The Boy Detective Fails (21 page)
In our daily newspapers, there are professional services that advertise unique abilities to speak with the deceased. You may find their ads beside descriptions of missed connections and rebuilt automotive devices. Their offices contain no furniture. They are silent gray rooms where, along the floor, there are dozens and dozens of radios from nearly every country in the world, or so it seems. It is in these strange offices that a professionally dressed woman will ask you where your loved ones lost their lives, and, gazing among the rows and rows of oddly shaped radios, she will nod silently and then point. “From Iceland,” she will say. “Everyone who dies in Iceland ends up here.” You will hold your ear up to the crisscross pattern of the radio’s speaker. She will utter a word or two and then switch the switch. Soon, you will be surprised to hear a familiar voice speaking.
The boy detective is daydreaming as he rides the bus back to Shady Glens that morning.
Hidden beneath the Argos’ front porch, the three children, Billy, Caroline, and Fenton, were all huddled around the True-Life Junior Detective kit.
“Oh, you’re doing it all wrong,” Caroline muttered, unhappily tugging the fingerprint set from Fenton’s small hands.
“No, this is how it says to do it on the box,” the chubby boy in his red beanie replied.
“Look, no, it’s all over the place now. Billy’s going to get mad.”
It’s OK, just be more careful with it,
Billy says, sitting there on the bus.
“See, Billy can’t be mad at me. We’re best friends,” Fenton argued.
“Well, he was my brother before he was your friend.”
“That doesn’t mean
anything
. He didn’t ask to be your brother. It just happened that way. He
chose
to be my friend.”
Caroline straightened her dress and crossed her arms over her chest.
“That’s it, I’m done playing with you, Fenton. You hog the finger-print ink.”
“I won’t hog it anymore.”
“No, I’m going to go ride my bicycle alone.”
“Don’t go, I’m sorry,” Fenton whispered.
Don’t go, I’m sorry,
Billy whispers.
“No, I’m going to play by myself,” Caroline muttered. “Please, don’t leave,” Fenton begged.
“Sing the song then.”
Don’t make him sing the song,
Billy says.
“Please, don’t make me sing the song.”
Fenton grabbed Caroline’s hand and frowned.
“Then I’m going inside.”
“OK. All right.” Fenton, sitting cross-legged, held one arm over his head and one to his side. “
I’m a little teapot, short and stout, here is my handle, here is my spout …
Will you let me use the fingerprint set now?”
“Fine, I guess.”
Billy shakes his head, smiling.
“Can I tell you both a secret?” Fenton asked.
“All right.”
Yes.
“I wish Billy were my brother. I wish I was in your family.”
“But you’re not,” Caroline whispered, haughtily shaking her head. “I know. But I wish I was. I really wish I was.”
Billy smiles and says,
Well, if it’s so important to you, we’ll just say you are from now on.
“OK, thanks, Billy.”
“Well, he really isn’t.”
He is from now on.
“He is?”
Yes. All three of us will always be friends, we will always be together.
Billy looks up suddenly and sees he is talking to an empty aisle of seats. He glances around the bus and frowns. The bus squeals to a stop and fills with eager, fresh-scrubbed office workers. The daydream is gone.
At school that day, Gus Mumford draws a picture of his teacher, Miss Gale, being eaten alive by deadly snakes. A cobra goes right for her jugular vein; a rattlesnake gobbles up her left leg. Gus Mumford hates the sound of his teacher’s voice, the way she tilts her square-shaped head on her long prim neck when she asks a question to which Gus Mumford, of course, already knows the answer. By now the young lad has nearly given up. He no longer even attempts to raise his hand. Instead, he stares down at the strange drawing on his desk, wondering if perhaps if it would ruin the composition if he were to add a great green boa constrictor.
At recess, Gus Mumford notices Missy Blackworth, her red hair dappled with sunlight, while she tries, as secretly as she can, to pass out a number of small notes. From his spot at the top of the jungle gym, Gus Mumford sees the girl hand one to Judy Alexander, the tallest girl in the grade, one to Patrick Arlington, the shortest boy in the grade, and one to Cecil McAbee, perhaps the chubbiest boy ever. Gus Mumford squints his eyes and watches as Missy Blackworth hands a note to nearly all of the third graders, including Portia Orr, the girl who frequently urinates while sitting at her desk. Gus Mumford hurries down the monkey bars and across the small expanse of the schoolyard, knocks Cecil McAbee to the ground, and tears the small correspondence from his chubby white hands. He holds the note close to his face and reads the writing, which is small and dainty:
THANK YOU
FOR ATTENDING MY BIRTHDAY PARTY AND MAKING IT SUCH A SPECIAL OCCASION
The message is followed by Missy’s curly inked name. Gus Mumford growls, crumples up the note, and stomps off in a rage toward a trio of unsuspecting seven-year-olds, who, seeing the bully’s shadow drawing near, immediately begin to scream.
