Turtle Boy Page 9

  I promise, and for the next half hour, we continue playing drums—this weird, new beat, this impossible, never-ending rhythm I couldn’t understand until I heard RJ play it, easily, effortlessly.

  Once it’s time to go, I bring my form to Roxanne to sign, and while I ride the elevator, I silently tap the beat, a rhythm I never want to forget: Boom-boom pack, chacka-lacka. Boom-boom pack, chacka-lacka. Boom-boom pack, chacka-lacka…

  It’s Saturday afternoon. In the trunk of the car, I’ve loaded the terrarium, packed inside a large cardboard box. The turtle pellets and the filtration gear are in the small pocket of my backpack, while a cricket carrier stuffed halfway into the main section holds the turtle.

  On the drive to the hospital, Mom says, “I think it’s really great what you’re doing. Helping this kid be less lonely, sharing your books with him? You’re a really super guy, Will, you know that?”

  I can feel my face burn with shame. I told her the giant box in the trunk is full of books.

  Once we pull up to the hospital, I open the door to get out, and Mom says, “You’re sure you don’t want help carrying everything up to his room?”

  I ignore the offer and close the door, and through the open window, she calls, “Beep!”

  “Beep,” I answer, and begin dragging the box to the hospital doors.

  I decide that’s the last time we’re doing the “beep” thing.

  * * *

  • • •

  I call RJ from the atrium, using Mom’s cell phone. She lent it to me so she can call me before she leaves home.

  “It’s me,” I say. “I have the goods.”

  “Be up here in exactly five minutes,” he whispers, and hangs up.

  My heart starts pounding. I look at my watch and calculate how long it takes to ride the elevator up: about a minute and a half, plus maybe a minute to get down the hall. I ditch the cardboard box near a trash can, press the elevator button, and wait.

  When the elevator arrives, there are people inside: a lady and a little kid three or four years old, who’s staring at me while he picks his nose. There are also two guys in white uniforms with name tags and carts full of meal trays. I have to be really careful.

  I enter the elevator and try to keep my backpack facing the door so no one can see the cricket carrier with the turtle sticking out. I set the terrarium down near my feet, hoping no one will notice, and the elevator door closes.

  “That’s a fish tank,” the little kid says loudly.

  I ignore him.

  “I have fishes at home,” he says. “I have better fishes than you do.”

  “Joseph, that isn’t nice,” says the mother.

  “We’re visiting my daddy,” Joseph says. “I had an accident with him and a hockey stick.”

  The woman sighs and goes back to looking at the floor numbers.

  We arrive at RJ’s floor, and I hoist up my terrarium, but one of the men in uniform says, “Pardon me.”

  He starts to push the cart toward the elevator door, but Joseph grabs his mom’s hand and yanks her out first. The men with the carts follow. I head in the other direction to the end of the hall, terrarium over my head, and station myself behind a bin full of linens. No one is around. Once I come out of hiding, I’ll be exposed. Now that I’m in RJ’s wing, if a nurse comes out of a room, especially Denise, I’m busted.

  It looks like the coast is clear. I shuffle toward RJ’s door as quickly as I can, and as I approach, it opens. I scoot through and RJ shuts the door behind me.

  “We did it,” he says. “Nice job.”

  I pull out the cricket carrier with the Blanding’s turtle inside. Then I inspect RJ’s dad’s milk-crate shelves.

  The middle shelf is mainly empty, and it has holes for air. I lift the top crate, set the terrarium on it, and transfer the gravel, driftwood, and herp hotel. Then I lay the other milk crate on top. Unless you went over to the shelves and looked down at them, you wouldn’t see anything. It could be weeks before anyone notices. Maybe months.

  “You wanna see it?” I bring the cricket carrier over to RJ and lift the lid. Sensing the sudden motion, the Blanding’s turtle scrabbles at the plastic with its claws.

  “WOW!” says RJ. He isn’t concealing his excitement anymore. It’s as if there were a tiny dragon in the carrier.

  “Glad you like it,” I say.

  “What’s its name?”

