Spud (9 page)

The kids start running from him, truly afraid of the mess they have caused, but it’s
no use. In this small town, the cop will follow and get to the parents and take care
of it. They’ve cut through a yard to the next street over, and the officer turns
the squad car around and follows. Well, not through the yard, but you get the drift.
Then, as he leaves the road, a fire truck approaches, so it can deal with the hydrant
correctly, I assume.

Well, that was a nice diversion from my thoughts. For real, the kids just want to
cool off, and for a minute, I thought about joining them, if I only had the energy.

The fireman gets the hydrant closed up quickly and takes off in his truck. Surely
the kids will face some serious music when the cops talk to their parents. Dumb kids.
They got the idea from the news, I’m sure. Kids in Chicago were in last night’s broadcast
again, as they opened up hydrants near this one run-down neighborhood where they
didn’t have any AC, causing serious water pressure issues. Then, when the police
came and demanded they get away so the hydrants could be closed, the people shouted
at the cops to go away and let them have relief and threw rocks at officers, again.
Don’t they get that it doesn’t work that way? You can’t throw rocks at cops and
think
it’ll help. It was a huge deal. And they weren’t just kids, but some adults, too.
Everyone looking for a way to beat the heat.

Why are we suffering so much? Heat and fires and sweating and icky-sticky and drownings?
God, my heart can’t get any heavier.

Now that the show out here is done, my focus drifts back to where I’m sitting, and
I hear the TV inside. A news report. Well, certainly, another one. Why not? How convenient.
How obvious. Our channels are all Chicago based, so this little story about the hydrant
across the street won’t make the news, but it’ll make town gossip, for sure. Anyway,
I hear it:

“A new shocking story to report,” the serious sounding lady on the tube reports.
“Two young children are victims this time. The owner of a childcare center took a
group of ten small children to a nearby air conditioned movie theater in her Ford
Bronco vehicle, to get out for a bit, have some fun, and still stay cool. It ended
up very
uncool
and certainly
not fun
for two of those children.

“Allegedly, after the film, the tired-out group was back at the childcare center
and napping when Ms. Linz went out to her car to make a run to pick up an afternoon
group of children when she discovered two boys that had been left inside the roasting
hot Bronco. Workers at the center carried them in and called 911, but it was too
late. They were already dead with body temperatures of
107 and 108 degrees
. A complete
tragedy, another for the books in this continued heat wave…”

A groan from the living room, then a sigh, and the channel is changed a few times,
likely by Zoë, and the next thing I start to hear is a commercial for the fruity
cereal Trix…
silly rabbit,
I think.

Chapter 10

Suddenly, Zoë steps onto the porch and sits beside me. I’m still angry with her and
wish she’d just go back in and watch her crap TV. However, a human beside me right
now feels safe. Still, she never really even liked Spud, always got bitchy when he
was around, jealous. It pisses me off. She better not throw me pity. It’s like I
want her here, next to me, but I also don’t.

“Jack, listen.” She’s not looking at me, and I’m not looking at her, both of us staring
into the empty street. She’s nervous, the quiver in her voice, like she’s finally
manufactured the courage to say what she needs to say. I’m speechless anyway, so
I let her talk.

“I’m so sorry, Jack. I know it seemed like I didn’t like Spud, but I did. I loved
him as a brother, like you did.” Her voice is shaking, trying to hold back her tears.

“I know I could be bitchy and immature and acted like I didn’t want him around, but
to be honest, I was jealous. Here I’d be doing laundry, helping cook dinner or whatever,
while you guys kicked back and Mom treated you like royalty. I got so mad! But I
now see it’s because Ma wanted Spud to feel loved, too. I feel so stupid.” A pause.
A deep breath.

“I wish I could go back and change how I acted. You know, it’s embarrassing, but
I secretly loved when he came over. He’s so hot! I know we’re semi- related, but
he’s still adorable. I could stare at him all day, all night. Tela, when she’d come
over, just ate him up, he’s such a cutie. (Tela is Zoë’s best friend). She writes
his name all over her notebooks at school. She’s so stuck on him.” She pauses to
chuckle. Then sighs. “And even though I acted like I didn’t want him
around, every
time I came home from the pool, or in the door from Tela’s, my stomach fluttered
at the thought I’d see Spud in the house when I stepped in. I’m dumb. Stupid, stupid,
stupid!” Now she’s looking at me, I see from the corner of my eye. She’s serious
here.

