Crazy (21 page)

AUNT BEE
:
It sure sounds like her.

CRAZY GLUE
:
She knows you're Mouse! She wrote it because she knows you're Mouse.

No. She couldn't. No, it's a coincidence.

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
She spent the night in your room. If she
snooped, she might have found something, like the letter to the editor you printed.

Oh man.

CRAZY GLUE
:
And she's got a big mouth, like she says. By the time you get back to school, a whole mob could be after you. Still feel like you could stand up to anyone?

I stare at the letter a long time. It makes me feel tired. Now I don't know how to answer the letter. After a while I write:

Dear Tattletale:

Did you do the right thing? Not likely since your friend isn't your friend anymore. What makes you think you're always right about everything, anyway? And now you can't undo what you've done, so you and your friend have to live with that. How can you get your friend back? It's not up to you. Why do you think you should control this person and this person's fate? You're only half the friendship. Your friend either forgives you or not. Who are you to decide everything, anyway?

I stop. I shouldn't be doing this—writing these letters. I'm asking Shelby who does she think she is; well, who do I think I am? I can't give people advice. I'm not always right, either. Nobody should listen to me. Hell, I talk to voices in my head!

CRAZY GLUE
:
Maybe we're real.

AUNT BEE
:
Maybe we aren't just voices.

SEXY LADY
:
Come on over to our side, Jason.

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
Life is easier over here. Don't you know that?

Shut up! Why are you guys turning against me?

SEXY LADY
:
We're for you, not against you. Don't I always remind you how hot you are?

Not lately. Anyway, I don't like this. I'm the one who's supposed to be in control. I'm in charge here.

CRAZY GLUE
:
Hey goob, don't you know anything? Characters always get out of control of their creators, just like real friends do.

I slam my laptop shut and jump up from my chair.

"Ready to go?"

I whip around and find Cap standing in my doorway. I'm so relieved to see a real live person.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Let's go!"

I follow him out of the room, resisting the urge to grab hold of his hand.

I
START TO PUT ON MY COAT
, but Cap says, "Wait a minute—I think I have something that may be a bit warmer. It just might fit you."

I imagine another pea coat, but the real thing since Cap is retired from the navy and he has one on, but he reaches into the hall closet and pulls out a jacket with red and black squares on it. It looks like a woodsman's jacket.

"It's lined with Thinsulate, so it's thin but plenty warm," he says, offering me the coat.

I put it on as best as I can, what with my left arm still in a sling. The right side fits exactly, and I wonder which foster kid left it behind. It can't be Reed's; it's for somebody long and narrow, like me.

Cap helps me get the coat buttoned; then we step outside into the sunshine. I squint and look out across the lawn. It feels strange not to see the river in front of me, its color always changing to shades of gray and blue and green and brown. Instead, I see the snow-covered lawn and a puny snowman leaning drunkenly in its center. The brick walkway that divides the lawn
in two is shoveled off, and as we walk toward the street, I hear the sound of our shoes crunching on the bits of salt scattered here and there. We step out into the road where the snow is melted. There are puddles I don't see until it's too late, and ice water seeps in through the crack in the sole of my shoe, soaking my sock.

"The Army-Navy Country Club is nearby. We'll walk there," Cap says.

I nod and stick my hand in the pocket of my new coat. I feel around for something left behind by the previous owner, but I don't find anything.

I take long strides to keep up with Cap, and five minutes later we come to a large parking lot. We head toward a brick building at the far end and pass by a row of snow-covered tennis courts.

"We've got swimming here, golf, tennis," Cap says. "While you're living with us, you can use these facilities. We'll sign you up for classes or lessons, if you'd like."

"Thank you," I say. "I think I'm just going to take it easy for now, though."

CRAZY GLUE
:
He's trying to bribe you.

Cap nods and we keep walking beyond the building, where the view opens up to parts of the golf course and a big, wide-open sky. Its vastness makes my chest expand and my back straighten. I feel I need to walk taller just to try to fill all this space. It makes me wonder if there really is such a place as heaven, and that makes me think about my mom.

