One Fat Summer (10 page)

“I'll think about it.”

“You better do it. Today. You quit today.”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Willie's my cousin,” said Jim. “I don't want to see him go down in flames over a slob like you. You do it now.” He stalked away.

I was scared. Broken kneecaps. Maybe a broken head. Find me in that drainage ditch I dug. It was a lousy job anyway, killing myself for fifty cents an hour. Who needs it? Only about five more weeks till Labor Day, the end of the season. Hang around, read books, have a nice easy time. Dad's got too much on his mind to bother me anymore. Too late to go to day camp. Even if I did, it wouldn't be so horrible. Not with my new muscles. And my vein.

And Rumson really needed the job. Maybe his folks were poor. Maybe he needed something to keep from getting even crazier. Working for Dr. Kahn might help him straighten up and fly right. I'd be doing a real service, like Mom did with the charity kids. And I wouldn't really be giving up all that much.

At three o'clock I went up on the porch to collect my money. Dr. Kahn was staring at me. “What were you talking to the Smith boy about?”

“Nothing.”

“I don't like a boy who lies.”

“I don't even remember, it was something about trimming the bushes. He thought I should do it better.”

“You're quite adequate, improving measurably. I don't want you listening to those irresponsible boys.” He opened the leather purse and counted out $12.75. I had never gotten around to correcting him. Well, it doesn't matter now.

“Dr. Kahn?”

“What is it?”

“Well, uh…”

“Of course, how careless of me.” He fished out another dollar bill. “Have a pleasant weekend.” He had never said that before. He stood up. “Yes?”

“Well, uh, it's about the job.”

“What about the job?” The shotgun eyes were boring into me.

You do it now. Quit. But I didn't want to. Why should I? I didn't make Willie crazy. Who
says working for Dr. Kahn is going to make him sane? Dr. Kahn nearly drove me crazy. And I want a vein on my left arm, too. I'm no beach ball. No Yo-Yo. Jim Smith and his crazy cousin aren't going to jerk me up and down.

“You owe me a dollar for last week, and for the week before, too.”

“That's right.” He fished out two more crumpled bills. “See you Monday morning. Nine o'clock. Sharp.”

The Smiths' truck was waiting for me at the bottom of the driveway. Jim leaned out. “Didja do it?”

“Nope.”

“It's your funeral,” he said.

His father started the truck. There. Who's a beach ball now? But I wondered: Did I really do what I wanted to do, or was I just more scared of Dr. Kahn than of Willie Rumson?

I saw Jim's face as the truck turned onto the county road. He looked worried. I was worried, too, but I didn't look it. I gave him a tight, tough smile like Humphrey Bogart in
Casablanca.

But I was scared.

And tingling all over.

It's sort of interesting being scared all the time. Good experience for a writer. You wake up in the morning, feeling good, happy the sun is shining, thinking about having breakfast, then suddenly—Boom! it hits you. You've got something to be scared about. I've read stories about that. A guy wakes up, has pleasant thoughts about what's going to happen that day, then suddenly remembers he's got a terrible disease, or there's a war on, or somebody's riding into town to gun him down. Spies must feel like that. The minute you remember you're a spy—Boom! it hits you. Something to be scared about.

And then you start hearing sounds; the house creaking, footsteps in another room, a car slowing
as it reaches the crest of the hill, a plane flying low. They're after me!

It's not as bad as it sounds. I mean, it's not wonderful, but it's not as if I was paralyzed with fear. Sometimes it feels good to be jittery—you really feel alive. Most of the time in my life, I always knew what was going to happen, and the only times I ever felt scared were when I thought I was going to be embarrassed. Somebody was going to make fun of my fatness in front of people I cared about. But this was a different kind of scared. Danger. Secrets. A madman out there coming after me. Willie Rumson was the hunter and I was the prey. I'd have to outsmart him.

