One More Step (2 page)

“Boys! My god. Winslow, are you all right?” my mother gasped.

“Sure,” he coughed and sputtered. “Just knocked the wind out of me.”

My mother was fuming. Troy, who had only turned his back on us for a second, was trying not to laugh.

What gets me to this day was that the poor sucker kept coming back for more. We never ambushed him again but we learned, during the two years he hung around, to do other things that got on his nerves. Like squish any bug we could find. Like eating bacon with our fingers and not using a napkin. We just licked the grease off, finger by finger.

“Honestly,” he said one morning at breakfast, “can't you two be more civilized?”

“This from a man who prefers the spruce bud worm to humans?” snapped my mother. “And whoever heard of eating bacon with a
knife and fork, anyhow? Some food
is
finger food, Winslow.”

The Turd stopped coming around after that. Chris and I saw him once, riding a bike in the park. “Julian!” he shouted from across the street. “Chris!”

We ambled over.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine, thank you,” we said in unison.

“And your mother?”

Just in case he had any ideas about calling her up, I spoke right up.

“She's got a new bo—,” Chris elbowed me in the ribs.

“Job,” I continued.

“Really?”

“Um, yeah, she's a clown at birthday parties. Loves it.”

This was true.
Molly the Clown Inc
. was her latest sideline. Her regular job as a child-care worker never paid enough.

“There's a fortune to be made at birthday parties in this city,” she said.

Then she sewed up a costume, painted
her face, and studied books on how to make balloon animals. She spent hours learning to juggle and enrolled in mime classes. There wasn't much money to be made, but she had fun.

“A clown?” he said, bulgy eyes bulging.

“Quite a woman, your mother.” As he said it, it seemed those eyes filled with thunder-clouds. I think the Turd was sad.

“Give her my best,” he said. Like a perfect gentleman. Then he biked away from us as fast as he could. We watched until he was a small speck on the bicycle trail. No bigger than a squished cockroach. And that was the last of him.

I was almost asleep when we got to the sacred spot, as my mother called it. I woke up pretty fast, though. As soon as I stepped out of the car, the wind slapped me in the face.

We slipped and slid down the trail that snaked through the woods. After ten minutes, we finally reached the lookout over the ocean. Our faces were soon glazed with ice—a mix of ocean spray and sleet. Each strand of hair
was frozen stiff.

“Me come from Tribe of Icicle People,” I said, shivering.

“Me Frosty the Snowman's brother,” said Chris, wiping the frost off his eyebrows.

“Now I would like us to hold hands in a circle and listen to the stillness,” instructed Mom.

Just then a wave thumped so loud below us, it seemed to me that God himself was mocking her.

“And—?” urged Chris. He was jumping up and down to keep warm.

“And we each have to say a prayer.”

“To whom are we praying, Mom?” This was me.

“To the Source,” she replied.

“The Sauce?” asked Jean-Paul. “What is this Sauce?”

“No. The Source. S-o-u-r-c-e.”

“A spelling lesson, now? Mom!”

“You mean God,” said Jean-Paul quietly.

“Mom, this is something you should stick to doing with your goddess girlfriends,” I said.

I wanted hot cocoa. Fire. Toasty toes. Mine felt ready to fall off from frostbite.

Her face crumpled. I was sorry I said what I did.

“Can we do it fast?” said Jean-Paul. Then he winked at me. That wink. Again.

“No, forget it,” she said. “I guess I'm the only one this means anything to.” She pouted like a three-year-old. She's been working with kids for too long.

Chris grabbed my hand and Mom's, and Jean-Paul grabbed her other and mine. Our circle was complete.

“Thank you for my precious sons, for new love and the promise of hope I feel in my heart this day.” Mom's voice trembled. Maybe it was just the cold, but I don't think so.

Chris cleared his throat. “Thank you for my family and friends. And please stop the snow.”

“Thank you for your presence in my life each day,” said Jean-Paul. Heavy duty. “And bless the knitter of my new um… how you
Sheree Fitch say, glove? I am happy I have them at these minutes.” Clever. Mom knit the gloves.

