Antsy Does Time (22 page)

My anger at the unfairness of it all still raged inside, but some of that anger was bouncing off of Mona and sticking to me. Wasn't I the one who dumped that pitcher of water on Boswell, making life that much harder on my father? Wasn't I always talking back, creating problems, making things harder at home? Could I have been the one who pushed him one step too far?

And then I got to thinking about the time contracts, and how I, in a way, had been tempting fate—playing God. Was this my punishment? Was this, as they say, the wage of my sin?

My brain had already turned to cottage cheese, and now it was going funnier still. You can call it another volcanic burst, you can call it temporary insanity, you can call it whatever you like. All I know is that in my current dairy-brained state, the letters in my own mental Boggle game suddenly came together and started talking in tongues.

Fact: My father's heart attack happened within moments of him signing a contract for two years of his life.

Fact: It was my fault the contract even existed.

Fact: There was a fat black binder filled with almost fifty years sitting in Gunnar Ümlaut's bedroom.

. . . but I could get those years back.

Maybe if I got all those pages and brought them to my father—or better yet, brought them to the chapel and laid them down on the altar . . . Did a hospital chapel have an altar? If not, I would make one. I'd take a table, and sprinkle it with holy water. I'd renounce what I had done—truly renounce it, and those pages would be my bargain with God. Then, once that bargain had been struck, the morning would come, the operation would be a success, and I would still have a father.

This wasn't just an answer, it felt like a vision! I could almost hear the gospel choir singing the hallelujahs.

I left the car, my breath coming in fast puffs of steam in the midnight cold, and took to the street, searching for the nearest subway station.

18
Go Ahead . . . Tenderize My Meat.

There were things I didn't know, which I didn't find out until much later—like what happened in the auditorium after my father was rushed out.

It hadn't occurred to me that others had heard that—and even though news of my father's death had been greatly exaggerated, it didn't matter. What mattered was the possibility that he'd die. Just like my eruption at Aunt Mona, it was something everyone was thinking, but it was too dangerous to say aloud.

In the awkward, uneasy moments after we had left, Principal Sinclair tried to get things back on track—the show must go on, and all. It was no use. The crowd was murmuring up a cloud of worry—not about my father, but about themselves. Then someone yelled, “Hey, I want my month back,” and all eyes turned to Gunnar.

In less than a minute, people were asking him, tugging at him, grabbing at him, demanding their time back—and when he didn't give it back right then and there, things started to get ugly. People were yelling, pushing one another, and then kids who didn't even care took this as their cue to make further mischief, by fighting, throwing stuff, and creating a general atmosphere of havoc. Mob mentality took over.

Gunnar and Kjersten escaped through a back door, along with the superintendent, leaving poor Mr. Sinclair and a skeletal faculty desperately struggling to bring back sanity, like that was gonna happen. In the end, Wendell Tiggor led about twenty semihardened criminals and delinquent wannabes on a rampage through the school. The rest was history.

But I didn't know any of this when I arrived at Gunnar and Kjersten's house at twelve-thirty in the morning.

I rang the bell and knocked, rang and knocked, over and over until Mrs. Ümlaut came to the door in a bathrobe. There was luggage just inside the door, and I knew she must have arrived home that evening. I didn't bother with pleasantries, I pushed right past her and bounded up the stairs.

“What are you doing? What do you want?” she wailed, but I really didn't have time for explanations.

Gunnar's door was closed, but not locked. The one thing I had going for me tonight was unlocked doors. I found a light switch, flicked it on, and Gunnar sat up in bed, blinking, not entirely conscious yet.

“Where is it?” I demanded.

“Antsy? Wh-what's going on?”

“The notebook. Where is it? Answer me!”

It took him a moment to process the question, then he glanced over at his desk. “It's there, but—”

That's all I needed to know. I grabbed the notebook—and noticed right away that it felt way too light. I opened it up and saw that it was empty. The pages were all gone.

