Watcher (4 page)

I decided I'd spent enough time thinking about that, rewrapped it in the towel and shoved it into the back corner of the closet. I actually had to stop and think for a few seconds before I remembered what I was doing in there.

The shoes. Where were they anyway? I didn't remember throwing them out but then it had been a while. Maybe Mom had given them to someone — but she wouldn't have gone into my closet and I couldn't remember her asking for them.

I looked again and discovered that I'd missed an old gym bag, tucked off to the side and blending into the dark of the corner. When I pulled it out and managed to force the zipper open, I found the shoes in there, along with a few other things — none of which looked too attractive. The shoes had been keeping company with some crumpled old socks (apparently, they were ready for the washer when they were abandoned), a dried out stick of deodorant, a couple of empty Pepsi cans and a fuzzy green lump that disintegrated into a scary-looking cloud when I prodded it with the heel of one shoe.

I took the shoes to the bathroom and wiped them off with one of the rags Mom kept under the sink there. They seemed to have survived their time in exile without suffering any permanent damage. If they fit him, they'd sure be a help to the old guy.

That was when it hit me that my original intention when I'd started hunting for them was to throw them out. Only, I couldn't remember why.

chapter four

T
he second time I saw The Watcher was the day I took the shoes to the bum. He was sitting there in “his” spot like an unsightly fixture, mumbling and fluttering his hands. It looked like he was trying to wave his arms around, but just didn't have the energy for it.

I don't know if there was any sense to what he was saying, but it's not likely. If you've been around many street people you know what I mean. They tend to talk continuously and it doesn't take long until you get to the point that you don't bother trying to follow what they're saying. Or trying to say.

Fact is, a lot of their talk is angry — kind of outraged and protesting. Most of them seem to be complaining about something. Only, no one is listening.

They don't bother me, except for the arm grabbers. That's one thing I just won't put up with, someone grappling on to me. Last time a bag lady came up to me and took hold of my arm with her gnarled and dirty hand, I almost shoved her. It would have taken her off her feet and I wouldn't have wanted that, but sometimes you react to things automatically.

As it was, I just stopped myself in time. I yanked away from her and walked off while she screeched that her niece had taken everything.

Maybe her niece
had
taken everything. Maybe she'd robbed her blind and turned her out into the street. Or, maybe she borrowed a punch bowl once and never brought it back. Or, maybe the old woman didn't even
have
a niece. That's the problem with stories from people on the street. You don't know if they're based on reality or if they're tortured inventions creeping out of minds that have been twisted by some mental condition or too many binges.

The guy I took the shoes to that day was mumbling again, but this time it wasn't about the war. I didn't wait long to see whether or not he was connected to the real world at the moment. I just leaned down and told him I'd brought him shoes.

He kind of focused for a minute, looking at me like he was trying to puzzle out who I was and why I was talking to him. I held the shoes up where he could see them, said, “These are for you,” and put them in his lap.

He stared down at them uncomprehendingly at first and then, slowly, his face took on a look of understanding. His feeble hands trembled as they slid off his old shoes and pulled the new ones on. Suddenly, he began to smile and for a second he didn't look quite so pathetic.

I found myself smiling, too, which made me feel foolish, so I walked away, down to the corner store for a bottle of Pepsi. Then I headed back home. That was when I saw The Watcher for the second time.

He was looking out the window of Suleiman's, a restaurant on the corner where I turn onto my street. I thought at first that he was at a table, having a bite to eat or a cup of coffee or whatever. Only he wasn't. He was just leaning down, peering out between the images of falafel and stuffed vine leaves that are painted on the window. He looked away quickly when he realized I'd spotted him.

I still might have dismissed it if nothing else had happened that day. I could have convinced myself that he'd been in there to order take-out or maybe to meet someone who hadn't shown up yet. Any number of things could have made him look out the window. And if he just happened to look in my direction, well, so what?

Except that wasn't the end of it. Later on, I was heading over to Tack's place and there he was again! This time he was up ahead, pretending to be waiting for the streetcar. I saw him look at me and then act as if he was trying to see something behind me.

I picked up the pace a bit so I could get by and out of his sight, not because I was scared but because I didn't like the idea of this guy up in my business. I shot him a penetrating look as I came up on him. That startled him and I almost stopped and said a few things to set him straight, but the streetcar was pulling up. He hesitated, but then he had no choice but to go ahead and get on it.

I saw him, plain as day, leaning over and looking straight at me as the streetcar pulled away. I stared right back at him, careful to keep my face blank. There was no way I wanted him to think he was getting to me.

Anyway, there'd be other opportunities to deal with him face-to-face. Whatever this guy's game was, he wasn't exactly the slickest player in town. It was possible that he'd been following me — watching me for longer than I knew. But since I'd caught him at it a couple of times in the past week alone, and now that I knew I was being watched, it would be almost impossible for him to do it without me seeing him.

I was thinking about this as I got close to Tack's building. Then I heard someone behind me say my name.

“Yo! Porter!”

I spun around, startled. “Tack. I didn't see you, man.”

“Maybe 'cause you look like you're in a trance, dude. Like the hypnotist got you.”

I said nothing about The Watcher.
I
knew it was true, but I wasn't sure I could convince Tack without more proof.

“I was just thinking about something,” I said vaguely. Then, to change subjects, I suggested we go to his place.

