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Authors: Jack Gantos

BOOK: Jack's New Power
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Pete and I took a hand each as Mom kissed his face and smoothed his hair.
“Drinks for everyone,” Dad announced, his eyes flashing around the room. He was in good spirits. He pulled his hand from my grasp and swung around to point at the couple he saved. They were gone. Everyone fanned out to find them, but they had vanished. I stared out at the ocean to see if they had gone back in. Maybe they wanted to drown themselves like mysterious lovers who throw themselves off a cliff.
“Well, whoever they are,” Dad said with a quick laugh, “put it
all
on their bill.”
Everyone cheered.
By the end of the evening, the only thing we knew about the couple was that they were British, were on their honeymoon, and, as Dad put it, “were as dumb as dirt for swimming in water that could flip a battleship.”
In the morning, they had checked out.
 
 
Two days later we were sitting at dinner when the waiter brought Dad a cable. He ripped the envelope down the side and removed the message.
“Well, what do you know,” he said after a moment. “I saved some British royalty.”
“Let's see,” Betsy said, squealing, and snatched the cable from his hand.
“Read it out loud,” said Mom.
“SORRY TO HAVE RUN OFF STOP COULDN'T HAVE PRESS INVOLVED STOP EVERY MEMBER OF OUR FAMILY THANKS YOU AND YOUR FAMILY STOP WHEN IN ENGLAND CONTACT LORD AND LADY JEFFRIES DUKE AND DUCHESS OF SUSSEX STOP 01-704-9776 ETERNALLY GRATEFUL.” She lowered the cable and sighed.
“Now, that is what I call a happy ending,” Dad said.
Mom didn't think so. “I call it rude,” she pitched in. She was still annoyed because Dad had risked his life and they didn't have the manners to say thank you to his face.
“Can we call the number?” Betsy asked.
“We'll see,” Dad replied.
“I'd love to be British,” Betsy said, swooning. “They are so great. Every family has so much history to them. Like the Duke of Marlborough. Or the Viceroy of Firth. Or the Duchess of Windsor. And then there's us. The Henry family. Now, that does
not
sound like greatness.”
“Wait a minute,” Dad cut in. “We're Americans and we build great families the American way.”
Betsy raised her eyebrows. “And how might that be?”
“First,” he replied, “Americans don't have royal families. We have business families, political dynasties, powerhouse sports families. Americans don't have to be
born
into
greatness. We can
make
ourselves great. That's the American way.”
Betsy smirked. “The American way is nothing but a rat race. I'd rather win the lottery and move to Europe.”
I was staying out of this discussion. Somehow I knew it would lead to something bad. I stared up at the dining-room walls. Just below the ceiling beams were a series of British coats of arms in the shape of little shields. On the shields were pictures of lions and eagles and fearless men in armor and words such as
honour, courage
,
wisdom
. The British used to own Barbados and had left a lot of their old stuff behind once the island gained independence. It would be neat, I thought, to have a Henry Family coat of arms.
Dad's voice became louder. “All great families begin their road to greatness by facing their fears. So that's how we'll begin.” Suddenly he pointed his butter knife at my nose. “Jack, what's your greatest fear?”
My mouth was filled with a huge chunk of bread. Mom, Betsy, and Pete turned to look at me. I couldn't say a word. I just chewed and chewed. For a moment I thought my greatest fear was choking to death.
“Take your time,” Dad said warmly, giving me room. “Dig deep inside yourself and think of something that gives you the shivers, really makes you break out in a cold sweat and want to run away like a coward. Well? Come on. Time's up. What's it going to be?”
I swallowed hard. “'orses,” I managed to mutter.
“Huh? Speak up,” Dad insisted, leaning closer. “Don't be so afraid that you can't even say it.”
I took a quick sip of water and swallowed. “Horses,” I said. “I'm afraid of horses.”
Dad made a face. “Is that it?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “I'm afraid of being kicked by a horse.”
“Well, that's a beginning,” he said. “Once you get over that, we'll move on to something more important.”
He turned toward Pete. I sighed and thought of standing behind a horse and having it kick me on the forehead with a ten-pound steel shoe attached to its deadly back hoof. Just the thought of it made my shoulders flinch.
Pete had taken advantage of the two minutes it took me to ruin myself.
“Water,” he blurted out and started to twist his face up in a panic. “I can't swim.”
“We'll fix that,” Dad announced and waved his fork as though it were a magic wand. I half expected Pete to jump up, run across the dining room to the patio, dive into the pool, and swim like a dolphin.
“Betsy?” Dad said. “Let's hear it.”
“Okay,” she replied. She had used the time to organize exactly what was on her mind. “I'm afraid I'll call the number on this cable and they'll ask me who I am, and who I know, and who were my ancestors, and I'll tell them we are the Henry family and they'll reply, ‘Henry? Are you servants? We don't recall any Henry family.' And they'll hang up because we are a bunch of nobodies.”
There was a long pause while Dad leaned back in his chair. He gazed up at the ceiling and breathed deeply. Then more deeply. It seemed as though all the air in the room, the curtains, the tablecloth corners, the little table flowers, all nodded toward his flaring nostrils. After a moment, he exhaled and looked Betsy directly in the eyes.
“We are not a bunch of
nobodies,”
he said. “I know we're
starting over here and we don't have some long family history filled with snotty blue bloods. But that's not what is important. We are a family at the beginning of greatness. All those British royalty had to come from somewhere. At some point they were living in caves, wearing animal skins, and beating each other with sticks. So, big deal, they've had a head start on us. Now they're at the butt end of their empire and we are at the beginning of ours. And, for my money, I'd rather be part of something new and great than be some royal has-been.”
“Honey,” Mom whispered. “Keep your voice down. We don't want to cause a scene.” There were a lot of British guests at the hotel.
Betsy lowered her head. She had taken it too far. There were times when she could beat him in an argument. But there were also times when he reared back and let her have it. He had just nailed her.
“So,” he said, wrapping up his point, “you can face your fear and give them a call.”
I felt like an idiot for revealing my fear of horses. A call would be easy to make. I should have said I had a fear of something like spending money. Then Dad could give me a bundle and let me face my fear by letting me go on a spending spree.
He turned toward Mom.
She put on a cheerful face and saved the mood of the dinner. “No doubt about it,” she said. “Driving a car is my greatest fear. And now with the baby I'll be trapped if I don't learn to drive.”
Dad nodded. “Very good,” he said with a jolly voice. “I'll get you a car and lessons.”
“What about the baby?” I asked.
“He's exempt until he's three,” Dad replied. “Then he has to join the
rat race
like the rest of us.” He propped his elbows on the table and narrowed his eyes. “We'll start tomorrow.”
But Betsy wasn't finished. “What's your fear?” she asked, still trying to corner him. “Everyone has something they're afraid of. Even you!”
He tucked in his chin and stared out at us. “My fear,” he said, “is that you all will let me down.”
 