“And I didn’t even know how to act around him. I used to, when we were little, but
then as you guys started drifting away and getting into high school stuff, girls,
and all those sorts of things, then I guess I got more jealous. Then you never want
to play catch with me, or Monopoly, or come to the pool. I was getting defensive
and let myself believe sometimes that he took you from me, and that made me mad,
yet I still adored him and wanted him around. I was so confused, and he was nice
to me, but I could be so mean and bitchy. I feel so bad, and I’m rambling, and I
am not making any sense, I’m sure, but it’s something I have to get off my chest.
I wish I could go back and change how I acted! I’m so sorry!” She’s crying now, damn.
“I miss him so much…” She’s got her head in her hands, sobbing, soft but genuine.

Now, I start crying a little bit. This is so sad, but I still can’t talk to her.
What she has revealed makes sense in a way. Why are girls so complicated? Why couldn’t
she just have said this before, you know,
Hey Jack, I want to spend more time with
you two, but Spud makes me nervous… any suggestions
? Doesn’t she realize that would
have made my life so much easier?

“You know,” she says, still looking down, wiping tears with her tanned hand, “I haven’t
been to the pool since it happened. I can’t. It terrifies me. I think about going
underwater, and then I get images of Spud, panicked and stuck, unable to get up for
air. I get all anxious thinking about it, and fear has me so unable to go near that
pool. I can’t even take a bath. I hate water, and it’s the damn summer time.”

This is the first day in my life I’ve ever heard Zoë swear, and it’s the big stuff,
now the big one, the worst swear word invented. I feel like the dad in
A Christmas
Story
when Ralphie lets it slip, as they’re changing the tire by the side of the
road.

I can’t let my little sister crumble, even though I’m letting myself. Am I? “Thanks,
Zoë. It’s hard. This is hard, and I don’t really want to talk, but let me say something.
Don’t get bitter. I don’t know if I forgive you yet for how you’ve acted. I have
so many thoughts going through my head still about all this and just need more time
to wrap my head around everything.” I’m not looking at her, still staring, instead,
out at the street: the hot, empty street on this hot, deadly afternoon of no relief.

“But,” I continue, feeling an older-brother type of responsibility, “don’t start
swearing and being bad and rough and tough and hating everything. It’s hard, but
I just,” a pause for my thoughts, composure, “I just need more time before I can
talk much more. It’s not you, really. I’m sorry and wish you had told me how you
felt, but now there’s so much to deal with. And the pool? Not sure what to say. I
do know that I don’t like the pool. Too many dumb little kids, and the lifeguards
are so anal. It’s not my thing anymore, and I bet you’ll grow out of it soon, no
matter the incident with Spud. But thanks for what you said, and Zo-- well, just
thanks.”

I can’t talk anymore, and Zoë just touches my shoulder, puts her hands on her tanned
knees to get up, and heads back in, just as Ma appears at the door. Zoë goes in,
but Ma remains for a second. “Come on, Jack. Dinner,” she says, pausing for a second
like she wants to say more, then thinks better and turns back into the house to the
kitchen.

I thought things were smelling pretty inviting, and my tummy has taken on a life
of its own with its rumbling, like the thunder I wish could be rumbling with a much
needed storm. Maybe
some dinner will help fill some of this emptiness in my stomach.
Or my heart. Maybe.

Chapter 11

“Briiing! Briiing!” Not again, I think as the shrill phone takes me rudely from slumber.
I’ve slept in the living room, air on, in order to actually sleep and stay cool,
and my sleep was Tylenol PM induced, because I’m sick of thinking at night. This
makes me all the more groggy as the phone rings, my weary body obviously not quite
ready to meet the world.

Dad, again, has answered, and Mom must be at work, as I smell no eggs or French toast
or anything inviting from the kitchen and fail to hear the
chug chug
of the washing
machine chugging. Dad appears from behind the curtain hung to separate the living
room from the kitchen, letting out a bit of the cool air. The phone is for me. He
looks intrigued, like it’s a call I should probably take. Expecting absolutely nobody,
this takes me by surprise.

