RESNICK’S REVENGE
“She’s picking on me again,” Jeff grumbled one morning in late October, and shoveled another spoonful of runny oatmeal into his mouth.
Bleary-eyed, Richard struggled to focus on his younger half-brother. He’d just come off yet another thirty-six hour shift at the hospital, and all he wanted before falling into his bed and surrendering to the oblivion of a sleep born of exhaustion was a couple of pieces of toast and a comforting cup of cocoa. “We’ve been over this time and again,” he grated.
“And she still keeps doing it,” Jeff complained. “Last night, she barged into my room without knocking to yell at me for dribbling the basketball too loud after school. What if I’d been buck naked?”
Richard stared at the kid.
“And she had Gordie lock up the basketballs in the trunk of his car.” Gordie was the gardener/handyman that worked around the house during the week.
“Now, that’s not right,” Richard agreed.
“Tell me about it.”
“Look, you have my permission to politely defend yourself, and you know I’ll back you up. But maybe if you just ignored her she’d stop bothering you.”
“I’ve been ignoring her nasty comments for almost seven months and I’m tired of it.”
Richard was tired of hearing about it. Of course he’d spoken to his grandmother on countless occasions, asking her to treat the orphaned kid with some compassion, but she always feigned innocence, claiming she had no idea what he was talking about.
The old lady only picked on the kid when Richard was away from the house, showing bland indifference toward Jeff when he was home.
“You’re a smart kid, Jeff.
I know you can figure out a way to win her over; and if not, to learn to deal with her childish behavior.”
“I’ve got an idea, all right,” Jeff muttered.
Richard wondered if he should push for clarification on that comment, but he was too tired to deal with it all. He drained his cup and stood. “Have a good day at school.”
“I won’t,” Jeff muttered, and shoveled in the last of his oatmeal.
#
Colorful splashes of fallen leaves covered the sidewalk along Westmoreland Road.
I kicked my way through them, my gaze focused on the slabs of concrete under my feet while my mind wandered.
Richard knew when he brought me to the Alpert
’s home that the old woman would hound me, otherwise why would he have warned me? The old broad saved her nasty comments until no one else was around. Snide, spiteful remarks that I couldn’t very well dispute or politely defend, like “son of a whore.” Richard was precious to her, but it didn’t seem to occur to the old bat that the same woman had given birth to both of us. I wanted to plow my fist right into her dentures, but instead of giving her the satisfaction of a reaction, I’d go to my room, shut the door, and punch my pillow. That had worked in the beginning, but it was getting old now. I needed to figure out a way to get back at that witch without anyone knowing about it.
Witch?
Halloween? Could that be the key to my revenge?
When I got to school, I had to suffer through homeroom and the first two periods of Math and English before I could get to the yearbook office and check the schedule. During that time, a plan to deal with Mrs. Alpert started to assemble in my brain.
Volunteering for the yearbook staff was one of the smartest things I ever did. It was like a free pass. got to do stuff the other kids didn’t, like play with professional camera equipment, learn how to develop film and black-and-white prints. It was cool. They talked about going to color in a few years, but I knew that would be years after I graduated. I mean who wanted to pay a hundred bucks for a lousy yearbook? Not me.
When I
showed up at the yearbook’s makeshift office, the assistant editor—some geeky kid named Sam Nielsen—sat with his feet propped on his desk sipping a can of Coke, and trying to give off an aura of authority he didn’t possess.
“Who’s taking pictures of the play rehearsal this afternoon?” I asked without preamble.
“Denny—unless you want to do it.”
“Yeah, I’ll go.”
Sam sat up straighter, scrutinizing me. “Okay, what’s the angle?”
“Angle?”
“Yeah, you hate taking shots if you think you might actually have to talk to somebody.”
“Bullshit.”
Sam shrugged, sinking back into his chair once again. “See if you can get something more interesting than just a stage full of people on risers, will ya? Last year everyone complained they looked like a bunch of pinheads.”
“Sure,” I said, trying to stifle a grin, and headed out the door for the library.
I had a lot to think about before I could pull off the prank of the century.
#
Richard was just heading out the door when I arrived home from school that afternoon. We crossed paths in the middle of the driveway. He was dressed in his topcoat—not what he usually wore to work.
“Where
are you going now?” I asked.
“I’m taking a class over at UB. It doesn’t end until nine, but afterward I might stop and have a beer with some of the others.
Do you need anything?”
I looked over to the basketball hoop, its net swaying in the breeze.
“I had a talk with my grandmother,” he said. “She says you must have misunderstood her.”
“What part of ‘devil’s spawn’ did I misunderstand?” I asked.
Richard cleared his throat and shifted his gaze to his shoes.
“Did you get the hostage basketballs released?” I tried.
“Grandmother swears she didn’t barge into your room, and that she didn’t say a word about you playing out here on the driveway; nor did she have Gordie lock up the basketballs.”
“You mean they weren’t in the trunk of his car?”
“Not when I asked him about it. He showed me. They’re in the same place they always are. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe you, kid; it’s just that some people around here are good at covering their tracks.”
I shrugged. At least he hadn’t called me a liar. Richard reached out and clapped my shoulder.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. Later.”
I watched as he went into the garage. Seconds later, the door lifted, and he backed out his sleek little Porsche. I went inside the garage and, just as he’d said, the basketballs were both stowed in their usual spot. Good. I could now put the first part of my master plan into action.
