Donutheart (13 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Bursting My Antibacterial Soap Bubble

With the exception of certain statements I have made regarding the enjoyment of attending baseball games, I have never told my mother a falsehood. Lying is a quality that does not keep company with principles such as health promotion and mental improvement. I have employed this tactic on occasion, with Marvin Howerton, to aid in risk avoidance.

For example, if Marvin were to say: “Hey, Donuthead, you goin’ to the john?” I might reply something like: “Actually, I was…on my way to the office to check my community-service hours.”

Or:

“Hey, Donut-hole, wanna walk home with us?”

“That’d be great, Marvin, but…I just remembered I promised Mr. Spansky I would sanitize the petri dishes.”

Since Marvin was not sincere in his interest, it was easy to lie to him. My mother, on the other hand, would be a different story.

On Friday evening, Paul was over—yet again—under the pretense of helping my mother pick out new paint colors for the living room. Since Sarah Kervick had disappeared, my mother had thrown herself into redecorating the house with intense energy. Helping my mother make decisions about our home decor used to be my job. That was all before Paul, HGTV on cable, and home-dec-in-a-sec parties in our neighborhood. Still, I tried to maintain a small but meaningful role by slipping in the flyer I’d requested on milk-based paints in classic colonial colors.

As I sat upstairs, getting my story straight, I heard Paul say: “What’s this? Looks like fourteen shades of mud.”

“Oh, that’s Franklin’s idea. It’s milk paint. No volatile organic compounds.”

“Huh?”

“There’s no outgassing.”

“Get him down here. I’ll show him outgassing.”

“Paul!”

You might think a comment like that would have stayed my progress, but no, I remained determined. As I crept downstairs, I noticed that my mother had given Zero one of the rawhide bones she’d purchased at Chow Hound. Rawhide is a nice word for “dehydrated skin of a dead cow.” Shards of saliva-soaked rawhide were now sprinkled across our carpet.

Must not run for vacuum with HEPA filter. Must stay focused.

“Mother,” I managed to say, holding tight to the banister. “I intend to be with Bernie all day Saturday. We’re going to the library to get information for our database, then, um, lunch at Perkins’ Drug Store, followed by…a trip to Van Hoek’s. Bernie needs new tennis shoes and, well, he’s requested my presence to evaluate the footwear for durability and safety. Following that…”

“You’ll be gone with Bernie all day?”

I braced myself for the interrogation to follow.

“Okay.” My mother grabbed Paul’s arm. “Hey, we can go to that countertop-and-tile place in Conklin.”

Paul took this opportunity to put his face in my mother’s hair. “I hear they’re doing karaoke at the Whistle Stop now.”

My mother peeled a few bills from her money clip and held them out to me.

“Lunch is on me. Perkins’ Drug Store, eh? Don’t eat too many cinnamon rolls, Franklin. You know, too much sugar isn’t good for you.”

Though Paul laughed heartily, I thought this a very lame joke. So much for an interrogation of my movements. She was happy to be rid of me. I wonder what she would think if she knew I was boarding a Transit Authority bus bound for the bowels of the city.

This is not where they listen to the carillon chimes by the town square,
a less mature Franklin might have shouted at her.
This is the ’hood, Mother. Think feral dogs, rusty nails. I might even see a discarded needle that was once used to inject drugs.

The very thought sent me rushing back upstairs to double-check my vaccination record.

Back in my room, I pulled out Sarah’s backpack and began to empty it of all but the figure skate and the teddy bear, reasoning that there was no need to take her school folders to Grand River. Though they had a generally crumpled appearance—one even bore a bicycle tire tread!—the folders obviously hadn’t seen much use.

I was surprised to see my own name on her health folder.

“Tell Franklin!” she’d written and underlined several times. I opened the folder to find it stuffed with—not handouts and notes on healthy vs. unhealthy love or the toxicity of cigarettes—past-due bills and notices of cancellation of service.

Tell Franklin!

