One Fat Summer (4 page)

I heard his slippers slapping against his heels. I pulled with all my might, lost my balance, and tripped over the mower. I could have just stayed there, sprawled out on the lawn, my face in the sweet grass. But he was coming and I jumped up.

“You're out of gas,” he said. The shotgun eyes blasted right through me. He unscrewed a
little cap on the side of the motor and stuck his finger in the gas tank. It came out dry. “A gas mower runs on gas. Did you know that?”

“Yek.”

“The gas is in the shed. And don't forget the funnel.”

The hill seemed steeper now, it was like climbing a mountain. A very steep, short mountain. I was much closer to the porch than I thought. I hadn't cut all that much grass.

I felt better in the shed, soothed by the coolness and the darkness. I found a gallon can of gasoline and a funnel. Outside again, the heat slammed into me like a wall of hot wet cotton. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I could hardly breathe.

“Is this job too tough for you?” Dr. Kahn had followed me up.

“Nnnnnnn…” It was the best my stuck tongue could do.

“What was that?”

“Wa'er. Nee' a glath wa'er.”

“There's a spigot on the side of the house. You're not to go inside.”

I stumbled toward it. A water hole in the
desert. Or a mirage. Until I touched the rusty handle, I was sure it would disappear. The water wasn't cold and it tasted like metal, but I drank it out of my hands until I thought my belly would burst.

I staggered back down the hill, burping. Even with the funnel, I spilled some gas on the lawn. It took four hard yanks, but the green machine roared back to life.

Cut on, and on. And on. Back and forth, side to side, watch for stones, keep a neat row.

I wanted to stop. Just leave the machine and go home. Nobody at home knew I had a job so nobody would know I quit. This is torture. Who needs it? I'm walking on burning needles. My blisters have blisters. Hammers banging on my shoulders. Electric jolts in my wrists. I can feel every inch of me, and every inch of me hurts. Just stop and walk away.

A long black car swept down the driveway, stopped and honked. Dr. Kahn stuck his head out the window, yelled something at me, then drove down to the county road and out of sight.

I could leave now.

You've got to do it, Captain Marks. You're the
only one who can make it through the renegades to Fort Desolation and bring back the Regiment. We're counting on you.

And then suddenly I didn't hurt anymore, and I couldn't have stopped if I wanted to. All I could do was go back and forth, back and forth, and sometimes I ran into the bushes along the side of the lawn, the sharp thorns snagging on my sleeves and whipping at my chest and scratching the back of my hands until blood bubbled up in the thin red lines, and twice I stepped into holes and fell down and stones clattered against the whirling blade and bounced off my legs, and when the mower ran out of gas again I filled it and yanked it back to life and pushed on, and on, and I stumbled along like I was drunk.

“You call this mowing a lawn?”

I was halfway between the porch and the county road. I had cut half the front lawn, what was he talking about? I followed his long, quivering finger up the hill. The lawn was a mess. I had missed hundreds of tufts of grass. Most of the rows were squiggly light green snakes lying
among darker green patches of uncut grass. The work of a crazy drunken lawn mower.

“I call this a disgrace.” He lifted the mower and examined the blade.

“You must have gone out of your way to find every stone on the lawn. Look at the chips on the blade. I'll have to get another one. Cost at least four fifty.” He shook his head. “That'll be subtracted from your wages, of course.”

He looked at his watch. “Well, it's after three o'clock. Tomorrow you'll do it all over again. What did you say?”

I hadn't said a word. I turned away so he couldn't see me cry, and I stumbled down to the county road.

I don't remember walking around the lake. Car horns kept warning me off the road back to the sandy shoulder. The road shimmered and heaved in the heat. Twice I stopped to throw up, but nothing came out. I saw the sign, Marino's Beach Club and Snack Bar, and staggered right up to the serving counter.

“Wa'er? Pleath?”

Connie said, “You got to be kidding. You want water, go jump in the lake.”

“Hey, wait a minute.” A big bronze chest with a St. Christopher medal hanging between huge muscles loomed up. “You Michelle's brother?”

“Yek.”

“Connie, get him some water.” Big hard arms
grabbed me around the chest and dragged me to a picnic table under the shade of a beach umbrella. “Your sister's been looking for you, she drove past here twice. Connie!”

“I only got two hands, Peter.”

“Since when? C'mon, this boy needs water.”

“M'okay,” I said.

“You'll be all right, just a little heatstroke. You've been running or something? Heavy fella like you shouldn't run in this weather.” He held a cup to my mouth while I drank. “What happened to your hands? Cat scratch you up?”

