The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records (13 page)

Lee drifts and drifts until he isn't sure if the white light in his head is a state of mind, or a taste, or smell, whether it is his mother's lips upon his forehead, or a soccer ball sailing slow-motion into a net, a foot crossing a finish line, or the lingering note of a violin. Or even the difference between the quiver of a violin's string and the humming of his own vocal chords. All Lee knows is that he is drifting, drifting, upward, like a kite. He can feel the reassuring tug of a string attached to his shirt, though, as if someone—feet planted firmly on the earth—has hold of the other end. And when he feels the string slowly reeling him back to earth, he wonders if he isn't a kite at all, but a fish at the end of a line in an upside-down sea of clouds.

When he's within a meter of the ground, he regains gravity and falls with a soft thud onto the grass. An old man—weather-beaten, sunburned, and smelling not unpleasantly of raw tuna, seawater, and sweat—extends a bandaged hand to Lee. He helps him to his feet, dusts off Lee's shirt and pants, and begins unfastening the string tied to a button on Lee's shirt—the same string he just fished the boy back to earth with. “A wonderful invention, the button, no?” says the old fisherman with a sly twinkle and a wink. He gives Lee the once-over from head to toe, sweeps a stray strand of hair from Lee's eyes, the same way a proud father might before raising the camera to snap a picture of his kid with a trophy.

“I think you're ready,” says the old man, pushing Lee gently forward. Lee wonders where exactly he's supposed to go, when suddenly, right before his eyes, the ground trembles and belches out a mighty stone staircase that stretches straight up into a mess of lethargic July clouds.

Lee takes a deep breath and begins climbing … and trudging … and climbing until, hours later (or has it only been nanoseconds?), he hears the distant muffled sounds of a celebration—a dinner party, maybe—laughter, the clinking of glasses, lively music. The sound grows clearer, more crystal, with every stair he takes. Suddenly he's in reach of a huge oak door—“should I open it?”—but the door flies open on its own, drenching Lee in a wave of bright lights and sounds and tantalizing smells. His taste buds sit up and beg for the first time in weeks. “Lee!” A laughing bride (oh my gosh, could that be gorgeous Charlotte Bailey?!) in a white flowing gown runs up and takes Lee's hand, inviting him in as if he is a long-awaited guest of honor. Lee blushes, looks around at the hundreds of wedding guests, wishes he could escape their attention, wonders if he's remembered to put his clothes on today, too terrified to look down and find out. It would be just his luck to find himself in the middle of one of those idiotic dreams where he shows up for school buck-naked.

In the middle of the crowded room, Lee notices someone beckoning. “Me?” he says, looking over his shoulder. Lee is hesitant but his feet obey. He's headed toward a hubbub on the dance floor—some sort of wedding ritual—a hundred guests or more holding hands in a huge circle, dancing round and round, laughing, singing, kicking up their heels. Two of them part hands to allow Lee to join in. Lee balks—even in his dreams he'd rather receive a severe butt-kicking than have to get up on the dance floor.

Just as he's about to sneak away, he once again notices the beckoning stranger again, standing at the center of the whirling circle. The flashing disco ball on the ceiling catches his face, lighting up a full head of crazy-wild white hair. Holy crud, it's … oh, my gosh, no way … is it? … yes … It's Albert Einstein … And he's smiling and nodding at Lee to join him. For anyone else, not a hot chance, but for Einstein, he'll dance. You bet.

Lee tries joining the circle, but the dancers' hands remain locked. “Come join us,” calls Einstein.

“Us?” Lee now sees that Einstein is holding the hand of none other than Slang Kischuck, dressed in full soccer attire, and Kischuck is holding the hand of Rhonda's dad, who happens to be dressed in nothing but boxing gloves and a “Kiss the Cook” apron tied around his bare gut. The three gold medals dangling from his neck sparkle and wink in the light of the turning disco ball.

Lee tries madly to get through—lemme in!—but no go. He tries ducking under the dancers' arms, but as he does, he catches a glimpse of who's beside Einstein playing the music. It's Rhonda Ronaldson, with her violin tucked neatly under her chin and— get this—Santiago at her feet, looking up at her with the most sickening case of loyal canine devotion he's ever seen.

