Double-Dare O’Toole (4 page)

Fex's thoughts were elsewhere. “Yeah,” he agreed. Then he decided not to beat around the bush.

“Angie,” he said. “I have this friend. He's got a problem.”

“There's very few folks wandering around out there,” Angie said, “don't have at least one. What's your friend's problem?”

“Well, he's got this thing about taking a double-dare,” Fex said. “Every time somebody double-dares him to do something, he does it, no matter what.” Fex frowned down into his empty cup. “He doesn't want to and he knows he's a jerk, but he can't stop. He doesn't know what to do to make himself stop.”

“That's a tough one,” Angie said. “Let me think.”

A little kid came in and marched importantly to the rear of the store. He brought back a bottle of milk and, with the air of a stockbroker involved in a big deal, plunked down two quarters.

“Hey!” Angie said. “That'll be sixty-two cents, sonny.”

The kid scrunched up his freckled nose and with his free hand scratched himself. “That's what my ma give me.”

“You tell your ma she owes me twelve cents. Tell her not to send you for anything more until she gives me the twelve cents,” Angie told him. The kid made a face and left with the milk tucked under his arm.

“Chiseler,” Angie said. “That dame's a chiseler. She knows what milk costs, she figures she sends the kid over, she don't have to pay full price. She's a first-class chiseler, that one.”

“Don't let her get away with it,” Fex said.

“What're you gonna do?” Angie said. It was her favorite expression. “What're you gonna do?” she said after her son married a divorced woman ten years older than he was and with four children.

“What're you gonna do?” she asked when fire broke out in her back room and she'd forgotten to renew her insurance and lost a lot of money.

And “What're you gonna do?” she sighed when her husband had a heart attack and the doctor said he might have to have open-heart surgery.

She didn't expect an answer to her eternal question. Fex had figured out that long ago. She kept right on running the store in her son's cut-off army pants, stood guard over the cash register, and kept a sharp eye out for shoplifters.

“O.K., this friend of yours, he's your age, right?”

Fex nodded. “He keeps doing the same dumb thing over and over. He makes a fool of himself and he can't seem to stop.”

“I get it!” Angie snapped her fingers. “He's powerless in the grip of his obsession! That's it. When you got an obsession,” she told Fex, “it's tough, very tough.” Angie was fond of watching soap operas on television. Sometimes she sounded like one of the characters.

“I guess,” Fex said. He had no idea what “obsession” meant. But he knew he was powerless.

“An obsession means like he's got to do it. There's something stronger than he is forcing him on, right?”

“That's right,” Fex agreed. “That's exactly how it is.”

“This friend, he must be a pretty good pal, eh?” Angie asked.

Fex kept his head down and nodded.

“This'll take some thought,” Angie said. “Solutions to deep problems don't come easy, you know.”

“Tell me,” Fex said fervently.

“You don't think you—your friend, that is—could just talk himself outa this thing? Tell himself to shape up. Or maybe he could just grow out of it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Take my own kid. He had an underwear obsession.” Angie tapped herself on the side of her head. “It was all in his mind.”

“His underwear obsession was all in his mind?” This was getting more complicated than Fex had bargained for.

“Sure. He thought if he didn't change his underwear it would bring him good luck. He read somewheres that the Chinese or maybe the Irish—I can't remember—had an old superstition that if you didn't change your underwear for a long time—a year maybe—it brought you good luck. So he had an underwear obsession. I thought I'd go nuts. You could smell the kid a mile away.”

“What finally happened?”

Angie ate a graham cracker. “Girls,” she said. “He got interested in girls. Got so he'd change his underwear six, seven times a day. Couldn't keep up with the wash.” She shook her head.

A man came in looking for a screwdriver. “Got some at home, couldn't find a one,” he said.

“In the back,” Angie directed. “Third drawer on the left. You can't locate what you want, give me a holler.”

In a minute he shouted, “Can't find a one!”

“Men.” Angie rolled her eyes. “Can't find their elbow unless it's sticking in their eye. I'm coming,” she called.