That brought a reaction I wasn't quite expecting. He threw both hands up like he was surrendering and told me
no way
were we going there. Apparently, his mother was going to kill someone this time
for sure
, and he'd just ducked out before she could decide it should be him.

“Why?” I laughed, picturing his mother on one of her rampages. “What happened?”

“Oh, man … who knows?” he said. He looked away.

“Yeah, right.” I laughed. There was guilt written all over his face. “I'm betting
you
know. And I think whatever it is,
you did it
.”

Tack glanced behind him nervously, like someone might be listening.

“I don't remember her sayin' nothin' about that last chunk of mudslide bein' hers,” he muttered.

“You ate
your mother's
piece of cake?” I took a step to the side. “Get away from me, man. I don't want to get hit by the fallout.”

This wasn't Tack's first transgression in the food department. Not long ago he'd gotten into a pie his mother had made for some ladies' meeting at her church. She'd hidden it, or so she thought, in a plastic container up in the back of the cupboard over the fridge. It was no match for Tack, who'd sniffed it out and helped himself to a generous slice. I'd had the misfortune of being there when she came home and discovered it had been plundered.

All things considered, I didn't blame Tack for looking nervous now. His mother is a big woman (substantial, she says) and when she's wound up — man, watch out! Seeing her stomp and wave her arms and listening to her rant is something I can't quite describe. It's comical and scary all at once, but I'll tell you this much: you wouldn't open your mouth to talk back when she's in that kind of frenzy.

Tack told me once that when his mother gets going she puts him in mind of a southern preacher frothing and pacing onstage, shouting about vexation and damnation, except her messages are more for the here and now. According to Tack, the only reason she hasn't yet threatened him with hellfire is because she doesn't know where to get it.

I took pity on him and changed the subject.

By then we'd reached my place and were in the kitchen. Seemed that having his life endangered for eating forbidden food had given Tack an appetite. He asked right away if there was anything to snack on. I got some bread and peanut butter out, along with a couple of knives. We don't bother with plates unless my mom is around to insist.

“Want jam?” I asked.

“Got any grape jelly?”

I looked. There was none. He settled for strawberry jam, and we put together a couple of sandwiches and flopped on the couch to eat them.

That was when my sister Lynn came storming through the door, bawling her eyes out.

chapter five

T
he sight of my sister sobbing alarmed me, but not because of any worry over what might be wrong with her. I'd seen her bawling enough times through the years that I'd become immune to it by then. My main concern was that she might waste a bunch of my time with some stupid story about the latest fight between her and her boyfriend, Conor Sweeney.

The main thing to remember in that kind of situation is that you should act like you care without encouraging too much talk.

“It'll be okay,” I said. You have to say
something
.

“N…n…no, it wo…wo…won't,” she blubbered.

It takes experience to learn how to shut this kind of drama down as fast as possible. I had plenty of practice. The problem: Tack had none.

I saw him shift in his chair and turn to face her. I saw his mouth start to open — saw it like it was happening in slow motion. I knew he was going to say something and that whatever it was, it would be the wrong thing.

Sadly, I was powerless to stop him.

“What's wrong, Lynn?”

A long, tortured
NOOOOOOOOOO
echoed in my head. Too late.

“I…I b…b…broke up with C...Con…or.” This brought on renewed hysterics.

(Every time they break up she claims
she
did the dumping, which is not even close to the truth.)

Tack blundered on.

“Aw, that's too bad,” he told her. I silently willed him
not
to ask what happened, so of course the next words out of his mouth were “What went down?”

You'd almost wonder how a person could get to be Tack's age without knowing better than that. Sure, he's only got brothers, but he should have learned
something
from the girls he's gone out with. From what I've seen, they all operate pretty much the same.

It took all of my willpower to keep from snorting or rolling my eyes or doing anything else to make what was coming worse.

“Conor,” Lynn said through her sobs and tears, “forgot the anniversary of our first kiss.”

Tack looked confused. Why wouldn't he? He was probably thinking,
That's it? All this wailing and wet-eye
is because the poor sap forgot a stupid date?
Thankfully, he didn't say anything like that out loud.

Lynn reached into her purse, brought out a package of Kleenex, tugged one out and blew her nose. Then she was ready to go on.

“I'm sure you can imagine how
awful
that made me feel, Tack. I was just devastated.”

Tack looked like a cornered animal. His eyes darted to the left and right, but there was no way out. He mumbled something that sounded like, “Rats tube hat.” I wasn't sure if I'd misheard, or if he was too panicked to form a sentence.

“I knew that if Conor could forget something that important, our relationship was in serious trouble.” Lynn dabbed at her eyes with a fresh Kleenex. “To be honest, I should have seen this coming. I've felt us growing apart — women can sense these things. And we really hadn't been working on our relationship the way we should have been.

“But the worst part is, it tells me Conor doesn't really care. Not the way I do.”

“Aw, now, sure he does,” Tack said, because he didn't know any better.

“He
doesn't
” Lynn blubbered. “Don't you
see
! If he cared, our anniversary would be just as important to
him
as it is to
me
. But it's not, and he doesn't and now I have to somehow find the strength to pick up the pieces and go on ... alone.”

Tack shot a pleading look my way. It was so forlorn that I nearly stepped in to help him, but then I realized I was kind of enjoying watching him squirm, so I let it go.

“You know what the worst part is?” Lynn asked. Apparently, she'd forgotten that she'd just covered that.