Donutheart (11 page)

“But the mess, surely…”

“It’s called a quick getaway.” After a glance into the tiny kitchen, she pushed past me and—to my horror—sat down on the chair. Something under the cushion made her reach beneath it. For her trouble, she was rewarded with one of Sarah Kervick’s practice softballs, which she jammed into her jacket pocket.

She put her head in her hands, kneading her temples. “Knowing him, somebody else owns all this anyway.”

The wind that rattled around the trailer carried with it a low keening noise, as if the great outdoors were expressing my mother’s misery. She looked up at me in shocked surprise.

“Oh my God, Franklin, the dogs!” Rushing for the door, she kicked at a tangle of coat hangers and was gone before I could think of a reasonable argument to stop her.

Have I made it clear that Sarah’s dogs did not hold the same place in my affections as in my mother’s? Therefore, I did not rush headlong after her. Instead—to my surprise—I waded boldly into the bedroom. It was about the size of our laundry room, and clearly it belonged to Sarah. A narrow bed folded down from the wall and bumped up against an unfinished dresser. On the slice of wall between the tiny window and the bed, Sarah had taped pictures of women skaters she’d torn from the ridiculously overpriced “mag-alogs” my mother purchased for her at the skating rink. There was a photo, too. I had to sit on the bed to see it properly. Taken during my mother’s camera-crazy phase last baseball season, it was a picture of me in my baseball uniform and my mother, a bat perched jauntily on her shoulder. There was something strange about the photograph…the ink had smudged across my mother’s chest.

With my keen awareness of the physics of movement, I knew immediately—calculating the position of her body at rest, the arc of her arm, and the length of her fingers—that this was the spot where Sarah Kervick touched the picture before she went to sleep each night.

I sat there on that bed, not thinking about germs or potential injury from the rusting bed frame, not thinking at all, but
knowing
that a crime had been committed here. Because Sarah Kervick would not willingly leave without saying good-bye to my mother.

And then I saw something—a shape tangled in the blanket—that confirmed my suspicions. I tugged it up on my lap and unraveled the mess to reveal one of Sarah Kervick’s figure skates.

I heard my mother’s whistle, the one that had long ago called us in from the outfield at the Paul I. Phillips Recreation Center, and jumped up, reflexively hiding the skate behind my back. I was being summoned. I did not want my mother to see the skate. It was selfish, I know, but I had never seen my mother bawl before, and I wanted to be spared the trauma. For just as Franklin Delano Donuthead has principles to live by, we both knew that Sarah Kervick and her ice skates would never willingly be parted.

I couldn’t leave it behind. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t. I glanced wildly around the room, my gaze landing on Sarah Kervick’s backpack in the corner, partially hidden under a worn…teddy bear? With a stealth I didn’t know I was capable of, I stuffed the skate and, for some reason, the teddy bear into the backpack, which was already partially filled with assignments and books, and zipped it up. I hefted it onto my back—equally distributing the weight across both shoulders—and stepped carefully to avoid contact with anything that might have been handled by Kervick the Elder.

Outside, my mother stood in the dusty yard. She seemed to be studying the latest rusted heap Mr. Kervick was fixing up. It sat like some giant beast, its mouth propped open, the ever-present transistor radio swaying under the hood like a broken tooth.

“She said this would happen,” my mother said quietly.

“She said she would look up one day and I wouldn’t be there.” Pulling the softball out of her pocket, my mother tossed it in the air a few times as if feeling its weight. “I was really mad about it at the time, but Sarah was right. Tomorrow, she’ll wake up and I won’t be there.”

With one swift move, she rocketed the softball at Mr. Kervick’s radio, squarely meeting her mark and, through a handy demonstration of the transfer of energy, sent it flying into the dust.

I decided to take a proactive stance regarding the presence of Sarah Kervick’s backpack.

“It’s possible that Sarah will be in contact with me regarding her missed assignments,” I said. Though this was about as likely statistically as being struck by lightning, she had to admit it
was
a possibility.

But my mother did not seem interested in the booty I had hauled from the Kervicks’ trailer. She opened the van door and leapt in, adjusting her rearview mirror. I got in the passenger side, but as soon as I had buckled up, I froze in my seat.