  “Turtles aren’t like dogs; they’re not pets. They don’t need names.”

  “He looks like pictures I’ve seen of my grandpa,” says RJ. “How about ‘Grampy’?” His voice gets really sweet. “Hi, Grampy!” He taps on the carrier.

  I spend a few minutes explaining how to feed it, how many pellets, where to put the water, and the rules of handling. RJ listens closely, but when I ask him if he wants to pick it up—I show him how to hold it so it won’t bite and it won’t fall—he draws away.

  “It’s not going to hurt you,” I say. “What are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid, you weenie,” he says. “I don’t want to drop it.”

  “Hold it like this, right over the blankets.” I hold it just a few inches over RJ’s lap, but he recoils. He loves the turtle, but he’s at least a little afraid of it. Then he looks at the turtle more closely, and his eyes widen, and I see them for the first time. They’re deep blue—blue like the color of Lake Michigan when it’s sunny out. I’ve never seen the ocean, but I imagine it to be like Lake Michigan, but even more blue. I glance at the pictures around RJ’s bed, and in the pictures, the ocean is all different colors. Blue. Slate gray. Green.

  He looks up at me. “Thanks, dude,” he says. “You did me a solid.”

  “A solid what?”

  “Oh, come on, dude—you’ve never heard of doing someone a solid? It’s like a favor. I’ve always wanted a pet.”

  “Oh,” I say, suddenly shy.

  “I’ve had having a pet on my list for a long time,” he adds.

  The list? The bucket list?

  I’m shocked that he even mentioned it. Back when it was hanging on the wall, he snatched the paper away so aggressively, I figured it was a secret. I have a dozen questions, but I’m not sure if I’m allowed to ask them. At the same time, I feel like he’s holding the door open. He wants me to ask.

  “So,” I say casually. “What’s the deal with this list?”

  “What about it?” he says. He looks at me, and I hold my silence. “I started it way before I got here, spring of eighth grade. I had a few dumb things on it, stuff I wanted to do in my life. You know—all the clichés. ‘Make a billion dollars. Buy a Lamborghini.’ But I’ve had a lot of time to lie here and think. Too much time. I’m not a kid anymore, but who knows if I’m going to make it to being an adult. Now it’s all about the really big priorities. I’ve narrowed down my list to a few essentials.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “I told you the first time you were snooping,” he says sharply. “It’s not for you to look at. But since you’re so nosey, I can tell you the next thing on it.”

  I lean forward.

  “You remember how I grew up in Hawaii until my dad had more work in Wisconsin and I moved to this hellhole when my mom died? I haven’t been back to Hawaii, or any ocean, since. I really, really want to swim in the ocean again.”

  I’m sitting still, waiting for him to go on.

  “So, that’s it,” he says. “Go swimming in the ocean.”

  “Will they let you out of here to go swimming?” I ask.

  “Is the pope Jewish?” he says. “No, dude. You’re going to do it, and you’ll tell me all about it. Details. I want details.”

  “The ocean?” I ask. “How am I supposed to get to the ocean? We’re in the middle of Wisconsin.”

  “Okay, so what’s the closest body of water that’s like the ocean?�
��

  “Lake Michigan,” I say. “But that’s three hours away. I’m not going to Lake Michigan.”

  “Work with me,” he says. He sounds annoyed. “Where do you go swimming?”

  “The Horicon public pool,” I say.

  “That’s not going to cut it,” he says, sounding irritated. “Let’s agree it needs to be a natural body of water. What’s the nearest natural body of water you can get to?”

  “The pond in the Back 40,” I say.

  “Behind Prairie Marsh?” he says. “Not exactly what I had in mind, but whatever. Go for it.”

  “That pond is full of leeches,” I say. “I can’t swim there. What’s the next thing on the list? I’ll do something else.”

  “No, no, no,” says RJ, suddenly angry. “That is not how this works. You don’t get to pick and choose. This is my list.”

  I did not see this coming. We were having such a good time, and suddenly, it’s all falling apart.

  “You know what your problem is?” asks RJ.

