Spud (14 page)

The brittleness of the surviving grasses and trees has been evident, and the farmers
with their corn and tomatoes and stuff have been pulling their hair out in frustration
with Mother Nature. Now, when least expected, the rain pays a very nasty, yet welcoming
visit.

Thunder clapping, lightning buzzing like zigzag flashes of yellow death through the
darkened sky. It’s ridiculous how it waited until I reached the safety of my front
door. The loud rumbling of the thunder vibrates through my whole body. The lightning
like pictures flashing nonstop. Burns my eyes. I love it.

“Jack!” My mom hops out of her chair in the living room as I step inside, her face
crinkled with concern. “Are you okay? We heard.” She grabs me into a tight hug, smelling
so sweet and fragrant, like fresh flowers. These ladies and their perfume stuff.
What a neat invention. Anyway…

“Um, geez,” I stumble on my words. “It’s so unreal.” She’s let go, and I sit on the
floor cross-legged across from my parents who are in their respective chairs.

I fiddle with the threads of our carpet as I talk, looking down, explaining things,
rambling, letting it all out.

“I mean, first Spud, then Mike comes to Deena’s late last night, all threatening
that I better watch my back, like so out of it. Then he stumbled off into some car.
Nobody heard any more. Then
this morning Deena’s phone rings, and she comes wailing
out of her room with the news. Mom,” I’m looking up now, “he knew the dangers of
that damn bridge! Why drink and go jump off in the middle of the night? It’s nuts!
Why?”

“He must have been so troubled, Jack. Thinking about how he was with Spud, then after
the drinking he’d done last night. It was a stupid action that he likely would not
have done if he’d been sober. A tragedy.” She’s shaking her head. Dad is, too. “This
town didn’t need it. And my God I hope now they do something about people jumping
from that bridge.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes. My dad has pretty much been shaking his head,
throwing out the occasional “Damn.” I start to get up, but change my mind, and instead
go into another crying spree and tell my parents everything I loved about and will
miss about Spud and how hard it is and how unfair it is. I cry and talk and cry and
talk. They listen and comfort me and listen some more. Mom talks, too, sharing how
she loved Spud, and Dad throws in his few bits, too. I don’t know where Zoë is, but
it doesn’t really matter. I know she loved him.

By this point, Mom has joined me on the floor, is holding me like Deena’s mom held
her, and I’m not embarrassed or ashamed or anything. I cry like a kid who fell off
his bike and needs his mom to fix his scraped knee. And we talk some more, probably
repeating things four or five times. I don’t know. I just need to cry, and I need
to talk. To my parents. To talk to them, to apologize to them, to listen to their
pain, too.

Then, after an hour of this, we slowly fall silent. Mom’s strong embrace is still
around me, Dad thoughtful in his chair.

We sit like that for about five silent minutes, the only sound the raging storm outside,
which has outdone the man on the Weather
Channel who is giving the latest on the
unexpected storms.

Finally, with a loud boom of thunder to bring me out of my reverie, I kiss Mom on
the cheek, get up and hug dad, thank them, and say I think I need a shower. They
tease all I have to do is step outside. Lightens the mood.

I thank them, say I’ll pass at Mother Nature’s version of a shower, and head upstairs,
now fully exhausted, but with an odd sense of relief. About getting so much out.
Truly, I hope it pours all day. I don’t feel like facing anyone anymore right now.
I don’t want to even leave my room after I clean up. Too much to think about. It’s
all happened so fast. But finally, I’ve done some talking. With the ‘rents. Felt
kind of refreshing, too.

Lying on my bed, in nothing but the track shorts I got at the state meet in eighth
grade, I glance again through the paper that had the article on Spud. Never having
paid much attention before to the other pieces in there, just the Spud stuff, I now
notice some important information. And bored, I figure I might as well take it in.
In the week he died, Chicago’s own death total from the heat reached 739. That’s
just nuts. Over seven hundred people died? As a result of the weather? And it’s not
like it was from floods or tornadoes or anything like that. Just temperatures, and
all the problems resulting.

Damn. 739 dead, plus Spud. And the random others not actually from Chicago. Kids,
pets, seniors, the sick. From the suburbs, small towns. Those that only made local
papers. Chicago, surely, had enough to deal with to include in their own paper, without
adding to it the problems of surrounding towns and cities.