“Mother, what is that smell?”

She placed her hands at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel.
“That,”
she said, turning the key in the ignition, “is the probable result of half a dozen Thompson Treats on an empty stomach.”

“Excuse me?”

“I couldn’t leave them there, Franklin. I don’t think they’ve eaten for a couple of days. We better go see Penny.”

I hazarded a look into the back of the van at Pretzel and Zero, who lay in an exhausted heap on the floor. I could practically see the dander flying through the air, the fleas hopping. I pinched my nose.

“Surely there are places to call in a situation like this….”

“Do you want to tell Sarah we took her dogs to the pound, Franklin? Would you like to be the one to make that call?”

Since Sarah Kervick was never available by phone, I knew this was a rhetorical question. My mother was not through.

“Have you ever been to the dog pound?”

“Have you?” I asked, calling her bluff.

“Well, not for years. But you only need to go once.”

I was about as willing to turn my back on Sarah’s mongrels as I was on Marvin Howerton. I jumped in my seat as one came to life, scratching its neck like mad. The other lay in a position of miserable abandon, its paws over its muzzle. As usual, I had no idea which one was which.

“Well, I suppose delivering them to Penny is the humane thing to do,” I said, clutching Sarah’s backpack to my chest.

On second thought, I put it on the floor at my feet.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Call of Nature

The next day, I sat across the lunch table from Bernie and delivered the news about Sarah. For once, I had his attention.

“She’s been abducted,” Bernie said, dipping a breadstick into a concoction that advertisers market as “cheez” spread. With the sort of grades Bernie gets in spelling, he was the target audience for this clever presentation.

“By Dorgon Trolls, I suppose. This is serious, Bernie.”

“No, really. Think about it. Sarah lives for skating,” he said.

“She would never leave town without her skates, Franklin….”

He broke off and stared into the middle distance, a look of wonder on his face.

“Franklin!” Bernie whacked his breadstick on the lunch table, his blob of “cheez” landing just short of my recently disinfected lunch area.

“This is like that story we read last year,
Honus and Me.
You have to return the skate to its rightful owner, just like he did that baseball card. You’ll be a hero!” His voice had escalated to the point of attracting attention, not only from neighboring tables but from Mr. Fiegel himself.

“Lepner, Donuthead!” he barked into his bullhorn. “Volume!”

As fate would have it, my eyes were resting on the fair Glynnis Powell when Mr. Fiegel called out my name.

She looked up suddenly, her eyes finding mine across a sea of unsavory lunch trays. It was a balm sweeter than the organic pears canned in their own juice that sat, untouched, at my elbow.

“I can’t believe you took in Zero, too. You know, Franklin, that’s really out of character for you.” Bernie gazed up at me through his filter of bangs with a look that bordered on admiration.

It made me feel somewhat relieved that he hadn’t witnessed the scene I’d made when my mother attempted to bring the mongrel into the house. Penny had agreed to take in Pretzel, the female—who would have guessed?—but put her foot down at the idea of a male dog entering her home. Her other dogs had “masculine issues,” she told us, as if that settled it.

“Mother, I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to invite this portable disease unit into the house that I have spent the better years of my life decontaminating.”

“Franklin.” She stood at the counter drinking coffee, an incredulous look on her face. “Haven’t you read the research?”

“Research?”

“About SeDS?”

“SeDS?”

“Canines play a critical role in decreasing the odds of dying from Sedentary Death Syndrome.”

A pitiful whining noise could be heard from the other side of the door. The hound was no longer in the garage but was sitting inside, his exposed rear end on the very same floor tiles I placed my laundry basket. I was torn between that unsavory image and what my mother had just said.

“Sedentary Death Syndrome?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of it.”

“Well, it does sound familiar….”

“Complications relating to inactivity, and deriving from obesity and heart disease, are the leading cause of death in this nation. They’ve eclipsed smoking, for heaven’s sake. Don’t play dumb with me, Franklin…the surgeon general is up in arms! People have to start moving. A daily walk with pets is a great way to begin a regular course of exercise. Now that you’re not in a sport…”

I looked at my mother’s earnest face. “Have you been talking to Gloria?” I asked her.

“What does Gloria have to do with it?”