#
After shucking my coat and taking a leak, I came back out to the driveway, captured one of the basketballs, and closed the garage door. I never dribbled for so long in my life. By the time I called it quits, my arms felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. I must have shot over three hundred free throws and it was growing dark before I put the ball away and went back inside to the warmth of the kitchen.
Curtis was sitting at the table, reading that morning’s paper, while Helen worked at the counter, her face taut with barely suppressed anger.
I knew she’d been the one to complain to the old lady about the doink-doink-doink of the ball hitting the drive the other night. No way could the old bat hear that from her bedroom-sitting room at the other end of the house. She and Helen were sisters from a different mother; they were only happy when bitching and moaning about someone or something.
“Hello, Jeffrey,” Curtis said, looking at me over the top of his paper.
“Did you have a good day at school?”
“Yes,” I said, about to take my seat when Helen laid into me.
“You’re not sitting down for dinner until you’ve washed your filthy hands,” she scolded.
Instead of just scowling, I turned to her and smiled.
“Thank you for reminding me.”
I could feel her scornful eyes on me as I wandered off to the bathroom and a quick wash.
When I got back, the table was set for two, but Helen was nowhere in sight. I sat down across from Curtis. “I suppose she’s off to tattle on me.”
“You’d be right,” Curtis said, and turned a page of the sports section. “Don’t make no sense to me. Basketball ain’t the nosiest game in the world, but it seems to bother some ’round here.”
Curtis was probably the wisest man I’d ever met, and he’d sure been kind to me. When I looked at him and the goodness he represented, I questioned what I had planned to do later that night. Of course, if Helen didn’t do her part, nothing would happen and I’d be frustrated. Still, no one but me knew about my diabolical plot. Well, compared to the stuff Spiderman had to contend with every day in the comics, my ordeal was just annoying. And so was the itch of poison ivy. Mrs. Alpert was definitely poison.
Helen reappeared and started to
pile food into pretty bone china serving dishes. Curtis and I would eat after the Alperts had been served. Helen never ate with us. I often wondered if she was some kind of alien who would beam back to her mothership and be connected to some kind of feeding machine that pumped nutrients and protein into her stomach. I couldn’t picture the woman actually savoring the food she prepared. It was good, too, but she was such a bitter women, the stuff she made and served with such negativity could not be truly enjoyed.
Helen’s expression was smug as she dumped a plate of food before me.
I just hoped I’d managed to swallow down the same shit-eating grin that threated to erupt across my face. No way did I want anyone to suspect that I was anything other than innocent.
While Curtis and I ate, Helen darted back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room.
She bitched to us that the housekeeper should be retained for that kind of servitude, but then she was at the top of the pay scale. I knew poor Curtis made shit pay because the Alperts gave him room and board, and he gave away most of his paycheck to help his kids bring up their kids. I knew that kind of sacrifice. I had lived in a household that had the basics—but none of the extras. It gave him great pleasure to give away his money so that his grandkids would be happy. I just hoped their parents made sure they knew where the money came from.
“You seem happy tonight,” Curtis said, scooping up a forkful of peas.
“Me?”
He nodded.
“I ain’t seen you smile in weeks. What’s up?”
I shrugged.
“I had a good day at school,” I sort of lied.
“That’s nice.
School was never good for me. I’m glad you enjoy it.”
“Most days I do,” I agreed.
School had always offered a stability I never had at home, and today it had offered me a shot at revenge.
Although we were served after the Alperts, Curtis and I always finished our meals before them.
I took our dishes over to the sink, rinsed them off, and put them in the dishwasher. Helen would have to hand wash the gold-rimmed china and crystal glassware the Alperts used. If she ever broke a piece, she threw a hissy fit, which was kind of fun to see, but that night I wasn’t about to hang around to watch.
“Well, I’ve got homework to do, so I guess I’ll head on up to my room.”
“You’re a good boy, Jeffrey. I know Mr. Richard is proud of you.”
I forced a smile.
Why did he have to say that? If I could pull off step one of my plan, I’d definitely not be a good boy. Still, I wasn’t about to let that stop me.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” I said and left the kitchen, heading for the stairs.
The Alperts always languished at the dinner table, having dessert and coffee—not that they spoke to one another much. It seemed like they did it because they always had. Mrs. Alpert would appear outside the door to her room around seven. You could practically set your watch by her. And so, at six fifty-five, I took off all my clothes, tossing all but my underwear into the hamper in the bathroom. The Alperts kept the house at an even seventy degrees during the day, and Curtis turned the heat down to sixty-five at night; his last duty of the day before he, too, turned in for the night. Still, seventy didn’t seem all that warm when you had nothing on.
I sat on the chair before the small desk in my bedroom and stared at the clock.
If Mrs. Alpert stayed true to form, she’d erupt through my door within the next five minutes to pick on me once again.
Six fifty-six.
Six fifty-seven.
Six fifty-eight.
The handle rattled and the door to my room was suddenly thrown open.
“Why must you always—!” Mrs. Alpert began, but then stopped as her wide eyes took in my lack of clothes.
I dropped the pen I’d been holding. “You startled me. Now I’ve dropped my pen,” I said tersely. God, no wonder I never tried out for the Drama Club. I had to be the worst actor on the face of the planet, but I knew my performance was about to bring the house down.
I got up from my chair, my bare ass pointed at Mrs. Alpert, and bent over, giving her a full moon.
“Good Lord!” she cried and I took in her horrified expression as seen between my bare knees.
She turned and bolted, leaving my bedroom door wide open.
Before I could cross the room to close it, I heard her slam the door to her own bedroom suite.