Julian's Glorious Summer (4 page)

The bathroom was steamy and full of clouds.

My mother helped me out of my shirt, the way she used to when I was little.

When I got into the tub, she scrubbed my back for me with a washcloth. It felt very good.

“Dad told me he's sorry you're not getting time to learn to ride Gloria's bike,” my mom said.

“That's okay,” I said. “Of course, I want to learn—but it can wait.”

“Also,” my mom said, “Dad is very proud of you. He likes the way you stick to what you say you'll do, and the way you work hard. He said you did a very good job with everything.”

“He did? He is? Really?” I said.

I started to feel very happy and proud about all the work I was doing. But then I remembered how sore I was. I remembered I didn't feel good; I felt bad.

“Dad is pushing me too hard,” I said. “He is making me suffer.”

I hoped my mother would say, “I'll get him to let up on you. I'll get him to give you less work.”

But she didn't. She just rubbed my neck with the washcloth some more and smiled.

“Sometimes,” she said, “suffering is the beginning of happiness.”

She helped me out of the bathtub and helped me dry off. When I had my pajamas on, she walked upstairs with me and tucked me in
bed, the way she did when I was little.

I wiggled my toes. They ached.

“Suffering isn't happiness!” I said. “Suffering is the opposite of happiness!”

“Yes,” my mom said, “but sometimes we all have to suffer a little to do things that are worth doing—to do the things that really make us happy.”

“Things like earning money?” I said.

“Yes. Or simple things—like telling the truth,” my mother said. “For example, I wonder what you truly think about bicycles.”

Usually I wouldn't have told. But I was very tired. If things kept on the way they were, I thought, I'd be the first boy ever to be declared a national disaster.

“You really want to know?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“You won't tell anybody? Not even Dad?”

“I won't tell anybody. Not even Dad.”

“The truth is—the truth is, I don't like them.”

“I thought you didn't like them,” my mom said very softly.

I looked at her face. She didn't seem to have a bad opinion of me for not liking bicycles. It did
feel good to tell the truth. Once I began to tell the truth, it seemed like it almost had a taste, like some really delicious food to chew on, that I wanted to have more and more of in my mouth.

“I hate bicycles!” I said. “I hate the tubes, the tires, the wheels, the spokes, the pedals, the chain, the fenders, the handlebars, the reflectors and the lights—and that's just the beginning.” I said.

“What's the rest?” my mother said.

“The rest is—I hate the idea of falling.”

“You might not fall,” my mother said.

“Then again, I might,” I said. “That would be suffering.”

“Uhm-hmm,” my mom said. She smiled again. Then she leaned down and put her arms around me and gave me a hug so big it hurt.

But it felt good, all the same.

I Get My Just Reward

I did a lot of work in the next three weeks.

I cut the lawn and the edges of the grass next to the house.

I swept the garage and washed the garage floor.

I washed my dad's truck, inside and out.

I washed all the downstairs windows of the house.

I scraped old paint off the house where my dad plans to repaint.

Sometimes Gloria and Huey helped me quite a bit. But other times it was bad. It was bad when Gloria came down the street on her bike,
ringing her bell or riding one-handed. It was worse when she learned how to ride with no hands. Worst of all were the times when she came by riding Huey on her back fender.

One good thing was that Huey left the sharp rocks on my shelf and didn't put them back under my mattress—even though I wouldn't have known if I'd been sleeping on the tiptoppiest point of Mount Everest.

When I got up on Saturday at the end of the third week, Huey was still sleeping. My mom was shopping, but my dad was still in the kitchen eating breakfast.

“GOOD morning, Julian!” he said very cheerily. “How are you?”

“Alive,” I said.

“Excellent!” my dad said. “What could be better?”

I thought it would be better if I were a little more alive than I was. But I didn't say anything; I just sat down at the table.

My dad pushed milk and sugar and toast and jam and oranges and cornflakes toward me.

“Better eat a big breakfast, Julian,” he said. “You have a big day in front of you.”

As soon as he said that, all the food on the table looked like a new job. I hardly ate anything.
Pretty soon I got up from the table.

“So,” my father said, “are you ready for a tough day?”

“I'm ready,” I said.

“First of all,” my dad said, “I hope you're feeling good enough to take some bad news.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

I thought that after all I had been through, I could take anything.

“Well,” my dad said, “this is actually
very
bad news. I think you should sit down before I tell you. So you don't fall down.”

“Okay.” I sat down.

I still thought I could take anything, but I was afraid he was going to tell me he wanted the entire house rebuilt from the foundation.

“The bad news is—” My dad paused. He started over.

“The horrible news is—” My dad seemed afraid to say it.

“The dreadful news is—” He coughed.

“TELL me!” I demanded.

“Well, the very, very bad news is”—my father was almost whispering—“there are no more
jobs. Oh, maybe a few next month. And some next summer. But no more for now. I hope you can stand it.”

“I can stand it!” I said. I was ready to head for the door.

“Wait a minute!” my father said. “Today is payday!”

He handed me a brown paper bag from the kitchen counter. I opened it. Inside was ten dollars and a book on race cars with lots of pictures and facts about engines and records and high-speed performance.

“Thank you!” I said.

“Just one other thing,” my dad said. “Would you mind picking up something in the living room?”

“Glad to,” I said. I went to the living room.

“Oh, no!” I said.

Parked next to the couch was a brand-new bicycle, just like Gloria's, except that it was a boy's bike, red with white stripes, and behind the seat on a stick it had a red pennant with my name on it—JULIAN—in big white letters.

“It's a surprise!” my dad said. “I didn't even tell your mother I was getting it for you.”

My dad smiled. “You know I don't like it when you make up stories. But after a while I thought the reason that you said you wanted so many jobs was because you didn't want to be around someone with a bicycle. You were afraid you couldn't have your own bicycle. Well, now you have one! Of course, if what you really want is to save money for a race car, you can take it back to the store.”

“I don't know,” I said. “I don't know what I really want.”

I had worked so hard to keep bicycles out of my life. What did I get for it? A bicycle!

I was stunned. I needed to talk to somebody. I needed advice.

“Should I teach you how to ride it?” my dad asked.

“No, thanks,” I said. “First I want to show it to Gloria.”

I Take Off

I wheeled the red bicycle all the way to Gloria's house. Its silver spokes were shining in the sun as if it was saying “Look at me! Look how beautiful I am!”

“Okay, I'm looking,” I said.

Before I could even ring Gloria's doorbell, she came running out.

“I was watching from my window!” she said. “What an excellent bicycle!”

“Yes,” I said, “and I want to take it back to the store.”

“Take it back to the store!” Gloria said. “What's the matter? Don't you like the color?”

I paused. I was going to say I wanted to trade it in, to have more money saved for a race car. But that wasn't true. And it seemed like I got in a lot of trouble getting out of trouble by saying things I didn't mean.