All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (21 page)

O
n Thursday morning, I dress and make up the camp mat bed. Then I take a minute to scan my timeline on the closet wall. This is the day I was supposed to share the Blue River Stories. That plan has changed because of Thomas VanLeer.

On my way to the kitchen, I stop in the hallway. I hear low-talking.

“Why don't you ask him, Tom?” Zoey's mom sounds squeaky. And mad.

“Well, I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. Even though I know it had to be Perry. I mean, think of the influences. I'm crushed. I really thought being here with us was doing him some good.”

“Tom, he's not a criminal!”

“That's not what I'm saying . . .” Mr. VanLeer's voice fades. Then I hear him again. “I'd just like to see him come to me about it.”

“Don't hold your breath. You don't know that he took it.” She says it firmly.

“Robyn, what would a cleaning staff want with a framed award?”

“What would Perry want with it?” She throws it back at him. I stand in the hallway and feel like dirt.

“Boo!” I jump and knock my elbow on the wall. Zoey apologizes for the scare. “What are they talking about?”

“Nothing!” I say. “I don't know!”

“Don't bite my head off.”

“Fine,” I say. “Sorry.” I change the subject to the only thing I can think of. “Hey, so now that you got that extension, when are you going to start your Coming to Butler County project?”

“Oh. That.” She shrugs and says, “You don't know. Maybe I already have.” She slinks past me and announces herself in the kitchen. I follow and there are good morning greetings all around. I pretend that I don't see Mr. VanLeer's glances, the ones that say Thief Boy.

“Hey, Zoey. All set for root canal part two?” VanLeer asks. He rubs his hands together and gives her a big grin.

Zoey rolls her eyes. “It's not like I won concert tickets, Tom. I just want to get it over with. I can't even run without making it throb.” She looks at me. “That was miserable. And
now I have to take a makeup mile.”

“How about you, Perry? What's up for you today?” VanLeer wants to know.

“Not much.” I say it slowly. I can't believe he asked. “You know . . . I had a project to present today. But not anymore.” Talk about miserable.

But the day brings a surprise. By late morning I am doing something I have never done before. I'm leaving school early—before lunchtime, and before our class presents the Coming to Butler County projects. I'm making the trip to the oral surgeon with Zoey.

Zoey's mom made this plan. She always knows what's up. In the school office she signs me out right along with Zoey. “This way, you'll be out for the afternoon,” she says. “Then one more day and the weekend comes.” She draws loops in the air with two fingers, showing me that time will stretch. Kids will forget that I didn't present my project.

From the window of the VanLeer SUV I watch the farm fields. The first frosts of the year have made the grasses go pale. Miles roll by. Funny, instead of being in school talking about home, I'm looking back over my shoulder wondering how many miles I am from Surprise. How many miles from Blue River and Mom?

Mr. Krensky said the past didn't matter now. But I can't keep the questions from filling my head. Who was Mom protecting with that confession? I asked her who the driver was. She wouldn't tell. I've wondered if it was her father.
But he was doubled over in pain. How could he have gotten behind the wheel? Besides, he was in the backseat after the crash . . . and if her mother was with him . . . and if they're both dead now, who is left to protect?

I shake my head. I keep chasing these thoughts, but I end up with no answer. It's like there was an invisible driver.

It must be an hour later that I begin to see buildings instead of sleepy wheat and sorghum fields. The roads are crowded with cars and trucks. If it's this busy outside the capital city, what's it like inside? When we get out of the car at the surgeon's office, I notice that there is less quiet. Airplanes fly low overhead, there is vibration on the ground. The sidewalks sparkle in the late October sun.

Inside, we sit with Zoey until the receptionist invites her in. Her mom gives her a hug. I put up my fist, and we knock knuckles. “Good luck,” I tell her.

“You'll be done before you know it.” Her mom is being cheery. Zoey fakes a grin and disappears down the hall. Her mom looks at me and says, “She'll be at least an hour. Shall we go on a treasure hunt?”