Sarah Kervick had almost confided in me. She’d actually believed, at least for a moment, that I could help her out of her difficulties. I sat on my bed and looked over her possessions. I was beginning to feel a bit, well, petrified about what I was about to do.

I couldn’t help it. It was late on Friday. She wasn’t in the office and there was nothing she could do, but I wanted to hear Gloria’s voice before I departed. After two quick rings, her machine began:

“This is Gloria Nelots. Did you know that 85 percent of the people who drowned in boating-related accidents last year were not wearing life jackets? If you’re heading out for a boat ride, for heaven’s sake, buckle into a life preserver. Oh, and check for power lines before launching. Now leave me a safe message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Beep.

“Gloria? This is Franklin. You won’t get this until you return, but I think you should know I have located Sarah Kervick and I am going to, uh, visit her tomorrow…that is, Saturday. I hope I make it back okay. I was just calling to ask you about something, but…I guess I would go even if Grand River did have shocking crime statistics. Because I promised that I would. And because, well, I bet William would have gone. I mean, if he knew Sarah Kervick. Even if he was only eleven and three-quarters years old…” I sighed. “Well, that’s all for now, Gloria…. Allright, then. Good-bye.”

The next morning, after I purchased my ticket at the post office, I had just one more errand to run before setting off for Grand River. It was something I’d been thinking about for days. Though the ticket had been covered by my allowance, I had to raid the envelope with the remainder of my birthday money for this one.

Fields’ Flowers was located on Main Street two doors down from the post office. It was run by a Mr. Tranh, who came to America as a young man. Our local paper,
The Pelican View,
had just done a big write-up on his becoming an American citizen. Certainly, no one was more careful with his American flag than Mr. Tranh, who took it down at the end of each business day in the official manner set forth by the United States Code.

I entered Mr. Tranh’s shop. It was cool and dark and smelled pleasantly of green growing things. Mr. Tranh was behind the counter near the cooler.

“Good morning,” I said. “I would like to buy some flowers.”

Without looking up, Mr. Tranh studied the index card on which I’d copied Gloria’s address. “Ah, yes,” he said. “Washington, D.C. We send them FTD.”

Mr. Tranh pulled out a book with thick plastic pages and began flipping through them.

“Anniversary? Wedding?”

“No. Birthday.” I tried to focus on all the possibilities, but Mr. Tranh was flipping very quickly.

“Oh, lovely. Birthday.” He began paging in a different direction. “How old?”

“Well, he would have been fifty-seven.”

Mr. Tranh tore a piece of paper from a thick pad next to the cash register. An official FTD form. I began to fill it out, hoping thirty-five dollars was enough to buy something in this book.

“Yes, yes. How old is he now?”

“Uh, he’s dead.”

Mr. Tranh looked at me as if his understanding of English had failed him. “Birthday flowers to dead person? No, no. Sympathy.”

This required another book altogether. I looked over the bouquets appropriate for when someone died. Lots of white lilies and silver. They didn’t seem right. Gloria had said William was like Sarah. I pictured him on the ball field, weaving between the other players, narrowly avoiding disaster. Like she was, full of energy.

“No.” I shook my head firmly to make sure Mr. Tranh understood. “Happy flowers. Happy birthday. He is fifty-seven next week.”

Mr. Tranh sighed and repositioned his glasses. He seemed to think he would be held personally responsible for sending the wrong kind of flowers across the nation. He put the sympathy book away and slowly flipped through the “Happy Birthday” section again.

“Message?” he asked, pointing to a box on the form. “We type. It go through computer, come out in Washington, D.C.”

“I want to use this poem.” I passed the poem over to Mr. Tranh. To remember William, I had chosen “Passing Love” by Langston Hughes—over the years I’d learned Gloria was a big fan of his poetry.

Because you are to me a song

I must not sing you over-long.

Because you are to me a prayer

I cannot say you everywhere.

Because you are to me a rose—

You will not stay when summer goes.

I tried to wait patiently as Mr. Tranh copied the poem into the message box.

When he was finished, he said, “From…”

“Do I have to say who it’s from? Can’t we just have the poem?”