“Huh?” I somewhat question my dad, but he has a serious look to his face and says
he thinks it’s important.

Okay, then. “Hello,” I say into the receiver, trying to wake myself up.

“Good morning. Sorry to wake you, Mr. Cooper, but well, I guess our day starts pretty
early around here, and I wanted to catch you.” A quick, strong voice, right to the
point. “I’m Steve Jones, from
The Daily Times
. We are planning to run a nice remembrance
article on your cousin, nicknamed Spud Cooper, tomorrow. I know from his friends
and family, whom I’ve already had a chance to talk to, that you and Spud were very
close. So, I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.” A pause.

“Um, well,” I begin, but he continues.

“I’d like the piece to kind of reflect on the type of person he was, things he enjoyed,
how he’ll be missed. It’s really been a huge deal around the area, and I know his
accident is hard for you, but I was hoping that maybe you’d like to share a few tidbits
about him? Would you mind? It won’t take long.”

“Um,” I say again. Boy am I articulate this morning. I must sound pretty doofy. Wow.
I had not expected this. Talk about Spud? To the newspaper? I,
we
, would be in the
paper? Spud would love to be in the paper. Just not for this really, too bad he can’t
see a whole article about him. They are going to remember Spud.

Yes. Yes, I have to. Absolutely. He deserves more than this, but it’s the least I
can do. “Sure,” I say, fully awake now. “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. I’d be honored.
I think it’s a great idea, and Spud would love this.”

“Great. Great,” Mr. Jones says. “Is now a good time, then? Are you in a comfortable
spot where we can chat for a bit?”

“Um,” Looking around I realize it’s just me in the cooled living room, the TV turned
low since I had been sleeping. I don’t see why I can’t talk now, and it’s not like
I have any plans to be anywhere at the moment, especially in no shirt and my boxers.
“Now is fine. Yeah, let’s chat.”

“All right, then. Great. Let’s see…” and he begins his short interview.

After a series of questions about Spud’s activities and hobbies, his personality,
our favorite memories, and giving a few stories, Mr. Jones thanks me and gives me
his condolences and says the story should appear tomorrow. We wish each other a nice
day and hang up. Well, that was different. Kind of gives me a little spring to my
step, like caffeine. But without the nasty coffee taste. I wonder how this little
article is going to appear. This was something I needed,
to talk about Spud, but
for some reason, what made it better, or easier, was that I was able to talk to someone
who wasn’t Mom or Dad or Zoë. How great it feels to be able to recall our laughs,
our memories, to think about Spud’s personality, charm, and friendship. I so needed
this, and my insides are fluttering with anticipation to see what Mr. Jones puts
together.

In fact, the next morning, I’m up early again, of my own doing, anxious to see what
was written to remember Spud. Instead of waiting for the paperboy to deliver in the
afternoon, I take a stroll, in the unrelenting heat, again, to the local gas station
to purchase a copy of
The Daily Times
available in the early morning.

Catching my eye, as I walk through the door, is a nice change of headline. Instead
of big, bold letters spelling out the latest heat wave crisis, it reads: “
Remembering
Spud Cooper.”
Picking up the paper from the stack, I see that the article covers
the entire front page, and continues on pages two and three. Wow, Spud, what ya think
of that? Cover story! When he died, obviously the accident made front page news,
but it wasn’t good news stuff, like this one is. Then it was that tragic, breaking
news type that makes you cringe, and I don’t even want to think about that headline
again.

A quick glance through this morning’s paper, though, shows lots of pictures from
the years with friends and family, and quotes that have been given about Spud Cooper,
and I can’t wait to get home to read it.

So, I don’t wait. Instead, I pay Miss Candi (who, even at this early hour, munches
her Doritos) for the paper and quickly exit the store before I’m forced to talk to
someone, and I saunter across the parking lot to an old abandoned picnic table in
the grass between Casey’s and the I and M Canal, and have myself a seat. A hot seat.
This table is so blazing it feels like it’s been drug out of Hell. It looks
it, too,
but that’s not important.