Take Two! (20 page)

Just then Gordy trudged up to the doorstop, scraping muddy leaves off his shoes. Spell broken.

“Don’t go in!” I whispered, rushing over to him. “I think they’re having – a moment.”

“Tough. I gotta take a leak.”

Mom and Dad pulled away from each other when the moment-killer barged into the room. And right after that Mom left to go pick
up Aunt Olive’s wedding dress while Dad took a nap. Amazingly, Gordy and I stuck to our truce, even while no one was watching.
I’m guessing he was just as gung ho as
I was for the parental units to get together, but too cool to admit it. When it came time for lights-out, Mom insisted that
the scum-bucket and I sleep in the same bed. I should’ve seen it coming – there were only two double-beds in the room and
she’d refused to pay extra for a cot.

“Mom, don’t do this to me,” I begged. “I won’t even share the same stage with Gory – I mean Gordy, so how can I share the
same bed? Things would work out perfectly if you’d just sleep in the next room with Dad.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, switching off the lamp. “Now get some sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead
of us.”

Gordy immediately claimed the good side of the bed, without the cigarette burns or questionable stains. I formed a dividing
wall between us with extra pillows. A second later, they were on the floor. Two seconds later, I was on the floor. After a
game of “blanket tug-of-war” and “dodge the three-inch toenails,” Gordy finally fell asleep. I was left scrunched up on a
small triangle of bed, steaming mad and very awake. I knew I’d be stuck in that position all night, waiting for the sunrise
– so I rolled out of bed, tiptoed to Dad’s door, and knocked lightly.

It squeaked open and I slipped into his room, which apparently came with a fog machine.
Again with the secondhand cigarette smoke? It’s a wonder I’m not already hooked up to an iron lung
.

“Can’t you sleep?” Dad whispered.

“Lumpy mattress?”

“Lumpy brother.”

“Well, you’re welcome to crash in here if you want.”

It was dark except for the bluish flickering light of the TV, but I could still see stuff strewn everywhere. Dad sat on the
edge of his bed and snuffed out his cigarette in the plastic ashtray on the nightstand. “Come on, hop in,” he said, patting
the mattress. “Let me just switch off the boob tube.”

“You can keep it on. I’m not really that sleepy yet.”

Dad peeled back the covers and we both climbed in between the cool, white sheets. And damp – did I mention damp? I couldn’t
decide if it was Dad or the bed that smelled like musty wool. It was strangely comforting, though. Like a broken-in easy chair.

“There ya go. Snug as a bug in a rug.” He gave his pillow a good punch and propped it up against the headboard. “The weatherman
said the temperature’s gonna plunge into the thirties tonight. And tomorrow it may even snow.”

“Oh, crud! Aunt Olive’s planned a big outdoor wedding.”

“Well, that should be interesting.” Dad smirked, scratching his sandpapery neck. “I hope the groom doesn’t get cold feet!”

“Bah-
dum
-pum!” we both said at the same time.

“
Ha!
Good one, Pops. You should write that down.”

“Listen, kid, do me a favor and plug in my cell phone, will ya?” He was speed-flipping through the channels with the remote.
“It’s on the table next to you. I keep forgetting to
recharge the doggone thing and I need to check my messages.”

Scooching up on one elbow, I felt around the wrappers and empty cans on the nightstand until I found the electrical cord that
went with the cell phone. Finally, I attached it, plugged it into the wall outlet, and collapsed onto my pillow with a noisy
exhale.

“Freddy baby!” Dad cried out as an old black-and-white movie flashed on the TV screen. It was the one where Fred Astaire tap-dances
on the walls and ceiling. “
Royal Wedding
. How appropriate, right? I tell ya, they don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

“You know, I took a tap class once. With your old tap shoes.”

“I had tap shoes?”

“Yeah. You don’t even remember?” He jutted out his lip and rolled his eyes around. That was a no. “Found them in the attic.
Anyway, it turned out to be a disaster.”

“Two left feet?” he asked, yawning.

“Two left kayaks,” I answered, yawning. “But I’m thinking of giving it another shot.”

“You should.” Dad melted into a fetal position with one leg over the covers, hugging his extra pillow. “Nobody becomes a Fred
Astaire in one lesson, kid. It takes years of practice.”

