Tiger Eyes (7 page)

I want to go this afternoon, right after lunch, but Bitsy has other plans. We haven’t been to the
Bradbury Science Museum yet. She is a volunteer guide there every Wednesday and since this is Wednesday we will all go together.

Bitsy wears a red jacket with a name tag that says
Elizabeth Kronick, Guide
. She wears black pants and a white shirt with a black string tie. She explains that there is no official uniform for guides at the museum, but that this is what she wears every week. It makes her
feel
official.

I am not too hot on going to the science museum but Jason can’t wait. We walk over. It is another beautiful afternoon. The air is clear, the sky is a perfect blue color, the sun warming, yet through it you can feel just a hint of fall. My mother limps a little but her toes aren’t giving her that much trouble. She doesn’t say much. I hope she’s going to be okay. I hope she’s not going to explode again.

Bitsy whisks us through the museum and out to a courtyard where there are replicas of the atom bomb. There is a sign saying:
Displayed here are ballistic cases like those of the two atomic bombs detonated over Japan in August 1945, the only atomic weapons ever used in warfare. Each was the equivalent of about 20,000 tons of TNT. The result of twenty seven months of unprecedented effort by thousands of scientists and technicians, they represent one of the greatest scientific achievements of all time. Both bombs were designed, fabricated, and assembled at Los Alamos
.

Jason is really turned on by the bombs. He runs his hand along the surface of the one called Little Boy, which was dropped on Hiroshima. “And they were invented here, in Los Alamos?”

“That’s right,” Bitsy tells him.

“And they killed a lot of people?”

“Yes.”

“How many people did this bomb kill?”

“A lot,” Bitsy says. “Hundreds?” Jason asks.

“Yes.”

“Thousands?”

“Yes, I don’t know the exact numbers.”

I think it’s peculiar for a guide not to be able to answer Jason’s question. Maybe it is that she doesn’t
want
to answer him.

“Does Uncle Walter make bombs?” Jason asks.

“Uncle Walter doesn’t make them,” Bitsy says. “He’s involved in designing … and research.”

“He is?” I say. “For bombs?”

“For weapons in general,” Bitsy says.

“I had no idea,” I say.

“You know Uncle Walter is a group leader in W Division,” Bitsy says, proudly.

“But I don’t know what W Division is,” I say.

“It’s the weapons division,” Bitsy tells me. “Half of the Lab is involved in weapons research and the other half is involved in basic research. Medicine, energy …”

Bitsy is ticking off a list but I have tuned her out. I am thinking of Walter, instead. I can’t picture him designing bombs. I always thought a person who designs weapons would be hard and cruel. A kind of wild-eyed mad scientist, intent on blowing up the world. But Walter is so ordinary. I just can’t get over the fact that he is somehow involved in building bombs. In killing people.

A tourist couple asks if they can take a picture of Jason standing next to the replica of the bomb called Fat Boy, the bomb we dropped on Nagasaki. Jason poses and smiles.

That night, while we are having dinner, my mother develops an intense headache. “It’s been coming on all day,” she tells us, excusing herself from the table.

Maybe that’s why she was so quiet in the museum this afternoon. She didn’t say three words.

“I think I’d better take some aspirin and go to bed,” she says.

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” Bitsy calls after her. “It’s probably just the altitude.” The altitude is Bitsy’s excuse for every problem.

But I am not thinking about my mother or her intense headache. I am still thinking about Walter. I look at him differently now. I feel myself tensing up, growing more hostile toward him by the minute.

As if he can read my mind he leans across the table and says, “Davey … what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I manage to say.

“Oh yes.” He gives me a scrutinizing look. “I can tell … something is wrong.”

“Well,” I begin. “It’s just that I can’t believe you design weapons.”

“Oh, so that’s it.”

“Yes. I’m surprised.”

“It’s my job,” he says. “And I do it as well as I can.”

“Couldn’t you find another job?” I ask.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is?”

“We’re in this business to design the best weapons we can, so that no one will ever think they can win a war against us.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Think of us as watchdogs, Davey, making sure that no one will ever attack us. But if they do, we’ll be ready. And being ready is more than half the battle.”

