The Absolute Value of Mike (23 page)

He looked up at me and pointed to the map. “That kid is hosed.”

My smile dropped and I stared at him. “What?” It came out as a whisper.

“The bridge ends in the middle of the ocean. He's history.”

I found my voice. “No, he isn't.”

“Yes, he is.”

Something hot was bubbling inside me. I spoke through gritted teeth. “It's—just—a—picture.”

“He's going to fall in.”

I leaned down to the kid's level. “No. He's. NOT.”

“Yes, he is. He's going to drown.”

“HE IS NOT GOING TO DROWN!” I yelled, and the kid started screaming and wouldn't stop.

I tried to resist an insistent tugging on my arm until the loud voice in my ear prevented me. “MIKE, DEAR, WHY DON'T YOU COME HELP WITH THE CHORUS?”

I let Moo drag me across the room to where Gladys was trying to conduct the chorus, but I threw dagger looks back at the obnoxious kid, whose mom was shooting me an equally knife-like stare. I wasn't sure if the horrible noise in my head was because of that stupid kid or the chorus, but eventually I figured out that it was definitely the chorus. The singers were way off pitch because Gladys was trying to direct them, so she couldn't play the keyboard. I sent Gladys back to the keyboard and tried to start the signature song from the top.

Although the tonal quality improved noticeably, they still sounded terrible, like they were all singing different songs.

I finally yelled at them. “Guys! I can't understand a word you're saying!”

Guido yelled back, “That's because they're
foreign
words, Me-Mike.”

“It's not because they're foreign!” I said. “It's because you're all singing things at different times.”

“We're supposed to. Each group has a greeting to say and we all take turns.”

“But you're not taking turns! That's the point! It's all ONE BIG MESS!”

“What's wrong with him?” Jerry asked. “Get up on the wrong side of the bed?”

Moo was looking at me, chewing her lip. She tugged at her drapes where her hoodie strings normally were. “Mike, dear, it's all right. I'll lead the chorus.”

Moo tried to conduct with her flashlight but she kept dropping it, hitting people's toes, until the front row was a line of defensive motion, which led to pushing and shoving and squabbling just like in elementary school.

“I say
shalom
!” Jerry insisted.

“No,” said Guido. “You're supposed to say
ciao
. I'm in the
shalom
group!”

Jerry pulled on his suspender straps. “You're not a
shalom
anymore, remember? You switched with Moo because she can't pronounce
ko-nee—, ko-nee-wa
—”

“It's
konnichiwa
,” said Guido, “and you obviously can't pronounce it, either.”

“I know! That's why I'm a
shalom
!”

I closed my eyes, hiding from the bright lights of the cameramen, ready to give up. Was it possible to do over a Do Over Day? I didn't even need my MP3 player to hear a ringing in my ears and imagine the Proclaimers singing.

I was in such a state I was hallucinating, hearing Past's voice singing, the way he did when we were trying to record Gladys and she wouldn't sing. Now I was hearing Past's voice in my head singing “I'm on My Way” by the Proclaimers.

I shook my head and opened my eyes again. I tried to focus on the chorus so I could come back to reality, but they were staring at me. Or, actually, behind me.

I whipped around and there was Past, wearing the pink Life Is Good hat and singing about being on his way to happiness. The chorus erupted into applause, drowning out any chance I had to speak.

“Excuse me, Lady Liberty,” Past called out to Moo, approaching the front of the chorus. “I'll take your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, and you can go on back to your spot, okay?”

Moo grinned and gave Past as much of a hug as her drapery would allow.

Gladys played her keyboard with great feeling and volume. I scrambled to get behind the camera and turn it on so I could film the chorus and post it on YouTube. Past waved his left hand to tone Gladys down as he used his right to point to the
ciaos
and the
shaloms
and every other group so that soon everyone was singing on cue, sounding like a polished bunch of professionals. Or, at least, really enthusiastic amateurs.

I watched Past conduct the Do Over Chorus, his pink cap bobbing up and down as he really got into it. And I looked at the collage of Misha photos on the wall behind the chorus, and saw the pictures of Misha, the kid who was NOT going to drown, while I listened to the chorus sing their song for Misha, “Hello to All the Children of the World.”

We all clapped and cheered at the end. Moo waved her neon green torch as people ducked, until Past stopped her with, “That'll do, Lady Liberty!”

“Past,” Moo called out, “what does the rest of that poem on the Statue of Liberty say? There's a line about lifting my lamp.” She lifted her flashlight and people in the front row scattered again. “But there's another line, too.”

I watched Past press his lips together and look up toward the bill of his cap in thought. A grin spread across his face. He searched for me with his Bono eyes and, finding my face, held it with a smile. “Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.”

—point marking the end of a line segment

 

 

F
unny thing,” Past said to me amid the bright lights, cameras, and commotion. “There was a porch pal at my office”—he touched the bill of the Life Is Good cap—“wearing this hat, as a matter of fact.”

“Yeah?” I was happy to see that Doug's hat had brought good luck.

He nodded. “Another one pointing down the street. Then I saw one on the corner, pointing to another porch pal in front of my house.”

I tried to keep from grinning.

“And what do you know? There was one sitting on the front porch. My front porch. What could I do? I had to go up and say hello. We had a nice talk.”

“You talked to it?”

“Not it, Mike. Her.”

“Sorry.”

“It felt good.”

I nodded. “I knew you liked those porch pals.”

“I mean . . . it felt good to be back home. Thank you.”

I shrugged. “I'm really sorry about yelling at you. I didn't realize—”

“I needed a little kick start. It was time.” He looked down at his Clarks. After a moment, he looked up at me and a smile grew. “I have something to show you. Follow me.”

