Catalyst (10 page)

“We have some clothes that will fit Mikey,” I continue. “I’ll find some stuff for you, too.”

Teri points the remote and turns up the volume.

Mmmbbraaaaaaacchhh . . .

Teri gave Mikey a bath during the seventh-inning stretch. He fell asleep on my bed while she showered and changed into some of Dad’s old sweats. I suggested we move Mikey to the cot in Toby’s room, but Teri refused. Can’t say I blame her. The dog won’t sleep in there, either.

Braaaaaaaaccchhhhh . . .

It wasn’t part of my plan to be the schmuck that wound up on the cot, but there you go. Teri and Mikey took my bed. As if worrying about MIT weren’t enough to keep me awake, I have a lawn mower roaring in the middle of the room.

Mmmbrrrraaaaachhhhh . . .

The lawn mower is Mikey Litch breathing through his mouth, producing a decibel-per-pound output that is off the charts. I should sample the noise and sell it to struggling musicians. I’d make a fortune.

Braaaaaaaccchhh.

I roll over and pull my knees up to my chest. My legs are tight, my arms are achy, and I can’t get warm. I bet I’m getting the flu. Maybe I’ll be lucky and it will be a rare strain from Mongolian hamsters and I’ll die. No, I’m not that lucky. If I got Mongolian hamster flu, I’d probably end up with permanent blue spots and a tail or something. I roll over. Everything smells like smoke.

Braaaaaaaccchhh.

How can Teri stand it? This could explain her anger management problem. I’ve got to do something or I’ll never get to sleep. Maybe I can roll him on his side. I sit up. Teri’s shape lies along the edge of the mattress. Her face is blocked by my clock radio. Is she asleep? I sit up higher.

She’s awake, watching the minutes on the face of the clock dissolve into each other. The cot creaks under me.

Teri’s eyes swivel and pin me to the wall.

4.0

Oxidizing Agent

SAFETY TIP: Substitute plastic labware for glassware when possible.

First thought upon waking: Maybe it was a nightmare.

Second thought upon waking: What in God’s name is that awful smell?

Third thought: The nightmare continues.

I wrestle my way out of the sleeping bag, fumble for my glasses, and stand up. Mikey Litch’s diaper has exploded all over my bed. Believe me, I do not freak out about a little baby poop. I have a brother. Poop, puke, whatever, I can cope. But this is not natural. It looks like a dinosaur took a dump.

Mikey’s eyes flutter and open. He turns his head to stare at me. “Where Mommy?”

“Don’t move. I, um, I’ll get help. Don’t move, Mikey, stay. Sit. Stay.”

“Twuck,” Mikey says, reaching for the toy on the pillow next to him.

“Dad!” I bellow. “Daaad!” Mr. Spock gallops up the stairs, streaks into the room, and freezes, his nose high in the air. He takes a sniff, whimpers, and scurries out, tail between his legs.

Toby takes the stairs two at a time. “What’s wrong?”

I point to the bed. Mikey is running the dump truck (oh, irony) over the hills and valleys of my ruined comforter, buzzing his lips to make a spluttering engine noise.

“Dude,” Toby says. He backs away from the door and coughs. “That’s a lot of—”

“Please don’t say it. Where’s Teri?”

“Watching cartoons.”

Mikey crawls to the edge of the bed. “Oh, no, you don’t.” I run in and shoo him to the middle of the mattress like a baby herder. “I have to go to work,” I tell my brother. “Do something.”

“No way, I’m not touching him. That’s sick.”

“Get Teri.”

Toby nods. “Good idea.” He turns his head and yells, “
Teri!”

“I could have done that.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t.”

Teri lumbers up the steps chewing something. Her sweatpants are covered with cat fur. She catches a whiff and shakes her head. “Oh, geez,” she says to no one in particular. “He did it again.” She tucks Mikey under her arm like a football and carries him downstairs to the kitchen. As she passes me, I notice a thin gold chain disappearing under the collar of her shirt. I know that chain. There is a gold heart attached to it. It was a Christmas present from Mitch.

Toby and I open all the windows in my room, then follow them. “What if she puts him on the couch?” he whispers.

“Who cares? See that necklace she’s wearing? It’s mine. She stole it.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

He picks up and shakes the box of Life cereal that Teri left on the couch. It’s empty. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Good idea.”