“But if nobody made bombs in the first place …”

“I wish it could be that way.”

“Why can’t it?”

“Because that’s not the way of the world.”

“It should be.”

“You’re right,” Walter says. “But it’s not.”

Later, when I am in bed, I try to think of Walter as a watchdog, but the only picture I get in my mind is of a German shepherd, or a Doberman, named Walter. I imagine Walter sitting
at his desk at the Lab, thinking up new ways to kill people. Walter, who hoses down the Blazer every time he drives it off The Hill. Walter, who helps clear away the dinner plates. Walter, who reads Jason a chapter from
Stuart Little
every night.

I tuck the breadknife under my pillow and sleep with one hand wrapped around it.

FOURTEEN

The next day I sneak my hiking boots down to the garage and bury one in each of Bitsy’s canvas bike bags. I find a canteen on a shelf, rinse it and fill it with water.

When I go back to the house Jason is sitting on the living room floor playing Dominoes and Mom is stretched out on the sofa, twirling a rubber band around her fingers. Bitsy is in the kitchen. She tells me that she is going to a Bridge party and will be gone for lunch. “Do you want me to make you a sandwich before I leave?” she asks.

“No, don’t worry about me. I’m going out for my exercise.”

If I put it that way Bitsy doesn’t object. She and Walter are very big on exercise. Walter jogs every day at noon and Bitsy leaves the house every morning at eight, for a brisk walk around the block with her friends. So there is no problem as long as I promise to wear the helmet and to ride facing traffic.

“Where do you go, Davey?” Bitsy asks, as she covers a freshly baked apple pie with aluminum foil.

“Oh, around,” I say. “I like to explore.”

“Just be careful. And don’t take any chances.”

“Me … take chances?” I picture myself climbing down into the canyon. “Don’t worry. I don’t take chances.”

“Good,” Bitsy says. “I’m glad to hear it. This family has had enough trouble.”

“You bet,” I say.

Bitsy gives me a strange look as I say goodbye to Mom and Jason. Maybe I haven’t used her favorite expression in the right way.

W
hen I reach the wooded area near the canyon, I lean my bike against a tree, sling the canteen over my shoulder, and exchange my Adidas for my boots, which are weatherproofed and ready for action. Then I traipse around in the woods, trying to get used to them. I walk in circles, alternately stomping, skipping, and jumping, then laughing, because I feel so silly. Finally, I head for the canyon.

I look down and hope I will see Wolf. But there is no one in sight. I sit for a while, thinking about Atlantic City and the beach. I used to go walking on the beach every day, winter and summer. It was my time alone, my time for thinking. Often I’d sit on a jetty and before I knew it an hour or more had passed. This canyon reminds me of the jetty, and the beach. It is a good place to be alone. A good place for my thoughts.

I see someone moving below me. I stand up
to get a better look. It is Wolf, making his way down into the canyon. “Hey …” I call. “Hey, down there …”

He turns but he can’t see me. His eyes are blinded by the sun.

“You must be new around here,” I shout. “I’ll bet you don’t know your ass from your armpit.”

He moves away so that he is out of the sun’s direct rays. He looks up and around. Still, he hasn’t seen me.

“Suppose you get hurt,” I say. “Who’s going to call the Search and Rescue team?” I wave my arms like crazy until I am sure he has spotted me.

He laughs then and his laugh echoes through the canyon.

I scamper down to where he is standing, losing my balance just once.

Wolf looks me over and nods. “I see you found your canteen,” he says.

“Uh huh.”

“And got yourself a pair of hiking boots.”

“Uh huh.”

“Very good.”

He leads the way and together we climb down into the canyon.

By the time we get there my right boot is making a blister across the heel of my foot. I should have brought some Band-Aids with me.

At the bottom we sit on a rock and watch the lizards racing around. Minka would be very
happy down here, I think. She would love to chase lizards. But Walter has told me stories about coyotes who live in the canyons and how they carry cats away. I would never take a chance with Minka.

Wolf opens his knapsack. He offers me fruit and cheese. I take an orange and a piece of cheddar.

“You have sad eyes, Tiger,” he says. “A bright smile but sad eyes.”

He waits for me to say something. I don’t.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No.”

“Okay.”