  As soon as he says this, a wave of fear passes over me. I’m not good with criticism. I brace myself, but as RJ opens his mouth, there’s a buzz in my pocket. Mom’s phone.

  I pull the cell phone out.

  “Will?” says Mom. “Where are you? I’m at the front desk! I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes!”

  “I didn’t notice,” I say. I look up at RJ and tell him I have to go, my mom’s waiting.

  I grab my backpack and hurry to the door with the phone to my ear. I babble something about getting my forty-hours form signed. I keep talking, but only so I won’t have to face RJ as I escape the room.

  “Okay, Will,” says Rabbi Harris. “Have a look here at the Hebrew.”

  He arranges the packets on his desk and separates the pages of Hebrew from their translations. Above and below the Hebrew letters are tiny marks. One looks like a horseshoe, others look like Tetris pieces, and some look like wizard symbols from a comic book—lightning bolts and zigzags.

  “Each has a different melody,” he says. “None of them are very complicated. We’re going to start with this symbol and this symbol.” He points them out. “The first one that looks like a little hook is called a mercha. And this one that looks like a backward comma is a tipcha. They sound like this….”

  He sings, “Mercha, tip-cha-a-ah.” He’s very precise with his “ch” sound, making a noise like he’s dislodging a popcorn kernel from the back of his throat.

  “Try it with me now,” he says.

  It’s a chirpy melody. Repeated over and over, it would sound like the red-winged blackbirds in the Back 40.

  “Now we add this one,” he says. “See how it looks like a backward mercha? But it’s called a munach, and it goes like this: mu-na-ach…”

  This melody sinks lower. It almost sounds disappointed.

  We repeat these trope marks over and over, which is a breeze, until we start applying the melody to the Hebrew phrases in my Torah portion. As soon as I think I know how to predict the end of the phrase, a new trope mark comes along and surprises me. The melody doesn’t resolve neatly the way normal music does; each phrase wanders aimlessly, unable to find a harmonic home. I’m becoming disoriented and grope for the next note.

  “Couldn’t I bring this sheet up with me at my Bar Mitzvah?” I ask. “To remind me if I get lost?”

  “I’ll be there if you get lost,” Rabbi Harris says. “It happens all the time. I’ll sing the next few words to you, and you’ll find your way.”

  “Why can’t I bring the photocopy?”

  “When you read from the Torah, it needs to be from the Torah. No copies. No cheat sheets.”

  “But why not?”

  Rabbi Harris looks me in the eye. “In life,” he says, “we have moments of truth, where everything is on the line. And when these moments happen, we never have cheat sheets. We only have our instincts and the skills we’ve developed over the years.”

  I can feel myself starting to sweat.

  “Trust me, you’re gonna be fine,” says Rabbi Harris, a bit lighter in his tone. “Plus, it’s a great Torah portion and it’ll give you all sorts of material for your speech.”

  Speech.

  The second he says that, I stand up instinctively, as if to run from the room. I’ve somehow been blocking out the fact that at my Bar Mitzvah, I’m going to need to talk in front of a room full of people.

  “Going somewhere?” asks Rabbi Harris. “We have ten minutes left.”

  “Public speaking,” I say. “Not good.”

  “Everybody gets scared,” says Rabbi Harris. “But like everybody, you’ll be fine.”

  I ignore his encouragement and begin to gather my papers.

  “Before you go, Shmarya,” he says, “I wanted to talk with you about your time with Ralph.” He stands up. “Maybe we’ll go outside and get some sun? We’ve been cooped up in here.”

  I follow him out of his office and down the temple’s back staircase. Once we’re outside, I can hear the shouting of children near the synagogue’s Sunday camp. We walk closer and sit down on a bench near the playground. In front of us, little kids are running around playing some version of tag.

  “Tell me all about it,” he says. “How’re you finding your visits with Ralph?”

  “They’re good,” I say. “He’s showing me how to play drums. We just hang out.”

  “I’m glad you changed your mind about him,” says Rabbi Harris. “For years we’ve been hoping and praying that he improves, or at least stabilizes. For a while, signs were good. But lately, not so much.”