Mikey stands naked and shivering in the kitchen sink, his thumb in his mouth. Teri pulls the spray nozzle out of the faucet and tests the water temperature on the inside of her right wrist before hosing off the first layer of crud and lathering him up with dishwashing detergent.

“Did you get any sleep?” I ask.

Teri slides her hands across Mikey’s shoulders and back. Her palms are callused and the thumbnail of her left hand is black. “Not much,” she says.

I open the cupboard and get out Toby’s medicine and vitamins. “He sure can snore, can’t he?”

“He’s been sick. His nose is stuffed.”

Bubbles cover Mikey’s skinny body like translucent polar bear fur. As he bounces up and down, some of them drift off and hang in the sunlight. One lands on the purple bruise under Teri’s eye. Mikey pops it and giggles. Teri winces (that must have hurt), then rinses him off.

I pour two glasses of orange juice and set one in front of my brother, sitting at the kitchen table. “Do you want some juice?” I ask Teri as I stick a piece of bread in the toaster.

“I hate juice,” she says.

“What about Mikey?”

“He only drinks grape juice.”

“Sorry, we don’t have any.”

“Figures.”

I keep my lips pressed together until my toast springs up. “What does he like to eat for breakfast?”

“Cereal.”

“That’s all gone,” Toby points out.

I spread a thin layer of butter on my toast. “How about eggs?”

“He hates eggs.”

“Toast?”

Teri pulls fifty paper towels off the roll. “We only eat cereal for breakfast. Or oatmeal, if it’s cold outside.” She glares at me, daring me to criticize oatmeal. “You need to go to the grocery store.”

“Dad’ll go.” I look down at my wrist—no watch, duh—check the kitchen clock. “Shoot. I have to hurry.”

“Um, Kate?” Toby’s voice cracks a little.

“So what—we’re supposed to starve?” Teri asks.

I open the refrigerator. “Milk, bread, stuff for salad, leftover meatloaf, bologna, cottage cheese, apples, and oranges; there’s plenty to eat.”

Teri dries off the soles of Mikey’s feet. “I knew it. I told your father you didn’t want us here.”

Deep-breathe, Malone. Count to ten. “I’m going upstairs to get dressed and then I am going to work. Have a nice day, Teri.”

“Kate, listen,” Toby starts.

“What?”

“You don’t have to go to work.”

I pause in the doorway and turn around. “Yes, I do. I’m scheduled all day, then I’m getting my contacts. It’s on the calendar.”

“Um, well, Dad called your boss, before you woke up,” he says. “He said you couldn’t go in, that we had an emergency and you had to help at home.”

“What emergency?”

Teri smiles as Mikey leaps into her arms. “Me,” she says.

4.1 Unstable Compound

I know the Bible says it’s wrong to kill your dad, but the Bible says lots of things we ignore these days.

I bang out of the back door in my pajamas and slippers and stalk around the cemetery. I am vibrating at such a high frequency that dogs are howling in Buffalo. I can’t believe he did this. He’s going to get me fired, and for what—so I can baby-sit a burned-out kleptomaniac whose brother has intestinal issues? I don’t think so.

The Litch place is crawling with people: police, firefighters, construction workers, and a half dozen gawkers clustered in the side yard. The barn is a charred skeleton of timbers and half a wall. The house looks all right, though. It has some holes in the roof, but they are already covered with blue tarps. The back porch and half the kitchen burned away, but the rest is standing. Good. She can move out this afternoon.

Dad is leaning against the Dumpster in the driveway, surrounded by guys in hard hats. He’s dressed for action—heavy-duty jeans, ancient boots, thick work gloves—and buzzing on adrenaline. (Rev. Malone is most alive when someone is dead, dying, or in trouble. This is item #1342 on the list of things I don’t understand about my father. )

The wind picks up as I walk down the hill. The barn timbers shudder. Ghostly whirlwinds of ash rise and writhe over the crowd, and the people turn their faces away so they don’t breathe it in.

I plant myself in front of my father. “Are you trying to get me fired?”

Dad blinks. “Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Kate.”

The hard hats make polite noises.

“You had no right to call my boss like that.”

He won’t look me in the eye. “We’ll talk about it later. How are our guests?”

“Hungry. When are they leaving?”

“Um, Pete?” Dad nods to one of the men.