“Santi!” he calls, “how dare you? Santiago, get your sorry tail-wagging butt over here! Right now!!
I MEAN IT
!!!”

“What's your problem?” said Rhonda. “She's just chasing a gopher, cryin' out loud.”

Lee looked up at Rhonda. What the …?

“Were you
sleeping
?” she said. The level of disgust in her voice told Lee Rhonda was feeling better. The barn exploration must have revved her up a notch or two. Lee rubbed his eyes.

“Yeah, I guess I must have dozed off for a second,” said Lee, trying to hold onto his dream that insisted on escaping faster than a slippery frog in a pair of greased hands.

How can you determine whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another …
– Plato

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Depend on the rabbit's foot if you will, but remember it didn't work for the rabbit.

R.E. Shay

The only sure thing about luck is that it will change.

Bret Harte

“Look what I found,” said Rhonda, holding up an old rusty horseshoe. “It's gonna bring me a turd-load of luck, I can feel it in my teeth.” She sat down on the side of the well. “Whoa, looky here,” she said.

Rhonda was staring up at a section of rope just below the pulley that was in rough shape. The strands had rotted away and come unraveled so that the bucket was holding on by only a thin thread. It looked as if at any moment they might hear a cartoon-like “ping!” as the rope gave up the ghost, sending the bucket hurtling down the well. Rhonda gave the rope a tug.

“Leave it alone, why don't ya?” said Lee.

“Butt out,” said Rhonda, chucking the horseshoe into the bucket. “I wonder how many rocks it would take to snap that baby. Make a guess, Daddy.” She smacked a mosquito on her cheek, leaving behind a trail of blood and tiny black body parts.

“Better yet,” said Rhonda, “let's have a contest. We'll take turns dumping rocks into the bucket and see who can sink that sucker first.” She searched in the grass for the biggest rocks she could find, and piled them in a heap. “Come on.”

“Let's just go home now,” said Lee. “My asthma is much better now. I think I could …”

“Don't be a doink,” said Rhonda. “Come on. The one who wins has to buy the ice cream on the way home.”

Lee didn't have the energy to argue. From the look of the rope, it wouldn't take long to snap, anyway. He picked the biggest rock from the pile and dumped it in the bucket. Rhonda went next. After ten rocks each, they were both amazed at how stubborn that “last thread” was. Lee became a little more interested. He watched Rhonda huck another rock into the bucket. Five more turns each, and Lee stopped to examine the rope. Where was that scrawny piece of string getting the will to hold on under such pressure?

Rhonda went in search of some bigger rocks and came back hauling a small boulder. This time she climbed up on the edge of the well and dumped the boulder from high up, hoping the jarring effect would be enough to do the trick.
Clunk
. No dice.

“There's more boulders over there,” said Rhonda, pointing to a crumbling stone fence. Lee walked toward the wall—anything to keep her quiet—and came back carrying two rocks that made his arms feel like they might drop off. He dumped his own in the bucket. They saw a few hairs of string give way. Lee knew the next rock would do it. He imagined how ticked-off Rhonda was going to be when she found out he didn't have any money for the ice cream.

He handed the rock up to Rhonda. She squeezed her eyes shut, as if silently chanting a little prayer (or curse), before dropping it in. To their mutual amazement, the rope held strong. “Jeez!” Rhonda stomped her foot against the ledge of the well, tantrum-style. What happened next might as well have been an excruciatingly slow-motion film inside Lee's head. He saw Rhonda's foot travel miles through space before making contact with the brick, sending out earthquake tremors—
kabongonnngonngongonngong
—resounding in his brain. He watched the mortar beneath the brick take an eternity to crumble, and he saw Rhonda's foot sl
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
diing right along with it. Before he could grab at her (his hand felt like a five-thousand-pound weight that would have taken a year and a half to reach her), he watched Rhonda's face disappearing below the rim of the well—her terrified, gaping mouth, her bloody, mashed-mosquito cheek, her shocked eyes. The last he saw of her body was one lone hand grasping at air like a swimmer going under. The sound of the bucket smashing the side of the well as Rhonda brushed past it, and then the sickening thud of her body hitting the ground jerked the film into fast motion.

