Fouling Out (10 page)

“Hey, Jerry.” I attempt to sound cool, but the two simple words come out as a showcase of my new three-octave range. I don't think either of us has ever addressed the other by name before. I'm surprised he even knows my name. Sure, we've seen each other many times at Tom's house, but he was about as interested in me as I am in my sister's friends. Even the couple of times when he watched a
DVD
with Tom and me, we talked to the screen, not each other. Maybe his dad drilled him on my name before sending him to finish me off.

“Ya seen Tom?” he asks, sounding as genuinely concerned as a guy can in three syllables. Maybe he isn't a henchman for his father after all.

“No.”

“Yeah, well…me neither.” He drops his head and shifts back and forth a bit. He looks like he is trying to keep himself together. Finally, he stares right at me and says, “You will. He'll come to you, I know it. Tell him not to come home, not that he would. Dad'll beat him to a pulp 'cuz he's pissed about the cops. They been nosing into his business. He's gettin' all worked up and says it's all Tom's fault. It's just like with Andy.”

Andy, the long-lost oldest brother. Maybe he wasn't a murderer, but a murderee. Jerry continues, “He'll come to you 'cuz he trusts you. When he does, give him this.” Jerry pulls a plain white envelope from inside his jacket and passes it to me. “Don't open it. Just give it to him; he'll know what to do.”

Without waiting for a response, Jerry turns, gets back in the van and starts it up again, drowning out all conversations within a two-block radius. He speeds off, leaving parents of first graders to scowl at me as if I were responsible for his driving habits and his choice of art. I stare down at the envelope, shove it in my pocket and wonder what the whole episode was about. I could open up the envelope, but I want to respect Jerry's wishes.

Twenty

“Y
ou look like you've just seen a ghost.” Leave it to my mom to pull out an overworked expression and make it perfectly suit the occasion. My weird day had gotten weirder. They say things come in threes. First Taryn, then Jerry, and then Tom himself.

I realize that my mom has asked me a question of some sort and I haven't heard a word. “You must be tired, dear. I guess our argument with your sister last night must've kept you up. Why don't you go rest, and I'll fix your favorite dinner.”

Mom has it programmed into her brain that Sloppy Joes are my fave just because I requested them two birthdays in a row—when I was four and five. Maybe she just likes to cling to those years, before my school grades dashed all her dreams of being the prime minister's mother. I'd rather have take-out Chinese or a
DQ
meal, but Sloppy Joes are still way better than broiled liver. I mumble, “Thanks,” and retreat to my room.

I hadn't heard any arguing last night, but it must've been a big one if Mom is making special meals for me when I'm still grounded. Maybe if things are severe enough, she will lift my sentence. Anger isn't a big part of her personality. She can only be mad at one of us at a time. She's pretty much sunshine by nature. Maybe my sister had gotten a tattoo or quit school or something equally earth shattering on the Trilosky scale. Let her take care of the mildew in the bathroom. At any rate, I need some downtime to process Tom's visit.

It all began with the talking hedge. As I walked up the driveway after school, I must have been so preoccupied by what was in the envelope I'd received from Jerry that I was totally confused when I heard “Hey, Craig” and saw only the row of cedars separating our yard from the Carmichaels'. It wasn't as if I'd forgotten Tom's voice, but running into him in my own yard seemed far less likely than there being a talking hedge.

He popped out of the shrubs, and the first thing out of my mouth was, “You look like hell.” Not a welcoming thing to say, but it was true. The familiar red jacket had several tears on the front and sleeves. His face was dirty, his hair was flat and greasy, and his eyes were like a zombie's. He was obviously exhausted.

“Have you been in a fight?” I asked.

“Worse. I'm not doing too well.”

“No kidding.” He continued to look blankly at me. We stood in the driveway without saying anything for at least a minute. I didn't know what to ask and I didn't know how much I really wanted him to tell me.

“Can we go in the backyard? I don't want to be seen.”

“How about coming in? My parents aren't home.”

“No. If I go in, I don't know if I'll be able to walk back out.”

Tom sat on one of the back steps leading up to the deck, and I joined him. I kept taking peeks at the guy I'd assumed was either dead or hundreds of miles away. In a couple of weeks, it seemed like years had crept between us.