“Yeah.”

“Come with me.” He helped me around the back of the snack bar shack to a small room. “Here you go.” He lowered me on a cot and opened a first-aid cabinet.

Connie came in with more water and some big white pills. “Salt tablets,” she said. “Make you feel better.”

“Thanks.”

Pete poured alcohol on the back of my hands.

“It stings.”

“A man can take it. So you're the famous kid
brother. Just lie down now. That's it. You know who I am?”

“Pete Marino.”

“The one and only.” He grinned. “So. What really happened to you? The Rummies work you over?”

“No…I…I was running. I fell down.”

“Hey, you can tell Peter the Great. Look, it happens to every summer kid at least once. Even happened to me.”

“What happened?”

“About four, five years ago. I was your age. They caught me alone on the other side of the lake and gave me a pounding. Must have been eight of them, the whole Rumson gang. I went back with my brother Vinnie and a couple of his friends and we cleaned 'em out. They haven't bothered a Marino since.”

“Why do they beat up summer kids?”

“Who knows? They're crazy.” He whirled his finger near his head. “The whole lake, all this land around here, used to belong to the Rumson family, but they're so dumb they lost it. Hey, listen, I better get you home.”

“I can make it.”

“It's a long walk.”

“You know where I live?”

“Are you kidding? C'mon.” He helped me up and led me outside. He was holding me up more than he had to. People playing in the water and lying on the beach turned to look at me. I felt foolish. “Connie! I'll be right back, I'm going to drive Bobby Marks home.”

“We got people waiting to rent boats.”

“You got two hands. You told me so yourself.” He opened the door of a white pickup truck. I had seen it before, it was famous around the lake. The doors and roof and bed of the truck were covered with red lightning bolts on which was lettered, in blue script,
THE MARINO EXPRESS.
He had to boost me up into the cab I was so tired and sore.

He jerked the truck out of the gravel parking lot onto the county road, but once he was on the road he drove slowly, like he was leading a ticker-tape parade. All along the lake, girls and boys, kids and old people, waved and yelled his name. A lot of people noticed me in the truck. I felt good about that.

He turned up our hill, and I said, “You can let
me off anywhere,” but he just grinned and said, “Door-to-door service.” Michelle was just getting out of our Dodge when we pulled into the driveway. Pete jumped out almost before he stopped.

“Marks residence?”

“Pete! What are you doing here?” Michelle looked happy and scared at the same time.

“Special delivery.” Pete danced around the truck. He was barefoot. He opened the door and hauled me out, and even though I could walk he made a big show of half-carrying me to the lawn. “Think you can make it the rest of the way, big fella?”

“Where'd you find him?” asked Michelle.

My mother came out of the house then, her eyes wide, and she started toward me with her arms out. I didn't want a big scene in front of Pete, so I used my last ounce of energy to run past her and go inside. Through the window, I saw Mom glance at Michelle and Pete, who were standing very close talking. Then she came inside.

“Are you all right?”

“M'okay.” I felt like all the blood and water
had run out of my body. My bones had turned to rubber. I was hot and cold at the same time.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Where were you?”

“Around the lake. I was running and I fell down.”

“You were running? From whom?”

“Just running. I'm going to take a nap.”

“Do you want something to eat or drink?”

“No.”

“Oh, Bobby, you must be sick.” She followed me into my bedroom. I fell on my bed. She was taking off my sneakers when I fainted. The last thing I thought of before I passed out was lunch. I hadn't eaten my lunch.

It was the first time in my life I ever missed a meal.

Robert Marks was melting.

Wetly, he stirred in his bed. He held his breath and listened to the darkness.

Drip.

He was melting away.

Drip.

Fourteen years of butterfat, heavy cream, noodle casseroles, butterscotch, fudge, congealed grease, peanut butter, side orders, lamb chops, double blubber, pound cake with ice cream, excess baggage, Popsicles, mint patties, were leaking down the drain. Robert Marks was melting down to his true self. Sword-lean and rawhide-tough.

Drip.

They would find him in the morning, thin and
sinewy, a St. Christopher medal on his muscular chest. Underneath all that fat he had always been as hard as a rock. His family would wail for Robert Marks—well, his mother would wail for sure—and the police would shake their heads. It wasn't a murder, it was only a subtraction. Newspaper reporters would elbow into the bedroom, dragging their feet through the sizzling puddles of fat that Robert Marks had once worn in disguise.

