Okay for Now (20 page)

She came up the street with a load of books and stomped up the six steps to where I was waiting

and I said, "Hey," and she said, "Hey," but she said it in a way that meant she wasn't really saying

"Hey," she was really saying,
You are such a jerk and I wish you would drop into some crack,
so I

knew she hadn't forgotten.

"Are you coming into the library?" I said, and she looked at me like she was generating aggression

and she said, "Not now."

"I wish you would," I said. "It's not much fun just drawing with Mr. Powell."

"Oh," she said. "I didn't realize. Well, I don't know very much about it, do I?"

"If we stop in at your dad's deli, we could get two Cokes," I said.

"Do you have any money?" she said.

"No."

"Then what you're really saying is that if we stopped in my dad's deli, I could get you a Coke,

right?"

I shrugged and smiled.

Lil Spicer shook her head, and then she laughed, and I'm not lying, she smiled too. "You know," she

said, "you should smile more often." She handed me her books and took my arm. "Let's go," she said.

That afternoon, after our Cokes, I drew that Snowy Heron like I was John James Audubon himself.

Except my heron, he was strutting out into the world like that hunter would never, never come.

Finally, finally, finally, in the middle of December, we drove down to New York City in my father's

new pickup, my father, my mother, and me. We left my brother home, first because we wouldn't have

room for him in the pickup once Lucas got there, and second because my father wanted him to move

the furniture around in our bedroom upstairs so that we could fit another bed in. This wasn't going to

be easy, which my brother had pointed out and which my father had answered with ... you know.

I sat between them. My father was glaring at the cars on the expressway as if he were daring them

to try, even try dinging up his new pickup. I wasn't sure why he was so all-fired worried about it—it

was already pretty dinged up. You don't get a whole lot for a hundred-dollar down payment, I guess.

But whenever someone closed in on him, he rolled his window down and let them know, even though

they had their windows rolled up because it was about zero degrees outside. Of course, when my

father opened his window, it made it about zero degrees inside too. And it didn't get warm again,

because the heater didn't work in his new pickup. I guess he forgot when he bought it that we weren't

living in, say, Miami.

My mother was wearing her best blue coat. She looked out the window too, most of the time. It was

like she was trying to peer across the miles, right into the city, to find Lucas. Every time a bus passed

us, she looked into all the windows. Who knew? He might be there.

Me? I was watching for Joe Pepitone whenever a Ford Mustang drove by, because Joe Pepitone is

the kind of guy who would drive a Ford Mustang.

We got lost three times in New York City because, my father said, no one knew what they were

doing when they laid out all the streets. Nothing made sense. And if you were there, you wouldn't

either have pointed out that it made perfect sense since the whole city is on a grid. You know you

wouldn't.

When we finally found the Port Authority bus station, we drove around it eight times because he

wasn't going to park in one of those garages where they take your money and then go joy-riding in

your truck. Not him! He was going to find a spot on the street—which we finally did about a half mile

away, which took a whole lot longer to drive than you might think because we had to creak through a

Stop the War protest that was spilling into all the side streets. By the time my father edged the pickup

into a spot, my mother was near frantic. When he finally switched off the ignition, she got out and I got

out and my mother started to walk toward the Port Authority. "Just hold on," my father called.

"If we don't hurry," she said, "we won't be there when his bus pulls in."

"So what?" he said. "He's been gone a—"

My mother didn't wait for him to finish. She turned away and began walking.

I could have cheered.

We were there on the bottom level of the Port Authority when Lucas's bus pulled in. My father, a

couple of minutes after.

I wish I could tell you what it was like, watching my mother smile while the bus parked. I wish I

could tell you.

But maybe you know, and I don't have to.

There was the smell of diesel, and the screech of air brakes, and the big engine of the bus echoing

off the cement walls and ceiling. There was the crowd of people all looking for someone they cared

about who was on the bus and coming home for Christmas. There was the driver switching off the

engine, taking off his hat and stretching, pushing back his hair. He reached forward and pulled a lever

and the doors opened and he got out and stretched again, then walked over to the luggage bins and

bent to open them. And there were the passengers starting to get out, and they weren't Lucas, and they

walked slow and unsteady, like they'd been crinkled up for a while in a seat too small. And one by

one they turned to the crowd and waved at someone, and that someone would run up and they'd hug

and kiss and then go find their luggage.

That's how it was, one by one everyone coming off the bus, holding the rail as they stepped out,

until everyone was off the bus and the bus driver was standing by the empty luggage bins and closing

them up and then he looked over at us.

"You folks waiting for a kid in a wheelchair?" he said.

"No," said my father.

But my mother gasped, and then she was running. She flew past the bus driver and up the stairs of

the bus. We could hear her steps as she ran to the back.

I came up behind her, and this is what I saw: My mother was kneeling down in front of my brother

Lucas. One of the overhead lights was shining brightly on her hair, turning it all gold. She held Lucas's

face in both her hands. Her blue coat was spread out, and it covered them both like wide wings,

covered even the chair my brother was sitting in. She was kissing him, but I couldn't see his face until

she reached to hold him close to her, and she put her head beside his. Then I could see him. I could

see the wide gauze bandage across his eyes.

And oh God, it wasn't until she stood and turned to me that I could see why Lucas was in the chair:

Both his legs were missing. Above the knees.

My mother looked at me. That smile.

