The Best Man (2 page)

G
randpa Magill walked me to the first day of first grade. We started early. He was up before the sun every morning, year-round, waiting for the day to get going. Always in coat and tie and pants with a crease. In the summer he wore his straw hat. On World Series week he always wore his Chicago Cubs cap, even though the Cubs hadn't gone to the Series since 1945 and hadn't won one since 1908.

On the way to school, Grandpa scoped out every house. “See those three in a row? I built them.”

He had big knuckles, like a carpenter.

And he acted like he owned all the houses he ever
built. He'd grumble if people put on an addition or enclosed a porch. You wouldn't want to hear what he called aluminum siding. And he wouldn't put up with litter on the lawn.

He turned me loose twice to run a newspaper out of the shrubbery and up to some stranger's door. He kept me so busy I forgot to be scared. Then school loomed up. Kids and their grown-ups were coming from all directions. But on that first day you don't think about anybody but you.

On the school steps, I glanced back for one last look at the world.

Out there, rumbling along the curb, was a '56 Chevy Bel Air. It was detailed to death with red and black flames painted from front bumper to the dual exhausts. A pair of giant fluffy dice dangled from the rearview mirror. It was Dad, shadowing us in the Chevy, making sure Grandpa and I made it to school.

Inside past the security guard, everybody was yelling. Sixth graders were throwing stuff—sandwich parts, whatever.

Grandpa blazed a trail through them. He swung me around a couple of corners, and we pulled up in front of a classroom.

A smiling lady in a corduroy skirt stood there.

Grandpa told her I was his grandson. His hat was off. He waited till I reached up to shake the teacher's hand.

She was Mrs. Bird, and she checked me off a printout, so there was no going back.

I was trying to figure out how Grandpa knew where first grade was when Mrs. Bird gave him another look. “Sir, are you Mr. Addison Magill?”

Grandpa nodded a little bow.

“What an honor to meet the architect of Westside Elementary. I had no idea you were still—I mean, what a pleasure!”

No wonder Grandpa knew where the first-grade room was. It was where he'd put it. He wasn't a carpenter. He was the architect. This was a lot to learn before school even started.

Grandpa gave me a little boost on my backpack. Then he was gone. Now you see him, now you don't.

• • •

We began Mrs. Bird's first grade in a circle on the floor, holding our ankles. And guess who was sitting next to me? The new girl with all the red hair. Lynette Stanley.

“Why are you sitting next to me?” I asked, not moving my lips.

“You're the only one here I know.”

The Stanleys were new in town. I'd gone to kindergarten with everybody else. All seven boys named Josh were here. Josh Hunnicutt had been the smallest kid in kindergarten and still was. And that meant I wasn't. Russell Beale was back. We'd heard he'd flunked kindergarten and had to repeat it. But it was only a rumor.

It was your regular first grade. Three people were crying. There were a few thumb-suckers. One kid was in some kind of superhero costume with a cape. Two girls had brought their Madame Alexander dolls. The security guard had taken a knife off Jackson Showalter. He'd brought a hunting knife in his backpack to the first day of school.

“Is that the kid they had to disarm?” Lynette nodded across the circle at Jackson. It wasn't nine o'clock yet, and he was famous already. I nodded back. There were missing teeth in every mouth around the circle, but Jackson looked like he'd lost his in a fight.

“And who have I got on my other side?” Lynette said in my ear. I looked.

“Natalie Schuster,” I muttered.

Lynette crossed her eyes and held her nose. “She's wearing perfume.”

“She could read before kindergarten,” I explained. “Books without pictures. She thinks she's a grown-up.”

“Weird,” Lynette said. “Spooky.”

“You think you're a grown-up too,” I told her.

“No, I don't,” Lynette said. “I've got a fifth-grade vocabulary, but I'm in first.”

“Can you read?”

“Isn't that what first grade's
for
?” she said.

Now the teacher was settling on a small chair. She tucked her corduroy skirt. “Boys and girls, my name is Mrs. Bird, so you are my little birds.”

Natalie groaned and poked two fingers down her throat.

“Who knows a good word for a little bird?” Mrs. Bird asked.

“Chick,” said Natalie. “Birdy. Something like that.” Natalie was always first with an answer. She never had to think about it.

“Fledgling,” Lynette said.

Mrs. Bird looked really happy. “Fledgling! That's a very good word. That's a fifth-grade word, Lynette.”

We had name tags pinned on our shirts.