We go walking along the busy streets. Zoey's mom likes it here. She looks in every window. She takes phone photos of painted floor tiles, rugs, artwork, and a new little table made from old pieces of wood. I dig into my pack for my camera and take the same shot so I can show Big Ed and the guys from the woodshop.

When we come up on a YMCA I snap photos of the sign
with its huge block letters. “For my mom,” I say. I know that she grew up near Lincoln. I smile a little when I think that it could've been a place like this.

“Your mother was quite a swimmer, wasn't she?” says Zoey's mom.

“Yeah,” I say. “She really was. She had a scholarship. But then she had the accident.”

“Boy, one small moment,” she says. Her voice is sad and drifty. She puts her arm around my shoulders, and we turn down the next street to circle the block. We don't want to be far away from Zoey.

Her mom takes more photos. I follow. She says, “Sorry, Perry. This probably doesn't feel like a treasure hunt to you. I just love being in busy places. I always lived near cities. I miss that, and I lap it up whenever I can.”

“Why did you leave?” I ask.

“Oh, because Tom got the job in Butler County.” She smiles. “He wanted it so much.”

I think of Mr. VanLeer and his office. And the award. And what I did with it. For about the hundredth time, I have to swallow down my guilt. I remind myself that he has not helped
and
he has not looked inside that box. The sidewalk sends up shiny flecks of light. I walk on with Zoey's mom.

When Zoey comes out of the treatment room she is wearing a one-sided smile. The first thing she says is, “Mom, I'm so hungry.”

“That's a good sign! We'll stop and find you something
soft to eat on the way home,” her mom says. “I think we're all hungry.”

The receptionist says, “If you're heading back toward Butler County on 79, look for Toni's Corner. Twenty minutes after the airport. Best grass-fed beef burgers in the county, and they serve a custard that'll be perfect for Miss Zoey's tender tooth.”

Zoey Samuels is so glad to be done. The medicine is covering up the pain. She's talking up a storm. In minutes we are back on the straight and empty roads. We find the place called Toni's Corner. Zoey is out of the SUV in a flash. Inside, the waitress seats us. When our food comes, Zoey has a challenge. “My left lips are useless,” she says. She pinches them in her fingers like she is lifting them aside.

“Your left lips but not your right lips?” Her mom laughs.

I take big bites of a grass-fed burger. Zoey spoons her custard and tells me, “Perry, take a picture of me trying to eat! We can show it to Tom.” I do that, and we laugh as she tilts the spoon in under that useless lip.

I finish first because I gobbled that burger. This is a late lunch. I excuse myself to go find the men's room. Restaurants tuck the restrooms out of plain sight. I have noticed this since living on the outside. Before that, I hadn't been to restaurants much. I ask our waitress, who slips out of the kitchen with Zoey's second dish of custard. She directs me around a corner just past the cashier.

The men's room sits right beside the women's room.
While I am being careful to get the right door, I notice something on the wall between the two. It's a big color photograph of an ordinary stoplight. I see the word
victory
written across the bottom. Framed newspaper articles hang all around it.

I'm curious, but I hurry into the bathroom so Zoey's mom won't worry about me. On my way out I just have to stop and look at that victory wall again. I see an award that says
Toni's Corner Wins Best Burger in Lancaster County
. I see that they sponsor a girls' softball team—all in blue T-shirts. But underneath the stoplight that says
Victory
on it, I see newspaper articles and some photos of car wrecks. I read the headlines. One says: Third Accident in Six Months. Another says: Diners Narrowly Escape Injury—Toni's Corner Damaged in Crash. There is a picture of a tow truck beside a car that is half in and half out of a building—this building! There's a grainy photo of another car that got folded around a pole, and one more article showing Toni's having a grand reopening after repairs. In the background is a plain white building with a rusted red truck parked on top of the roof.

I get that feeling—it's like the memory game—matching pictures.

I bend closer to get rid of the glare on the glass. I reach for one of the frames, lift it, and hold it in my hands.

I'm Perry Cook; I take things off walls.

T
he smell of coffee curls around me.

“Uh . . . may I help you?” I look at the waitress who stands beside me. She has silver hair like Mrs. DiCoco's. She holds a steaming pot in her hand. “Do you like our little local history wall?” she asks. She seems pleased.

