Number 8 (18 page)

Suddenly a shout trashes the stillness. Something smashes behind doors. I just about fall off my bike and dart a look in the direction of the voices. Badman's house on my left. Quickly I swerve off the sidewalk and into the road. A woman stalks out of the house, not glancing back. At the door, looking after her, stands Badman. He's still in his pajamas. Blue, with yellow bunny rabbits all over them! I start to smirk but the expression on his face stops me. He looks different somehow, and I realize it's as if his face is usually wearing clothes and now they've been ripped off. He looks like he's been crying. Suddenly he sees me and puts his mask back on.

“Take a picture, it lasts longer!” he shouts at me, and thrusts his rude finger up in my direction.

I put two fingers up and jerk them back at him a couple of times. Then I shake my head sadly as if he's the lowest mammal on the lowest rung of evolution and saunter away, if you can saunter on a bike. I go very slowly, to show I'm
not scared of him or his rude finger but I'm finding it very hard to pedal uphill without wobbling.

When I've passed two more houses I stop. My heart is gunning and the sweat is pouring off me. Opposite now is Esmerelda's house, minus the gold streak. I stand a minute in the shade of a paperbark tree while my heart slows down. I take a good long look at Ez's house, and the shiny brass even numbers on her front wall.

Unfortunately, leaning on the wall is the woman I just saw stalking out of Badman's house: Mrs. Bradman, I presume. She's watching me and I can tell from the way none of her body parts move, she's concentrating. I bend down to look at the front wheel of my bike, shaking my head again as if there's something terribly wrong with it. When I look back, she's studying her watch. She peers up the road, and gives a little wriggle of irritation so that the cardigan slung round her shoulders falls off onto the wet grass.

The 141 bus into the city is practically always late. Mrs. Bradman probably works in some office in the city. I wonder if she's supposed to be at work by eight A.M. She's probably the sole breadwinner now that her husband's gone. I wonder if she has a bastard of a boss who gives her detention if she's late. Maybe he'll give her the sack.

The next minute I figure this must be it because she's suddenly down on the damp lawn in her stockings and good skirt and all, her head on her knees. She must be really worried. Gone crazy with worry. Her shoulders are shaking and I can hear a thin wailing like the kettle we used to have on Trenches Road before we got it fixed. Her poor cardigan is still lying on the grass. Her shoulders are so thin, like a child's.

Oh, what should I do? Should I run over and help her
up? I wheel my bike off the curb and head toward her. But what can I say? A storm of ideas rush through me. Oh, hi, Mrs. Bradman, can I help, I'm the one who smashed your son's nose? Or maybe I could just warn her about possible knee problems if she makes a habit of collapsing like this? I could bring her over to Mom. Maybe Mom could take her into the city. But no, then Mom would be late.

While I'm thinking all this the 141 bus blunders around the corner. I wave at it and point to Mrs. Bradman. But then I realize she's seen it and in a flash she's picked up her cardigan and brushed down her skirt, standing on tiptoes at the sidewalk. Her stockings have big wet patches at the knees. She disappears into the dark of the bus like a small animal into the stomach of a whale. I watch as the bus swims off. There she is at the window. She looks at me and gives a small shrug. A smile so quick you'd miss it as soon as you caught it.

I watch the bus go all the way down the street and turn left onto Halliwell Road, until it's out of sight. I think of praying again, praying that Mrs. Bradman and her bus don't hit the usual peak hour traffic and that she doesn't get fired.

I realize I'm standing with my bike in the middle of the road, but I've only just begun a challenge and I need to finish it. I'm blinking my eyes in sets of eight, thinking about Mrs. Bradman's shoulders shaking. It's hard to believe someone as tiny as her gave birth to Badman. He must take after his father. But hey, wouldn't it be good if he left home like his father, too?

Then I think of Mrs. Bradman stalking out of the house and the sound of the smashed thing, and I imagine it must be pretty hard to be suddenly left alone with Badman. Damn
it to hell, why do I always have to feel
sorry
for someone just when I'm busy being angry? I'm standing here looking at the spot where the bus stopped, feeling so sorry for this stranger Mrs. Bradman that my guts ache. But I just keep seeing her poor cardigan lying on the lawn like one of those horrible chalk drawings police make around a dead body.

