Rooster (13 page)

Dorothy-Jane-Anne smiled. “I didn't. I just took a guess.”

“That's a very good guess.”

“Thank you. Is she pretty?”

“I think so.”

“Does she like to kiss a lot?”

Rooster blushed. He had not been expecting one like that. “A fair bit, I guess.”

“Do you like to kiss her?”

“I do, as a matter of fact.”

“Does she like to go shopping?”

“Sometimes.”

“Where does she like to eat when she goes shopping?”

“Depends where she is.”

“At West Edmonton Mall.”

“At the mall, she likes to go to the Tim Horton's on the second level by the skating rink.”

Dorothy-Jane-Anne frowned. “I don't like it there.” “You don't?”

“No. I don't.”

“How come?”

“Their donuts are not always fresh. I heard that on the news. They say their donuts are always fresh, but I heard they weren't. I don't eat there anymore.”

“Excuse me,” said Tim, redirecting Rooster's attention back to him. “If you want to talk about the scorekeeping again. If you want to talk about that. See here? If Percival picks up a ball and throws it and knocks down a three pin and a two pin, you add up his score. Then if he knocks down the centre pin, you add that one too. Then if he knocks down the rest of the pins, you add all those scores together and you put them right here, in this little box here. If he knocks them all down at once, that's called a strike. If he takes two turns, that's called a spare.”

Rooster remembered strikes and spares.

“Then you have to add them all up. That's where it gets complicated. That's where it starts to get, you know, complicated. But that's okay. I can help you if you want. I can stand here and help. I can give you a hand.”

Tim stood up and offered Rooster his seat at the scorer's table.

“I can be right here to give you a hand if you need it.”

“Do you think I'm up for it?” said Rooster, who really wasn't sure if he was or not.

“I think so. I think so. I think you can do it. Uh-huh. I think you're up for it.”

“Thank you.” Rooster sat down and got ready.

“Did your father carry you after you dropped the bowling ball on your toe?” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne, who had remained seated in the chair beside him.

Rooster rubbed his forehead and tried to focus on the score sheet in front of him. “As a matter of fact, he did, yes. Do you have a pencil, by the way?”

“I didn't bring one. Was your mom upset that you hurt yourself?”

“Yes, she was. She was very upset. Frantic.”

“Was she mad at your dad?”

“Probably, yes.” Rooster looked around. “I need a pencil.” Percival was standing by the bowling balls, blowing his nose into a handkerchief. Tim had moved over and was doing arm circles by the bench where all their coats were. Roseann was still sitting and licking her fingers.

Rooster stood up and approached Percival. He was the one member of the Strikers he hadn't talked to yet.

“Hi, Percival,” he said. Percival, standing with his back toward Rooster, didn't hear him.

“Hey, Percival,” Rooster tried again. Percival still did not say anything. After blowing his nose, he was immersed in the process of folding his handkerchief and putting it back into his hip pocket.

“Yo, Percy,” said Rooster. He put his hand lightly on Percival's shoulder. “Can you read me?”

Percival reacted to the hand on his shoulder with a jump. He whirled upon Rooster and looked at him with the wild eyes of a man gone mad.

“Hands off!” he cried. “I'll start swinging and I won't stop!”

Rooster stepped back in alarm.

“You scared me!”

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were busy.”

“My heart rate is three times what it's supposed to be!”

“I'm sorry,” said Rooster again.

“I could be dead! I could be flat on the floor! There could be men out there right now with shovels, digging my grave!” Percival pointed toward the front entrance as he yelped.

Rooster turned and looked in the direction his finger was pointing.

“You're a very lucky man!” cried Percival, curling one of his hands into a fist. “You're very lucky!”

“That's debatable,” muttered Rooster. “But anyway. Once again, I'm sorry. I just came over here to wish you good luck and to see if you have a pencil.”

“A what?”

“A pencil. For keeping score? You know?” He made a scribbling motion with his hand in the air.

“I almost died over a pencil!” Percival was beside himself again. “I knew you were a moron all along! I knew this wouldn't work!”

“Hey, I'm not a moron. And no name-calling or you don't bowl.”

“How can I bowl at a time like this? I fear for my life!”

From behind him, Rooster heard the commanding voice of Elma coming to the rescue again.

“Okay, everyone. Outside. We're going home.” Her hands were set on her hips. Her eyes burned with intensity.

Percival's demeanor changed instantly from anger to fear.

“Come on. Get your jacket if you have one. Let's go.”

A minute later, they were standing on the sidewalk outside the bowling alley. It was a peaceful, warm evening. The streets of Winston were busy with cars and bicycles. Elma pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and began to dial a number. She stopped after the sixth digit.

“I'm one number away from calling for the Common House bus to come and pick you up. Now, are you going to listen to Rooster tonight, or are you going to continue acting the way you are?”

“I was listening,” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne.

“Are you going to listen to Rooster tonight, or are you going to continue acting the way you are? I'll try this one more time and then I'm pushing the final number.”

“I'll listen,” said Dorothy-Jane-Anne.

“I was just trying to help him with the scorekeeping,” said Tim. “That's all. That's all I was doing.”

Elma gave him a fierce stare.

“But I can listen,” Tim continued. “I can listen. I can, I can listen to what he has to say. Sure. I can do that.”

Percival nodded his cooperation in silence.

Elma turned her attention to the last remaining member of the team to respond.

“Roseann?”

“Yes.”

“What is your answer?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes I will.”

“You will what?”

“I will do that.”

“Roseann, tell me that you are either going to listen to Rooster or you're not. No more games.”

“I will listen to Rooster,” said Roseann.

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

“Because you weren't before.”

