The Outcasts of 19 Schuyler Place (6 page)

“Incorrigible? I'm not so sure. But irritating, yes. Irritating, I'm very sure.”

“Good,” I said, strangely satisfied. And then, as if prompted by a choral director, we sang the first two verses all over again. This time Tartufo lifted his head and howled as if the moon and not the sun were full and visible. We stopped after singing a second chorus, and Uncle Alex kissed the top of Tartufo's head, and I did too, and that was the moment when I caught Jake the handyman's reflection in the rearview mirror, and this time—no mistake about it—he was smiling. Definitely smiling.

At last we came to highway signs that were big enough to read, and they said that we were approaching a rest area. Uncle leaned forward and asked the driver to please stop.

“No problem.”

Uncle replied, “My two favorite words,” and then he added,
“köszönöm szépen,”
his Old World thank you.

Just before he put on his turn signal to change lanes, Jake the handyman turned half around and smiled directly at me. His smile was slightly mischievous and totally unvarnished.

W
hen I came out of the rest room, Jake was standing in front of the car, holding Tartufo's leash, smoking a cigar. No genuine fragile X person could smoke a cigar and look relaxed at the same time.

“If it's all right with you, I'll give Tartufo a little run,” I said.

He handed me the leash. “Take your time,” he said. “No hurry.” He flicked the ash from his cigar with a smooth gesture. I started toward a sign that pointed to a dog run in the back of the rest area, and glanced back at Jake. He was leaning against the car hood, a faint, relaxed smile on his face. An Asperger's wouldn't be leaning nonchalantly against the car hood; he'd be banging his head against it. I wondered if there were two handymen named Jake at Camp Talequa. One normal; one not.

Tartufo took his time about where to lift his leg, and when I returned to the car, I found Uncle and Jake deep in conversation. Tartufo lunged toward Uncle, yipping with excitement as if he had not seen him for
days. I wondered how dogs measure time. Do they multiply minutes by seven, the way I did at Camp Talequa?

I turned the leash over to Uncle and started to open the back door of the car when Jake, between puffs of relighting his cigar, said, “No hurry.”

Who was this man who looked and sounded as if he not only knew what was going on but was in charge?

Then Uncle said, “That accident on the highway really slowed us down.”

Jake caught on right away. He took a deep pull on the cigar, then held it at arm's length and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger while examining it. “Three cars,” he declared. He smiled slyly in the direction of the highway, where cars were zipping by at the speed of sound. “People on the scene said that the ambulance was delayed by heavy traffic.” He carefully snuffed out his cigar on the sole of his shoe, checked that it was cool, and slipped the rest of it into the bib pocket of his coveralls, which he buttoned closed.

Uncle looked over the six lanes of moving vehicles. “Traffic backed up for hours. . . .”

“It wasn't easy getting the lifeflight helicopter to land at the site of the accident,” Jake said as he reached into the front seat of the car and took out a cooler. “Witnesses say that people delayed by the massive traffic jam
were led to the best table by a man who was familiar with the territory and that they shared their loaves and tuna fishes.” He smiled again. “Follow me.”

We assembled around the table that he led us to. After we were seated, I asked if he had a last name.

“Kaplan,” he replied. “I am Jacob Kaplan.”

“Are you her husband?” I asked, shocked.

“Her son.”

Uncle said, “That makes you the heir apparent.” Jake laughed. “Only in a technical sense. It is true that I am the son of the reigning queen, but I am nothing more than an obedient subject.”

I looked at Uncle, and he looked at me, and as if on cue, we chorused, “Anobedient subject? Are you
anobedient?”

Jake shook his head no and then nodded yes and laughed. “I guess I am.”

We ate slowly, enjoying the shade and the slight breeze that floated across the highway. Jake told us that he had become his mother's handyman when he lost his job as a billboard painter. “After so many states passed laws forbidding billboards, especially the big ones like the ones I painted, I was out of work. Mother needed a handyman, and I needed a job. I am a better painter than I am a handyman. But what good is being good at a craft no one wants?”

Uncle Alex replied, “My brother is in a similar situation.”

“Is he a billboard painter?”

“No, he is a watchmaker. Not quite as bad because there are still some watches that don't run on batteries, and people still need repairs. My brother, too, is good at his craft. He is expert at doing fine-tuning and repair work on what he calls
timepieces,
by which he means clocks and watches that have gears and springs. We have a place—a kiosk—in the Fivemile Creek Mall.”

Jake Kaplan looked at me and winked. “Sooner or later, we all do what we have to do—even if it means fixing plumbing.”

Uncle and Jake gathered up the wrappings from lunch and walked toward the trash barrel by the side of the walkway. I followed, holding Tartufo's leash. After they dumped the trash, I gave the leash to Uncle and then hung back. I was so happy not to be programmed for walks/talks/arts/crafts that I felt as if I had been given a hall pass. Freer than that. Freer even than the last day of school. I was
excused.

No more Meadowlarks.

What a relief!

No more powdered-milk breakfasts.

What a relief!

No more crafts-on-demand or Mother Nature. No
more friendly guidance from experienced counselors. No more, no more, no more.

I spread my arms eagle-wing wide, then with my fingers splayed, I slowly raised my arms as high as I could, and lifted my face to the sky where I directed my thanks. I would soon be at my uncles' house. I would soon be hanging out. I would soon be in the Tower Garden. I would soon be eating while the Meadowlarks had lights-out. “Yes!” I yelled. “Yes, yes, yes.” I dropped my arms to my sides and twirled around three times—three times to totally cast out the Doom of Talequa.

