John Belushi Is Dead (23 page)

“Yes, well, Hilda's been helping me with my work,” Lynette said, sensing something wasn't right. “She's been very busy. And school starts again soon. I'd like her to get ahead on her studies. I'm sure Benji's doing likewise.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Connor said quietly, and her voice sounded a hundred
miles away. “Next year's a very important year for them. Soon they'll both be out and on their own. They grow fast, don't they?”

Lynette moved inside the door. “Hilda, don't be much longer. I need you to finish your chores.”

“Sure,” I said, quickly standing while I was free from Mrs. Connor's clawlike grip. She looked so small and pathetic sitting there on the porch, her clothes perfectly creased, her insides breaking.

“Mrs. Connor,” I said. “Benji will be okay. Don't worry.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, but I didn't think she was listening. She suddenly stood, patted her hair down, and before I could say anything else, had hurried off down the path.

H
ANK AND
I
WERE
watching
Rear Window
the night Jake turned up at the front door, cup in hand, making an unconvincing plea for coffee.

“I'm doing an all-nighter,” he said, pushing past me. “Need the caffeine. Hey, Hank. How's the head?”

Hank grunted at him.

“Good to hear.”

“Coffee's on the counter,” I said, pointing toward the kitchen, but I needn't have bothered. Jake was already in there, opening the cupboards, peering inside the fridge, taking food out of a can.

“Help yourself, Jake,” I said.

He bent over, then reappeared from under the sink, a cookie in his mouth.

“What are you looking for?”

“Whatever you've got. I didn't have time to get to the store today. I'm working on something great, Hilda. Something important.”

“Would you shut up?” Hank growled. He picked up the remote control and turned up the volume on the television.

“Whatcha watching?” Jake trotted back into the living room, the cookie still hanging from his mouth, the cup, now full of coffee granules, in his hand. “
Rear Window
? I love this movie. Hitchcock is a genius. This movie is about cinema in its purest form.”

“And nosy neighbors,” Hank huffed.

“That's right, Hank—voyeurism,” Jake replied, undeterred. He sat down on the sofa, put the cup on the table, and chewed noisily.

“That's my seat, Jake,” I said.

“I mean, the interest Jimmy Stewart has in his neighbors lives,” Jake continued. “The morbid curiosity he takes in their day-to-day existence. All those skeletons in their closets. I mean, this film could be about us!”

Jake laughed, cookie crumbs spilling onto his lap. I could see Hank glaring at him. I perched myself between them on the side of the sofa.

“I'm not hidin' nothin'!” Hank said.

“Oh, come on, Hank, everyone's hiding something. That's what makes people so damn interesting.”

Hank shifted nervously in his seat, crossed his arms, and kept his eyes on the television. Grace Kelly moved across the screen like a ghost, serene in a floor-length ball gown, face coming into focus slowly, like an angel's.

Jake took a cigarette and tapped it on the back of his hand. “Why do people do that?” I asked.

“To tell you the truth, I don't really know. Something about moving all the tobacco toward the filter. Bogart did it in the movies.”

“Dumbass kid. You don't know anything!” Hank burst out.
I rolled my eyes at Jake to let him know I had no idea what had Hank so riled up, tried to make light of it. Jake just smirked. I assumed Hank was cranky because Jake was interrupting his enjoyment of
Rear Window
, a film he must have seen at least a dozen times.

“If everyone is hiding something, what are you hiding, Jake?” I asked.

“My genius. I am yet to unleash my creative brilliance on the world.”

“I'm about to unleash my foot up your ass!” Hank roared, picking up a walking cane that had been sitting by his chair since his return from the hospital. As he swung it toward Jake I realized this was the first time I'd seen him use it.

“Hey, careful,” Jake said, leaning back out of the way and laughing. “You'll take an eye out with that thing.”

“I don't know who the hell you are, or what you want,” Hank roared. “Are you spying on me? Is that it? Are you a reporter?”

“Hank,” I said, stepping in between the two of them as they stood nose to nose, Hank's hand gripping the cane, ready to swing.

