Halfway House (17 page)

Bobby Dupree woke with someone knocking on his forehead.
Rap rap rap
. As his eyes opened, the jagged-toothed smile of a Hispanic boy widened in fear. The boy leapt to his feet and tried to run away with the four other children who’d been playing the
Let’s Wake the Gringo
game.

The other children escaped, screaming at the tops of their lungs, but Bobby had reached out reflexively and grasped the boy by the arm. The child shrieked as terror hijacked his body. He jerked and kicked and cried, yelling for his mother. The cacophony was finally too much to take, and he let the boy go free.

Bobby raised himself to a sitting position and noticed that his pants had been removed. His naked legs lay beneath a wool blanket. Thankfully his underwear remained.

“Did you have to scare my nephew so bad?” Lucy entered the room and sat his three-hundred-pound bulk on the edge of the couch near his feet. The wood creaked but held.

“Did he have to pretend he was the Avon Lady and my head was a door?”

“I suppose not, but he wanted to see what the Terror of Van Nuys was.”

“Oh.” An ache shot through Bobby’s head and he cradled it in his hands. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“Why not? If you wouldn’t have, I would.” He put a meaty paw on Bobby’s leg. “You did good. Don’t let them ever convince you otherwise.”

The last thing Bobby remembered was turning onto the 110 Freeway. Clearly he’d blacked out. He didn’t feel the aches and pains of a grand mal so he must have just lost time. This was getting real old.

As if he’d read Bobby’s mind, Lucy pulled a pill bottle from the pocket of his green velour sweat pants. “I got these for you. Topomax. Your Medicare records said that these were the last drugs prescribed to you.”

“When I was seventeen.”

“If they worked then, they should work now.”

“How’d you find out about them? How’d you get them?”

Lucy lowered his gaze and scratched at an invisible spot on the back of his left hand. “Laurie arranged for it before...”

Just twenty-four hours ago she’d been alive. Bobby cursed himself for not mourning. The problem was that he didn’t know how. He’d never been close to anyone in his life except Sister Agnes. Perhaps if he’d lost someone he’d loved while growing up, he’d have been better prepared.

Jesus.

What’s wrong with me?

Bobby rubbed the sleep out of his face. “What time is it?”

“Half past nine.”

“Listen, I want to go to Palos Verdes and finish this.”

“I’m sure you do, but that’s not in the cards. I need to do some recon first, then—”

“Lucy, I’m no good here in California. I need to get what’s mine and go back to Memphis.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that I don’t fit here.”

“You won’t fit anywhere until you figure out who you are.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You react to other people’s actions. It’s almost as if you don’t have original emotions.”

“I don’t have—”

“Don’t get pissed, Bobby. This is just my observation.”

Bobby felt the need to defend himself, but the more worked up he became, the more he recognized elements of truth in Lucy’s words. Maybe that was part of his problem. But so what? “What does it matter if I only react? What difference does it make? Just means I’m paying attention.”

“Until you take ownership of your own self, until you figure out who you are and how you feel and why you feel that way, you’re not going to be your own man.” Lucy leveled his gaze. “Not that this is a bad thing. I know plenty of people who are just like you, Bobby. But they won’t ever realize their potential. Do me a favor. Don’t say anything, and don’t make any promises, but I want you to do something for me. I want you to forget about Laurie’s death and concentrate on your own search, for it is in this that you will finally discover who you are. And when you do, you’ll be able to mourn in the proper way. Until then, you don’t even know how to cry.”

“How’d you get to be so smart?”

“You think the only thing that qualifies me to be a leader is these fists?” Lucy asked, holding up both hands. “If that was the case, every bully would be a leader and the world would be filled with them. No, I was raised in a good family and that’s how I treat my boys and girls. I love them first and foremost, then I deal with them. Do you see the difference, Bobby? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Bobby opened his mouth to answer but realized he didn’t have anything to say. The fact was that he
didn’t
understand. He dropped his glare. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Love is the easiest emotion. All you have to do is sit back and enjoy. Everything that comes with it, everything that is because of it, now those are the hard things to deal with.”

