Crusader (3 page)

Suzie pointed to a pile of papers on her desk and smiled. It was this month's edition of the mall newsletter, still in its PIP
Printing wrapper. She said, "Here you go, Roberta. The August issue. Thanks for all your help."

I told her, "Sure. I was glad to." I unwrapped the pile and handed the top copy to Dad. I pointed out, "Here's my article, Dad, on the front page."

He said, "Great, honey. That's great. I'll read it right now."

Because I'm a journalism student, I volunteer to help Suzie lay out the newsletter, proofread the type, bring the disk to the printers, et cetera. This issue contained my first full-length feature. It was about Toby the Turtle, the mall's mascot, whose cartoon image appears on the parking lot banners and on all official mall advertisements.

Neither Suzie nor Dad said anything else, so I figured they were waiting for me to leave. I lugged the pile out to the mallway and turned left, beginning my clockwise delivery route.

I've delivered the newsletter ever since the first issue, back in January. Twenty of the slots in the West End Mall are currently empty, like Slot #61, the mannequin window. But fifty-two slots remain occupied.

Most of the people who saw me just said, "Thanks," or "Hi," or "Hi, Roberta." Devin at Candlewycke tried to get me to come inside, but I wouldn't. Devin is a weird guy. He's old, like in his fifties, but he looks like a cross between a goth and a skinhead. He wears black all the time—black hip-hugger jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. Creepy. His gift shop has beautiful hand-carved candles up front, but it has weird stuff, like Nazi daggers, in the back. No way I'm going in there when it's not open.

Slots #10, #11, and #12 belong to Crescent Electronics, the most successful store in the mall. They started out in #12 only, but they tripled in size and now are talking about taking over one of the empty department stores. Crescent is run by a nineteen-year-old guy named Samir Samad, who everybody calls Sam. Technically, Sam's father is the owner, but he lives in
Los Angeles, and he leaves all the decision making in Florida to Sam.

Sam takes courses at the University of South Florida, which is where I would like to go for my undergraduate degree. I try to speak to him whenever I can. I wanted to point out my feature to Sam, but he was involved in a heated discussion with Verna, the mall security guard.

A Crescent employee slid open the door and came out. He had an open can of turpentine in one hand and a brush in the other. I watched as he bent down and started to dab at drops of red paint on the mallway floor. I decided to slip inside, holding up a copy of the newsletter in case anyone wondered what I was doing. Once in there, I could hear Sam. "I'm telling you, this is a racist attack. Whoever did this knew it was my car, and knew that I am Muslim."

Verna sounded puzzled. "Why would they paint a Star of David on your car, though? Isn't that for Jewish people?"

Sam explained patiently, "Precisely so. Yes. It is an insult for a person of the Muslim faith to have to drive around with a Jewish religious symbol on his car."

Verna nodded sympathetically. "I understand that now, once you've explained it to me. But couldn't there be another explanation?"

"Like what?"

"Like it was random. Someone was going to paint that star on that particular car no matter who owned it? It was a random act of vandalism?"

Sam shook his head. "No. I do not believe in random things. Not with the hang-up phone calls we've been getting at the store. Not with the red crosses painted on the store windows. Not with that rebel flag crap. No. There is a clear pattern here. I would hope that you, Verna, being African American, would be sensitive to the racist nature of this attack."

"Sam, if I could see this 'racist nature' thing, I'd be all over it like a rash. But I'm not prepared, at this point, to go down there with you and accuse this guy with no evidence."

Sam exhaled. He turned, saw me, and pulled back, surprised. "What do you want?"

I was still holding a newsletter in my hand. "Here's your newsletter. I wrote a feature in it."

"Just put it on the counter."

I mumbled, "Sorry," and backed out, dropping the newsletter where he had said to. I heard Sam say one more thing to Verna: "I wonder how long she was standing there."

I delivered the rest of the newsletters as quickly as possible, not making eye contact with anyone. The encounter with Sam made me feel terrible, like I was a criminal. And what was the story there? What was going on with Sam's car, and the "racist nature" of something?

