The Nose from Jupiter (11 page)

A Forgotten Voice

For a week my head aches under the bandage. I rest at home, surrounded by pillows and CDs and rental movies. Victor drops by most days after school to tell me how much homework I’m going to have to do when I finally get back. Mrs. Grunewald comes all the way down the street from her house to tell me I’m a sweet boy, and to leave off a cake she made herself. Miranda phones every evening. Not a bad life, if it weren’t for the headache, and even that goes away in time. When the bandage finally comes off, I’m as good as new.

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Wednesday afternoon. I’ll be going to school tomorrow. Only two days left in the week. My head is smaller than I’m used
to, without the layers of white wrapping. My hair has grown a bit and is sticking out all over the place. Serious case of bed-head. And I look – I don’t know how to put it – older. I know I am older, a whole week older, but what I mean is I look older than that…like I’m almost grownup … like I’m ready to start driving and shaving and worrying about a job. It’s the eyes, mostly. They look as if they’ve seen a lot of stuff.

Then my mom knocks and comes in. She kisses the top of my head. “Feeling better, my little honey bun?” she says, like she used to when I was small.

“Uh huh,” I say.

“It’s nice to see you without that ugly bandage. Why don’t you wash your hair? Shall I run you a bath? Maybe with some bubbles?”

“Okay,” I say.

“You could play with the plastic frog that swims all the way across the bathtub.”

“Okay,” I say. Maybe I don’t look much older to Mom.

“Remember to rinse thoroughly,” she says.

I get out of the bath, put on clean clothes, come downstairs. Mom is putting on her coat. “I have to go to the office for a bit. Are you going to be okay on your own?”

That’s what she always says – “a bit.” “I’ll be gone for a bit.” “I’ll be ready to go in a bit.” “I’ll be back in a bit.” Sometimes a bit is an hour, sometimes more. When she promised to sew my torn blue jeans, a bit was two months.

“Sure,” I say.

There’s something I’ve been meaning to do. Five o’clock in Cobourg is two o’clock in Vancouver. I phone my dad at work. I want to make this a business call.

I’ve given it a lot of thought. I can’t change the way Dad and Mom feel about each other. I can’t expect them to wake up and like each other, suddenly – to move back together so I can have real parents again, and it’ll be like it was before Dad left. I can’t change the people they are. I can’t turn my dad into an affectionate, loving father. He’s okay. He cares for me. He’s all the dad I’m going to get.

I can’t make him give me a hug, but there’s one thing I can do. I can tell him how much he means to me, how much I love him. If he were around I could do it in person. But he’s almost never around. He’s a long-distance dad, so I’ll do it over the phone. And I’ll do it now, because if I put it off, he’ll only move farther away.

“Hello,” I say into the phone. “Could I please speak to my dad?”

“One minute. I’ll transfer you.” That’s Mrs. Hertz, his secretary. I’ve met her. Her nose twitches all the time. I take a deep breath and press the phone into my ear.

“Is that you, son?” my dad asks.

“Yes, Dad.”

“Alan?” Like he has a lot of other sons.

“None other,” I say.

“Is something wrong? You okay? And your mom?”

“Everything’s fine, Dad. How are things with you?”

“Fine, fine. Can’t complain. Well – gosh. You sound so
grown-up. How are you doing? How’s Helen? Gee, son, it’s nice to hear your voice.”

“Yours too, Dad.”

“And I’d love to, uh, keep talking to you, Alan. But I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes. This is a working day, you know. So I’m afraid –”

“Wait!” I shout it into the phone.

Silence.

“Before you hang up, Dad. Just let me say: I love you.”

Silence.

“There. That’s all.”

Silence.

“See you sometime. Bye, Dad.”

“Wait!” Now he sounds agitated.

“Yes, Dad?”

“Wait a second. I love you too, son. I hope you know that. You’re my son and I will always love you. Do you know that?”

“Sure, Dad.”

“I’m sorry I live so far away. Your mom and I…well, we don’t get along, but that’s not your fault. It’s our fault. When you’re older you’ll understand more.”

“Sure, Dad. I don’t mean to put you on the spot there at work. I wanted to tell you how much I love you at the hospital, but I felt lousy and there never seemed to be any time. Now I’m feeling better. In fact, I go back to school tomorrow.”

“That’s great, son. Just great. I’m pleased. Make sure you treat those girlfriends of yours nicely – the ones who
came up to see you on the train. They seem to like you a lot.”

“Yeah. Uh. I have to go now, Dad.” I can feel the skin of my face tightening as it gets hotter and redder. I suppose it’s only fair. I embarrassed him. Now it’s his turn to embarrass me.

“I’m glad you called, son. Maybe you could do it again sometime.”

“Maybe,” I say, and we hang up together, both of us knowing I’m not going to call again, and he’s not going to be too disappointed.

