We were back at the home in two minutes.
I used my key on the back door and guided him down into the basement. I led him right into my bathroom. Blood was coming out of his head real fast.
I knew the Sarge would kill me but the closest thing to stop his bleeding was one of her good white towels. We’d just had a state inspection so the everyday towels were still hidden in the linen closet upstairs.
“Here,” I said, and handed him the white towel, “press this on the cut, it’ll slow the blood down. I’ll go get the keys and drive you to the hospital.”
My roommate, Chester X Stockard, looked up from his bed and gasped. That was the most I’d seen him react to anything. Maybe he’d had some bad experience with blood before.
I told him, “It’s all right, Mr. X, Sparky had a little accident, I’ma take him to the hospital.”
He closed his eyes.
I left Sparky leaning over the tub and ran back upstairs.
As soon as I opened the kitchen door the Sarge was standing at the sink. Sparky’s run on bad luck was still going strong, she almost never came over here at night.
She said, “I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“Uh, I thought you had too.”
She said, “Tomorrow I want to change Mr. Baker’s medication, seems to me like he’s getting a little too—”
There are some knocks that have bad news written all over them. They’re a little too hard or a little too soft, whichever, but you know when that first knuckle hits the wood that whatever’s on the other side of the door it ain’t someone telling you you hit first prize in the Lotto.
The Sarge looked at the clock in the microwave, then at me. “You expecting someone?”
“Me? No. Uh-uh.”
Her eyes stayed on me a second too long as she wiped her hands on the dish towel. I started back down to the basement.
“Hold on,” she said. “I got a feeling about this, you follow me.”
I jumped when the knock came again.
The Sarge peeked through the peephole, then looked over at me. The muscles in her cheeks squeezed her jaw tight. She opened the door.
“Flint police, ma’am.”
“Yes, Officer, how may I help you?”
“Ma’am, sorry to disturb you. We’re checking out an assault and attempted robbery that occurred at a fast-food restaurant a few minutes ago.”
“An assault?”
“Yes, ma’am, the witnesses said the victim chased after the suspect. We followed a trail of blood to your house. It seems to have disappeared just down there.” I saw the beam from the cop’s flashlight swing across the yard. “Have you heard or seen anything unusual in the past few minutes?”
“No, Officer, I haven’t, but I will keep my eyes open.”
The cop acted like he wanted to ask more, but the Sarge was through. He’d get more information from a fire hydrant than from her.
“Thank you, ma’am. Do you mind if we look in your backyard?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Even before she had the door shut I was already slipping downstairs.
“Front and center!”
I went back.
“Assault and attempted robbery?”
“Momma, it wasn’t nothing like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
“Well, Sparky …” I forgot, the Sarge didn’t take to nicknames. “… Dewey, had this plan to scam Taco Bell’s insurance company and so he made me bust him in the head with one of their roof tiles and he started bleeding real bad and I was supposed to take him in so they’d call an ambulance and then he’d sue them. He was gonna give me some of the money.”
She said, “And?”
“And some people at Taco Bell saw me hit him so we had to call it off.”
The Sarge rolled her eyes.
“So where is that idiot? He’s not getting blood all over my floors, is he?”
“No, ma’am, I got him a …” Uh-oh. “… a rag before he came in, he’s leaning over the tub downstairs.”
“Get him.”
I walked as slow as I could back down into the basement. If it wasn’t for bad luck … It’s just the way things go in the life and times of Luther T. Farrell that the one time the cops take less than an hour to answer a 911 call it’s when they’ve been called on me.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I got back into the basement. Chester X was out of his bed and was leaning over Sparky washing around the cut on his head with soap and water.
I said, “Mr. X! You gotta get back in bed, I told you he was gonna be cool, just get your sleep.”
He mumbled something, then shuffled back to his bed.
I told Sparky, “See what you did? Now he’s all riled up and probably won’t get back to sleep.”
Sparky said, “I didn’t do nothing, I just looked up and there he was, ‘bout scared me to death.”
I told him, “She wants to see you.”
“Who?”
“Who you think? Come on upstairs.”
He stood up.
“Wait,” I told him, “give me that.”
I took the Sarge’s good towel from him. It was heavy with blood.
“Lean over the tub in case that starts bleeding again.”
I ran cold water over the towel and poured some liquid detergent onto it before I rubbed the stains. I lifted some of the stinking clothes out of the hamper and put the towel at the bottom. The Sarge would never see it there and I’d wash it when I did the rest of the laundry on Saturday.
I looked under the vanity for something to put on his head. The only thing there was the rag I use to clean the toilets. It was curled around the top of a bottle of Pine-Sol, so stiff and dry that it felt like it had been carved out of gray, petrified wood.
Oh well.
I pulled a couple of the longest hairs off and ran some water on it until it softened up a little.
“Here,” I said, “use this instead.”
Sparky looked up and took the rag. He pressed it back into the gash in his head.
I checked to see if Chester X was back asleep. Then me and Sparky started upstairs. About halfway up he said, “Man, this cut has really started stinging.” He pulled the rag down. “And what’s that smell?”
