Finding the Worm (7 page)

“It’s pretty good,” he whispered. “I got orange Jell-O.”

“I got a Bobby Murcer baseball glove. I mean, I didn’t get it yet. But my dad’s going to give it to me tonight. He hid it in the back of the closet, but I found it. Today’s my birthday.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said.

“Oh, yeah, I guess that’s why you called.”

He gave a whispery laugh that almost made me bawl. “Dope!”

“We pushed back my bar mitzvah.…”

“Why?”

“Because of you. Because you’re sick.”

Amelia slugged me again, but I just ignored her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

“No, I wanted to. We all wanted to, even Amelia. It was like a family decision.”

There was a long pause. “How’d your dad get Bobby Murcer to sign the glove?”

“Murcer didn’t sign it
himself
,” I said. “It’s just a glove that’s got his name on it.”

“Oh.”

“Dope!”

That made Quentin laugh again, even softer than before, and then he coughed.

“If Murcer had actually
signed
it,” I said, “I’d never be able to use it, because I wouldn’t want to mess it up. I mean, I’d keep it around the house. But then I’d still need a glove I could play with.”

“That makes sense.…”

Quentin’s mom got on the phone at that point and said the conversation was tiring him out, so he had to rest. I told her I understood—which I did—and said goodbye, and I heard her tell him goodbye for me, and the next thing I heard was the click and buzz of her hanging up.

Amelia took the phone from my hand, because I was still kind of in shock, and she said, “That’s a pretty superb birthday present, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You really love that kid, don’t you?”

“C’mon, Amelia!”

“I’m just teasing you, Jules. You don’t have to say it to me.”

“I’m
not
going to say it to you.”

“But at least say it to yourself,” she said.

“What’s the point of saying it to myself?”

“Because if you can say it to yourself, you can say it to Quentin.”

“You just want to hear me say it.”

“He’s real sick, Julian—”

“He’s getting better! You just spoke to him yourself!”

“Don’t take that chance,” she said. “Say what needs to be said.”

“This is stupid.…”

“If you don’t, and something happens, you’ll regret it the rest of your life. Trust me on this one.”

By then, I’d heard enough. I stepped back into my room, snatched my coat from the hook on the wall, and headed outside to find Lonnie. I wanted to tell him I’d talked to Quentin while the thing was still fresh in my mind.

Today would’ve been my bar mitzvah,
the day I was supposed to become a man … if it hadn’t gotten pushed back until the end of May. So my dad got it in his head that I should go to Saturday services at Gates of Prayer. Alone. Because, I guess, that’s what men do. Except no way was he going to get up early, put on a suit, and spend the morning in temple.

I asked Lonnie if he wanted to come, and you can guess what his answer was.

So off I went at eight-fifteen, in a blazer and dress pants, just as the sun had started to warm up the air. I walked real slow, squinting into the sun. Once I got to temple, of course, that was the end of sunlight for the
next hour and a half—an hour and a half of squirming on a hard wooden pew, staring into a back-to-front prayer book, and keeping my yawns to myself. Unfortunately, Lonnie’s mom noticed me walk in. I’d been planning to sit in the back row, where at least I could get in a couple of good stretches, but she stood up and waved me forward. Then she gave me a long hug, like she hadn’t seen me in a year, and made me sit next to her in the front row.

If there’s one thing worse than sitting through Saturday-morning services, it’s sitting through them with Mrs. Fine. I don’t mean that in a bad way. She’s my favorite of my friends’ moms, and I’d say that even if she weren’t so generous with Mallomars. Plus, I know the Jewish stuff gets to her on account of what happened during World War II. But that’s why sitting with her is so awkward. It’s like sitting next to a bag of cats, the way she yowls and moans the Hebrew words, the way she hunches up her shoulders and shakes, the way she rocks back and forth with her eyes closed, the way she sobs to herself, and meanwhile you’re right there next to her, faking like you know what’s going on, feeling people’s eyes on you, wanting to pat her on the back and tell her it’s going to be all right, that the service is going to be over in another hour … except you know, because of how worked up she gets, she wouldn’t hear you regardless.