When Mom comes back from work, she wonders if I’m feeling all right. I look a little feverish, she says. My eyes are red and swollen.

I tell her I’m okay.

I make sure I’m early when I call on Victor the next morning. I don’t want to be late my first day back to school. It’s a crisp clear morning, sun glinting off the frost. We haven’t had snow yet, but you know it’s coming soon. Victor’s mom won’t let me walk. “Whatever are you thinking of, you foolish child?” she says, but in a nice tone of voice. She stands at the door, and drifting out from the kitchen is a smell I know well, a bewitching scent of blueberry pancakes. “Of course you’ll take a ride with my man. He’ll be leaving in a few minutes, so you’ve time to step in for a bite.”

Victor and his dad are eating and arguing. There’s a platter of pancakes in the middle of the table, and a pitcher
of syrup, and a clean plate for me. “Thanks,” I say to Mrs. Grunewald. Captain Crunch isn’t bad, but it doesn’t compare with homemade pancakes. “Thanks a lot.”

Mr. Grunewald wants Victor to come and work at the store after school. They need people to help bag the groceries and move stock around. “Come on. It’s a great opportunity for you,” he says. “It’ll only be for a few weeks around Christmastime, when we’re really busy.”

Victor doesn’t want to do it. “Oh, Dad. I hate working at the store. You have to wear a dumb apron, and those vegetables really stink.”

“I don’t know, Vic. Sounds good to me,” I say with my mouth full of pancake.

“There, see. Our friend Alan here thinks it’s a good idea.”

“Then let him do it,” says Victor. “I don’t want to smell like onions.”

Mr. Grunewald pushes away his plate. Time to go.

I stand up. “Actually, I kind of like the smell of onions,” I say.

Mr. Grunewald considers me for a moment, then gets up from the table to put his hand on my shoulder. “Good for you,” he says.

Then we all pile into the delivery truck and drive to school.

I never knew so many people liked me. The school yard is full of people when we arrive, and it seems like they all come
over to shake my hand or clap me on the back. They’re all glad to see me – not just my class, but kids I barely even know, kids I’ve seen in the cafeteria, at the candy store, at the mall. I’m a celebrity. Reminds me of the guy last year who fell while he was hiking in the woods, and was found two or three days later, alive but with a broken leg. A Grade Eight guy. I signed his cast – along with everyone else. I’ve already forgotten his name.

Miranda holds my hand – an experience which is somewhere between very nice and very embarrassing. No one laughs, I notice. Prudence smiles, but not at us holding hands. She smiles because her stupid dog jumps up on me and licks my face, and I stumble and almost fall down.

Already the smile is looking as if it belongs on Prudence’s face. “I’ve named her Angel,” she tells me. The collie keeps jumping up at me. “Down, Angel,” says Prudence. The dog ignores her and keeps jumping up and down. Everyone thinks it’s a riot.

“Help,” I say. “Get her off me!” The dog won’t leave me alone. Miranda and Prudence are talking together, ignoring me. Where is Vic? “Help,” I say again.

And I hear, for the first time in awhile, a small high voice I’d forgotten about.

–
So you do need me after all!

It’s Time

“Norbert!” I say.

–
You were expecting Peter Pan?

“Where’ve you been?” I can’t say I’ve actively missed Norbert – my life has been full of stuff to do, hardly enough time to think let alone have a conversation with your nose – but I have wondered. I used to hear his voice as often as my own. I was used to him shocking people or making them laugh, getting me in trouble by saying things I’d never dream of saying. But it seems I’ve hardly heard from him since I left hospital.

I’ve been right here. If you want to know, I’ve been packing.

“You’re not leaving?”

I’ve been thinking about it.

“Not back to Jupiter?” My heart sinks. I feel strangely sad, thinking of life without Norbert. The dog jumps up again. “Ugh!” I say, my face covered in dog tongue.

–
I haven’t decided. I could go back home, I suppose. But I’ve been scanning the HELP WANTEDS. There are a lot of people out there who need help, you know. More than you need it, now – Hey! Angel! Down, girl! Sit and stay, already!

You know what? The dog sits and stays. Probably something to do with Norbert’s voice. Dogs respond to high-pitched sounds, don’t they?

Prudence stops talking to stare at me. “How do you get her to obey you?” she says in a tone of admiration. I’ve never heard that before.

“Way to go, Squeaky!” says a girl named Tiffany. I don’t know her very well.

In the middle of the playground, hunched into an undersized leather jacket against the cold, I see Mary. She’s leaning against the sick elm tree, peering over at us. And for just a second, from this distance, I catch a look of–can it really be – longing, on her face. She’s all by herself and she wants – or part of her wants – to belong. She wants people to like her.