Suddenly, in between blinks, I catch sight of something blue moving at the top of the hill. At the same moment the low purring noise that seems to have been throbbing in the background builds to a roar and a blue Mustang turns into the street. I finish on sixty-four and grab the handlebars of my bike, pulling it out of the way. It twists around and I almost drop it. Surely the driver's seen me by now? But the Mustang's not slowing down. He's heading straight for me! He's accelerating—his foot must be flat to the floor!

In the count of one I realize I haven't got time to save the bike and I make a flying leap for the curb. My feet hit the concrete and I tumble headfirst into the neighbor's garden as the sound of tearing steel cracks the air. I lift my head to see my bike shoot up in the sky like a pinwheel. It smashes down on the sidewalk, an inch away from my foot.

As the car squeals around the corner onto Halliwell, I try to make out the license plate. I can only see the first two letters—RO, I think. I don't bother with the numbers. I know them too well.

I sit on the curb, my heart pounding. My whole body is flushed hot. The world seems to be sliding downhill into a tiny black pinhole. A heave like a wave flipping over wrenches my guts and I vomit all over my shoes. When I'm finished I sit with my head in my knees, just like Mrs. Bradman. I remember Mom saying once you should keep
your head at the same level as your feet when you feel sick. But all I can smell is the vomit on my shoes.

Mom—what am I going to tell her? The good news? This is just what she needs. I lift up my head and look around. The morning is as silent as if it's holding its breath. The neat lawns, the concrete drives. You could blink and imagine none of this happened. Badman in his bunny pajamas, Mrs. Bradman and her cardigan, the blue Mustang. I am the only witness. If I dropped dead like a flying fox, maybe you'd have to say none of this was real. Mrs. Bradman sure as hell won't admit to it. And her stockings would have dried by now.

Then I remember the bike. That, for sure, is real. I stand up to take a look. My legs are shaking. I don't really want to see the damage.

The back wheel must have taken most of the impact. It's twisted around at an angle, and there's a long dent in the steel. It could be fixable, but how much would that cost? Sure as anything I can't ride it like this. I wonder how I'll be able to do the paper route on foot. I mean, I can do it all right, but I wouldn't bet I could do it as quickly, in time for school.

I haul up the bike and start to drag it home. It's hard with these jelly legs. I brush some hair out of my eyes and feel something sticky. When I look at my hand, there's blood. Now I realize my head is aching like crazy in a place just above my ear and I want to be sick again.

I open the gate and wheel the bike in. I'm going to have to lock the bike away and sneak into the bathroom to wash my face before Mom sees me. I creep up the path and see something dark flash up the trunk of the maple tree. Quietly I lay the bike down and sort of stretch myself around the tree. I hold my breath. There, now, is a curl of tail. Above it,
a glint of eye. I stand beside the tree for a moment, letting myself know that whatever happens out there beyond the gate, my possums are safe in bed.

I lock the garage and creep in the back door. In the bathroom I twist my head to the side and swivel my eyes to study the sore place. There's dried blood around a long gash and underneath the skin is already bluish and dead looking. Just bruising, I tell myself, but the sight of it makes me want to heave again. Maybe I've got a concussion, I whisper at the mirror, panic rising. Maybe I've got brain damage and I won't even know the difference between equivalent and improper fractions. What
is
an improper fraction? I look into my own eyes. They're full of fear like that chimpanzee I saw once at the zoo. An improper fraction is when the numerator is larger than the denominator. Quickly I look away and get busy with the soap and water.

It's hard to wipe away the encrusted blood without wanting to scream. The warm water is making the wound bleed again and now I'm really wondering if I should tell Mom. I mean, this must be quite bad as far as bike accidents go. Particularly when it didn't look like an accident at all. That Mustang didn't slow down when it saw me. It didn't swerve. It accelerated, and came straight for me. On a scale of one to ten, this accident could definitely be a seven.

As I hold the warm washcloth to my head, a total baby moment sweeps over me and all I want is my mom's arms around me.

I go into the kitchen. Mom must still be in bed. The kettle is cold and empty. I fill it and wait for it to boil. I take deep breaths in sets of four. I count them at the back of my mind while I rehearse what I'm going to say to Mom. The counting is soothing, like a lullaby.

