If there’s any stash in the trunk help yourself. But the fuzz have probably snatched it by now if you’re reading this.
Enjoy the ride my friend.
G
I fold the letter, stuff it under my pillow, and jam my earbuds in to drown out the sound of my crying.
CHAPTER 24
I’ve been in the hospital for two weeks. I would have been out sooner, but a hunk of metal that harpooned my thigh was rusty and germed me up an infectious calamity. It freaked the doctors out for a few days on account of they were worried about the juices leaking into my bloodstream and killing me off.
Except for the constant ache from being on my ass all day, I don’t mind it. It’s peaceful. No responsibilities, other than scarfing down three squares a day and getting poked, prodded, and sponged down. I like the sponged- down part. Usually it’s Toni who scrub-a-dub-dubs me sweet and gentle, which is cool ’cause she’s wicked nice to me now and even teases me a little with a naughty grin as she sponges up my thigh higher than she’s supposed to. She never sponges all the way to Naughtytown, but she knows she’s getting me all hot and bothered. I mean, it’s kinda obvious. Every now and then this fat old bitch nurse washes me down, which sucks balls on account of she’s dick-shriveling gross to look at, and she scrubs me raw like she’s scraping burnt cheese out of a lasagna pan.
After the first week, teachers started bringing me homework assignments. I didn’t mind. It helped kill the time. Moxie Lord brought me a bunch of college brochures and scholarship applications. Holy higher education enemas, Riddler. Me in college. Pass me another slice of upside-down cake.
I have a bunch of other reasons for my Dear Life letter, but I’m not in the mood to scribble them into fruition. Finishing the letter doesn’t feel as important now. I guess I have what they call writer’s cock.
Today Mother Mary’s bringing a gaggle of Little Ones to the hospital for a storytime visit. She says they’ve been hounding her something silly about when I’m coming home so I can finish the Apollo Zipper story. She told me about it yesterday, so I’ve been scribbling notes on the back of the prescription pad I lifted from Doc Hollywood’s coat pocket.
Toni wheels me into the rec room, where the Little Ones are waiting. I don’t get a hero’s cheer because Mother Mary warned them to keep their little yaps shut while in the hospital, but their goofy grins and jittery waves are good enough for me. I gotta find out what the hell they put in the oxygen here on account of it does a number on my eyeball glands. I tamp down my emotions hard and fast and wheel myself down a path between their little bodies to a spot by the window.
I scan their anxious faces. “Jeez Louise, I finally get away from you noisy numbnuts and you find me anyhow.” The Little Ones laugh under their little hands. My head feels like a hot-air balloon that’s about to pop.
“So, you wanna hear what happened to our old pal Apollo, eh? Well, I guess it’s fitting that I finish the story here in the Naskeag Hospital on account of this is exactly where Apollo wound up after his transatlantic journey with Wanony and some of the other Kefian ruffians. In fact, I found out from a nurse here that the room I’m staying in is the exact same room Apollo stayed in after his ship reached the coast of Maine back in 1875.”
The Little Ones oooooh and aaaaah.
“Now, Apollo knew that they were in for a long and treacherous journey, so he took Wanony aside to explain the risks to her and make sure this is what she wanted to do. She told him that she didn’t care how dangerous it was. She wanted to sail far away from Kef, because she didn’t want to stay a kid forever. She wanted to live under the bright glow of the sun, even if it meant growing old and dying.”
I pan the sea of little heads peering up at me. Their faces radiate a calm excitement. It makes me think that this is what little faces should look like all the time.
I tell the Little Ones how Apollo, Wanony, and ten other Kefians stole a ship from a neighboring island and set sail for America. I tell them all about the long and difficult journey and how they survived by snorkeling with spearguns and shooting birds out of the sky with slingshots. And how, after three months at sea, they finally spotted land and Wanony was so happy, she kissed Apollo right on the lips!
The Little Ones groan in unison. “Eeeeehhhhrrrr.”
