Dunk (20 page)

“Here. You can watch one after lunch if you feel like it.” I'd picked out a tape that looked especially good.

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

“How do you feel?” I was almost afraid to ask that question.

“Tired.”

I'd been hoping he'd say he felt better. It seemed like the movies helped. But maybe all they did was take his mind off his problems for a while. And the way he kept coughing, I wondered whether I was hurting him more than I was helping him. Maybe his mom was right.

“I guess I should get going. Need anything?”

He shook his head. “I'm fine.”

I headed out. I thought about facing the boardwalk, and the people on the boardwalk, but I still didn't feel ready. Maybe tomorrow.

I spent the afternoon at the beach.

I went home early so I could see Mom before she drove off to school. She was studying when I came in. She must have been surprised that I'd started going out again, but she didn't make a big deal out of it.

“Did you have a good day?” she asked.

“I saw Jason. Then I hung around the beach.”

“The beach is nice. I'm glad you got some fresh air. How's Jason doing?” she asked.

“About the same. I don't know if he's ever going to get better.”

“You can't give up hope,” Mom said. “Jason's a fighter.”

“Yeah, he's tough.” That sounded so shallow, like a get-well card.
Don't give up
.
Stay tough. Keep on fighting
. I dug for something positive to say but found nothing. Mom was quiet, too.

Finally, I pointed at the ceiling. “He ever tell you anything about himself?”

She shook her head. “Some people don't share their pain. Professor Vale puts on a good show, but he's carrying a lot of hurt.”

That surprised me. Mom was a better judge of people than I'd thought. I never would have guessed that Malcolm had suffered a tragedy, but Mom seemed to know. I wondered if she could see the things that were hidden inside of me.

I shut up and let her get back to studying. After she left for school, I watched another movie. Then, around six thirty, I set out for the dunk tank, taking Gull Avenue, which runs parallel to the shore a block away. For the most part it's just houses and a couple small stores. I cut over to the boardwalk when I got near Wild Willy's Pier, wondering if I really had the job back.

“Hey, there you are,” Bob said, as if I hadn't disappeared for a while. He waved at me with the pretzel he was holding, throwing a small spray of mustard, then nodded toward the bucket. “Get to work.”

I grabbed the bucket and towel. Another Bozo was just getting ready to leave. Malcolm stepped from the dressing room and motioned for me to join him as he walked toward the tank. I noticed he was limping pretty badly. “Pay attention to everything,” he said. “Understand? Study the crowd. Try to guess who I'll pick next. Try to figure out what you'd say.”

“Okay.”

“There'll be a quiz afterward.”

“What?”

“Just kidding.” When he reached the tank, he said, “Who am I?”

“Malcolm,” I answered without thinking.

He shook his head and pointed at the tank. “Who am I?”

I touched one of the cold steel bars and thought about climbing onto the ledge. “The Bozo?” I guessed.

“Right. Once I get in there, I'm not Malcolm. I'm the Bozo. A bottomless well of venom. Everyone's worst nightmare. The guy you'd love to get even with. I'm the boss who yelled at you today, the teacher who flunked you, the parent who grounded you last week, the bully who stole your lunch money. I'm whoever they need me to be.” He grinned and let out one of his patented laughs. “Now get to work.”

I took advantage of the changing of the Bozos to gather most of the balls. Then things got busy. While I hustled, I listened to Malcolm and tried to learn as much as I could about the way he worked.

It didn't take long to figure out that each group had a leader—someone who did most of the talking or stood out in some way. Someone who had the ideas and made the choices. Small group, large group, it didn't matter. They all had a leader. And the leader had the most to lose if the group laughed. That made him—or her—the perfect mark.

I thought about our group. No doubt who the leader was. What would happen to us now? I tried not to let my mind go in that direction. Between chasing the balls, listening to Malcolm, and watching the crowd, I almost managed to keep those unhappy images under control.