I slid a newsletter through the open door of Love-a-Pet, in Slot #34. Then I turned and nearly bumped into Ironman's mother, Mrs. Royce, as she unlocked the door of SpecialTees, Slot #33. SpecialTees is a shop that puts your name or message on different styles of T-shirts, and hats, and sweatshirts. I guess Mrs. Royce doesn't always get the right message on the right shirt. People are always complaining. Ironman and his little sister, Dolly, both wear SpecialTees reject shirts with misspelled words on them, or wrong names, or wrong messages.

I hurried away, completed deliveries to the north-end stores, and came to my last stop, Isabel's Hallmark. I couldn't see Mrs. Weiss inside, so I propped a copy against her door.

I walked into Arcane, past the three guys at the counter. They didn't say anything, so neither did I.I continued into the back room to start spraying helmets.

Uncle Frank was seated there at his desk, looking at invoices. The phone rang, but he made no move to answer it.
After the third ring he looked up at me and said, "Would you mind getting that?"

I pressed the blinking button and said, "Arcane—The Virtual Reality Arcade. Roberta speaking."

"I know who it is, honey. This is Isabel."

"Oh, hi, Mrs. Weiss."

"Congratulations to you! A front-page feature. I am going to go hang this up by the register."

"Thanks."

"Did you eat breakfast this morning?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"What did you have? A chili dog?"

"No, ma'am. A Pop-Tart."

"What's that? Some kind of doughnut?"

"No, it's a breakfast food. It has fruit in it."

"I'm sure. Look, honey, I need to speak to your uncle right away."

"All right." I covered the mouthpiece and told Uncle Frank, "It's Mrs. Weiss for you."

He pointed toward the front. "From the card shop?"

I nodded. He took the phone and said, "Hello, Mrs. Weiss. What can I do for you?"

I picked up a can of disinfectant, but I stayed where I was. It was unusual for Mrs. Weiss to call Uncle Frank. It was potentially news. I watched Uncle Frank tighten his grip on the phone, like he was holding a saber. He finally replied, "Yes, Mrs. Weiss, I will take care of this matter immediately. And I thank you for calling it to my attention."

Uncle Frank slammed down the phone, rose, and bolted through the door. I followed him up to the counter. Karl was opening a roll of nickels and placing them carefully in the register. Uncle Frank waited for him to finish before he asked,
"Karl, do you know anything about an accident in front of our store this morning?"

Karl looked at the coins, then up at his father. "No."

"You didn't see or hear anything unusual?"

Karl shook his head from side to side. "No."

"Because a woman named Millie Roman has just filed an accident report, and she claims the accident happened right here, in front of you."

Karl started to fidget. He answered defensively, "It might have happened, but I didn't see it."

Then Uncle Frank asked him, with chilling slowness, "You didn't stand behind our door, with a sign that said
YES, WE'RE OPEN
, and entice her to walk into the glass?"

Karl's head started to bob up and down. "No. No, not deliberately."

Uncle Frank took a deep breath. He asked, "Where is the sign now?"

"I don't know."

Uncle Frank repeated in that same, almost hypnotizing, voice, "Where is the sign now?"

Karl squeezed his eyes shut. Then he reached under the counter, pulled out the sign, and handed it over.

Uncle Frank took it and stared at it long and hard. When he finally spoke, it was still in that slow voice. "Here's what you're going to do. You're going to walk across to that card shop. This Millie Roman is over there now. You're going to apologize to her. Furthermore, you're going to pay for any damages that might arise out of this complaint. Do you understand?"

Karl's eyes were open now, but he was looking at the cash register. He whispered, "Yes, sir."

Uncle Frank continued. "Karl, do you understand that this
is the type of behavior that will land you back at the Positive Place?"

Karl looked up. The fear was visible in his face. He answered, "Yes, sir."

"And do you want to go back to the Positive Place?"

"Oh no, sir."

When Uncle Frank spoke again, it was in his normal voice. "Did you miss a medication today?"

"No, sir."

"No? Are you sure?"

Karl nodded. Uncle Frank studied the back of the sign. He said. "I wish you had. I wish I had some simple reason to hang this on. I wish to god I did."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, get over there and apologize to that poor woman. Roberta, you go, too, and see that he does."

Karl shambled around the counter and out into the mallway before I could react. I ran behind him, catching up just as he reached the entrance to Isabel's Hallmark. He cocked his head to the left and right, looking for the old lady.