The bell rings. Time to line up. “Go home, Angel,” says Prudence, giving the dog a little pat on the flank. She stays put.

I get in line. A guy I’ve never spoken to before, a basketball player with pale pink hands and a face like the surface of the moon, asks how I am doing. His Adam’s apple bobs
like a cork when he talks. He is so thin you could push him in the middle and he’d fold in half, like a lawn chair. “I’m fine,” I tell him.

“Good. My name’s Quincy,” he says.

I know. In a small town you know everybody. Quincy and I have never been introduced, but I know everything about him. He’s got a younger sister and two younger brothers, and his parents are divorced like mine. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Alan.”

“I know,” he says. See. He knows too.

Gary the bully walks past me. His nose is a different shape than it used to be. And it’s all my fault. I feel a small twinge of shame and a big prickle of apprehension. I wonder if he’s ready to forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones. Shake hands and forget about the past.

Gary butts in front of me. COUGARS on the back of his jacket. The tall, skinny basketball player, Quincy, doesn’t move out of the way fast enough. Gary pushes him in the stomach – not that hard, but sure enough, Quincy folds up.

My little twinge of shame goes away. My apprehension grows. “Hey,” I say. Gary turns around to glare at me. Pretty good glare he’s got. The broken nose helps, too. He steps on my toe. Deliberately. With heavy boots. The line moves forward. The basketball player straightens himself up again, and shuffles ahead, leaning like tall grass in the wind. Gary grinds my foot, stepping close to me, staring into my face. Probably not ready to forgive and forget, just yet. Maybe next week. Maybe next year. Maybe after he’s killed me a couple of times.

Ouch.

I can hardly walk when he finally lifts his foot. I find myself looking around for Prudence, but she and Miranda are over by the fence, motioning for Angel to go home.

“Move along there,” says a teacher.

I’m hobbling. The line hurries past me. Mary catches up. When she sees me limping, she chortles meanly. Saliva bubbles at the side of her mouth. Maybe I was wrong about Mary. Maybe she doesn’t want to be liked. If she does, she’s sure going about it the wrong way.

“What’s wrong, Squeaky?” Miranda asks, when she catches up to me. “Is your head bothering you?”

“Not my head,” I say.

My class gives me an ovation when I come in. I can’t help wondering if Prudence’s class gives her an ovation. She’s the hero, not me. All that happened to me is that I fell in the water and got knocked unconscious. She pulled me out. There’s nothing special about being a victim. Anyone can do it.

But it’s nice to see your friends clapping for you, wishing you well, glad to see you back. Victor makes the long ceremonial trip from Miss Scathely’s desk to mine, bearing in his arms an incredible mountain of – yes – homework. I wish he didn’t look so pleased with himself.

And then it’s back to business as usual. Flora and fauna.
Je suis, tu es, il est.
The War of 1812. I’m not looking forward to the next few days, getting caught up to all this.

By lunchtime everything is normal. I might never have
been away. Victor and Dylan and I are sitting at our usual table, trading sandwiches around. Dylan actually likes cheese spread – can you believe it? On Wonder bread. I’m happy to trade for his mom’s roast beef on dark rye, with barbecue sauce. A couple of tables over, Prudence is talking to the girl who used to get teased for dressing like a boy. I know it’s stupid to make fun of the way people dress, but it happens. I suppose it’s stupid to make fun of people, period. Miranda comes in late, smiles at me, and then goes over to her usual table.

All very normal. Close my eyes and it might be the first week of school – before the hospital, before the assembly, before intramurals. Before Norbert.

I’m going to have to find out what’s going on with him.

Great news! Mr. Duschene, the math teacher, is away with the flu. His replacement is a kindly old lady who uses a big cardboard clock-face to explain about different bases in a way that I can – this is hard to believe – understand. She asks a question in base seven and I quick-draw the answer as fast as Billy the Kid. Faster than Victor, who turns around in his seat to stare at me. I examine my fingernails like I do this all the time. Nothing to it. Base seven – huh!

Toward the end of the period she puts a question on the board, and the answer simply
flashes
into my head. Incredible. I feel like Galileo or somebody; or I do until the teacher works out the answer on the board. Not my answer – a different one. Hmm. She writes down another question, and the same thing happens. Another question – and
another mistake. And another. That first correct answer must have been a fluke. Even a stopped clock tells the right time once every twelve hours. Drat.

The bell rings. Last bell. The near-silent classroom erupts into a sudden busy clatter of slammed books, pushed-back chairs, and raised voices.

My knapsack weighs a ton. I’m walking down the stairs by myself. Victor has disappeared. People say “Hi” to me, and then dash away. I get to the school yard alone.

The two remaining Cougars are at the south gate. Mary and Gary. They’re both bigger than I am, meaner than I am.

