Beetle Boy (21 page)

“Sorry, but I hated it. It was horrible for me. I was such an introverted kid. Plus, I was in shock that my mom had left me. Those stories were her bedtime stories, and I always felt like I was stealing them.”

His jaw drops. “Wow, I did not know any of that. You kids seemed to be doing fine without her.”

“We weren't fine. Nope. Not even close.”

“Well, do you ever see your mom now? What was her name again?”

“Lucinda. Actually she lives with my little brother somewhere in Grand Rapids.”

“Man, I could never figure out how your parents
ever
got together. Dan was such a wild guy. He could party all night. And she was—what did you call it? Introverted? She was real introverted too. And very nervous. A nervous woman. Everything bothered her. I wasn't surprised when she split on him. I was just surprised that she didn't take you kids with her. That's what the women usually do.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Very puzzling.”

“Well … I don't really know what I'm gonna do with all these books, but I'll think of something.”

“You should sell them on eBay, Sam. Lots of people sell books on eBay. I had a friend once who sold her books in batches of ten at a reduced price—she sold all of them pretty fast.”

“Do you know how to do that?” he asked hopefully.

“No clue,” I lied. “But ask around. It's easy to find people who will know how to help you get them listed.”

“Hmmm. I just might give it a try. I really appreciate you giving them to me, Charlie, when you could have just sold them yourself.” He was shaking my hand as he said this; we were even-steven.

It had been my brilliant idea to sell the
Franklin Firefly
books in my closet on eBay. I had read an article on the Internet about making money off books this way, especially if they were new. Apparently, teachers and librarians often trolled auction sites looking for multiple copies of books to use in reading groups. I explained all of this to Mrs. M. “The article suggested batches of ten, shipped book rate in cheap padded mailers,” I said.

“I prefer not to be involved in this project,” Mrs. M. insisted. “Honestly, just seeing those ridiculous books makes me ill. Plus, they remind me of a terrible time in my life.”

“You mean when you met me? That was such a terrible time?”

“Meeting you wasn't terrible,” she said. “Annoying, yes, but ultimately rewarding. But everything else that year was pretty bad.”

“You mean because of your husband dying?”

“No, no, that had happened long before. No, I had a very serious illness the year before I met you. I was recovering when we met. Trying to get my life back on track. Unfortunately, I chose the wrong way.” She shuddered and added, “The
Franklin Firefly
way.”

As she was speaking, something was coming into my head, an earlier image of her, the way she had looked when I'd met her. Her paleness and thinness and her constant scowling and that terrible red wig. I was older now, old enough to know what it meant when a woman is very pale and thin and has no hair.

I asked softly, “Did you have cancer before I met you, Mrs. M.?”

“I did.”

“Geez. Why didn't you ever mention it before today?”

“I don't know. I hadn't planned on mentioning it today. It's not something I need to talk about. And I certainly wasn't about to dump it on you when I first met you, for God's sake. You had enough to worry about, poor little orphan in a bug suit that you were.”

“So you had that chemotherapy thing? Where your hair falls out?”

“Lots of chemotherapy, Charlie. A tough year.”

We needed suddenly to look away from each other. But I managed to say, “Mrs. M., if I had known you that year, I would have helped you.”

“I think maybe I needed you more the year after. When we did meet. When I was in
Franklin Firefly
hell.”

“And I was in
Beetle Boy
hell. And you kept calling my dad a pimp and insulting all the librarians and telling me to get away from you.”

She smiled and patted my hand. “Such sweet memories you have of me.”

When I return home from the Printing Express, I do something that I have been slowly building up the courage to do over the past few weeks, even before my brother destroyed my relationship with my girlfriend, even before I became a man with no place to live. I lean against the counter in Clara's kitchen and punch a phone number into the landline, noticing that my phone hand is shaking like I'm an old person.
Just one old person calling another old person,
I reassure myself and take a deep breath and wait through several rings.

A voice I don't recognize answers, and I ask for Martha. It feels very strange to say “Martha,” but the person who answers says, “Just a minute.”

A few minutes later: “Hello, this is Martha.”

“You'll never guess who this is.”

“Wrong. I know it's you. Took you long enough. How is your leg?”

“How did you even know about my accident, Mrs. M.?”

“Mr. Carter told me. I asked him to keep an eye on the house and gave him my sister's phone number. Apparently, he saw you flailing in the street in front of my house, and he thinks you're my grandson, so he called me. The hospital told me who your surgeon was. I knew you didn't have any health insurance, and I didn't want you drowning in debt. So is your leg getting better? No complications?”

“No complications, just a very impressive scar. Listen, I have a few things I need to say to you right away. Like, before we can converse normally. First of all, thank you for paying my medical bills. I know it's a ton of money to pay for an operation. But someday I'll pay you back, I swear I will.”

“Not to worry, Charlie. I'll have plenty of money once the house is sold.”