In the classroom once again, Miss Gale decides to test the third grade’s vocabulary. Vocabulary is, without a doubt, Gus Mumford’s best and most favorite subject. Having given up on speech, the boy has simply fallen in love with the sight of the written word and decides that if he knows the answers he will at least try to offer a response to his teacher’s simpleminded questions. Miss Gale takes the class vocabulary workbook from her desk and cocks one narrow eyebrow, smiling coyly.
“Now, class, who can tell me the meaning of the word ‘pugnacious’?”
Like a flare, Gus Mumford’s hand rises deftly into the air. Clearly he is the first, his limb waving back and forth right in front of Miss Gale’s desk. It is as though the boy is invisible, however, as if the appendage belongs to some small, contentious phantom: the fingers waving back and forth do nothing to summon the teacher’s attention. Finally, Miss Gale calls on Walter Scott, who mumbles, “Um … does it mean furry?”
“No. Not quite, Walter.”
Alisha Bell is called on next. Since she wears glasses, she is often mistakenly assumed to be intelligent. Her glasses, in Gus Mumford’s mind, have given her an unfair advantage.
“Yes, Alisha? Do you have a guess?”
“Is it … um … really ugly?”
“No, not quite, dear.”
Arnold Reyes raises his hand slowly, lacking any kind of confidence whatsoever.
“Arnold, yes?”
“Is it a color?”
“No. No, Arnold. Any further guesses?”
Gus Mumford nearly dislocates his shoulder, waving his hand in front of the teacher’s face so rapidly.
“Well, class, it means someone who likes to fight.”
“Ohhh,” the class responds, nodding slowly.
Gus Mumford hisses like a snake, banging his forehead against the desk.
“All right, class, what about the word ‘bellicose’?”
Gus Mumford’s hand is the only one in the air now. He peeks around the room and grimaces, waiting for Miss Gale to finally give in and call upon him.
“No guesses, class? No guesses at all? That word also means someone who enjoys fighting.”
Gus Mumford’s arm falls from the space above his head as if it has been cut off.
“All right, class, how about an easy one? Who can tell me what the word ‘irate’ means?”
Everyone’s hand reaches quickly toward the sky. Gus Mumford shakes his head at the imbecilic arms in the air and decides he will no longer try. He glares around the room and takes note of who dares to answer. But there are just too many to count for reprisals. He squints his eyes and notices just then Judy Alexander’s long arm raised in the air beside him. From elbow to wrist, there are a number of coarse red spots, blighted and puffy. Gus Mumford turns his head and sees all of the other arms waving in the air are also speckled with soft red rashes. He lowers his face into the corner of his arm and holds his breath, breathing against his shirt collar as infrequently as he can.
Outside it is raining; the boy detective and Penny smile at each other silently, still not touching. Billy, in his blue sweater, and Penny, in her pink hat and brown dress, smile down at their feet, unable to look at each other or even speak. Beside Penny on the bus again, Billy thinks about making a bold move—trying to hold Penny’s hand—but for whatever reason, he cannot work up the courage to make such an attempt.
Billy and Penny smile at each other silently from across the booth of the small yellow diner. The table is littered with coffee cups and opened sugar packets and small plastic creamer containers. Carefully, Billy moves these items aside, making a path. Slowly, Billy goes to take Penny’s hand and she lets him hold it this time: finally.
It is silent for a long time. Penny blinks, takes off her glasses, and then says, “I think I would like it if you would come to my place with me.”
“You would?”
Billy’s heart begins pounding loud in his ears.
“Yes, I am having a hard time concentrating on anything. I was almost fired for daydreaming tonight. I was reprimanded for mopping a businesswoman’s shoes. So I … I think you should come over right now.”
The boy detective stares down at the small woman’s hand in his own and nods happily.
“OK. Yes.”
Billy and Penny hold hands tightly on the bus. This grandness—this deep gladness, this fissure of pleasure—is nearly the greatest joy he can remember in his adult life.
