The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records (18 page)

“No, it's Agnes, and I have to hang up now, so …”

“Agnes,” said Mr. Ronaldson, “it's Reg, from across the street. I was just wondering if either you or Gert have seen Rhonda around lately. She's been gone all day and she missed her music lesson which is very unusual for—”

“Reginald,” cut in Agnes, “you'd best get over here right now.” Slam.

Agnes flubbed the phone number twice before finally getting through to Slang's cell. Gertrude answered.

“Gert,” said Agnes with a shaky voice, “Lee's bike … the police found it abandoned on Wilkes Avenue … and Rhonda is missing, too … Gertrude, I'm worried …” She heard Gertrude telling Slang to put his foot on the gas and get them over to Wilkes Avenue. This time it was Gertrude's turn to hang up without saying goodbye.

“Gertrude!” shouted Agnes into the receiver. “I want to come with you!” The only answer was a dismal dial tone.

CUT

PAN THE DARKENING FIELD AND ZOOM IN ON THE ROPE BURNS ON LEE'S SHOULDER

“The old man slept hard,” said Lee, “and then he got up out of bed, Ron, and what does the old guy do?”

“Skip the guessing games, Lee.”

“He started making plans for the next day's fishing,
that's
what he did,” said Lee. “He didn't stay down, Ron. He got back up.”

“Was he nuts?”

“No, he was a hero.” Lee looked up at the stars and the moon. “Don't you see, Ron? He took all his crappy disappointment and pain and recycled it.”

“Into what?”

“Into
fuel …
to keep on … well, you know …”—Lee was about to use the word “loving,” but remembered who he was talking to—“to keep on
living
. To keep his flame burning.”

Rhonda was silent for a time. “I can see the moon, Lee,” she said finally. “Where's Santiago?”

Lee didn't answer. He was looking at the moon as well, thinking of … gorgeous Charlotte Bailey, of all people. It had suddenly slipped into his mind that he'd give his right arm to one day sit beneath this very same moon with her and talk about the books they'd read.

Fat chance. He had a strong suspicion he'd be forced to keep both his arms. Sigh.

Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.

– William Shakespeare

Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.

– Charlie Brown

CUT!

LONG SHOT OF SLANG'S VEHICLE KICKING UP DUST ON THE DIRT ROAD

ZOOM IN ON PASSENGER SIDE AND SECURE A GOOD SHOT OF DOG'S CLAWS SCRATCHING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF WINDOW
ROLL!

When Slang turned onto Wilkes Avenue, Santiago, who'd been whimpering in the back seat, sat up and started yelping. Her nose was telling her something. It was
hot
. And getting hotter every second. She was getting closer and closer … to what? And then it all came flooding back: Lee, his sweet and salty freckles, Rhonda's voice down a deep hole, the baseball cap,
bring Mom back, bring Mom back.

Santiago leapt to the front seat, onto Gertrude's lap, and started barking out the window.

“What is it, girl?” said Gertrude.

Santiago's nose continued to get hotter until she felt like she might explode if she didn't get out of the car
right now. Right this very minute!
She started pawing wildly at the window and barking in Gertrude's face.

“Stop the car, Slang,” said Gertrude. “Santiago's trying to tell us something.”

CUT TO INTERIOR OF BAILEY HOME

The only real valuable thing is intuition.

– Albert Einstein

“Charlotte, honey,” said Mr. Bailey, “it's pitch black out, and swarming with monster mosquitoes. What good could it possibly do to go out there now?”

“It's just that it doesn't make any sense,” said Charlotte. “Lee's bike is too crappy for anyone to bother stealing.”

“And you think he's in some kind of trouble?”

“I don't know. It's just a
feeling
,” said Charlotte. “I just think we should take a look around, is all.”

Mr. Bailey put down his untouched slice of chocolate cake with vanilla butter icing, sighed, and looked at Mrs. Bailey. His wife shrugged. “Might be best to listen to Charlotte's intuition, love,” she said. “It won't take long to have a look around. Bring your high-powered flashlight along.”