Pete pushes up his hard hat with the back of his hand. “Well, the inspector is still poking around. The roof needs patching, and the kitchen here, that’s gotta come down and be rebuilt. We got lots of water damage and smoke. But the foundation’s in great shape.”

“Can they move back in today? After you clean it up?” I ask.

The men shake their heads slowly.

“A week?”

“Well, like I said, the inspector makes the decisions. Plus your father, he has an idea about rebuilding everything.”

The wind gusts, blowing my pajama pants against my legs and making the bones of the barn creak. Bad. Bad. It’s bad when Dad has ideas. There was the year he decided Christmas was not about gift-giving and almost started a riot at the mall. . . .

Dad smacks his hands together and grins. “The doctors told me that Mrs. Litch needs some rest. The scare last night didn’t do her heart any good. I had a nice chat with her early this morning. I told her all about my idea and she loved it. Gave me full permission.”

Then there was the year he told the newspapers that Easter was for fasting, not for eating chocolate. Our house got egged for that one.

“What’s the idea?” I ask.

“I told Mrs. Litch about the Amish.”

The image of Teri Litch dressed as an Amish girl makes me dizzy. I grab my father’s arm. “Please, Dad.”

He pats my hand and grins wider. “The Amish can build an entire barn in a day. We can do something like that if we just pull together. The church is going to provide volunteers and the money to fix up the Litch house. It’s faith in action, my friends, faith in action!”

The guys in hard hats squirm as if they have an itch they can’t reach. People would like my dad better if he weren’t always bringing up the religion thing.

I pull my hands away. “Okay, that’s great, but how long does Teri have to stay with us?”

“It depends on what we find inside,” Pete says. “Weeks. Months, maybe.”

Before I can scream or bash my head against the Dumpster, one of the hard hats hollers toward the house. “Hey! You can’t go in there!”

Teri Litch is about to blow. With Mikey riding on her back, she strides onto the side porch and rips down the yellow caution tape strung across the door. Mikey giggles. The barn shivers.

Two cops join her on the porch. Teri sets down Mikey and faces them with her fists clenched.

“Do something, Dad,” I say.

As my father sprints over to play peace negotiator, Teri lets fly with an astounding collection of profanity, delivered at full volume. To paraphrase: “Get out of my way, you
adjective noun
. This is my
multiple adjective
house, and none of you
plural noun
belong here.” She points at the volunteers staring at her. (More paraphrasing here.) “I want you to arrest these
adverb, adverb, truly rude gerund
mothers. They’re trespassing. Get them out!”

My father speaks to her in a low voice. I doubt he’s cursing. I must admit there is a part of me that would give anything to be able to swear like that in front of a group of strangers.

Mikey toddles down the porch steps. Teri interrupts my father to scream at me. “Dammit, Kate, get him!”

Everybody in this soap-opera trailer-park nightmare turns to look at me. I stumble after Mikey (it was a bad idea to come down here in slippers), scoop him up, and sniff cautiously. He smells like dishwashing detergent. He leans back in my arms and gives me the once-over. “I’m Kate,” I say. “Can you say ‘Kate’?”

“Twuck,” Mikey says, showing me the dump truck in his hand.

“Kate.” I point to myself.

“Twuck.” He shoves the truck in my face.

“Close enough.”

Mikey and I sit down on the grass, far away from the remains of the barn. The way the wind is blowing, it’s going to come down soon. Dad must have achieved détente. He follows Teri inside the house, accompanied by a police officer.

Mikey runs his truck over the grass and my slipper. What the hell am I doing here, having an out-of-body experience? I should be shopping for a microwave for my dorm room, or talking to Sara, or at the very least earning some cash so I can pay for my books and . . . “No, no, don’t eat that!” I pull Mikey into my lap and clean the grass out of his mouth. “Yucky, uck.”

“Uck,” he repeats.

“Precisely. A category-three uck.”

“Free.” He scrunches up his face and wipes his tongue.

“How did you get so cute?” Teri dressed him in overalls and a red flannel shirt that belonged to Toby when he was a rugrat. I need to distract him. “Come here, I’ll teach you something.” I set him in front of me and pull his palms together. “It’s like patty-cake, only better because it has chemistry.”

“Uck.”

“No, not uck. Give it a shot. You’ll love it.” I clap his hands in mine and sing, “There’s antimony, arsenic, aluminum, selenium, and hydrogen and oxygen and nitrogen and rhenium . . . ”