Mercy on These Teenage Chimps (8 page)

"My uncle comes here," I confided. I knew I probably shouldn't whisper in church, but I needed to lay the groundwork for our conversation. Everything was going according to plan. I was sure I would have a chance to talk to Jessica after church. She bit and asked, "Who's your uncle?"

"I'll give you a hint. He's a barber."

"Oh, you mean Mr. Mendoza."

I nodded and ran a hand over my head to signify that he had just cut my hair. I then turned my attention to the pastor, who was standing behind the pulpit shuffling papers. His cough was theatrical. He wiped his eyeglasses, also theatrically, before he set them back on his face and began his sermon.

While it didn't last long—ten minutes, the time it took me to eat two Life Savers—I couldn't absorb a word. I was too conscious of Jessica beside me. She was beautiful as a flower—no, lots of flowers set in a vase next to a crystal fruit bowl filled with bananas and apples. I could swear that the blood in me was rushing at super speed. Although when I'd met her at the awards banquet I'd been more interested in the cookies, now I couldn't blame Joey for liking her. She was not only beautiful, but she could do backflips, play the piano, and probably engage her mind in lots of other things. She also smelled good.

I turned to see if I knew anyone else and gulped when I spotted Mrs. Fuller, the gossip. She waved at me and hoisted a smile that was closer to a scowl.

"What's wrong?" Jessica asked.

"Nothing," I answered. My mouth was dry; most of my moisture was now on my face in the form of sweat.

I then nearly jumped when I noticed the two teenage boys who had scammed me and stolen my bike. They were down the row, slouched in the pew with their feet out in the aisle. I saw their dirty tennis shoes with the blackest of shoelaces, which had me musing whether their heartless souls were like that, too. Then a revelation struck me and moved the contents of my breakfast in my stomach—it was that strong. Was it possible that we humans were like shoelaces? You can either be tied up properly, or dragged through littered gutters.

Jessica touched my forearm again to point out that an elderly gent was reaching toward me with a wicker basket.

"Oh, I'm sorry." I produced the Sacagawea dollar from my shirt pocket and dropped it into the basket.

Once again I turned my attention to the two teenagers. They had locked their gaze on me, and it was anything but angelic. I figured if they were there, Cory would be somewhere in the church, too. The warthog mouthed a word in my direction, or was he getting ready to break into song?

Jessica had moved from my side back to the piano. She began to pound out "Rock of Ages." We sang that one and another about storms, and then the pastor descended six carpeted steps from the altar. He asked, "Birthdays! Who's celebrating a May birthday?" I imagined a cake with a hundred candles.

"Come on, don't be shy," the pastor called cheerfully. "Come on, ladies. Boys! Mr. Roskin, I know your birthday's in May."

There was some shuffling in the pews and rattling of church bulletins. Soon six churchgoers of varying ages stood in front—and one was Cory! There he stood in a white shirt, bow tie, and blue blazer. His hair was combed, his face scrubbed, his mouth solemnly closed. His pants rode high, revealing orange socks, which made me think that maybe I missed a fashion phase.

Cory's eyes slid in my direction. He furrowed his brow, confused by my presence. He mouthed a word. What did he want? He formed a complete sentence that was something like
Wait for me.

I mouthed back,
Why?

I received no reply because Cory's mother glared at him to knock it off. I was familiar with that kind of motherly look.

The congregation sang "Happy Birthday." The birthday crowd received orange pencils.

"You are older...," the pastor announced with his arms out. One of the women frowned at this exclamation.

"...and wiser," the pastor heralded. "We'll have cake in the basement."

Service broke up like a football huddle, and the yawn that had been building inside me finally materialized. But I was polite enough to hide it behind a hand, and with that yawn-scented hand I shook hands with an elderly gentleman with hearing aids in both ears. He seemed glad to see me.

Before there was a rush to the door, I pulled Jessica aside and asked if I could see her later.

"Why?" she asked.

"It's about Joey, the guy who climbed into the rafters."

Jessica beamed and told me to come by her house around four. She would have to eat Sunday lunch and finish her homework before her mom would let her do anything else. She gave me directions to her house, but I knew already.

My exit from church wasn't a cinch. Jessica left when her mother called her, and then a gloved hand latched onto my arm. The hand belonged to Mrs. Fuller.