“Especially dancing on ceilings like that.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dad’s eyelids were struggling to stay open. It struck me funny that he was conking out while Fred was bouncing off the walls
and working up a sweat.

“It’s not easy – showing your face again in a place where you really screwed up.” Dad sounded soft and serious. “It takes
a lot of guts. But you know what they say…”

I waited for the “no guts, no glory” capper. It never came. He was out like a light. Dad’s face seemed gigantic to me – like
it belonged on Mount Rushmore or something, and I couldn’t help studying it up close. I wondered if I’d have the same salt-and-pepper
beard stubble someday; wondered if weird thickets of hair would decide to grow out of my ears too.
I could definitely live without that
. Except for the Big Dipper mole formation on his forehead, the creases, and the receding hairline, it was like looking into
a mirror. Well, a funhouse mirror.

“G’night, big guy,” I whispered, clicking off the TV. “Glad to have you back.”

He rolled to the far side of the bed and started a snorefest. Mom used to say he was sawing logs – more like chainsawing his
way through Yosemite National Park. I fell right off to sleep, though, with a warm feeling coating my stomach like a sip of
hot chocolate.

Woke up with that same exact feeling too – until I realized that Dad and all his stuff had disappeared.

There was a note sitting in the pillow dent where Dad’s head had been. It was scrawled on Dew Drop Inn stationery, barely
legible. He must’ve written it in a hurry, in the dark.

Guys,

Got urgent message from agent. Great job offer - a six-month gig in Florida! Last-minute replacement.
Must
be there tomorrow or it’s a bust. Off to Chicago to pick up Shelly, etc. - a million things to do. Please understand! Love to Olive.

Dad

It was like a sucker punch to the soul. I lay frozen staring at the note, feeling numb – except for the paper cut I’d gotten,
which was stinging. Throbbing. Burning. I thought I’d hit rock bottom before, but somehow I’d slipped through the
cracks onto a layer of broken glass and worm guts. The logical part of me was thinking,
Oh, well, that’s Dad for you. What’re ya gonna do?
Another part of me wanted to hunt him down and pummel him!

Mom didn’t say a thing when I showed her the note, as if nothing Dad did could surprise her anymore. But I heard her swearing
under her breath while she stuffed Aunt Olive’s wedding dress into the trunk of the car. I thought we were going to drive
all the way home in silence, but halfway there she asked, “Who’s Shelly?”

“A purple mermaid dummy. Part of his new ventriloquist act.”

No further explanation was needed.

“No one has to know about any of this, okay?” Mom asked it like a question, but it was clearly an order. “His showing up at
the wedding was going to be a surprise anyway, so not a word. You hear me?” She shot a look to me in the backseat and I nodded.
“You hear me?” she asked Gordy directly. He grunted and kept staring straight ahead. Whenever he was really upset he always
turned to stone.

Mom switched on the country classics radio station to wallow in some “he done me wrong” songs. I almost asked her what the
deal was with all the hand-holding and that hug that I’d spied through the motel window, but Tammy Wynette started belting
out “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” and Mom ripped the
knob right out of the dashboard. So I’d decided to keep my big mouth S-H-U-T.

Traffic was thick when we got back to Buttermilk Falls, practically coming to a standstill near Fenton High. People were flocking
to the school like it was All-You-Can-Eat-Ribs-Night at the Hog & Heifer. “What’s going on?” Mom snapped, looking around.
She kept honking her horn, getting more aggravated by the minute. “If I don’t get that dress to your aunt real soon she’ll
have a conniption.” Finally we came to a complete stop. “Look,” she said, rolling down her window, “isn’t that Pepper?”

I called out to her, giving her the international sign-language shrug for “What’s going on?” The next thing I knew Pepper
was shoving herself into the backseat of our Hyundai. That image of her all puckered up, covered in mall makeup, flashed in
my brain and I scooched to the opposite side of the car.

“Don’t worry, you’re not gonna catch anything,” she said, half out of breath. “Anyway, you won’t believe what’s happening.
Out-and-out war! The Arts Committee and the Fenton High drama club are super P-O’ed. Excuse my French, Mrs. Grubbs. They’ve
accused the jocks of stealing their spotlight.”

“Well, duh,” I said. “That’s nothing new.”

“No, their
actual
spotlight – from the high school
auditorium. It happened last night. Nobody can figure out how they broke in, or how they managed to rip it off ’cause that
thing weighs a ton. Now the whole town has gone bonkers! They called an emergency meeting.”

