Spud (7 page)
Authors: Patricia Orvis
Sirens. Close sirens, and lots of them. Sounds like some high speed chase you’d get
with that
Cops
show. My afternoon siesta under the tree is abruptly interrupted by
these menacing, uninvited, too close sirens. What the flipping hell?
Disoriented from my heat-induced nap, I slowly gather my surroundings and realize
the guys aren’t back yet. I’m still alone, and it’s gotten a little darker. My God,
what time is it? Where are the guys? Oh no, this isn’t good! And oh, I realize, as
I sit up, I have a headache from the booze. The annoying, incessant wailing of the
sirens is not helping. And my left arm has horrible sunburn as it’s the body part
that somehow was hit by sun as I slept. Damn tree. Nice job shading me…
Two racing ambulances and three police cars arrive up the road not far from me and
toward the river. Oh dang! First the officers and paramedics, then Steve, Tyson,
and Mike all show, climbing from the different vehicles. They are climbing out slowly,
though, stupid-looking. I rush over, now fully awake and a feeling of panic in my
chest.
“What happened? What’s going on? What did you do? Are you in trouble?” I’m shaking
like crazy, frantically asking questions that are not getting answers. The cops are
busy with their walkie-talkies, and the paramedics are heading toward shore. It’s
all so confusing and mumbled, and I can’t understand what anyone is saying!
Did the cops find out we were drinking? Is that what this is about? Did they get
in trouble for illegally going off the bridge?
Wait.
Just wait. Think, Jack.
That wouldn’t bring this many cops and the ambulance for
just that. What did they do? Are they going to jail?
Am I?
“Steve?” I plead, trying to get his attention by the cop car. “Talk to me. What is
this?” I wave my hands at all the commotion. Steve is crying, hands going through
his hair. The others are just standing there, not knowing what to do or say. Looks
of complete shock on their red, sunned faces.
They are dumb-founded. No one is giving me anything solid to go on, and I know I’m
like a broken record with my questions but god dammit, why won’t someone talk to
me? I scream, “Tell me, dammit!”
“Oh, man, Jackson,” Tyson wails, finally. He’s almost in tears, still running his
hands through his sun-lightened hair, then up and down his arms like he could possibly
have a shiver in this heat. His head keeps shaking back and forth, like he’s watching
a tennis game, but not sure where the players are.
“It’s Spud!” he continues. “He was the first to jump, while we were talking, and
when he got in the water, he panicked and started shouting that his foot was cramping.
Mike and Steve then jumped to help him, but they couldn’t; it was like Spud was possessed,
all cussin’ and kickin’ them and fightin’, like he was all cramped up and scared.
They tried to hold him, get him to relax, and to pull him toward shore with them,
but they weren’t strong enough. He kept going under the water, and they tried to
keep him up, keep his head above to get air, and my God…,” he stops for a second.
“Then, as they were in the water struggling so much, I flagged a car, got in and
we headed for the police station. By the time the cops and me,” he pauses, “and me….”
“By the time the cops and you what? Finish, asshole!” Really,
the patience is not
here. Not for this.
“By the time we got back to the shore for them, Mike and Steve reached it, but no
Spud.” His voice lowers, “He’s gone, man. Couldn’t make it. Freaking gone. There
ain’t anything they could do to keep him up. It was too much in that current, the
wind, Spud was fighting them all the time.” Now, his words are quaking so horribly,
I can hardly understand him. His head’s down, and he’s shaking, trying not to cry
so much.
What? Spud. My God. How did I miss that? Those three got out of the car and not Spud.
I must have known, have felt it, deep down. That’s why it all made no sense.
For real, what is he saying? He’s nuts. Spud is gone? Where the hell did he go? Is
he kidding me? My best friend is gone? Where the hell to?
“What? I don’t get it! What the hell did you do? Where’s Spud, Tyson? Where? What
the hell did you do? You asshole! Why didn’t you save him? Why’d you let him even
jump? Why?” I shout, grabbing Tyson by his bare, red shoulders and start shaking
him, his head and hair flopping with my efforts.
“Gone where? You asshole! What did you freak-ass idiots do? Where the hell is Spud?”
Now, I’m crying like a baby, and a cop pulls me away from Tyson, who is not even
trying to shake me off, just letting me pummel him further.
“Calm down, son,” this tall, muscular cop says, stressed and in a hurry, it seems.