“The second thing I need to say right away is that once I read the letter you left for me, I thought you were dead. I really thought you were dead, Mrs. M. That's why I ran into the street and hurt my leg. And that's why you haven't heard from me. For a while I was too mad at you to write to you, but then I met this girl and got all caught up in that and then you basically told me in the note that you were dead!”

“I know. I know. Perhaps I overdid it. But I honestly didn't think I'd last more than a month or two after I moved. And we parted on such bad terms, Charlie. I wanted to correct that. I wanted to give you a memorable good-bye gift, something that would live on after my death.”

“But, Mrs. M.! What if I had never gone back to the house because I was still too mad at you to go back there? I would never have even
seen
that note!”

“Oh, I knew you'd go back. You're a very morbid person, Charlie—I could totally picture you sneaking back into the house in the darkness.”

“It
wasn't
dark! It was broad daylight! And it almost never happened! And you should have told me before you left that you were dying instead of telling me in a note!”

“If you recall, Charlie, we were having a hard time talking to each other about anything before I left.”

“I didn't want you to go. I wanted you to let me help you. I would have taken care of you, Mrs. M.”

“Charlie, you have no idea what you're saying. You have no idea how hard that would have been for us.”

This silences me. I suppose she is right. “Well, I don't know why you're giving me your dad's desk.”

She's quiet for a minute, then, “My dad's desk? Who said anything about it being my dad's? My husband bought it for me, and I secretly hated it. It's hideous but very valuable. English mahogany from the turn of the century. I figured you could sell it.”

“Sell it! You mean, keep the money?”

“Keep the money, Charlie. Get out of the motel. Take some classes. Get some training. You have so much potential.”

“But how do I sell an antique desk?”

“It's a project for you, Charlie. Move the desk to a safe storage unit and look into it. Ask my neighbor Frank if you need the names of some local antique dealers.”

“You really wouldn't mind if I sold it?”

“I would be happy if you sold it.”

“My next question is: do you think you might ever come back here?”

“I'm not going to be coming back. The house will be sold soon, and I'm afraid I'm just not well enough to travel anymore.”

“Like ever?”

“Like ever.”

“So do you think I could come there for a quick visit?”

“Define ‘quick visit.'”

“A few days.”

“Would you be coming by yourself?”

“Well … I would have come with my girlfriend, but she's not my girlfriend anymore. We broke up. She was really nice. Like you said, I found someone nice. She helped me move out of the motel, and she took really good care of me after my leg surgery. Her name was Clara.” My voice cracks. I take a few deep breaths.

“What happened, Charlie?”

“I don't know. Lots of things went wrong. I was stuck in her house recovering from the accident. She started to find out too many things about me. Like how screwed-up my childhood was. Like how Mom abandoned me. And how my dad ran off with the babysitter. And how my little brother has grown up into a psychopath. It was just too much for her. She was nice, but it just didn't work, Mrs. M.”

A pause. “Liam is a psychopath?” she repeats. “Please tell me you're exaggerating.”

“No, he's trying to get revenge on me for leaving him with Dad.”

She sighs. “Where does he live now that your dad has run off with the babysitter?”

“You won't believe this, Mrs. M. My mom actually came back to Grand Rapids. Liam lives with her now.”

“Really? Hmmm. And so now the two of them are back in your life?”

“I've seen them, if you call that being back in my life. It was Clara's idea. She didn't know what she was getting into. And now Liam is driving me crazy. You wouldn't believe what he did when … ah never mind, enough about him.”

“No, I'm genuinely relieved to hear he's not trapped with your father anymore.”

“Whatever. So what if I came out to visit you for a few days? Would your sister be okay with that?”

“She won't mind. But you will be shocked at how I look. I was Miss America when you last saw me, compared to how I look now.”

“Did you lose your hair again?”

“Did you ever see the movie
E.T.
?”

“Ouch. Do you want me to help you find a red wig?”

“I don't think I could pull off red anymore. I'm warning you, Charlie. You won't recognize me.”

“I promise not to scream when I first see you.”

A wheezy sound. She is laughing. Hearing her laugh makes me laugh. We both laugh for a few blissful moments. Then she says, serious again, “I'm afraid I have a condition. Before I will allow you to visit me.”

“Hmmm … where have I heard that one before?”

“You're not going to like it this time either. If you want to make a road trip out to visit me in Iowa, I don't think you should come alone.”

“I can't bring Clara. I told you, it's over.”

“I was thinking of that brother of yours. The psychopath. I'd like to finally meet him, Charlie.”

“That's not possible.”

“Oh, I think it's probably possible. Might not be easy, but life is hard, as you and I well know.”

“He won't do it, Mrs. M.”

“Are you sure? I'll bet you could find a way to get him to come. Now that he's back in your life.”

“I don't
want
him to come.”

“Then I'll just have to die without seeing you. That would be very sad, wouldn't it, Charlie?”

“Jesus!” I exclaimed. “You haven't changed.”

“Neither have you. Take it or leave it.”