So, yeah, sitting next to Mrs. Fine in temple is real
awkward. On the other hand, it
does
make you think deep. It makes you think about what happened to her, and it makes you realize how good you’ve got it. It’s the same thing, in a way, with Quentin’s tumor. It makes you feel guilty, almost, on account of he’s sick and you’re not. It’s like—I don’t even know how to explain it. It just hits you. Like you’re running down the block, running to get home for dinner, and the wind is whistling in your ears, and you’re taking deep breaths, and the air just comes and goes like it’s nothing, and then, out of nowhere, you remember Quentin is stuck in that hospital bed, with those tubes going in and out of him, and it just doesn’t seem fair.

You think about stuff like that, sitting in temple next to Mrs. Fine, because you can’t
not
think about it. It seems like the natural thing to do. So I figured as long as I was there, I might as well get into the spirit of the thing and pray a little. I said a quick prayer, which I felt bad about afterward, because, looking back, it’s not the nicest prayer. But here’s what I prayed: I prayed that when Quentin got out of the hospital, he wouldn’t get all religious like Mrs. Fine.

It was maybe another ten minutes until Rabbi Salzberg said the last “amen” and the service ended. I jumped up and was about to cheese it. But then, a second later, I felt Mrs. Fine’s hand take hold of mine, and she lifted my hand to her lips and kissed it. It felt wet, the kiss,
because it had tears mixed in with it. She looked down at me afterward, and her eyes were tearing up, and she said, “You’re a good boy, Julian.”

I nodded. What else could I do? But I was thinking:
Tell that to Principal Salvatore
.

Then she let go of me. I grabbed my overcoat and walked away, not too fast but not too slow either. The side door of the temple was open, and sunlight was pouring into the place, and I was maybe ten feet from fresh air and freedom. But at the last second, Rabbi Salzberg shuffled to the edge of the stage and called out my name: “Mr. Twerski!” He was close enough, and enough people were standing between us, that I couldn’t pretend not to hear him.

I turned and called back, “Yes, Rabbi?”

“Come here, Mr. Twerski.”

I took a couple of steps toward the stage, but then I heard my name again. It came from outside. I glanced over my shoulder, toward the side door, and was blinded by the sun. But I knew the voice. It was Lonnie’s. “Hey, Jules!”

“Mr. Twerski,” Rabbi Salzberg said, “I’m right here. Are you confused?”

I spun back around. “Sorry, Rabbi, I’ve got to go.”

Saying that, I rushed out the door.

As soon as I stepped outside, Lonnie grabbed the
sleeve of my coat and started to pull me through the crowd. We were weaving in and out, walking fast until we got to the sidewalk, and then we took off running. I had no idea where we were going, but I was glad to be in the open air, feeling the sun on my face, making a quick getaway from Gates of Prayer.

After a couple of blocks, my dress shoes were cutting into my feet. I slowed down to a walk again, which caused Lonnie to slow down too. We were both huffing and kind of laughing.

“All right,” he said, “I think the coast is clear.”

“You don’t think the posse’s coming after us?”

“Well, Magoo is definitely going to kill you.”

“Yeah, but what can he do?
Today, I am a man
.”

That cracked up Lonnie, which cracked up me.

“Where are we going?” I said.

He was smiling. “I got something to show you.” There’s a crinkle-eyed look Lonnie gets on his face when he knows he’s outdone himself. Right then, he had that look. We were walking along Roosevelt Avenue toward Bowne Street. He turned right on Bowne, and I followed him for another block and a half. It wasn’t hard to figure out that he was leading me to the Bowne House. There’s nothing else on that street.