"Greetings," she sang. She smelled heavily of perfume.

"Hi," I answered weakly.

"It's good to see you in church."

I gazed around and pronounced, "It's a neat place."

Mrs. Fuller clutched my forearm. Behind a face caked with makeup, she observed that I was such a growing boy. Her eyes locked knowingly on me as I realized she was recalling
So Now You're a Teenager.

"You know, we have a youth group. You should join."

I imagined the warthog as the leader of the youth group. One of our activities could be going through people's glove compartments while everyone was in service.

She lowered her face to my ear and asked in a minty whisper, "How come you were talking to the Bentley girl? Is there something between you and her?"

"She's helping me with homework," I lied.

With that revelation, Mrs. Fuller smiled and revealed lipstick on the front row of her sharklike teeth. She was smelling blood. I think it was my blood.

"Oh, is that right?" she responded. She waited for me to tell her more. I tried to get away politely, but her hand gripped my arm. Dang, she was strong. Anchored in boxy shoes and with her weight behind her, she was a mighty force. With her other hand, she fanned herself with the church bulletin, circulating her perfume around my face. I recognized the scent. It was called Morning Glory.

"You will come back, won't you?"

"Yeah, I will, but I gotta go now."

Mrs. Fuller frowned. "You mean 'have to go.'" She proceeded to straighten my tie—I had the funny sensation she was going to close it like a noose.

"Yes, I have to go," I exclaimed.

"You are a growing boy."

"Yes, but I have to go," I repeated, and got away when Mrs. Fuller snapped open her purse to look for a comb. She said that my hair was standing up wickedly as horns.

I waved to Uncle Vic as I scampered from the church, breathing hard. I expected Cory to be waiting for me, or his half brother and his friend standing at their truck and calling me to get in for a one-way ride to the country. Instead, in the blinding light of a spring day, I found my bike leaning against the lower steps. I rocked on my heels. It was that Sunday I began to believe in miracles.

"You're back," I greeted in song. I ran down to my bike. The chrome handlebars added shine to my miracle.

I sped away
with a halo of sun beaming down on me. I was happy, even blessed, for I did shake the pastor's hand, avoid the warthog and his friend, and donate my trike to the church rummage sale. And I finally spoke face-to-face to Jessica. I'm sure she pondered my purpose between bites of birthday cake in the church basement.

I figured that I had five hours before I would meet up with her. What should I do? I didn't want to see Joey because my mission wasn't accomplished yet. I worried that if I returned home, Mom would put me to work digging up weeds in the flower bed. Or she might assign me to wash the windows clean of winter's shadowy dirt. Or maybe take a broom and get the spiderwebs off our dead extra car in the driveway—Dad had sold the engine before he took off with that woman in a sports car.

I rode aimlessly until my curiosity drew me to a yard sale. A man in overalls sat on an overturned bucket surrounded by stuff that he had dragged from his garage. He rose on his gimpy legs when he saw me coming. He ran a hand over his whiskery jaw. A transistor radio in the front pocket of his overalls was tuned to the Giants baseball game.

Most of his merchandise was pots and pans, large print
Reader's Digests,
a coffeepot, a child's guitar with no strings, old sleeping bags, and dresses as spacious as tents. The dresses, I supposed, belonged to his wife.

"Can you use a set of screwdrivers?" he asked.

I told him no.

"How 'bout a birdcage?" He informed me that his wife had been fond of canaries. He kicked the grass and stated, "She's gone."

I guessed that his wife had passed away. I could have asked when or how, but it was none of my business. Her dresses were on the lawn and twelve or so pairs of shoes were parked in a line.

"Nah, not really, sir."

"Birds make nice pets. When you talk to them, they sing back. I'll throw in the birdseed."

Still, I deflected his efforts to sell me a birdcage and his insistence that a pair of rusty roller skates would build up my legs and bring me hours of happiness. He tried to convince me that a cookie jar would be an ideal gift for Mother's Day and that a battery-operated handheld personal fan would be a dream come true for my father.

"I'm just looking, sir," I confessed to the man, who then said, "Hey, then, how about if you help me." He pointed toward his roof. "I got to turn on the water valve on my cooler. Too old to get up there."

