Summer on the Moon (5 page)

It was barely light when Delia shook him awake. “Wyman can’t drive us. His kid’s sick!” Socko’s heart leapt. No transportation. Did that mean no move?

But when he stumbled out of bed, his mother was at the window staring down on the puke green roof of a scabby SUV with an open metal trailer hitched behind it. Wyman, the night manager at Phat Burger, must have brought it over after his shift.

“Surprise!” Delia said with a desperate smile. “I’m the driver!”

“Really? You?”

“Why not? Wyman came by about an hour ago and I drove it around the block a couple times. He showed me how to handle the trailer. I’ll be fine, right?”

Socko knew it was his job to reassure her, but this whole thing was
her
idea. He didn’t even want to go.

“I’ll do fine,” she said, answering her own question. “You think it’s too early to get Damien up to help us load?”

It was, but Socko couldn’t lug their stuff down to the trailer by himself, and Delia got short of breath whenever she had to lift anything. Besides, unless his mom changed her mind, this might be his last chance to hang with his friend.

Socko rapped the floor beside his bed with the broom handle. T
hump, thump, thump
.

In a minute, Socko heard the secret knock.

Damien slipped through the door wearing yesterday’s clothes and his hat of invincibility.

“You okay?” Socko asked.

“My mom’s gone again and my best friend is about to disappear. Why wouldn’t I be?” Damien’s hands beat a nervous rhythm on the back of a chair. “You have a leftover burger around? We’re down to a jar of relish and a six-pack at home.”

While Delia zapped him a burger, Damien sat down in front of the Moon Ridge Estates brochure, which lay open on the table. “So this is where you’ll be.” Resting his weight on his elbows, he studied the little map on the back.

“It’s not far. The Kludge is over here, Moon Ridge is here.” Delia traced the route with a finger. The microwave beeped. “Would you like fries with that, sir?”

Damien snatched the burger off the plate she held out. “I’ll take whatever you got. I’m eating for a lifetime.”

“
Mom?
” Socko was pleading.

His mother held up a hand before he could say more. “I’ll still be at the Phat, Damien. You get hungry, you come see me. And bring a book. We’ll work on your reading during my break.”

While Damien scarfed down fries, Socko and Delia loaded the dolly they’d borrowed from Mr. Marvin. Delia shoved it across the hall and into the elevator.

After Damien’s meal of a lifetime, the boys moved furniture. The loveseat they’d rescued from the curb went back where they’d found it; the trailer would only hold so much.

Even though they didn’t have that much stuff, it was hot and heavy work. Damien raided the refrigerator each time they made the round trip, taking advantage of the fact that Delia was camped out by the Suburban, guarding their stuff and saying long, teary good-byes to the neighbors she knew so well.

Getting the sofa down the stairs nearly killed them—it was too big for the elevator. It got away from them once, bumping down the steps until it smacked the wall on the second-floor landing.

“Gotta rest.” Damien fell onto the slanting sofa, one end three steps higher than the other. Noticing a stain on the sofa’s arm, he grinned. “Hey, I did that! You dared me to stomp a ketchup packet, remember?” He shook his head. “Good times, good times.”

“I’m only gonna be eleven miles away.”

“And how am I gonna get there? Fly?”

Damien’s mom had no car. Sometimes one of her boyfriends did, but they didn’t exactly line up to drive Damien places.

“I’ll come see you,” Socko said.

“You heard your mom. Once you’re outta here, you’re gone.” He rested his neck on the back of the sofa and stared at the gray plaster overhead. “Listen, if something, you know,
serious
happens to me, you gotta promise to come say good-bye.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen.” Socko’s throat felt thick.

When they forced the sofa out the front doors of the Kludge, they saw Rapp standing slouched against the outside wall, Meat beside him. Even though it was early afternoon, both looked like they’d just gotten up. Damien scuttled sideways, almost dropping his end of the sofa.

Delia stood at the curb by the Suburban, the dolly loaded with cartons beside her. She wiped her damp forehead with the back of her wrist, then rested her knuckles on her wide hips and stared at Rapp.

Whatever you’re thinking, Mom, don’t say it
, Socko pled silently.