He put the rag to his nose. “Awww, no. No you didn’t. You give me a rag that’s been soaked in Pine-Sol? You trying to kill me?”
“What?” I said. “It’s a disinfectant. Read the bottle, it says ‘Kills germs fast.’ I’m looking out for you.”
“Oh, I guess that stinging is the germs getting killed, huh?”
He pressed the rag back onto his head.
The Sarge was waiting in the kitchen.
Sparky gave her a weak smile.
“So, Dewey, what’s the deal with your head?”
“Uh, nothing, Mrs. Farrell, I, uh, kinda walked into a door. But it wasn’t one of your doors, and it wasn’t your fault, it was all the way my bad.”
Uh-oh, I forgot to tell him the Sarge had already shook the truth out of me about what happened.
She just stared at him.
He said, “And besides, even if it was one of your doors I’d never tell anyone that it happened here, I swear I wouldn’t. I swear to God.”
“A door, huh.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Let me see.”
The Sarge pulled the rag away from Sparky’s head. The blood was starting to cake up in Sparky’s hair and the rag came away making a sound like Velcro.
I gotta give my boy his props, that had to hurt. He squinched one eye shut but he didn’t say a word.
The Sarge’s expression never changed.
“You gotta go home now. Tell your mother to trot your ignorant, lying little self to the hospital, you’re going to need seven or eight stitches to close that. I’d take you myself but, sad to say, I’ve got a certain minimum intelligence level that I require of people who get in my car, and I don’t think the two of you added together ca
n reach it.
“How are you going to fake an injury and set it up right in front of the place you’re scamming? I suppose neither one of you could’ve thought to pop his head somewhere else, then have him stagger into Taco Bell?”
The Sarge laughed and said, “Then to top it off, not only do you two waste this good wound, after you put on a public display you act like Hansel and Gretel and leave a little trail of blood for the police to follow you back home.
“Dewey, I can’t say I don’t like your initiative, but in the future, I’d suggest you stay away from any schemes that involve you getting hit in the head. The way I see it, you’re only a concussion or two away from checking into one of my homes as a client.
“You”—she looked at me—“get down in that basement and clean up, it’d better look like Mr. Clean’s been through there when you’re done, if you get my drift.
“You.” It was Sparky’s turn. “Go home. I feel like I’m losing points off my IQ just from being in the same room as you. Good night, gentlemen.”
Ah-ha! There’s justice in the world after all! Fifteen minutes ago Sparky’d been panning on me for having to listen to the way the Sarge was in my grill all the time and now that it was his behind in her sights, all of a sudden she wasn’t one bit funny.
She waited a second to see if either one of us was foolish enough to say anything, then arched her left eyebrow and left the kitchen.
I opened the back door for Sparky.
He waited until he was outside, looked back into the kitchen to make sure she was gone, then said, “You better check the Sarge, Luther, she ain’t got no cause to imply nobody’s stupid. My momma didn’t raise no fools.”
I looked at his head, with the left side swollen twice the size of the right. I caught the odor of Pine-Sol coming off the nasty rag that was at this very moment re-Velcroing itself to his scalp, and the only thing I could think was that the Sarge was softening up in her old age. Only implying that Sparky was stupid could be seen as being downright compassionate.
The next week was a real drag for a bunch of reasons. Sparky’d talked himself into believing that he was about to have a stroke and had been blowing off school because he was getting “unexplained” headaches. The state was coming back to reinspect the home and I was so busy trying to get everything straight that I was only on the third item on my science fair project list. To top it all off I’d had KeeKee Wilson’s bag of things in my locker waiting to give them back to Bo for more than a week.
Bo’d skipped all his classes since they got evicted and I was kind of glad because seeing him was something that I wasn’t trying to do. Having all of KeeKee’s papers around was like a bad omen or something but I couldn’t just throw them away.
When Bo didn’t show up on Friday I asked if anyone knew if he was coming back to school or where he was living now. Someone told me that he’d picked up a second job at Burger King during the day but other than that no one knew nothing. No one knew and no one cared.
Oh well.
When I got home after school I took Tornado out of the bag, then threw KeeKee’s stuff in the garbage. I mean, I really had tried to get it back to her but finding Bo looked like it just wasn’t going to happen. The book had KeeKee’s school’s name on it so I could drop it off after I picked up the Crew.
In the Whittier Middle School pecking order Bo is kinda off the chart. Me and Sparky and Shayla and Eloise are really at the bottom of the barrel but Bo and a couple of other kids at the school don’t even register on the scale. Mostly they’re the loners, people like Bo who don’t mess with no one and who don’t want no one to mess with them.
KeeKee’s papers were putting me in what we philosophers call a moral dilemma. On the one hand since I didn’t want to see Bo and I had tried to get the papers back to him it was all right for me to throw the papers away. If they were all that important his family would’ve taken them when they were getting evicted, right?
On the other hand they had to be important to KeeKee. She must’ve worked real hard on them, even though I’m not hating when I say getting all As in the second grade ain’t exactly as tough as winning the Nobel Peace Prize for Rocket Science. But for a little kid you can see how that might seem like a big deal.
