Jack's New Power (15 page)
Authors: Jack Gantos
My grandfather had told me that everyone has a double on the other side of the world. Barbados, I thought, was almost on the other side from Pennsylvania, and now I wondered if that kid was my double. I closed my diary. The thought was too creepy. “You don't have a lost double,” I said out loud. “You sound like Pete.” But that didn't help.
I crossed the hall and knocked on Betsy's door. Whenever I had a dumb idea, she could always set me straight by making me feel so stupid I gave up on it. “Come in,” she shouted.
“Can I ask you a dumb question?” I said.
“How do you know it's
only
dumb?” she replied. “It may be the stupidest thing ever uttered on this planet since the start of recorded history.” She turned her book over and crossed her arms. She smiled that know-it-all smile.
only
dumb?” she replied. “It may be the stupidest thing ever uttered on this planet since the start of recorded history.” She turned her book over and crossed her arms. She smiled that know-it-all smile.
“I know this sounds crazy, but do you think you have a double in the world? Someone exactly like you in ⦠in every way? Looks like you? Thinks like you? Acts like you?”
To my surprise, she gave the question some thoughtful consideration instead of snorting at me. “Some people believe it,” she replied. “But I don't. Mostly it's just a projection of the spiritual and emotional side of yourself.”
I nodded as if I understood, but I was lost. She had been studying psychology and I figured she was studying me like Jane Goodall studied the apes.
“Tell me,” she said. “Can you communicate with your double?” She peered deep into my eyes.
“I think so,” I replied.
“You're schizophrenic,” she said, getting slightly excited, like a mad scientist discovering a new life form. “You have a multiple-personality disorder.”
“Is there a cure?”
“I ⦠would ⦠say,” she pronounced, stretching out her words, “that, on average, people spend about ten years in a mental hospital and then they give out and commit suicide.”
I blinked. “Thanks,” I said weakly, and returned to my room. For once, Betsy didn't knock the idea clean out of my head. Instead, she made it worse. Now I felt like a nut case.
And I was. That night I had the scariest nightmare of my life. It was so hot I had moved to the concrete floor, which was cool with all that water beneath it in the cistern. I stretched out like a dog, belly-down, arms and legs spread apart. It felt so good. I put my head on my pillow and fell asleep. The next thing I knew I was paralyzed with fear. I heard noises in the yard outside my French doors. I tried to get up, but I couldn't move. The doors opened and a boy stepped into my bedroom. I still couldn't move; not a finger, not a toe. I couldn't blink. I felt like a frozen side of beef just lying there, waiting for a big meat hook to be driven into my shoulder. He walked forward with his arms stretched toward me like one of the Living Dead. I tried to
scream but nothing came out. My jaw was frozen. I tried to move my arm but couldn't. He came closer and stood above me. I couldn't make out his face. It looked like a smeared thumbprint. He reached for me and I stopped breathing. I felt myself slowly dying. I blacked out.
scream but nothing came out. My jaw was frozen. I tried to move my arm but couldn't. He came closer and stood above me. I couldn't make out his face. It looked like a smeared thumbprint. He reached for me and I stopped breathing. I felt myself slowly dying. I blacked out.
When I snapped awake, I was lying on the floor in the same position as when I fell asleep. I was rigid and cold but I could move again. Slowly, I pulled my knees up, then my arms. I rubbed my face. I looked at the French doors. They were locked. Nothing had changed except for me. I got up and took a hot shower.
After I dressed I went into the kitchen. I was starving.
“What were you moaning about last night?” Betsy asked. “You sounded like a ghost with a stubbed toe.”
“Just a dream,” I said.
She set her toast down on her plate. “Tell me about your dream,” she said. “Dreams are the keys which unlock the inner mind.”
I sat down and told her everything. Every detail. I wanted her to make ruthless fun of me. To tell me I was a goon, a loser, a jerk ⦠anything. But she told me just what I didn't want to hear.