I once read a story, it was my favorite short story for a while, called “The Most Dangerous Game” by Richard Connell. It was about a man who hunted people for sport on his own private island. One night, the hero, who was a famous hunter and writer himself, fell off a yacht and swam to that island. When he refused to hunt other men, the villain decided to hunt him. That was pretty exciting, because the hero knew all the jungle tricks. He knew how to make a Malay
man-catcher and a Burmese tiger pit, and how to tie a knife to a swinging branch with vines. After a while, the hunted became the hunter. Finally, the hero beat the villain in hand-to-hand combat. I thought of myself as the hero in that story, and Willie Rumson as the villain. I'd have to outsmart him.

For starters, I never left the house without my old Cub Scout knife in one pocket and a handful of sand in the other. I imagined Willie Rumson swaggering up to me, never suspecting why I had my hands in my pockets, maybe even thinking I was gripping my legs so they wouldn't quiver from fear. Then, just as he was about to get me—Whap! I'd throw the sand right in his face. Willie would be clawing at his eyes, and I'd have a precious ten seconds to break and run, or leap on him or pull out my knife. But then the daydream got blurry. The blades stuck, they were rusty, I'd never get the knife open in time, and even if I did, then what? I don't think I could stab anybody, not even Willie Rumson out to break my kneecaps.

I kept an eye out for Rumson all that next week, especially when I walked along the county
road. Ran along the county road is more like it. The only time I felt completely safe was at home with the doors locked. When I talked with Pete at Marino's Beach I felt safe because I knew that Willie was scared stiff of Pete, but I'd keep looking over my shoulder for the Chevy, knowing that as soon as I left Pete, I was on my own. I felt safe when I was mowing close to the porch with Dr. Kahn watching me like a hawk, because I knew Rumson was afraid of the old bird; but as soon as I started mowing lower down the hill toward the road, I got that jittery feeling again. It got worse the farther from the house I mowed.

But I never saw Rumson that week, and after a while I relaxed. Jim Smith might have been pulling my leg. I didn't trust him one hundred percent.

Joanie called one night and we had a friendly talk. I went to see her the next afternoon and she had cookies and lemonade waiting for me on a table on the lawn, and she was really trying to be nice.

“You look different,” she said.

“I lost some weight.” It was the first time I told anybody. I weighed 180 that morning.

“Are you on a diet?”

“No. It's the job.”

“How much have you lost?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe twenty-five pounds.”

“God, that's a lot. How do you feel?”

“Terrific.”

“Not weaker?”

“I lost fat, not muscle.”

“But I've heard if you lose too much weight too fast, you get weaker.”

“I feel fine.” Actually, I started feeling weaker just standing there listening to her.

“Not weaker in strength, but weaker in your body's ability to fight diseases. Like polio.”

I was so weak I had to sit down. The word polio went into me like an ice pick.

Joanie shrugged. “I'm sure it's okay, but you have to be careful. You must really be working hard.”

“It's a big lawn,” I mumbled. I touched my chin to my chest. I always heard if you can touch your chin to your chest, you didn't have polio, at least not in the spine.

“How many hours a week do you work?”

“Not counting my lunch breaks, twenty-seven and a half a week.”

“That's a lot of money. Twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents a week. You'll have a couple of hundred dollars by the end of the summer.”

I changed the subject. I wasn't about to tell her I was getting half that much. She'd really make me feel like a rug.

“Are you up for good now?” I asked.

“I don't have to see the doctor again until September. When do you want to start working on the project?”

“Well, I don't know. I don't have a lot of time.” I suddenly just wanted to get away from her.

“There isn't that much more time. Maybe you don't want to do the project anymore. It was your idea.” She was trying to make me feel guilty. “If you're not interested, just let me know.”

“I'm still interested. I don't have much time.”

“So? I'm supposed to hang around waiting for you to have time?”

“Do you have any ideas?”

“I might.” By the way her mouth snapped
shut I could tell she wasn't going to tell me what they were.

“Why don't you start without me?”

“All right, I will.” It sounded like a challenge.

“I better get going, we're eating early tonight.” I didn't know if we were or not.

“I'll see you,” she said.

“See you.”

I hit the refrigerator the minute I got back to my house. Didn't even think about it. Jerked back the metal handle, pulled open the door, let the sweet cool blast wash over my body, then plunged into the racks of food. I had one hand on a glass bowl of chocolate pudding and the other on a package of salami when a voice said, “Put it down.”