“Big, wet, and juicy! With tongue and everything.”
“Eeeeeeehhhhhhrrrrrrrrr.”
I tell them how Apollo sailed their ship straight into Naskeag Harbor and how they used the timber from the ship to build a giant house right on the shore.
“And guess what that house is today?” I ask.
“Our house,” little Andrew hollers.
“Our house,” I say quietly. “And the Kefian kids grew older and bigger and stronger now that they were living above ground instead of beneath it. And Apollo and Wanony got married and had kids, and their kids grew up and got married and had kids, and so on and so on, and guess who one of their descendants was?”
Gregory Bullivant jumps to his feet. “Zachary Zipper! The old man from the library!” he screams.
Mother Mary rushes over and shushes him.
“Exactamundo, Greggplant. And the Zipper family lived happily ever after in the lovely state of Maine for many generations to come.”
The Little Ones jump up and clap and cheer until Mother Mary and the other nuns get control of the ruckus and settle them down.
“Oh, and by the way,” I say softly. “Save those seashells I gave you on the day I started the Apollo Zipper story. They’re from the island of Kef.”
Toni’s with me on checkout day, helping me get dressed and teaching me how to walk on crutches and change my bandages and stuff. She keeps getting teary-eyed and hugging me.
While I’m packing, I find the Bible Mother Mary was hugging the day I woke up. “Does this stay here?” I ask Toni, waving the Bible at her.
“No, that belongs to that big fat nun. The wicked mean one.”
I smile.
“She was like a friggin’ crazy person with that Bible,” Toni says as she stuffs get-well cards and drawings the Little Ones did for me into a Salvation Army bag.
“What are you talking about?”
Toni brushes a few straw-colored wisps off her face. She’s pretty in a rough-and-tumble kinda way. “We all knew you couldn’t hear her, but she wouldn’t quit. We were like, ‘He’s in a friggin’ coma, weirdo.’”
“What do you mean? She was reading it to me?”
“All day and night while you were out. Over and over. It was friggin’ annoying.”
I open to a page marked with a yellow sticky. The Beatitudes. I read a few lines. I get a freaky déjà vu feeling.
Toni sets the bag on the bed. “Yeah, that first day she refused to leave when visiting hours were over, and she raised such a ruckus that Mrs. Barrett finally told us to bring in pillows and blankets so she could sleep in the bed next to you. I ain’t bullshitting about her being crazy, either. Some of my shifts are overnighters, and I swear to God that psycho witch was up all night reading that stupid book out loud. It got to the point where we all knew the lines by heart and were repeating them to each other in the hallway. Blessed are the poor, blessed are the hungry, blessed are the thirsty.” Toni laughs. “It was wicked funny.”
I turn to the window so Toni won’t see the tears.
CHAPTER 25
Tomorrow’s my first day back at school. I’m anxious to get back. I don’t know why. Maybe on account of I’m a celebrity from surviving a deadly car crash. Or maybe I want to see Wynona in a normal-life setting. Or maybe I’m curious to see if my cracked Great Wall of China will hold up outside the Prison. They’re tiny cracks, but still. Or maybe I just want to get busy so I can stop thinking about Grubs.
I probably shouldn’t be so anxious to go back. I’m sure Pitbull’s got an elaborate revenge plan figured out by now. Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll be content with the ass-knocking he gave me the other day in the courtyard.
I hobble t
o the cliffs with the cane Caretaker lent me. I hate using it, but my ribs are still wicked sore, and I can barely walk to the bathroom without something to lean on. I’m supposed to use crutches, but leaning on them makes me feel like a pussapalegic. I crash on a nice flat boulder and take out my pen, notebook, and thermos.
I have one final Dear Life letter to write. This one’s for my eyes only. I take a sip of lodka and venomade and start scribbling.
Dear Life, You Cut
The Story of My Ring
By Cricket Cherpin
I was seven. My dad took me on a drug deal with him. He always took me along so he could hide drugs in my socks and underwear. He told me never to take them out until he gave the thumbs-up.
