For I Could Lift My Finger and Black Out the Sun (11 page)

Interlude

A whoosh. An image of the crowd watching a magic show, suddenly amazed by some act of seeming impossibility. Like the sound of a thousand people inhaling quickly, followed by an almost inaudibly calm exhale. Fast and light. In time, coordinated.

It is you.

6

I stared in shock at Bobby, and he looked back at me, equally stunned. I’d seen it happen. With incredible speed, his body momentarily made a
tunnel
from his stomach to his back, allowing the bullet to pass through harmlessly. As I watched, the hole closed and Bobby was back to normal. Even his shirt, at least on the front side, had parted and then returned whole.

I leaned slowly around to look past Bobby, and he twisted to see as well. There was a deeply chipped spot in a cinder block in the wall behind him. In the center of the hole, we saw the metal slug of the bullet that had passed through Bobby’s body without leaving a mark.

“That,” Bobby started, breathlessly, a slow smile dawning across his face, “was
incredible
!” He laughed and slapped me on the shoulder playfully. “Gotta admit you scared me, though, Johnny. What the hell did you shoot me in the gut for?”

For a minute or two, I couldn’t answer. Finally, I realized I’d been holding my breath.

Holy crap
, I thought.
Bobby’s bulletproof
.

* * *

The following Friday night, my dad had our pale-blue family van packed to the gills, prepped for our trip to Playa Beach. (We’ll just agree to ignore the name, okay?) The van was larger than your typical family minivan, because we had to support Holly’s wheelchair.

With Holly on board and the van ready to go, I plopped into the rear seat as Dad started the engine.

We rolled through town to start our five-hour drive to the beach. I noticed an old safety pin on the floor of the van, so to pass the time, I idly jabbed it at one hand, watching my skin slide smoothly out of the way. I don’t recall noticing whether Holly was watching me or not.

* * *

I have to admit, Playa Beach was a lot of fun. Holly seemed thrilled to sit in a rented big-wheel wheelchair — perfect for traversing the sandy beach — while enjoying the sun, wind, waves, and birds. Mom sat with her, both of them covered by a large umbrella.

Dad and I rode the waves, body surfing, bouncing through the endless swells, tossing our foam football. For three days straight, we woke up, ate breakfast, and then ran into the water. We took the occasional break to eat lunch or lay resting in the sun, but for the most part, we played in the ocean. Together.

Body surfing across the water on the back of a large wave on the afternoon of the third day, I beat Dad to the shore by inches. It was the day before my fourteenth birthday and the last time I ever heard my father laugh.

7

The next day, we hit the boardwalk. I had an enormous amount of fun at the time, but of course now I wish I’d never gone. I’m not sure if things would’ve gone any differently in my life, but maybe so. Worst of all, the whole day was supposed to be for me — for my birthday. Mom and Dad took turns pushing Holly along, while I was given a somewhat obscene amount of quarters to spend as I wished in the various arcades and amusement parks.

I had just turned 14 — a grown man, in my mind. So of course I pressed my parents to let me take off on my own. They relented and I was about to run. But first, I walked to where Holly sat, pressing my forehead to hers.
I so wish you could come with me, sis
, I thought, as hard as I could. After a moment of our ritual, I stood and without another word raced away down the boardwalk.

There was a blur of videogames, blinking icons and screens, tweeting sounds, salt-water-ruined loudspeakers playing outdated rock music. T-shirts with words on them I knew but my parents thought I didn’t. Jocks strutting with their sunglasses shining, bikini-clad girls that caught my eye as they made their own confident strides. People from all stations in life, the snooty and the seedy, the weathered and the pampered. Hours passed.