“I don't like this kid,” he growled, still looking Jake dead in the eye. Jake didn't flinch.

“Come on, Hank, you and I are friends,” Jake said calmly. “We're just having a friendly conversation.”

“I don't trust you.”

“Hank, this is Jake,” I said carefully, thinking he had gone mad. “He lives downstairs, remember?”

“I know who he is, damn it. Don't condescend to me!”

Hank moved fast, faster than I would have expected at his age,
and threw the cane up into the air, leveling it across Jake's throat. I gasped and threw my hands to my mouth, but Jake just stood there, a grin inching across his face.

“Come on, Hank, we're all friends here,” he said. Hank stepped forward, pushing his face into Jake's, and Jake winced as if he couldn't stand the smell of Hank's breath on his cheek.

“Don't think I don't know what you're doing down there,” he said. “I see you peering around corners and putting your face where it doesn't belong. Waiting for
her
.”

Hank nodded in my direction, a small line of spit forming across his lips.

“Hank, what has gotten into you?” I said. “Jake came to the hospital with you and kept the cops away when you were tearing the place up. He bought you groceries, tidied up around the place. He's been nothing but a good neighbor to you.”

“I don't need a good neighbor,” he snarled. “I need to be left in peace. Don't be fooled, Hilda. There are no do-gooders in this world.”

At this Jake actually laughed. “That's right, old man,” he said, pushing the cane away from his throat. “Everyone has an agenda, an angle to play. But I'm clean, good buddy. You don't have to worry about me.”

“Oh? You wanna tell me, then, exactly what it is you're workin' on down there?”

“He writes about sex,” I chimed in. It was only after I'd said it that I realized how ridiculous it sounded. “I mean, sex scenes, for movies. Scenes that other people have written that have to be better. He fixes them.”

“Hilda, thank you for your support, but I've got this,” Jake said.

“Have you?”

Hank turned to me and must have seen the look of distress on my face, because when he saw me he slowly started to lower the cane until it was almost by his side. On the TV, Jimmy Stewart grappled with the movie's hulking villain from his wheelchair, as uneven a match as the one I was seeing right in front of me. Hank's sudden anger confused me, but so did Jake's cool, aloof detachment. It was as if he was actually enjoying himself.

“You ask a lot of questions,” Hank snarled. “Too many.”

“Listen, Hank, there's nothing but goodwill here,” Jake said, and put his hands on Hank's shoulders as if to embrace him. Hank was a statue.

“Now,” Jake continued, “how about we sit down and watch the rest of the film?”

“I've already seen it,” Hank mumbled, sounding depleted.

“So then you know how it ends?”

“Yeah, I know how it ends. The guy learns to keep his nose out of his neighbor's business.”

“Maybe you should go, Jake,” I said. “Hank's really tired. I'll walk you out.”

Jake bent down and picked up the cup of coffee granules from the table. “Don't want to forget these,” he said, and walked out the door without giving Hank a second glance.

Hank sat back in his seat, looking exhausted, and I closed the screen door behind us. Outside the night air was cool and refreshing. I released my breath as if I'd been holding it for years.

“Jake, I'm so sorry about that,” I said. “I have no idea what that was about. You know what he's been like. He's all over the place.”

“He's just being protective,” Jake said, lighting a cigarette, “and
territorial. Doesn't want another man pissing in his corners. It's a guy thing.”

“But all those things he said, he doesn't mean them.”

“Like I said, he's just protecting his property,” Jake said, expelling smoke from the corner of his mouth. I didn't like the sound of that. Was Jake jealous?

“That's not a very nice thing to say,” I said.

“Sorry, that was out of line,” he said. “I'm just having a shitty day, having trouble with work, and now this. Hank's a hard guy to get close to. I thought I'd made some kind of connection with him, but now, I don't know.”

“I don't know what's wrong with him. I feel like he's getting worse. Like everything's getting worse.”

“Everything?”

I thought of Mrs. Connor, her arms stretched out to me, eyes pleading like those of a mother on a charity pamphlet.
Help my boy
.