The nosy reporters would poke at his books, pull out his records, open his games, lift up the stamps in his album to make sure he'd pasted them onto the right spaces. They would find his secret drawer and read all the stories he had started. They would go through his desk looking for photographs of the late, large, unlamented Robert Marks. They would check his radio to see which station he had been listening to. They would study the maps on his walls and the notes on his bulletin board.

He would sit on the edge of the bed watching them, posing his new razor-sharp jaw, only one chin, for the cameras.

“Okay, slim,” one of them would snarl, “where'd you stash the fat boy?”

“I'm just a shadow of what he was,” he would coolly reply.

“That's not good enough, slats,” snarled another, “I want all the news that's fit to print.”

His father would push in. “Robert Marks would never fit in print, or anywhere else.”

His mother would push in. “Leave the poor boy alone. Whoever he is, he hasn't had breakfast yet.”

Dr. Kahn would push in. “What makes you think this isn't the same summer boy who can't even mow a lawn?”

 

My pillowcase and sheets were sopping wet. Michelle was sitting in a chair alongside the bed, her head on her chest. She was asleep. A book,
Catcher in the Rye,
was open on her lap. The clock read 2:15. It was dark outside.

I tried to get up, but my legs were too heavy to move. Polio. I tried with all my might, and fell back asleep.

“You look much better.” My mother put her lips to my forehead. “And your head's cool.”

“I feel fine.”

“I have to go to the library this morning. You just rest. Michelle's here. And the refrigerator's full.”

“Okay.”

She stopped at the door. “Your father called last night. He insists you go back to day camp.”

“I won't go.”

“Well, we'll think of something when I get back.” She smiled and blew me a kiss.

I waited until I heard the car leave before I tried to get out of bed. My legs worked. But I almost screamed when my feet touched the floor. Blisters. On my heels and big toes. There were blisters on my hands. Every muscle ached. Just breathing hurt my ribs. What a mess. I feel like the lawn looks.

I hobbled into the kitchen. Congratulations, Captain, you made it. I opened the refrigerator and relaxed in the sweet chill. I gulped orange juice from the bottle. I tore off pieces from last night's chicken and stuffed them in my mouth. I bit into a tomato and I scooped out some cottage cheese with my fingers and worked it into the last free space between my teeth and my cheek.
While I was chewing I grabbed a piece of seeded rye bread and folded it over a lump of Swiss cheese and pickle chips. I began to feel human again.

“Bobby? I'm leaving now.” Michelle came into the kitchen. “Did Pete say anything about me?”

“Uh uh.” I closed the refrigerator door so she could see I couldn't talk because my mouth was full.

“Ugh,” she said as a piece of pickle chip slipped out of my mouth. “Well, at least you're back to normal.”

I didn't get to Dr. Kahn's until nearly eleven o'clock that morning, but this time I was prepared. I wore heavy shoes with high socks to help protect my legs against flying stones. My father's work gloves. A baseball cap. Sunglasses. I had two bologna sandwiches, cookies, a Milky Way candy bar and two oranges in a brown paper bag. It took me fifteen minutes to climb up the driveway because I tried to walk on the sides of my feet so I wouldn't step on the blisters.

Dr. Kahn was standing on the porch talking to Willie Rumson. A cigarette dangled from the corner of Willie's mouth. He looked at me over his shoulder. “Here comes The Thing.”

Dr. Kahn said, “I didn't think you were coming back.”

“I'm sorry I'm late,” I said.

“Too late,” said Willie.
“Semper fi,
fats, the Marines have landed.” When he talked, his cigarette stuck to his lower lip.

“I haven't made a decision yet,” said Dr. Kahn. “First of all, Willie, you were not reliable last summer. I don't like a boy who is not reliable.”

“Look at this lawn,” said Willie. “Makes me want to puke.”

“Second of all, a dollar twenty-five is too high.”

“I thought I told you to take a hike, fats.”

“Are you trying to intimidate this boy?” Dr. Kahn's voice rose. “On my property?”

“Take it easy, Doc. You want your lawn lookin' good? Or like we fought a war on it?”

“I'll give you a dollar an hour.”

“A dollar an hour? To a vet?”

“Veteran of a reform school, more likely,” said Dr. Kahn.

Willie straightened up. His ropy arms were so
long they reached his knees. “Wake up, Doc. You know how much they're paying at the laundry? To start?”

“Whatever it is, I suggest you take it.”

“Well, you know what you can do with your lawn.” He hooked his thumbs around a web belt with a shiny brass buckle. “You're making a bad mistake, Doc, a
bad
mistake.”