  We both sit in silence for a minute. Then he takes off his glasses and looks me straight in the eye, making me cringe.

  “Shmarya,” he says. “I have to tell you some hard news. This is a truth we both must accept: RJ is dying. I know you knew that already, but we’re no longer talking about someday. I want to be optimistic, but if you’re going to be able to support your friend, you need to know what he’s up against.”

  A cold river flows from my chest and to my arms and legs. Rabbi Harris goes on. “We’re talking about pretty serious organ failure—mainly his kidneys and his liver. It’s also affecting his sight and his muscles. It’s going to affect his breathing and his heart, and soon things are going to get really rough for him. This is where the real mitzvah comes in,” says Rabbi Harris. “His father drives a truck long distances and can only see him a few nights a week. He doesn’t have other family, and he doesn’t have other young people to be with. I need you to know the truth, going forward. It’s not clear how long he has. Could be a year. Could be six months. We just don’t know. But we do know he’s dying, and we need to face that reality.”

  I don’t say a word. What is there to say? But this reminds me of RJ’s bucket list: whatever’s on it needs to be completed, right away.

  I feel a wave of guilt. What if I’m never able to swim in the pond? How would I ever make that up to him? Suddenly, RJ’s annoying qualities don’t seem so bad. The mean things he said about me, his impatience, his rudeness—none of it matters. And even more overwhelming is the idea that of all the people on Earth, he might be spending the last months of his life hanging out with me.

  “Which leads me to a different topic,” Rabbi Harris says, his voice softening a little more. “You’ve already been through the death of a loved one.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Your father?” Rabbi Harris says, eyebrows raised, and leans toward me. “And sometimes, when we experience difficult things, it can bring back old memories. Old feelings.”

  “There’s nothing to remember,” I say. “So it doesn’t affect me.”

  “Well, memory is funny like that,” says Rabbi Harris. “It can be like a dream. You know how sometimes you wake up and you think, ‘I didn’t dream at all.’ And then
you’re brushing your teeth, and suddenly, you remember: last night, you dreamed you were flying.”

  “That never happens to me,” I answer.

  “The point is, we forget what we remember and we remember what we forget. You may find yourself remembering things, remembering your father in new ways. Can I ask you…how would you feel if memories started bubbling up? Some of those memories might be nice. Some maybe not so nice.”

  I sit for a moment.

  “I’m okay with it,” I say, though in reality, it sounds sort of scary. What could I remember about Dad that wouldn’t be nice?

  “Once you have your Bar Mitzvah,” Rabbi Harris continues, “you’ll start saying Mourner’s Kaddish on your father’s Yahrzeit, the anniversary of his passing. You will stand up at the end of services and chant the prayer along with all the other mourners—anyone who’s recently lost a loved one, plus anyone observing the yearly Yahrzeit.”

  Rabbi Harris stands up, a sign for me to join him for the walk back to the building.

  “What do you think, Will?” he asks. “Are you ready to remember?”

  “Sure,” I say, though as I say it, I have the feeling that I’m inviting something into my life, something big, something I won’t be able to control.

  It’s a cool day; not a good day for swimming in a pond, but what Rabbi Harris told me this morning has been haunting me. RJ’s bucket list isn’t just a list of hopes for “someday.” He has a really limited amount of time to accomplish them. He needs them done now.

  As soon as I get home from my lesson, I pack my backpack with a towel, my swim trunks, and goggles from when I took swimming lessons in third grade, which didn’t end well. I managed to doggy-paddle around, but I refused to put my face in the water, and to this day, when I go swimming, I try to keep my face dry.

  Once I’m at the pond in the Back 40, I look around to see if I’m alone. Of course I am. I pull off my shirt. The wind bites my back and neck. I take a few steps closer to the water, near where Max leaped in to catch the Blanding’s turtle. A thin layer of duckweed bobs across the surface like a green carpet. I grab a stick and poke it through, the tip disappearing, swallowed up. I don’t know what’s on the other side. It gives me chills to imagine it.