“Where's all the time? I have to have that time!”

“You can't!” Gunnar said.

Wrong answer! I pulled him out of bed so sharply, I heard his T-shirt tear. “You're giving them to me, and you're giving them to me now!” I never muscled other kids to get what I want, but right now I was willing to use every muscle in my body to get this.

Behind me I heard Kjersten call my name, I heard their mother scream, and that pushed me all the more to push him. I slammed Gunnar hard against the wall. “Give them to me!”

Then something hit me. Mrs. Ümlaut had attacked me. She was armed, and swinging, wailing as she did. I felt the weapon connect with my back, the blow softened slightly by my jacket, but still it hurt. She swung it again, and this time I saw what it was. It was a meat tenderizer. A stainless-steel, square little mallet. She swung the kitchen utensil like the hammer of Thor and it connected with my shoulder right through my coat.

“Ow!”

“You stop this!” she screamed. “You stop this now!”

But I didn't stop. I didn't stop until Kjersten entered the battle, and with a single blow that bore the force of the dozen or so other Norse gods, her fist connected with my face and I went down.

You don't know this kind of pain—and if you do, I'm sorry.

Had it been my nose, she would have broken it. Had it been my chin, my jaw would have to be wired together for months. But it was my eye.

All those muscles that were, just an instant ago, ready to tear Gunnar limb from limb suddenly decided it was time to call it a night, and they all went limp. I didn't quite pass out, but I did find myself on the ground, with just enough strength to bring my hands to my eye, and cry out in pain.

My left eye was swollen shut in seconds, and in the kind of humiliation beyond which there is only darkness, I allowed Kjersten to guide me downstairs and into the kitchen. I had just been beaten to a pulp by my girlfriend in a single blow. Social lives did not get any bleaker than this.

“I had to do it,” she said as she prepared a bag of ice for me. “If I didn't, my mother would have taken that meat tenderizer to your head, and knocked you silly.”

“Silly works,” I mumbled. “Better than where I was.”

She seemed to understand, even without me telling her—after all, she was right there in the front row when my dad had the heart attack. I told her where things stood with my father, and she went out into the living room, explaining everything to her mother. She spoke in Swedish, which, I guess was the language of love in this family. I could see Mrs. Ümlaut glance at me as they spoke. At first she looked highly suspicious, but her distrust eventually faded, and her motherly instincts returned.

Gunnar joined me in the kitchen. It kind of surprised me on account of we now had a perp/victim relationship. He seemed unfazed by my unprovoked attack. Maybe because there were plenty of other things to faze him.

“I don't think we're going to be a National Blue Ribbon school,” he said, and he explained to me the madness that ensued after my family and I had left the rally.

“I couldn't give anyone back their months,” he said. “You can't have them either. Because last week my dad found them, and burned them all in the fireplace.”

And there they went, all my hopes of redemption up in smoke. Without those time contracts, I could not undo what I had done. But I had already regained enough of my senses to realize getting those pages would not help my father.

Gunnar went on to tell me how his dad had officially left the minute his mom came home.

“They're splitting up,” he told me.

I almost started to say how that wasn't such a big deal, considering—but realized that I would sound just like Aunt Mona.
Trauma? You don't know from trauma until your father's had a heart attack. And they're much worse in Chicago.

I wouldn't invalidate his pain. Every problem is massive until something more massive comes along.

In a few moments Mrs. Ümlaut came in with Kjersten. Mercifully she did not have the meat tenderizer. Mrs. Ümlaut sat beside me, far more sympathetic than when I pushed through the front door.

“Your father?” she asked.

“They're still working on him,” I said. “At least they were when I left.”

She nodded. Then she took my both my hands in hers, looked into my one useful eye, and then Mrs. Ümlaut said something to me that I know I will remember for the rest of my life.

“Either he will live, or he will die.”