“Are you threatening me?” Dr. Kahn was almost shouting. “Get off my property or I'll call the police.”

“You do that, Doc.” Willie swaggered down the porch steps. “Ask for my Uncle Homer, he's the sergeant.”

“Off my property!”

“Don't bust a gut.” Willie laughed out of the corner of his mouth. He shoved me with his shoulder as he passed me. He lowered his voice. “And you, pig meat, you're making a
really
bad mistake. You ever see me coming, you better pray. Give your soul to God, fats, cause your ass belongs to me.”

“What did you say to that boy?”

Over his shoulder, Willie said, “I wished him
good luck, Doc. He's gonna need it working for you.”

We watched Willie walk toward his car. He rocked from side to side, head and shoulders hunched forward like a cowboy walking to a showdown. He gunned his Chevy down the driveway, firing gravel, and spun onto the county road on two wheels. We could hear him screeching around the lake.

“Don't concern yourself with him, boy. I'm the one you have to deal with.” Dr. Kahn motioned me up to the porch. “I'm going to be watching you. Like a hawk. There are plenty of others who would give their eyeteeth for this job. But I believe in giving a boy a second chance.”

“I'll do my best.”

“You'll do better than that. Now get the mower. Don't forget to check the gas and oil. Watch for stones. I had a new blade put on, which you paid for.” He turned and walked into the house. But I felt his eyes for the rest of the day.

It wasn't as bad as the first day, but it was bad enough. Each of the blisters on my feet broke, pop, one at a time, then stung for a while as the water was absorbed by my socks. I walked on
raw skin. I tried not to hold the grips too hard, but the blisters on my hands broke, too, and I grew new ones wherever there was any skin left. The gloves helped a little. At least I couldn't see what my hands looked like. Hamburger, probably. Handsburger?

First, I went over all the patches I missed yesterday, then I started cutting in rows again, back and forth, side to side. I really concentrated. I watched for stones, and when I saw one I stopped, picked it up, and piled it on the edge of the driveway. If I found a stone in the middle of the row, I carried it to the end in my pocket. Even the little stones were a tight fit, and pinched my legs and backside. I watched for holes, too. I was very careful.

The longer I cut, the bigger the lawn seemed to get. A friend of my father's once showed us his color movies of a mule trip down into the Grand Canyon. He said that the farther down he went, the bigger the canyon seemed to get. From the top, it looked like just a huge hole, but as he descended, the walls of the canyon seemed to flatten back and the hole became another world. It was something like that with the lawn. After a
couple of hours, I could see that I had come a long way, but the distance between me and the county road didn't seem to shrink that much. At the twelve-o'clock fire siren, I shut off the motor and went up to the porch to eat lunch.

“You're the slowest lawn boy I've ever had,” said Dr. Kahn. “At this rate it'll take you most of the week just to cut the grass.”

I shrugged because I felt bad and didn't know what to say.

“Obviously, you don't care. Do you want this job?”

“Yes.”

“Then prove it to me.”

I didn't finish my lunch, but I wasn't too hungry. The first bologna sandwich stuck in my mouth, and I forced it down with juice I sucked out of my orange. I ate the candy bar for quick energy, and hit the lawn.

I tried to go faster, but then I went over a stone. Clang. The blade batted it against a tree. Thud. I got panicky. The rest of the afternoon was a blur. The heat was pounding me into the ground, and my clothes stuck to me. My underwear was strangling me. Sweat pouring down my
forehead stung my eyes and blinded me. My hands and feet were burning. My lungs were bursting. I tried to think of Captain Marks, but now the whole daydream seemed dumb. I'm the slowest officer in the U.S. Cavalry. By the time I get to the fort, the stagecoach will be a burned-out wreck, the Colonel's daughter kidnapped and my whole troop will be spread-eagled on the sand waiting for the red ants.

I thought three o'clock would never come. I cut two more rows just in case my watch was running on its usual low Basal time, and then I pulled the mower up to the shed. Dr. Kahn was waiting for me.

“What am I going to do about you?”

“I don't know.”

“Are you sure you want this job?”

“Yes.”

“How can I pay you seventy-five cents an hour when you're not doing seventy-five cents an hour's worth of work?”

I shook my head.

“You seem like a decent boy,” said Dr. Kahn. “I want to give you every opportunity to prove yourself. But obviously I can't pay you top
dollar. I might allow you to keep working, on a strict trial, of course, for fifty cents an hour. Well?”

“Okay.”

“Tomorrow. Nine
A.M.
Sharp.”

For the second day in a row, I turned away before he could see me cry.