The paper talks about how hospital morgues got too full for all the dead bodies,
and they had to keep the dead in refrigerated trucks. How hospitals got overcrowded
and had to turn other people away. Wow. The mayor is gonna face his own heat for
this. How can
such a large, productive city not have enough resources to cool down
its residents? Why did so many innocent people have to be victims?

It’s not fair, but really, a lot in life just isn’t fair. It’s all something we need
to learn from, that’s for sure. I don’t know exactly what I should learn from what
happened to Spud and Mike, but I’ve got some ideas.

Like some risks aren’t worth taking. Drinking underage isn’t very bright. Tragedies
happen, and even though we’re young, we’re not immune, not invincible. It can happen
to us. It’s hard to deal with death, to accept never seeing your best buddy again,
but you have to. You have to keep pushing, keep alive, even if for the one who died.

It reminds me of
The Outsiders
, that book we had to read in seventh grade, when Ponyboy
was in a funk after Johnny died, and Darry, his big brother, told him he had to snap
out it. That it’s hard, and you gotta keep living life, can’t just give up. Live
it the best you can, maybe in remembrance for the one you lost, if you have to, but
you can’t stop. You can’t. Sure, take time to mourn, to cry, to question, to rant
and rave, but then you gotta keep on. Can’t stop. If you do, you let the bad forces
beat you, I think.

I gotta accept this, hard as it is, and I gotta keep living. For Spud. I gotta be
strong, accomplish my goals. For him. Play ball. Drive. Graduate. Have a great career.
Get married. Name my first boy after him. I guess. I’m not sure, but I think I now
know I can’t just give up.

Fingering the guitar pick still on the chain around my neck, I feel like Spud is
there, somehow, in the air, and I feel a lot calmer. I fold the paper, sigh, put
it on my floor and collapse back onto my bed, in my very warm room. The thunder and
lightning are still at war outside, the rain pelting my window. The best conditions
for a nice snooze.

Chapter 17

Four dark days of pouring down rain. As the saying goes, it’s been raining like cats
and dogs. Some time ago, I read what that meant, but now I forget. Guess it’s not
at the top of my list of things to remember. So, torrential bursts of pelting rain,
loads of deafening thunder that shakes the house, sporadic flashes of lightning,
some intense enough to replicate the Fourth of July fireworks shows, day and night.
We get a real soaking and a bit of relief from sky-high temperatures. Now, the air
feels more around seventy, and it’s so refreshing. The trees and grass and flowers
are eating it up. Well, drinking it up. Mostly, I’ve stayed in my room, thinking
a lot from my relaxing bed, as I listen to the storms.

Mike’s family wanted a private family funeral, but the public was invited to stop
at the wake. It was closed casket, so we didn’t see him, but I couldn’t stay long.
It’s not that I had any other plans, of course, as Mike’s wake was extremely important
to me, but I just couldn’t bear too much of another one of these things. I took in
the pictures of Mike through the years, those displays that are always present at
a wake, just like at Spud’s. I took in the music, that low-key elevator type.

I briefly talked to some classmates, but really, I remained in a daze. I was sweltering
in my black pants and white polo shirt, and my forehead dripped with sweat, my hair
matted. Even though the place was air-conditioned, it was a suffocating experience.
Hard to take in any air. The flowers were colorful and plentiful, and the whispers
and tears over the tragedy were hushed and heart-breaking. An experience I did not
want to prolong. It was nuts, unnecessary, never should have
happened.

Mike’s dad, being the big cop in town, has a lot of support and the whole town obviously
knows of the family’s suffering. Maybe, now, they’ll do something about bridge jumping.
And underage drinking. Is this what it takes? The cop’s own son taken by these poor
choices available?

Deena was surrounded by family and was talking a lot to Mike’s parents, so I didn’t
want to interrupt anything there. They all had enough on their plates. The wake was
horrible, in the sense it shouldn’t have happened. I don’t ever want to go to another
one, but I’m sure I’ll have to someday, unfortunately.

On another note, I’ve briefly talked to Deena since that horrible morning after her
party, but I am trying to give her space and healing with her family. She’s not much
in the mood for chatting, and I totally understand. I’m not in the mood either.

