Crazy Page 12

  AUNT BEE: You just wanted some friends.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: You didn't want to feel so alone in the world.

  CRAZY GLUE: Yeah, well look where that idea's gotten him. Stick with us, buddy. You don't need anyone else.

  The doorbell rings again. I stand in the doorway of the upstairs bathroom and yell for everybody to get out of my house. I back into the room and close and lock the door. I stand with my good arm pressing against the door, trying to get my breathing under control. I hear the door open down below.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Don't panic. Just don't panic. Think! Think!

  I take a deep breath and turn around to check on Dad, realizing just now that all the noise should have awakened him.

  I glance at him lying in the tub, just as I had left him. His chest rises and falls beneath the blanket as he sleeps.

  I hear people talking, and I return to the door. I try to hear what they're saying. Then there's the sound of footsteps clomping up the stairs. I don't know what to do. I'm trapped. I turn to the window that overlooks our backyard. No way can we jump out the window onto the bricks below and keep from breaking something.

  There's a knock on the door and then the sound of a voice. "Jason? It's Dr. Gomez. Are you okay?"

  I don't say anything.

  "Jason, it's all right. We've just come over to take a look around and have a talk."

  I hear other people besides Gomez moving on the other side of the door.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Stay calm. Be cool.

  "Go away, please," I say.

  There are a few seconds of silence, and then Dr. Gomez says, "You've been having a tough time of it, haven't you, Jason?"

  "Go away, please. We're doing just fine. Just go away, now. Just go away."

  I hear someone walking around, moving in and out of the rooms. "Please get out of my house." I make fists with both of my hands and try to keep my voice under control even though I feel hysteria rising in my chest.

  AUNT BEE: You're doing just fine. Good boy. You're a good son.

  "Jason, is your father in there with you? May I speak to him?"

  "He's asleep. Go away, now."

  "Where is he asleep?" asks a deep voice, a strange man's voice.

  I turn away from the door and take a long breath.

  CRAZY GLUE: Who the hell is he?

  "Who the hell is that?" I say, returning to the door. "Go away! Why won't you just leave?"

  I move from the door and sit on the edge of the tub, as though by doing so I can protect my dad somehow. I glance back at him and wonder how he can sleep through all of this.

  AUNT BEE: The sleep of the innocent is always peaceful.

  "Listen, Jason? I'm Sam Waldron. I'm from the Department of Family Services."

  I slam my good hand down on the edge of the tub.

  CRAZY GLUE: Shit!

  "You're not taking my father away from me," I shout.

  SEXY LADY: Don't cry. I'm here to soothe you. Don't cry, Jase.

  I wipe the tears off my face and sniff. I hate that they can hear me crying on the other side.

  "No, Jason, we have no plans to take anyone today," Sam says. "We just would like to talk with your father. Could you tell us where he is?"

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Ah! Nobody knows he's here in the bathroom.

  "He's not here," I say. "He's sleeping at a friend's house, at—at his friend's house."

  And he left you here?"

  What's that supposed to mean? "I'm almost fifteen years old. I think I can stay by myself all right—jeez!"

  I hear them whispering. I hear Shelby's voice, but I can't tell what she said. Then I hear Pete say, "Shelby, why don't you just stay out of it."

  And then Dr. Gomez says, "I think it might be best if you three left us alone. I appreciate your help. Really. Thank you."

  "See you soon, Jason," Pete calls. "Hang in there, okay?"

  "Yeah," Haze says. "See ya soon."

  "Jason, don't be mad at me, okay? I just..."

  Shelby doesn't finish and a good thing, too, because right now I want to kill her. I feel so totally betrayed by her.

  SEXY LADY: I warned you. She puts on a good show, but she's the dangerous one.

  I grit my teeth and grip the edge of the tub, an old claw-foot tub with a narrow curved edge that's getting way too uncomfortable to sit on.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Stay calm, son. You don't want to lose it in front of Dr. Gomez and this Sam guy.

  I hear footsteps retreating down the stairs, and then Dr. Gomez says, "Jason, I came here with Sam because I'm concerned about you and your father. We don't want to separate you. We're just here to figure out the best way to help you. You believe me, don't you?"

