“Yeah. I’m glad you’re not a queer.”
“We don’t say that word around the Andersens. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
I wondered why all these words existed if people weren’t supposed to use them, but instead asked, “Do you think I’ll ever be in a war?”
“I certainly hope not. But you never know. Things are always happening in the world. It’s possible that in ten years or so, when you’re old enough to be in the military, it could happen.”
I was mildly alarmed. “Where would it be?” Talking about and playing war were okay, but the idea of actually being in one startled me.
“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, Cuba’s a mess—the Communists have taken over there. And Communism is spreading everywhere, and needs to be stopped. We didn’t fight a world war to give people freedom just to have it taken away again. We got Korea under control. Just this summer, some American military advisers were killed in an Asian country called Vietnam, and it’s a problem area. Not to mention Russia, of course, which is the cause of all the Communism, and is a terrible threat to us.” He looked away for a moment, then turned back to me. “And yes, you’d probably have to go. When your country goes to war, it’s your duty to defend it. And, since you apparently like war, that should be fine with you, right?” He raised his beetley brows, looking me in the eye.
“I might change my mind. And I’m not going if Liz doesn’t have to go, too. Why don’t girls have to fight? And I’m not going without Ivan and Max, either.”
“Jesus, you are hopped up. Can this discussion be over, do you think? The show’s about to start.” He put his feet up on the coffee table and retrieved the remains of his pre-dinner Scotch, offering me a sip. I took a big one, shuddering from its burn. Picking up my bowl, I drank my ice cream, melted to perfection, to quench the heat of the Scotch and keep from coughing. Brickie said, disapprovingly, “Where did you grow up? China?”
I coughed, burped, and grinned. “Uranus.”
“Very funny. I don’t want you to say another word while we’re watching the show. Think you can do that? Or do I have to go get the duct tape from the kitchen drawer?”
It seemed to me that our conversation had just gone in a big circle, but I didn’t say that. I said, “That’s playing Quaker. Ivan can go the longest without talking. If you duct-tape my mouth, stuff will have to come out of my nose when I cough.”
“Those are your last words, my friend.”
The menacing, noir Henry Mancini theme cranked up, and we settled in. The episode, “Skin Deep,” was a summer rerun, but that didn’t bother Brickie. “This is a good one!” he said. Peter Gunn was worrying about a rich lady who worked in a flower shop and had been clubbed to death with a fireplace poker. I had some questions but kept my mouth shut. Gunn showed up at a bar. Then Brickie said excitedly, “Listen to this, John! That’s Laurindo Almeida, one of the greatest guitar players in the world!” We listened. It sounded pretty good, like the music that the Montebiancos listened to. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” Brickie said. I wanted to impress him and say that Beatriz told me that that kind of music was Brazilian and called samba, but I covered my mouth and made muffled sounds. “Oh, right. You’re under a gag order. Good man.” We watched some more stuff—I don’t know what—and I began to feel sleepy. Pretty soon I was nestled against my grandfather with his arm around me, sound asleep.
I felt better the next day, and after lunch I was finally liberated by successfully convincing Dimma that my cough was gone, although it wasn’t. She was glad about the splinter, but Brickie took all the credit, and she made me wear a sock on my bad foot. I couldn’t wait to get to the boys with all my news about drowning, and vinegaroons.
I limped over to the Goncharoffs’, my bones still a little achy and my foot sore from Brickie’s surgery. Ivan and Max sat on the steps at the street. Max had been dragging a magnet tied to a string, picking up a pile of iron filings. Ivan was polishing a dime with a ball of mercury from a thermometer he’d broken on purpose. I was glad he didn’t seem sick anymore.
Ivan shouted, “YAY! You’re back! We didn’t catch anything while you were gone!” as I crossed the lane to them. Then, seeing my battered body, mapped with mercurochrome, and my socked foot, he cried, “Are you okay?”
“Man, what happened?” asked Max. “That mercurochrome looks like blood! That’s so cool.” I was shirtless because my scabs stuck to T-shirts and hurt.
“I drownded,” I said, delighted to tell my tale. “It wasn’t cool at all. It was so scary. I think I was dead for a little bit.” I told the whole story, leaving out only the part about losing my bathing suit.
Ivan looked horrified. “I’m really glad you didn’t die for good.”
Max was less moved. “Did your life pass before your eyes?” he wanted to know. “Did you see God, or anybody like that?”
“I saw people. My family, and you guys, I think.” I thought for a minute. “It was kind of like when we pull the legs off Japanese beetles and they can’t do anything, maybe?”
“That’s why we shouldn’t do that stuff,” Ivan said. He had a point.
Remembering my other big news, I said excitedly, “But you guys, get this! My dad saw an article in the paper about some rare scorpion things they found downtown. They’re called pirate vinegaroons. There wasn’t a picture, but there might be one in yesterday’s paper. Brickie took his to work before I could see.”
“Josef probably still has it,” Ivan said, hopping up. “I’ll find it.” He ran up the walk into the house and came right back with the Sunday Post. “Got it!”
Max and I huddled around Ivan, who found the vinegaroon article on the second page. There was a photograph of one of the vinegaroons, and it was shocking. The thing looked like a scorpion, but seemed more sinister because it was very dark, nearly black, had a long tail like a whip, and fangs, and was huge. It was pictured next to a beer bottle at the Tune Inn, at 331 Pennsylvania Avenue on Capitol Hill, where two of the creatures were found, and was nearly as long as the bottle was wide. Its appearance was terrifying.
“Gah!” said Max. “It looks like the giant ant in Them!” This was another of our favorite nuclear horror movies. “Is it poisonous?”
“Let me read what it says,” said Ivan. “ ‘The pirate vinegaroon exists exclusively in the arid southwestern U.S., Mexico, Central and South America, and on some Caribbean islands, but even in those regions it is rare. There is no record of them having been found in any other areas of the United States. According to Professor Marion R. Smith of the Department of Agriculture’…blah blah blah.” Ivan scanned the article for more juicy stuff. “ ‘The pirate vinegaroon is a member of the’ ”—here Ivan had to sound it out—“ ‘Ur…op…y…gi order, known as whip scorpions, most of which possess stingers like the common American scorpion they are related to. But the pirate vinegaroon has both a venomous bite and a whip-like tail that secretes a harmful spray, as well as powerful pincers to catch its prey—insects and small vertebrates.’ ”
Ivan stopped reading for a minute and we looked at one another, wide-eyed. “Man!” said Max. “It eats animals!”
“A whip and fangs!” I said. “Read some more.”
Ivan resumed. “ ‘In order to catch its prey, the pirate vinegaroon will dart out, secure the prey with its pincers, bite it with its venomous fangs, and then eat it live. It is thought that the whiptail’s acid spray is used defensively against animals who try to attack it. The spray smells strongly of vinegar, hence the creature’s name, and can sicken or blind humans temporarily. The pirate vinegaroon is reclusive, making its home in burrows, under rocks, or in wood piles, and is nocturnal, and that fact, along with its rarity, is why few human deaths from its sting have been reported in the U.S.; only about five or six are known. It is very aggressive, unlike other related scorpions who avoid pro…vo…ca…tion, and if disturbed or exposed, the pirate vinegaroon will attack. Pirate vinegaroons can live as long as four to seven years, although the female often dies from starvation and stress after giving birth and carrying up to thirty of her young on her back. The two discovered at the Tune Inn are a male and a pregnant female. Metropolitan Police suggest using extreme caution if unusual insects or spiders are encountered, and ask citizens to contact them in this event.’