I stood in line for The Hurlstorm, a twisty mess of a ride that flipped over and over on itself, people locked in little cages of near-death. The area around the ride was, ostensibly, cleared for safety. I assumed it was really cleared to allow for a spew zone. I’d heard the rumors. I suspected at least once a day they got a true hurler, and I didn’t want to be their latest statistic. The Hurlstorm was one of the boardwalk’s most popular rides, and as such, drew a lot of spectators — and cost a whopping 10 tickets. I had just enough to cover the cost, or so I thought, idly looking around while I waited in line for my turn. At last, the ride slowed and people staggered out, laughing and wide-eyed, some looking like they might need a break for the day or a quick trip to the porcelain god. The Hurlstorm was not a jealous master. It would take your sacrifice any time, now or later. Finally everyone was off the ride and the gate attendant looked for his next batch of victims. I was fourth in line.

I shuffled forward and pulled my remaining tickets out of my pocket. When I reached the attendant, I passed them over without thinking, ready to rush in and find the best seat.

And she stopped me, her mousy hair pulled back, a rash of red sunburn across her nose and cheeks, her mouth screwed up in a grimace. “It’s 10 tickets,” she said.

I looked at her dully, not comprehending. “Uh-huh?”

“This is nine,” she said, holding up my tickets in three ragged batches, annoyed at having to delay the line, or possibly her lunch break. People behind me started to grumble and push forward.

The day was still and hot. I heard a garbled sound, like static on the radio, until it faded into a tinkling of notes like a very distant wind chime coming to rest.

I reached into my pockets and found… nothing. I didn’t have any more tickets. Or money. I’d be forced to wander off and find my parents in shame, one measly ticket shy of having a terrifyingly good time on The Hurlstorm. Or worse, I could ride one of the cheaper baby rides.

“Ah, crap,” I muttered. Then a figure pushed forward.

The first thing I remember is that he was dark. Dark clothes, dark hair, dark skin. His hand reached out and it, too, was dark, deeply tanned. His fingernails were immaculately manicured. Gleaming arcs of pure white atop bronze fingers. In between two of those fingers was one simple thing: a red, paper ticket.

“Here, my friend, take one of mine,” he said with a smile of the same immaculate white as his fingernails, offering the item not to me but to the flushed gate attendant. She took the single ticket and waved me through, so I smiled and gave the man in black a little salute, but that was all.

I rushed to an open seat, not giving much thought to the stranger and his gift of a single red ticket. Not thinking about why. Certainly not thinking about the future. What happened in that split second. Just wanting the visceral thrill.

For a short while, I experienced the one thing amusement park rides do well. I was lost in the moment.

* * *

Jose.

His name was Jose do Branco. He was waiting when the ride was done.

Amid the other lurching, somewhat vomitous riders, I made for the exit. I ducked past two older teenagers, probably on a date. Clearly, the boy had coerced the girl into going on the ride, because she looked like she would live up to The Hurlstorm’s name at any step, so I rushed by them and out the gate.

And I bumped directly into
him
.

“Did you enjoy the ride?” he asked with what seemed like true interest, even happiness. I looked up, for a moment not realizing who was speaking to me.

The dark, nearly black jeans. A black, button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up a turn or two, chest exposed at the open neck. Jet-black hair, almost as dark as mine, but slightly wavy, like a mesh. But his skin…

His skin was the even, bronzed color produced only by people with no northern blood in their bodies whatsoever. I looked at the texture and tone of his skin and thought it was beautiful. Yes, that’s the actual word I thought. This was high praise. It was a word I normally reserved exclusively to describe the latest videogame graphics.

Then he smiled. Good God, the whiteness of his perfect teeth next to his perfect dark skin. If I had known the name Adonis at that age, I would’ve thought Adonis was talking to me. I had to try to be eloquent.

“Huh?” I said, unsuccessfully blinking the dumbness out of my eyes.

“Did you enjoy the ride? The…” He looked toward the sign. “
Hurlstorm
?” Again, the bright white smile.

I shook my head. This was an adult and a complete stranger talking to me. I had no idea why. “Uh, yeah.” I fidgeted, kicking the ground idly with one sneakered toe.