“How's school? You still goin' for bonus math?” Tom sort of smiled and quickly put his head down. He was trying to keep things light, but it fell flat. I took the cue though because the silence was too awkward.

“I haven't needed much help lately. I'm sorta getting it, believe it or not. Chang makes a point of calling on me all the time in class. I guess it's to keep tabs on me.

The writing stuff is actually starting to—”

“Anyone talk about me?” There was a trace of urgency in Tom's voice.

“They talked for a couple of days, but not lately.”

Tom stared at the railing. “Probably glad I'm gone. Can't blame 'em.”

“Why'd you run off? What was gonna happen?”

“Look, I don't want to be a pest or anything, but have you got any food? I'm starving.” He continued to gaze at the rail. I knew not to draw things out.

“Sure. Come in and I'll—”

“I'll just wait here.” I went inside and looked for what I could take that wouldn't be missed. It was really creepy—like giving food you don't need or want to a canned food drive, except this time I knew the person who was getting it. When you can actually see a face, it makes donating canned kidney beans and cream of celery soup seem heartless.

I grabbed a grocery bag and filled it with some old utensils from the back of one of the drawers, the remaining third of a casserole from last night, several oranges, a box of cereal, lunch meat, bread and potato chips. I ran upstairs and grabbed soap, toothpaste and an unopened toothbrush. I stuffed everything in my old backpack, dished out the last two pieces of chocolate cake and brought it all outside.

“Here's some cake for starters.”

“Thanks.” Tom snatched the plate and began stuffing himself. It was a sad scene. I quietly slipped the fork I'd brought for him back in my pocket. Manners have no place when you're that hungry, I guess. With his mouth full of cake, Tom asked, “Have you seen Archie?” He stopped chewing for a second, waiting for my reply.

“I went by a couple of days ago and filled his water dish. He was friendlier than ever. I wanted to play with him, but I was afraid your dad would come home.”

“I don't think anyone will have much to do with Arch now,” Tom said. “He's really my dog even though he was s'posed to be Jerry's. I miss him—the dog, that is.”

Jerry's name reminded me of my mission. The cake was gone, and it looked like Tom was going to get up and disappear again.

“Wait. You've got mail.” I handed the envelope to him, and he shoved it inside his jacket.

“Thanks.”

“Aren't you going to read it? It's from your brother.”

“Later. I gotta go.”

I followed him around front and watched as he pulled his bike out of the bushes. For a minute, I thought he was going to thank me for the stuff. “Good cake” was all he said. Then he added, “Make sure there's air in your tires. Maybe I can get back here and take you to my new home.”

With that, he was off, leaving me with more questions than answers.

My bedroom door opens and Mom peeks in. “Dinner's ready—that is, if you still have room. I see you finished off the casserole and the cake. You need your own fully stocked refrigerator. Your father's going to have to get another promotion if we're ever going to get you through your teens.”

Dinner is just Mom and me. Dad is at a business dinner and my sister is in solitary. When I ask about her, Mom just snaps, “Never mind your sister,” and then quickly paints on a sugary smile and adds her standard, “Eat up. I don't want all this food to go to waste.”

What a waste it is. Mom always seems to cook for six regardless of the fact that we are a four-person family who hardly ever eats together. There is enough meat for ten Sloppy Joes, not to mention the customary bowl of salad, steamed veggies and roasted potatoes. Thinking of Tom eating leftover casserole and cereal makes me feel sick. Now that I know he's within biking distance of our house, I'm more frustrated than when he was missing. It seems like things never go how they're supposed to when I'm around Tom. Why didn't I make him tell me where he was living? Why didn't I convince him to come inside so we could figure out some sort of plan to fix things? What if he never shows up again? I don't want to think that I could have made a difference when all I did was give him cake.

Funny, but when Tom showed up, I didn't feel any of my usual annoyance or the urge to shut him out of my life. Maybe all my mom's sunshine has soaked through my skin. He seemed so desperate and in need. When it comes right down to it, five years of history as friends is a whole lot more powerful than a few months of extreme irritation. I know I've let Tom down. He needed more from me. Too bad I still can't figure out how to help.