English Breakfast tea, lots of milk, no sugar. I put a cookie on the saucer.

Mom's room is dim, with the curtains still pulled. I can see a round boulder shape under the Indian comforter. As I gently put the cup down on her bedside table, Mom stirs and pops her head over the sheets. She looks like a sleepy panda.

“I was too tired to take off my mascara last night.” She grins and spits on her finger, rubbing at the black crusts under her eyes. I think I might be sick again.

“That's such an icky habit,” I say, looking carefully at the cup instead of her. “I made English Breakfast.”

“Oh, thanks, honey,” she says, sitting up with excitement. “Aren't I the luckiest mom in the world?” She takes a long noisy slurp and pats the bed. “So, did you do your paper route this morning?”

I sort of collapse onto the spot she's patted. “Yes and well, see—”

“That's great, Jackson.” She leans forward and Frank, my old teddy, falls off the bed. “Pick him up will you, darling, I'd hate him to think I don't care about him just because now I've got real company.”

I bend down to haul up Frank, who's been sleeping with Mom ever since I gave him up at eight. No wonder
I'm
weird, I think wearily. Let alone poor Frank.

“Jackson, are you ready? Frank, are you listening? I've got some wonderful news!”

I look at her face and see the black has made its way into her eye wrinkles, which are deep with smiling. She looks strangely, crazily happy!

“What?” I say cautiously.

“Well, I nearly told you last night but you were so sleepy and I wanted you to enjoy the full glory of this moment—”

“What?”

“I'm singing tomorrow night!”

“Where? Not at the casino!”

She shudders, and her smile tightens for a moment. “No, Jackson, my boss asked me to perform at the pub—how about that?” She does a whooping kind of laugh and squeezes Frank. “The jazz band booked for Thursday called to cancel because their singer has the flu, so Bradley, the boss, asked me to audition. The band came over and do you know what, the boss
loved
it. You should have seen him, foot tapping away. The band was great and then, as if he didn't want it to finish, Bradley asked me to do another number just for fun. He grabbed poor old Polly, you know the one with the dodgy knees, and whisked her around the dance floor. I saw a whole other side to him. After that he bought me a drink and told me his entire life story. Hey, Jackson, what's that on the side of your head?”

I ducked and turned away. 7:57 said Mom's digital clock. As the last number clicked over to eight, I made up my mind.

“I fell off the bike—wasn't looking where I was going.”

“Let me have a look, have you washed it—”

“Yeah, yeah, it's okay. You know, it's getting late and I haven't taken a shower yet.” I get up and start backing away. “But listen, Mom, I'm really pleased about your gig.”

Mom almost claps her hands. She looks so happy sitting up there in bed that even the black smears under her eyes don't make her look old. She makes me think of the sunrise this morning, like she's starting over.

How can you take that away from someone?

“So wait, Jackson, do you want to ask Ez to come? I know it's not her kind of music, but she might be interested.
You two could have dinner together first. Maybe she could even do a number with me.”

“Yeah, I'm sure she'd want to come.” The thought of going out to dinner with Esmerelda, even if it was somewhere with my mother, nearly made me forget the pain in my head.

“And Asim—do you think he would want to?”

“Yeah, sure. I'll ask them both today.”

“Okay.” Mom picks up her cup again and dunks her cookie into it. “This is the best tea I've ever tasted. See, Jackson, isn't it like I always said? Love the universe and it will love you back.” She sits smiling in this dazed way while her cookie breaks off and goes floating soggily around her cup.

I suppose she'll go on sitting there, being happy, until all of the cookie gets waterlogged and sinks like a submarine.

I wonder what Valerie is singing right now. Maybe it's Patti Smith's rendition of Prince's “When Doves Cry.” Doves make you think of peace, of soft gray winter mornings. There's none of that in this song. There's sweat, heat, blood, and guts. Patti Smith feels things “in her bowels.” Valerie says Patti is electrifying. She says you ache with her. It's true, too. You wouldn't classify Patti Smith as soul—she's more punk rock—so I think Valerie might be exaggerating when she says Patti is a favorite of hers. But for sure Valerie thinks Patti Smith is a legend, a real artist. Who wouldn't, if she can make you ache?