Around ten Bob handed me a ketchup-smeared twenty-dollar bill and told me I could knock off. But I hung out for another hour, watching and listening while Malcolm finished his shift. Then he climbed out of the tank and Bob closed up for the night. I guess neither of them felt like spending time working the thinning crowds and stragglers at the far end of the day.

“Four hours is pushing it,” Malcolm said when he came out of the dressing room. “Three is better. I try to knock off by ten unless the action is just too good. If it's really slow, I might even knock off at nine. The funny thing is, the guys who stink can work all day. They're so mechanical about it, they're like machines. I've seen the truly untalented go for eight hours at a stretch. But I'm shot after four. So, did you learn anything?”

“Pick out the leader. Right?”

“You got it.” He looked around, then said, “I'm too wired to go home yet. Want to get some pizza?”

“Sure. You like Salvatore's?”

He nodded, and we headed that way. It immediately felt weird. I should be going there with Jason. I glanced at Malcolm as he limped along next to me. “You sure you want to walk that far?”

“I'm fine.”

“How'd you hurt your leg?” I asked. “I mean, the first time. Not last night.” The moment the words left my mouth, I remembered what Mom had said.
Some people don't share their pain
. I realized I should mind my own business.

It was a while before he spoke. “Car accident.”

Two words that revealed everything. I could tell from his voice that he didn't want to share any details.

As we got near the Cat-a-Pult, I saw them—Anthony and Gwen. She was working. He was waiting. “Crap,” I muttered.

“Problem?” Malcolm asked.

“Nothing.”

“Must be something. Go on . . .”

“There's this girl.”

“That explains it,” Malcolm said.

I waited for him to make a joke, but he didn't. After a while, I told him, “She likes this other guy. He's bad news.”

“So get off the couch,” Malcolm said.

“What?”

“Just because you finally left your little cave doesn't mean you've gotten off the couch yet. Stop being such a lump. Do something. Win her away from him. Be more charming. That can't be hard. Or be tougher. Kick the jerk's butt. Ram your knee into his crotch. I know for a fact you're good at that. Go ahead. Go back and pummel him into the ground—I'll wait.”

“Right. And get arrested.” If I thought it would work, I'd tackle Anthony right now. But Gwen wasn't the kind of girl who would be impressed by a fistfight.

“I'll tell you what,” Malcolm said. His voice got soft and gravelly. “I got a friend named Tommy the Butcher. For a small fee he can break this kid's kneecaps. You'll owe him a favor, of course. To be collected at some later time. One kneecap—small favor. Two kneecaps—big favor. Three kneecaps—trade up for a really big favor.”

“Cut it out.” I wasn't in the mood for jokes. Though I had to admit the idea appealed to me.

“Get off the couch,” Malcolm said again.

I'm trying
, I thought, but I didn't bother telling him. “What about you?” I asked when we reached Salvatore's. “You're all hot on acting. Why aren't you out looking for a movie or a play to be in?”

He didn't answer. I got lost in my own thoughts, wondering whether there really was something I could do to get Gwen away from Anthony. Nothing brilliant came to mind. Though a lot of violent things did. We bought slices to go and walked back.

“See you tomorrow,” I said to Malcolm when we reached the house.

As he climbed up the steps, he looked down at me and said, “I'd make a great Hamlet, wouldn't I? Limping across the stage, hobbling through the sword fights. Very impressive.”

“What?”

“Nobody in Hollywood will hire an actress who has even one little pimple. How much work do you think there is for a guy who walks like a lab assistant from a grade B horror film? I can just see the reviews.
While the rest of the cast was stunning
,
Malcolm Vale turned in another lame performance
.” He went on up to his door and vanished inside.

I hadn't thought about that. He was right. A blemish was rare in Hollywood. Anything more noticeable was left for bad guys, sidekicks, and Clearasil commercials. But there still had to be lots of acting jobs out there. Especially for someone with his talent. And except when he hurt himself, his limp wasn't really all that noticeable.
How badly do you want it?
Maybe I'd stumbled on the truth about Malcolm—he wasn't ready to get off the couch
he
had crawled onto.