“When?”

“Right now. C’mon!”

Pepper threw open the car door and pulled me onto Cubberly Street.

“Isn’t your brother coming?” she asked, more to him than me. We gave it a three-count, but Gordy didn’t budge. “Guess not.”

“The wedding’s at two, mister, so you’d better be home and in your suit no later than one o’clock,” Mom warned through the
window. “I’ve had enough trauma for one day.”

War chants were spilling out of the Fenton High auditorium, and the inside looked like one of those wild political conventions
you see on TV. Only instead of red, white, and blue bunting dressing the stage, there was a droopy backdrop of London Bridge.
A podium stood center stage, and to the left of it, in a lineup of chairs, were Miss Van Rye, Miss Honeywell, Mr. Lynch, and
some angry high school drama teachers. Miss Blodget and a bunch of gym-teacher types were assembled to the right. Even Deputy-Sheriff
Lutz was there, standing next to the American flag, with a hand resting on his nightstick like he might have to use it.

“Hey-hey,
clap-clap
, ho-ho,
clap-clap
, the Arts Committee has got to go!” rang out from the right half of the auditorium – the SLUDGE-shirt-wearing half. “Ho-ho,
clap-clap
, hey-hey,
clap-clap
, the Arts Committee has got to stay!” echoed from the left, where Pepper and I sat. There were a gaggle of cheerleaders in
the middle rows, neutral like Switzerland, cheering for who knows what?

“People, people!” Futterman bellowed, stepping up to the podium and waving his arms. “Settle down. The principal from Fenton
isn’t here yet, so it looks like I’m running the show. People,
please
!” The chanting petered out and the shouting died down to a dull rumble. “Apparently there’s been some criminal behavior here
at the high school – but I can only address the tensions going on at BMF Elementary that might’ve led up to it.” He cleared
his throat. “Now I realize a lot of you are upset about the phys ed cutbacks, which may or may not have resulted in the Slam-Dunk
Tourney going to Claymore this year – not to mention Coach Mockler.” A chorus of
boo
rose up from half the audience, but Futterman overpowered it with “Believe me, I feel your pain. As everyone knows, I’m one
big athletic supporter!”

That got a huge laugh. Futterman was clueless.

“But why all this rage is being directed at the Arts Committee and our musical is beyond me,” Miss Van Rye complained.

“Ah, shut your piehole, lady,” some guy heckled. “Everything
was just fine until you artsy-fartsy folk entered the picture. I say we cancel that expensive theatrical of yours and put
the money back into the sports teams where it belongs!”

A roar of approval came from the ESPN zone.

“But what about culture?” a woman shouted from the front row of our section. I think it was Miss Pritchard. “What about artistic
expression? Feeding your soul?”

“That’s a load of horse manure. Just feed my belly and pass me the remote!”

While half the crowd was rolling in the aisles, Maggie’s mother popped up from our section hoisting a large plastic container.
“I brought homemade fudge!” she announced. “If anyone’s interested.”

“How thoughtful, Mrs. Wathom,” Futterman said, motioning for her to sit. “All right, pipe down, people. Everyone’s entitled
to an opinion, but here’s the bottom line: The
Oliver!
performances will go on as planned – with or without a spotlight. Case closed.”

Jeers from the SLUDGE side. Cheers from the fudge side.

“That ain’t gonna stop us from picketing outside the auditorium,” a man in overalls growled, “banging pots, and causing a
ruckus! It’s our fifth amendment right.”

“First amendment, Otis,” the deputy said, clomping toward the podium. “Bang a pot and I’ll have to slap the cuffs on you.
I’m pretty sure a peaceful demonstration is allowed, though – I’d have to look it up.” He stepped up to the microphone,
edging out Futterman. “Uh, pertaining to the matter of the felony committed on the premises, alls I got to say is whoever
ripped off that spotlight had best return it, or I’ll hunt ’em down and throw their butts in jail. Thank you for your time.”

Pepper and I looked up at the balcony all sectioned off with yellow
DO NOT CROSS
police tape. “You think it was Zack and his two stooges?” she asked.

“Who else? With the help of Zack’s Neanderthal dad, I’ll bet.”

“You heard the man – jail!” Futterman warned, regaining his position at the mic.