Cap breaks into my thoughts. "I heard about your mother," he says, like he's just read my mind. "I'm really saddened by your loss, and I'm sorry about your father, too. It's a tough break. But you know, I've learned there's really no use dwelling on what has happened in the past. Remember your mother with love, do the best you can for your father, and get on with your life. There's really nothing else you can do."

CRAZY GLUE
:
Except live it up with him at the club. What a weasel. Trying to make your dad look bad.

We keep walking, and the sun reflects off the fields of snow and shines in our faces. We both have to squint our eyes up really tight to see where we're going. As we walk, I listen to the squeak of Cap's leather shoes and the solid sound of his rugged soles striking the pavement. I squish along beside him.

A hawk takes wing from the top of a distant pine tree and Cap shades his eyes to watch. "You get back into school and get busy with your work and your friends, and you'll see, everything will fall into place again."

I don't say anything. I watch the hawk soar above us. I wish it would swoop down, grab me in its talons, and take me away—far away.

Cap stops walking, so I do, too. He takes a pair of eyeglasses out of his pocket. He puts them on, their wire frames making him look more like a professor than a naval officer, and points to the sky, squinting.
"Look at that hawk, would you. Look at her soar. Now, that's beauty in motion." His face has this look of proud admiration—the same look I've seen on my mom, and I know that like me, like my mom and dad, too, he's a bird lover. I can tell just by his expression and the way that his hand, shading his eyes, looks almost like a salute.

We watch the hawk soar in ever-widening circles above the golf course. Then Cap notices my shivering, so he removes his glasses and we set off walking again. "Better keep moving," he says. "Not much wind, but when you stand still, it starts to feel chilly. You're not too tired, are you?"

"No, I'm fine, I guess."

"Good. Then I think we should discuss the matter of your bed-wetting. Have you always had this problem?"

CRAZY GLUE
:
We told you. He knows. Soon he'll put two and two together and come up with
crazy.
Just like dear old dad.

I want to bolt, but I just stop and stand with my hand jammed into my coat pocket, my other hand in a fist.

Cap stops, too, and puts his arm on my shoulder. "Don't worry. You're not the only foster child we've had who wet the bed."

AUNT BEE
:
Foster child? Is that what you are?

SEXY LADY
:
I thought foster children were little kids. Doesn't he know you're a hot, sexy dude?

CRAZY GLUE
:
You're nobody's foster kid. Tell him that. You're nobody's foster kid.

I twist away from him. "I—I'm not your, I'm not a foster child. I'm just here for like a week, and I'm sorry about your bed. If I wrecked your mattress, then ..."

Cap raises his hand and squints at me. "Nonsense, son. We're not upset with you. I just thought maybe I could help. This is a problem that needs to be nipped in the bud. You don't want to grow into an adult and still have this issue."

"I only wet the bed when I have this one bad dream," I say through clenched teeth.

Cap puts his arm on my shoulder again and kind of pushes me along so that we're walking. "Care to tell me about the dream?" he says.

"It's nothing." I shrug. "I mean, I'm just under the ocean floor, like under all this sand, and there's all this pressure—all the weight of the ocean—and, well, that's all. I pee in the bed and wake up."

I look at Cap and he's nodding. The sun makes the silver streaks in his hair shine like mica.

CRAZY GLUE
:
Oh no, here comes the 0fatherly advice.

LAUGH TRACK
:
Uh-oh.

"Sounds upsetting. Any idea why you keep having that dream?"

CRAZY GLUE
:
He's clever. Wants you to fink on your dad and tell him about getting buried alive. Tell the dude to stuff it. Go on, tell him.

I stop walking again. "Look, I don't know, okay?" I say, squinting into his eyes. "It's just a dream. Are you some kind of dream expert? Is that what they taught you in the navy?" I shake my head. "I don't want to walk anymore. I want to go home—uh, I mean back to the house. I'm tired. And don't worry. I always clean up my mess and I don't have that dream too often. Hardly ever."