“I know that.”

“But you will now?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

“Yes. I promise.”

Elma lowered her cell phone. “Okay. Thank you. Here's the new rule. No talking. If you talk, you sit out. If you talk again, I call for the bus. I'm going to move my things to the bench where you're bowling. Rooster's going to be there too. If we hear you say anything, you sit out. Is that understood?”

With reluctance, each of the Strikers nodded their understanding of the new rule.

“It's pretty easy,” said Elma. “When you feel the urge to say something, put your hand over your mouth. Try it right now. Good. That's good, Dorothy-Jane-Anne. That's good, Roseann. Good, Tim. Percival?”

Percival finally raised his hand and put it over his mouth.

“Perfect,” said Elma. “Do that whenever you feel like talking and we'll be just fine. Let's go back inside.”

Rooster held the door open as they returned to the bowling alley. He did not agree with this new rule. He did not feel it was necessary to muzzle the Strikers. He said this to Elma a few minutes later when all the jackets were off, the bowling shoes were back on and the game had begun.

“You have a better idea?” said Elma.

“I'm not saying that. I just don't think you should tell them to stop talking. Talking is one of the things they do best. It's one of the few things they can actually do.”

“Uh-huh. That's true,” said Elma, nodding her head. “But how does letting them talk benefit the project?”

“I don't know. Probably not at all, but — ”

“Okay. So if it has nothing to do with making it better, do you think it might have something to do with making it worse? With why it isn't actually going anywhere? Why they haven't advanced as a team one
iota
since you took over?”

“This is only our second time.”

“That's one way of looking at it. The other way is, by this time next week you'll be more than halfway through the sessions you have with them. In other words, Rooster, you may not have a problem with wasting your own time, their time and my time, dithering around with trying to keep Roseann's fingers out of her mouth and taking scorekeeping lessons from Tim, but I do and Mrs. Yuler does and my mom does. You're supposed to be turning them into a team, not letting them socialize. They can do that on the bus. They can do that at mealtime. They can do that before bed.
We're here to help them do something they've never
done before, not what they do every day
.” Elma's eyes burned as she talked. “They need focus. They need to concentrate. They need to know that they're here to bowl. That has to be their center of everything when they come down here. Not you or Roseann's stupid fingers or the paper towels Percival takes out of the men's bathroom. They're here to bowl. And you're the one who's supposed to be making them aware of that, but you're not doing your job. That's why they keep getting in trouble. It's you, not them.”

“I think you're wrong,” said Rooster, trying to stand up to her fury.

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Well that really rattles me, Rooster. That really makes me wonder if I'm on the right track or not.”

“It should.”

“Why?” Elma crossed her arms. “Why should anything you have to say about how these people learn make me change what I'm thinking?”

Rooster thought hard for a moment. For the first time ever in his life, he wished he knew more. He wished he had read more books, listened more intently and studied harder so he could talk as forcefully and clearly back at her as she had to him. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

“Because,” he said. “I just don't think it's right.”

“That's it?” said Elma. “Because? I should go over there and tell them to talk away and have fun and don't worry about anything,
because
? Wow. You're a lot deeper than I thought you were.”

Rooster said nothing.

Elma shook her head. “These people need more than that, Rooster. They need a lot more. They need more than just good-time, nice-guy Rooster to come along a couple of times a week to make sure they throw their balls in the right direction and get on the bus on time. And you are seriously running out of time to give them that—if you have anything more to give, that is.”

When she finished, Rooster turned without speaking and went outside for a cigarette. He leaned against the wall at the side of the building and closed his eyes as he smoked. Elma's face stuck in his mind like hot, sticky gum on the sole of a shoe. He could see her gnashing white teeth and her searing eyes. Her words “It's you, not them” ran through his mind like a mantra. His hands shook slightly, and he probably would have butt-lit a second cigarette right after the first had Dorothy-Jane-Anne not walked by, looking for him.

“Hey,” he said after she walked past him a second time.

She stopped and saw him. “There you are,” she said. Then, quickly, she covered her mouth with her hand, then uncovered it. “Oops, I forgot. Elma said I could talk now that I'm outside.”

“Did she?”

“Yes. I forgot, though.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I forgot my medication.”

“Oh-oh.”

“I have to take it. I have a weak heart.”

Rooster dropped his cigarette and rubbed it out with his foot. He was surprised that he was actually having a conversation at the moment. He had wanted desperately to be alone when he had first stepped outside. “How long have you had that?”

“Since before I was born. The doctors said they should stop the pregnancy, but my mom said she didn't want to do that.”

“I bet you're happy she said that.”

“I am sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Yes.”

“Not always?”

“I never liked it when she said, ‘No more potato chips. It's your bedtime.'”

In spite of his mood, Rooster smiled. “Is your mom still alive?”

“No. She died ten years ago.”

“That's a long time to go without a mom.”

“My dad died twelve years ago.”

“That's too bad.”

“My dad was fifty-eight when he died. My mom was fifty-six when she died. That's when I moved to Common House.”

Rooster contemplated telling her about the death of his own father but decided against it. He was not in the right frame of mind to carry on such a conversation. “Do you like it there?”

“It's okay. My roommate's Roseann. I like her.”

“What do you think of the no-talking rule at bowling?”

“They do the same thing at nighttime at Common House when we're supposed to be asleep.”

“Really?”

“We have to use hand signals to talk.”

“Cool. Like what?”

“One finger means yes. Two fingers mean no. Three fingers mean ‘Do you want a snack?'”

“What kind of snacks do you have?”

“We have potato chips and chocolate bars under our beds. They're hidden there. No one knows about them but Roseann and me.”