“Except it's not a word,” Natalie said into Lynette's other ear.

Lynette turned to her. “
Fledgling
's a word.”

“No, it happens not to be,” Natalie said. “If it was, I'd know it. I was reading before kindergarten. I've read every one of the American Girl books. They ought to write one about me. And I hate your hair.”

And so our journey through grade school began. It was already happening in that first circle of Mrs. Bird's fledglings.

In grade school, your best friend better never be a girl unless you
are
a girl. But there sat Lynette Stanley with hardly any space between us, talking my ear off. And when people began to notice we were best friends, I might just as well put on a dress and throw myself backward off the monkey bars.

And there on Lynette's other side was Natalie Schuster. And Lynette had already crossed her.
Teachers
didn't cross Natalie. Even the kindergarten teacher's aide hadn't crossed her.

“Is she going to give me trouble?” Lynette asked me before the circle broke up.

“Maybe, maybe not. Just don't throw around too many big words where she can hear.”

And across the circle was Jackson Showalter, hunkered down and blowing his nose with his thumb. He had trouble written all over him, along with a lot of stuff inked on his arms. His shifty eyes scanned the circle.

“Just do me one favor,” I said to Lynette. “Don't save me.”

“From what?”

“From whatever. You know what I mean. Like you did you-know-when. At the wedding.”

“Right,” Lynette said. “Save yourself.”

“Also, later on, when we have phones, you will never text me. Okay?”

“Deal,” said Lynette.

And now I was pretty sure Jackson Showalter's narrow eyes were on me, where I sat next to Lynette Stanley, with Natalie Schuster on her other side.

J
ackson Showalter took eight months to get around to me. Keeping out of his way gave me a busy winter. By now he'd shaved his head and inked a lot more stuff on his arms. Not words. I don't know if he knew any words. By April the rest of us could read, more or less. We were all heading for Captain Underpants and punctuation, except for Jackson, who was heading for me.

I have an April birthday, April 23, which is the date in 1914 when a major-league ball game was first played in Wrigley Field. So it was my birthday, and I made the mistake of wearing my best present to school the next day.

My uncle Paul gave it to me: a scaled-down
Chicago Cubs home jersey with the Wrigley Field hundred-year patch on the sleeve. A collector's item already. Uncle Paul's gifts are always the best. When I was twelve, I was going to get the coolest suit in Chicago from him, from Ralph Lauren on Michigan Avenue. But that gets ahead of the story.

I wore the Cubs jersey to school the day after my birthday. Then I had to use the restroom. You see where this is going. But I had to. Mrs. Bird gave me a restroom pass. When I got there, I went into a stall, though I didn't have to sit down. But I like my privacy.

I was just done when a foot kicked the stall door open.

I whirled around, and Jackson Showalter and I were face-to-face. I had the restroom pass, but he didn't need one. He roamed the halls at will.

He wasn't any taller than I was. He may have been a little shorter that spring. But he was like a fireplug with fists. And he was hanging with second graders, which is never a good sign. Now we were out by the sinks. We were still little guys. We had to look up to see the mirror.

But Jackson was between me and the door and getting bigger.

“Dude,” he said, “I'll need your shirt.”

“My uncle Paul gave me this shirt,” I said, like that would do me any good.

“Skin out of it.”

“I don't have anything on underneath.”

He thought about making me swap shirts with him, but he decided against it. Moons and stars were on his arms. I figured I'd be seeing stars any minute now. He reached down toward his ankle with his eyes tight on me.

He came up with a knife. Not as big as the hunting knife, but a pocketknife that was all business.

He opened it, and the overhead light bounced off the blade.

“How'd you get that past the security guard?” I said in a wobbly voice.

“In my sock,” he said with quiet pride. Jackson was never going to be without a knife. Even in the future, years from now—in prison—he'll have a knife. He'll make one out of a spoon or something.

He couldn't take his eyes off my Cubs shirt, but he said, “I'll just have the patch.” He pointed the knife at the Wrigley Field hundredth-anniversary patch, which was what made the shirt valuable.

I decided not to cry, but I was getting there.
Jackson grabbed the shoulder of the shirt and bunched it up. Then here came the knife. “Do yourself a favor and hold still.” He squinted and worked the tip of the blade under the patch. “Or you'll be bleeding like a stuck hog.”

It was a Swiss Army knife. I felt the flat of the blade.

The door behind Jackson banged open. Jackson jumped. He could have cut my throat. He whipped around. The school security guard filled up the doorway. He was usually out at his post, but here he was.