  CRAZY GLUE: Oh sure. Sure we do.

  "If you want to help me, go away. Just leave. We're fine. We're doing fine. So just leave already."

  "Jason," Sam says, "it would be good if we could all just sit down and talk together and figure out what would be best for you and your father. We have lots of different services available. The last thing we want to do is separate you two if we can help it. I have no court order for that with me. I can't remove you from your home today."

  >Does he think I'm stupid?

  CRAZY GLUE: Uh—yeah.

  Maybe he doesn't have a court order today, but if he ever talked with my dad, he'd soon have one and that would be the end. They'd haul him away and send me who knows where.

  I don't say anything. There's nothing more to say. I let them talk to me through the door, trying to coax me out. They want to know where Dad is. They explain again that they're just here to help, but I don't say anything.

  SEXY LADY: Just pretend you're not here. You're invisible. Let their voices wash over you like so much white noise. That's all it is—white noise.

  Finally Sam says, "Jason, we're going to leave now, but you've given me no alternative. I'll be back, and I'll have a court order for removal. Not that I'll necessarily use it, but your behavior today and the condition of this house have raised some red flags. We need to talk to you and your father. It would be better if we could do that today."

  I keep silent. I hold my breath and wait for them to give up and leave.

  "All right, goodbye then," Dr. Gomez says. "Just remember, if you need me, I'm always available. I'm going to slip one of my cards under the door. It's got my cell phone number on it. You call me if you want me here, okay?"

  I watch the card slide under the door, but I don't move. Then I hear their footsteps retreating and, at last, the sound of the front door opening and closing.

  I shut my eyes and let out my breath, but I don't get up and unlock the door, just in case they didn't really leave, just in case they're hiding out somewhere downstairs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I SIT ON THE EDGE of the bathtub for several minutes, listening both to the silence on the other side of the door and to my dad's breathing behind me. I'm trying to listen for some sound, some whisper down below. Something isn't right.

  CRAZY GLUE: Its your dad, goob. Why doesn't he wake up?

  I whip around to check on him. He's buried beneath so much wool, but still I can hear that his breathing sounds funny—fast and shallow. His face looks flushed. I lean over and feel his forehead. He's got a fever—great.

  I slide to the floor and rest my head against the tub, my good arm hanging over the rim above my dad's body. What am I going to do now?

  CRAZY GLUE: Scram! You need to blow this joint before Sam comes back with his court order.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Be serious. Where would he go? He can't just wander the streets. And he has his dad to consider. Living in a cave is not an option. You don't even know where a cave is around these parts. This isn't Greece, and it's twenty degrees out.

  LAUGH TRACK: Isn't this a shame.

  I look out the window and see the snow coming down. I shake my head and turn my attention back to Dad. I need to get him out of his wet underwear, get him dry, and get his fever down. Thes
e things have to come first.

  I get up on my knees, lean over the tub, and shake him. "Dad? Wake up. Come on, wake up, now. Hey, you missed all the excitement." I shake him and shake him, and at last he groans and opens his eyes.

  "Dad, you need to get out of the tub. We have to get some dry clothes on you. Are you cold? You've got a fever. Is it your tooth again?"

  "The boy will find my violin."

  "No." I get to my feet and pull on his arm so he'll sit up. "The boy doesn't have your violin. The boy is going to get you out of this tub and get you dressed."

  "The boy will find my violin," my dad repeats. He nods to himself and lets me pull him to a sitting position.

  "Stand up, now," I say. "You have to help me here, okay? Are you all right?"

  He places his hands on either side of the tub and struggles to stand. I can see his arms shaking. The wool blankets slide off his lap and fall in a heap at his feet. "My violin," he says, turning his head and glancing out the window.

  "Yeah, Dad, it's snowing out. It's raw and gray and wet outside. What do you think? Feel like going out in that and sleeping under a bridge somewhere? See, 'cause that's what we've come to now."

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Buck up, son.

  "I'm cold," Dad says, shivering and grabbing his arms. His teeth chatter.