“No kidding.”

“But no worries. I’ve talked to Grandma and decided that I’ll help you.” Then he stood. “I gotta run and take care of some business. You need to stay here. No heading off to the beach shack. If I need you, I don’t want to have to send Split after you.”

“And my pants?”

“Grandma has them. Said they were dirty and wanted to clean them. You want them, ask Grandma.”

“Oh joy.”

“Isn’t it, though?”

Lucy grabbed a jacket from a chair by the door, snapped the top two buttons closed and hustled out the door. Six seconds later there was the sound of a car door slamming, the gunning of an old rumbly engine, then nothing but the silence of San Pedro. From the kitchen came the sounds of dishes being put away, accompanied by humming.

Bobby gathered the blanket at his waist and stood. His impromptu dress was only marginally better than being naked. He duck walked to the kitchen like a Japanese geisha and waited for Lucy’s grandma to stop puttering around the counter long enough to notice him. He hoped beyond hope that his pants were clean. If he was embarrassed wearing the blanket alone in the house, he could only imagine how bad it would be if Split, Blockbuster, or one of Lucy’s friends showed up. He’d never hear the end of it.

The kitchen was a room large enough for a dining table that could seat six or eight on one side, with the washer and dryer on the other. Counters with upper and lower cabinets rimmed the left side of the room, while a stove and a refrigerator bookended a cutting board on the right.

Grandma finished rinsing several plates, dried them, then placed them in the slats of the wooden drainer on the counter. She finally turned. When she saw him she placed her hands on her hips and shook her head.

“
Deme que manta. Tengo que lavarlo ahora, aunque yo lo deba quemar.
”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand you, ma’am.”

She snapped her fingers and pointed to the blanket that he held firmly around his waist.

“Nuh uh. No way are you getting this until I get my pants back.”

“Elvis mi nalgas. Elvis nunca sería agarrado muerto en mi cocina que lleva una manta.”

“I don’t know what that means, but there’s no reason to bring Elvis into this. As I see it, this is between me, you, and my pants. You know pants don’t you? How do you say it,
le pants
?”

“
Eso es Elvis estúpido francés chico extraño
.” She smiled and twisted her lips. “
Pantalones
?”

“Yeah. That’s it.
Pantalones
. Where is my
pantalones
?”

“Ellos están en la lavadora.”

“What?”

“Esto es California. Yo no puedo creer que usted no pueda hablar español.
¿Qué enseñan se ellos chicos blancos en la escuela de todos modos?
”

“
Pantalones
. My pants. Come on, Grandma. I can’t go around in this blanket forever. Can you help me?”

She stared at him like he was a broken toy at Christmas. She finally moved to the dryer and pulled an immense pair of shorts from a pile of folded clothes and threw them at Bobby.

He reached up and barely managed to keep control of the blanket while catching the shorts. He went into the bathroom to change. A few minutes later, he came out, the blanket in one hand, and his other hand twisting the front of the shorts as a homemade cinch. He passed her the blanket.

She grabbed it with two fingers and carried it over to the open washing machine and dropped it in. She busied herself with the process of preparing the washer, all the while muttering to herself.

Bobby took his leave. He headed to the front door, eased outside and closed it behind him. A breeze immediately cooled his cloying skin and he paused to soak it in.

The porch was as old as the house, both built sometime in the fifties. The floor, railing walls and twin front pillars were made of concrete and painted universally red. On his left where he stood looking toward the street was a long bench, a box of miscellaneous shoes, and half a dozen plants with enough energetic growth to show impetus for a miniature rain forest—a forest that the GI Joe he’d had back at the home would have used as the perfect place to stage an assault on a tribe of broken Ken dolls.

He turned to his right and was stunned to see Lucy’s father and another man dressed in a mechanic’s jumpsuit taking a break from their game of dominoes, staring at him. They’d been so silent he hadn’t even known they were there. They stared first at his perplexed expression, then at the tent-like shorts he wore. They exchanged a wordless glance, then returned to their game. Inscrutable as a pair of blind cats, Bobby could only hope he didn’t look as ridiculous as he felt.