We were in this ratty warehouse with a bunch of guys he’d never done business with before. They pulled guns and knives on us and told my dad to hand over the stuff or they’d slice me up. My dad said “Fuck you,” and the guy cut me. Cut me bad. Dragged that shiny silver blade down the right side of my face. It hurt more than anything in my life. Blood gushed out like crazy. I was sure I was gonna die. I screamed and cried, waiting for my dad to flash me the thumbs-up.
He never did, so the guy cut me again.
My dad still wouldn’t hand the stuff over, so they beat the shit out of him and dumped us in an alley. When we got back home, my dad gave me his ring for being brave and not ratting about the drugs. He couldn’t take me to the hospital ’cause he didn’t have money or insurance, so the cuts scarred up pretty noticeable.
The letters on the ring are my father’s initials. BC. Boone Cherpin.
Why do I keep the ring?
He told me I was brave.
Why do I think about that day so often?
He was proud of me.
In my younger years, I thought the ring had magic powers. I’d aim it at my head and memories would disappear. I’d aim it at people and they’d avoid me. I’d aim it at my opponents and they’d collapse. BC. Brave Cricket.
As I got older, the ring lost its magic powers. Memories returned. People persisted. Opponents fought back.
Why do I still believe that ring can protect me?
Compared to knives, what can fists do?
I need to find a new source of magic.
I put my pen down, grab my thermos, and walk to the edge of the cliff. The sky is dark, the ocean wild. I take a long swig.
A memory of Dad’s ugly face yelling “Fuck you” at the drug dealers flashes in my mind.
He chose drugs over me.
I look at my ring. BC. Broken Cricket.
My head swells, but no tears drip out. Only sadness. Hate. Confusion.
Maybe I kept the ring to distract myself from the real scars I got that day.
I gaze at the endless sea. Churning, churning, churning. Forever and ever and ever. That sea will never stop churning. No amount of magic will ever stop that sea from churning.
I look at my ring. BC.
I look at the sky. Believe, Cricket.
I step closer to the edge of the cliff and throw my ring into the ocean.
CHAPTER 26
Mother Mary’s on her knees in the second pew with her forehead on the seatback and her palms up like she’s catching rainwater. I sit in my usual place in the last row and watch her boulder-like body heave in supplication. I wonder if her prayers will be answered. I wonder if they already have. What in the world possesses a woman to become a nun? I mean, jeez, of all the shit you could do. I’d rather follow a circus elephant around with a pooper-scooper.
I remember the first time I saw her praying like this, slumped over, all still and silent. I thought she was dead. It was when I first got here, and I ran to my room and hid under my cot on account of I figured I’d get blamed.
I lie down on the unforgiving wood, rest my feet on a stack of hymnals, and close my eyes. I think about Apollo Zipper. I wonder if the ending I told the Little Ones was the right ending. I wonder what will really happen to Apollo in his new world. I wonder if he’ll really grow up now that he’s living in the sunshine. I wonder if he and Wanony will really fall in love. I wonder if she’ll outgrow him the moment the sun strikes her pretty face. I wonder what she’ll do when she grows up. I wonder what Apollo will do. Maybe he’ll write a novel about his tragic oceanic adventure and smuggle the manuscript to a civilized city where people hurl words instead of fists. Maybe he’ll have an epiphany about the ferry tragedy freeing him into the arms of a long and happy Down East life.
“An interesting position of beseechment, Mr. Cherpin.” Mother Mary looms over me like an enormous storm cloud.
I pull myself up. “Sorry.”
“No worries, mate. Besides, it looks comfortable. I’d try it myself if I thought I could fit.”
I follow her to her office.
She steps to the window and opens the drapes.
It’s dark outside. There’s moonlight, so I can see the ocean in the distance. And myself, closer. My reflection in the window is faint. I can’t see my scar.
