Crazy (17 page)

CRAZY GLUE
:
Ah, humanity. Aren't they the ones trying to dump your dad in the loony bin?

They then cut to the beaming violinist posing with his Stradivarius, and I turn off the television.

AUNT BEE
:
Let's be grateful for small miracles. At least one thing went right today.

CRAZY GLUE
:
Let's not. We're still knee-deep in donkey crap.

I pour the hot vegetable beef soup into a bowl. I wonder about the violin turning up at the National Cathedral. I figure the mailman must have been sweating it out the past week while wondering what to do with it. If he said he found it in his truck, then he could get fired for having left his truck unlocked; if
he said he just found it, maybe someone would think he stole it, just like we worried would happen to us.

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
What a great idea to leave it with a priest. Why didn't we think of that?

I chuckle to myself, forgetting my troubles for a moment. I think about having a good laugh with Pete and Haze the next time they come over.

CRAZY GLUE
:
Uh, maybe not. Remember, they're not your friends anymore. You ain't never gonna get to celebrate that close call with them.

SEXY LADY
:
Or have a good laugh over the memory of that wild ride through Haze's neighborhood.

LAUGH TRACK
:
Isn't it a shame?

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
Let's focus on the positive. At least one good thing happened today. You should celebrate.

Yeah, I should celebrate. I look around me. I grab myself a couple of pieces of bread and instead of spreading the thinnest layer of peanut butter and jelly on them the way I usually do, I slather them with the stuff. Then I put the two slices together and take a big bite, letting the sides ooze with the extravagance.

CRAZY GLUE
:
There you go. Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

I
DON'T HAVE ANY TIME
to think about a plan for what my next move will be. I don't know how we're going to get away from Sam and his court order. I don't let myself go there. I spend the night taking care of Dad. He barfs; I clean it up. He barfs again, and I clean it up. I set a bucket beside his bed. He doesn't even try to aim, and for someone who never seemed to eat, he sure has a lot of food exploding out of him, and from both ends.

CRAZY GLUE
:
Yeah, yeah, okay, we get the picture.

He's sicker than I've ever seen him. I figure he must have the stomach flu or some other kind of virus.

Whenever he pukes, I pull him out of the bed and put him into mine while I clean up. Then I put him back in his own bed. Then I pull him out again a short while later and haul him down to the bathroom, where I wait while he sits on the toilet and gets sick that way. Then I clean him up and drag him back to his bed and wait a bit until it's time to do the whole routine over again—and again.

Now it's morning and I'm wiped out. Dad still has a fever. He refuses to drink anything and he waves his
arms wildly whenever I come close to him with a glass of water or mug of soup in my hands. "The strings are busted. Tell the boy!" he says.

I think of setting out with Dad and heading to the clinic, but he seems too sick to make the long trip on the bus and sit half the day in the crowded waiting room. The last time I took him to the toilet, he passed out. What if he passed out on the bus?

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
Face it, son—you just don't have the energy.

I spend the morning washing sheets and clothes with the last of our laundry detergent. I clean the floor several times where my dad almost made it to the bucket by his bed.

In the afternoon I eat the last of our oatmeal, then try to get Dad to drink some warm tea. An hour after eating my oatmeal I throw it up.

CRAZY GLUE
:
It's just exhaustion. You're fine. Don't worry about it.

AUNT BEE
:
But he has chills. I think he has a fever.

SEXY LADY
:
I think you're hot when you're hot.

LAUGH TRACK
:
Ha-ha.

I sit in a chair, wrapped in one of the blankets from Dad's bed, and shiver while I keep watch for that Sam guy from the bedroom window. I've decided we don't need to run anywhere; we just won't open the door. Dad's too out of it to make much noise, so I figure we'll hide out upstairs; hopefully Sam and Dr. Gomez will think we've run away and they'll give up.

CRAZY GLUE
:
Oh sure. Sure they will. Please tell me I'm not hanging out with a moron.

Got any other bright ideas? Yeah, didn't think so.

Now it's late afternoon and I'm sure I've got it, too—the creeping crud. I set up a pallet in the bathroom and lie down on the floor by the toilet. I figure it'll be easier to clean myself up if I miss this way.

