Authors: Terry Caszatt
In the next instant, the old guy turned and was swallowed up in the storm.
For a moment I sat there like a turnip. “Okay, what in the heck is going on?” I murmured. I jumped nervously when Mom opened the door and got in.
“Mom, Mom,” I started, “I just saw the most totally, absolutely weird—”
She stopped me quickly. “Honey, please. No more weird things.” She expelled her breath in a weary, irritated way. “Look, I talked to the nicest lady in there and we’re only a block away from Doris’s shop. Let’s just get there without any more critical remarks, okay?”
She released the brake and we pulled ahead. I wanted in the worst way to tell her what I had just seen, but I could tell by the jerky way she let out the clutch that now wasn’t a good time. I was way too close to the edge.
We bumped across some railroad tracks and I glanced behind us. The old guy was up on the bike and riding it now. He seemed to be following us for a few seconds, then he shot off down another street. I couldn’t help but think he was taking a short cut so he could catch up with us.
I shivered uneasily and felt a familiar chill run along my lower back. I didn’t want to think it was true, but I could feel it as clear as anything. Something was in the air in Grindsville, and it wasn’t just snow.
“Pingeroo,” I muttered.
“Eugene, please don’t whisper things under your breath,” said Mom. “You know how that irritates me.” She began humming “Make the World Go Away” in that flat way she has, and my eyes crossed.
I started whistling “Bring in the Clowns,” a song Mom hates, but she didn’t even notice, and we went on for several seconds doing a crazy little round. Suddenly she slapped the steering wheel. “Oh, there’s Doris’s shop—the Hair Temple! Why couldn’t I remember that name? It’s so obvious.”
“So goofy,” I said. “Sounds like a church for hippies.” Actually I thought that was kind of funny. Big wrong.
Mom zapped me with a look. “Listen,
Mr. Billy Bumpus
, I think you’d better stop the wisecracks and take this place more seriously. Because, like it or not, this is where we’re going to live.”
I sighed. Exist maybe, but I could hardly imagine having a real life in Grindsville. We pulled into a parking lot and there was the Hair Temple, a sad little shop wedged between a bakery and a closed shoe store.
“I want you to come inside with me,” Mom said, and by the tone of her voice I knew it was useless to argue. She began rummaging in her purse looking for her comb. “And remember how to look in case I say you use Gold Herbal.”
I moaned in protest. “Mom, don’t start with all that dumb constipation talk.”
She waved this off. “There’s not a thing wrong with the vitamins and minerals in Gold Herbal. And if we get into a bind money-wise, I might have to start selling it again.” She found the comb and began running it through her hair, which is prematurely white and curly and always gives her a ton of trouble. “Just don’t fight me on this, and if it does come up, try to look healthy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumbled. We’d been through this routine before. Whenever Mom was trying to sell her Gold Herbal products, she always had her customers take a look at me. Why she called attention to me, I’ll never know.
The truth is I’m short, and I have a funny round face and hair that looks like it was put on backwards. By that I mean my hair comes down quite far over my forehead but starts high up on the back of my head. Once, at a family picnic, I heard my Aunt Frieda say I looked like “a little old man wearing a cheap wig.”
Mom finished with her hair and turned to me. “How do I look?”
“You look great,” I said. “Just don’t put your baseball cap back on.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “No. I’m wearing it, Eugene. I want people to know us as we truly are—just plain folks.”
She put the cap back on, and I have to admit she looked good in it, even with her purple bowling jacket that said “Freddie’s Lanes” on the back.
“Okay, here we go.” Mom opened her door. “It’s survival time.” She had been using this phrase all the way to Grindsville and it wasn’t a new one. I had heard it for years, ever since my dad was killed in a car accident when I was eight.
We got out and started toward the Hair Temple, our heads bent in the driving snow. Right away I began looking around for the old guy with the sword, but I could barely see a thing. Maybe I was getting all excited for nothing. Maybe they were making a movie in town. Yeah, right, starring some old geezer who rode around in blizzards wearing a stupid sword. I don’t think so.
“Maybe we should unload the trailer first, before it gets dark,” I said nervously. Mom had already made arrangements for a rental house just outside town.