A thought struck him like lightning—the bucket!!! As Lee looked up at the pulley system, he could actually see the last thread in the rope “pinging” in midair, and he felt himself—like some kind of superhero plucking a speeding bullet out of the air—reach out and catch the end of the streaking rope, stopping it from plummeting into the well on top of Rhonda's head.

Whhhooooooomph
. Lee's gut hit the side of the well as the tonne-weight bucket dragged his arms and head into the well, leaving his stomach balancing on the rim, legs flailing in the air. It was a miracle that his arms hadn't been wrenched out of their sockets. Lee's biceps were like a couple of soft perogies at the best of times, so both he and his muscles were in a state of shock that he was still hanging on to the rope. In his stunned daze, he wondered where the gross animal grunts were coming from before realizing they were escaping his own mouth. He'd had the wind knocked out of him before, but never like this.

By the time he'd stopped gulping and wheezing and moaning like a cow, the resulting silence sent a cold wave of panic through him. “Rhonda?” he rasped. He could just barely see a dark heap at the bottom of the well. “Rhonda, are you okay?!” No response. “Rhonda!
Say
something. Tell me you're okay!” Lee didn't like hearing the sound of his voice inside this well. The lonely echoes made him feel like the last living person on earth. Lee tried pulling at the rope to lift the bucket out of the well, but it was no use. Even if he'd been strong enough to lift it all the way to the top, he'd never have the strength to navigate it over the edge.

“Rhonda? Come on, tell me you're
okay
, Ron.”

Gut-wrenching silence.

Silence is the most powerful scream.

– Anon

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

When you get to the end of your rope, tie a knot and hold on.

Franklin D. Roosevelt

Lee squeezed his eyes shut. The blood went rushing to his head. He felt his heart pounding on the door of his chest like a claustrophobic stuck in a dark closet—
Lemme outta here!!
For a second, black blotches started dancing before his eyes. And then,
oh please, no
, his hands started to sweat. And as his palms sweat, his heart beat faster, and as his heart beat faster, his palms sprang fresh leaks.

Get a hold of yourself, Lee.
Get a grip!!

Lee tried to calm down. He made an effort to breathe slow and steady. Slow and steady. That took care of the black blotches. Then he tried getting his brain to kick in. Something had to give here. His muscles weren't gonna hang on forever. He needed to get some leverage, but with his stomach pressing into the rim of the well, and his feet in midair (like Superman taking a nose dive into a garbage can), the prospects looked grim.

Lee slowly lowered his feet until his toes touched the grass. Then he planted his feet firmly on the ground, with his knees pressed against the wall of the well. Lee took a deep breath and pulled on the rope with all his might.

Didn't budge. Not an inch. Then he saw it: a blessed knot in the rope just a foot or so below his knuckles. If he could just reach that knot … Lee slowly slid one hand down the rope until he had the knot in the palm of his hand. Then he shimmied his other hand down and quickly clasped it over his fist—two hands, as if clenched in prayer, hanging on for dear life.

He waited three seconds, then took another deep breath and as he drew the air into his lungs, a clear picture of Slang suddenly flashed in his head—Slang Kischuk, spent, exhausted, and pain-racked, giving his last ounce of strength to finish the marathon. And that brief flashing picture was as good as Slang handing Lee a Mars Bar. A shot of adrenalin rushed through him. Lee gripped the knot and tried again. This time he used the muscles in his back and thighs as well as his arms.

Quarter-inch by quarter-inch, he pulled the rope and heard the bucket bump-scraping its way up the side of the well, sending little avalanches of mortar and crumbled brick down on Rhonda. With a final heave (like the mother he'd once read about in the newspaper who'd miraculously found the strength to lift a thousand-pound car from her son's trapped body), he pulled on the rope until his arms and head slowly rose out of the well. Standing now, leaning back slightly so that the rope strained against the rim of the well instead of dangling from his spaghetti arms, Lee let out his breath. The bucket still hung down inside the well, but at least he'd bought himself some time.