Authors: Loretta Ellsworth
At first Dink didn't seem like a bad guy. But in the end his true self came out. Maybe he has a “jerk” gene in him. Maybe he just gave in to his own greed.
When I met Dink I was eleven going on twelve. He brought me a puzzleâa pirate one that was too easy for me. He gave Mom a dozen roses. He wore a suit and he told dumb jokes that made her giggle. I tried not to worry too much, even though he sounded like muddy water and he had a shapeless chin.
Mom and I lived in a small house three blocks from the overpass. The constant whoosh of traffic was background noise. Mom sold advertising for the local newspaper and money was always tight.
So when Dink took Mom to fancy restaurants and drove his beat-up metallic green Camaro that he thought was flashy, Mom fell hard for him. I didn't know what to think, though I wanted Mom to be happy because she hadn't dated much since Dad died. I didn't want to be a worrier. But three months later when Dink moved in I had this uneasy feeling, like we were sinking in quicksand.
The pieces of Dink didn't fit together. He said he worked in executive sales in the communication industry but he had these scary gargoyle tattoos on his upper arm that you didn't see unless he was sleeveless. He had excuses for never having any money and Mom had to pay for everything.
Still, I tried to like him. But when Dink told me he was going to take me to a movie and later backed out, all the great things my dad did with me before he died popped into my head, and Dink couldn't compete with my memories. Mom finally took me to the movie, and when we returned I recited my favorite scenes word for word.
“See what you missed?” Mom said.
Dink stared at me. “How'd you do that?”
Mom smiled. “Baxter has a fantastic memory.”
Dink was so fascinated with my abilities that he had me look at a piece of paper with a bunch of numbers for five seconds and asked if I could memorize them. No problem.
“I can't believe this,” he said. “What's your trick?”
I told him that when he flashed the paper in front of me I took a mental picture of it, then when he asked me the numbers I found the picture in my memory and recited what was on it. Dink's mouth dropped open as though a light bulb had turned on in his head.
“That's like a photographic memory or something. You're a genius, Baxter!” Even though I was still mad at him, the praise made me feel good. My memory wasn't getting me in trouble like it did in school, when I corrected my teachers and sounded like a know-it-all. After that Dink acted really nice. He even bought me a guitar and said he'd teach me how to play it.
One day Dink asked me to go for a ride with him. “I want to show Baxter where I work,” he told Mom. But when we got in the car, he said he needed me for a project. “Top secret,” he said, “so don't tell your mom or anyone else.”
It was Sunday and the place was empty, but Dink had a key. Two other guys came and Dink introduced me like I was a star or something. Everyone was excited to meet me.
Dink had me sit at a computer terminal. “Just watch the numbers. They'll go by really fast. Remember as many numbers as you can, but they have to be in order. You understand?”
“Yeah,” I said. “What is this for?”
“You're saving the company a lot of money by doing this, Buddy. They'll probably send you a nice gift certificate.” He patted me on the back, kind of hard.
I played with the buttons on my shirt, stalling. “I don't know, Dink.”
His eyes narrowed. “You said you'd help me, Baxter. You're not going to wimp out on me now, are you?”
“I think I should ask Mom first.”
“I thought this was going to be our guy thing, just between the two of us. You have to stop being a momma's boy and stand on your own two feet. You're not a baby.”
So I did it. Reluctantly. The numbers flew by like a speeding train. After I watched them flash across the screen, Dink asked me to write them down, or as many as I could remember.
I wanted to trust Dink, but something was wrong. The air felt electric, the way the men's eyes were on me and how they kept watching the doors. A few hours later, when my fingers were so stiff I could barely move them, Dink said to stop. He took the pieces of paper with the numbers written on them and went into a room with the other men for a long time. Their voices were muted. When they came out, Dink was smiling. The men left through the back door and Dink took me home.
“You did good, Baxter. So good that we might use you again next month. But this has to stay between us, okay? Remember, it's a guy thing.”
I nodded, but I felt like I couldn't breathe. I moped around for two weeks until Mom said something to me, which made Dink give me a nasty look behind her back. I was starting to think that Dink wasn't such a nice guy. He now had money to fix up his Camaro but he still didn't help with the rent. He spent a lot of time in the spare bedroom that he'd turned into an office. He didn't take Mom to fancy restaurants anymore.