He'd lost his whole family. I couldn't imagine what that was like. I might have lost a father, but that was different. At least I had one good parent.

I thought about Gwen. Can you lose what you never had? And about Jason. I wasn't going to lose him. No way.

Despite the churning of my mind, I slept well. Those hours at the tank had wiped me out. I guess that was the good thing about hard work.

In the morning I went back to see Jason. No matter what, I was going to visit him every day.

“Bring any more movies?” he asked when I came in.

I held up three tapes. “Sure thing.” I dropped down in the chair next to the bed. He looked a little better than yesterday. There was a small touch of color in his face. And he seemed to be breathing easier. Or maybe I was just getting used to seeing him this way. The little changes are hard to notice. I knew if I saw pictures side by side, Jason now and Jason before he got sick, the difference would be awful.

“You watch the one I left?” I asked.

He nodded. “Three times. It was great.”

I put in another movie.
Duck Soup
. Groucho Marx again. Jason still couldn't laugh too much without breaking into a coughing fit, so I kept the remote right next to me. But a couple times I got so wrapped up in laughing that I forgot to stop the tape. And I forgot to watch the clock.

So I suppose it was my fault that Jason was in the middle of coughing his head off when his mom burst into the room.

“I warned you about this!” she screamed.

I leaped from my chair and popped out the tape.

“You're trying to kill him. You vicious little bastard! You're trying to kill my son.” She picked up a box of tissues and threw them at me. They bounced against my chest and fell to the floor.

Jason was still coughing too much to speak.

“I'm just trying to make him feel better,” I said.

“Get out!” she yelled.

I hurried from the room. I was too angry to wait for the elevator, so I raced down four flights of steps and left the hospital. This really sucked. I was only trying to help a friend. And all I got for it was trouble.

“The hell with her,” I said, slapping a stop sign with my open palm. “The hell with everything.” None of this was worth the abuse.

I could feel the grayness closing back in on me. It would be so easy to give in and give up. Then I wouldn't have to watch Jason withering away while his mother cursed at me. I wouldn't have to deal with cops who blamed me for stuff I didn't do. Cops who acted like I was no better than my dad. I wouldn't have to see Gwen smiling at Anthony. I sped up, eager to get home, where I could draw the curtains and lie in the dark.

To my right, three small children played tag on a lawn, giggling as they chased each other. Ahead, I heard the splash of someone doing a cannonball into a backyard pool. The sun heated my face as I thought about the welcoming grayness.

It was a world without pain.

It was also a world without possibilities. If I went there, I'd never see Jason laugh. I'd never see Gwen smile at me. I'd never find out what it felt like to lean into that microphone and let loose at the world. And I'd never prove I was better than everyone thought. I'd just be running away. I could hear Mom's words.
You're so much like your father
. No way. Never.

I forced myself to stop walking. I wasn't going back to the couch. I couldn't return to that world. Not while Jason was stuck up there in that room, spending most of the day by himself. Not while everyone else had given up on him and was just waiting for him to die. I turned around and headed back to the hospital.

I hung out behind a tree at the edge of the parking lot, watching for Jason's mom. I knew she blamed me for everything. I realized it looked bad if Jason was coughing his head off every time his mom came to the room. But she was wrong. Dead wrong. I wasn't hurting Jason. I was sure of that, as sure as I'd ever been of anything. I was helping him. Jason had felt better after we'd watched the movies. And after I'd read to him.

As soon as I saw Jason's mom drive off, I went back up to the pediatrics floor. I almost expected to see a poster with my face inside a slashed red circle. But nobody seemed to care whether I was there or not. I guess the nurses had other things to worry about. So I went to Jason's room, ready to start another movie marathon.

But I couldn't. The VCR was gone.

“W
HAT HAPPENED
?” I
ASKED
.

Jason shrugged. “Mom's idea.”

“She had them take it away?” I could just see her wheeling the whole thing out herself, pushing it across the room while the plug ripped from the socket.