Language Arts (37 page)

But they were non-
wallowing
types, and so they said their farewells.

As Charles watched them drive away, his back spasmed. He wished he'd asked for some pharmaceutical assistance from Dr. Young—a bit of Percocet, a smidgen of Ambien, a little something to get him through the night. Ah, well, at least there was the wine.

Suddenly, he knew what his plans were.

It was only a couple of miles away.

•♦•

The houses were still here. But the Nellie Goodhue School was gone.

All but one of the huge old poplars that had bordered the east side of the property had been cut down. What remained was an empty lot surrounded by a rental chainlink fence with wild, straggly up-shoots of poplar suckers forming a young forest within this fortified landscape. The big birch was still there, as was the rockery and the stone steps leading up from Meridian Avenue.

At the six-way stop—the star formed by the intersection of 137th and Roosevelt and Meridian—there stood a large, heavily tagged
NOTICE OF PROPOSED LAND-USE ACTION
sign informing the citizenry that there was a project under review, #3005091. The surrounding grass was mostly lush and overlong here, but someone—some self-designated caretaker from the neighborhood—had thoughtfully cut a swath up from Meridian and across the property to a spot in front of the sign.

A fat bumblebee stumbled by, a house finch sang from the branches of the old birch, and Charles read that there was a proposed construction of a CHPD (clustered housing planned development), a subdivision of twenty-six single-family units. There was a map of the Goodhue Plat, and at the bottom, contact information for the Seattle Department of Planning and Development.
Comment period ends _____ but may be extended to _____ by written request.
Charles wondered why the blanks had not been filled in.

He walked the perimeter of the grounds, finding a pair of size eleven men's black shoes, an abandoned car, food wrappers, discarded condoms, a child's mitten, a torn envelope addressed to someone in St. Paul, Minnesota, broken bottles, and a dead mallard. Coming around to the back side of the property, he noticed that the snowberry bushes still stood, an untended tangle, and had leafed out, as they did each April.

There were no hornets' nests that Charles could see, but still, from the bushes' snarled innards, a faint buzzing emanated and then crescendoed, like a tinnitus.

Charles stood by the bushes, hypnotized by the eerie sounds they emitted, compelled to draw closer and seek out tiny openings within their dense mass of leaves and branches, trying to discern movement, a flash of white, half yearning, half terrified to discover that there was something inside, trapped, and peering out.

There wasn't.

And so he drove home, finished off the Santa Margherita, and wrote a reply to Mrs. McGucken, accepting her invitation.

Charles finally came up with an
extraordinary protagonist.

He didn't set out to write a fictional masterpiece. He didn't aspire to the celebrity that would soon come his way, elevating him to an even greater degree of visibility and scorn.

He simply started to write and, like all enthusiastic first-time novelists, crammed perhaps a few too many themes and concerns into his debut opus. But his fervor was sincere, and all those weeks of Palmer practice allowed him to write easily and without tiring for long stretches.

He worked on his story at home after school, in the library during Language Arts class, and in the cafeteria during lunch.

“I win!”
Dana yelled, holding up another perfectly peeled row of loops from his Hostess Cupcake. “Look, Char-Lee! I did it
again!
Attaboy me!”

“Yeah, Dana, I see.” He found himself getting cross with Dana lately.

“
You
try, Char-Lee.”

“No, that's okay, you win. I'm gonna work on this right now.”

“What's this? What are you working on, Char-Lee?”

“Just something we're doing in Language Arts.”

“What you do? Show.”

“Maybe later. Here. Take my cupcake. I'll show you when I'm done.”

“Okay. You show me when you done.”

As Bradley and Mitchell passed by, they muttered their usual insults—
faggot, queer, ree-tards
—and made loud farting noises on their hands and forearms. Dana guffawed delightedly.

“Hey!” he called after them. “Wait for me!” And he lurched outside, leaving the mess of his lunch behind.