“Says who?” said I.

“Says you,” said Captain Marks.

“C'mon,” I said, “one slice of salami isn't going to hurt, one spoonful of chocolate pudding.”

“Since when,” said Commander Marks, “have you ever stopped at just one of anything?”

“You eat when you feel bad,” said Big Bob Marks, “and you eat when you feel good.”

“Why don't you guys dry up and blow away,” I said.

They all laughed.

“Listen,” I said, “you guys are figments of my imagination. You know what that means?”

“It means you're stuck with us,” said the Commander. “Now close the refrigerator.”

I closed it.

“Keep up the good work, sir.” The captain threw me a salute, and they all dried up and blew away. I went into my room to listen to the radio until dinner.

On Saturday Mom and I drove into the city to buy me clothes for school and bring Dad back for his two weeks' vacation. Michelle was supposed to come along, but she put up a stink; yelling, stamping her feet. It was her day off and she needed the rest, she said. She hated the city in the summertime. She wasn't going to buy any clothes till she started college and saw what the other girls were wearing. She didn't want to spend two hours each way in a hot car. Everything she said made sense to me, but from the way she carried on, even Mom must have figured out that she had something else on her mind. A big date with Pete, Sometimes Michelle isn't the world's coolest.

Mom started trying to pump me as soon as we were out of the driveway.

“I've never seen Michelle so agitated,” she said.

“It
is
pretty hot in the car.”

“Open your window. As soon as we're on the highway you'll get a breeze. Don't you think she knows that?”

We passed Marino's Beach. It was already crowded with families up for the weekend. Pete was on the highboard, of course. Mom nearly went off the road looking at him.

“Michelle's a very emotional person,” she said. “Sometimes I think she takes after Dad more, and you take after me. We don't get so emotional about things. We kind of plug along, keep things to ourselves. Don't you think that's true?”

I didn't really mink it was true, but then I hadn't ever thought about it before. So I just said, “Maybe.” My mother is tricky, and I could tell she was leading up to something. I was on my guard.

“Emotional people have their ups and downs. Sometimes they do or say things they don't
really mean. People like us, who really care for them, have to help them sometimes.”

I wanted to say something like “Okay, Mom, lay your cards on the table,” but I just said “Uh-huh.”

“Bobby.” She gave me a sharp glance. “You're not doing Michelle any favor by playing dumb. We're not going to be able to help her unless we're honest with each other.”

“About what?”

“About what's going on.”

“What's going on?”

She shook her head and didn't say another word until we were on the highway headed south toward the city. There was a breeze all right, but it was a warm breeze, and it got warmer with every mile farther from Rumson Lake.

“Maybe we should be talking about you, Bobby.”

“What about me?”

“I don't like the way you've been looking. Overtired. Loss of appetite. Not your usual robust self.”

“I'm getting thinner.”

“That's not always a good sign. Maybe you're working too hard.”

I heard warning bells in my brain, but I was trapped.

“What did you say?”

“I didn't say anything,” I said.

“I'm not sure I like you hanging around Marino's Beach. It's a rough crowd.”

“Mostly families.” I picked my words very carefully.

“And he's taking advantage of you, not paying you.”

“He's okay.” I could tell she didn't even want to say Pete's name.

“Do you like him?”

“Sure.”

“How much does Michelle like him?”

“Why don't you ask her?”

“Look, Bobby, this is ridiculous.” Her voice was sharp. “I won't stand for lying. I want straight answers. How long has Michelle been wearing that ankle chain with the heart on it?”

“I didn't even know she had one.” That was true. Who looks at his sister's legs?

“What time has she been coming home at night?”

“Am I my sister's keeper?”

“I won't stand for that, Bobby.” She gripped the wheel very tightly and stared straight ahead. “I'll call up Dr. Kahn and tell him you can't work for him anymore.”

I suddenly felt as if someone had flushed my insides with ice water. I felt as if I had to go to the bathroom.

“You didn't think I knew?” she asked.

“I would've told you.”