“Anything wrong, Mrs. S?” asked Rapp with mock politeness.

“Not for long,” she said. “In half an hour I won’t even be able to see you boys in my rearview mirror.”

Damien wilted against the couch they had just set down.

For a moment, the air around “the boys” seemed to crackle. Then Rapp waved off the insult. “The way I see it,” he said, like he was talking to Meat, “they’re just taking out the trash.”

Socko turned away but felt their eyes watching as he and Damien talked about how to load the couch. Damien tapped the
S
on his hat. “Super strength, don’t fail me now.”

Together they lifted one end and rested it on the tailgate. They picked up the other end and shoved. Nothing happened.

Delia hitched up the waist of her sweatpants, then turned and pressed her back against the end of the sofa.

“No, Mom!” Junebug’s blood pressure cuff always registered high on Delia.

“I am
not
going to be beat by a couch.” Her rubber flip-flops gripped the pavement. “One … two … three.”

The sofa stuttered across the metal grate of the trailer floor and hit the back wall. Delia’s eyes were closed, her arms limp. “I’m fine,” she panted, as if reading Socko’s mind.

“We’ll do the rest, Mom.” While Delia sat in the driver’s seat, directing them through the open window, Socko and Damien piled the boxes and other pieces of furniture around the couch. When the kitchen table had been wedged in and everything bungeed, they raised the tailgate.

“Go back upstairs, boys. Take one last look. Make sure we didn’t forget anything.”

Apartment 4A looked sad with nothing in it but the radiators, the stains on the ceiling, and a few gouges in the floor.

Socko pushed the window open and leaned out, studying the gray cursive letters of Donatelli’s unlit sign. The jittery light from the convenience store sign would be eleven miles away when he lay in bed tonight. Feeling sad and stupid, he gave the demented clown on the ceiling over his corner of the room a quick wave. “See ya around.”

Damien picked up the worn-out broom Delia had left standing in the corner and thumped the floor three times with the handle. “Guess I won’t hear that anymore.” Holding the broom like a spear, he hurled it out the open window.

Socko rushed after Damien to see where it would land.

It flipped, then plummeted into the scrawny hedge in front of the building. Damien leaned his back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position.

“I got something for you,” Socko said, joining Damien on the floor. He hooked the string around his neck with a finger and lifted it over his head. “Here.” He dropped the key string over Damien’s head. “It’ll give you a place to go.”

Blaaaaat …
Down in the street Delia leaned on the car horn.

“Yeah, yeah,” Socko said under his breath, shoving to his feet. He listened to the
click
as he closed the door behind him for the last time. “Gotta do one more thing,” he said, pointing at the door to Junebug’s apartment.

He knocked, but her aunt answered. Socko caught a whiff of litter box and frying chicken.

“Junebug’s at the nursing home cutting old people’s toenails.”

“She’s gotta go to school to do that?” said Damien under his breath.

Socko was kind of relieved Junebug wasn’t home. “Just tell her good-bye for me … and thanks.”

Junebug’s aunt pushed the door shut.

“After you,” said Damien as the elevator door opened.

“No, after you.”

Damien grabbed his arm and they stepped in together. They rode the elevator to the top and then straight down, taking one last hurtle before walking out the front door of the Kludge.

Neither one of them looked at Rapp.

“Move it, Socko!” Delia leaned across the seat and opened the car door. “We have to pick up the General at the airport at 3:30!”

But Socko had stalled out. “This isn’t right.”

Damien gave Socko the shove that propelled him through the open door of the Suburban. “Do it, Socko. Get it over with.” Damien closed the door behind him. “I’ll be okay.”

Delia spread a Phat bag with a map penciled on it in Socko’s lap. “You’re the navigator.” But Socko barely noticed. Damien was on the other side of the closed door, his fists in his pockets, his gaze on the sidewalk.

Socko rolled the window down and held up his palm. “See ya later—seriously.” Damien’s hand came out of his pocket. Forearm to forearm, they locked hands.

When Delia touched the gas pedal, their hands were jerked apart. The Suburban jackrabbited forward and took a crazy tilt as two tires climbed the curb. Looking back, Socko saw that the trailer’s tires were still on the road, squealing along the curb.