Charles couldn't care less. Something about writing his story was important, more important than entertaining Dana.

With every stroke of his pencil, he felt that he was stacking gold in heaven, shoring up a place of safety, bounty, and salvation.

He was becoming both a dreamer
and
a doer.

•♦•

He finished his story and turned it in, on time and without ceremony, depositing it on the seat of his chair before leaving class as per Mrs. Braxton's instructions.

The following afternoon, Rita Marlow received a phone call; she answered it in the kitchen, where Charles was eating his one-person snack. (His mother had finally inquired about Donnie Bothwell's whereabouts.)

“This is Mrs. Marlow speaking . . . Yes, I'm Charles's mother . . .”

She listened intently, nodding and frowning. Her expression was not one that Charles had seen before.

“I understand . . . No, I don't see any problem with that . . . I'll let him know . . . Thank you for calling, Mrs. Braxton. Goodbye.”

Charles took an extra-large bite of his peanut butter sandwich.

His mother lit a cigarette, shaking her match several times while regarding him through narrowed eyes.

“So what's this
story
about,” she began, “the one you wrote for your Language Arts class? It seems to have made quite an impression on your teacher.” She flicked the match away, sideways and behind her, a blind but perfect aim; it landed in the kitchen sink and made a muffled
psst,
as if it were trying to get her attention.

Charles indicated that his speech mechanism was gummed up with Wonder Bread, Welch's, and Skippy, and he'd respond when it would be polite to do so.

“She was calling to say that your story is so amazing, so
extraordinary,
that she wants to enter it in some kind of contest. She needed to ask my permission.”

“What kind of contest?” Charles asked, hoping to buy some time, since his mother's expression still revealed nothing of her thoughts or feelings about what Mrs. Braxton had said. After quickly assessing his mother's face, he realized that her inscrutability arose from that slightly furrowed space between her brows. He'd noticed this in his father too, and Mrs. Braxton. That was what most distinguished an adult from a child—not age or size or fashion or responsibility, but that tiny physiognomic plat between the brows. It seemed to hold so much mystery, so much import: the Bermuda Triangle of the adult face.

She shrugged noncommittally, expelling a puff of smoke. “Who knows? Something the
Seattle Times
is sponsoring, apparently. You didn't know about it?”

Charles shook his head and reapplied his attention to his sandwich.

“So, what's it about?” she asked. “Your story.”

“Just a kid,” he mumbled, “who goes on a trip.”

She waited.

“That's it, really,” he added.

His mother gave a short, deep-pitched
hm,
like she'd just done a sit-up. “Can you tell me the
title,
at least?”

He answered between mouthfuls with exaggerated difficulty: “‘Flipper [
swallow
] Boy' [
swallow
].” He made gulping motions several more times and worked his tongue around the inside of his mouth in a way he hoped would indicate that further communication might be hazardous.

Rita Marlow asked no more questions but continued to stare at him while he finished his snack.

“May I go watch some cartoons, please?” he asked.

She pointed to his mouth and then her own and mimed wiping at it; Charles mirrored the gesture, leaving a smear of peanut butter and jelly on his napkin.

She started shaking her head, as if the answer to his question were no, but then she said, “Yes, Charles, you may watch cartoons.”

“Thank you.”

As he got up to clear his place, she leaned across the table, took his hand lightly, and gave it a little squeeze.

“Funny boy,” she said, looking up at him. “You are such an
enigma.
”

•♦•

The next phone call came on a school night after dinner, a rare evening in that Garrett Marlow had come home right after work. They'd eaten together and were now all gathered in the TV room watching
Ben Casey, M.D
.

Rita Marlow took the call in the kitchen.

“Yes, this is she . . . Hello, Mrs. Braxton . . . Really? Well, that is exciting news . . . How nice . . . Friday afternoon at two thirty? I'll check with my husband. Yes, of course, I understand. We'll try our best to both be there . . . Thank you.”