In the morning Dad came into our room. He woke Pete and me. “I've been thinking how to conquer fear,” he said. “It's a combination of dread and encouragement.
“Jack,” he ordered, “you'll help Pete build up his confidence today. Give him some easy lessons. Show him how you swim. All he needs is encouragement.”
“Okay,” I replied. I looked over at Pete and gave him our brothers-for-life wink.
“I'll provide the dread,” Dad said, and sat down on the corner of the bed. “Listen to this. I knew a man once who was a great big guy. Huge. Big arms, big legs. All muscle and not afraid of a thing. But his son was afraid of the water. Couldn't get near the stuff without shaking all over like a girl. The father tried everything to teach the boy about the water. YMCA swim lessons. Swim camp. The whole thing. Finally he got frustrated. He picked up the boy and put him in a speedboat and roared off into the harbor. He pulled up to a buoy and set the boy on the little floating platform. ‘You'll either swim in or you'll starve to
death out here,' he growled, and roared off. And you know what?”
Dad paused.
“He starved,” whispered Pete, with his face all white and his hand over his eyes as he imagined the boy on the buoy.
Dad grabbed Pete by the head and gave him an Indian rub with his unshaven chin. Then he let him loose. “No, knucklehead. The boy swam to shore. He could swim all along. He was just being
stubborn!”
“But I'm afraid,” Pete said.
Dad had reached his limit. He stood up. “Jack will help you swim. Just as you'll help him with his fear of horses.” Then he left.
Pete dropped onto the floor and peeked up at me like a kitten about to be drowned.
“I'll help you,” I said. “We can't let him down.”
“And I'll help you with the horses,” he replied. “I'm not so scared of them.”
 
After breakfast I wanted to get started but Pete refused.
“You can't swim on a full stomach,” he said. “Let's do the horses first.”
He was right. “Okay. But let's just get it over with.”
Horseback riding was advertised in the hotel brochure. There were stables and long horse trails cut through the brush and trees on the land side of the hotel.
We had started down the footpath to the stables when Pete said, “Stop, I have to tell you a story of dread before I give you encouragement.”
“I have enough dread,” I said, groaning.
“We have to play by the rules.” Pete sat down on the path. “I won't help unless you listen.”
I sat next to him.
“Once there was a boy named Alexander. His father owned a huge horse and everyone who tried to ride it was thrown off and killed. Alexander's father said that if anyone could tame the horse they could have it. Everyone who had tried to ride the horse faced it toward the sun. So Alexander faced the horse away from the sun. Then he jumped on the horse and rode away. When his father saw what he had done, he gave him the horse and called him Alexander the Great.”
I glared at Pete. “You're scaring me because I can't figure out what you mean,” I said. “Where's the dread?”
“I mean that if you use your brains you can win. Horses aren't very smart.”
“They don't need brains,” I said. “They're killers.”
We walked down to the stable. A short, heavy man named Mr. Doobie cared for the horses. I figured he was an old jockey who'd retired to eating.
“I got a nice one,” he muttered, and pointed to a dark, nervous giant. Its eyes were like polished stones. “He used to be a racehorse at the track down below until his accident.” He pointed at a two-foot jagged scar running down the animal's neck. “He can be a little moody if he don't sleep well. He still has nightmares of that picket fence.”
I hoped he'd had a good night's sleep. His name was Winny and he was wearing a Western saddle, which I liked because it would give me something to hang on to. Still, as soon as I got close to Winny my fear of him made
me weak. When he shuddered and waved his big head from side to side and snorted, I jumped back a few steps. His hind leg twitched and I was sure he wanted to kick me into the water trough.
Pete wasn't impressed. “Horses know when you are afraid of them. Just treat 'em like big dogs.”
Finally, he had said something dreadful. I also had a huge fear of big dogs.
“Are you afraid of riding horses?” Pete asked.
“I'm more afraid of being kicked in the head,” I said.
“Then let's conquer your greatest fear, like Dad said. If you get over being kicked, then riding them will be a breeze.” He took the bridle and walked the horse down the path and away from the sun. I waited until he had gone about twenty feet before I followed. When he stopped, I stopped.

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