I spotted her first. She was sitting on a chair behind the cash register counter. Mrs. Weiss was standing next to her, waiting. I touched Karl on the arm and pointed to them. He strode directly to the counter, put both hands on it, and shouted, "I'm sorry!" Then he spun around on his heel and stalked out.

The old lady looked like she had just been hit again. Mrs. Weiss put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her other hand pointed up at me. She said, "Millie, this is Roberta Ritter. Roberta, this is Millie Roman."

The old lady, Mrs. Roman, looked up at me with a wary expression. I said, "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Roman. I'm sorry about what Karl did. Please don't take it personally. He's like this for medical reasons."

Mrs. Weiss quickly picked up on this theme. "That's right. That's exactly right. It's medical. If it hadn't been you, Millie, it would have been the next person along. He was just set to blow." Mrs. Weiss looked at me. "Roberta, what is wrong with that boy?"

"I don't really know, Mrs. Weiss."

"Has he always behaved this way?"

"I've only known him for three years. He's been like this for three years."

"What's wrong with his face? Is that a rash?"

"No, I think that's just what his skin looks like, Mrs. Weiss. He's had that bad skin for at least three years, too."

Mrs. Roman spoke up. "He shouldn't eat potato chips. Those are very greasy."

Mrs. Weiss and I both looked at her, waiting, but she didn't say anything else. I finally said, "Sorry, Mrs. Weiss, but I really need to get back."

"Oh, of course, honey. You go on. Are you coming to the cemetery tomorrow?"

"Yes, ma'am." I said to the old lady, "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Roman." But she didn't respond.

Uncle Frank asked, "Did Karl apologize okay?"

"Yes, sir. He did it."

"Good. That's good." Uncle Frank shook his head, slowly and sadly. "You know, Roberta, the doctors have been telling me since Karl was seven years old that he's going to outgrow this. Well, it hasn't happened yet. I'd hate like hell to send him back to that Positive Place. I know they scared the pants off him there, but it just might be what he needs. I don't know."

I wanted to answer Uncle Frank, but I couldn't think of anything to say. I know that Karl has ADHD. And I know what
the letters stand for, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. But that's about it.

Suddenly Uncle Frank's eyes brightened. He said, "Hi, Kitten." I turned and saw that Kristin had arrived.

Uncle Frank calls Kristin "Kitten." He calls Karl "Karl." Then I watched Uncle Frank's eyes veer off to follow someone behind me, entering the arcade. He whispered, "AAs, Roberta."

AA is the code for African Americans. We also use an A-code for Asians and an S-code for Spanish, any type of Spanish. We should probably have a code for Native Americans, too, in case they get too close to Custer's Last Stand, but we don't.

I looked toward the back and saw an African American father and son. They were getting dangerously close to King Kong, an experience in which you battle prehistoric dinosaurs and spear-carrying natives. I said, "I'll take care of it."

Uncle Frank mumbled to me, "The dad looks like he might be a vet. See if you can steer him to the Halls of Montezuma."

"Okay." As I closed in on them, I saw what Uncle Frank meant. The dad had muscles, very good posture, and a shaved head.

But before I could say anything, his kid noticed Galactic Defender. It's one of our most popular space-alien experiences. He decided. "Daddy, I want to do this one."

I said, "Can I help you, sir?"

The dad pointed a big finger at Galactic Defender. "What happens in this one?"

"You fight space aliens."

"Uh-huh. Is it real bloody?"

"No, sir. I don't think the aliens even have blood."

"Okay. Let's do it." I opened the black plastic circle and helped the kid step up onto the round platform within it. Then I picked up the electronic wand from its sheath, stretched out
the wire, and handed it to him, saying, "Squeeze this handle at the bottom whenever you want to slice. Otherwise you'll just be hitting them and they won't die."

The kid said, "Okay." I helped him put on the helmet, adjusted the viewer over his eyes, and stepped out of the circle, clicking it shut. I ripped out a ticket from my book and handed it to the dad. "You pay up front."

I keyed in a code and announced, "Here we go." The kid crouched down, ready for battle. As he struck out against the first wave of aliens, the dad asked, "What's that King Kong game like?"

"That's currently experiencing technical difficulties."