The closer we got, the queasier I began to feel. You don’t mess with the Bowne House. You don’t mess with a
painting
of the Bowne House, and you sure as heck don’t mess with the real thing. What I mean is … it’s the
Bowne House
! It’s a historical site. Tourists from Manhattan take the train to Flushing just to see the thing. But in a weird way, that calmed me down. I mean, how bad could it be? Lonnie’s a practical joker, for sure, but he’s not out of his mind.

We came up on the west side of the house. It’s not much to look at, to be honest, given that it’s such a big deal. Really it’s just a two-floor wooden house with peeling paint that used to be brown but now looks more tannish gray. It’s got a tall brick chimney, which kind of stands out, and a big oak tree in the backyard. But otherwise, you wouldn’t give it a second look if you didn’t know how historical it was.

The place was deserted, which you’d expect, since it didn’t open to the public until noon. So Lonnie and I took a quick look in both directions, then hopped the three-foot stone wall that separated the sidewalk from the backyard lawn.

He grinned at me. “Notice anything different?”

“You didn’t break a window, did you?”

“C’mon, Julian, why would I do that?”

“Okay, so what
did
you do?”

“Just look around,” he said.

I put my hands in my coat pockets and took a stroll.
The ground underneath the grass was hard, which I was grateful for, since it meant mud wasn’t caking on my dress shoes. I was glancing up and down, side to side, trying to pick out anything that looked wrong. After I’d covered the yard, I walked along the edge of the house, running my fingertips along the wood slats.

“You’re ice cold,” Lonnie called.

I stepped away from the house and drifted back toward the yard.

“You’re getting warmer.…”

“Did you carve the tree?”

“I wouldn’t hurt the tree, Julian. What did the tree ever do to me?”

“Then I give up,” I said.

“Do you want a hint?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t go out on a limb,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means what it says.”

“Then I don’t get it.”

“Don’t go out on a
limb
, Julian.”

Suddenly, it hit me. I looked up, almost straight into the sun. It took a second for my eyes to adjust, but there, about three-quarters of the way up the tree, was a worn-out pair of black high-top sneakers. They were dangling from a narrow branch by their laces, which were knotted
together. The dark color of the sneakers blended in real well with the bark of the tree. You likely wouldn’t have noticed them unless you were looking straight at them. Sooner or later, though, they were sure to get noticed.

“How could you do that, Lonnie?”

“How could I not?” he said.

“C’mon, it’s the
Bowne House
. If it were just a tree from the block—”

“You’re the one who gave me the idea when you were going on and on about that painting. So, in a way, it was
your
idea.…”

“Lonnie!”

“I’m just joking with you, Jules. Don’t be such a Goody Two-Shoes.”

“I’m
not
a Goody Two-Shoes,” I said. “I just don’t get the point of it. Why would you even want your sneakers here? Who’s going to see them?”

“They’re not
my
sneakers. They’re
Quentin’s
.”

“You stole Quentin’s sneakers?”

“He left them at my house last year,” he said. “They didn’t fit him anymore, so we were going to tree them, but then it started to rain, and we just forgot about them. My mom found them a couple of weeks ago in the basement. That’s when I got the idea. I even wrote Quentin’s name in them—”

“Lonnie!”

“What?”

“You’re going to get him in trouble.”

“I didn’t write his
last
name,” he said.

“How many guys named Quentin live in Flushing?”

“What difference does it make? The guy’s got a
tumor
. What do you think is going to happen? You think the cops are going to show up at his hospital room and arrest him? Not to mention they’ll know he
couldn’t
have done it himself, because he’s in the hospital.”

“What about after he gets out?”

“If he’s out of the hospital, that means he’s in good shape. So it’s win-win.”

“That’s not even what ‘win-win’ means.”

“I know what ‘win-win’ means, Jules. Do you know what ‘tribute’ means?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Don’t you think Quentin deserves a tribute?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then case closed,” he said.

Here’s the third essay on good citizenship
I wrote for Principal Salvatore: