Memory Boy (11 page)

“Mr. Kurz,” I said. “He's the one you assigned me to, right?”

Mr. Litzke looked up at me. “What if I went and had a little talk with Mr. Kurz?” he said. One eyebrow arched in a look that said,
Your ass is grass, Newell
.

“If you have any doubts, then I think you should talk to him,” I said. I kept my eyes round and innocent looking.

“I will,” Litzke said. “After school. Today.”

The next day when I came to class, Litzke said nothing to me. In fact, he purposely would not look at me.

I couldn't resist. I raised my hand. “Mr. Litzke? Did you have a chance to speak with Mr. Kurz?”

Litzke turned, gave me the world's blackest look, then continued with our lesson. It was a major victory for me. Nathan Schmidt gave me a high five. We had great fun imagining Litzke—who, as a teacher, technically did work for the government—showing up at Buena Vista in his short-sleeved white shirt and skinny black tie, and quizzing Mr. Kurz about his life.

However, sometimes a major victory is not all it's cracked up to be. I felt bad about fictionalizing the memory book. Not bad as in guilt-ridden and sleepless, but bad in a low-grade, continuing way, like—kind of like a grain of sand in my sock. It was one of the reasons why I didn't walk into Buena Vista to see Mr. Kurz. But there were other reasons. My friends, the ash fall, my father being gone all the time—something always got in the way. Then when the economy went belly-up and life in the suburbs turned scary, I spent all my spare time building the
Ali Princess
.

It was during those late nights in the garage that I began to think again about Mr. Kurz. As I worked, sometimes I heard his voice inside my head.

Maybe try a socket instead of that wrench
.

Are you sure you want to cut that off so short?

Take your time. Rush and you'll only skin your knuckles
.

We need a new bolt. This one ain't worth a tinker's damn
.

Sometimes his voice was so loud I would suddenly look up; it was as if he had been right beside me, or at least somewhere in the shadows of the shop. On one of those nights I promised myself that, when the
Ali Princess
was done, I would go back to see Mr. Kurz.

Buena Vista looked just the same, only smaller. And dustier. Nobody sat outside in wheelchairs. I guessed the dust was too much.

I thought of checking in at the main desk but decided against it. I would slip in and out, no commotion, no tracks. Mr. Kurz would approve. I eased around the corner and headed down the hall. The place had the same sickly clean smell, the same old-timers slumped in wheelchairs, the same moans and groans as I had remembered. I thought I'd take a chance and see if Mr. Kurz was in his same room. As I approached it, I took a deep breath. His door was open.

I paused, then stepped forward. Inside was a jumble of chairs and a pile of mattresses. I stared. Mr. Kurz's room was now a storeroom. I felt like somebody had punched me in the gut. I backed away, into the hallway.

“Hey, don't I know you?” said a passing voice.

I spun around. It was the male nurse. His hair was much longer now but he still wore the same white outfit and white tennis shoes. He stopped and smiled.

“Miles,” I said. “Miles Newell. I did my ninth-grade oral-history project with Mr. Kurz.”

“Sure, I remember,” he said. We shook hands. Then he glanced to the storeroom, and back to me. His smile slipped. “Bad news, Miles.”

I took a small breath and held it.

“Mr. Kurz died about a month ago.”

“Shit,” I said. The word just popped out—the same one that most airplane pilots say just before they crash—the same one that shows up again and again on cockpit voice recorders recovered from crash sites. Usually it's their last word. Shit.

“Yes, I hear you,” the nurse said. “As old-timers go, I didn't mind Mr. Kurz one bit.”

I stood there taking in little breaths and letting them out.

“His family was worthless, though,” the nurse continued. “We called them several times, but in the end we had to do all the arrangements ourselves.”

“Arrangements?”

“Get him to the funeral home. Make sure he was cremated—that's what he wanted—then bring him back here to the chapel.”

I nodded.

“‘Burn me up. Dump my ashes in the river. That way nobody will ever find me.'” The nurse did a very good imitation of Mr. Kurz's raspy voice.

We both smiled. Suddenly the nurse ballooned and tilted as water welled up in my eyes.

The nurse put his hand on my shoulder. “You okay, kid?”

“Sure,” I said quickly.

There was a pause. “I won't lie to you, Miles. It was sad. His family never even came for his ashes. And he never got around to telling me which river.”

I blinked and blinked. Down the hall someone moaned loudly.

The nurse hesitated. Then he said, “Sorry. I gotta go. The living, you know.”

“Sure. Thanks,” I said. “See you around.”

But he was already walking away toward the moaning.

IN THE MORNING THE TENT
was clammy and dewy inside. Sarah—as usual—had managed to angle her sleeping bag across most of the space. I quietly unzipped the tent flap and looked outside. Our cabin was tall and still. For a moment I hoped I had only dreamed the squatters—but the Harley remained parked on the front porch.

I pulled on my shoes and slipped out. I'd always liked early mornings down at the beach, before the lake got busy with boats and whining little Jet Skis. I eased toward the back side of the cabin (a nest of fresh cigarette butts lay by the steps) and along its thick, reddish logs.

Our logs.

Our moss on our logs.

Our spiderwebs shiny with dew on our moss on our logs.

I suddenly felt ashamed to be sneaking along; I straightened up. I was almost down to the shore when the goats saw me. They began to lunge against their little corral fence and go
“Baack-baack-baack”
like crazy; I froze—and was still frozen when Danny the biker stumbled out the back door with a gun.