CRAZY GLUE
:
And it smells so good, too. Mmm, what is that, eau de puke?

I go to sleep, but then I wake up again when I hear the sound of the doorbell and several rapid knocks. I lift my head and, with my ears pricked, wait. I pray Dad will just lie still and keep quiet. A few minutes later, I hear the doorbell and the knocking again. "Please, please, please, go away," I whisper.

AUNT BEE
:
Lie back down, Jason. I'll take care of you.

SEXY LADY
:
Let me soothe you. Here we are. See us? Here we are. We'll look after you. Yes, that's right, we're all here for you.

I sleep and dream about Aunt Bee and the Sexy Lady and Fat Bald Guy and Crazy Glue, and You. You're there, too. I
am
dreaming, aren't I?

I wake again and it's nighttime. I know I need to check on my dad, so I force myself to get up. My lower back muscles kill, they're so sore. I drag down the hallway to Dad's bedroom. I see by the light from the street that the glass of water I had set on his bedside table earlier hasn't been touched. I stumble over to his bed and feel his forehead, but with my own
body so feverish, it's hard to tell how hot he is. I shake him. "Dad, how you doin'? You okay?" I kneel on the floor and lean my head against the bed. I'm too dizzy to stay standing. I raise my good arm and pat his shoulder.

"I have been in a beautiful place," Dad says, his voice sounding hoarse and dry.

"Yeah? You wanna take me there, Dad? Take me someplace beautiful and happy with lots of green and yellow."

"The boy will take you."

I lift my head. "Who is the boy? Where will I find the boy? Huh? Huh, Dad?"

"They got him, I think," he whispers.

"Who did? Who got him? The Furies? They didn't get him. I'm right here."

"They got Mother and Dad and Lara and the music and the boy, and they're coming after me. Tonight they're coming after me. Do you hear them? Do you hear the drum section?" He places his hands over his chest. "
Patta-pum patta-pum de dum dum,
" he sings.

I sit up straight and my head throbs. "No. No, Dad. I don't hear anything. Just you. It's just your voice. No Furies."

"Listen."

"Nobody's coming," I say. "Nobody's going to get you. I'll keep you safe. I always have, haven't I?" I squeeze his shoulder.

"Listen. Do you hear them?"

"No. Who?" I'm feeling sick. My stomach is cramping. I need to go to the bathroom.

"The drums. They're coming." He lifts his arm and stares at it. "The moonlight shines right through me now. It sees clear through me."

I struggle to my feet, using the bed for support. "No! No drums. No Furies. Nobody's coming. No moonlight. No one will ever take you away. Do you hear me? You're safe." I push his arm and it flops onto his chest.

"It's all right," Dad whispers. "They say I need to go."

I lean over him, holding on to the bedpost with my right hand, and gaze down at him in the darkness. His face, fuzzy in the dim light, looks peaceful, and it frightens me. I'm used to his fear. His fear is normal. This peace doesn't feel right. Is he talking about dying?

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
I think so.

LAUGH TRACK
:
Isn't it a shame.

"I feel a beautiful place of moon music. They tell me it's beautiful,
patta-pum pum.
No Furies. So I must go."

I don't know if it's panic or my food rising. I search around for the bucket and grab it just in time. I retch into the bucket and wipe my mouth on a damp washcloth I had set out for Dad to use. My mind is racing. Is he dying? Have I let him die? Am I killing him? Is that what I've been doing? Not protecting him at all, just
slowly killing him? Mom! Why did you leave me? How could you?

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
Shh!

What does he mean when he says he must go? What beautiful place does he see? I look at him lying in the bed, so thin and pale. He smells awful. He smells like the stuff the girls at school use to remove nail polish—like acetone. I look at the room, my parents' bedroom once, but now the room—the house—has become our prison. How has this happened?

CRAZY GLUE; (Singing)
Take the keys and lock them up, lock them up, lock them up.

I let this happen. It's all my fault, this prison we're in.

CRAZY GLUE
: (Singing)
Lock them up, lock them up.