“Thank-you for Mom, Chris, Nana, Poppie, Dad, Erika, Hanna, Maddie and Luke and the ski vacation I'll be going on this week.” I said.

“Amen,” said Mom.

“A-woman,” I corrected her. We all laughed, even Mom. Then we beat it back to the car. I don't know if Jean-Paul noticed. But he wasn't on my list of people I was thankful for.

Dinner was delicious. Also, a disaster. As always, we ate too much, especially considering we had another meal to go to. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was my manners. The fact that I'm so
immature for my age
. That's a matter of opinion. It's most certainly my Grandmother's opinion. She's been telling me that my whole life, no matter what age I've been.

“Chew with your mouth closed,” hissed
Nana. I should have done what she said. But, I can't help it sometimes. When people use a certain tone of voice with me, I just want to do exactly the opposite. This was one of those times. I opened my mouth wider and stuck out my tongue, filled with food, at Chris.

So then Nana kicked me under the table. For eating with my mouth open! Kicked me! In the shin! I don't think she meant to do it so hard but she had on those pointy shoes.

“OW!” I yelled.

“What's going on?” demanded my mother.

“Nothing” said Nana.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You wouldn't want him to think you're rude,” Nana whispered when Jean-Paul got up to get another glass of water from the kitchen.

“No, I wouldn't,” I said. Then I burped at precisely the moment Jean-Paul sat back down at the table. I thought Nana was going to die.

“Excuse me,” I said. She kicked me again.
Harder this time.

“Quit kicking me, Nan!”

“Mom?” said Mom.

Nana's face turned the color of cranberry sauce. She gave my mother a
what are you going to do about this kid
kind of look. I smiled like an angel. Then Chris jabbed me underneath the table with his fork. He gave me the look.

“Frig off,” I said.

“Bite me,” he whispered. But everyone heard.

Mom looked ready to burst into tears.

“
Chérie
,” said Jean-Paul, “this meal is
délicieux
.”

“Don't you just love the way he talks?” asked Nana.

My mother nodded. They were chatting about him as if he wasn't even there. Talk about being rude.

Poppie cleared his throat. “After supper, Julian, how about a walk around the block with yer old Poppie? I need to walk off supper before I can try some of that pie.”

“Sure, Poppie.”

I'd do just about anything Poppie asked. Then again, he never uses that voice with me. Or gives me
the look
. He treats me with respect.

Poppie's in pretty good shape for an old geezer. Still, his knees are bad and we had to walk slowly.

“Hear it?” he asked.

“I do.” I said. It was that far away lonesome whistle of a train in the night. Poppie had been a train conductor for over forty years. It's a job I wouldn't mind doing, I think. Anyhow, he still hears every train for
miles around even though he's retired.

His retirement party was really something.

“These here are my sons, Chris and Julian,” he said to his buds.

“You mean your grandsons,” someone corrected him. They'd all had a bit to drink.

“Well, I guess they are at that,” he said. “But I only had girls so these are the sons I never had.” Then he squeezed us tight and kissed us on the forehead. In front of everyone.

The thing I like most about Poppie is he seems to understand how I feel without me saying everything. And he says a lot without talking things to death.

“Good day?” he asked.

“I suppose,” I said.

“Not used to having another man around, huh?”

“No.”

“You've had your mother all to yourself since you were a baby.”

“You think I'm jealous, Poppie?”

He shrugged. “Would you look at that place? Lord, what a lighting bill they're gonna have.” He pointed to a house up ahead. Even the top of the outdoor gazebo and their birdbath was strung with white lights.

“That's Anna Jenkins's house.”

“Girlfriend?”

“I wish.”

“Looking forward to the ski trip with your Dad?”

“Totally. It's gonna be awesome. Just Chris, Dad and me. That's a first. I'm taking snowboarding lessons and everything.”

“That where they look like they're all on surfboards on the snow? Then they turn ass over kettle in the air?”

“Yep. That's' it.”

“Cool, cool,” he said.

