Pop (17 page)

“I've heard about the Raiders. I should have guessed Charlie's son might be on that team. Never could light a fire under my own boys to take much interest in football. They see me creaking around on two bad knees....”

“So can you drive us?” Marcus asked anxiously.

“Sure,” Mac agreed. “It'll be great to see Charlie again—even if he thinks you're me and I'm some old cue ball from the Stone Age. Where do I pick you up?”

Nervously, Marcus gave his own home address. He couldn't risk Charlie's family seeing him leave in a strange car. And a neutral location like Three Alarm Park might seem suspicious to Mac.

Now all he had to do was make sure the most unpredictable guy in town presented himself at exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

T
he screen door clattered open and Troy appeared on his front porch, shrugging into a Raiders letter jacket. “Hurry up, Chelsea!” he shouted over his shoulder as he walked out to his car in the driveway.

“Give me five minutes,” his sister called from a second-story window.

“I'm not waiting!” Troy got into his Mustang, started it with a roar, and began to honk vigorously.

A few seconds later Chelsea rushed out, simultaneously brushing her hair and trying to stuff her backpack. The argument between Troy and his sister happened every morning, as dependable as the sunrise. This was a mild one. Usually Troy was halfway down the block, racing the engine and shouting through the sunroof, while Chelsea ran along the sidewalk, begging him to wait.

From his hiding place four houses down, Marcus could not make out her angry words to her brother as she jumped in the car and they squealed away. It was the third straight day that Marcus had staked out the Popovich home. In order to make sure that he'd be able to find Charlie on November 14, it was important to chronicle the man's routine—if there even was one. Alzheimer's patients were, by definition, erratic. And yet even animals, without the benefit of wristwatches, fell into patterns of behavior that put them in the same place at the same time, day after day, doing the same thing.

Sure enough, there was Charlie, right on schedule, coming out to sit on the porch swing. As always, he had the paper under his arm, but his attention to it consisted of a brief glance at the front page. Then he set it on the cushion beside him and began methodically peeling a banana. This was new. The last two days, breakfast had been a bagel. As he began to eat, he absently tucked the peel underneath his seat, where it was immediately ground into the glider track. Yuck.

Marcus squinted. Why was Charlie wearing a puffy bomber jacket? It was a warm fall day, probably headed to the low sixties, and he was dressed for the North Pole. The thought had barely crossed Marcus's mind when Mrs. Popovich appeared. She exchanged her husband's winter gear for a light windbreaker, kissed him on the cheek, and went back into the house. A few minutes later, Charlie stood, performed a few warm-up stretches, and left the porch at a jog.

Marcus started the Vespa and followed along at a discreet distance. So far, so good. Charlie always went the same way—downhill, in the direction of Three Alarm Park. It was in town that the route would begin to vary. Different distractions would pop up, and it was impossible to predict which of these would attract his attention and take him off course. It could be as simple as music coming from an open car window or a line of people at a bus stop or the hot dog cart. The man was naturally drawn to lineups. Marcus thought this might be a rare glimpse into his disease. A group with a clear purpose had to be attractive to someone who could never quite recall the nature of his own. It was kind of sad.

On the other hand, Charlie didn't seem unhappy. He didn't even seem lost. Every now and then, he'd be ecstatically greeted by someone who recognized the town celebrity. That had to increase his sense of belonging. He took it all in stride and was charming and friendly to everybody—even the ladies who tried to flirt with him. Marcus would have given a lot to know what was going on in Charlie's head at those moments. If he thought he was a teenager, what could his opinion be of these middle-aged bats who were old enough to be his mother?

He checked his watch nervously. Five minutes to first period. He had already missed history two days in a row. No way could he cut again. If the office called his house to see what had happened to him, Mom would hit the roof. He had already put her through so much with the impending court case, and the worst was yet to come. The fallout from November 14 was likely to be enormous—and he knew she would try to take the brunt of it for him. That was just the way she was.

A plan formed in his mind: Go to school for history class, then cut second period and come back to see if he could reacquire Charlie. It was a good test—to see how hard it would be to find his quarry on the move, rather than always starting out from Charlie's home first thing in the morning.

An hour later, he was on the bike again, not coasting but pushing the motor flat out, speeding toward town. He tried Three Alarm Park first, and then began to cruise up and down the nearby streets. No Charlie.

He began to sweat. How could he even consider a plan like homecoming if he wasn't truly confident he could produce the man of the hour?

He continued the sweep, working his way outward from Poplar Street until stores and businesses were less common. The small downtown ended, and the neighborhood became increasingly residential.

A muffled banging reached his ears over the Vespa's engine. At the bank branch on the corner, a tall man stood pounding his fist against the ATM.

Marcus rode up and jumped off the Vespa. “Charlie—what's wrong?”

The King of Pop turned around in outrage. “I didn't get my gum!”

“Your
gum
?” Marcus examined the machine. An error message flashed on the screen. An unhealthy buzzing sound was coming from the card slot, where a small coin had been jammed inside.

“I paid my dime, and I want my gum!” Charlie stormed.

“It's not a candy machine,” Marcus tried to explain.

Charlie delivered another wallop to the cash door. “Well, what's it for, then?”

Gently, Marcus placed a hand on Charlie's arm and led the former linebacker half a step away from the bank.

“I know you from somewhere,” the King of Pop said uncertainly.

“I'm Marcus. Marcus Jordan.”

Charlie's eyes found the Vespa. “That your bike? I've been thinking of getting one. My car… I don't know where my car is.”