  I reach for his hand and pull on him so he'll climb out of the tub. "We're in a fine mess now, aren't we? You've got a fever."

  "Fever pitch," Dad says, climbing out of the tub, his body still shivering. "Fever pitch. The Furies have lit a fire in the brain to paralyze reason—a fire in the brain."

  I grab one of the blankets and wrap it around his shoulders as best as I can using my good arm and with no help from him. Then I creep over to the door, unlock it with a quiet click, and ease it open. I pause and listen.

  "Okay, I give up," I call down the hallway, thinking that if Dr. Gomez and Sam are still in the house, my surrender will draw them out of hiding and I can dart back into the bathroom. The house is silent. I turn and grab Dad by the arm and walk him to his bedroom, where I help him get into warm clean clothes. He's shivering, and he keeps trying to climb into his bed before he's got all his clothes on.

  "Tell the boy about the fire in the brain. Tell the boy," he says, climbing again onto his bed.

  "I'll tell the boy just as soon as you get this sweater on."

  CRAZY GLUE: The boy! Now you're just the boy. He's totally whacked.

  AUNT BEE: Maybe you should call Dr. Gomez.

  No way. He's just got a fever. Just a little fever. It's okay.

  I finish getting him dressed and tuck him into bed. I grab some aspirin and, after twenty minutes of convincing him it's not poisoned, give Dad two pills with water. He burps, rolls over, and curls up into a shivering ball. I cover him with every blanket we have in the house, then start to leave to go fix him some soup, when he calls me back.

  "Jason," he says.

  I turn around.

  "Will the pain never end?" He stares up at me, his eyes burning with fever.

  I pat his shoulder. "The aspirin will start to work soon."

  "No!" Dad lifts his head. "Not that pain; the pain of us. Every time I look at you, I see the pain of us."

  His words startle me. What does he see in my face? Does he know what he's saying, or is this just some kind of feverish rambling? What does he mean by "the pain of us"? I think to ask him, but then I realize I don't want to know the answer. I don't want to think about "our" pain. I lean over and give him a quick hug, then hurry off to fix him his soup.

  While I prepare his meal I turn on the television, which gets like two snowy channels, and I see the Stradivarius violin in the right-hand corner of the screen. I turn up the volume.

  "...at the altar this morning. Father O'Connor said they were just happy to be able to return the valuable Strad to its rightful owner."

  Father O'Connor appears on the screen. He's wearing his priest get-up and he's standing in front of the National Cathedral downtown. He speaks into the microphone held in front of his face. "It's a mystery," he says, "but I'm pleased that whoever took the violin felt his conscience pricked and brought it safely here. It restores my faith in humanity."

  CRAZY GLUE: Ah, humanity. Aren't they the ones trying to dump your dad in the loony bin?

  They then cut to the beaming violinist posing with his Stradivarius, and I turn off the television.

  AUNT BEE: Let's be grateful for small miracles. At least one thing went right today.

  CRAZY GLUE: Let's not. We're still knee-deep in donkey crap.

  I pour the hot vegetable beef soup into a bowl. I wonder about the violin turning up at the National Cathedral. I figure the mailman must have been sweating it out the past week while wondering what to do with it. If he said he found it in his truck, then he could get fired for having left his truck unlocked; if he said he just found it, maybe someone would think he stole it, just like we worried would happen to us.

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: What a great idea to leave it with a priest. Why didn't we think of that?

  I chuckle to myself, forgetting my troubles for a moment. I think about having a good laugh with Pete and Haze the next time they come over.

  CRAZY GLUE: Uh, maybe not. Remember, they're not your friends anymore. You ain't never gonna get to celebrate that close call with them.

  SEXY LADY: Or have a good laugh over the memory of that wild ride through Haze's neighborhood.

  LAUGH TRACK: Isn't it a shame?

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Let's focus on the positive. At least one good thing happened today. You should celebrate.

  Yeah, I should celebrate. I look around me. I grab myself a couple of pieces of bread and instead of spreading the thinnest layer of peanut butter and jelly on them the way I usually do, I slather them with the stuff. Then I put the two slices together and take a big bite, letting the sides ooze with the extravagance.