The bag with all KeeKee’s junk sat in the garbage at the home for about fifteen minutes before I pulled it back out. When you’re looking a real tough philosophical problem like this in the eye there’s only one moral thing that you can do: you start making compromises.
I figured the best way I could get these papers to Bo was to go by the Halo Burger on Saginaw Street at night and drop them off real quick. I could walk in all blasé, order me a cheeseburger deluxe, heavy on the olives, a cherry Coke and some fries and after I got my grub I’d tell whoever took my order, “Oh yeah, could you give this bag to Bo Travis.” Then I’d jet. That way there wouldn’t be any embarrassing scenes with words like “How come your momma threw us out,” followed by flying fists.
That night I got the Crew settled down for bed, took KeeKee’s bag and headed downtown.
I drove around Halo Burger twice, trying to peek into the kitchen to see if Bo was working, but no luck. Then I saw a bike chained up to the Dumpster out back and was pretty sure it was the one he rode all over Flint.
There weren’t any other customers when I got inside, just a real short brother in a purple baseball cap, a purple shirt and black pants wiping down tables.
Even though I knew what I wanted I pretended to look up at the menu, at the same time trying to get a peek in the back to make sure Bo was working.
From studying life I’ve learned that when you’re doing the right thing you get little signs of encouragement some of the time, little things that seem to be saying, “Hey, Luther, you’re on the right road, my brother, keep on pushing.”
As I waited for someone to come take my order I heard from behind me, “Hey, Luther!”
I turned around.
The little table-wiping dude ran up to me and pushed his face into my chest and wrapped his arms around my waist.
He said, “Pretty darn good to see you again, Luther! How’s Mr. Baker doing?”
It was P.D., he used to be one of the clients at the home. About a year and a half ago he went on a special program where some of the clients got to live on their own if they could hold down a real job.
I hugged him back.
I said, “P.D.! When did you start working here?”
He said, “About six months ago. I gotta wipe all the tables and clean off the trash and make sure there ain’t no garbage on none of the floors. I’m doing pretty darn good at it too!”
“Yeah, I see, it looks real good in here!”
He said, “Yeah, I been meaning to come on by and visit with you guys again but, man, they keep a brother hopping down here and I’m taking me some classes, too, so I just haven’t had the time to do it. How’s Mr. Baker doing?”
I said, “That’s cool. Mr. Baker’s still the same old same old.”
P.D. laughed. “Yeah, man, what a guy! Tell him P.D. said hello.”
“OK.”
He looked over his shoulder and said, “I get in trouble if I stand around talking too much, Luther, this night manager is pretty darn tough.”
I told him, “All right then, you better get back to work. Peace.”
P.D. turned around to get back at his table.
Then it hit me, this was the little sign that I needed to show I was on the right road!
I said, “P.D., is Bo Travis working tonight?”
He said, “Oh yeah, pretty darn nice guy, that Bo Travis.”
“Could you give this to him?” I handed P.D. the bag.
“Sure, Luther, I should’ve known you two were friends ‘cause you’re a pretty darn nice guy too.”
“Thanks, P.D.”
He said, “Wait just a minute, I’ll go get him.”
I said, “No! That’s all right, I’ll catch him later. I really gotta bounce.”
P.D. said, “Cool, Luther, I’ll give it to him right now. Don’t you worry, you know if I say I’ma do something I do it.”
When I got in my ride and drove by the front of the restaurant I could see Bo standing near the counter looking down into the bag.
That was all I needed, I turned right onto Fourth Street smiling my head off.
Doing the right thing is like that, you get a strong feeling of relief, sort of like a giant rock has been lifted off your back. Or like the dump you take the day after you eat the ten-taco special from Los Aztecos.
I know there’s no way I can help most of the folks that are trapped in the Sarge’s Evil Empire, but it sure does feel good to help even one.
This is one feeling the Sarge never has to worry about because she’s never done anything decent for anybody. Me and her just look at things different.
But that’s cool ‘cause one of the things I’ve learned from studying philosophy and watching Judge Judy is that there are always two sides to every story. Things aren’t ever what they seem to be when you first look at them. What’s important is that you keep your mind wide open and try to understand what’s going on from a lot of different angles. That’s what I try to remember every time I talk to the Sarge or think about her or try to understand why she is the way she is.
It finally sunk in that she wasn’t like most other moms when I was in the third grade. It was back in the day when me and Sparky still hung with Eloise and Shayla, and I can let you know straight up that we didn’t bunch together because we were the siddity committee. Kind of the opposite. We each had something real whack about us that made us stick out as much as it made us stick together.
Sparky was messed up because he never had any money and came from a family with a long tradition of breaking and entering. Eloise was whack because she was smart and didn’t try to hide it and didn’t mind beating the mess out of anybody, male or female. I was uncool because even the dumbest of my classmates was starting to pick up on the fact that I was a lot more maturer than most anybody else (and maybe because word had leaked out that even back in third grade I had to change the Depends on some of the Crew), and Shayla had a bad rep ‘cause not only was she smart, but she lived in a house full of freshly dead corpses.