When the Federal Express guy asked for a signature I was the only one home. Let me correct that. Grandma was home, but if I’d called her over she’d have taken thirty minutes to shamble from her room.
I took the envelope. Overnight Delivery. It arrived early on the 22nd. Closed the door.
I didn’t open it though I dropped it a few times on the chance it would pop open and let me inside.
Candan rang the front doorbell and when I answered it he said, — I saw the FedEx man.
I didn’t invite him inside, but stepped out there. He was taller than me by a head. I wanted to press his minuscule ears; they were the size of buttons.
— I wondered if it was something about your mother.
— That letter was for Nabisase.
— From your Mom?
— Uncle Allen, I said.
— I thought your Uncle was dead.
— Then it’s a message from the grave. I walked down the steps just to make him follow me. You have any reason to be expecting her? I asked him.
He shrugged. — I’m not her family. You would know.
— I know she’s not coming back for you, Candan.
I was standing by my Oldsmobile, looking at my reflection, but he’d stayed by the front steps. Candan snapped his fingers. I thought he was commanding me to come over to him, but it was the dog, that Doberman, pressing its face against the hedge. It wanted to push the way through, maybe to eat me, but when Candan snapped the animal returned to the backyard.
— Did she say something about me? he asked.
I didn’t even turn around. — She was too busy driving off with some Indian guy, I said.
— She didn’t.
— She did.
He opened my gate, shut it and walked back to his house.
34
I left the house after Candan went away because I couldn’t sit for hours, alone with Nabisase’s letter, and not open it. Not for hours.
I brought a small pot of tea and two sandwiches to Grandma’s room. Changed her socks and helped her to the bathroom before going out. I wanted to get in a van and ride the way up to Queens General so I could find out about the attraction between that bacterial-bozo and Nabisase. I should have gone and pulled the tubes out his veins, but I was too tired. I felt like I hadn’t slept even one night my whole life.
Ishkabibble is who I wanted to see, but I had no home phone number. He called you, but couldn’t be reached. If I tried to find him whose home would I check? Nearly everyone was indebted to him so he told no one his address.
Finally I ended up in Brookville Park because I knew he liked it there. Quiet. Empty. No one angry because he wants the check. Its small ponds had sprouted tan reeds that tossed dryly against themselves.
The most distinct landmark in Brookville Park was the rigid purple monument at its east entrance. An abandoned semitrailer that had been scratched, cut, spray-painted, signed. It was specked with spots of orange rust.
Its support legs had fallen off a long time before so that the semitrailer leaned forward, a Muslim kissing soil for the third time in a day.
I was happy for my sister, but jealous too. She was ten years younger and already poised for something spectacular. Fun, at least. I wondered if my bitterness was only going to get stronger until the time when I stopped remembering my name and how to care for myself. Maybe one good side-effect to flipping out was that I could forget how little I’d done.
— Hide me!
Ishkabibble came out from the trees, running. His overcoat snapped behind him and one of his dress shoes had come off. He ran so fast I almost missed him; attache case in his right hand knocking the back of his right thigh.
— I’ll take you home, I said.
— You’re not fast enough. He looked over his shoulder. Hide me now!
I pulled at the door to the semitrailer. He was fast, but I could be strong. Not strength, but power. Grabbed the handle and simply leaned back.
The door opened and it was like night time in there. He was tentative. It smelled of mildew; there were small plants growing in the standing water. When I opened the door both our shoes were splashed.
— You can always dry your feet, I said.
I pushed it closed and walked away. Not far— thirty feet— to one of the baseball diamonds. I stamped on the mound, but it was already gone. An indent instead of a hill. As I kicked around out there a military outfit shot from the trees.
Black boys on mopeds. Ten bikes and twenty kids. Friends shared the padded seats. Two even rode the handlebars, dangerous as that was. They drove quickly, dangerously, screaming Ishkabibble’s name.
When I let him out he owed me a favor.
I waited there, he went home and came back in fifteen minutes.
While he was gone I opened the door to the semitrailer again. I was wearing boots, not shoes, so I didn’t worry about the inch of water. I went in, shut it. The incline was pretty minor. There was grass and weeds growing in here. I couldn’t see them too well, but felt them against my pants. Some were as tall as my shins. A marsh inside the semitrailer; the semitrailer in a park; the park in my suburban neighborhood. I never understand what people mean when they say, getting back to nature. As if they ever left.
Ishkabibble came back, calling for me. When I stepped out he said, — I know you were praying for this.
I didn’t look at the book, just held it.
It was hardback, 184 pages. I wanted to hammer nails with it. That’s how strong I felt. I swung it around in one hand a few times just to know the weight. Page numbers were at the bottom, centered under the text. The paper was thin and there were some smudged pages, but I recognized every line. It had striking red endpapers. The first page listed my name, the publisher (Rahsaan Robinson Press; Tattleback, Connecticut) and the title, Killing Is My Business.
It didn’t have a dust jacket, but that was no problem to me. I always lose those plastic wraps anyway.
— What happened here?
— That was a printer’s error, Ishkabibble said. Sorry about that.
There was no title on the turquoise cover, only my name in gold. All capital letters. Anthony James.
I pointed at both words. — This is going to give people the wrong idea of what’s inside.
Still, how could I get angry? With this talisman in my hands.
Most pages had two entries, sometimes three. They were broken up like any dictionary. Alphabetical sections. A. G. J. There were even a few in Q. Quiet or He’ll Hear You, Quarrel with Fear, Quetzalcoatl Craves Blood.
— Why don’t we sit down for a minute? he asked me.
— You want to?
He laughed as we walked to a bench. I read to him when we sat. Just a few short ones. It Woke One Night. How She Bled. Eviscerate Steve.
He asked, — How did you turn out to be my best friend?
35
I had a book. And what did my sister win?
A book of coupons, 40 percent off at most of Lumpkin’s stores. One round-trip bus ticket to Lumpkin. And an appointment to pose for two color photos on the weekend of January 5th–7th next year. They’d appear in the Hoddman’s Sunday Circular soon after and pay $600 upon publication.
Uncle Arms benefited more. By 1997 prospective Goodness Girls came to compete from every county in Virginia.
But an encyclopedia was better than any of that. As soon as I had it I bounced around.
Soon as I got home from the park I asked Nabisase to go out with me to the movies. We both had accomplishments to celebrate. She refused and called Ledric at the hospital. Spoke with him the rest of the night.