Then I ran to catch up with Uncle and Jake.

As we walked to the car, Uncle said, “May I suggest, Mr. Kaplan, that when your car breaks down in Epiphany, you join us for dinner?”

Jacob Kaplan said, “I would like that very much.” Uncle Alex asked, “Can you tell me whether your mother will be pleased or angry when she discovers that there won't be an auto repair bill?”

Jacob beamed two bright eyes directly at me and said, “I prefer not to.”

U
ncle Morris was sitting on the top step of the service porch, waiting.

As soon as Jake cut the motor, I was out of the car, and before I was halfway across the yard, I was in his arms. He squeezed me to him, and there in the welcome of those arms I felt right about myself for the first time in more than a week.

Uncle Morris Rose was five inches taller than his brother, and although he weighed just as much, the pounds spread out over those five extra inches made him look formidable rather than jolly. He was as bald as Uncle Alex, but Uncle Morris resented it, so he parted his hair an inch above his left ear and combed a few stray strands over the top of his head, his comb-over. He further compensated for the lack of hair on his head by wearing a commanding mustache; Alex was clean-shaven. Morris was three years older and six years bossier. His Hungarian accent was deeper, his syntax more foreign, his manner gruffer, his temper shorter, his eyesight better, his hearing worse.

The three Rose siblings had emigrated from Hungary together: Alexander, Morris, and Margaret, their sister and my grandmother, who died the year before I was born. Margaret was the oldest, and her brothers had loved her very much, and for all their differences, large and small, there was nothing they agreed on more than this: I, Margaret Rose, was their sister's name made flesh, and they loved me
an
endingly.

Even after Uncle Morris released me from his big bear hug, Jake still had not stepped inside the open gate. He stood stock-still between the car door and the iron pipe fence and stared. Uncle Alex beckoned to him to come forward and be introduced to his brother.

“Can it wait a minute?” he begged. “I want to look. Let me look. Just look.”

Pleased—how could he not be?—by Jacob's reaction to the towers, Uncle Morris called back, “Take your time. Help yourself.”

Uncle Alex said, “Jacob will be joining us for dinner.”

Glancing back at Jake, Uncle Morris said, “Certainly,” and then he urged me, “Inside,
édes
Margitkám. Come inside.” He swung the screen door wide and let me pass in front of him. “Tell me, what did they do to you?”

“It was me, Uncle. It was what I did,” I replied. I
took a step back and said, “I did nothing. That was the problem.” I laughed, and Uncle laughed too.

As soon as Uncle Alex came inside and closed the screen door behind him, Uncle Morris said, “I see you brought Tartufo.” To which Alex replied, “No, Morris, this is my
other
dog. My spare.”

“As ugly as your first.”

Morris Rose did not approve of Tartufo. He complained about the hair he shed. He complained about the smell of the big sack of dog food that Uncle Alex kept in the corner of the service porch and the bowl of water on the floor next to it, which he managed to kick over at least once a week.

“Who's minding the store?” Uncle Alex asked.

“Who do you think?”

“Is it Helga?”

“Of course it's Helga,” Morris replied. “I requested her.”

“So then it's all right.”

“What do you mean,
then it's all right?
Is it all right because she doesn't steal, or is it all right because she makes fewer mistakes than the other one?”

Uncle Alex asked, “Which other one?”

“The one you like.”

“I like them all.”

Holding his hands to the sides of his head, Uncle
Morris said to the kitchen table.
“Jaj, Istenem!
He likes them all. He likes them all because they apologize when they make a mistake.”

Uncle Alex asked, “Which other one do I like?”

“The boy.”

“Why didn't you say
the boy?
If you had said
the boy,
I'd know which is
the other one.”

Exasperated, Uncle Morris waved his open palms. “So if you know which is the other one, who is it?”

“It's the boy with the tattoo on his wrist.”

“Of course,” Uncle Morris insisted. “I told you it's the one you like.”

“So what's his name?” Uncle Alex asked.

“Which one? The one you like?”

Now it was Uncle Alex's turn to be exasperated. “I like them all. Who's the one with the tattoo?”

Uncle Morris held his hands to his head again. This time he addressed the ceiling. “The tattoo is Dennis.” He repeated, “It's Dennis.”

“So why didn't you say Dennis?” Alex asked.

“Because he's not there,” Morris answered.

“No, Helga is. That's what you said when I asked.”

Uncle Morris shrugged and told the kitchen table, “He asks. I answer. He asks again. I answer again.”

Uncle Alex waved his hand in front of his face and told the nearest chair, “He has all the answers. Always he
has answers. Even if there is no question, my brother has answers.” Then he whistled for Tartufo and filled his dish with fresh water.

I was so happy to hear my uncles argue, I practically floated up the stairs to stash my gear. My room was the small one in the back. It had a window that overlooked the towers.

I could see Jake from my bedroom window. He walked all around the Tower Garden and then all around again. He walked around each of the towers before he stepped inside Tower Two, the tallest one, the one just outside my bedroom window. He stood inside the circle of ribs and struts and looked up and up for a long, long time. As he ducked under its lowest rungs he grazed a few of the hanging glass ornaments. I saw him start to count the pendants on a single rung, but he stopped, stepped back, and looked. Just looked. Like a kiss or a walk in the woods, the towers were meant to be experienced, not inventoried.

He walked the length of the pathway between the flowers and the towers twice before sitting down on the back porch step. That's where he was when I came downstairs and joined him.

N
ot then, but when the events of that summer were history, Jake explained how he had come to be the one to drive Uncle and me back to Epiphany.

Jake had an arrangement with his mother.