Fex said good-bye and rode his bike slowly, thinking over what she'd said. Halfway home, he felt his rear tire go flat. He got off and pushed.

If I could only shed my skin, he thought, just walk out of it like a snake in the spring, it might be the answer. This was a nice time of year. Everything was starting fresh. Not a bad idea, starting fresh.

The idea of leaving his old self crumpled in a heap by the side of the road, tired and beat up from practically twelve years of strenuous living, and taking on a thin, taut covering like a skindiver's wet suit appealed to him.

There wouldn't be a trace of the old me, he thought, pleased. I would be strong. Nobody could make me do anything I didn't want to do. I would know exactly who I am. I would say the right thing at the right time, do the right thing at the right time. There would be no mistakes. I would never feel foolish again.

I would be my own master. I would be kind. I would think of other people's problems, not just my own. I would be just. I would love my fellowman. I would never hate anyone. I would make God like me.

A tiny voice spoke inside his head.

You might just be a pain in the butt, it told him. If all those things happened, you'd be so perfect it sounds to me like you'd be a real pain in the butt.

Fex paused. “That is a possibility,” he said aloud. Still, he couldn't let go. I would be smart. I would be in the top ten percent of my class. Everyone would want me on their team. I might even be rich. And famous.

He stopped pushing his bike. A dazzling picture of himself, rich and famous, overwhelmed him. I might win the lottery. Or the Nobel peace prize. I might discover something that would cure cancer. I might think of a way to eliminate death.

I might even think of an idea that would bring peace to the world.

He stood still. A large Doberman came bounding from behind a picket fence at him, making low noises in its throat. Fex felt the blood drain out of his head and down to his sneakers. He looked at his feet, half expecting to see a pool of blood there. The backs of his hands tingled—a sure sign of danger.

With a trembling hand Fex reached out and touched the dog's warm side.

In a phony English accent he said, “Old boy, how are you? You're looking simply ripping, what?” For some reason the phony accent gave him courage. “Jolly, what, ho ho, pip pip, and all that rot.”

The dog looked puzzled, backed off and made more rumbling noises. “You seem to have a touch of indigestion, old thing,” Fex said. He kept up the patting. “Where'd you get that kisser?” He kept his voice light, friendly, soothing. “You have a face that only a mother could love, old chap.”

The dog put its head to one side, regarded Fex with its flat yellow eyes.

“Buzz off, baby, if you know what's good for you.” Fex smiled at his new friend.

The Doberman turned and did as it was told.

Fex was exhilarated by his success. He pushed his bike rapidly the rest of the way and left it in the garage. He had one more thing to do before he went inside. But, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he twisted and turned, bent himself out of shape, he found it impossible to stick his elbow in his eye.

Good old Angie.

7

“Mom,” Fex said, taking the bull by the horns, “I have to stay after school tomorrow. For a week.” Better to get it out of the way before his father came home.

“You can't.

“I have to.” Someday he might reach the point where there was no bull whose horns needed taking, Fex thought. Not soon, but someday.

“Why can't I?”

“Dentist's appointment.” She sat at the dining room table, taking notes, her office management textbook in front of her. “It's down on the calendar.”

“Ma, I've got to.”

She sighed and closed her book, marking her place with a piece of scratch paper.

“Why?”

“Because.”

“That's no answer.”

“I have to work in the principal's office helping Mrs. Timmons for a week. I'm being punished.”

“What did you do?”

“Put a drawing on Mr. Palinkas' desk that he didn't like.”

She opened her eyes wide. “Why on earth did you do that? I thought you liked him.”

“I do, sort of.”

“Then why did you want to offend him?”

“I didn't. It turned out that way is all.” Why didn't she quit asking him all those questions? His head felt hot, his tongue thick.

“Fex, look at me.”

Why did people always want other people to look them straight in the eye? Why couldn't he look over her head? Or close his eyes entirely?

“It was another one of those double-dare things, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” It came out as a sigh.