I start to walk off and I feel this hand grab my shoulder and pull me back. I stumble, and Cap has to catch me so I don't fall. I look up and Cap looks mad. His lips are clenched like an asshole...

CRAZY GLUE
:
We're talking a real sphincter here.

And his nostrils are flared.

"Jason, I understand that you're upset. You're in a tough spot. I get that. But I didn't cause your problems. Get mad at the situation, not at me. I'm trying to help you. I'm on your side. And you'll find if you can talk something out, often the problem you thought was so big just shrinks or disappears altogether. You need to talk about your dream to someone."

CRAZY GLUE
:
Who asked him?

I cross my good arm over my bad. "Look, I'm fine on my own. I don't need your help. I'm not even a real foster kid, so you don't have to treat me like one. Like I said, I'm only going to be here for a few days or a couple of weeks at the most. That's all. And I already have
a father. He's great. He's
really
great. So I don't need another one."

I sound like a kid. I know I do, but I can't help it.

Cap tilts his head. "How about a concerned friend, then? Can you stand to have me just be your friend?" he says, his voice softer, his mouth relaxing.

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
You've got to hand it to him—he's stubborn.

I bite the inside corner of my mouth and glance sideways to keep from having to look at him. "Yeah, I guess so," I say.

He tousles my hair. "Good deal," he says.

I look at him. "As long as you don't do that to my hair again," I add.

He laughs and slaps me on the back, and we head back toward the house.

M
RS. LYNCH DROPS
me off early at school on Monday so she can get Gwendolyn to her preschool and then get to her job at some crafts boutique where she works part-time. Cap, it turns out, works part-time at the country club doing some kind of office work now that he's retired. He had already left by the time I got up.

We pull up to the school, and the grounds are empty except for a couple of guys I see running up the steps and entering the front of the building.

I take a deep breath and open the car door. It feels like I've been gone forever. The weekend felt like a whole month, maybe 'cause I spent most of it alone in my room thinking too much about Dad and Reed. I hate how I keep lumping them together in my mind as if they were alike somehow, even though they're not. Dad would never stab anyone.

Anyway, I'm afraid to ask about Reed, where he is, because I'm afraid I can't handle the answer. The way people come and go in your life, where they're present and alive one minute, and missing or dead the next, is an idea that's too big for me to grasp. Life just seems way too
fragile all of a sudden, and everybody seems to take it so lightly, as if they think we're all made like army tanks, big and strong and able to roll over anything in our way. And it's not just our bodies that are fragile; our minds are even more so. I don't know what fine membrane separates sanity from insanity, but after watching my dad slip-sliding around on the border between the two all my life, I know how easy it is to cross, and this scares me. This scares me to death. I've just been wondering, what if I had had the switchblade in my hand? What if Reed had dared me and I was the one with the switchblade? Maybe I would have used it. Then I'd be the one missing. It could have been me. I could have been Reed. Reed is me and I am Reed is Dad is Reed is me.

CRAZY GLUE
:
Got that?

It's too easy to slip up, to slip off, and flip out. That's what I was thinking about all weekend—trying so hard to hold on to me—to—to sanity.

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
That's what you've been doing since your mother died. You're holding on too tight. You're like your dad's violin, and all the strings are going to bust one of these days.

It's all I know how to do—just hold on.

FBG WITH A MUSTACHE
:
Maybe Cap is right; you should tell someone what that dream is all about.

CRAZY GLUE
:
You wet the bed twice last night. You're getting worse, goob.

I get out of the car and Mrs. Lynch asks me, "Are you going to be all right? Don't forget your lunch, and
here"—she grabs a couple of dollars stashed in a cup holder beside her and hands them to me—"in case you need a snack. I'll pick you up at three, okay?"

"Yeah, sure," I say, but see—how is it one day I'm struggling to scrape together a few pennies to keep me and my dad going and the next day someone shoves two dollars at me just like that? That doesn't make any sense to me. How can life be like that? How can someone be alive one second and dead the next, or sane one minute and crazy the next? Is all this supposed to make sense? Does everybody get it except me?