It is raining when Billy and Penny walk up the small brick steps toward Penny’s apartment. Her heels click noisily as she fumbles through her pink purse for the key. Billy can hear his heart beating loudly, ticking like a clock—
tick-tick-tick.
They stop, Penny standing higher on the steps, and stare at each other seriously. Penny’s brown eyes disappear, hidden as she lowers her head in shame.
“I’m sorry, Billy. I thought … I thought I was ready.”
Penny begins crying and leans over and kisses Billy’s cheek nervously. She turns, unlocks the door, and runs up the steps. Billy catches a fading glimpse of Penny’s white ankle and pink shoe as the door swings closed behind her. He sits on the steps and stares back over his shoulder at the building, frowning. He looks down at his hand, which is, once again, empty.
The boy detective is feeling badly as he rides the bus home that morning. Imagine this is how he feels exactly:
dancing dancing dancing dancing dancing dancing
scissors scissors scissors heart scissors scissors scissors
It is time to play word-association with the boy detective. His therapist reads the word and then writes down Billy’s answers.
“OK, Billy, how about:
island
?”
“Counterfeit ring.”
“Um, OK. Good.
Mountain
?”
“Smugglers.”
“OK, right. How about:
ocean
?”
“Ocean?”
“Yes.
Ocean
.”
“Um … spy submarine.”
“Uh-huh, OK, OK.
Painting
?”
“Missing.”
“All right. Umm. OK. How about this one:
happiness
?”
The boy detective frowns, tapping his forehead. The therapist repeats again: “
Happiness
?”
“Did I say ‘front-page’ already?”
“No, you did not.”
“OK, then, front-page.”
“What do you mean by ‘front-page,’ Billy?”
“Having your picture on the front page of a newspaper.”
“Oh, yes. Yes, I see. And how about this last one:
fear?
”
“Fear?”
“Yes, Billy:
fear
?”
“Fear …” The boy detective is silent, and then, without a thought, he simply says, “Death.”
The therapist nods and says, “Billy, I want you to think seriously about what that means.”
“I do,” Billy says. “I think about it a lot, sir.”
“I want you to consider why you’re afraid of death. I think it is because you consider it a form of failure, a mistake, something that can somehow be avoided. And yet it remains as the one mystery that unites us all: Rich and poor, young and old—all of us, one day, will die eventually.”
“I do not like to consider that.”
“Why?”
“It is very uncomfortable for me to think like that.”
“Why?” the therapist asks.
“Because,” Billy whispers. “Because there is no answer to that mystery.”
“It is that exact reason why we need to think about it, Billy. It is the last thing in this world that gives us cause to dream.”
“I must be going, sir,” Billy mumbles. “My time is up.”
“How is your investigation going?”
“Which investigation?” Billy asks.
“The investigation of your sister’s death. Have you figured anything out yet?”
“Thank you for your time, doctor. I will see you next week.”
At work, the boy detective momentarily shirks his duties and, discovering that the foreign cleaning lady Lupe has a small portable television set on her cleaning cart, watches TV for a better part of the night.
At first, Lupe will only watch her strange foreign soap operas,
Amor con Sangre
and
Las Muchachas Son Enfermas
, but after some convincing, Billy and his new friend sit on the green carpet and view
Modern Police Cadet.
The boy detective has already seen this episode. It is, without a doubt, one of Billy’s all-time favorites, entitled “The Séance Killers,” which concerns a dastardly criminal plot to rob a circle of well-off but aging socialites who are fond of spiritualism and the occult. Originally airing during the late ’50s when the fear of devil-worshipping hoodlums was popular, there is one particular scene Billy really enjoys. In it, a lovely dark-haired beauty in a black turtleneck with a silver pentagram hanging around her neck, black mascara carefully painted in a sinister, nearly-Egyptian design, leads a séance in the great gaudy hall of one of the richer socialite’s mansions. Around the enormous table, old men in monocles and women with cat’s-eye glasses mutter silent incantations, holding hands. Mysteriously, the table soon begins to float and a strange violin hisses from somewhere above the gathered party’s heads. Not so very far away, two lean men in black masks run down the long, impressive hallways of the mansion, filling their bakery sacks with silver candlesticks and jewelry. As soon as the two burglars have made their escape, the violin music falls silent, the table once again becomes stable, and the merry old widows and widowers clap their hands happily.