After a few days of wall-staring and tennis ball tossing in my stuffy bedroom, I’ve
finally moved onto entertainment by television and have taken advantage of the VCR
to lighten my mood with
The Mighty Ducks
and a recording of one of my favorite past
Sox games. I have to come to terms with the fact that Mike made a really irrational
choice, alcohol induced, and he needed some help. It was nobody’s fault, really,
just a very tragic event. It took so much heavy thinking and solitary brooding to
get over Spud, well, to at least accept Spud’s accident, that I can’t fall backwards
again.

Zoë knocks on my door. Wonder what she’s been doing this past week.

“Yeah?”

“Jack?” she pops her head in. “What ya doing?”

“Nada.”

“Want to play a game of Monopoly or something?” A hopeful
tone to her voice. I haven’t
looked at her to see her expression.

“Not really.”

“Umm, well, okay.” And she leaves.

Wait. Maybe I should. I haven’t connected yet, in a normal brother-sister way with
Zoë since, well, before Spud’s death. We need to fix this. I don’t know if a game
of money and power is the answer, but it might be a step. I hop up off my bed and
open the door. Zoë is at the hall closet, straightening towels and sheets. She needs
a break, too.

“You know what, Zoë, why don’t we play Monopoly? It’s been awhile, and with the rain,
we can’t go outside or anything. You want me to set it up in my room, on the floor?”

The look on her face is priceless. Surprise, smile, cheer.

“Okay, sure, sounds fun.” She closes the closet curtains and faces me. She’s got
on track shorts and a tee shirt, in the mode to clean, again. “Why don’t you start
to set up, and I’ll run down and grab us a couple Cokes. You want anything to eat?”

“Nah, the pop is great. Thanks.” I head back into my room to drag the game from under
my bed, as Zoë zips down the stairs, an energy in her step I haven’t seen or heard
in a while. It, too, is as refreshing as the rain. Speaking of, I have my windows
open, a fresh breeze coming in to keep it cool.

“I’ll trade you your ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card for a hundred bucks.” I offer, sitting
cross-legged on the floor on the opposite side of the Monopoly board from Zoë.

“Okay,” she says too quickly. Then, “Wait! No, Jack, you dork. I’m not falling for
that. It only costs fifty to get out of jail, anyway. I don’t care if I lost a turn.
You’re so not going to trick me.” We’re both laughing. Had to try.

“Sweet! Park Place, finally!” I chime when my Man with the
Horse playing piece lands
on my prized property. Eagerly, I fork over the cash to Zoë the banker. She hates
when I always monopolize the Park Place and Boardwalk properties. Every time she
lands on them, I almost clean out her cash in rental fees. In addition, I love to
own the railroads. Great money-makers. Zoë is so cheesy and always buys low cost
properties like Marvin Gardens and makes hardly any money off them. Haha.

“Oooh! Look at that, Jack!” she gloats. “I’m buying it!” She’s landed on Boardwalk.
No, no, no! Everyone knows you have to own all the colors of a set before you can
put on the houses and hotels and really make money. I have to have Boardwalk from
her. It’s always my ultimate goal to own it.

“Hundred dollars if you’ll give me Boardwalk, instead,” I offer, desperate to keep
her from buying the place..

“What? Not a deal, Jack. You’ll place all those hotels on them, and then if I land
there, I’ll owe you way more than a hundred. You give me all your railroads, your
utilities, and your Illinois Avenue, and then we’ll have a fair trade.” She’s a toughie.
Learned over the years.

“What? That’s rough, Zoë. All that just for one property from you?”

“Your choice. How bad you want it?” she taunts, waving the Boardwalk card in the
air.

“Deal, then.” Grudgingly, I finish my Coke and hand over all four railroads, plus
the other requested properties, but feel redeemed when holding the sweet, prized
Boardwalk in my hands. Time to monopolize. You can’t get to “Go” without a trip over
Boardwalk and Park Place. I love this game! Show me the money!

After several rounds through the board, alternating with us both catching a rerun
of
Family Ties
on my old TV set several inches
from where we’ve been playing the
game on my floor, it happens.

“Ahh! Nooo!!!” Zoë wails, laughing and slapping her head silly-like. “Why me?” She’s
landed on my precious Boardwalk.