Next to them stood a smart soldier, his uniform perfect, his hat off and under his arm, looking away

like he wasn't supposed to be seeing this.

I walked down the aisle, touching each of the seats as I passed them. My mother watched each step

I took. When I was in front of the wheelchair, she put her hand on the back of my brother's head, and

he leaned into her.

"Lucas," I said.

He tilted his face up to me. "Hi, Doug," he said. He reached out and I took his hand. It was

trembling a little. "I got dinged up," he said.

"A little bit," I said.

He smiled.

I never saw it before, but he smiles like my mother.

The soldier and I got Lucas down from the bus. It wasn't easy, and I think we hurt Lucas twice trying

to get him down the bus steps, and again when we crowded him into the elevator. And again when we

crowded him out of the elevator. But he never said a thing, and when we finally got him on the ground

floor, he reached out and the soldier shook his hand and Lucas said, "Thank you, sir," and the soldier

said, "It was an honor," and he saluted Lucas—who couldn't see him, but Lucas saluted back as if he

somehow knew. Then my mother took his hand and I got behind the chair and pushed him through the

Port Authority and out onto the street.

"Where are we?" he said.

"New York City," I said.

He lifted his face up to the air. The bright cold sunshine shone down on him, but he couldn't see it.

He was smelling instead.

And then he turned his head, because he was hearing what suddenly we were all hearing.

The Stop the War protest was marching toward us, people holding up signs with letters that dripped

like blood, screaming into bullhorns, chanting, and sort of looking like the hunter coming across on

the horizontal to the meeting of the diagonals, which is where we were standing. When the marchers

in the front saw us, they tried to hold back, but the power of the marchers behind heaved them

forward, and so instead they turned sideways and skirted around us until we were in a pocket with the

crowd touching us everywhere. And you know what they said when they saw my brother in his

uniform sitting in a wheelchair with bandages around his eyes, his legs gone? You know what they

said?

They said he got what he deserved.

They said they were glad his eyes were gone.

They said they were glad his legs were gone.

They said he got done to him what he did to Vietnamese babies and how did he like it?

They said that's what happens when you let yourself get used by fascist pigs.

My mother tried to get in front of Lucas, but the crowd was so thick and so close that she couldn't

work herself around the wheelchair. She looked back at my father, and he pushed himself past her and

stood in front of Lucas, who sat there the whole time, facing straight out, even when someone spit on

him. He didn't say anything. He just took it, like there was nothing else he could do.

You know what that feels like?

It feels like having Principal Peattie tell you that not a single teacher in the whole school gives a

rip about you—not a rip—because they all gave up on you a long time ago, like on the day you

started.

That's what it feels like.

It probably went on like that for only a few minutes, but it felt a lot longer. And when the crowd

finally thinned out and the last protester had hated him, we got back to the pickup and my father

started it up while my mother and I helped Lucas out of the wheelchair and into the cab and my father

swore when he had to get out after my mother came around the front to get in through the driver's side.

I got in the back and pulled the wheelchair into the pickup. It was heavier than I thought it would be,

and I had to be careful because my father sure hoped I wasn't dinging up his pickup while I was

getting that thing in.

I put the wheelchair down on its side and leaned against it so it wouldn't roll around as we headed

out of Manhattan and back up toward Marysville to a house my brother had never seen. And maybe

wouldn't see now.

Not that he was missing much.

It was a long drive, and I think you can imagine how cold it was for one of us especially. But I kept

wondering every time we hit a bump and the stupid shocks in the pickup didn't do a thing how much it

was hurting Lucas.

Probably a lot.

When we pulled into the driveway, my father got out and went into The Dump. I lowered the

wheelchair over the side and jumped out and opened the door. Lucas's face was pretty grim. I'm not

lying. My mother had been crying, so her face was pretty grim too. I wasn't sure how we were going

to get Lucas out of the pickup, especially without hurting him more. I guess he wondered about that

too, because he said, "Doug, if you wheel the thing below me, maybe I could sort of fall into it." It

took me a couple of seconds to see that he was kidding, even though there's nothing funny about

missing your legs, you know.

Then the front door of The Dump opened, and I thought it was probably my father coming back to

help out. It wasn't. It was my brother. He looked at me; then he looked inside the truck at my mother

and Lucas. "Lucas," he said.

"Hey," said Lucas.

My brother looked at me again, and then he reached into the pickup. "Tell me if this hurts," he said,

and he reached around Lucas and Lucas reached an arm around my brother's neck and he lifted him

out, just like that, and set him down in the wheelchair.

"Thanks, little brother," said Lucas.

And my brother, my brother Christopher, he said, "Anytime, Lucas. Whenever you want."

So we wheeled Lucas into The Dump and my father said how did we think we were going to get

him up to our room in a wheelchair and Christopher said, "We got it figured out."

And Lucas gave that smile.

I really did try to care during the Volleyball Unit in PE that week. But you have to admit, volleyball is

not that great a sport. You don't hear Jim McKay announcing the thrill of victory that comes from

winning a volleyball game. I mean, slapping a ball around and getting it over a net? What's the point

to that?

There's a reason that no one carries stats about volleyball around in his head.

But I really did try to care. And I even tried to care about the Wrestling Unit—not enough to try to

win, but enough to keep things going for a minute or two without a whole lot of circling, which the

So-Called Gym Teacher announced would get the two circlers two more big fat zeroes.