“I was wondering why . . . in the hospital . . .” I can’t finish the sentence.
Her reflection comes into focus, beside me, hovering over the desert of black.
“I made a choice years ago, Cricket. Just like you will make a choice soon. I chose to give my life to God. I knew what the sacrifice entailed. As a woman, I knew.” She puts her hand on the glass like she’s trying to touch some faraway thing. “The extraordinary thing is that God figured out a way to bless me with what I sacrificed. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay Him. Of course, I know I can’t. None of us can. But I’d like to. I often wonder if that’s what Jesus meant when he said we must lose ourselves to gain ourselves. That we must give up everything to gain everything.”
I look at the back of Mother Mary’s hand. At the veins and wrinkles. Something about her powerful hand makes me feel less confused. I don’t know why. It’s as if her hand is covering up a confusion keyhole.
I think about Mother Mary reading Bible verses to me in the hospital. I wonder if she was doing that as a way of trying to repay God for what He gave her. “What did God give you?”
Mother Mary turns. “He gave me a son, Cricket.”
My eyes swell. I want to look away, but Mother Mary hasn’t, so I can’t. If I look away first, I’ll lose. I’ll really lose.
She walks to her desk. “Principal LaChance called me today.”
“What the hell? I haven’t even been in school!”
She smiles. “He didn’t call to reprimand you.”
I flash her a crooked glare.
“Have you been coaching the Little Ones about ways to deal with bullies at school?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“There was an incident today.”
Oh, shit.
Mother Mary lifts a piece of paper off her desk and looks at it. “There is a new senior at school named Ezekiel Turgeon. They call him Zeke T. Apparently, he’s even more obnoxious than Buster Pitswaller, if you can believe that.”
“Impossible.”
“He was picking on Gregory Bullivant in the courtyard before school, and our little Charlie led a gang of Little Ones in revolt.”
“No shit.”
“During the confrontation, a senior named Madison Connors came to their aid and verbally accosted Zeke T. with such . . . unladylike . . . language that she earned herself an after-school detention.”
“Good for her,” I say, smirking. Madison Connors sits in front of me in English class. She’s a spindly redhead who always wears tight jeans and tall black boots. She smiles at me sometimes, but we’ve never spoken. I’m glad she stepped in to help the Little Ones.
She waves the piece of paper at me. “What’s this all about, Cricket?”
“I don’t know. I guess the Little Ones just decided to take matters into their own hands.”
“Bullspit.” She glares.
“I just told them that they might have better luck dealing with bullies as a group instead of
one on one.”
She tosses the paper on her desk. “I see. So you suggested that they confront their problems as brothers instead of fighters.”
“Yeah, sorta.”
She taps her chin with her fingertips. “Well, good for you, Cricket. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
She smiles.
We make two cups of tea in the kitchen and carry them outside. We don’t talk for the longest time. We just walk the trails and listen to the wind whistling through the tree branches and the waves crashing on the rocky shore. Mother Mary takes a break on one of the prayer benches in the rose garden.
There’s a ton of shit I want to say to her, but every time the words slip from my brain to my tongue, they bottleneck. It doesn’t matter. She knows what I want to say. She always knows.
I finally break the silence. “I think God paid me a visit while I was snoozadoozing in the hospital.”
“Oh, really? Did He have anything interesting to say?”
“Well, not in words exactly. But I think He told me that what happened to my baby brother wasn’t my fault. That it’s not one kid’s fault what the mom does to the other kid no matter what the first kid did on account of he’s just a kid.”
She looks at me. Her face is calm. Calmer than I’ve ever seen it. “King Solomon couldn’t have said it better himself, Cricket.”
“I don’t feel so guilty about it now.”
“Good. Guilt sucks. And you certainly have no reason to harbor guilt over that tragedy.”
“I always knew in my head it wasn’t my fault, but I could never convince my heart.”
“Unfortunately, that’s where guilt roots the deepest.”