After little more than half a Sloppy Joe, I excuse myself, much to my mother's disapproval.

“That's why you shouldn't overdo it on snacks before dinner,” she grouses. “A snack is just that. It's not supposed to be a buffet.”

Twenty-one

R
emember what I said about things coming in threes? I should be so lucky. Just before midnight, the string of strange events stretches to four. Our car alarm wakes me up. Then I remember we don't have a car alarm. Someone is sparring with our doorbell.

Dad either thinks I can sleep through anything, or he is too tired to censor himself because he mutters obscenities as he clomps down the hall. Mom follows, wide-eyed enough to advise him to peek through the peephole before opening the door.

Dad is too annoyed by the still-ringing doorbell and the drum accompaniment now being banged out on the door. He shoots off some more choice words, although at a lower volume. I am at the top of the stairs when he flings the door open.

“Gimme my son.” Mr. Hanrahan doesn't really yell it, but there is a don't-mess-with-me force to his voice.

“And what would I want with your son?” Dad shoots back.

“Dear, don't aggravate him! He's probably drunk.” Okay, that's what I'm thinking, but leave it to Mom to get it out in the open.

“I just want my son and then we can all get some sleep.” Mr. Hanrahan half lowers his head in an attempt to look humble and/or gentlemanly. Strange what a desire to beat the crap out of your own kid will make you do.

“He's not here!” Dad tries to slam the door, but Mr. Hanrahan deflects it with his shoulder and pushes into the front hall. Mom jumps back but manages not to scream.

“Call the police, honey,” Dad says.

“Police won't do a thing. My boy's been missin' for two weeks.” Mr. Hanrahan scopes out every bit of the house he can scan from his position in the hallway. In the second his eyes sweep over me, I forget how to breathe. Good thing too. It's pretty hard to scream when you've got no air.

“Look, I can't help you. I don't know anything about where your son is.”

“What's your kid know?”

He stares right at me, with only my Dad and four or five stairs between us. Dad doesn't make much of a barrier but eight sumo wrestlers and an
RCMP
blockade wouldn't be enough to reassure me.

Nothing happens for the next three-second hour. He holds his glare on me. “Where's Tom?”

“I don't know.” To my surprise, I spit the words out. I am angry this man is in our house. I'm ready to defend not only Tom but my parents and even my sister.

“Have you seen him?”

“Not since they pulled him out of school.” Normally, I'd never be able to lie so convincingly, but I vividly recall how Mr. Hanrahan reacted when Tom and I invented sandwiches in their kitchen. Some sort of survival gene has awakened from one of my little toes or my elbow. Tom needs to be protected from his father.

“The police are on their way,” Mom breaks in.

Mr. Hanrahan calms a bit. “Good. It's about time they searched this place.”

“What do you even want with Tom?” Oops. Way too much adrenaline in me. He easily dodges my father and leaps up the stairs. This time I think Mom shrieks, unless it is actually me, waiting to be beaten to death.

He glares at me with only inches between us. “He's my boy and I'll do what I want with him.”

Dad grabs his shoulder, and Mr. Hanrahan turns for a moment to swat him away. Then he resumes trying to rip me apart with his eyes. I can't come up with any more words to spit out. Just saliva. Right on his nose. This time Mom does scream, just as the police arrive. Tom's dad grabs both my shoulders and shakes me as one officer somehow wedges his way between us and another shouts, “All right. Let's cool it.” (Personally, I think a solid “Freeze!” and a swift handcuffing would have been perfect. Drag him out the door and push him to the ground.)

Mr. Hanrahan backs down the stairs, not even bothering to wipe his nose. “I'm just here to get my son.” His voice holds a hint of despair.

As the police escort Tom's father out of the house, Mom acts as a human barricade to keep me from following. “You let your father and the police handle this. Now go back to bed.” I am still angry and scared, my feelings too strong for sleep. I don't bother to argue though. When I am at the top of the stairs, my mother adds, “And no more spitting on people.” It doesn't matter who is on our front lawn. Mom retains her position as chief-of-police, etiquette division, no contest.