  CRAZY GLUE: There you go. Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

  Chapter Twenty

  I DON'T HAVE ANY TIME to think about a plan for what my next move will be. I don't know how we're going to get away from Sam and his court order. I don't let myself go there. I spend the night taking care of Dad. He barfs; I clean it up. He barfs again, and I clean it up. I set a bucket beside his bed. He doesn't even try to aim, and for someone who never seemed to eat, he sure has a lot of food exploding out of him, and from both ends.

  CRAZY GLUE: Yeah, yeah, okay, we get the picture.

  He's sicker than I've ever seen him. I figure he must have the stomach flu or some other kind of virus.

  Whenever he pukes, I pull him out of the bed and put him into mine while I clean up. Then I put him back in his own bed. Then I pull him out again a short while later and haul him down to the bathroom, where I wait while he sits on the toilet and gets sick that way. Then I clean him up and drag him back to his bed and wait a bit until it's time to do the whole routine over again—and again.

  Now it's morning and I'm wiped out. Dad still has a fever. He refuses to drink anything and he waves his arms wildly whenever I come close to him with a glass of water or mug of soup in my hands. "The strings are busted. Tell the boy!" he says.

  I think of setting out with Dad and heading to the clinic, but he seems too sick to make the long trip on the bus and sit half the day in the crowded waiting room. The last time I took him to the toilet, he passed out. What if he passed out on the bus?

  FBG WITH A MUSTACHE: Face it, son—you just don't have the energy.

  I spend the morning washing sheets and clothes with the last of our laundry detergent. I clean the floor several times where my dad almost made it to the bucket by his bed.

  In the afternoon I eat the last of our oatmeal, then try to get Dad to drink some warm tea. An hour after eating my oatmeal I throw it up.

  CRAZY GLUE: It's just exhaustion. You're fine. Don't worry about it.

  AUNT BEE: But he has chills. I think he has a fever.

  SEXY
LADY: I think you're hot when you're hot.

  LAUGH TRACK: Ha-ha.

  I sit in a chair, wrapped in one of the blankets from Dad's bed, and shiver while I keep watch for that Sam guy from the bedroom window. I've decided we don't need to run anywhere; we just won't open the door. Dad's too out of it to make much noise, so I figure we'll hide out upstairs; hopefully Sam and Dr. Gomez will think we've run away and they'll give up.

  CRAZY GLUE: Oh sure. Sure they will. Please tell me I'm not hanging out with a moron.

  Got any other bright ideas? Yeah, didn't think so.

  Now it's late afternoon and I'm sure I've got it, too—the creeping crud. I set up a pallet in the bathroom and lie down on the floor by the toilet. I figure it'll be easier to clean myself up if I miss this way.

  CRAZY GLUE: And it smells so good, too. Mmm, what is that, eau de puke?

  I go to sleep, but then I wake up again when I hear the sound of the doorbell and several rapid knocks. I lift my head and, with my ears pricked, wait. I pray Dad will just lie still and keep quiet. A few minutes later, I hear the doorbell and the knocking again. "Please, please, please, go away," I whisper.

  AUNT BEE: Lie back down, Jason. I'll take care of you.

  SEXY LADY: Let me soothe you. Here we are. See us? Here we are. We'll look after you. Yes, that's right, we're all here for you.

  I sleep and dream about Aunt Bee and the Sexy Lady and Fat Bald Guy and Crazy Glue, and You. You're there, too. I am dreaming, aren't I?

  I wake again and it's nighttime. I know I need to check on my dad, so I force myself to get up. My lower back muscles kill, they're so sore. I drag down the hallway to Dad's bedroom. I see by the light from the street that the glass of water I had set on his bedside table earlier hasn't been touched. I stumble over to his bed and feel his forehead, but with my own body so feverish, it's hard to tell how hot he is. I shake him. "Dad, how you doin'? You okay?" I kneel on the floor and lean my head against the bed. I'm too dizzy to stay standing. I raise my good arm and pat his shoulder.