The knife hit the floor. “This kid pulled a knife on me,” Jackson said.

“Give me a break,” the guard said.

Having the guard show up at just the right time seemed too good to be true. It was. But I didn't think about it then.

He stepped around Jackson and scooped up the knife. He had a patch on his shirt too. It read: “Andy.” He must have been six-five. He'd ducked in the door.

Now the tears came. I couldn't help it.

“You're the one with the restroom pass, right?” he said. “You can cut off back to your classroom.”

Jackson stood there, smaller without the knife, level with the guard's kneecap. Then Andy did something surprising. He put his big hand down for Jackson to take. And Jackson took it. His hand, the one that had held the knife, disappeared into Andy's big fist.

• • •

I was just coming out of the boys' room when guess who was coming out of the girls'? Lynette Stanley, not looking my way. A girls' restroom pass fluttered in her hand.

I didn't think too much about it. I was seven. I didn't think too much about anything. I was just glad I hadn't lost the patch off my Cubs shirt.

Behind me Andy the guard was leading Jackson by the hand down to Mrs. Dempsey's office. She's the principal. Jackson was in and out of her office through the rest of his days at Westside Elementary.

A
fter school, I found Grandpa sitting on a playground swing. We walked home, picking up some litter on the way.

Mom was still at work. Grown-up couples came to see her during office hours. I thought she was a wedding planner. As soon as her last customers left, she was all over the house, then all over me.

“Honey, are you all right?” She was down in a crouch, holding me at arm's length, looking me over.

I'd changed out of my Cubs shirt to keep it fresh. “Sure, why not?”

“Why not?” Mom said. “Here's why not: Jackson Showalter pulled a knife on you at school. A knife!” Mom's eyes sizzled.

“Mom, how do you even know this?”

“Because Lynette Stanley saw you get a restroom pass, and she knew that Jackson Showalter was wandering the halls. Lynette got a restroom pass herself and went straight to the security guard.”

“Andy,” I said.

“Whoever,” Mom said. “And he found you with the Showalter gangster holding a knife to your throat. Lynette told her mother. Her mother called me.”

I stubbed a toe in the rug. “I told Lynette not to.”

“Not to what?” Mom said.

“Not to save me.”

“You can thank your lucky stars she did,” Mom said.

Stars reminded me of Jackson's arms.

Mom couldn't let it go. “Archer, honestly, I don't want to be a pushy parent. I don't want to be Elaine Schuster. But I have half a mind to go to Mrs. Bird and tell her if she can't manage her students—
first graders
—she may be in the wrong business.”

“Mom, don't. Nobody can control Jackson. Nobody, Mom.”

Then my uncle Paul walked in. He drove out from the city most Friday nights for dinner. He and Dad cooked, and Uncle Paul brought pizza for me.

It was the best night of the week. Uncle Paul filled a door almost like Andy. He was six-four. He'd come from work—dark suit, medium blue dress shirt. No tie. Wing-tipped shoes. No socks. Sharper than the knife in Jackson's hand.

He was carrying a pizza box and another authentic, scaled-down Chicago Cubs home jersey with the Wrigley Field hundred-year patch.

Wait a minute. “Mom, did you tell Uncle Paul about . . . you know what?”

“I told him you were assaulted with a knife.”

“Mom, why?”

“Because I tell him everything that matters to me. We have no secrets. He's my brother.”

They were looking at each other over my head. Uncle Paul set down the pizza but not the shirt. “Want to go for a ride?” he asked me.

“Can I drive?”

“In about nine years.” Uncle Paul fished out his keys. “But not my car.”

I forget what he was driving—something cool, and low. It's possible that I wasn't quite big enough
to ride up front beside him. But there I was, which was great. Everything was. For one thing, Uncle Paul was the kind of grown-up who never asks you how you like school.

We pulled into a driveway that turned in a circle in front of a big house, a real McMansion. Not Grandpa Magill's kind of house. We got out, and Uncle Paul reached back in the car for the Cubs jersey.

When we were up at a big double door with carriage lights, a guy as tall as Uncle Paul opened it. He squinted at us, and there was something familiar about that squint. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Don't tell me. Paul Archer.”

Uncle Paul put out a hand, and the guy grabbed him in a big hug. They tussled. Then Uncle Paul said, “This is my nephew, Archer Magill.”

The guy reached down to shake my hand.

“Archer, this is Mr. Showalter,” Uncle Paul said.