We sit quietly for a moment.

“Maybe someday,” I tell him. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you about it.”

“Okay,” he says.

“But not today.”

“Whenever,” he says.

I nod.

T
hat night I catch hell from Bitsy. She saw me riding back from the canyon and I wasn’t wearing my helmet.

“I guess I forgot it,” I say, sheepishly.

“Safety first, Davey,” Bitsy says. “Just don’t forget it again. We’re trying to take good care of you but you’ve got to help us.”

What does she mean by that? I can take care of myself. But I know that from now on I will
have to be more careful or she won’t let me ride the bicycle.

O
n the first Saturday in October we leave the house at six
A.M
. to drive down to Albuquerque to see the balloons take off at the annual hot air balloon festival. On the way, we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts in Santa Fe and stuff ourselves on honey glazed crullers. Jason convinces Bitsy to buy him a box of Munchkins for the road.

We get to Albuquerque just before eight
A.M
. and line up with hundreds of other cars to watch as the balloons fill the sky with brilliant colors. Jason and I sit on the hood of the Blazer.

“Would you go up in one, Davey?” Jason asks.

“In a minute,” I say.

“It’s beautiful to watch,” Bitsy says, “but only a fool would actually participate.”

“Well, I’d do it,” I tell her.

“Then so would I,” Jason says.

“There’s no point in arguing over whether you would or you wouldn’t,” Walter says. “It’s a moot question.”

“What’s moot?” Jason asks.

“It means it doesn’t matter because it isn’t going to happen,” Walter tells him.

“Oh,” Jason says.

“I’d like to go up and never come down,” Mom says.

We all look at her. What does she mean, never come down?

On the way home I promise myself that some day I will go up in a hot air balloon. I picture myself taking off. I wave at the crowd as it grows smaller and smaller, until the people watching are just tiny dots on the earth, while I am floating in my own world of sky and clouds and quiet.

By the time we get halfway home my mother has developed another headache, even worse than the last one. Bitsy tells her to close her eyes and try to sleep.

Jason babbles on about the balloons. He is full of questions about how they work.

Bitsy tells him that there are accidents almost every year. That something always goes wrong.

I read the paper carefully all week, and if anything has gone wrong with one of the balloons I can’t find a story about it.

M
y mother has three more headaches in a row. She says they come on suddenly, like a blinding white light, piercing her eyes. After the third one Bitsy and Walter take her to their doctor, who recommends a specialist. The specialist believes that the headaches are caused by tension, by anxiety, by depression. He is sure that they are not your usual migraines, although the symptoms are the same.

O
ne night I am sitting up in bed reading the current issue of
People
magazine. I had to buy it on the sly and sneak it up to my room. Walter
considers it trash and wouldn’t think of having a copy in his house. But I have seen Bitsy thumbing through it while waiting on line at the Safeway, so I’m not concerned when she knocks on my door. “Surprise,” she says. She’s carrying a tray with two graham crackers and a cup of cocoa. I feel about six years old, especially when I see the marshmallows floating on top.

She hands me the tray, then sits on the edge of my bed.

“Thanks,” I say. “I was just thinking about how good a cup of cocoa would taste.” Of course, I wasn’t, but Bitsy believes me. I take a bite of graham cracker, then a sip of cocoa, wondering why Bitsy is sitting on my bed.

“Well …” she finally says. “I wanted to talk to you about your mother.”

“What about her?” I ask.

“She’s under a lot of stress.”

“I know.”

“And Walter and I don’t think she should leave until she’s feeling better.”

I don’t say anything so Bitsy continues.

“We feel responsible for you … we can’t send you and Jason home with Gwen this way. She’s in a daze. It’s all beginning to hit her now. She needs time to mend. So we’d like you to stay a while longer.”

Bitsy is explaining about my mother as if I am going to give her a hard time about going home. The truth is, Bitsy is right and I know it. We
can’t go home with Mom this way. Who would take care of her? What would I do when she gets one of her headaches?

“Jason is anxious to get back to school,” Bitsy says, “so tomorrow I’m taking him over to Aspen. It’s a very good elementary school. All of our schools are very good. Do you know we have more National Merit finalists than any other city in the country?”