“Ah, Fex.” His mother's face wrinkled up. In front of him she seemed to grow older. She looked as if she might cry. She wasn't a crying type. He knew kids whose mothers burst into tears at the drop of a hat. His mother wasn't like that, thank God. She cried only when she was very mad or when she was very sad. Maybe now she was a bit of both. Don't cry, he told her silently. Please don't.

She sat up very straight, held her head high the way she did when she remembered to do her exercises so she wouldn't get a double chin.

“You'll have to handle it yourself, Fex,” she said. “Call the dentist and explain your problem. Maybe they can fit someone else in, on your time. If not, if it's too late, why, you'll just have to pay for the dentist's time, just as if you'd kept your appointment. Out of your own money.”

“I bet if I asked Mr. Palinkas if I could start on Monday he'd let me,” Fex said. “I don't think he'd mind. What difference does it make to him what day I start? As long as he has me where he wants me.”

“What makes you think he wants you in his office every day for a week?” his mother asked. “You handle it any way you can, but I'm not going to lift a finger. It's your baby. Sooner or later, Fex, you've got to come to grips with this insane business.” She turned her face away from him.

“Mom,” Fex said, “you won't tell Dad, will you?” He wanted to touch her and did not. “He gets so mad.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “he does. Not without reason. We'll see. You know I don't like to conceal things from him, Fex. Things that you and the boys do to get yourselves in trouble. Remember,” her voice dropped, “the day you rode your bike up on the parkway on a double-dare?” She rested her head on her hand, shading her eyes with it as if to shut out the sight. “I can still hear those brakes, all that terrible squealing of brakes. I said to myself, ‘He's dead,' because I thought you were.”

“Oh, Mom,” Fex said.

His mother walked around inspecting ash trays to see if they were clean. Then she plumped up the pillows on the couch. Fex stayed where he was because he knew she wasn't through with him. There was no sense in leaving the room. She was building up to something, and he might as well see it through.

She gave a pillow a savage punch.

“I thought you were over this,” she said. “I thought all this was behind you. Us.” She stopped what she was doing and became very still. They watched each other in the silence.

“I'm not sure I can cope with any more of your double-dare foolishness,” Fex's mother said slowly. “I don't think I can. If I could help, I would. If you could tell me what's bothering you, Fex, maybe I could be of some help.”

“There's nothing bothering me, Ma,” he said, hunching his shoulders. He felt as if he were back in Mr. Palinkas' office. How come everyone wants to know if there's something bothering me? he asked himself irritably. I'm O.K.

“All right,” she said after a minute. “You're on your own. All I know is you have to be at the dentist's office tomorrow afternoon. If you also have to be in the principal's office, I guess you'll have to straighten out your conflict of interests by yourself. I've got some studying to do,” she said and left him alone, sitting on the end of his spine, feeling lower than a snake.

I wonder if she's going to tell Dad? Fex thought. Probably she will. Oh, man. I can hear the lecture now. It ought to be good for at least an hour, maybe more. He sighed a deep, scratchy sigh. “You're on your own,” she'd said. O.K. So he was. So what?

8

Next morning fex woke early, even before the birds. And in Connecticut, in late May, that's early. The sun fought its way over the horizon; thick mist lay everywhere. When he went out, he'd better go barefoot. No sense in soaking his sneakers.

Fex put his hands behind his head and looked at the wallpaper. Overhead, Jerry slept quietly.

Fex had never been able to understand why he always woke so early on the days when he expected trouble. This day he'd have to face Mr. Palinkas, who would look at him over his glasses, rummage through his hair, and give him a hard time. Yet, when the dawn broke on an unbearably exciting day, a day on which something great was going to happen, he overslept. It didn't make sense. Take the time their father was taking the three boys on a fishing trip. He'd overslept. Imagine that. The first time they'd ever gone off without their mother and he'd overslept so that he ate his breakfast so fast he'd felt sick throughout most of the journey. He hadn't gotten sick; he'd just felt sick. Hard to say which was worse.