“Come on, leave him alone, ain’t his fault,” his voice is loud and stern, but protective
toward me. He leads me a bit away from the river to gather my thoughts.
I’m still crying, still rambling, asking
why
? crying
why?
still shocked as freaking
hell. What the hell? What to say? What to do? I let him take control, as I can’t
think for myself.
His strong, huge hands are on my shoulders, but standing behind me as he explains
the same things Tyson just said. I don’t want to look at him. I’m furious and frustrated
and heaving tears. All I can do is keep asking “Why?”
At this, I hear lots more chaos, more cars arrive. I turn to see my parents through
my water-clouded eyes. There’s also Spud’s dad and step-mom, Uncle Ned, and a few
from his gathering, all over by the cop cars and ambulances.
This is real
, I’m thinking,
this is real. I can’t fathom all the people, the sound of disbelieving voices, the
flashing of the ambulance lights. The damn heat. Something horrible has happened.
More cops, lots of official looking stuff. Ma has somehow appeared next to me, and
I collapse into her, against her sweet smelling shoulder, my tears keep coming. I
have no clue. What has happened? Oh my, I can hardly breathe. Suffocating out here.
Things are getting so fuzzy, and everyone seems to be talking at the same time. Just
stop!
What will happen? Between my disbelief, the river, Mom, my shock, the alcohol, my
nap, my tears, my pounding head, this blasting awful news, I faint.
“Jack? Jack?” Mom is standing over me, her hand on my forehead, and I’m laying on
a couch. With further looking around, I realize it’s in Ned’s family room, the kitchen
off to the side where I hear many voices. Please, not more muffled voices.
“Oh Jack,” she bends to hug me and I take in her cottony summer perfume. “I’m so
sorry.” She’s crying, lightly, but still. Now she sits on the floor next to the couch,
hand on my head.
“What?” I ask, trying to sit up. I don’t get it. Why’s she sorry? Am I sick? I feel
sick, my stomach is nauseous, and my head feels like it’s been pelted with a hammer.
“Jack, Spud….”
Spud. Oh no, it’s real. I remember. It’s really real.
“Spud?” Not great with my words and comprehension, it’s all I can mumble. I still
don’t want it to be true. I’m growing increasingly alert now, my chest in panic again,
like there’s that Nina Patton girl sitting on me.
“Jack…, the river; he had cramps and panicked. He’s,”she can’t finish and doesn’t
even have to.
“Oh, God. No.” I don’t know what else to say. How can this be true? One minute he
was there, and now he’s not? This can’t be. My best friend. My best best buddy. Oh
God, his parents…his girls… his guitar playing. What about all that? I can’t look
her in the eye, and I am staring at the turned-off television across from the couch.
Mom’s saying something, but I can’t comprehend. It’s all like blah, blah, blah. She
sounds like the lady, the mom, in the Charlie Brown cartoons.
Mwa Mwa Mwa.
Can’t
make it out. Nonsense. It’s too hot. It’s too fast. The room is taking on a swirling
like a carnival ride gone haywire. The white walls are fading into swirls of white
and blue and black, swirling like a tie-dyed shirt. Making me dizzy. Why can’t things
stay focused. Why do I keep feeling sick? Why can’t I face this? Where is Spud, though?
His body. Man, who wants to think about that? But did they find his body? Maybe there’s
still hope! I realize I’m not getting these words out; they’re stuck in my head.
Mom’s talking, as others have come in the room, and I can’t talk back. I’m a mess,
a head pounding, sweat-drenched, blubbering mess, and it’s not gonna get any better.
Listen to me, god dammit! If they haven’t found him, if there’s no body, then maybe
it isn’t true! Help me! I can’t get the words out, and the struggle is too much.
Nina, get off my chest! Stop the pounding in my head, please. My hands are cradling
my head,
trying to stop the pounding and the loud wailing of the sirens. Why won’t
they stop wailing? Are they really wailing? It’s like they’re in the next room! Please,
make them shut off. And those stupid walls, who painted them that way, all spinning
so fast… All spinning so fast. Oh, Spud. Spud. Spud.
Staring at my own white ceiling. What else is there to do? Nothing. No point. Mom
has tried to come in to my room and talk, get me to move from my bed, made offers
of ham and cheese omelets. Nope. Tacos. Nope. Oreo cookies with milk. God, no. Spud
loved Oreos, drenched in a tall glass of ice cold milk, all soggy. We could eat a
bag in a sitting. Yum.
