The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and
sighed but spoke no word

T. S. Eliot, ASH WEDNESDAY

I never thought I would save the worldâ or die saving it. I never believed in angels or miracles either, and I sure didn't think of myself as a hero. Nobody would have, including you, if you had known me before I took the world's most powerful weapon and let it fall into the hands of a lunatic. Maybe after you hear my story you won't think I'm much of a hero anyway, since most of my heroics (if you want to call them that) resulted from my being a screwup. A lot of people died because of
me
âincluding
me
âbut I guess I'm getting ahead of myself and I'd better start from the beginning.

It began with my uncle Farrell wanting to be rich. He never had much money growing up and, by the time Mr. Arthur Myers came along with his once-in-a-lifetime deal, my uncle was forty years old and sick of being poor. Being poor isn't one of those things you get used to, even if being poor is all you've ever been. So when Mr. Myers flashed the cash, all other considerationsâlike if any of it was legal, for instanceâwere forgotten. Of course, Uncle Farrell had no way of knowing who Mr. Arthur Myers actually was, or that his name wasn't even Arthur Myers.

But I'm getting ahead of myself again. Maybe I should just start with me.

I was born in Salina, Ohio, the first and last child of Annabelle Kropp. I never knew my dad. He took off before I was born.

Mom's pregnancy was difficult and very long. She was almost ten and a half months along when the doctor decided to get me the heck out of there before I exploded from her stomach like some kind of alien hatchling.

I was born big and just kept getting bigger. At birth, I weighed over twelve pounds and my head was about the size of a watermelon. Okay, maybe not the size of a watermelon, but definitely as big as a cantaloupeâone of those South American cantaloupes, which is a lot bigger than your California variety.

By the time I was five, I weighed over ninety pounds and stood four feet tall. At ten, I hit six feet and two hundred pounds. I was off the pediatrician's growth chart. Mom was pretty worried by that point. She put me on special diets and started me on an exercise program.

Because of my large head, big hands and feet, and my general shyness, a lot of people assumed I was mentally handicapped. Mom must have been worried about that too, because she had my IQ tested. She never told me the results. When I asked her, she said I most definitely was not. “You're just a big boy meant for big things,” she said.

I believed her. Not the part about being meant for big things, but the part about me not being retarded, since I never saw my scores and it was one of those things where you have to believe that your parent isn't lying.

We lived in a little apartment near the supermarket where she worked as an assistant manager. Mom never got married, though occasionally a boyfriend came around. She took a second job keeping the books for a couple of mom-and-pop stores. I remember going to bed most nights with the sounds of her calculator snapping in the kitchen.

Then, when I was twelve, she died of cancer.

One morning she had found a tender spot on her left temple. Four months later, she was dead and I was alone.

I spent a couple of years shuttling between foster homes, until Mom's brother, my uncle Farrell, volunteered to take me in, to his place in Knoxville, Tennessee. I had just turned fifteen.

I didn't see much of Uncle Farrell: He worked as a night watchman at an office building in downtown Knoxville and slept most of the day. He wore a black uniform with an embroidered gold shield on the shoulder. He didn't carry a gun, but he did have a nightstick, and he thought he was very important.

I spent a lot of time in my bedroom, listening to music or reading. This bothered Uncle Farrell because he considered himself a man of action, despite the fact that he sat on his butt for eight hours every night doing nothing but staring at surveillance monitors. Finally, he asked me if I wanted to talk about my mom's death. I told him I didn't. I just wanted to be left alone.

“Alfred,” he said. “Look around you. Look at the movers and shakers of this world. Do you think they got to be where they are by lying around all day reading books and listening to rap music?”

“I don't know how they got to be where they are,” I said. “So I guess they could have.”

He didn't like my answer, so he sent me to see the school psychologist, Dr. Francine Peddicott. She was very old and had a very long, sharp nose, and her office smelled like vanilla. Dr. Peddicott liked to ask questions. In fact, I can't remember anything she said that
wasn't
a question besides “Hello, Alfred,” and “Good-bye, Alfred.”

“Do you miss your mother?” she asked on my first visit, after asking me if I wanted to sit or lie on the sofa. I chose to sit.

“Sure. She was my mom.”

“What do you miss most about her?”

“She was a great cook.”

“Really? You miss her cooking the most?”

“Well, I don't know. You asked what I missed most and that's the first thing that popped into my head. Maybe because it's almost dinnertime. Also, Uncle Farrell can't cook. I mean, he cooks, but what he cooks I wouldn't feed to a starving dog. Mostly we have frozen dinners and stuff out of a can.”

She scribbled for a minute in her little notebook.

“But your motherâshe was a good cook?”

“She was a great cook.”

She sighed heavily. Maybe I wasn't giving the kind of answers she was looking for. “Do you hate her sometimes?”

“Hate her for what?”

“Do you hate your mother for dying?”

“Oh, jeez, that wasn't her fault.”

“But you get mad at her sometimes, right? For leaving you?”

“I get mad at the cancer for killing her. I get mad at the doctors and . . . you know, how it's been around for centuries and we still can't get rid of it. Cancer, I mean. And I think, what if we put all the money we spend on these wasteful government projects toward cancer research. You know, stuff like that.”

“What about your father?”

“What about him?”

“Do you hate him?”

“I don't even know him.”

“Do you hate him for leaving you and your mom?”

She was making me feel freaky, like she was trying to get me to hate my father, a guy I didn't even know, and even like she was trying to get me to hate my dead mother.

“I guess so, but I don't know all the facts,” I said.

“Your mother didn't tell you?”

“She just said he couldn't commit.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Like he didn't want a kid.”

“Like he didn't wantâwho?”

“Me. Me, I guess. Of course me.”

I wondered what the next thing I was supposed to hate was.