“A paralyzing dream doesn't mean death,” she said seriously. “It means your brain is awake with anxiety while your body is still sleeping. But I can cure you,” she added. “I want you to come into my room for an hour every day and tell me honestly everything that is on your mind. If you do that, I can figure out what you're afraid of and cure you before you go around the bend and end up a vegetable for the rest of your life.”
“Okay,” I said. “But you can't tell anyone what I say.”
“Doctors aren't allowed to tell secrets,” she said and crossed her heart. She pointed up at the kitchen clock. “Meet me at three, in my room.”
I took a bite of toast and nodded.
Later, Pete and I hunted for mangoes in the trees up behind Mr. Hill's store. Along the way, I told him about my dream.
“I had one, too,” he said. “I told Mom and she said it was from watching too many horror movies.”
“That's it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”
After I ate a pile of mangoes, I fell asleep under a shade tree and slept as soundly as BoBo II. I missed my three o'clock appointment with Betsy and woke up feeling better already. Pete was right. I was watching too many horror movies. I just needed sleep.
Â
That evening Dad asked if we wanted to watch Mr. Branch locate Captain Kidd's pirate treasure. Pete and I kicked each other under the table. “When?” I blurted out.
“Really?” Betsy asked. “Where?”
“Sandy Lane,” Dad replied. “Captain Winston Ward claims he has information that the treasure was buried there.”
“Does he have a map?” I asked.
“The question should be: Does he have a brain?” Dad replied. “Imagine if you were a pirate. Would you bury your treasure on the beach? Of course not. You'd carry it inland and bury it where the shoreline wouldn't be shifted by strong tides and storms. Then you'd kill all the men who dug the holes, so they could never tell anyone. And,
finally, you'd
never
make a map that someone could get their hands on. You'd keep it all in your head.”
finally, you'd
never
make a map that someone could get their hands on. You'd keep it all in your head.”
That made sense. He must have given this a lot of thought. “Then why is Mr. Branch doing it?” I asked.
“Money,” Dad said. “Captain Ward said he'd give him half the treasure if he finds it.”
“Wow,” I said. Mr. Branch and I thought alike.
When we arrived at Sandy Lane the beach was laid out like a chessboard. Captain Ward had strung twine around pegs in the sand to mark out boxes three feet square. He had a map inside a folder that he kept checking. He wouldn't let anyone else see it. Mr. Branch sat in a lawn chair with his suitcase by his feet. He stared straight out at the horizon over the ocean and didn't pay attention to what was going on around him. He held a small Bible in his large hand and twirled it like a coin between his fingers.
After Captain Ward finished laying out his grid, he walked up to Mr. Branch and touched his shoulder. “We're ready for you,” he said.
Mr. Branch slipped the Bible into his pocket, leaned forward, and opened his suitcase. He separated the divining rod from the rags and stood. He walked over to the left-hand corner of the grid, held out the rod with his fingertips, and stepped forward. I could hear the sand crunch beneath his leather shoes. No one made a sound. The waves crashed on the shore. The birds squawked. The sea-grape trees rustled their leaves, which were as round and wide as human faces. Mr. Branch marched on.
He reached the end of the first row, turned, and started down another. The divining rod didn't dip an inch. When
he reached the end of the third row, he lowered the tip of the rod and stuck it into the sand. The crowd came to life with little “Aahs” and “Oohs,” but just for a moment. Mr. Branch was only resting. He pulled out his big white handkerchief and wiped his face. Afterward, he picked up the rod and marched onward.
he reached the end of the third row, he lowered the tip of the rod and stuck it into the sand. The crowd came to life with little “Aahs” and “Oohs,” but just for a moment. Mr. Branch was only resting. He pulled out his big white handkerchief and wiped his face. Afterward, he picked up the rod and marched onward.
“He can't find it,” I said to Pete. “He can't
feel
it.”
feel
it.”
“Yes, he can,” he replied.
“Wanna bet?”
“Whatever's in my pockets against what's in yours,” Pete said.
“You're on.” Mine were empty.
Just then Mr. Branch tripped over a twine marker and pitched forward. I heard the rod snap as he hit the ground. So did everyone else.
“Well, the show's over,” said Mr. Steamer. He was a rich drunk with a nose the size of a red potato. Dad had built a bar for him in his garage.