The school population is filing toward the north gate.

I head across the school yard all by myself, against the traffic flow. More people say “Hi,” then stop to watch me. I head for the south gate.

I wonder where Prudence is. I look around for Miranda, but the bus has already left. Prudence could be anywhere, off trying to get that dumb dog of hers to do something. I’m all alone, walking across the school yard toward the bullies.

I feel like a western hero. I should have a gun belt and a cowboy hat, instead of a knapsack and a toque.

Mary is smiling. Not nicely. Not like she’s going to invite me to play with her.

“Hey, Dingwall!” she shouts. “Come on and get your –” Well, I won’t say what she says, but it’s not very nice. Nothing I haven’t heard before, but not very nice at all.

I keep going. I don’t know why – it’s something I have
to do. Still, I wish I weren’t alone. Prudence would be a good ally, but she’s not around.

It would be great if the other kids in the playground took heart from my example, and lined up behind me so that we all turned on the bullies together. Very inspiring, that.

Doesn’t happen.

The kids in a hurry to get home keep walking. The rest hang back, watching. I don’t think they want to see me bleeding, but they aren’t going to join my crusade.

“I wish I weren’t alone,” I murmur, walking closer and closer.

–
You’re not
, comes the familiar voice.

“I mean, I wish I had some real help,” I say.

–
You have all the help you need
, Norbert tells me. Gee, he sounds serious. Ordinarily he’d make a smart answer.

An early winter afternoon. Gray sky, with the sun poking through every now and again, a pale milky thing already halfway down the west.

“Where do you think you’re going, Dingwall?” calls Gary.

“Home,” I say. No muss, no fuss. Making my way toward the gate.

“The way out is over there,” Mary says, pointing. A kid in the middle of the school yard thinks she’s pointing at him, turns his back and starts walking away.

“I want to go out this way,” I say in a quiet voice.

“Well you can’t!”

They stand near the gate, ready to block it. I look over my shoulder.

Mary laughs. “No one coming to help you, Dingwall. Not even your new friend Prudence. She’s in detention for another forty minutes.”

“You’d better go out the other side, with everyone else,” says Gary.

–
Good-bye, Alan
, Norbert whispers to me.

“What? You’re going now?”

–
It’s time.

I stop. Mary and Gary step toward me.

“Gee, Norbert, I don’t know what to say. Good luck.”

–
Thank you. Good luck to you too.

Gary and Mary have big happy grins on their faces.

They’re going to enjoy beating me to a pulp.

“Will I ever hear from you again?”

–
Of course.

“How will I know you’re there?”

–
You’ll have to listen. If you listen hard, you’ll hear me. I’ll be around.

“Oh.” I take a deep breath. Gary and Mary are almost up to me now. Hero time. I wonder what the pavement feels like. I expect I’ll find out, soon enough. I keep walking.

–
Remember. You’re not alone.
It’s the last thing he says.

“What was that, Dingwall? You trying to squeak something at us?” says Mary.

Gary stops, momentarily uncertain. The last time he heard Norbert’s voice was in the bathroom, just before he got his nose broken.

The gate is ten steps away. I’m scared, but I don’t want to turn around and go back across the school yard. I don’t
even want to dash past Mary and Gary and on out the gate. I want to walk out.

I’m close enough to smell Mary’s breath – not minty and fresh. She reaches out her hand toward my throat. I don’t say anything witty. I don’t say anything.

What I do, I sneeze.

Some sneezes are dry and polite, little snorts really, so restrained that they’re easy to miss. More of the sneeze is inside than outside. Like a cap pistol that misfires, all you hear is a little fizz and a click. And some sneezes are neither dry, nor polite, nor easy to miss. The sneeze I give in front of Mary and Gary is warm and wet and explosive, a real elephant gun of a sneeze. I get pushed backward by the force of the recoil.

Mary covers up like she’s been shot, which of course she has. She screams and takes an involuntary step back. I move forward and fire again. And again. And keep walking. My head hurts. My ears are ringing. The air is filled with – well, not smoke.

“Geez, Gary, what is that?” Mary’s voice seems to come from a long way away.

“Watch out! It’s coming after us!”

My eyes are a little blurry, you know how it is when you sneeze really hard. There’s a little dark speck hovering in front of Mary and Gary, flitting back and forth like a horsefly.

They back away – away from me and away from the gate. The speck – it flashes gold, for just a second, as the sun peeps through a hole in the afternoon cloudbank – the
speck follows them, darting between them, driving them away.

I wonder. I take a deep breath in through my nose. It feels the same inside, but I wonder.

“Norbert?”

No answer.

“Norbert? You there?”

Silence. I listen hard, but all I hear is silence.

“Well, thanks,” I say.

Then I hitch up my knapsack and walk through the south gate.