Damien called after them through cupped hands. “You’re gonna die, man!”

Delia jerked the steering wheel left.
Whump
, the tires bounced down off the curb. Socko hung out the window. “I’ll call you!”

Wind whipping his hair, Socko kept his friend in sight for as long as he could. He held onto the window frame with one hand and waved with the other. Damien didn’t wave back. Instead he stood, fingers riveted to the
S
on his hat. But Damien was shrinking fast.

Although they were further away, Rapp and Meat seemed to shrink much more slowly.

Delia gripped the steering wheel, perspiration glistening on her forehead and upper lip. “You sure you know how to drive?” Socko asked. She didn’t look exactly comfortable.

“I’m fine. Just keep us from getting lost, okay?”

Too late. They rolled past a convenience store called the Quick Stop. If the store had been Donatelli’s, the old guy coming out with a ribbon of scratch-off tickets in his hand would have been easy to name. But this was someone else’s neighborhood, someone else’s old guy.

“Right or left here, Socko?”

Socko turned the burger bag on his lap ninety degrees. It didn’t help. When it came to being a navigator, Socko stunk.

His mother sent him into two fast-food places for directions before they even got out of the city—she seemed to think they could trust anyone who flipped burgers.

As soon as they found the freeway—speed limit 70—Socko was sure Damien’s prediction was going to come true. Delia drove a car the way he and Damien piloted the Hurtler.

Socko twisted in his seat and watched the load. He didn’t trust the bungee cord job they’d done. With each lurching lane change he expected the sofa to go rogue and fly out of the trailer.

“Why are ya slowing down?” Delia yelped.

Socko whipped around. They’d be sitting in the backseat of the car in front of them if they got any closer—and they
were
getting closer! At the last second, Delia swung the Suburban into the next lane. Socko
swiveled in his seat as the sofa careened right.

“Wide turns, wide turns,” Delia chanted. “Don’t roll the trailer.”

They’d been going along fine for a few minutes—Delia had just said she was getting the hang of towing a trailer—when Socko caught sight of the airport sign coming up fast on the right. “Exit! Exit!”

His mom cut across three lanes, hitting the exit just inches shy of the barrier. They were celebrating still being alive when the next set of signs appeared.

Arrivals.

Departures.

Terminal Parking.

“Which lane?” White-knuckled, Delia strangled the wheel.

“Parking! Go for parking!”

She swerved hard. They plunged into the dark hole called Parking. Just before hitting a wooden arm, Delia stomped the brake. “How can I park with
that
in the way?”

“Ticket, Mom.”

“Oh.” The machine next to her window spat out a ticket and she grabbed it.

When they abandoned the car and trailer, the rig sat diagonally across four spaces.

“My gosh, who knew an airport was so big?” Delia whispered as they walked from the glass-enclosed tube into the terminal.

Unsure what to do next, they stalled. “How will we even find him?” Socko asked, watching a swarm of impatient travelers rush by.

Delia threw herself on the mercy of a woman in a crisp white shirt at the Delta service desk. The woman leaned across the counter and pointed down the concourse. “You can meet your party at baggage claim, carousel six.”

“I don’t think meeting an old man’s gonna be much of a party,” Socko mumbled as they walked away.

“Don’t be such a smart-mouth. It
will
be a party. A family reunion!”

Delia chewed off the last of her lipstick while they stood by the silent baggage carousel. “I was way younger than you last time I saw the General. It’s been so long.” She pulled a little mirror out of her purse. “Sheesh! Why didn’t you tell me my hair was going crazy?” She tried to pat down a hairdo that had been whipped by wind blasting through the open windows of the SUV but quickly gave up. “What if I don’t recognize him?” she asked, staring down the concourse.

“What did he look like then?”

“Big. And scary.”

Socko surveyed his enormous mother. No matter how big General Starr was, she had to outweigh him. And no matter how scary he was, his mother had stood up to worse—dealing with the landlord when she didn’t have the rent, for instance, or convincing Mr. Donatelli to give them credit until she got paid.