Mr. Bailey could never refuse Mrs. Bailey anything, especially when she called him “love.” He and Charlotte covered themselves in long sleeves and bug spray and went back out into the night. The crunching of gravel under rubber as Mr. Bailey backed out of the driveway momentarily drowned out the sound of frogs singing in the ditches. As the rumble of the car faded into the distance, hundreds of slick green bodies again filled the darkness with frog-song.

COMING UP ON A SERIES OF SHORT SNIPPETS
LET'S KEEP THE CAMERA WORK TIGHT AND THE PACE QUICK
WE'LL TAKE FIVE TO REAPPLY BUG SPRAY AND THEN WE'RE ROLLIN'!

Success seems to be largely a matter of hanging on after others have let go.

– William Feather

Lee let out an involuntary groan. Mosquitoes had bitten both his eyelids, and they were itchy and swollen. The urge to free up his hands and scratch the living daylights out of every part of his body was almost too much to bear.

“What's the matter?” asked Rhonda, sounding frightened. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” said Lee. But he was far from fine. The cramps in his hands had gone past pain to a numb dullness he didn't trust. If he couldn't feel his hands, how would he know if he was still hanging on tight enough?

“Are you sure?” said Rhonda. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Relax, Ron. We haven't been here for even close to twelve hours yet. I've broken harder and longer records than this.” Lee squeezed his eyes shut and tried with all his might to hold back another groan of pain.

If you wanna catch a big fish, son, you need desire and stubborn determination by the truckload.

– Frankindad McGillicuddy

CUT!

Santiago exploded out of the car when Gertrude opened the door and shot off into the blackness like a hound after a rabbit. “Hold on, girl!” said Gertrude, nearly tripping over the shin-high wire fence in the dark. “Wait for us!”

CUT!

“I think this is about where we found the bikes,” said Charlotte, peering into the glow cast by the headlights.

“Oh, it's ‘
we
' now, is it?” said Mr. Bailey, smiling to himself in the dark. “An hour ago, I was the worst old fuddy-duddy in the world for insisting on stopping.”

“Dad,” moaned Charlotte, “do you think you could stop using that word?
Hey
… there's a car parked up there. And look! There's people running!”

Mr. Bailey stopped smiling and assumed his serious “Police Constable” face.

“I think you should stay in the car, honey,” he said to Charlotte, as he jerked the car to a stop.

CUT!

Lee knew he was starting to get delirious now. He imagined he heard the bark of a dog. A dog that sounded just like Santiago. “Get a hold of yourself, Lee,” he whispered into the night. “This is no time for your imagination to make a fool out of you.”

CUT!

Agnes poked the back of the cab driver's neck and told him for the tenth time to put his foot on the gas. “This is an
emergency
, young man. Don't you understand?!” she shrieked.

Mr. Ronaldson tried to calm her. “Agnes, he's going as fast as he—” But he let out an “Ouch!” instead of finishing. Agnes had her fingernails digging into his wrist. Reginald Ronaldson was almost glad his wife was away on business—if he'd been sandwiched between both women, he'd have
two
lacerated wrists by now.

“Look up ahead,” shouted Agnes, digging her nails in deeper. “There's a couple of cars parked on the shoulder. And one of them's a cop car! Oh,
Lordy
, my stomach is telling me there's something awfully wrong here.”

CUT!

“Lee!” cried Rhonda, “Was that a bark I—”

“No, Ron, it's just—” but the next yelp told him loud and clear that this was no trick of the imagination.

“Santiago?! Santi?” He couldn't say another word, because the sound of his dog's voice was sending tears down his mosquito-ravaged cheeks.

CUT!

Agnes went flying, “arse over teakettle” (as she liked to say), when she hit the wire fence, but Mr. Ronaldson pulled her up like a yo-yo and they ran like fiends to where a crowd was forming. Agnes saw Gertrude on her knees in the grass, holding a limp rag doll that just happened to be Lee. Slang had hold of God-knows-what on the end of a rope and was using every muscle in his body to pull it up out of what? … an old well, while Constable Bailey punched the numbers 911 into his cell phone. Mr. Ronaldson rushed to Slang's side.

“She's down there,” groaned Slang, pulling at the bucket. “There's a girl at the bottom of the well.”

