One Fat Summer Page 4

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Where were you?”

  “Around the lake. I was running and I fell down.”

  “You were running? From whom?”

  “Just running. I’m going to take a nap.”

  “Do you want something to eat or drink?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Bobby, you must be sick.” She followed me into my bedroom. I fell on my bed. She was taking off my sneakers when I fainted. The last thing I thought of before I passed out was lunch. I hadn’t eaten my lunch.

  It was the first time in my life I ever missed a meal.

  6

  Robert Marks was melting.

  Wetly, he stirred in his bed. He held his breath and listened to the darkness.

  Drip.

  He was melting away.

  Drip.

  Fourteen years of butterfat, heavy cream, noodle casseroles, butterscotch, fudge, congealed grease, peanut butter, side orders, lamb chops, double blubber, pound cake with ice cream, excess baggage, Popsicles, mint patties, were leaking down the drain. Robert Marks was melting down to his true self. Sword-lean and rawhide-tough.

  Drip.

  They would find him in the morning, thin and sinewy, a St. Christopher medal on his muscular chest. Underneath all that fat he had always been as hard as a rock. His family would wail for Robert Marks—well, his mother would wail for sure—and the police would shake their heads. It wasn’t a murder, it was only a subtraction. Newspaper reporters would elbow into the bedroom, dragging their feet through the sizzling puddles of fat that Robert Marks had once worn in disguise.

  The nosy reporters would poke at his books, pull out his records, open his games, lift up the stamps in his album to make sure he’d pasted them onto the right spaces. They would find his secret drawer and read all the stories he had started. They would go through his desk looking for photographs of the late, large, unlamented Robert Marks. They would check his radio to see which station he had been listening to. They would study the maps on his walls and the notes on his bulletin board.

  He would sit on the edge of the bed watching them, posing his new razor-sharp jaw, only one chin, for the cameras.

  “Okay, slim,” one of them would snarl, “where’d you stash the fat boy?”

  “I’m just a shadow of what he was,” he would coolly reply.

  “That’s not good enough, slats,” snarled another, “I want all the news that’s fit to print.”

  His father would push in. “Robert Marks would never fit in print, or anywhere else.”

  His mother would push in. “Leave the poor boy alone. Whoever he is, he hasn’t had breakfast yet.”

  Dr. Kahn would push in. “What makes you think this isn’t the same summer boy who can’t even mow a lawn?”

  My pillowcase and sheets were sopping wet. Michelle was sitting in a chair alongside the bed, her head on her chest. She was asleep. A book, Catcher in the Rye, was open on her lap. The clock read 2:15. It was dark outside.

  I tried to get up, but my legs were too heavy to move. Polio. I tried with all my might, and fell back asleep.

  “You look much better.” My mother put her lips to my forehead. “And your head’s cool.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “I have to go to the library this morning. You just rest. Michelle’s here. And the refrigerator’s full.”

  “Okay.”

  She stopped at the door. “Your father called last night. He insists you go back to day camp.”

  “I won’t go.”

  “Well, we’ll think of something when I get back.” She smiled and blew me a kiss.

  I waited until I heard the car leave before I tried to get out of bed. My legs worked. But I almost screamed when my feet touched the floor. Blisters. On my heels and big toes. There were blisters on my hands. Every muscle ached. Just breathing hurt my ribs. What a mess. I feel like the lawn looks.

  I hobbled into the kitchen. Congratulations, Captain, you made it. I opened the refrigerator and relaxed in the sweet chill. I gulped orange juice from the bottle. I tore off pieces from last night’s chicken and stuffed them in my mouth. I bit into a tomato and I scooped out some cottage cheese with my fingers and worked it into the last free space between my teeth and my cheek. While I was chewing I grabbed a piece of seeded rye bread and folded it over a lump of Swiss cheese and pickle chips. I began to feel human again.

  “Bobby? I’m leaving now.” Michelle came into the kitchen. “Did Pete say anything about me?”