Dismissed by the pair, he moved to the stairs and sat. He watched the street, noticing that the curbs along both sides were bumper to bumper parked with cars, except for the space in front of Lucy’s house. No sign of the gang leader. No sign of any of his crew. With a grandma who spoke only Spanish and a father who spoke only in dominoes and Lucy away with his thugs, Bobby felt immensely alone.

He stared into the night, allowing his gaze to rest upon the lighted cranes of the port. Tension seeped from him as he let the events of the past few days replay through his mind.

*  *  *

Jimmy Hixon had lived the good life until his adopted father’s car had slid off the road into the Mississippi River. That tragic event and Jimmy’s stepmother’s desire to take the insurance money and run off to the Greek island of Santorini was the reason for Bobby’s love of the Silver Surfer.

Jimmy had arrived amidst a hurricane of activity. The old girls’ wing of the home was being renovated, which placed all of the girls on cots in the gymnasium. Intramural basketball was gone. Dodge ball, red rover and volleyball were cancelled. The boys were expected to spend their time reading, reflecting and playing board games. With the outlet for their aggression denied, the boys devolved into gangs that skulked around the home in search of other kids to terrorize.

Jimmy was one of those kids. Deaf and dumb, he was the perfect foil for their aggression. He couldn’t hear them coming, nor could he scream. Had it not been for Sister Agnes, there’d be no telling what would have happened to Jimmy that summer. As it was, the worst that happened was finding Jimmy hanging from his feet from the flagpole three stories above the home’s entrance. He’d been wrapped completely in duct tape, with only his nose and eyes free. On second thought, the worst thing that happened that summer was when they’d removed the duct tape. Bobby knew about it. He’d been there because he was the only person who Sister Agnes
trusted
to be there.

“Know what’s better than winning a gold medal at the Special Olympics?”
Billy Picket had cracked.
“Not being retarded.”

“He’s not retarded,”
Bobby had said.

But his words went unheard as the boys guffawed and pointed fingers at Jimmy. If laughs could kill, it was a massacre. But Jimmy didn’t care. He’d stood staring back at them with a smile on his face. He
had
looked a little retarded with that inscrutable smile. A normal person would at least be angry. But not Jimmy. Never Jimmy. He had a secret that would change Bobby’s life forever.

This is my real father
, scribbled Jimmy on a pad later that day.

They’d lain on their stomachs in the middle of the room, flipping through Jimmy’s stack of comics—
Fantastic Four
numbers 48 through 77,
Defenders
,
Avengers
and
Silver Surfer
1 through 146—comics, Bobby later discovered, that were worth more than a new home down by the river. From his first appearance with Galactus, the great evil world eater of the cosmos, to the last issue where he faced the Firelord, the Silver Surfer soared from cover to cover, balanced on his silver cosmic surfboard like a mercuric California boy.

“He can’t be your father. He’s a comic book character.

Just because they’re in comics doesn’t make them not true.

But he’s not even American. Heck, he’s not even from this solar system. Says here he’s from the planet Zen-La,”
Bobby wrote, trying ten-year-old logic on the boy.

How do you know that I’m American?
Jimmy countered.

Bobby had no answer to that. He granted that maybe the boy wasn’t American, but he certainly wasn’t
Zen-Laian
.

Later, Jimmy told him his greatest secret.

I was born not being able to speak or hear because of my father. I have the power of the cosmos, too. One day, when I’m ready, I’ll be able to read minds. I’ll be able to tell when people are thinking bad thoughts and when they do, my father will come. All I have to do is wait and my father will come.

As boys tended to do, Bobby and Jimmy drifted apart after that summer, until eventually they didn’t even respond to one another as they passed in the halls. It wasn’t until Bobby turned thirteen, when the trash truck crushed Jimmy behind the dumpster where he’d gone to sneak a smoke, that he thought of him again.