Turtle Boy Page 7

  I followed that. Why isn’t there any fruit or bread or wine in the store? Wow, after three years of Hebrew, I understood a whole sentence!

  Max says that there’s no more food in the grocery store because “Shirah blah, blah, blah.” I don’t understand most of it. Either his pronunciation is terrible or my vocabulary is too limited. He holds his arms out to the sides—his one good arm and the arm in its brace. He’s imitating someone fat. There is a huge round of laughter, mostly from the boys. Shirah stands frozen for a second, and then her eyes dart to me.

  Only now do I realize that Max has made a joke about Shirah. I don’t think of Shirah as fat. Am I supposed to say that she isn’t fat? I don’t know how to say it in Hebrew. Or should I just tell Max to shut up in English? Or pretend I didn’t hear it? My mind goes blank. I jam my hands into my pockets and don’t say anything.

  Shirah storms out of the room and leaves me standing at the front of the room with Max.

  “Max,” says Rabbi Harris, exasperated. “Wait outside. In the hall.” He points to the door. His voice is calm, but his face is red. In three years of Hebrew, I’ve seen Rabbi Harris be stern plenty of times, but I’ve never seen him look that angry.

  Max turns and leaves the room and Rabbi Harris follows him.

  The rest of the class bursts into chatter the instant the rabbi steps out the door.

  “Rabbi Harris is pissed.”

  “Can’t Shirah take a joke?”

  “Boys are jerks.”

  I don’t say a word.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mom picks up Shirah, Max, and me after Hebrew school, and on the drive home, no one speaks. My mom seems to figure out that something isn’t right and turns on the radio. Ten awkward minutes later, after dropping off Max, we pull into Shirah’s driveway. Shirah grabs her backpack and opens the car door. I get out of the car to take Shirah’s place in the front. She surprises me by speaking as we pass each other: “If that had been the other way around,” she says, “I would have stuck up for you.”

  She leaves me standing by the open car door and heads up to her house.

  “What was that?” Mom asks as we drive away. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yep,” I say, even though it’s not. Nothing is.

  I don’t bother knocking, and RJ doesn’t look up when I go into the room. Like last time, he continues to drum while I read, but this time, I catch him looking at me a few times.

  After the third or fourth glance, I’ve had enough: “What’s your problem?” I nearly shout. I’ve had a very short temper the past few days, ever since Shirah’s and my friendship went kablooey for the second time.

  RJ stops playing and gives me an angry look. “My problem? You’re the one with the problem.”

  “You’re staring at me.”

  “I’m not staring at you, Turtle Boy,” he says. “I’m looking at the clock.”

  I feel a surge of anger when he calls me by that name, and I don’t believe him—I’m certain he was staring at me—but I turn and look, and yes, there is a clock on the wall. It’s big, made from an old record, with the hands at the center. Instead of numbers, words are painted: THE CLASH—LONDON CALLING.

  “That say three-thirty?” he asks.

  I nod: then, remembering that he might not be able to see me because of his illness, I nod bigger.

  “Okay, it’s time,” he says. “I have a task for you. I need you to deliver those bags of Funyuns you got last time to Mrs. Barnes in room eleven thirty-two.”

  “I’m not your servant,” I say.

  “My servant?” he says, laughing. “Ha-ha! That’s awesome! Thanks so much for clarifying.”

  He has another laugh, and then he gets serious.

  “Okay, kid,” he says. “I need these Funyuns to get to Mrs. Barnes, right now. Go do it. Two bags.”

  He points to his shelves, the front partially covered with a piece of cloth, fastened in place with a neat row of nails. “Room eleven thirty-two,” he says. And before I leave the room, he adds, “Don’t let anyone see you. Hide the goods under your sweatshirt.”

  I lift up my sweatshirt, shove the Funyuns underneath, and head into the hall.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m standing outside 1132. I knock once, lightly, and a voice calls: “It’s about time!”

  Inside, an old lady lies in bed. On the TV is a wrestling match, the kind with skintight outfits and masks and a screaming, hysterical audience.

