Imperfect Spiral (19 page)

“Hmm,” I said.

We walked.

“Danielle!” Humphrey said.

“I don't have anything,” I said. “Sorry. I'm coming up empty. I have nothing highly interesting to say. I have nothing even a little bit interesting to say.”

“Of course you do!” he squealed. He thought I was joking; I could tell from his squeal, which was part laugh. He thought this was some kind of game: me withholding highly interesting conversation. It became his mission to find the key to my highly interesting thoughts.

“What do you think about … dominoes?” he asked.

“I think … they should be called domi-
yeses
,” I said.

“Yes!” he said. “And what do you think about … that tree?”

“I think … I'm glad we didn't invite it over for dinner, because we'd have to wait so long for it to wash its hands before eating,” I said. “If you catch my—”

“I do! I catch your drift! Ha!” Humphrey said. He craned
his neck way back to look at the branches and leaves, which caused him to swerve a little. I caught his hand. “How many leaves, I mean,
hands
, do you think that tree has?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “Eight hundred and eighty-eight?”

“Nine thousand and ninety-nine,” Humphrey said. “That's what I think.”

I could see he was turning something over in his mind.

“Trees don't eat with their hands,” he announced. “They eat with their feet. So the tree wouldn't have to wash its hands before dinner.”

“They eat with their feet? You're right! Now I'm even more glad we didn't invite the tree for dinner!”

We were at the entrance to the park.

“See how interesting you are?” Humphrey said.

“See how interesting
you
are!” I said.

“We should be on TV,” Humphrey said.

It's Saturday night and I
ain't
ain't got nobody
, I thought.

As Humphrey and I walked up the path into the park, we realized that we'd forgotten the football.

“Aargh!”
Humphrey groaned. “I wanted to play catch.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Next time.”

“I guess we'll just have to visit the Bumble-Boos.”

We took our imaginary journey to Thrumble-Boo. We swung on the beat-up swings, with their beat-up black rubber planks for seats. We climbed the little jungle gym, pretending it was Mount Olympus of Thrumble-Boo.

“You know what else I want to do?” Humphrey said.

“See the first star,” I said. “I didn't forget.” I'd checked online for the exact time when the first star—Venus—would be visible that night. We had half an hour until it was scheduled to appear.

“Let's play hide-and-seek while we're waiting!” Humphrey said.

I didn't think hide-and-seek could be much fun with two people in an open field with no hiding places. So we made up our own game, a land-based version of the swimming pool game of Marco Polo. In our game, both people had to close their eyes. The person who was “it” called out “Thrumble!” The other person had to respond, “Bumble!” No one could take more than twenty steps per turn.

“This is the best game!” Humphrey said after we played a few rounds. “Now let's look for Venus.”

But clouds had rolled in.

“It looks like rain, Humphrey,” I said. “I don't think we're going to see that first star tonight.”

“Hmm,” Humphrey said. “I know what. Let's do a don't-rain dance.”

If there is one thing I am not, it is a dancer. There just never seems to be a right place to put my long legs and arms. Plus—could you be more on display than when you're dancing?

“I don't really dance, Humphrey,” I said.

“Everyone dances,” Humphrey said. “Just do what I do.”

What Humphrey did was to gyrate wildly, twisting his little body, shaking his butt, punching his arms in the air, kicking his feet.

“Rain, rain, go away, come again another day,” he sang. “Rain, rain, go away, come again another day.” He kept repeating the line, changing the style and tune each time. “Come on, Danielle, you can do it!”

“I really don't dance, Humpty.”

“You
have
to dance! I need a dance partner!”

I had to laugh at him. He hadn't stopped twisting and turning. “You
need
a dance partner?”

“Yes, I do. Be my partner, Danielle. You can do it!”

I did it.

“Rain! Rain! Go away! Come again! Another day! How's that, Humpty?”

“Go, Danielle! Go, Danielle!” Humphrey cheered.

I rapped, I crooned. I rocked out. Somehow dancing outdoors felt easier than in a school gym or hotel party room. Plenty of space for my arms and legs. I let myself lose control, and danced like crazy on the planet of Thrumble-Boo.

“You look like a beautiful daddy longlegs!” Humphrey said.

“I'll take that as a compliment, Humphrey!”

“You're a good dancer! Not as good as me, but as good as anyone else!”

Then the skies opened up, and we hurried home.

I can't ignore the ringing telephone on the wall, because I'm sitting right here in the kitchen next to it. I missed a call on my cell phone from Adrian when I was in the bathroom; when I called him back, he didn't answer. So I'm thinking this is him and pick it up without looking at the display to see who's calling.

“Danielle?”

One day I will answer the telephone and it won't be Doris Raskin. But today is not that day.

“I'm calling to urge you, to strongly urge you, to go before the county council next month when they take up the question of Quarry Road improvements.”

And how are you, Mrs. Raskin?

She goes on (and on and on). She understands I may still have been feeling too “traumatized” to speak at the community
hall meeting last month. Fortunately, as a result of that meeting, the Franklin Grove Board passed a recommendation in favor of the safety improvements that are needed to prevent another tragedy. But the board doesn't have the power of the purse, and action by the county council is required to make things happen, and the county council has many other priorities, but we must make this a top priority for them, and the way to do that is with a strong showing, blah, blah, blah, blah.

And I am a key figure in the accident. And I have experienced firsthand the tragic consequences of etc., etc. And I can surely make a compelling statement about blah, blah, blah, blah.

“I'll think about it, Mrs. Raskin,” I say when she takes a breath.

By which I mean no.

“I hope you will, Danielle. You're a young person. But I know you're mature enough to understand the obligation you have to the community and especially to Clarice and Tom Danker to try to make something good come out of this tragedy. I'm sure your parents would agree with me.”