“Hopefully he’s mellowed,” she said softly. “Anyway, he’s old now. How scary can an eighty-eight-year-old man be?” Suddenly she pinched his arm. “You don’t think that’s him, do you? Nancy didn’t mention a wheelchair.”

A skycap was pushing a shiny chrome wheelchair that made the shriveled old man who sat in it look like a prune served on a fancy plate. The skin on the top of his bald head was splotched with brown. His fingernails were long and yellow and his legs so thin they looked like they’d knife through the legs of his pants if he crossed them.

“Don’t let it be him, don’t let it be him,” Delia breathed.

The old man viewed his surroundings with just one eye. The left. The right one was covered by a black patch. The lone eye ranged over the crowd gathered around the baggage carousel.

Socko avoided the searchlight eye by stepping behind his mother and bending his knees, but the eye found her with no trouble. “Delia Marie Starr,” the old man wheezed. Though there was barely any real voice in the sound, it carried like a strong wind. “My, how you’ve grown.”

Socko saw his mother flinch—and right away he wanted to punch the guy. Was the old man starting right out with a fat joke?

Delia squared her shoulders. “Thanks for the house. We really
appreciate it.”

She took one step toward the General, but he held up his hand. “No phony display of affection is necessary. What we have is a simple business arrangement. You get a house plus one old fart. It’s a package deal.”

“I was hoping my boy and me were getting a little more family too.” Delia paused, giving the old man a chance to say something nice, but he didn’t.

“Sir, what are we looking for?” asked the skycap as carousel six rumbled to life.

“One wheelchair. One valise. One footlocker.” The General scanned the first half dozen bags quickly, and then turned back to Delia. “Tell the kid hiding behind you to step out and show himself.”

“I’m not hiding.” Socko edged into view.

Delia put an arm around his shoulders. “This is your great-grandson.”

The old man squeezed the arms of the chair. “Where’d you get that red hair?” he demanded, as if Socko had shoplifted it.

“No place in particular.”

“No place in particular?” The answer seemed to anger the old man. “Well, you got too much of it. Makes you look like a sissy. You need to get those girl-curls buzzed.”

Socko almost commented about the General’s long, girly nails, but if he was going to talk him into letting Damien live in their extra bedroom, he had to be nice.

The old man’s single eye zeroed in on Socko’s shiner. “And if you can’t defend yourself, kid, don’t get in a fight.” The roving eye focused on the conveyor belt, assessing the latest additions to the luggage parade, then snapped back to Socko. “Name?”

“Socko.”

“Socko, sir,” the old man corrected. Then the name itself seemed to catch his attention. “Sock-o?” His laugh was just a shaking of his shoulders. “What are you, kid? Some kind of punching bag?” His shoulders shook again.

“His name is Socrates,” said Delia.

“Boy, oh boy, did you ever draw the short straw, kid! Might as well hang a Kick Me sign on him, Delia Marie.”

Socko had to agree. Some librarian had suggested Socrates when Delia had asked for help finding a “smart” name.

“I thought Nancy was pulling my leg when she said we had a dead philosopher in the family.” The General turned away. Frowning, he watched the emerging luggage shove the plastic strips aside. “That’s the chair,” he snapped.

The skycap retrieved and opened the wheelchair, then transferred the General to it.

“The boy can get my valise and footlocker.”

Shaking his head at the quarter the General slapped into his hand, the skycap hurried away, pushing the polished chrome chair ahead of him.

The General’s wheelchair looked as battered as the old man himself. Plastered to its vinyl back was a bumper sticker that read: VETERAN—I FOUGHT FOR YOUR SORRY HIDE. Tattered American flags were attached to the chair’s handles with gummy wads of duct tape. But Socko thought the General didn’t look as bad in his own chair. They kind of matched.

“The green one.” The General stabbed a yellowed nail at the latest suitcase to hit the belt. “Get it, boy.”

Socko got it. It wasn’t big or heavy, and it had wheels, although they squealed when he dragged it over to the wheelchair.

“And that.”

The footlocker that had just shouldered the hanging plastic strips aside almost pulled Socko’s arm out of the socket when he dragged it off the belt. “No wheels?” he gasped.

“Manufactured before the invention of the wheel,” the General croaked. “Suck it up, kid.”