  “Why don’t you open up a couple of bags and sit down,” she says, pointing to a three-layer chair like RJ has in his room. She takes a bag and we munch Funyuns and watch the match. She smiles.

  On the screen, one wrestler wears shiny green shorts and a lizard mask. The other guy has long, stringy hair. He’s all in black. There are punches and dives and body slams, and in a confusing reversal, the lizard-man gets his arms pinned behind his back.

  “Go, Manzilla!” yells Mrs. Barnes. “You can do it!”

  Manzilla breaks out of the hold, but the guy in black knocks him to the mat and jumps on him. The referee slaps the mat three times, and it’s over. Mrs. Barnes grabs a remote control and turns off the TV.

  “Well, I’ll be,” she says. “Manzilla’s always been my favorite, even if he loses pretty much every time.”

  “Why do you like him, then?” I ask.

  “His mask!” she says. “Don’t you think it’s dandy? I have one just like it.”

  She points to a shelf, where a gleaming green mask complete with frills leans on the windowsill.

  “Well, thanks for the company, young man,” she says. “And tell RJ I’ll be ready for action at three-forty-five!”

  I leave the room slowly. I wish I could stay. Now, this is community service I can do! On the walk back to RJ’s, I decide I’ll tell Rabbi Harris that I want to trade: I don’t want to visit RJ anymore. Instead, I’ll spend a few hours every Sunday watching TV with Mrs. Barnes.

  * * *

  • • •

  I return to RJ’s door with a lighter step, now that I have a plan. I knock and walk in, but RJ isn’t drumming. His head is back on the pillow, and he’s staring at the ceiling. It startles me to see him like that, but it doesn’t last long; he snaps his head up and looks around.

  “Who’s there?” he asks, anxious. “What time is it?”

  I look at the clock: “Three-forty.”

  “Oh, it’s you. Okay, five minutes till the show starts. Prop the door open. I need to be able to hear anyone coming.”

  I don’t like the sound of this.

  “Here,” says RJ. “Catch.”

  He tosses something to me. I flinch, and whatever he flung at me hits the ground. It’s a small, sealed cup of orange juice. Fortunately, it doesn’t explode or leak.

  “What, your old man never taught you how to catch?”

  “Old man?” I ask, leaning down to pick up the juice. “What old man?”

  “Your dad,” he says impatiently. “It’s an expression.”

  “No, my ‘old man’ didn’t teach me how to catch,” I say with a fierce edge I hardly recognize. “He died when I was four.”

  RJ raises his eyebrows and looks at me. “Sorry, I didn’t know.” He’s quiet for a minute. “My mom died when I was in first grade. That’s her and me.” He points to the photo taped to the wall, next to his bed: the woman with straight, dark hair, tied back in a ponytail, and the kid, both dressed in swimsuits, on a tropical beach. In the child’s thick brows and squinty eyes, I can see RJ.

  “Is that Florida?” I ask.

  “No, dude,” he says. “It’s Hawaii. I grew up there.”

  “You grew up in Hawaii?” I ask. I know a few kids from Illinois and Minnesota, and a couple from the East Coast, but I’ve never met anyone from Hawai
i. I know that Hawaii is home to three species of turtle. Giant green sea turtles, Chelonia mydas, can swim more than thirty-five miles an hour, can stay underwater for five hours, and can grow to weigh over eight hundred pounds. I would give anything to see one, but that’ll never happen. I’d have to go all the way to Hawaii, and worse, I’d have to swim in the ocean. I hate swimming unless I can see the bottom of the pool. I always stay in the shallow end.

  I look back at the picture, this time captivated by the similarity between RJ and his mother.

  “Can I ask a weird question?”

  “Everything about you is weird, so do I have a choice?”

  “Do you remember her?” I ask.

  “My mom?” I can see I caught him off guard.

  I nod. I can feel blood pouring into my cheeks—they tingle and burn.

  “Well…yeah, sort of. I don’t have too many actual memories—mostly I remember a feeling. Not something I can describe. Just a…sense.”

  He’s quiet for a minute.