The next month Dink took me to his workplace again. The same two guys were there. But this time it was all business. They acted edgy and no one high-fived me or gave me compliments.
Dink sat me down in front of the same computer. “Okay, Buddy, let's get to work.”
“I don't want to do it,” I said. “I want to go home.”
Dink glared at me and his hand pushed down hard on my shoulder. “You're going to do
exactly
what I tell you to do.”
And that's when I realized that Dink had a jerk gene in him, like the fruit flies I read about who were bred for aggression. It just took a while for Dink's gene to kick in.
A few weeks later I was looking for a pencil and I went into Dink's home office, even though I wasn't allowed in there. I found a pencil at the back of the drawer, but right next to it was a large envelope full of money. It was filled with one-hundred dollar bills, six hundred fifty-three of them. All together, there was sixty-five thousand, three hundred fifty-eight dollars inside. And underneath the money were copies of the pieces of paper with the numbers I'd written down.
I didn't know what to think. I was scared. That same week Dink was arrested for stealing credit card numbers from his work. When the police came to our house, I hid under my bed. I thought they'd arrest me for helping Dink, but instead they asked me a lot of questions. When I told them what Dink had me do, Mom hugged me and said sorry about a million times. I gave the police the pieces of paper with the numbers I'd written.
Mom thinks we're safe here. But Dink is no longer in prison and I know he wants to kill me for testifying against him. Plus there's something that even Mom doesn't know about. I took Dink's envelope full of money.
I'm watching
The Andy Griffith Show
on the oldies channel when Mom comes home. It's the episode where his son Opie accidentally kills a mother bird and raises the babies, and then Andy tells Opie he has to set them free. I've always thought that my dad would have been like Andy: wise and caring, someone who would help me raise baby birds.
Mom pauses in the hallway between the kitchen and living room. She hangs her purse on the doorknob to the basement, a cavernous place that could fit our whole apartment from California. We've never had a basement before and I'm not sure what you use it for other than storing the furnace. Mom nods toward the television. “Haven't you seen that episode a hundred times?”
“Sixteen.”
“You have it memorized. Why watch it again?”
“This way I can laugh in advance.” Just because I memorized the show the first time I watched it doesn't mean I enjoy it any less the sixteenth time. “Would you say my dad was like Andy Griffith?”
She shakes her head and her top lip curls up. “He was more like Barney Fife.”
Barney is Andy's inept assistant. He's the funny one who always messes things up that Andy makes right again. Barney cracks me up, but I'm not sure he's father material.
She sighs. “Your dad was great. I just don't want you thinking he was some kind of god. He was a good guy, but he had his faults.”
I want to mention that nobody could be worse than Dinkâhe would have killed Opie's baby birds without a thought. But I don't really want to talk about Dink, and I know Mom doesn't want to talk about Dad
or
Dink. Either one brings up sad memories.
“How was school?” she asks.
“Mr. Shaw assigned me a study buddy.”
“What's that?”
“It's basically a tutor. I got a C-minus on my first English test.”
“You always get As in English. How could you possibly get a C-minus with your remarkable memory?”
By selecting the letter C for every answer. I shouldn't have told her about the tutor or the grade. How am I going to make a fresh start if I act the same way I did before? I shrug. “I haven't been in a regular school for three years, Mom. I'll do better next time.”
She shakes her head. “I guess no one is going to suspect you of being the Memory Boy when you're struggling in class. But really, Baxter. C-minus? You can do better than that.”
I don't mention that my tutor is an old classmate from California. No use making Mom worry before the spice rack is even unpacked. “How was work?”
Mom runs a hand through her chin-length blond hair. It used to go halfway down her back, but then she cut it as part of her fresh-start approach to our new life in Minnesota. Her fingers stop abruptly when she comes to the end, as if they're searching for the rest of her hair.
“Turns out I'm pretty good at waitressing. We have this guy, Mr. Schneider, who orders the same thing every day: toast, tea, and eggs over easy. Today I messed up and accidentally gave him the wrong order, a bacon omelet. Thought he'd be mad, but guess what? He loved it. Says he's going to order that every day from now on. You know, this isn't so different from selling newspaper ads. It's really all about people skills.”