She shook her head. “No, we’re on thin ice, honey. Before we do a thing, we’ve got to check in with Doris to make sure I’ve still got a job.”
Several times lately I had felt the panic of our situation, but as Mom said those words, I truly understood her desperation. Because of me, we
were
on thin ice.
We went into the Hair Temple, and some pathetic door chimes made a tinny racket. The waiting room was small and contained a few chairs, a coffee table piled with worn magazines, and what seemed like a jungle of potted plants. They could have shot a Tarzan movie in there. Topping it off, a country-western singer was belting out “Jingle Bell Rock” on some hidden radio speakers.
Those were my first blurry impressions. Then I saw the girl. She stood next to the cash register, a broom poised in her hands. She was tall and thin with curly brown hair that was cut short, and she was staring right at me.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
I stood there like a lamppost with pants on, but Mom stepped forward, gave her name, and said she was there to see Doris Avery.
The girl nodded. “Doris said to send you right on in.” She pointed at some half-doors. Mom smiled at her and went on through. I hovered awkwardly, probably looking like the newest pumpkin-head. The girl hesitated, then leaned toward me.
Her eyes were golden brown, and it was then I realized how pretty she was.
“Wow, this is so cool,” she whispered. “You finally got here.” I saw a trace of fear flicker across her face. “We have to talk right away.”
“About dwhut?” I said. “I mean what?”
She shook her head. “Can’t talk here; it might be dangerous. Later.”
She raised her eyebrows as if to ask if I understood, and I guess I nodded. I’m always nervous around girls and I know I wasn’t registering much, but the word “dangerous” was ringing like a four-alarm fire in my brain.
She gave me a last intense look and went into the salon. Luckily, no one was there to see what I did next. I was so jumpy after that bizarre conversation with a complete stranger that I started to sit down on what I thought was a chair but was really a large rubber plant or whatever. I flailed about and managed to back into a potted cactus on the counter. Yelping like a madman, I lunged and caught the pot just before it nose-dived onto the floor. Some of the dirt spilled out, and I was frantically scooping it up when Mom, her friend Doris (I recognized her plump face and springy blonde curls from Mom’s photographs) and what seemed like an army of women, came through the doors. Of course, the girl with the golden-brown eyes came with them.
“Here he is,” said Mom, “hiding out here.” It was obvious she had been talking about me and everyone had come up front to see me for themselves. I must have looked like some kind of freaky kid who likes to hug cactus plants.
“My goodness,” cried Doris, “look at him. He’s all grown up.” That was depressing. It sounded like I was all done in life—a six-footer with a pot-belly and a bank account. Then it seemed like they all started asking me questions, and like the village oaf, I froze up. One of the ladies asked me what grade I was in and I remember mumbling, “I’m an eighth grubber, I mean grader.”
“That’s so wonderful,” said Doris. “My son Walter is in the eighth grade too. He’s going to help you guys unload. And oh, Harriet here is also in the eighth grade.” She nodded at the girl.
I glanced over, expecting to find her grinning at my dumbo remarks, but instead she was watching me with a tense expression.
“Harriet’s also going to lend you a hand,” Doris went on. “She usually works for me after school, but since it was closed today because of the weather, she came in early just to help you out. Oh, and I nearly forgot. Mrs. Peterson,” she gestured at one of the women, “asked her son Alvin to plow out your drive.”
“He’s over there now,” said Mrs. Peterson, “and he’ll help with the heavy stuff.”
“Oh my goodness,” said Mom. “Thank you so much. All of you.”
“Listen, don’t worry about a thing,” said Doris. “You just go on over to the house and get unloaded. If I could scoot out of here, I’d give you a hand myself.”
There was a flurry of hugs, and while Mom exchanged some last words with the women, Harriet and I headed out into the blowing snow. My brain whirled wildly. ‘What had Harriet meant by “dangerous?” Was she trying to warn me about the old guy with the sword?’
When we reached the car I turned to her quickly. “So this dangerous thing—?”
But she stopped me swiftly with a finger to her lips. She glanced over my shoulder, and I could tell by her expression that Mom had come out of the building. Harriet looked back at me, and I thought she wasn’t going to say anything. Then a big cloud of snow enveloped us and she leaned toward me, whispering, her warm breath batting softly at my ear, “Things are really bad, but I think you got here just in time. And you can still turn everything around. If you’ve got enough nerve.”