  “Sometimes,” he adds softly, like he’s not sure he wants to go on, “sometimes I get that feeling. Out of nowhere it’ll come over me, and I’ll be like, Oh. She’s with me now. She’s here with me.”

  I don’t know what to say. I just peel open my orange juice and take a sip. It’s half frozen.

  “See, it’s like a slushie,” he says, opening his own cup of OJ. “I have all sorts of tricks for making this place less horrible.

  “What about you? You remember your dad?”

  “Not really,” I say. “I mean, I know what my dad looked like—we have a few pictures around the house. And I know the basics about him, but I don’t remember him. Definitely not the feeling of being with him.”

  “That sucks,” says RJ, crunching thoughtfully on some ice chunks.

  Does it? I wonder. Suddenly, I understand why Rabbi Harris wanted me to meet RJ. We both lost a parent. Maybe this is supposed to help me in some way.

  I can’t think about it more because the weirdest sound comes from down the hall. It sounds like a ghost—a ghoul—howling in pain.

  “Nurse! Nurse!” comes a high-pitched shriek. “I’ve spilled my soup! It’s burning me alive!”

  I jump up in alarm, but RJ only waves at the door. “That’s Mrs. Barnes,” he says. “Right on time. Quick, grab the door! Shut it!”

  I close the door, and RJ whips a blanket off a mound next to him—a pile of junk, probably scavenged from around the hospital. Soon he’s got an assortment of stainless-steel surgical trays and washing bowls, a cafeteria tray, some heavy plastic pipes, and a bunch of metal bins spread out on the bed in front of him.

  Before I know what’s happening, the room explodes in noise—noise so loud, I have to hold my hands over my ears. With his drumsticks, he bangs and clangs on every surface—with just as much intensity as on the practice pad—but loud! His arms fly, sticks trilling the metal, and every so often, a hand flies out to smack the metal bin—CLANG! It sounds like an entire fleet of trucks falling down the stairs of the Empire State Building, all 102 floors, and the grand finale is when they all get to the bottom. Arms fly, sticks fly, every conceivable noise flies, faster and faster, and finally, Ba-CLANG! Ba-CLANG! Ba-CLANG!

  RJ stops and cocks his ear. Suddenly, as fast as it started, he’s throwing the junk back into the pile next to his bed. Tosses the gray hospital blanket over it just as the door opens.

  It’s the mean nurse from last time, the one with the needle.

  “What was all that racket, Ralph?” she demands.

  “What racket, Denise?” says RJ. He’s concealing the fact that he’s short of breath, exhausted from the physical effort. “Hey, kid—you hear any racket?”

  I shake my head obediently.

  The nurse gives us an irritated look and shuts the door. RJ and I are quiet, and when I venture a look at him, we both laugh, just for a second.

  “Did you see her face?” he asks. “Priceless.”

  “That drum set is awesome,” I say. “And you’re so good.”

  “I haven’t played my real set in two years—I have a vintage Slingerland set at home. I dream about playing it. Maybe I’ll get to show it to you someday.”

  “Is Mrs. Barnes okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, brainiac!” he says. “That’s what I pay her for. She distracts the nurses just long enough for me to get a good drum solo out of my system. You wanna try? We’ll use the practice pad.”

  He holds out a pair of sticks and points them at me. I take a step back.

  “Just take them and stop being such a baby,” he says, exasperated.

  My first instinct is to stay away, but I feel a flush of adrenaline and take the sticks. They’re heavier than I imagined, and the wood is pitted so deeply around the tips it looks like a hamster has been gnawing on them. RJ must go through a dozen pairs of sticks a week.

  “Stop, you’re holding them like a zombie,” he says. “Just relax; relax your grip a little.”

  I do, or I try to, anyway. “Okay,” he says, “Now repeat after me: Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack!”

  I don’t say anything, and he leans toward me with wide eyes.

  “Boom. Pack. Boom-boom pack,” he says, a little louder.

  “Boom. Pack. Boom-boom pack,” I say begrudgingly.

  “Weak,” he says. “Do it better. Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack! Say it.”