I flinch at the words “people skills.” Most people think I'm an obnoxious know-it-all. But that was the old Baxter. The new Baxter is an average guy who gets C-minuses on his tests.
I'd never mess up and give someone the wrong order. But Mom did and it ended up better than if she hadn't. It's these unexpected twists in life that nag at me; how making a minor mistake or change can yield such different results. Like getting a C-minus and winding up with the tutor of my dreams.
Mom takes in the mess of boxes lining the kitchen wall. “I hate moving.” She reaches into the pocket of her white apron streaked with ketchup and coffee stains and takes out a pack of Winston Ultra Lights. She flicks out a cigarette and sticks it in her mouth, raising the lighter to the tip in one fluid motion.
“What happened to the patches I bought you?”
She scrunches up her face. “They make me nauseous.”
“Nauseous is better than dead.”
“I'm cutting down. I just moved two thousand miles and started a new job. Give me a break.”
“Dink smoked, too.”
She puts up her hand. “We agreed not to talk about him, Baxter. I know I shouldn't smoke. I'll go outside. Honestly, one smoke, that's all I'm asking for. This is only my second one today.” She waves the pack in front of her. “They're Lights. Doesn't that count for something?”
She turns and walks out the back door.
She hates my nagging, but if it guilts her down to two cigarettes a day, I'll keep at it.
I go back and forth between being angry at her for bringing Dink into our lives and feeling bad for her. She was so shocked that Dink turned out to be a thief and all-around jerk. And she tried to make it up to me. When school became unbearable, she worked out a deal with Dr. Anderson, a memory researcher at the Institute who was interested in studying me. They hired a tutor for me and I didn't have to attend school anymore. Life became tolerable again.
I pull out the scrap of paper resting inside my right pants pocket. Dr. Anderson wrote down his phone number before we moved, then chuckled when he gave it to me. “You obviously don't need it written down. Habit, I guess.” I like the note in my pocket, though. It's something a guy with a normal memory would carry. I think of calling Dr. Anderson now, but it's only been a few weeks. I wonder if he's found a new brain to study or if he misses me. After three years of attending weekly sessions at his research facility, I felt more comfortable talking to him than to the shrink Mom sent me to, Ms. Rupe, who insisted that I talk about my memories, which was like replaying them over and over again in my head. As if
that
helped.
Mom is outside flicking ashes on the pavement. It's been a whole week since I checked my stash, but I still feel like a gambler who compulsively counts his chips. I go to my room and open the closet. Stuffed in the back, behind cardboard boxes and piles of clothes, is my guitar case. But there's no guitar. It still smells like guitar, though, and it's filled with mementos from my life: books, pictures, stuffed animals, a margarine container full of shells I found at the beach. Having these things helps me somehow. They make my memories real.
Near the back of the case is a bulging white envelope that contains sixty-five thousand, three hundred fifty-eight dollars, all in crisp bills held together with a rubber band. There was ninety-seven cents in the ashtray on Dink's desk and I took that, too. It was an impulse reaction that seemed right at the time.
Later I worried what would happen if I turned it in, if I would get in trouble. So I've never spent any of it, not even the ninety-seven cents. The coins jingle at the bottom of the envelope.
If Mom knew, she'd say it's not right to keep it. But I still say Dink owes us.
I put the guitar case back in my closet and go into the living room. Mom is still outside. The newspapers tagged me the Memory Boy when it was discovered that I'd written six hundred credit and debit card numbers from memory after viewing them as they flashed across a computer screen. I'm the kid who can memorize a phone book or a thick novel because I don't forget anything once I see or hear it. I don't forget anything.
Most people are impressed by that. They don't know how crowded my head feels or what a curse it is. Plus there are too many Dinks in the world who see me as a way to cheat the system.
It's nice being in school again with other kids, doing the same work as them, even if it's just to read three chapters of
The Great Gatsby
. But Dink lurks around every corner. The memories pop up more often; his heavy brows that furrowed at the least little thing, his receding hairline, and the sneer he reserved for me when Mom wasn't watching.
Even when Dink isn't here, he's here, like a disease that won't go away. And like the disease he is, I know I need to find a cure. Dr. Anderson thinks that if I fill my head with new memories at a new school I'll figure out a way to get rid of him. But Dr. Anderson doesn't know about the money. And he doesn't know Dink.