That was it. That was all. Yet suddenly everything came into clear focus.
Either he will live, or he will die.
Simple as that. All the drama, all the craziness, all the panic, didn't mean a thing. This was a gamble—a roll of the dice. I don't know why, but I took comfort from that. There were, after all, only two outcomes. I could not predict them, I could not control them. It was not in my hands. I had been afraid to say the word “die,” but now that it had been said, and with such strength and compassion, it held no power over me.

For the first time all night, I found myself crying like there was no tomorrow—although I knew there would be a tomorrow. It might not be the tomorrow I wanted, but it would still be there.

I could feel Kjersten's hand on my shoulder, and I let comfort come from all sides. Then, when my tears had gone dry, Mrs. Ümlaut said, “Come, I'll take you to the hospital.”

 
 
When I got to the hospital, there were more familiar faces in the waiting area. Relatives we didn't get to see this holiday season, Barry from the restaurant, a couple of family friends—and in the middle of it all were Lexie and her grandfather. I went straight to Lexie. Moxie got up when he saw me, and so Lexie knew, even before someone called my name, that I was there.

“We came as soon as we heard,” she said. “Where have you been?”

“Long story. Is there any news?”

“Not yet.”

I looked around. Mona had come back, and Christina was asleep in her arms. I wondered if they had made up. Mona didn't look at me.

Crawley, who never came out of his apartment unless he was kidnapped or pried out with a crowbar, came up to me. “All expenses shall be covered,” he said. “Either way.”

For a second I felt like getting angry at that, but I had had enough anger for one evening. “That's okay,” I told him. “We don't want your money.”

“But you'll take it,” he said, and then added with more emotion than I'd ever seen in him before, “because that's what I have to give.”

I nodded a quiet acceptance.

“Your mother's up in the chapel,” Lexie said.

I gave a quick greeting to relatives and friends, then went to find her.

 
 
The place wasn't much of a chapel—there were only four rows, and the pews seemed too comfortable to be effective. There was a small stained-glass panel, backlit with fluorescent lights. There was no cross on account of it was a spiritual multipurpose room, that had to be used by people of all religious symbols. The chapel's best feature was a huge bookshelf stocked with Bibles and holy books of all shapes and sizes, so nobody got left out. Old Testament, New Testament, red testament, blue testament. This one has a little star—see how many faiths there are. (This is the moment I realized how exhausted I really was.)

Mom was alone in the room, kneeling in the second row. It was so like her to take the second row even when she was alone in the room.

“Did you fall asleep in the car?” Mom asked, without turning around to see me.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I can always tell when you need a shower,” she told me. Between her and Lexie, who needed sight? At least if she didn't look at me too closely, she wouldn't see my swollen eye.

“Come pray with me, Anthony.”

And so I did. I knelt beside her, joining her—and as I did, maybe for the first time in my life, I understood it. Not so much the words as the whole idea of prayer itself.

I'll never really know if prayer changes the outcome of things. Lots of people believe it does. I know I'd like to believe it, but there's no guarantee. Some people pray and their prayers are rewarded—they walk away convinced that their prayers were answered. Others pray and they get refused. Sometimes they lose their faith, all because they lost the roll of the dice.

That night, as I prayed, I wasn't praying for my own wants and needs. I prayed for my father, and for my mother, I prayed for my whole family. Not because I was
supposed
to—not because I was afraid of what would happen if I didn't. I was doing it because I truly wanted to do it with all my heart, and believe it or not, for the first time ever, I didn't want it to end.

That's when I realized—

—and excuse me for having a whole immaculate Sunday-school moment here, but I gotta milk it since they don't come that often—

—that's when I realized that prayer isn't for God. After all, He doesn't need it. He's out there, or in there, or sitting up there in His firmament, whatever that is, all-knowing and all-powerful, right? He doesn't need us repeating words week after week in His face. If He's there, sure, I'll bet He's listening, but it doesn't
change
Him, one way or the other.