Living with Jackie Chan (3 page)

“But . . . I took karate from you that summer when I was eight,” I say.

He waves his hand. “Yeah, but you were a natural.”

“No, I was eight. I just waved my arms around and kicked the air.”

“Don’t be so modest.”

“Um —”

“It’ll be fun! Plus, I’ll pay you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Look, come with me the first day, and if you hate it, you don’t have to come back.”

“What age group are the kids?”

“It’s all ages, not just kids. That’s what’s so cool about it.” He takes another bunch of swigs from his drink.

“Camp for all ages?”

“Yeah! Even adults! I’ve got, like, a seventy-year-old black belt coming in. He said he wanted to brush up!” He is glowing. “Whaddaya say? It’ll be great! And it means we’ll be able to spend time together. You know. Get reacquainted.”

He looks so hopeful, I know I can’t say no. “All right,” I say. “I’ll try it.”

“Great!” He drains his glass and drops it in the sink. “OK. Well, I’ve gotta get over there for a couple hours to deal with some paperwork for the registrations, and then I’ll come back and we’ll have lunch. Sound good?”

“Yeah, sure.” So much for spending the whole day together. Not that I’m complaining.

“Did you sleep all right? The couch comfortable enough?”

“Yeah, it was fine.”

“Cool.” He stands up. “So I’ll see you later, then!”

When he’s gone, I go back to my new room and make the bed. I check my phone for texts.

Caleb:
u ok?


My mom:
miss u


Dave: [About twenty lame jokes that I won’t bother to repeat.]

My dad still doesn’t know how to text, but I’m sure he wouldn’t bother even if he could. He’s more likely to call and act all awkward. He loves me. I know that. But it seems like it’s physically painful for him to talk to me about anything besides football, the latest engine work he’s had to do to keep his van running, his most recent “gig” with his pathetic excuse for a band, and how much longer our old dog, Rosie, will survive.

Clover wanders into the room and jumps up on the bed, then does that thing cats do with their paws, like she’s trying to make the mattress softer. I give her a pat, then get up to unpack my clothes and put them in the tiny closet Larry said he emptied for me. There’s a new-looking wire organizer with drawers for socks and underwear and stuff in the closet. I think Larry must have bought it for me, which was nice. When I’m all done, I step back and look at the closet and my noticeable lack of stuff. After eighteen years, this is all I have to show for myself. No family photos. No friend photos. Just a few pairs of jeans, some T-shirts, and a pile of socks and underwear.

Everything else, I left behind.

As soon as Larry gets back from the Y he tells me he’s taking me out to lunch. We walk a few blocks to a deli where he claims they have the best sandwiches ever. We order takeout and cross the street to a park where we sit on the grass. Larry doesn’t eat meat, so he ordered a TLT (tofu, lettuce, and tomato sandwich). Before I could order for myself, he’d ordered one for me, too, and promised I would love it. I thought tofu would be disgusting, but it’s fried with soy sauce and basically that’s all it tastes like. I wouldn’t say this is the best sandwich ever, but it’s not too bad.

“I’m so going to give you a makeover, man,” he says, looking at me as if I weigh four hundred pounds. “This is just the beginning.”

“I didn’t know I needed one,” I say.

“You’re at that age where if you don’t start eating right and getting regular exercise now, you’ll be doomed to a beer gut and a bad heart.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

“I’m not messing with you. Good habits last a lifetime.”

“So I’ve heard,” I say. “That’s, like, a kids’ health campaign on TV.”

“Nah, I made it up.”

“OK.”

“I’m just saying. America is fat.” He takes a huge bite of his sandwich. Juice from the tomato dribbles out the corner of his mouth.

“I played soccer all last year,” I tell him. “I get plenty of exercise.”

“And now karate,” Larry adds.

“Right.”

We finish our sandwiches in silence. Then we lean back in the grass and squint at the clouds.

Larry takes a deep breath in and slowly lets it out. “Sometimes I come here to meditate,” he says.

I close my eyes and feel the sun warm my face. I imagine Larry sitting here, cross-legged with his hands resting on his knees, saying “Ommmm” to the park. I really hope he doesn’t start meditating right now.

“Sometimes I come here to think,” he adds.

I still don’t answer.

“But I’m happy to talk, too. You know. If you need to talk. I’m here for you, Josh.”

Josh.

I’m glad he remembered my actual name. I was honestly beginning to wonder. I open my eyes and tilt my head toward him. His own eyes are closed and his face is tipped toward the sun. Maybe if he looked at me, I would somehow know what to say. But with his eyes closed like that, it doesn’t exactly feel like he really wants to talk. And honestly, I don’t really want to, either. What would be the point? There’s no way he could know how or what I feel. And there is no way he could make me feel better. No one could.

“I don’t need to talk,” I say, closing my eyes again.

I can practically feel the relief ooze out of him.

“Well, then, we can just think,” he says. “It’s a good place for that, too. Ya know?”

“Sure,” I say. Whatever.

We’re both quiet. Thinking.

Larry’s probably daydreaming about the love of his life. Me, I don’t really want to think. I mean, that’s why I came here. To get away from every daily friggin’ reminder of what I did. What happened.

I wish Larry could just act like I’m only here to go to school. But no. My parents had to tell him everything so — what? He could treat me differently? Like I’m some fragile freak who might crack at any minute? Yeah, that’s helpful.

After a while, Larry’s breathing gets all steady and I realize he’s asleep. At least he’s not snoring.

