The night air had been cold, and Kootie’s nose was stuffed—after he sniffed, his jammed-up sinuses emitted an almost ultrasonic wheee, like the flash attachment on a camera recharging.
“All this running around is doing you no good at all, son,” Edison had croaked then. “And I’m not getting any fresher out here. To hell with New Jersey. Let’s get to the sea. I’ll be able to just go into the seawater, safely, and be gone; and you’ll be free of me, free to go be a normal boy.”
Kootie had not said anything then, as he climbed stiffly out of the car, stretched as well as he could with the heavy I-ON-A-CO cable belt constricting his waist, and limped toward the lot fence; but he thought the old Edison ghost could probably tell that Kootie didn’t want to lose him.
“WHERE WILL I go?” asked Kootie softly now as he clambered painfully down the steps of the bus exit and hopped to the Manchester sidewalk. I’ll need money.”
All at once, into the muted early-afternoon air, “You’re young!” shouted Edison with Kootie’s shrill voice. “You’re still alive! You can send and receive as fast as any of them!” Kootie was hobbling away from the bus stop as quickly as he could, not looking at any of the faces around him, his own face burning with embarrassed horror and all feelings of maturity completely blown away.
He caught a breath and choked out, “Shut up!”—but Edison used the rest of the breath to yell, “Skedaddle to the Boston office of Western Union! I’ve got to get to New Jersey anyway, to pick up my diploma!” Kootie was sweating now in the chilly breeze, and he had clenched his teeth against his own squawking voice, but Edison kept yelling anyway: “The usual job! Napping during night work, with the ghost repellers popping and the gizmo sending your sixing signals on the hour!”
Kootie tried to shout Be quiet! but Edison was trying to say something more, and the resulting scream was something like “Baklava!” (which was a kind of pastry Kootie’s parents had sometimes brought home for him).
Kootie was just crying and running blindly in despair now, blundering against pedestrians and light poles, and he wasn’t aware of slapping footsteps behind him until a pair of hands clasped his shoulders and yanked him back to a stop.
“Kid,” said a man’s concerned voice, “what’s the matter? Was somebody bothering you? Where do you live? My wife and I can drive you home.”
Kootie turned into the man’s arms and sobbed against a wool sweater. “The beach,” he hiccuped; “the police—I don’t know where I’ve got to go. I’m lost, mister.” Blessedly Edison seemed to have withdrawn.
“Well, you’re okay now, I promise. I hopped out of our car at the light when I saw you running—my wife is driving around the block. Let’s go back and catch her at the corner, away from all these people here.”
Kootie was happy to do as the man said. Several of the people behind him on the corner were laughing, and somebody called out a filthy suggestion about what he should do once he had skedaddled to New Jersey and picked up his “dipshit diploma.” It horrified Kootie to think that adults could be the same as kids; and now even Edison was drunk or had gone crazy or something.
As he walked along quickly beside the man who had stopped him, Kootie looked up at his rescuer. The man had short blond hair and round, wire-rim glasses, and he looked tanned and fit, as if he played tennis. He still had one hand on Kootie’s right shoulder, and Kootie reached up and clasped the man’s wrist.
“Here she is, kid,” the man said kindly as a shiny new teal-blue minivan came nosing up to the Manchester curb. “Are you hungry? We can stop for a bite to eat if you like.”
The passenger door had swung open, and a dark-haired young woman in shorts had one knee up and was leaning across the seat and smiling uncertainly. “Well, hi there, kiddo,” she said as Kootie let go of the man’s wrist and hurried to the minivan.
“Hi, ma’am,” Kootie said, pausing humbly on the curb. “Your husband said you could give me a ride.”
She laughed. “Hop in then.”
Kootie hiked himself up, and then climbed around the console to crouch behind the passenger seat as the man got in and closed the door. The interior of the minivan smelled like a new pair of dress shoes straight out of the Buster Brown box.
“Let’s head toward the 405, Eleanor,” the man said, “just to get moving. And if you see a Denny’s—did you want something to eat, uh, young man?” The minivan started forward, and Kootie sat down on the blue-carpeted floor.
“My name’s Koot Hoomie,” he said breathlessly, having decided to trust these people. “I’m called Kootie. Yes, please, about eating—but some kind of takeout would be better. I get screaming fits sometimes. You saw. It’s not like I’m crazy, or anything.” He tried to remember the name of the ailment that made some people yell terrible things, but couldn’t. All he could think of was Failure to Thrive, which an infant cousin of his had reportedly died of. Kootie probably had that too. “It’s that syndrome,” he finished lamely.
“Tourette’s, probably,” the man said. “I’m Bill Fussel, and this is my wife, Eleanor Have you had any sleep, Kootie? There are blankets back there.”
“No thanks,” said Kootie absently, “I slept in an old car last night.” Get to the beach he thought; let crazy Edison jump into the sea, and then these nice people can adopt me “Can we go to the beach? Any beach. I want to…wade out in the water, I guess.” He tried to think of a plausible reason for it, and decided that anything he came up with would sound like a kid lie. Then, “My parents died Monday night,” he found himself saying to the back of Mr. Fussel’s head. “In our religion it’s a purifying ritual. We’re Hindus.”
He had no idea whether it had been Edison or himself that had said it, nor if any of it was true. I suppose we might have been Hindus, he thought. In school I always just put down Protestant
“A beach?” said Mr. Fussel. “I guess we could go out to Hermosa or Redondo. Elly, why don’t we stop somewhere and you can call your mom and let her know we’ll be a little late.”
For a moment no one spoke, and the quiet burr of the engine was the only sound inside the minivan.
“Okay,” said Mrs. Fussel.
“Where does your mom live?” asked Kootie, again not sure it was himself who had spoken.
“Riverside,” said Mrs. Fussel quickly.
“Where in Riverside? I used to live there
“Lamppost and Riverside Drive,” Mrs. Fussel said, and Kootie saw her dart a harried glance at her husband.
Now Kootie knew it was Edison speaking for him, for with no intention at all he found himself saying, “There are no such streets in Riverside.” Kootie didn’t know if there were or not, and certainly Edison didn’t either. Why are you being rude? he thought hard at the Edison ghost in his mind.
“I guess she knows where her mother lives,” Mr. Fussel began in a stern voice, but Kootie was interrupting:
“Very well, name for me any five big streets in Riverside.”
“We don’t go there a lot—” said Mrs. Fussel weakly.
Mr. Fussel turned around in his seat and faced Kootie. He was frowning. “What’s the matter, Kootie? Do you want us to drive you back to that corner and let you out?”
“Yes,” Kootie’s voice said firmly, and then Edison kept Kootie’s jaw clamped shut so that his No! came out as just a prolonged “Nnnnn!”