“Who was that?” Charles's father yelled once the commercial came on.

There was a muffled
pop
from the kitchen.

“Rita!” Garrett yelled again. “Who the hell was on the phone?”

Charles's mother appeared in the doorway. She'd reapplied her lipstick and was holding a silver tray, the one from the hutch in the dining room that came out only at Thanksgiving and Christmas. On the tray were three long-stemmed, slender glasses filled with something clear, like water. The bubbles in the glasses rose magically, perpetually: shining, uprising galaxies suspended in liquid.

She didn't ask permission to turn off the TV. She just did it.

Then she said, “We have something to celebrate.”

•♦•

The next day, Mrs. Braxton informed the class that at the end of the week, they'd be entertaining a group of special visitors that would include Charles Marlow's parents and, possibly, their principal, Miss Vanderkolk.

If the initial part of this announcement didn't earn any special note, the mention of the dreaded Miss V. caused a collective shudder to pass through the room. Charles worried that his story had set in motion something rather larger than he'd intended.

“For this reason,” Mrs. Braxton went on, “I'm expecting all of you”—she looked beadily at Mitchell and Bradley—“to be on especially good behavior.”

“I will! I will!”
Dana shouted.

Astrida raised her hand.

“Why are they all coming? What did Charles
do?
”

Mrs. Braxton grinned. “I'm going to keep that as a surprise.”

Two guests arrived first thing on Friday: a tall man with the straightforward name of Jim Rupp (he looked like the lead actor in
The War of the Worlds
) and a never-identified young woman carrying a camera who was almost as pretty as Catherine Ryan. They remained quietly on the sidelines through math and social studies. When it came time for Language Arts, they followed Charles and his classmates to the library.

Once everyone was seated, Mrs. Braxton began.

“Children, as you know, our Language Arts program is the first of its kind in Seattle. When I learned that the
Seattle Times
was sponsoring a citywide creative-writing contest, I decided to submit your short stories.”

Apparently not everyone's parents had shared this information with their children; there were mutterings of surprise and excitement. (Say what you will about Brax the Ax, but she had an unerring sense of theatricality. That woman could work a room.)

Mrs. Braxton continued. “You ten children have represented our school admirably. In fact, our own Charles Marlow has been chosen as the
winner
of that contest. Because of this, the
Seattle Times
has sent a reporter to interview you and a photographer to take pictures. I'm going to turn the class over to them now. Please give them your full attention.”

Mr. Rupp asked a lot of questions about what students thought the world would be like in fifty years. (Charles wondered if he'd even still be
alive
in the year 2013. It seemed doubtful.) At lunchtime, Charles was allowed to eat at his desk while Mr. Rupp interviewed him privately, asking more specific questions about “Flipper Boy”; for example, where did he get all those wild ideas?

Charles told him that he didn't think his ideas were that wild; he got most of them from reading magazines. When Mr. Rupp asked
which
magazines, Charles answered truthfully before remembering the contraband nature of his periodical library and realizing that this might not be a wise revelation.

“Could you please leave out that part about
Playboy
?” he asked.

“Sure.” Mr. Rupp made a show of crossing something out in his notebook and then winked.

At two thirty sharp, Rita and Garrett Marlow arrived; Mrs. Braxton led them to the back of the room, where four folding chairs had been set up, and introduced them to Mr. Rupp. The pretty photographer roamed around the class taking pictures. As people began to settle, Charles noted with relief that the last folding chair remained empty; perhaps Miss Vanderkolk was out of the country, engaged in a top-secret KGB mission.

“All right, children,” Mrs. Braxton started, clapping her hands briskly. “Please put your things away. Our program is about to begin.”

What program?
Charles wondered.

“We are celebrating the fact that Charles Marlow has won a citywide creative-writing contest sponsored by the
Seattle Times.
His story was selected out of hundreds of stories submitted, and at the end of our presentation today—”