“Michelle told me.” Her voice softened. “Michelle cares about you, Bobby. Obviously she cares about you more than you care about her. She wanted me to know what was happening with you so I could be in a position to help you.”

I was all mixed up. My mind was a mud puddle. Why had Michelle told her about my job? Why hadn't she told me she told her? We had a deal. She wasn't to be trusted. Or had Mom found out some other way and was trying to trick me?

“The two nights I was in the city, Bobby. Was Michelle out late?”

“I don't know.”

“Was she home before you went to sleep?”

“I don't know.”

“You can hear a door opening or closing, can't you?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

This is what it must be like to be cross-examined by Perry Mason. “I didn't hear anything at all.”

“So she wasn't home when you went to sleep or you would have heard her in the house. What about when you woke up? Was she there?”

“I don't know. I didn't look.”

“Well, were her breakfast dishes in the sink?”

“I don't remember.”

“The night I called, Sunday night. Did you really try to wake her up? Or was she out? Now you better tell me the truth, because sooner or later I'll find out for myself, and if you've lied…” Just letting it hang like that really scared me.

“She wasn't there.”

“The night of the storm. What time did she come back?”

“Well…”

“The truth.”

I blurted, “She was out all night, but it wasn't her fault. Pete's truck got stuck in the mud and then…”

“That's all I wanted to know.”

Mom didn't start talking again until we crossed the bridge into the city. Her voice was more cheerful. Why not, she got what she wanted. I felt miserable.

“Why don't we get some ice cream before we start shopping?”

“I don't want any,” I said.

“It'll pick up your spirits.”

“I feel fine.”

“Don't feel badly. You'll see. You've done Michelle a big favor.”

We met my father at the clothing store. He looked hot and tired and happy to see us.

“Let's get this over fast,” he said, “this place gives me a headache. I've never seen it so crowded.”

We went straight to a special department in the
basement called Huskytown. That was just a polite way of saying Fat Boys' Shop. I always hated it. It was filled with fat boys and seeing them reminded me I was fat, too. We had to wait a long time for a saleman.

“Hello, hello.” The salesman whipped a tape measure off his neck and wrapped it around my waist. “We got some very nice slacks, flannels, sharkskin that wears forever. Follow me.”

They did have some sharp pants, a beige pair with brown saddle stitching up the sides, and charcoal-red flannel pants the color of glowing embers. I could wear them with either checked shirts or solid-color button-down shirts. And I'd be able to wear the shirts inside my pants now.

“I like 'em,” said my father.

“Look at the price, Marty.”

“He'll get at least a year out of them, maybe more. Now that he's lost some weight, he should have some nice-looking pants.”

“He might not stay at this weight,” said my mother. “He might shoot up as soon as school starts and he's not getting as much exercise.”

“I'm not going to gain weight,” I said.

“Nice clothes might be an incentive for him to keep his weight down,” said my father.

“You could always let them out,” said the salesman.

“That's right, Lenore, worse comes to worsted.” I didn't think my father's joke was too funny, but I laughed because he was on my side for a change.

“But you don't have to do the sewing, Marty.” She turned to the salesman. “Can you show us some corduroys? Brown, or any dark color that won't show dirt? And chinos?”

My father gave up. “Anything you say, Lenore.”

I didn't pay any more attention. I just let them push me around Huskytown, picking out underwear and shirts and socks and another pair of pants, nodding yes; anything to get out of this place in a hurry, as usual.

But I'd have money of my own this year, and when school starts I'll buy a pair of pants and a button-down shirt myself.

“Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?” said my mother as we finally left. “I'm starved. How about a nice dinner before we head back?”

“Head back?” My father looked surprised. “I thought we were staying over in the city tonight.”

“I want to go back. And you can have a full day on the lake tomorrow.”

“Fine with me,” said my father. “We'll have to stop at the apartment to get my bags. We won't get up to Rumson Lake much before midnight. So let's eat dinner on the road, take less time.”

My mother agreed too easily. She hated highway restaurants. But she really wanted to get up there tonight. I wondered about Michelle. She thought we were coming back on Sunday. If she stayed out tonight I hoped she was smart enough to fix it up with a girlfriend who would say she slept over at her house.