“It’s just…you’re so…all of a sudden current with the research on preventable death.”

My mother sagged a little. I should note that despite her poor nutritional profile, my mother has always enjoyed excellent posture. But not today. She stood in front of me, staring at her work boots, positively slumped.

It brought back thoughts of Sarah Kervick, and a sick feeling crept into my stomach. Sarah Kervick was missing. She and her father had disappeared. I thought of all the times she had protected me or Bernie, about the CD of waterfalls from around the world, of the times she tried to teach me to defend myself despite my unwavering stance as a pacifist.

I thought about how happy she’d made my mother.

“Did Gloria say…is there anything we can do?”

“Nope. We’re not relatives. She’s not technically missing.”

Another pitiful whine came from the other room, and a hairy paw with nails to rival Rip Van Winkle’s pushed itself beneath the door.

I grabbed the Yellow Pages from the drawer under the counter and began flipping wildly.

“He’ll have to be decontaminated first,” I insisted.

Under the subject heading “Pet Grooming,” I skipped over the ads that marketed kindness: “Where your pets are treated like family in our home,” in favor of…

“This is the one.” I kept my finger in place and slid it over to my mother.

“The Petmeister,” she read. “Flea Dips, Medicated Baths, Veterinary Supervision, Nail Trims…Sedatives?”

As I was reminiscing about this difficult encounter, Bernie had moved on to “salt,” his other food group, and was eating a bag of pickle-and-dill potato chips. I glanced at the clock, attempting a casual tone.

“Bern? Want to hit the bathroom before we head to science?”

“No, I’m fine, Franklin. Thanks.”

I studied Bernie carefully. The boy never seemed to have to go to the bathroom. I was beginning to think he was part camel. Armed with my CD and headphones, I made the long, lonely walk to the boys’ bathroom by myself.

As luck would have it, Mr. Herman was just placing his wet-floor cones down when I approached.

“Mr. Herman,” I said in my most respectful tone. “Would you mind…what I mean to say is, would it be a problem if…” Mr. Herman looked up at me with what might be described as a glint in his eye.

“Be my guest.” As I passed his cart, I noted with approval several industrial-sized disinfecting agents. Maybe public bathrooms weren’t as dangerous as I’d first thought. I was just lifting the CD player out of the specially designated zipper pocket at the top of my backpack when I thought I heard a phone ring.

“That’s
my
cell,” Mr. Herman said from the other side of the stall door, as if to distinguish it from all the other cells that rang in the boys’ bathroom at Pelican View Middle School.

Then, to my infinite surprise, a hand reached over the door.

“It’s for you.”

I stood there for a moment, zipper down, staring at the phone.

“Franklin, hurry up! I only have a minute.”

“Sarah?”

“Who’d you think? Of course it’s me. Listen. I’m stayin’ with Aunt Zinny. She is one dumb cluck, but she learned to count just so she could keep track of her cell minutes. She’ll sure skin me when she finds out, but Franklin, I gotta get my skate back.”

“Sarah, where are you?”

“Grand River.”

“Michigan?”

“Franklin, I don’t have time for this! Just listen, okay? We had to go quick, and now I’m stuck with Aunt Zinny and the brats.
You
have to bring me my skate, Franklin. I left it in the trailer. I’m still going to the regionals, so I gotta practice. It’s not locked—”

“I know. I have it,” I said. “But when are you coming back? My mother—”

“You have it? You
have
it? Oh man, that’s a relief. But how—?”

“When we came to pick you up for pizza.”

“Attaboy, Franklin!” she cheered, as if I’d just managed a bunt for Pelican View Elementary’s Modern Hardware Baseball Team.

“Okay, look, I know you’re in the bathroom, so you’re just gonna have to memorize this. Aunt Zinny’s is that blue house right at the corner of Lee and Algernon. On the West Side. They have a map at the bus station. When can you bring it?”

I’m not exactly sure why: Maybe it was the novel setting for this conversation, or perhaps the rushed and secret nature of the phone call itself, but I wasn’t really catching the drift of Sarah’s comments.

“I’m sure the bus won’t be necessary. Grand River is just a few hours’ drive. My mother—”

“Franklin, you better get this straight right now. Franklin, listen to me. I’m not asking your mom. I’m asking you. Will you bring me my skate or won’t you?”