“I feel like everything's sliding out of control,” I admitted. “Do you ever feel like that? Like everything is wound so tight that something's gotta give?”

“I like chaos,” he replied, stepping onto the balcony ledge and leaning over like it was a set of monkey bars. “Chaos is underrated.”

“Careful. That railing doesn't look strong.”

“Are you concerned about me, Hilda?” he said, letting go of the railing and lifting his arms in the air like he was on the bow of the
Titanic
. “Look at me! I'm flying, Hilda! I'm flying!”

“Shhhh, quiet!” I grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Seriously, Hilda, Hank's just getting old. He's probably got a touch of dementia, you know. You get to that age, you start saying
all sorts of crazy things. I can't wait till I'm that old. Even if I've got all my faculties I'm still gonna call everyone an asshole, 'cause I know I'll get away with it. I'm gonna push in line wherever I like and eat candy till I puke.”

“I'm glad you can see the light side of it. Doesn't seem like much fun to me.”

“What other choice you got? Go out in a blaze of glory like James Dean?”

“It'd be better than what Hank's going through,” I said. Jake moved closer and put his arm around me.

“He'll be fine. He's got you.”

“He said you ask too many questions,” I said, trying my best to ignore his arm around my shoulder, feeling the heat rising in my cheeks. “What do you ask him?”

Jake let go. “Just stuff. Like, What kind of groceries do you need today? You got enough toilet paper? Stuff like that.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I asked him if he was the second gunman on the grassy knoll. Christ, Hilda, it's hard enough dealing with him; I don't need you going crazy on me as well.”

“Sorry. It's just strange that he would say that.”

“As opposed to all the other stuff that comes out of his mouth?”

He had a point. But still, there was so much I didn't know about his relationship with Hank. It was as if Jake had appeared from nowhere, and Hank didn't seem to like him very much. It was strange that someone who had done so much for Hank would be so distrusted by him. There had to be more to it.

“You know, I was thinking of taking the day off tomorrow,” Jake said, “letting my head reboot. You interested in hanging out?”

“Sure,” I said. I'd decided that I wanted to show him there was more to me than my death obsession. “How about we do something normal, like go to a movie? We could see the new Adam Sandler film.”

“I never see a movie in its opening weekend. You know why? There is no way I'm buying into the commercial interests of the studios, that's why. I am not giving any studio the satisfaction of taking my money in those first few crucial days. This whole industry is all about the first few days of a movie's opening. Not the lasting appeal of the story, or the reviews even. It's all about the dollar. And I'm not gonna play ball.”

“Okay. No movie.”

“How about a picnic?” he said, looking intently at his sneakers, like they might suddenly wander off without him.

“A picnic?”

“You know, a picnic. With a blanket and food and all that crap.”

My eyes lit up. “I know just the place.”

“So can I pick you up?”

“Sure. Eleven?”

He pointed his finger at me like it was a gun and clicked his tongue as if pulling the trigger. “I will be there.”

I went back inside. Hank was sitting back in his chair, staring at me. I busied myself with putting the dinner dishes away.
Rear Window
had long finished and the television was turned to the news. A helicopter hovered high above a vanload of Mexicans who were pouring out the back doors and scurrying for the hills.

“You trust people too goddamn easily,” Hank said, his voice grave. I slammed the dishes down in the sink, chipping a plate.

“For God's sake, Hank,
just stop
!” I cried. Hank's eyes widened, and I have to admit I was a little stunned myself. It was as if the
hot, seemingly endless weeks of enduring his fits of paranoia and melancholy had suddenly broken me.

“I mean, just listen to yourself. Listen to what you're saying.”

“The young are so easily taken advantage of. You, Hilda, are susceptible to the evils of the world. You open your heart because you want it filled, but not like that. Don't fill your heart with his kind.”

“And who is my kind, Hank? You? I'm seventeen and my best friend is a senior citizen. And it's not charming like in a Woody Allen movie. I'm not Mariel fucking Hemingway, you know! Shit, now
I
sound like the crazy one. Listen, not everyone is out to get you, Hank. What can I say to make you feel better about Jake? He's done nothing at all to deserve this.”