I knew a little bit about guns, mainly from Mr. Kurz, and this gun was huge. It was long, with a big barrel and a wooden forearm: a slide-action shotgun of some kind. Danny was jacking a shell into the chamber as he came out the back.

Then he saw me.

We stared at each other.

“What are you doing back here?” he growled.

“I'm going down to the beach.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. I was usually fairly clever with words, but that gun shrank my vocal cords.

“I don't want you fooling around back here,” Danny said. “You're making the goats nervous. They won't milk right.”

Somehow I doubted that—the goats seemed more like dogs that wanted to play—but I managed to say, “Sure, mister.”

He stared at me, then lowered the gun. He nodded his head back toward our campsite and the
Princess
. “I meant to ask, what's the story on that buggy with the sail? I ain't ever seen one of those before.”

“Probably not,” I said.

“Your rich old man buy it somewhere?”

“No. I made it.”

“You made it? No bull, kid?” Big Danny said.

“No bull.”

“Pretty ding-danged impressive.” He leaned the shotgun against the back porch and smiled like we were pals. “You're pretty handy for a scrawny little devil.”

“Thanks,” I said. My natural sense of sarcasm was coming back fast.

He stared at me for a long moment. “Too bad this cabin is full, else you folks could crash here for the winter. You'd be good around here, fixing things. Better than Rick, that's for sure. He's worthless with tools, and lazy besides.”

I manufactured a weak smile. “I'm not that handy.”

“Plus with five of them and four of you, there'd be one less mouth to feed.” He cocked his head to consider that.

“Like I said,” I quickly began, but he didn't hear me. Another idea had arrived, and clearly his brain could handle only one at a time.

“Except there's the sheriff.” Then he added, “Plus Sheila would skin me alive.”

“Well, there you have it, then.”

He blinked, then bored his gaze back into me. “Listen. I got bad news. You tell your parents that you folks are gonna have to move on. That is, if they haven't already figured that out. There's no room here this winter for another family.”

My throat stiffened. I stuck out my chin. “You're the big man around here—why don't you tell them?”

His face went blank, then broke into a gap-toothed grin. “You know, I like you, kid. I do.”

I vamoosed back around the cabin and headed for the tent. My parents were up and around now. The food pack was out. They were debating whether to set up our cookstove. “It's a sign of defeat, us out here cooking, them inside,” my mother said.

“On the other hand, we have to eat,” my father said.

Sarah looked toward the cabin, then at the food.

We ate breakfast behind our tent, out of sight from the cabin. I didn't mention my conversation with Danny. I kept staring at the ground, at our shoeprints in the ash. My brain was spinning. Processing. Searching all databases. We clearly needed a new plan. The whole family was silent as we ate bread, peanut butter, and jam. Midway, a woman's voice said, “Knock, knock.”

Sheila poked her head around the side of the main tent.

My mother's face hardened. “What is it?”

“I brought you some coffee, if you like. Real coffee.” She held two mugs.

My father glanced at Nat, then accepted a cup. My mother shook her head curtly sideways.

“I'll take it,” I said. I surprised myself by saying that.

“I didn't know you drank coffee,” Sarah said.

Sheila glanced briefly over her shoulder toward the cabin. “I wanted to invite you in for breakfast, but Danny said no. Says it would upset the children.”

My mother bit her lower lip in a very obvious way. “Danny says,” she repeated.

“Yeah, well, he is kind of the alpha male around here, if you know what I mean,” Sheila replied.

“I'd noticed,” my mother said.

“And I'm sorry to tell you this,” Sheila said, lowering her voice, “but he's going to ask you to move on. I just wanted you to know that.”

I looked at my father, and he at me.

“I'll talk with him after breakfast,” my father said.

Sheila frowned. “I'm afraid there'll be nothing to talk about. Once his mind is made up, well, that's that.”

“And what if we don't want to move on?” Sarah said suddenly. Her voice was high-pitched and shaky.

“Yes,” my mother said, stepping close to Sarah. “What if we don't want to leave
our
own place, one that
we
pay taxes on, one that
we
—”

Sheila interrupted her. “Danny's been in prison,” she said softly. “Deep down he's a good man, but he's done some bad things, and he's got a hair-trigger temper.”

My father's gaze went to my mother. “That's good to know,” he said.

Sarah looked accusingly at my father, as if he was on the wrong side.

“So I guess,” Sheila said apologetically, “I'll leave you to make your plans.”

When she had gone, we all looked at each other. My father's brown eyes went to the
Ali Princess
, then back to our cabin.

“Well, gang,” he said cheerfully, “anybody got any ideas?”

“I say go back home. We should have never left,” Sarah said, casting an accusing look my way.

I expected my mother to second that opinion, but she pursed her lips. “I was listening to the Minneapolis news last night. The Fresh Mart store in Wayzata was looted by a mob. The police shot and wounded two people.”

“Wayzata?” Sarah said incredulously.

I thought of that “customer limits” sign.

“Plus there were several house break-ins and assaults in the west suburbs. A family of three was shot to death on Greenbriar Lane,” she finished.

“My God!” Sarah said.

Greenbriar was only two miles from our house.

My father stepped forward. “It looks like there's a pattern developing. If you live in the suburbs and have a big house, then people think you must have stuff stashed away.”

“It's the more isolated homes that are being hit,” my mother said.

“That would be us,” I muttered. I always knew our big house was trouble. Castles eventually attracted people with cannons and ladders; even I had read enough history to know that.