  “Uh uh.” I closed the refrigerator door so she could see I couldn’t talk because my mouth was full.

  “Ugh,” she said as a piece of pickle chip slipped out of my mouth. “Well, at least you’re back to normal.”

  7

  I didn’t get to Dr. Kahn’s until nearly eleven o’clock that morning, but this time I was prepared. I wore heavy shoes with high socks to help protect my legs against flying stones. My father’s work gloves. A baseball cap. Sunglasses. I had two bologna sandwiches, cookies, a Milky Way candy bar and two oranges in a brown paper bag. It took me fifteen minutes to climb up the driveway because I tried to walk on the sides of my feet so I wouldn’t step on the blisters.

  Dr. Kahn was standing on the porch talking to Willie Rumson. A cigarette dangled from the corner of Willie’s mouth. He looked at me over his shoulder. “Here comes The Thing.”

  Dr. Kahn said, “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I said.

  “Too late,” said Willie. “Semper fi, fats, the Marines have landed.” When he talked, his cigarette stuck to his lower lip.

  “I haven’t made a decision yet,” said Dr. Kahn. “First of all, Willie, you were not reliable last summer. I don’t like a boy who is not reliable.”

  “Look at this lawn,” said Willie. “Makes me want to puke.”

  “Second of all, a dollar twenty-five is too high.”

  “I thought I told you to take a hike, fats.”

  “Are you trying to intimidate this boy?” Dr. Kahn’s voice rose. “On my property?”

  “Take it easy, Doc. You want your lawn lookin’ good? Or like we fought a war on it?”

  “I’ll give you a dollar an hour.”

  “A dollar an hour? To a vet?”

  “Veteran of a reform school, more likely,” said Dr. Kahn.

  Willie straightened up. His ropy arms were so long they reached his knees. “Wake up, Doc. You know how much they’re paying at the laundry? To start?”

  “Whatever it is, I suggest you take it.”

  “Well, you know what you can do with your lawn.” He hooked his thumbs around a web belt with a shiny brass buckle. “You’re making a bad mistake, Doc, a bad mistake.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Dr. Kahn was almost shouting. “Get off my property or I’ll call the police.”

  “You do that, Doc.” Willie swaggered down the porch steps. “Ask for my Uncle Homer, he’s the sergeant.”

  “Off my property!”

  “Don’t bust a gut.” Willie laughed out of the corner of his mouth. He shoved me with his shoulder as he passed me. He lowered his voice. “And you, pig meat, you’re making a really bad mistake. You ever see me coming, you better pray. Give your soul to God, fats, cause your ass belongs to me.”

  “What did you say to that boy?”

  Over his shoulder, Willie said, “I wished him good luck, Doc. He’s gonna need it working for you.”

  We watched Willie walk toward his car. He rocked from side to side, head and shoulders hunched forward like a cowboy walking to a showdown. He gunned his Chevy down the driveway, firing gravel, and spun onto the county road on two wheels. We could hear him screeching around the lake.

  “Don’t concern yourself with him, boy. I’m the one you have to deal with.” Dr. Kahn motioned me up to the porch. “I’m going to be watching you. Like a hawk. There are plenty of others who would give their eyeteeth for th
is job. But I believe in giving a boy a second chance.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You’ll do better than that. Now get the mower. Don’t forget to check the gas and oil. Watch for stones. I had a new blade put on, which you paid for.” He turned and walked into the house. But I felt his eyes for the rest of the day.

  It wasn’t as bad as the first day, but it was bad enough. Each of the blisters on my feet broke, pop, one at a time, then stung for a while as the water was absorbed by my socks. I walked on raw skin. I tried not to hold the grips too hard, but the blisters on my hands broke, too, and I grew new ones wherever there was any skin left. The gloves helped a little. At least I couldn’t see what my hands looked like. Hamburger, probably. Handsburger?