I laughed until he pushed me into a snow bank and rubbed my face with snow. Then he put me in a headlock. “Listen pecker-head,—you be fair with your mother, hear me good. She's happier than I've seen her for a long time. He seems like an okay guy.
Don't forget, she's still my baby girl! Now say uncle.”

“Uncle!”

“Louder!”

“Uncle!”

For an old guy, he's pretty darn strong. Even though he joked the whole time, I knew he meant every word he said. I heard every word too.

“I suppose he can't be much worse than Smokey,” I mumbled.

“Who the hell was Smokey?” asked Poppie.

“Numero Two,” I replied.

“Refresh my memory,” said Poppie. “You mean Kirk something or other?”

“Yeah. The guy reminded me of an ape. Nice enough. But when he walked he sort of dipped in the middle. His arms were so long that his knuckles almost scraped the ground.”

I did a great imitation. Poppie was wheezing, he was laughing so hard.

“Smokey had chest hair that looked more like fur. It grew all the way up to his neck
and out his shirt collar. It grew on his ear-lobes. Out of his nose. Once, when we went swimming at the Y, I saw this fur also grew on his back.

“I called him Cave Man first time I met him. Chris called him Tarzan. When we learned he was a forest ranger we started calling him Smokey. As in Bear.

“Compared to the bug professor, Smokey was a cheery sort of dude. Almost too cheery. He laughed at everything. All the time. The way chimpanzees do that e-e-e-e o-o-o thing.”

“Come on, he wasn't that bad, was he?” asked Poppie.

“Honest, Poppie, he was. And, he smelled. I guess because he was in the woods all the time for his job, he smelled like the outdoors.”

“That's a good smell.” He took a deep breath to make his point.

“Not a fresh air smell. More… muddy. Like potatoes when you dig them out of the ground. Like rotten leaves. When I asked
Chris how Mom could stand the smell, he came right to Smokey's defense and told me Mom was going through a nature phase. You know Chris, Poppie, always the good guy.”

“You mother's always loved the outdoors,” Poppie said protectively.

“Yeah, but she was going overboard. She even bought hiking boots. Then she got it in her head that we should all go on a camping trip.

“We begged and borrowed camping gear. We planned for two weeks. Mom said it was going to be a bonding time for us all. We even had our bicycles on a rack. Smokey had rigged it up. ‘Special for the trip,' he giggled. A whole weekend of his laughing was going to drive me bananas. And that smell? In a tent?

“It was pouring rain the day we set off. Mom was convinced that the sun would be shining by the time we arrived. It was as if she thought she could control the weather.”

“I can,” interrupted Poppie, “can't you?”

“Poppie!”

“Go on. Go on.”

“Well, sure enough, the rain stopped long enough for us to set up. Smokey, for all his years in the forest, didn't even know how to put up the tent. He was only interested in drinking beer while Mom and Chris struggled with the tent. After three beers Smokey was ready to hibernate, but Mom insisted we go for a bike ride. The ride was fun until about halfway through. Then the sky seemed to bloom. Huge flowers of clouds surrounded us. They were the same color as pencil lead when you press tight.

“It didn't rain. It hailed. And the lightening began. The hail hit us like bullets. We looked like we had the measles. Each pellet left teeny red welts all over our bodies. We were wearing our bathing suits.

“Smokey tried to get us to take cover under a tree. During a lightning storm! Mom was not impressed! We rode as if our lives depended on it. The hail had changed to rain before we made it back to camp. Smokey, the last one out of the tent, had forgotten to put down the front flap.

“The tent? Flooded. Our sleeping bags? Soaking, soggy, sopping.

“We spent the night in a cheap hotel room down the road. We ate fried clams and French fries for supper. That meal was the only good thing that came out of the weekend.

“When we asked Mom where Smokey was a week later, she started to cry. Then she laughed. Bizarre. To this day Chris refers to Smokey as the boyfriend who tried to electrocute us all. A forest ranger who instructs you to take shelter under a tree during a lightening storm? Makes you think his brother the chimp had more brains than him. Who could blame Mom for saying good-bye to Smokey? Not me. No way.”

“Always wondered what happened to that one,” said Poppie, wiping the tears of laughter away. I love making him laugh.