Zoë has tried to get me into a Mario Brothers or Monopoly game. Nope. I want them
to go away. It’s been two days of this. Leave me the hell alone.
Every now and then, I toss a tennis ball against the wall across from my bed and
catch it and toss it again, but that’s only until it happens to not bounce back very
well and land on the floor, and then I don’t want to get up to get it. Also, I might
find myself lost staring at my huge poster of Kelly Kapowski, from
Saved By the Bell,
that’s been on my wall since last year’s birthday money splurge. She’s pretty cute
with her long brown hair and friendly smile. The pink halter and too-short cut-off
denim shorts do wonders for her body. She’s hot. Ahh. Another world. I wish I was in fake television land.
Why do we get to still be here, still live and breath, watch our favorite shows,
eat juicy steaks and burgers and sweet Oreos, play Nintendo and Monopoly and Scrabble,
go swimming, watch the White Sox, live life, have laughs, but not Spud? Why is that?
And Zoë? She never even liked him! What a hypocrite sister! How can she pretend to
care? She probably is glad! I bet they all are just freaking fantastically happy!
They all said, so many times, “Spud’s bad news. He drinks, he smokes, he steals,
he will get you in
trouble, Jack!” What did they know? Screw ‘em all! I don’t want
their stupid-ass pity. They all suck! I hate them!
Unable and not wanting to move, I’ll keep staring at my ceiling, tossing my ball,
talking to Kelly. Staring at pretty Kelly.
I know, really, that I
should
shower,
should
eat a proper bit of food,
should
get
some movement, but truly, I don’t care what time it is, or what day. Because Spud
s
hould
still be here, and he’s not. That’s way out of the rules here. So why
should
I give a flying felony about rules or what’s right? I just don’t want to take part
in the dumb, hot, unfair world. Why anyway? It can all end in a minute! And why Spud?
Damn damn damn! Talk about July of ’95 going into the record books. Spud was right
on the mark with that comment.
A light knock on my door. Leave me alone. Now what? I’m not answering. Let them knock.
“Jack?” Ma’s soft voice is on the other side. It’s hard to be angry with her, but
I’m going to be mad at them all. I ignore her, pretending to sleep. I hate myself.
“Jack?” She opens the door and steps into my oven of a room. I’ve got windows closed,
blue curtains closed, don’t care that there’s no AC in here. The gray carpeting doesn’t
make it any cooler, either. It’s quiet, my television is off, no radio is playing.
Just a quiet, stifling oven. Sweating my ass off, but I don’t care. I can lie in
my undies with my guitar pick necklace, no shirt, all the rest of my life if I have
to.
“We really need to talk, honey. I know this is hard, and I’m so sorry. But there’s
the wake and funeral, and we need to talk about things and get ready.” She’s on the
edge of the bed, stroking my hair that’s wet from sweat, looking at the wall away
from me. She knows, like a mom just always knows, that I’m really not asleep.
“Why don’t you talk, honey? Tell me how you are. I know it’s
hard. Cry. Talk. It
might help.”
“I,” I pause because I just can’t yet. “No. Please, can’t this wait, just an hour
or so? Please?” An hour? How about a lifetime.
“Okay, rest. I’ll be back in a while. You want anything?” She gets up. Looking around
the dusty, stuffy, lifeless room. You can tell she’s distressed by the crinkle in
her forehead. Her startling green eyes are full of concern, not twinkling with laughter
like normal. Am I causing this?
“No.” I turn over as she leaves and lets me hear her sigh of distress, and I don’t
even thank her for trying. I’m being rude now, and I cannot help it. I’m so mad at
this whole world. How on earth can life change in just one, carefree moment?
And a funeral. How can I face Mike and all of them? They practically killed Spud!
How can I carry my best friend’s casket? How can I face everyone?
I have to. Damn, I know I have to.
The heat certainly hasn’t let up, suffocating the masses still, as we’re all gathered
at the funeral home in Marseilles. Besides all of the family and relatives, there
are many friends. Everyone liked Spud. There was even a separate wake last night
just for school kids, and then, of course, there’s the usual one for close friends
and family. It’s crazy stuff.
Somehow, I have managed to get off my bed, put on the required clothing, and do what
I’m supposed to do. I’ve moved along like a robot, a puppet doing what I’m told to
do, but now around all the people again, I’m feeling a tad more human.