I stared at her, totally dumbfounded. I opened my mouth to say something, but I never got a word out because Mom was suddenly there.
“Look out!” she cried. “Here comes Rudolph with a big red nose!”
I knew this was Mom’s pathetic attempt at humor and I glanced over at Harriet, giving her a pained look. She was still staring at me, her eyes deepening to a darker gold. And even though I didn’t know the language of eyes, especially when it came to girls, I could tell there was some kind of strange and maybe even frightening story hovering in those golden-brown depths.
An icy gust of wind snaked up my pant legs and I shivered violently.
Enough nerve for what?
I rode in back, while Mom and Harriet sat up front. Mom chattered like crazy, asking a million questions, and Harriet responded politely, but never seemed to give out much information. Finally a huge silence grew until my stomach gurgled loudly. To cover it up, I said quickly, “Okay, wow, how’s school?”
This was a supremely stupid question because, after Harris Junior High, even the word “school” made me flush with panic.
“School?” Harriet gave me a look that contained the same flicker of fear I’d seen earlier. “It’s okay.” She paused, then added, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I blundered on. “I was just wondering what kind of school I was getting into. You know, good, bad, or really rotten.”
“I’ll bet it’s a great one,” piped up Mom, sounding like the Welcome Wagon lady. “That would be my guess.”
Harriet hesitated. “It’s different.” Her glance held mine for a brief moment and I thought she was trying to tell me something, but I had no idea what. Then she turned to Mom. “We go right at the next stop sign.”
Before I could ask Harriet what she meant by “different,” Mom started up.
“You know, I think different is good. You don’t want the same old routine, Eugene. You need a challenge, something startling, something outside the box.”
While Mom rattled on, I happened to glance behind us. I gasped softly. Here was something “outside the box” all right. About fifty yards behind us, pedaling along crazily in the snow, was the old man on the orange bike.
He appeared clearly for a moment, then disappeared in the blowing snow, but it was him for sure. His green cap showed up like a beacon, and I even got a clear look at the sword on his belt. What was going on here? Was this some kind of Tour de Michigan for iron-hearted lunatics?
I turned around and announced dramatically, “Okay, hold it. I want everyone to check this out.”
Right at that moment Mom cried, “Oh, I see it too! I see it! It’s that cute little brown one. Tell me I’m right.”
That totally confused me until I realized she was talking about the house.
“That’s the one,” said Harriet. “And that’s Alvin plowing the drive.”
I snapped a quick look behind us again, but I couldn’t see a thing because of the clouds of snow. Then the wind died down briefly and the road was empty. There was no one in sight. Nothing.
“What a cute little charmer,” Mom went on.
She and Harriet were staring ahead at a homely two-story house that evidently had once been painted brown. The house sat by itself in a large field.
There was a tiny yard, a garage, and a lone pine tree that leaned sadly over the front porch. I could see a red Jeep plowing the driveway.
“It’s so quaint and, gosh, I don’t know …
simple,”
Mom said.
I thought it looked like the home of an ax murderer, but I kept my mouth shut. I was still baffled over the disappearance of the old man. Maybe he had fallen over, or maybe he had turned down another road. I thought about telling Mom and Harriet what I’d seen, but I knew Mom would think I was simply being a smart aleck again and she’d probably say something like, “Oh honey, for heaven’s sake, people don’t ride bikes in
snowstorms
.” I’d end up looking really dumb in front of Harriet.
“I hear the house has some nice bookcases,” said Harriet. She gave me a strange, intent look. “If you happen to like books?”
“I like ‘em a lot,” I replied. “I’ve got about a zillion.”
“Really?” Harriet smiled and her eyes seemed to glow. “That’s so great.”
Why had she asked me about books? That seemed odd. I was about to expand on my book collection, but before I could start, Mom let out a muffled scream.
Like an out-of-control rocket, the Jeep went sailing by in reverse.
“That’s Alvin,” said Harriet, shaking her head apologetically. “He’s kind of wild.” She turned and looked at me. “He’s in the eighth grade too.”