  First, I went over all the patches I missed yesterday, then I started cutting in rows again, back and forth, side to side. I really concentrated. I watched for stones, and when I saw one I stopped, picked it up, and piled it on the edge of the driveway. If I found a stone in the middle of the row, I carried it to the end in my pocket. Even the little stones were a tight fit, and pinched my legs and backside. I watched for holes, too. I was very careful.

  The longer I cut, the bigger the lawn seemed to get. A friend of my father’s once showed us his color movies of a mule trip down into the Grand Canyon. He said that the farther down he went, the bigger the canyon seemed to get. From the top, it looked like just a huge hole, but as he descended, the walls of the canyon seemed to flatten back and the hole became another world. It was something like that with the lawn. After a couple of hours, I could see that I had come a long way, but the distance between me and the county road didn’t seem to shrink that much. At the twelve-o’clock fire siren, I shut off the motor and went up to the porch to eat lunch.

  “You’re the slowest lawn boy I’ve ever had,” said Dr. Kahn. “At this rate it’ll take you most of the week just to cut the grass.”

  I shrugged because I felt bad and didn’t know what to say.

  “Obviously, you don’t care. Do you want this job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then prove it to me.”

  I didn’t finish my lunch, but I wasn’t too hungry. The first bologna sandwich stuck in my mouth, and I forced it down with juice I sucked out of my orange. I ate the candy bar for quick energy, and hit the lawn.

  I tried to go faster, but then I went over a stone. Clang. The blade batted it against a tree. Thud. I got panicky. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. The heat was pounding me into the ground, and my clothes stuck to me. My underwear was strangling me. Sweat pouring down my forehead stung my eyes and blinded me. My hands and feet were burning. My lungs were bursting. I tried to think of Captain Marks, but now the whole daydream seemed dumb. I’m the slowest officer in the U.S. Cavalry. By the time I get to the fort, the stagecoach will be a burned-out wreck, the Colonel’s daughter kidnapped and my whole troop will be spread-eagled on the sand waiting for the red ants.

  I thought three o’clock would never come. I cut two more rows just in case my watch was running on its usual low Basal time, and then I pulled the mower up to the shed. Dr. Kahn was waiting for me.

  “What am I going to do about you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure you want this job?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can I pay you seventy-five cents an hour when you’re not doing seventy-five cents an hour’s worth of work?”

  I shook my head.

  “You seem like a decent boy,” said Dr. Kahn. “I want to give you every opportunity to prove yourself. But obviously I can’t pay you top dollar. I might allow you to keep working, on a strict trial, of course, for fifty cents an hour. Well?”

  “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow. Nine A.M. Sharp.”

  For the second day in a row, I turned away before he could see me cry.

  8

  Our house wasn’t directly on Rumson Lake, but from the old swing in the backyard I could see the island gathering shadows in the late afternoon sunlight, a darkening clump of trees in the middle of a ring of sparkling water.

  When I swung up high enough I caught glimpses of swimmers splashing out from shore. They were so cool and I was so hot. I was jealous of people who didn’t have to think about how their bodies looked without clothes. When I was younger I was a good swimmer. My father and Michelle taught me. But after I started feeling embarrassed about my body, I made excuses not to go swimming. When I did go, I tried to stay underwater as long as possible so people couldn’t see me. Last summer there was an underwater swimming contest at Marino’s Beach, and I’m sure I would have won, but you had to start from the low board. I wasn’t afraid of jumping off the low board, but I didn’t want to walk out on it while people were looking me over.

  I pumped hard on the swing and made my own breeze. That cooled me off. I used to spend a lot of time on this swing. When you really get going on a swing, the rest of the world fades away and you can imagine yourself anybody anywhere. I once had a daydream in which I was the invisible boy. Whenever I wanted to be invisible I just drank a special potion I had concocted in a chemistry lab. At first, I mostly used my invisibility to solve crimes by eavesdropping on criminals while they were making their plans. There are problems in being invisible. You have to be very careful crossing streets since drivers can’t see you. You can eat only when nobody’s around. If a sandwich suddenly jumps off a plate and disappears, you could give yourself away. Especially if you’re on a criminal case. Crooks aren’t all that dumb, you know. Once they suspect there’s an invisible person spying on them, they’ll lock the doors, shut off the lights so you can’t see them either, and keep feeling around the room until they catch you.