At least something about Sarah Kervick had been revived in flight. This last line was delivered in her most threatening manner.

“Look, I gotta go. I’m guessin’ you’re nodding your head right now. Up and down. I’ll watch for you Saturday. Zinny says there’s a rink near here for the hockey team, but they let kids skate after school.”

“But when are you coming back? What will I tell Gloria?”

“We’re gonna come back. He promised. It’s just…he’s gotta straighten out a couple things first.”

“But my mother is worried sick….”

“He got arrested, Franklin.” Sarah exhaled sharply into the phone. “He wasn’t really doing anything wrong. It’s just…well, he was sleeping in the backseat when his brother knocked over a 7-Eleven.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to a comment like that. The backseat of a getaway car did not seem like a good place to take a nap.

As if reading my thoughts, Sarah added: “Okay, he was drunk and he passed out. Promise you won’t tell your mom about that, Franklin. Not yet. I’m gonna…I’m gonna write her something. You’ll come, right? Alone. Promise?”

What could I do? I promised, and Sarah Kervick disconnected the phone call even before I said good-bye.

I stood there, staring at the phone in my hand.

Mr. Herman’s arm came over the stall door. I handed him back the telephone.

“Go on and finish up. It’s almost time for the bell.”

He was leaning against the porcelain fountain, a toothpick rolling across his tongue, as I emerged. He watched as I washed my hands.

“How did she know I’d be here?” I asked him.

“You’re a creature of habit,” he responded.

I didn’t have any response to that. It was too true.

“Franklin,” he said as I hurriedly applied soap for a second time and began to lather. “You ever heard of Houdini?”

I stared at Mr. Herman. A moment ago, I was in hushed conversation with Sarah Kervick in the boys’-bathroom stall, and now I was making small talk with the man who handled the lunchroom refuse.

“The magician?”

“He was that,” Mr. Herman said, nodding. The bell rang, piercing the air with unsafe decibels. Mr. Herman did not flinch.

“He was also a master of escape.” He pushed himself up from his leaning position by making actual contact with the rim of the urinal.

“She told me you don’t like to fight. I consider that a fine thing. It’s called restraint. But where you’re going, you might want to at least learn a coupla hold breakers.”

“Where I’m going…,” I repeated.

Two boys I recognized from my homeroom arrived at the door, breathless. The expressions on their faces told the whole story.

“Sorry, we…” They looked at each other.

“You boys go ahead,” Mr. Herman said, clapping me on the shoulder and propelling me into the hall before I’d had a chance to thoroughly sanitize and dry.

“Think about it. A good hold breaker can save your skin. You don’t have anything against
that,
do you?”

“Mr. Herman,” I began, fighting the impulse to flinch.

“Since you and Sarah are so close, I don’t suppose you would consider—”

“She didn’t ask me, now, did she?”

“Franklin,” Bernie said, once we’d donned our safety glasses in science. “You don’t look too good.”

“Well, I just had a most disconcerting conversation,” I said.

“With Marvin?”

“No. With Sarah Kervick.”

“Go on!”

Mr. Spansky positioned himself in front of our desk and began a long discourse on proton
s
, neutron
s
, and electron
s
.

I yanked Bernie under the table and related the high points of my conversation with Sarah. As usual, Bernie forgot himself and whacked his head on the table as I related the part about me taking Sarah’s skate to Grand River.

“Didn’t I say it first? I always know how the story ends!”

“Bernie, Franklin? Will you join us?” Mr. Spansky’s voice came from above.

Instead of taking notes with my multicolored pen in order to highlight key concepts with efficiency, I wrote “blue house,” “Lee,” “Algernon,” “West Side.” I wondered if the West Side of Grand River was anything like the Lower East Side of New York City. I would have to research the crime statistics. I’d never actually ridden a city bus before. Would they have seat belts?

My worries were interrupted by a fine spatter of saliva on my safety glasses, and the shining, clean-shaven face of Mr. Spansky bent over to eye level with me.

“Are you li
s
tening, Mr. Donuthead? I wa
s
a
s
king about i
s
otope
s
.”