be so full, Rabbi Harris wouldn’t notice whether I was there or not.

  “We’re not going for Rabbi Harris,” said Mom.

  “Well, I don’t want to go, either,” I said.

  “We’re not going for you,” said Mom. I could hear her voice getting more and more tense.

  “Then why are we going?” I asked. “It’s so crowded, and it’s so boring.”

  “We’re going for me, Will!” she snapped. “Please stop thinking about yourself—for once, okay? Do something for someone else. Go get your shoes on and let’s go, or we’re gonna miss Kol Nidre!”

  That really stung. Was there truth to that? Did I only think about myself? I couldn’t get it out of my head during the whole ride to temple. Once we got settled and the service began, Mom rubbed the back of my shoulder and leaned over. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said.

  I nodded, but I didn’t respond.

  * * *

  • • •

  The synagogue service goes on and on, and mainly, I distract myself by thinking about RJ’s most recent task. How am I going to get to Madison? How am I going to get tickets to a punk rock show? How am I going to get drumsticks? It all seems impossible. But I can’t stop thinking about it. If nothing else, it helps pass the time.

  The congregation is singing the final song, the aleinu. Mom and I will have to come back tomorrow morning for the even longer daytime service. Midsong, I stand up to leave, and Mom instantly presses down on my shoulder. She shows me a stern index finger. Surprised, I lower myself back to my seat. Then she and approximately twenty other people rise to their feet and begin to chant a prayer out loud. It’s the same prayer that’s already been recited a bunch of times throughout the service, the Kaddish. I can see the page of her open prayer book: it says Mourner’s Kaddish.

  The words flow together, rhythmic. In fact, I can imagine how it would sound, played on drums:

  Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba. Amen.

  Bappa dum, b’dada-bum, boom-boom-boom. Amen.

  I tap out the rhythm on my knees with the palms of my hands and then comes the line the entire congregation says together: “Y’hei sh’mei raba m’vorach.”

  B’dum, bum, ba-da, da’bum-bum!

  It’s almost thunderous, from so many hundreds of people saying it. The rhythm is loud. So loud, I can feel it down in my chest.

  I continue listening to the hypnotic rhythm of the words:

  Ba-ba-dum, b’dada-bum, b’dada-bum, b’dada-bum.

  Ba-ba-dum, b’dada-bum, b’dada-bum, b’dada-bum.

  It goes on, word after word in Hebrew. My mind finally grasps the obvious: she’s saying the Mourner’s Kaddish. For Dad. This is the prayer Rabbi Harris was talking about.

  If Mom is a mourner, does that make me a mourner? The problem is, no memories of Dad equals nothing to feel.

  What would it feel like to have him in my mind, to see his face, to hear his voice? Instead of two plates at the dinner table every night, there’d be three—Mom, me, and the memory of Dad. And on the day of my Bar Mitzvah, up on the bimah with me, there’d be a chair for Dad.

  This loosens something in my mind, maybe a memory.

  Dad is on my right, Mom on my left. We’re here in temple. Dad stands up and I stand up too. Mom gently presses on my shoulder. I sit back down. Dad chants the Hebrew, along with a pocket of other people scattered around the room:

  Bappa dum, b’dappa dum, boom-boom-boom. Amen.

  Dad is so tall, standing beside me, and his tallit—his prayer shawl—over his head. But I can see his face, his eyes closed, and then I see that his cheeks are wet.

  Is he crying? Does Dad cry?

  The whole congregation chants together; a hushed chorus of “Y’hei sh’mei raba m’vorach l’olam ul’almei almaya.”

  The mourners chant on and on until Mom takes three tiny steps back, bowing slightly to the left, the right, the middle, and the memory recedes. I close my eyes, wishing I could keep on dreaming, but Dad’s face fades, and soon, it’s gone.

  * * *

  • • •

  We’re driving home from synagogue, headlights on, windows up, air-conditioning blasting. It’s hot and muggy out, as it is every Yom Kippur, a sure sign that winter is lurking around the corner.

  “How long have you been saying the Mourner’s Kaddish?” I ask.

  “Since your Dad died,” Mom says. She turns and glances at me. “Three times a year.
Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Dad’s Yahrzeit.”

  She doesn’t say more, and when the light changes she drives on. Mom often doesn’t want to talk about Dad, but this time, I want to tell her about my memory. I want to know if it was real.

  “I remembered something in temple today,” I say. “About Dad. Or I think I did.”

  “Really?” says Mom.

  “He was saying Kaddish,” I explain. “And I tried to stand up next to him, but you didn’t let me.”

  “A child doesn’t stand for Kaddish until after their Bar Mitzvah,” she says, as if that’s the end of the conversation.

  “I know that,” I say slowly, annoyed. “But did that actually happen? My memory?”

  “I can’t imagine how you’d remember such a thing,” she says. “You must have been three or four.”

  This is not what I want to hear. Maybe it isn’t a real memory. Maybe it’s something I made up, something I wish I remembered.

  Mom pulls the car up to the garage and we get out. It’s dark here by the garage. The overhead light doesn’t work, so we keep a flashlight on a hook. I grab it and we make our way up the brick path to the door.

  “Go up and change out of your nice clothes,” she says once we’re in the house.

  “Who was Dad mourning?” I ask, turning off the flashlight. “Why was he saying Kaddish?”

  Mom looks up for a second. “He was probably mourning his father. Your grandpa Wilbur, the one you’re named after. He died before you were born.”

  “It’s weird to think of Dad mourning,” I say.

  “Why’s it weird?”

  “Well, you say Kaddish for him, but a few years before he died, he was saying it for Grandpa Wilbur. It’s like…everyone’s saying Kaddish for someone who came before them.”

  I read a myth once about the universe being a giant tower, turtle on top of turtle, all the way down. Maybe that’s what the myth is really about—each of us takes our place, loving someone, grieving, then one day being grieved. It’s heavy stuff, but I’d feel better if I could talk about it.