Could she lay it on any heavier?

“After what the Dankers have gone through,” she adds. So yes, she could lay it on heavier. “What Clarice risked …”

My cell buzzes itself awake on the kitchen table. A quick glance tells me it's Adrian.

“Mrs. Raskin, I'm sorry, I have another call,” I say.

“I urge you to think—”

“I will,” I say, and hang up.

“Hi, Adrian,” I say.

“How's it going?” he asks.

“Tip-top-terrific,” I say.

Don't even ask who introduced that line into our family vocabulary.

“So glad about that,” he says.

“How are you? I miss you.” He hasn't been around much lately.

“Miss you, too, Danny-boy. I'll come by this weekend, I promise.”

“Is something going on, or is this a purely social call?”

“Both,” he says. “What's going on is that we've almost reached the level of funding we need to make the restaurant thing happen.”

“Wow,” I say. “That's great!”

He tells me about who the new investors are, and about plans for how the place will look and what kind of food it will have, and how other local businesses in the neighborhood are supportive and helpful, happy to have a decent place open in a desert of fast-food chains. He sounds so excited.

“And I'm taking cooking classes at night,” he says.

“
You
could teach people how to cook,” I say.

“Restaurant-quality cooking classes,” he says. “Like—how to be a chef. Not how to make dinner at home.”

And, yes, he's still plumber-ing during the day.

I am wondering about whether the cooking school he's in cares that he didn't finish high school. I mean, I know he's
brilliant, and he's no less brilliant for dropping out four months before graduation, but I wonder what the world out there thinks about it. I hate to ask. It's a Mom-ish thing to press him about. But—I do.

“Danny, I got my diploma. And I don't mean a GED. I was so far ahead in my credits. Mr. Farley”—that would be Adrian's guidance counselor, and a huge fan of Adrian's—“helped me work it out. I even took my APs.”

“Get
out
!”

He laughs.

“So—it only
looked
like you dropped out when you moved out of the house,” I say, slightly incredulous.

“Yup. It only looked like it.”

Should I even ask— “Do Mom and Dad know?”

“No,” Adrian says. “They're on a need-to-know basis with me. I decided they didn't need to know.”

“Jeez, Adrian.” I can't help it. “Why would you not tell them something that they'll think is a good thing?”

He doesn't answer immediately. I hope he's not mad at me for asking.

“Not really sure,” he says. “And of course, you're sworn to secrecy.”

“As if you have to tell me that,” I say.

“It's like—if I tell them I actually did graduate,” Adrian says, “
and
with an above-4.0 average, they'll say, ‘So, why aren't you applying to Yale?'”

“Maybe,” I say.

“And if they know I'm in cooking school, they'll say, ‘Why don't you apply to Le Cordon Bleu in Paris? Or the Culinary Institute in New York?'”

I actually can't imagine Dad saying that. But Mom—sure. And she'd come to the conversation prepared with websites and brochures. And Adrian knows that Dad, her loyal soldier, would back her up.

We talk a little bit more. Adrian doesn't really ask about me, which is fine. I just love hearing him so energized.

After we hang up, I hear the mail drop through the slot.

Is Doris Raskin clairvoyant? There's a formal letter addressed to me from the chairman of the Meigs County Council requesting my “testimony” at a council hearing in November regarding improvements on Quarry Road. The letter gives me the date, time, place, directions—and, oh look, someone to call with any questions. I don't have any questions. But I call anyway. I want to make sure I'm not going to be arrested when I don't show up.

The phone number belongs to an aide to the council chairman.

“It's nothing to worry about,” she says lightly. She explains that the council just wants to understand what problems with the street might have led to the tragedy. They already have all the information gathered at the Franklin Grove community meeting. And, of course, the police report.

Of course, the police report. This chills me. I am in a police report.

“It won't be a grilling,” the aide, who is nice and whose name is Jen, says. “No one thinks you're at fault.”

Unless you count Humphrey's parents, Mrs. Joseph, Mrs. Raskin, everyone at school, and, I would guess, undocumented immigrants everywhere.

I think about that hint Mrs. Raskin dropped last month—the vague possibility that Mr. Danker might use his powerful lawyering skills to sue me for what happened. I haven't mentioned this to my parents. I think Dad would freak and Mom would … Mom would froth. I wonder if Jen might know something about this. For half a second I think of asking. Then I drop the idea.

I gather from what Jen tells me that the council can't make me testify—or maybe she's saying they can but they won't.

“But, Danielle, you should. Really.”

“I just don't think I have anything”—I pause to gather my thoughts—“anything
useful
to say. So much of it was a blur, like I told the police.”

“That's okay. You can tell the council that.”

“What's the point, then?”

“Sometimes,” Jen says, “when you tell your story again, little details come back to you.”

“I don't think that's going to happen.”

“You'll feel better….”

How in the world does this Jen know how I'm feeling when I don't even know how I'm feeling?

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I can't.”

The next day. Do I answer the kitchen telephone, or have I learned my lesson?

I look at the display; I don't know the number. That's good news, since by now I'm able to recognize Doris Raskin's number. This is not her. I answer.

It's Justin, from the park.

“How's it going?” he says.

“It's going,” I respond. Then, because I'm a little put off to find him on the line: “You're calling my house.” No, not the start of another brilliant conversation! “To state the obvious.”

“Yes, I am. I didn't have your cell number. But you did tell me your name. It wasn't hard to figure out which Snyders in the phone directory were your family—I just looked for the address closest to Quarry Road Park.”

He engaged in
sleuthing
to call me?

“So,” he says, “I heard you might be speaking at the Meigs County Council hearing next month.”

Okay. What is he, some kind of stalker?

He apparently reads my mind. “I'm not a stalker,” he says. “I talked to one of the assistants there.”