Mr. Branch hopped up and brushed the sand off his pants. He inspected the broken rod, then quickly split it in half across his knee. He whipped the pieces end over end into the ocean. A yellow dog chased after them.
“Maybe the dog'll find the treasure,” Mr. Steamer cracked.
“You!” Mr. Branch said, pointing at me. “Fetch my suitcase.”
I was the closest one to it and had been thinking about taking a peek in it when his back was turned. I picked the case up by the handle and walked across the sand. It was light. I carefully stepped over the strings and held it out for
him. He set it on the sand, flipped it open, and removed a second rod.
him. He set it on the sand, flipped it open, and removed a second rod.
“Wow,” I said.
When he looked up, our eyes locked. “It's not the rod,” he said. “The power is in the man. Always remember that. The rod is just the needle on the compass. It's just a tool in the hands of power. Now go.”
I turned and ran, with the bulky suitcase slapping against my thigh. I was out of breath when I reached Pete. Just then the crowd went wild. I looked over my shoulder. Mr. Branch was on his knees with the rod half sunk into the sand. He raised his free hand up over his head and smiled out at us like a matador who has just plunged his sword through the neck of a charging bull. He staggered up, then tramped the ground with his shoe. “Dig here,” he called out. “I feel a powerful attraction.”
Before he finished walking the entire grid, he located two more digging spots.
“The treasure must be scattered,” Pete said.
“That makes sense,” I said. “Spread it out, put it in different holes.” Pirates were smart. They didn't want old geezers like Mr. Steamer finding their stuff.
“I won the bet,” Pete reminded me.
“Which pocket?” I asked.
He thought it over. “Left,” he said.
I turned my empty left pocket inside out. “Take it all,” I said, and laughed.
“No fair,” he whined. He grabbed the pocket and pulled.
“Let go,” I yelled and swatted at him.
He held on to it like a mad dog with a bone. Suddenly there was a big ripping sound and he fell backward on his butt, holding the little piece of pocket cloth in his hands.
“Don't let Mom see that,” I said. I reached over and grabbed my pocket out of his hand.
Captain Ward marched across the beach, waving his arms for attention. “Everyone, clear out!” he shouted. “We're gonna bring in lights and heavy equipment and dig through the night. We'll need some privacy when we find it.” Then he smiled. “There might still be some pirates among us.”
“I'm hot,” Mom said. “Let's get a cool drink.”
“I'm for that,” Dad chipped in.
We walked the short distance to the Sandy Lane Beach Hotel. A steel band was setting up. “You kids stay out on the patio,” Mom said. “We'll send out Cokes.”
Betsy frowned. She hated being treated like a kid.
“The lounge is too fancy for children,” Mom explained. “We won't be long.” She leaned forward and kissed Betsy on the cheek. Pete ran over and got his kiss. I lined up for mine. “My God,” Mom said with a sigh. “I'm only going to be twenty feet away.”
As the sun went down, the steel band started up. The pan drums sounded like musical rain.
Betsy grabbed my hand. “Let's dance,” she said.
“Is this some kind of trick?”
“No. I just love this dance floor.”
“Me too,” I said.
Dad had built the dance floor. It was made of pink-and-gray terrazzo stone that was all swirly like a giant hoopskirt spinning around. But the best part was the underground
spotlights. Cemented into the surface of the terrazzo were thick glass moons and stars.
spotlights. Cemented into the surface of the terrazzo were thick glass moons and stars.
“The lights,” I yelled to Pete over the music. I pointed to the switch mounted on a palm tree. He ran over and flicked it on. Suddenly moons and stars shined up into the sky like the Bat signal.
Betsy had me dancing in circles until I was dizzy and weak. “You missed your mental-health appointment with me,” she said as she reeled me in.
So she did have more on her mind than just dancing. “I forgot,” I said breathlessly as she spun me around.
“Forgetting is the first sign of mental illness,” she said and whipped me across the floor by the wrist. She hauled me back in. “Zelda Fitzgerald was a schizoid who tried to dance her way back to mental health.”
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