Mr. Ronaldson took hold of the rope and started hauling it out like it weighed two pounds. “Ron, girl, you
okay
, honey?” he called. “Are you all
right,
angel?!”

By now, Rhonda was blubbering again and they couldn't understand much of what she said—something about “leg,” and “
spider
,” and “get me
out
a here!!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise
And then if we are true to plan
Our statures touch the skies
Emily Dickinson

Lee relaxed against the comfort of his mother's strong arms and looked up into the stars. She was saying things to him, asking him questions, but, for the moment, words were nothing compared to the pull of the stars and the moon. His body felt the same way his arms once did after trudging home from the store with the Christmas grocery bags loaded with a twenty-five-pound turkey and two ten-pound bags of potatoes—when he finally put the bags down, his arms felt like they might float right up to the ceiling, regardless of what plans he might have for them. The same sensation filled him now. Lee felt that his body might float all the way to the moon if he let it.

By the time the paramedics arrived, Lee was feeling a little more anchored—back in the real world, where mosquitoes had no intention of letting him forget he had a body.

“Here, let's put this blanket around him,” said one of the paramedics to Gertrude. Lee scratched at his swollen eyelids. Ouch. He asked Santiago to lick his face, and her gentle tongue made him remember how he used to believe that Santiago's spit could cure him of anything, if necessary. The paramedic gently pulled Santiago away from Lee's face, gave her a gentle pat on the rump—“
you're a beauty, aren't you
?”—and turned his attentions to Lee. He examined Lee's eyes, checked his pulse, asked him some questions.

“How many fingers do you see? Are you injured anywhere? Have you had any food or water since this morning?” He whistled when he saw Lee's raw hands and shoulder. “Mama Mia. How long have you been sitting there holding that bucket, buddy?”

“Close to twelve hours, I'm guessing,” croaked Lee.

“Good Lord, where did you find the strength?”

Lee winced as the paramedic applied ointment to his wounds and insect bites with kind and caring hands. Then the man smiled, tousled Lee's hair, and asked if he felt strong enough to stand up and make it to the ambulance.

“I'm staying right here,” said Lee. “I'm not moving an inch till Rhonda's out.”

Gertrude and Agnes hovered around him, touching his cheek, his forehead, rubbing his blanket-covered arms to keep him warm, whispering how brave he'd been, how amazing he was. Santiago rested her chin and one paw on Lee's lap, as if to claim ownership.
“This is
my
boy. This is the boy who loves me.”

Slang went missing for a minute or two, but came sprinting back from his car with the team shirt held between his hands like a victory flag. “You're number one, kid,” he said, and just about gave Lee the usual punch in the shoulder before remembering it might not be such a good idea.

But then Lee saw an apparition that made him wonder if he was still in la-la-land after all. She appeared out of nowhere. Gorgeous Charlotte Bailey. Yep, I'm hallucinating, for sure, thought Lee, but he didn't mind. Not one little bit. Lee noted that Charlotte looked even
more
gorgeous in his hallucinations. Like an angel. She didn't say a word. She just knelt down beside him, gave him a smile he would never forget, then took his hand and placed something in it. He looked down to find himself holding Charlotte's purple hair ribbon—the one from his bicycle handlebar. “Hey!” he called, but Charlotte was already slipping back into the shadows. Mr. Bailey looked over his shoulder, but Charlotte gave Lee the “quiet” sign with one finger on her lips, and ran off in the direction of the car.

Just when I think that I'm alone
It seems there's more of us at home
There's a multitude of angels,
And they're playing with my heart.

– Annie Lennox

Without love, what are we worth? Eighty-nine cents! Eighty-nine cents' worth of chemicals, walking around lonely.

– Hawkeye Pierce, M*A*S*H

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Lee guessed that Rhonda was just too tired to be cranky anymore, because she quietly cooperated with the rescue paramedic who first lowered himself into the well (Lee couldn't figure out how a grown man and a girl could fit down a well together in the first place, let alone have enough room to get her rigged up in a harness), and as she was slowly lifted out, even her “ouches” were subdued. Her face looked like a pale, pale moon against the darkness as it rose out of the well, and, for once in her life, she appeared speechless.