I dozed in the backseat with the packages on the ride up. My parents talked low. I caught snatches of their conversation.

“I'm willing to give it a try,” said my father. “But I have a right to my opinion.”

“Not if you're going to throw up obstacles.”

“Name one.”

“That business with Bobby's pants. I'm the one who has to keep them clean, and keep letting
them out. If I'm working I'll have less time for things like that.”

“Then maybe you should think twice about working.”

“Let's let it drop,” she said.

We stopped for dinner at Belle's Diner. When he pulled into the parking lot, my mother asked, “Why here?”

He pointed at a line of parked trucks. “Drivers know good food.”

“Probably just a pretty waitress,” she said.

The food wasn't so hot, and none of the waitresses looked pretty to me. The truck drivers all sat in a row at the counter. I wondered if they sat in the same order as their trucks were parked outside. They smoked and kidded around a lot, and slapped each other's shoulders. Big, tough men. Would I ever be as cool as they are?

“Would you like a piece of cake?”

Before I could answer my mother, my father said, “Don't tempt him, Lenore. He's doing very nicely.”

“He's been such a good boy all day, a little piece of cake won't hurt him.”

“You've been pushing food into him for years, now leave him alone.”

“Don't take it out on him,” my mother said.

“Don't take what out?”

“Any anger at me.”

“I can see this is going to be some vacation.” My father got up and went to pay the check.

He drove faster than usual the rest of the way up to Rumson Lake, cutting in front of other cars, sometimes swearing at drivers who yelled at him. Once, my mother told him to take it easy.

“Bunch of road hogs out tonight,” he said.

“You don't have to get us killed over a piece of cake,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Slow down, Marty. You're upset about what happened in the diner.”

“I'm just sick and tired of all this talk, talk, talk. Do what you want. Go to work, make the kid three hundred pounds. Just leave me out of it.”

“He's your son, too.”

“I can't even buy him a pair of pants.”

“That's different. If you're willing to take
over the care of his clothes, you can dress him any way you want.”

“Let's just drop it,” he said.

I tried, but I really couldn't follow the argument very well. I could see my mother's point; she really did do all the washing and ironing and sewing. But my father was willing to take a chance on getting me really nice pants for a change. He had confidence in me. And I really didn't want to eat that piece of cake. I didn't want to do anything that would make me have to go back to Huskytown.

I wondered if the argument was less about me than about my mother going to work. Sometimes grown-ups fight about one thing, when they're really thinking about something else.

It was after midnight when we got to Rumson Lake. The town was shut up except for the bars. The lake was silent and calm. There were a few cookout fires along the shore, and I could see dots of light, flashlights maybe, or campfires, on the island. I wondered if Michelle was on the island with Pete.

We turned up our hill. In the moonlight, I caught a glimpse of a white pickup truck parked
among some bushes off a side road. It looked like the Marino Express. Why would Pete hide his truck near our house?

I got an answer to that pretty quick. There was a car in our driveway, its headlights blazing. Mr. Marino's maroon Cadillac. There were three figures spotlighted in the beams like actors on a stage. Mr. Marino was shaking his finger at Pete and Michelle. They were listening with their heads down.

“What the hell is this?” said my father. He was out of the car almost before he came to a full stop.

“Marty…” called my mother, but it was too late. He charged around the car. We followed right behind him.

“What's going on here?” my father shouted.

Mr. Marino whirled. “That's a good question, but a little late. Some father you are.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Taking my son home.”

“What's he doing here?”

“Ask that trampy daughter of yours.”

My father went right for Mr. Marino's throat, arms out, his hands like claws. They were about
the same height, but Mr. Marino was much heavier. He swung at my father. His punch missed, but his arm knocked my father's arm away. Both of them stumbled, then collided with a thud and grabbed each other's shoulders. They began wrestling against the side of the Cadillac.

Michelle was screaming and Pete was frozen stiff, a statue like me. It was my mother who moved first. She flew at Dad and Mr. Marino, pulled at their clothes, somehow got between them and pushed them apart.