Whoa. I was ready to run.

“Come on in,” Mr. Showalter said. “You just caught me. I'm here to pick up my son, Jackson. I get him weekends. Every other weekend.”

A big, glittering chandelier hung over us. Who knew Jackson Showalter was rich?

“Jackson! Get down here,” Mr. Showalter
bellowed up the stairs. “We're going. I'm counting to three. Bring your stuff.”

He turned back to us. “Kids. Right?”

We just stood there until Mr. Showalter said, “So, you went on to Northwestern?”

Uncle Paul nodded.

“Sigma Nu?”

Uncle Paul nodded again.

“And you didn't go the hedge fund route or I'd know,” Mr. Showalter said.

“No, something a lot more fun,” Uncle Paul said. “I do public relations. Wrigley Field's a client.”

“No way,” Mr. Showalter said. “And still single?”

“Still single,” Uncle Paul said.

“You were always the playboy.” Mr. Showalter gave Uncle Paul a little biff on the arm.

And here came Jackson Showalter down the curving stairs with a backpack and a sleeping bag. I was kind of lurking behind Uncle Paul. Jackson saw me and stopped.

Mr. Showalter said, “Do these boys—”

“Archer and Jackson are in the same first-grade class.” Uncle Paul's hand just touched my shoulder.

Jackson was up there, holding on to the banister. His starry arm looked spindly.

“Then they're friends already,” Mr. Showalter said.

“No, they're not,” Uncle Paul said. “I doubt if your boy has any friends. That could be one of his problems.”

That stopped Mr. Showalter cold. “Wait a min—”

“He's brought at least two knives to school,” Uncle Paul said, “one of them bigger than he is. And today he pulled a knife on my nephew.”

“That's a big lie,” Jackson hollered from the stairs. “Didn't happen.”

“Jackson, go back upstairs and get your mother. I want to know if she's been hearing from school about you,” Mr. Showalter said. But Jackson just stood there. “I'm counting to three,” Mr. Showalter said.

Uncle Paul walked over to the stairs. He held up the Cubs jersey.

“Come on down and get your shirt, Jackson,” Uncle Paul said, and waited. Jackson wanted it and didn't want it. He hung there in space. Then he started down the stairs. The chandelier glared on his skinned head.

It was real quiet. Jackson reached for the shirt. Uncle Paul handed it over. “What do you say?”

“I say that kid was the one who pulled a knife on
me,” Jackson said in a high, squeaky voice, not looking down at me.

“Try again,” Uncle Paul said.

Finally Jackson mumbled, “Thanks.”

It was time to go. Uncle Paul said to Mr. Showalter, “It wasn't the shirt he wanted, Bob. Try to figure out what he does want.”

We were in the car and halfway home when I said, “Were you and Mr. Showalter friends in high school? Like best buds?”

“Not especially,” Uncle Paul said. “He was an all-around jock. He played first base and outfield and pitched eight one-hitters in his senior year. He could have gone pro, but he blew out both his knees.

“Everybody had a crush on Bob Showalter,” Uncle Paul said, turning into our drive. “I think
I
had a crush on him.”

A what? “You mean, like a bromance?” Which was really a fifth-grade word. I must have got it off TV. Dad and I watched a lot of TV down in the garage.

“Not even,” Uncle Paul said, and killed the engine.

“What's Jackson really want?” I asked.

“For starters, a full-time dad,” Uncle Paul said.

“I've got a full-time dad,” I said.

“Yes, you've got a good dad.”

“Remember the LEGO Ferris wheel?” I asked.

It was supposed to be a scale model of the first Ferris wheel ever, from the Chicago World's Fair of 1893. It took over half of the garage, Dad's office part. He built it through a winter when I was in preschool. Uncle Paul helped. Grandpa Magill supervised the job. They sort of forgot I was there, but it was awesome. All kinds of stuff happened in the garage.

“You've got a great dad,” Uncle Paul said. “You just better hope he never grows up.”

“You think you'll be a dad someday?”

“I don't know,” Uncle Paul said. “First things first. But yes, I'd like to be a dad.”

“And another thing.”

Uncle Paul waited.

“If what Jackson wanted was a dad, how come you gave him the shirt?”

“Because now that you've been in his house, he'll leave you alone.”

Then we got out of the car into the long-shadowy evening just as Dad came out of the garage with Grandpa behind him:

Dad

Uncle Paul

Grandpa Magill

These were the three I wanted to be.