He shook his head vigorously. “Always say. Always sign card. Creepy for Gloria to get flowers from no one. Especially for dead person on her birthday.”

“But it’s not
her
birthday. It’s his. Her brother’s. Her brother died in Vietnam.”

Mr. Tranh stopped short. His eyes got bigger. “Aah, I see. This is very special. Fallen soldier. Memorial flowers.” He paged furiously to a veritable riot of red, white, and blue. “We use special ribbon, with stars.”

I almost didn’t have the energy to fight with him. He seemed so anxious to help, but these red carnations and white roses just weren’t right.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Tranh, but I need a different kind of flowers. Don’t you have anything…wild…and restless?”

Mr. Tranh kneaded his face in his hands. He pulled yet another book from under the counter and paged through it. He smoothed the pages and turned the book around.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s it!” Wildflowers spilled out of the vase in no particular order. Big purple sprays and clusters of orange. Long blue tubes of color. Not my taste, exactly. But just right all the same.

“I hope I have enough,” I said as Mr. Tranh tapped energetically on the cash register.

“How much you have?” he asked.

“Thirty-five dollars.”

He stopped tapping. “We do it without vase. Nice bow. Thirty-five dollars. Even.”

The bell behind me jingled, and another customer walked in. “Aah, here come my best customer. Mr. Bernard come in every day to get rose for his sweetheart.”

“Hey, Franklin. I’m just on my way to your house. Getting a little something for Glynnis?”

My news traveled fast. I faced Paul, who looked tidier than usual in a blue-checked plaid shirt tucked in at the waist. For some reason, I was unable to compose a reasonable answer. Had I just blown my cover by being seen in the flower shop? What exactly had I told my mother I’d be doing at this hour? Come to think of it, if Paul bought a rose for my mother every day, what happened to all those flowers? Did she throw them out? Hide them?

“Gloria” was the only word I could manage.

“Gloria?”

I held out the FTD form. “To remember her brother. He would have been fifty-seven.”

Paul read over the form. “Can I see?” he asked, picking up the book with the bouquet.

“A Vietnam veteran,” Mr. Tranh said. “Very special memorial flowers.” Obviously Mr. Tranh did not have to take the kind of privacy oaths that lawyers and doctors did.

“Well, you’re going to put a rose in there, aren’t you? It’s got a rose right in the poem.”

“I’m afraid that would be over my budget.”

“I will add red rose to bouquet,” Mr. Tranh announced expansively, “to honor American hero.”

“No need for that, Anh Dung,” Paul said, pulling bills from his wallet. “Just add it to my tab today. And give me one of those French beauties you got in the back.”

As Mr. Tranh disappeared into the cooler, Paul said: “So, Franklin, I thought you were allergic to flowers.”

“Well, some varieties do cause mild sensations of itching—”

“I just assumed that’s why your mom always kept hers in the van.”

“I—”

“But now that I know you’re a flower man, like myself, well…you know, Franklin, I’ve been thinking…” Paul leaned up against the counter as if he was warming up to say something. It was most disconcerting.

“We should spend a little time together, you and me…. You know…” He scratched his chest, thinking. “Uh…maybe pick up some health food and…I don’t know. Hit the museum?”

Mr. Tranh had returned with a single apricot-colored rose. He sprayed it with a fine mist and held it up for Paul’s inspection. Paul nodded his approval.

“Tissue color?” Mr. Tranh asked.

Paul thought for a moment. “Dark gray,” he said. “So what do you say, Franklin? You and me?”

I glanced at my watch. It was almost time for my scheduled departure. I placed my money on the counter and began backing toward the door. “Sounds good,” I said, attempting a casual tone. “See you around, Paul.”

I hurried to the parking lot behind Perkins’ Drug Store, clutching my bus ticket in my sweaty palm. Sarah’s skate kept whacking me on the back. The thought occurred to me that if my bag was searched, the skate could be considered a lethal weapon. Weapons of any kind were strictly prohibited on any Transit Authority bus.