“Wonderful,” he said, with a turn and a slight laugh. He seemed like a movie star to me. “I am so happy to have provided you with the ticket you required, then.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” I looked down, embarrassed to have forgotten. “Thanks. Um, thank you for that, sir.” I shifted my weight awkwardly.

“‘
Sir
?’ Please.” He leaned down in front of me and I realized he was actually pretty young. An adult, sure, and way older than me, no doubt. But maybe just out of college, like my cousin Mick. Not old like my-parents-old. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Call me
Branco
. That’s what everyone calls me.” He paused, and I stood blinking at him, like a cow looks at an oncoming train. “Well, my full name is Jose do Branco.” Not
de
Branco,
do
Branco. Don’t ask me why. He pronounced it in a sort of excessively foreign way, using his deep voice to emphasize the sounds, doh
Brrahn
koh. I found myself wishing I knew how to roll my Rs without sounding foolish. “But most people,” he continued, pausing to look me in the eye, “people who know me, just call me Branco.”

I nodded absently.
Branco. Franko. Monkey-spanko. I’ll call you whatever you want, mister. Just either (a) give me more ride tickets, (b) stop creeping me out by acting like a pedophile, or, preferably, (c) both.

He stood again. “May I ask your name?”

Wow. This guy was either really formal, or really European. Maybe those meant the same thing. “John. John Black,” I replied, awkwardly. A second later, I thought that a fake name would’ve been a really good idea. Apparently, all the work my parents had done trying to drill some sense into my head about strangers was futile.

Branco raised one eyebrow with a small smile, then bowed a bit. “It is my pleasure to meet you, John Black. Are you here on vacation?” It seemed an innocent question.

“Yeah.”

He nodded, briskly, then made a circular gesture, indicating the boardwalk around us. “
Playa Beach
. Did you help your family select this place?” he asked, expectantly.

I scoffed. “No.” He looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “Stupidest name ever.”

Branco and I shared a laugh.

* * *

Branco was one seriously charming guy. I mean, my stupid friends, Bobby included, would probably say I was sweet on him, but really? The guy was too good-looking, too suave, made you want to be friends with him. It wasn’t just me. People on the boardwalk turned to look at him. Girls turned twice. Some guys, too.

He asked me about my family, and, like a fool, I told him everything. About my mom, my dad, even Holly. He seemed particularly interested in Holly, how she came to be in her wheelchair. I didn’t mention Walter Ivory at all, just said she had a seizure as a little kid. He nodded, but I think he knew I was leaving something out.

“There is a place that serves good Italian food, three blocks or so away,” he said, pointing down the boardwalk. “I would like to invite you and your family to be my guests there for dinner.”

“Are you Italian?” I asked.

Branco gave a single short, deep laugh. More like a polite gesture than real amusement. “No. I am Portuguese, my friend!” he said with a little flourish of one hand. “But, still, I like Italian food. Do you?”

“Do they have pizza?” I asked suspiciously, tilting my head to the side.

“Only the best in town,” he replied with a nod.

I burst into a smile, the way only kids can at the word
pizza
. “I gotta ask my parents!” I said, running off down the boardwalk and through the crowd. Behind me, I think Branco called out, but I was gone.

* * *

“John, come on, we’ve got to get a move on if we want to make our reservation,” my dad said, when I found them. He was packing Holly’s chair into the van. Mom and Holly were already waiting inside.

“But Dad!” I complained.

He stopped, turning to look me in the eye. “‘But Dad,’ nothing. We have reservations at The Rusty Anchor.” The name came out like it was important. “Your mother made those reservations weeks ago. You know, for your
birthday
? So we’re not breaking all of our plans because some
stranger
told you he’d buy you pizza! I mean, really. Come on, John!” Dad looked flabbergasted. “And like I said, what are you doing talking to strangers, anyway? Be
careful
, John.”

My shoulders fell as I exhaled loudly. What else could I do? Parents always won, even when you were fourteen years old. I huffed and jumped in the car, and we slowly drove away from the boardwalk. I figured I’d seen the last of Jose do Branco.

I was very, very wrong.