I tilt the frame toward her. I ask, “W-where is this?”

“Well, it's here, honey. Right out there.” She nods toward the road out front.

“But . . . where am I?” My lips feel cold and I'm confused. “Is this the intersection?”

“Yes. That's right out front,” the waitress repeats. Her tone is sweet, but she's looking at me like I'm not too bright. “You must not be from around here.” She points outside the large glass windows and says, “That's the
infamously
dangerous
intersection,” she says. “Or it used to be. The crossing of Nebraska 79 and 55—better known as West Raymond Road It looks different now than it did when those photos were taken.”

“Infamous . . .” I step back and look out the glass front of the diner. I see the roads—the place they cross. NE-79 and West Raymond Road—I know this! This is the picture from Mom's file—the red truck on top of the building. This is the place! About a hundred grass-fed cows thunder through my gut.

The waitress gestures at the picture in the frame I'm holding. “See how it used to be off center? Dips down off thataway? It was deadly. Come dark of night? Bad weather? Forget it! I can't even tell you how many times we called 9-1-1 over the years. It took years of petitions, but the state finally straightened the crossing. More important, they gave us the traffic light. See there?” She points upward, and I happen to catch the light across the way going from green to yellow to blazing red. “We are coming up on six years with
no
accidents,” she says.

“Six years . . .” I close my hanging mouth. I turn back to look at the framed articles. “Do you know which one?” I ask.

“Which one what, honey?”

“Oh, sorry. Nothing,” I say.

The waitress hurries away with the pot of coffee. I feel like there is fog all around me. I place the frame back on the wall so it won't slip out of my fingers. I scan the articles for
the name Cook. I don't find it. Still, I know what I know, and I know it with all my heart.

“Oh! Perry! There you are.” Zoey's mom is glad to see me. Her purse hangs open on her arm. She draws out her wallet to pay the bill.

“S-sorry,” I say, and I mean it. My short trip to the bathroom was long.

Zoey pushes my backpack at me. I grab it to my chest. Then I stand there wondering if my legs are going to hold me.

Zoey's mom turns from the cashier. She's closing up her purse, belting her jacket, ready to leave.

“Hey,” I say to both of them. “Y-you won't believe where we are.”

“Toni somebody's,” Zoey says. She puts her hand on her cheek and winces.

“But also . . . this is where the accident was. The one my mom was in. It happened here,” I say. I point outside.

Zoey gasps. Her mom says, “What? Oh no! Can't be.” She sees the wall and starts to read and so does Zoey. Their mouths hang open just like mine.

“Mom, look. It was a bad corner.”

“I see . . . but Perry, what makes you say it happened here?”

“It happened just outside of Lincoln,” I say. “And these are the route numbers—I saw them—”

I freeze. I didn't mean to tell her that. I breathe. If I have to admit that I went through my mom's case box in
her husband's office, I will. If I have to tell her I moved his award, I will. Being here is so big I don't care about much else.

Zoey's mom doesn't seem to notice anyway. She leans closer to the frames. She reads. I hear her say, “Hmm . . . ,” then “Well . . .” like she isn't quite sure.

“Well, at least shoot it, Perry!” Zoey Samuels tugs at my pack. “Get your camera out. You have to show your mom. She's not the only driver to make a mistake here. It was a bad setup and they changed it. Don't you want her to know?”

With shaky fingers I take a shot of the wall and then try for a few close-ups of newspaper articles. Zoey's mom still isn't sure about all of this. She is reading and thinking. Her eyes narrow just a tiny bit. But I am sure. It dawns on me that there is proof right inside my camera—the photos from Mom's file. Still, I won't say it if I don't have to.

“Honey.” The silver-haired waitress comes back by and touches my elbow. She glances at Zoey's mom. “You seem . . . you
all
seem so interested. If you want to talk to somebody who remembers every bit of history from this old corner, well that's Bosco over there at the gas station.” She points across the road, to the plain-box building with the red truck parked on the roof. “He drives the tow truck,” the waitress says. “He's been doing it for years.”