I prop myself up on my elbows and look around the park. It’s grassy, and there are lots of people walking around: dogs on leashes, kids racing ahead of their parents, then running back to them. It’s a little like the park I went to growing up, only nicer. I never went with my parents. It was always Caleb, Dave, and me. The three amigos. Pretending we didn’t care that our dads weren’t around to teach us how to catch a football. Acting like we were too cool for all that crap. Whatever.

I lean back and shut my eyes again. I listen to the sounds and try to fade out, like Larry.

“Hi, there!”

We both spring up.

The girl from earlier is standing above us, rocking the baby carriage back and forth.

“Hey!” Larry says. “Stella, right? How’s it hangin’?”

Please tell me he did not just say that.

Stella blushes. “Hi,” she says. “Yeah. Stella. From the fourth floor.”

“You signed up for karate camp, right?” Larry asks.

“Yeah,” she says. “My mom thinks karate is like self-defense or something. She wants me to learn before I go to college.” She rolls her eyes.

“You’ll love it,” Larry says confidently. “So, who’ve you got there? Gil and Jean’s baby?”

“Yup, this is Ben.” She peers into the carriage. “Poor thing’s teething or something. As soon as I stop walking, he starts to fuss.” She stops moving the carriage and a tiny cry of protest comes from under the bonnet. “See?”

“Bummer,” Larry says.

Even though Stella starts rocking the carriage again, the baby starts to wail. “Oh, shoot,” she says.

“Let me take him.” Larry gets up. “Hey, little munchkin, it’s your uncle Larry,” he says, reaching into the carriage. “Come here, sweet pea.”

My heart starts beating hard again, aching against my chest. I look around and grab the bags from our sandwiches. “I’ll be right back,” I say. “Just gonna throw these out.”

I get up and get the hell away as fast as I can. I walk quite a ways before I find a trash can. I drop the stuff in and put both hands on the metal rim. I touch something wet and slimy on the rim and almost puke my tofu.

I know it’s crazy, how seeing the baby makes me feel. But I can’t help it. I squeeze the rim of the trash barrel again and close my eyes. But when I do, I see what I always see when I think of him. The hospital corridor. A nursery. A baby with no name. A baby that could be mine.

I take a deep breath and gag on the smell of rotten trash. Crap. I turn around and walk in circles.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it,
I keep telling myself.
You came here to get away from all that. There was nothing you could do.

But maybe there was. Oh, God. Maybe there was.

Finally, I get hold of myself and start to head toward them as slowly as possible. When I get closer, I see Larry putting the baby back in the carriage. I wait until Stella walks away before I go over to him.

Larry looks at me suspiciously. “You OK, Sammy?” he asks.

“Yeah. What?”

“You bolted.”

“Huh? No, I didn’t.”

“OK.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go home?”

Home? Is that what this is now?

We walk back a new way, through a quiet neighborhood lined with trees. “This is where I wanna live someday,” Larry says. “It’s so peaceful here. And clean. Me, Arielle — that’s ‘the one’s’ name, by the way — and maybe a dog. Maybe even a ba —” He stops himself. “Yeah, a dog.”

“Clover may not be too crazy about that idea,” I say, pretending I didn’t hear what he almost said.

“Eh, Clover’s tough. She can handle it.” He does some sort of karate move with his hands.

“Clover knows karate?” I ask.

“I’m sure she’s soaked up some of my moves.”

God, Larry, you are such a freak.

As we walk through the neighborhood, I try to imagine Larry living here. Larry in his crazy-looking workout pants and no shirt, with his mystery woman and a ba —

A baby.

Why can’t he just say it?

But I know. He can. Just not around me.

That night, we order pizza in, and Larry and I eat and watch
Rumble in the Bronx
in the living room. Larry keeps jumping up and trying to imitate Jackie Chan’s moves but finally stops when I make it as obvious as possible that he’s annoying the crap out of me.

“Just trying to get you psyched about tomorrow,” he tells me.

“But he’s doing kung fu,” I point out.

Larry jumps up again and kicks at the air, then punches it with his fist.

“Call it martial arts,” he tells me. “Besides. Name one famous karate movie without the word
Kid
in the title.”

Point made.

Clover reaches up from the other side of the coffee table and snags a cheese blob left in the pizza box with her paw.

“Bad kitty!” Larry says. But he doesn’t try to take away the cheese.

“I’m not sure about tomorrow,” I tell him. “I mean, I have no memory of this stuff.”

“You’re a yellow belt. Remember? You know a lot. The katas will come back to you. Don’t worry about it.”

I try to remember what the hell a kata is. I think something to do with the different moves you have to memorize, but I’m not sure.

Larry goes to the kitchen and brings back two pints of ice cream. One is chocolate pudding flavor, and one is cookie dough.

“Is this one of your good habits that lasts a lifetime?” I ask.

Instead of answering, he hands me a spoon and a pint and we eat our entire cartons while watching
Rush Hour,
by the end of which I feel ill and head to bed.

I wake up at 2:08 a.m. Clover makes her funny snoring sound as I roll over. Above me, I hear that
creak-creak, creak-creak,
and maybe singing, though it’s hard to tell. The rhythmic sound almost puts me back to sleep, but then the creaks stop and footsteps move across the ceiling. A few minutes go by, and then the crying starts again. Sad, and longing.

Stop.

I squeeze my eyes shut as my heartbeat starts to speed up. But the crying gets louder.

Please, just stop.

I put the pillow over my head. But I still hear him.