Rick dug an empty soda cup out of the trash, spit into it. With the back of his hand he wiped away the monster drool dripping from his chin. “That about sum it up?” he said. “Or should we invite Aggie in here, reenact the whole thing?”
My dad stood up and put his finger in Rick’s face. I always thought the two were the same height, but seeing them next to each other, it was clear Rick was taller, and more muscular.
“What?” Rick said, looking down at my dad. “What are you going to do? You touch me and I’ll tell her all about what Kern said. You come near me again and good luck seeing your boys.”
As if on cue, my mother entered the cafeteria. “What’s going on?”
My dad paused. He looked at his finger like how did it get there, like a puppet finally becoming aware of its strings. “Nothing,” he said.
“Is everything OK?”
“Yes.” He smiled weakly. “He’s all yours.”
My mother watched him leave. “What was that all about?”
“He just had a few questions,” Rick said. “That’s all.”
“Oh,” my mother said. “What did you tell him?” There was worry in her voice, though I wasn’t sure about what. Rick pulled my mother into him and stared at the cafeteria door, as if any moment my dad might return.
Rick said, “I told him what he needed to know.”
* * *
The next day the van died. In the morning, my brother and I sat down for breakfast and watched our mother leave for work. We didn’t talk about what we’d heard the night before. What we learned, what it meant. How before our dad arrested the Stranger, he saved his life. That was the part of the tape we didn’t see. But the Stranger hated our dad. The Stranger wished to die and our dad took that from him. Yes, and for that, the Stranger wanted our dad dead. He told him so. In court. And now the Stranger was out. Now the Stranger was coming for us all.
We didn’t talk about these things the same way we didn’t talk about the tape. We ate our cereal in silence until we heard the jangle of keys as our mother unlocked the door and stormed back into the apartment.
“The van is dead,” she said. “Long live the van.”
She grabbed the phone to dial for a ride. I had yet to use the new phone, with its long antenna, like something out of a spaceship. Our mother tried Rick first (no answer), then Sandy, then Cornbread (both stuck at work). She called Rick again and this time left a message. Come get me, she said. As soon as possible. Where are you?
“Call Dad,” my brother said. “Make him help.”
“Your father doesn’t know a thing about cars,” my mother said. “I wish that he did.”
The phone rang. I thought it was our dad, calling to prove our mother wrong. But it was Rick. He would be here right away. Anything for a lady in distress.
When she finished talking to Rick, our mother found a tow man in the Yellow Pages. She wiped the sweat off her forehead and spoke into the phone, sayings things like “dead” and “estimate.” Then she hung up the phone and spread her arms wide on the counter, like some busted perp. You’re under arrest, I thought, and patted her down with my eyes. She let her head drop. “If I asked you two to wait for the tow man,” she said, “would you be able to do it? If I gave you the key, could you give it to the man and not mess it up?”
“Of course,” my brother said. “We’re not babies.”
My mother worked the van key around the ring. “I don’t like doing this, but I can’t be late to work again. So it’s up to you guys,” she said, and when she placed the key in my brother’s palm, she left her hand in his, like a low five gone wrong. “Don’t talk to anybody and don’t do anything stupid.”
We waited with her until Rick finally showed up in what was a real nice sports car once upon a time. Two doors, faded black body, a ridge on its hood that looked like a nose. I pictured Rick driving my mom around the city in this car, fast and crazy, the way he raced around the golf course in his customized cart. I wanted to warn my mother. Watch his hands. Look out for the leg pinch.
Rick ran around the car to open the door for my mother.
“When will you be home?” my brother asked.
“Right after work.” She buckled herself in, pulled the strap tight. “Take care of your brother, OK? You know the drill.”
I stuck my head in the window so my mother could kiss my face, and saw Rick, grinning as always. “No need to worry, retard,” he said. “Yours truly knows how to treat a lady.”
My mother kissed me goodbye. “Go wait with your brother. Be good.”
* * *
After they disappeared down our street, we opened the van doors to let the heat out, sat in some shade we found on the curb. It was early morning, but the day was an oven.
“We should be in the pool,” I said, “where it’s nice and cool.” If the pool wasn’t a safe subject, I didn’t know what was. “Are you mad?”
“No.”
“Are we mad at Chris?”
“You want me to tell you how you feel? If you’re not mad, then why be mad?”
The answer was that I hated myself for forgiving too easy, something I was known for. One summer my dad nicknamed me Marshmallow Man, because no matter what anyone did to me, especially my brother, I always forgave them and quickly returned to my original form.
“I don’t like that he talked about Mom,” my brother said, “or the way he talked about her, but he said he was sorry. So, I don’t know.”
A large truck turned onto our street, and we raised our heads with hope, but it wasn’t the tow man. I got off the curb and hopped in the driver’s seat to take my mind off things. I had sat here once before, up front with my dad, one night after a policeman’s birthday barbecue, when my mother said my dad had had too much to drink. I scooted up to grab the wheel and put my hands where my dad had shown me. A dumber kid would have made driving noises with his mouth, bounced up and down like roads were nothing but speed bumps. But I was a real driver. I checked the side mirrors, shot my eyes to the blind spots. I put my blinker on when I wanted to turn and pumped the brakes when a kid chased a ball into the street.
I saw my brother approaching in the passenger mirror and nodded hello. His shirt was off, and he walked with his arms loose like boiled noodles. He got in the backseat like he was someone famous and I was his driver.
“Where to, sir?” I asked him.
“I’m here for the van. You called for a tow?”
“Oh, yes.”
My brother stuck his foot in my face. “Well, here it is!”
“Cut it out.”
“But it’s me! The Toe Man!”
He pushed his stinky foot into my nose. “No you’re not,” I said. “You’re gross.” I fought his foot until finally I had to punch his leg to get his toes away from me. “I’m not playing that. I’m the taxi man. Now where to?”
My brother didn’t answer, and when I looked into the rearview mirror I saw his face had changed. His eyes were slanted and menacing, and I knew right away he’d transformed into the Stranger, like he had in the woods.
“Sixth and Revolution,” he said, giving our dad’s address. “And step on it. I’ve got a cop to kill.”
“Don’t,” I said.
He chuckled to himself.
“That’s not funny,” I said.
“I know,” the Stranger said. “I wasn’t joking.”
I flicked on the imaginary meter and pretended to ignore him.
“But if you like jokes, I’ve got one for you. Why did the Stranger cross the road? To kill your entire family! Hahaha!”
He fell out of the mirror, rolling over in the backseat.