“Want a ride?” Marcus swung a leg over the scooter and slid forward in the saddle to make room for Charlie to join him. Then he gunned the throttle. The supercharged bike rocketed past the buildings and storefronts of downtown Kennesaw. Charlie let out a whoop of exhilaration, feeling the wind whipping through his curly hair.

Marcus felt like whooping himself. He had finally figured out how he was going to get Charlie over to his house for the ride to EBU.

As they skirted the fence surrounding Three Alarm Park, Charlie peered over Marcus's shoulder and took in the familiar trees.

“Hey, Mac,” he shouted over the roar of the engine, “how come you never told me you've got a motorcycle?”

N
ovember 14 was sunny and breezy, perfect weather for the Poughkeepsie West game—and East Bonaventure's homecoming.

Marcus sat astride the Vespa at the end of Charlie's street on Seneca Hill, tearing his hair and fuming. Where was Charlie?

He checked his watch, not for the first time. Ten after nine. In the entire two weeks that Marcus had been staking Charlie out, never once had the man left his house any later than eight thirty. What a day for an unexpected change in the routine!

In twenty minutes, Mac was going to pull up to the Jordan home to drive Marcus and his old friend Charlie to EBU. And nobody would be there.

What was going on? Were the Popoviches keeping a tighter rein on Charlie now? Understandable, but why start
today
? Every other morning Charlie went off on his own and, by design or by accident, he always found his way home. From the perspective of the family, today was no different.

Something must have happened.

But what?

The noise coming out of the speakers was painful and earsplitting—a cross between audio feedback and an animal roar.

It brought Chelsea running down to the basement. “Daddy, what are you doing?”

“The stereo's broken!” Charlie shouted over the din.

She stared. “No it isn't!”

There on the old-fashioned turntable sat a gleaming silver CD, being scratched and mangled by the diamond stylus on the tone arm. She lifted the needle off the disc, and blessed quiet descended on the house. “This isn't a CD player. It's for your old vinyl records.”

“I knew that,” said Charlie stoutly.

“Here—this is from your collection.” She selected a Rolling Stones album from the rack, slid the record from its sleeve, and set it on the turntable.

As the familiar guitar chords began to play, her father perked up. “Now,
this
is rock and roll. Thanks.”

Chelsea tossed the ruined CD into a wastebasket. “Enjoy.” She headed back upstairs.

Her father settled in to listen to the music. When the record ended, he became aware of another sound—a persistent tapping. Bewildered, he turned around until a face at one of the windows high on the basement wall caught his eye. A teenager was beckoning frantically.

Charlie pushed open the slider. “What do you want?”

“Come on!” Marcus stage-whispered. “We're late!”

“Well, let's go.” He didn't have a clue what they might be late for, but there was no mistaking the urgency in the newcomer's voice. This had to be important.

He took the basement stairs two at a time and strode to the door, a man of purpose.

Mrs. Popovich looked up from her laptop computer. “Oh, I thought you were already out for your run.”

“I'm late,” Charlie explained briskly.

“Well, don't stay out too long. Don't forget we've got Troy's football game this afternoon.”

“Got it,” Charlie promised, shrugging into his EBU warm-up jacket. The face at the basement window was already gone from his mind as he hit the porch running and started off down the street. He didn't even notice the teenager waiting for him half a block away. He only looked up when he heard the Vespa's engine rev.

The smile on Marcus's face was one hundred fifty percent relief. “Hi, Charlie. Hop on.”

Charlie hesitated. “Do I know you? I don't know you.”

Marcus kept his voice steady. “Sure, you do. I'm taking you to the homecoming game.”

Charlie brightened.
Right. The football game
.

He climbed onto the back of the Vespa. “Is this just a little putt-putt, or has it got some guts?”

Marcus twisted the throttle, and they were off. He drove fast, but not out of any need to impress Charlie. Mac believed he was picking up Charlie at the Popovich residence. The last thing Marcus needed was to invite questions about where they were coming from.

When they got to the Jordan house, Marcus barely had time to stash the Vespa in the garage before a silver Toyota Avalon tooled up to the curb. Mac jumped out, beaming. In a voice that was at the same time excited and reticent, he exclaimed, “Charlie, I'd have known you anywhere!”

Watching them, Marcus was trembling in his boots. What in the world was Charlie going to think of James McTavish? He certainly wasn't going to recognize this bald, middle-aged accountant as his friend Mac.

But Charlie breezily replied, “Yeah, good to see you,” and got right into the passenger seat of the car. If he was confused, it didn't show.

Mac looked at Marcus over the top of the Avalon. “How's he doing today?”

“So far, so good,” Marcus replied. “He knows he's going to homecoming. But it can't hurt to remind him a lot.”

Mac nodded. “We'd better get moving. We're bringing the guest of honor, and he shouldn't be late.” He folded his long legs under the wheel. Marcus climbed in the back, and the Toyota pulled away.

Marcus had wondered about the conversation during the two-hour drive. What could these two possibly find to talk about?

He needn't have worried. Mac had brought along an old cassette tape of East Bonaventure University's fight songs.

Marcus watched, transfixed. As soon as the music came on, Charlie's lips began to move. After a few bars, he was singing word-perfect with the lyrics.

Amazing! The guy's memory was in tatters, yet he had perfect recall of school songs he hadn't heard in more than thirty years.

Mac joined in, and soon the Avalon reverberated with the sound of two old guys bellowing off-key, but more in tune with each other than the voices of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

The song dissolved into a chorus of belly laughs. Mac wiped his eyes, one hand on the wheel. “You know where I found this tape? It was propping up the short leg of my workbench in the garage! This is priceless stuff! It brings back college like it was yesterday!”