Past led me to the corner of the room near the door where a large brown mixed-breed dog was sprawled. He thumped his tail and raised his head as soon as he saw Past. His mouth opened into what I swear looked like a smile.

“This is Joey.”

As soon as Past said his name, Joey made a Wookiee noise like Chewbacca in
Star Wars
.

Past rubbed Joey's tummy as Joey rolled over on his back, closed his eyes, and let his tongue drop out the side of his mouth. Moo was right. He did drool. And smell. But he sure looked happy.

“He's in doggy heaven,” I said, while Past was saying, “He's back with me now.”

We grinned at each other.

“Same thing,” I said. “Are you . . . back now?” I didn't know how else to say it. I didn't mean just back in town. I meant back in life.

“I'm back in the game. The Past is now the future.” He touched the bill of his Life Is Good cap with his free hand and gave a little bow. “And I'm happy to report that Natalie's parents want to order a bunch of Poppy's boxes for Christmas gifts for, well, I think everyone they know. Over fifty boxes.”

“Fifty! Fifty times two hundred is . . .”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand dollars? Ten thousand dollars! That means we hopefully only need to make ten thousand in the next week! Wait—are you sure they're buying that many?”

“They're going to try. Misha's adoption was important to Natalie, too . . .” His voice trailed off and he blinked hard.

“So,” I said, “now she's helping to bring Misha home.”

He nodded. “I felt awful about her store going out of business, but this is more of a legacy.”

The Statue of Liberty burst in between us. “Did you hear? Oprah might contact me! Isn't that exciting?” She gave me a knowing look. “I bet you know how that happened.”

“You sent her some vinegar?”

“No, silly! The TV reporter asked me if I'd like to say anything to the viewers, and I said, ‘Oprah, dear, I really think you should get involved in this,' and that lovely newsman said he'd be sure to send a copy of the program to Oprah. Can you imagine? Oh, Mike! It would be a dream come true!” Lady Liberty was off and running. “Gladys! Gladys, I have to tell you about Oprah!”

Past surveyed the room and put a hand on my shoulder. “I've got to hand it to you, Mike. You really know how to engineer things.” He smiled. “You brought Poppy out of his shell, you took a group of people who knew nothing about the Internet and got them on YouTube, you put a bunch of schemes in place to make money to adopt an orphan, I even heard that Gladys might be moving in with Poppy and Moo. . . .”

His voice went on, but I was hardly listening. Something he said made my toes wiggle inside my Clarks as I watched the celebration around me. Moo and Gladys hugging. The three stooges talking into a microphone in front of a camera. Poppy scowling at a reporter who was handling one of his boxes. Things really were coming together. We had almost half the money and more on the way. The publicity would help that. It was going to work. It had to work. We were bringing Misha home.

I stopped and stared at Past. “Wait a minute! What did you say?”

“I've said a lot of things, Mike. Which wonderful words of wisdom did you want to hear again?”

And then it hit me.
Engineer.
That's what he said. I had
engineered
things. I had made things happen.

I stomped my foot. That day on the beach when I was four or five—I still remember it—all the kids were fighting, no one could agree what to do, and I got them to work on building a sand castle together. No more fighting. Bringing people together. Making things happen. I was a problem solver. Not a math-problem solver. I engineered . . . life. That's what Mom meant!
That
kind of great engineer!

“Earth to Mike. Come in, please, sometime before the next century.”

It was Past. All I could do was grin.

“Looks like you've had some great revelation. Either that or you're dreaming of porch pals.”

I looked at the flurry of activity around me. The smiling faces. The energy. “This really worked, didn't it?”

He nodded slowly, smiling. “It sure did. Thanks to you.”

Past definitely looked different somehow. Not exactly happy, but . . . less haunted, maybe? I noticed that he was wearing another new shirt. And a tie, even. And his jacket was a lightweight suit jacket, not a heavy tweed. “Where've you been, anyway?”

“Natalie's parents.”

He told me all about visiting them and trying to help them come to terms with the loss of their daughter instead of being so self-absorbed and ignoring everyone else's pain.

I was still feeling a little guilty for yelling at him about not getting over his dead wife, even though I hadn't known she was dead. “Why didn't you tell me what had happened to you?”

Past avoided my eyes. “If I had, would you have had anything to do with me? Some self-centered guy who let other people suffer while he dealt—or didn't deal—with things? Or would you have written me off as another Poppy?” He turned to look at me. “Another Dad?”

It was my turn to look away.

“Not that I would've blamed you. I was behaving badly. But there's always hope, Mike. I'm changing. Poppy's changing.”

“Yeah. I'm not so sure about my dad, though.”

Past shrugged. “You and your dad are on different planes. He'll never be exactly who you want him to be.”

I nodded. I wasn't exactly who he wanted me to be, either. Past had pretty much nailed it. The tough part would be telling Dad that. Somehow. Someday. Later.

I was telling Past about Dad's being in the hospital when Moo came running up to us again, in full grin mode, her shoulders touching her ears. “Isn't it exciting?”

I smiled. “Yeah. It sure is.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

I looked at Past.

He looked away, blinking and covering a grin with his hand.

“Who?” I asked.

“Your father!”

—how far a number is from zero —absolute value is always positive

 

 

M
y dad?”

“Oh, there he is!” Moo's green drape dragged against my chest as she raised her arm. “Yoo-hoo! James! Over here!”

I turned and saw him. He was wearing a lightweight gray suit that I didn't recognize. He looked thinner. It made him look shorter, too, smaller all over. And his hair was grayer than I remembered. His skin was gray, too. He wasn't moving too quickly, either. It finally occurred to me that he was recovering from major surgery and an overseas flight, so he probably wasn't feeling so great.

I grabbed a chair from the table near me and pulled it toward him. “Dad! Dude, sit down.”