  About a year ago, in that daydream, I started using my invisibility to sneak into the girls’ locker room at school. In the beginning I just sort of skulked around the locker room, watching them undress, but then I got bolder and stood very close, and every so often I might touch someone. In my daydreams, they never screamed or ran away. I would get good warm feelings that started in my belly and flowed down. Sometimes, if I was alone in the house, or in a locked bathroom, I would stroke myself until the warm feelings became a throbbing drumbeat that exploded.

  I told Joanie about the invisible boy, which was a mistake. She has a very logical mind, and she asked me one question which spoiled everything: Does drinking the chemical make your clothes invisible, too, or do you have to walk around naked to be invisible? I told her the chemical affected everything you touch, so your clothes would be invisible, too. But later, thinking it over, I realized it made no sense. What if you touched another person? Would she start to disappear, too?

  So you’d have to be naked. And what would happen if you misjudged the amount of chemical you drank, if you didn’t drink enough to last until you got back to the lab? Or if you were delayed getting back to the lab by heavy traffic? You might suddenly become visible again, maybe in the middle of the street, maybe even in the girls’ locker room. And you’d be stark naked. And everybody would see you.

  I never had that daydream again.

  Joanie. I wondered what she was doing in the city. It wasn’t like her to be so mysterious, or so nervous. I wondered if somebody was sick and had to go to the doctor, something so terrible she couldn’t even talk about it. It might have been just a family secret. Her parents are funny sometimes. But we always told each other family secrets.

  Yet, I was also kind of glad she wasn’t around. I can imagine how she would have reacted to the way Dr. Kahn treated me. She would have gotten very angry for me. He’s taking advantage of you, Bob, he has no right to do that, you can’t let him do that, you have to stand up for your rights or people will just walk all over you. Are you a man or a rug?

  I would flop down on the floor and open my mouth. I’m a bearskin rug, I’d say.

  It’s no joke, she’d snap. It was bad enough you let him cheat you out of twenty-five cents an hour, the sign on the bulletin bo
ard said one dollar. But once you both agreed on seventy-five cents, well, a deal is a deal.

  It was fifty cents or nothing, I’d say. Fifty cents is better than nothing.

  It you stood up to him like a man you’d get your seventy-five cents, she would say. If he really didn’t like your work he would have fired you. Obviously, he can’t get anybody else at even a dollar an hour.

  You just don’t understand, I’d say.

  I understand one thing, she’d say. If he thinks you’re just a rug, he’ll walk all over you. Next time it’ll be twenty-five cents an hour. Now, tomorrow, you tell him…

  That’s Joanie. Once in class I got caught with a note one of the hoods told me to pass to his girlfriend. The teacher snatched it away from me, tore it up and told me to stay after school. Joanie made me go up after class and explain what had happened. I didn’t have to stay after school, but the hood beat me up on the way home. Joanie said she was sorry I got beat up, but it was more important to show that no one could take advantage of me. I really showed them, didn’t I?

  Swinging, I got a little mad at her. She got me into this whole mess in the first place. If she had kept to our deal, I could be spending the summer working on a nice little project for school, no Dr. Kahn and no Willie Rumson.

  I went into the house and had a meat loaf sandwich with mayonnaise. And a glass of orange soda. I was still eating when my mother came home, carrying books.

  “Bobby! We’re going to eat in a little while. You’ll spoil your dinner.”

  “No, I won’t. You’ll see.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Just fine.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Oh, I worked on the project. With Joanie.”

  “Oh?” She put her books down on the kitchen table and poured herself a glass of orange soda. She poured a little more soda into my glass and sat down. “Bobby?”

  “Yeah?”