My last trip up a roof had brought me bruises and dark memories of crushed daffodils. I shaded my eyes as I took a step back to view the roof's pitch. It didn't look so steep, and the old guy needed help.

"You got a ladder, sir?"

"No, but I can boost you up from the back of the house."

"How will I get down?"

The man posted his meaty hands on his hips. "Why, you jump. You're young. Like a kitty cat, you got nine lives in you."

I was tempted to alert him that I had used up one of my lives yesterday at Coach Bear's house, and that at this rate I would be dead by the following weekend.

"But I have my church clothes on," I countered. Certainly, even if he was as old as the oldest hills, he could envision a mother's anger if her son dirtied his best clothes. It might even make her suspicious about whether he had actually been to church or gone to some pigpen with his buddies.

"Hmmm, you do have some nice duds on." The gentleman suggested that I wear one of his wife's dresses over my good clothes. I balked.

"Come on, it's just for a few minutes. Shoot, I wear her slippers," he boomed. "And they're pink!"

Thus, with a pair of pliers in my back pocket and a long dress flapping around my ankles, I clambered onto a roof at the height of treetops and TV antennas. I stood up with my hands out for balance and walked up the sloped roof, the asphalt shingles crumbling under my steps. I reached the boxy cooler and ripped off the black plastic covering that protected it during winter. I opened one side and tried to turn the valve with my fingers. No luck. Then I let the pliers bite down on that stubborn little valve. I gave it a half turn and water immediately sang in the copper tubing.

Finished with my task, I took in a view of Pinkerton. I liked our town, and I liked my friend, Joey, who I feared would never come down from the tree.

"Hey, Joey," I called, though my amigo was far out of hearing range. "Joey, Joey, Joey!"

At that height, I felt the wind in my hair and a mighty stirring in my soul. Splayed ears and all, I was glad to be alive. Joey and I had been friends since we were in Pampers, and we would be friends when we were old men and once again in Pampers.

I felt a jerky motion under my feet. "What the heck!" I yelled. My body jerked once more, as if some joker had pulled a rug out from under me. I righted myself. Then I realized the shingles were crumbling under my shoes, then shifting loose. My arms went up, waving for balance. Momentum built as I began to surf off the roof.

"Like, yikes!" I sped toward the edge of the roof, my tender life passing before my eyes. I saw bowl after bowl of cereal laden with sliced bananas whizzing past. I saw strawberries in cream. I saw candy apples, quesadillas, vegetarian soups, slices of cheese pizza, pretzels large as horseshoes. I saw my mom at the blender fixing an afternoon smoothie and toast popping up from a chrome toaster. Had my life consisted of nothing more than food?

Upright and waving, I dismounted the roof, landing on my feet like a cat.

"Now, that didn't hurt," the old gentleman said. "Boy, at your age you can fall from the Empire State Building and just get up and dust yourself off."

My legs buzzed, the soles of my feet stung. But I did seem unhurt, though my hands felt just a fraction of an inch closer to the ground. Had my spine collapsed a bit?

"Did you turn the valve on?" the man asked.

I nodded as I shrugged out of the dress and handed the pliers back to him. I took a slow Frankenstein step, then another cautious step. My lower half seemed to function quite nicely, and the upper half obeyed the orders from central command in my brain.

"I got a little something for you."

"What?" I asked.

When the gentleman flipped a coin in my direction, I caught it in midair. A Sacagawea dollar.

"Thanks, sir," I chimed.

I was feeling pretty religious at the moment. Hadn't I just given up such a coin at church, and now another had come my way? Wow, I thought. I straddled my bike, located the pedals, and pushed off, richer by a coin. I had used two of my lives jumping from roofs. Seven more to go.

I imagined Joey in the tree juggling apples and oranges, and imagined one of the apples slipping from his grip. I should be there to retrieve that slippery fruit. But I decided to stay away—for now. And with a few hours to kill, I couldn't go home or Mom would put me to work. I couldn't go to the playground for fear that I would run into Cory. I was nervous about why he had wanted me to wait for him after church, and might be mad that I hadn't. I decided to splurge on a soda and a bag of sunflower seeds. I could take my treat to the courthouse and sit in the shade of one of the old oak trees, watching old men play dominoes. With my Sacagawea coin and a few other dimes and nickels in my pocket, I was worth something.