  I say it again.

  “Bravo,” he says. “Now, the middle of the pad is the ‘boom.’ The ridge of the pad is ‘Pack!’ So it’s like this….”

  He bounces the tips of the sticks off the plastic pad, and then he smacks them against the ridge, one on each side. He repeats this, and all the while, he chants out loud: “Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack! Boom. Pack. Boom-boom pack!”

  I reach over with my sticks and play the rhythm, fast as I can, hoping to get it over with.

  “No,” he says. “You’re rushing and you’re not saying it. You can’t play it if you can’t say it. Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack.”

  Okay, I think. Don’t embarrass yourself. Show him that you can do it. I play it and say it: “Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack! Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack!”

  He gestures with his hands, making little circles—Keep going, keep going—so I keep going. I’m playing it over and over and over. Then I stop and look at him.

  “That’s good,” he says. “But you’re still rushing.”

  I start to play the rhythm again, and he grabs the tips of the sticks.

  “You’re rushing!” he repeats, looking me in the eye.

  “It’s boring,” I say. “What else is there?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “There is nothing else; nothing more than Boom-boom pack! If you’re playing Boom-boom pack! then that’s it. That’s the entire world.”

  Weirdly, I know what he’s talking about. When I’m alone with my turtles, I look in their little terrariums, and they’re so happy. They’re not worried about what else they could be eating, or where they could be swimming. Maybe that’s why they take my mind off everything else. I turn my attention to the practice pad and adjust my grip on the sticks.

  I start to play: Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack! Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack! My mind goes to the same place it does when my turtles are swimming in their terrariums. Just floating. There are no walls. There is no ceiling. For a minute, there are no sticks and no bed and no RJ—just Boom-boom pack!

  “Okay,” says a voice. I stop and realize RJ has spoken. “Denise is going to be here soon to help me shower, and I’d rather you not be around for that.”

  I look at the clock. It’s 3:10. I just played Boom-boom pack! for ten minutes. Rabbi Harris is waiting in the atrium!

  “I need to go—I’m late!” I say, grabbing my backpack.

  “Wait,” says RJ. “I wanna give you an extra pair of my sti
cks so you can practice at home. And this.”

  He holds up the practice pad.

  “But if I take that, what will you play?” I ask.

  “Dude,” he says. “I can play anything. Don’t worry about me.”

  I take the pad from his hands. I put it in my backpack, along with a pair of drumsticks RJ had tucked next to his bed.

  Standing there, I want to tell RJ I’m sorry for everything that happened last time; for leaving early and for being nosey, for trying to read his bucket list. I notice it’s no longer hanging on the wall. He’s hiding it from me.

  Instead, I pull my forty-hours form from my pocket. I need Roxanne to sign it before I leave. I go to the door but stop and wave back at RJ before opening it.

  RJ points at me with a drumstick, a kind of You go! gesture, and returns to his drumming, now on a white hospital pillow.

  I begin to feel better and better about RJ. He’s funny, and he seems smart, even though he doesn’t have any books in his room.

  It’s Saturday, and I have the whole day to myself. Tonight, Mom and I are going to La Crosse to have Rosh Hashanah dinner with Aunt Mo and her friends. Aunt Mo’s really different from Mom—she’s loud and laughs a lot. I wish we saw her more often.

  I get up, and before even getting dressed, I get the drumsticks and practice pad out from under my bed.

  I play Boom. Pack! Boom-boom pack! over and over and over until I can’t stand it anymore. Two minutes have passed? That’s all?

  I drop the sticks, throw on some clothes, and head downstairs. Mom has left a note: Gone to farmers market to get flowers/fruit for Aunt Mo.

  I didn’t realize that I was alone in the house. I eat some cereal and head back to my room. I watch my turtles for a while and try to read, but the house is so quiet, it makes my mind drift. I start thinking about Shirah and what happened last week at Hebrew school.

  Why didn’t I tell Max to shut up? Or follow Shirah out of the room to make sure she was okay? I could see she was upset, so why didn’t I do or say anything to try to make her feel better?