"A rope in my throat," Dad says. "Pull out the rope so I can breathe. I can't breathe." He gasps and raises his head and tries to get out of the bed, but then he flops back, too weak or maybe too dizzy to rise. "Time to go," he whispers. "Just let me go. Pull out the rope."

SEXY LADY
:
Do something, Jason!

CRAZY GLUE
: (Singing)
Lock them up, lock them up.

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
Don't just stand there. Hurry. Get help. Not a moment to lose.

I glance at the clock on the chest of drawers. It's just after eight. Dr. Gomez will still be awake.

LAUGH TRACK
:
Call her!

"Dad, I'm going to go get help, okay? We need help.
I'm letting go, but not for good. You're not dying. You're not going to die on me. Okay?" I pull my left arm out of my sling and grab the glass of water on the side table. I lean over and lift his head with my good hand. "Here, drink this. Drink this! Drink this! Please, Dad, drink this."

Dad flails, his mouth clamped shut. I set the glass back down on the table and hurry to the bathroom where I'd left Dr. Gomez's card.

"Oh please, oh please, oh please." I crawl around on the floor among the bedding, looking for the card. Finally I find it. I jump up, grab the box of baking soda we use for toothpaste off the sink, and put some in my mouth. Then I take a slurp of water and hurry downstairs, swishing the water and baking soda around, hoping it will mask my own stink. I open the front door and spit the pasty stuff out onto the street, gagging at the leftover glob clinging to the roof of my mouth. I run to my neighbors. "Please, oh please, oh please let him be okay!" I run on wobbly legs past the house next door because there aren't any lights on. I move on to the next house and see the blue flashing light of the television. I ring the doorbell, and a man in a tight white T-shirt with a big belly answers the door.

"Please, can I use your phone? My father's sick—and I'm sick. I need to get help." I wave Dr. Gomez's card in the man's face. "Can I use your phone?"

He steps back, allowing me to enter. "Sure, come
on. It's in the kitchen. I'll show you." I follow him, wishing he'd move faster. My head's swimming, my legs feel weak, and my stomach is cramping, but I don't care if I vomit all over this man's house; I've got to use his phone.

>He stops in the kitchen doorway and points to a red phone hanging on the wall.

CRAZY GLUE
:
A hotline! Perfect.

I dash to the phone and call Dr. Gomez's number. She answers right away. "Hi, it's me, it's Jason—Jason Papadopoulos. Help. Help me. I need your help. Could you come—could you come, now? My dad is really sick. I'm scared. Please, could you come right now?"

I
SIT IN MY DAD'S BEDROOM
and wait for Dr. Gomez to arrive. Dad's asleep, but his breathing doesn't sound good. I decide not to wake him until it's time to leave. I stare out the window and watch the shimmer and shadows of the river, and listen to the wind and the clicking of bare branches hitting against one another.

I hear sirens in the distance and I wonder what other disaster is happening in the city right now.

I keep listening. The sirens get closer, and closer.

CRAZY GLUE
:
They're for you, goob.

I jump to my feet and stare out the window. A few seconds later an ambulance and police car, both with lights flashing, pull up outside the house. I don't know what to do. We have no health insurance. We can't pay for this. We can't pay for a hospital stay. "Jeez!"

I hurry downstairs.

AUNT BEE
:
Just explain to everybody—false alarm.

CRAZY GLUE
:
Yeah, right. The city will love that.

Why had Dr. Gomez called them?

I open the door and see two men holding a stretcher
between them aiming straight for the house. The front man asks me where to go. I try to tell them that we can't pay, but I can't get anything to come out of my mouth.

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
You know your father needs a hospital.

I point toward the staircase.

The two men tromp up to my dad's bedroom. I wait in the hallway. I'm shivering even with a blanket wrapped around me. I don't know what I should do. The doorbell rings; I open the door again and it's Dr. Gomez. She grabs me right away and holds me tight. I want to collapse. She feels so good. It's been so long since I've been hugged. I didn't know how hungry I was for it, but I push away. I need to make her understand.

"We have no insurance. We can't pay. We can't pay." I say this over and over.

Dr. Gomez hugs me again. "It's going to be all right. You're all right, now."