Stand Tall (4 page)

Getting ready for bed, watching the clock tick off the seconds, minutes. On Saturday, Tree had taken the clock apart to see how it was made, and when he put it back together, there were two parts left on the table. He didn’t trust the clock much after that.

He got into his queen-size bed, lay at an angle, covered himself with two blankets. Angle sleeping gave him more room.

He had heard that people grow when they sleep, so last year he’d tried to stay awake to stop his bones from expanding. He was so tired, he kept tripping over Bradley, who up to that time had felt safe sleeping in the hall.

A cold draft blew into the room. He hadn’t minded a drafty room as much when his parents were still married, but his room seemed colder these days.

He tried to sleep. Couldn’t.

Got out the cool laser pen his father had gotten him from the sporting goods show at the convention center.

Took out the insides. Put each part on the desk. Studied the laser section—it was so small to make such a big light.

There was a beauty in seeing how things worked, machines in particular.

Grandpa taught him that.

He put the pen back together piece by piece, saw the clean lines of each ink cartridge, the small tunnel for the laser beam that had to be fixed on the little battery just so. The batteries had to be put in the right way or the flashlight wouldn’t work. There was no other road to take in the battery world—the negative and positive ends had to be touching.

He turned out the light and shone the laser on the wall, making circles and slashes like a space warrior.

He wished life could be simple like a laser pen—with clean lines and a clear purpose.

“Men . . .”

Coach Glummer walked slowly across the basketball court in the Eleanor Roosevelt Middle School gym and studied the faces of his team, the Fighting Pit Bulls.

“What, men, is the purpose of basketball?”

This seemed like a trick question to Tree. Most of his school day had been filled with them.

What is the purpose of an adverb?

Why is grammar important?

Who was the thirty-second president of the United States?

Coach Glummer looked for an upturned face. “Darkus?”

Steven Darkus, who was as bad at basketball as Tree, took a wild stab. “To make the basket?”

“That’s it, Darkus. The purpose of basketball, the purpose of this team, is to make the basket again and again. We have failed in that purpose—with two exceptions.”

The exceptions were Jeremy Liggins and Raul Cosada, the best players.

He walked past the team. Stopped by the plaque the PTA put up after last year’s pitiful season—words of encouragement from Eleanor Roosevelt herself:

Coach Glummer had always felt that Eleanor Roosevelt, a tall person, had untapped basketball potential.

“There is hidden talent on this team, and we’re going to find it.” He stood in front of Tree and gazed up.

“There’s gold in you, kid.”

“There’s not, Coach. Really.”

“You’re a Pit Bull for a reason.”

The
reason
, thought Tree, is that I need six sports credits to graduate from middle school.

Coach Glummer put the ball in Tree’s huge hands. “I know talent when I see it.”

And Tree so wanted to tell him that being big didn’t mean being talented. Being big didn’t mean extra special or super-human or athletically gifted.

It just meant large.

Every coach Tree had ever known believed that somewhere he had athletic ability.

“Keep your eye on the ball,” coaches had shouted to him over the years.

Tree tried. He focused on basketballs, footballs, baseballs, golf balls, soccer balls, tennis balls, Ping-Pong balls, but they rarely went where they were supposed to go.

“Trust your instincts,” they told him.

Tree tried. But his basic instinct was to avoid sports altogether.

“Use your strength,” they’d advise.

Tree knew he was strong, but he couldn’t figure out how to use it. He could lift a couch by himself, but that didn’t come in handy except when his mother was rearranging the furniture.

“Keep practicing,” they’d shout.

Tree kept practicing and stayed mediocre.

“I’m not real athletic,” he told coach after coach.

But they weren’t listening. They were remembering the trophy years when Tree’s brothers, Curtis and Larry, carried their teams to victory.

Tree’s father came back from those games a proud man. Curtis and Larry got college sports scholarships.

Tree’s dad came back from Tree’s games saying, “It’s not about winning, it’s about playing your best.”

That’s what winning athletes always say to losers.

Tree hoped there were college scholarships for height.

He wished Coach Glummer could see him help his grandfather. He could steady a one-hundred-and-eighty-pound man by himself, fold up and carry a wheelchair one-handed, but that didn’t count on the basketball court or in grammar or much of anywhere.

He bounced the basketball in his hands.

Bounced it again.

Mr. Cosgrove was fixing the scoreboard.

Someone had taken some letters off again. Instead of PIT BULLS it read PITS.

Last week it read BULL PITS.

Mr. Cosgrove stood on a tall ladder, added the BULL, moved the S, epoxied them in place. Held them down till the glue set. Those letters weren’t going anywhere.

Nothing like epoxy to make a thing right.

Tree bounced the ball, kept his eye on the net. Shot.

Missed.

He tried five times.

Coach Glummer shouted, “
You’re so close to the net, kid, how can you keep missing?
”

Because
, Tree thought,
I’m not good at this.

Mr. Cosgrove walked off, carrying his ladder; smiled so kindly at Tree. Just last week, he’d fixed the door in the library—rescued Mrs. Asher, the librarian, who’d been stuck in the media center for two hours.

Jeremy Liggins made an easy basket, smirked at Tree.

Tree wanted to make baskets, too, but even more than that, he wanted to go home.

“There are big things in store for you, boy.” Tree’s uncle Roger always told him this. “
Big
things.”

What are they?

That’s what Tree wanted to know.

VA Rehab Center. Six
P.M.

Grandpa was tired, but he wasn’t going to admit it. He stood at the parallel bars. There were mirrors all around. Tree put a riser in front of him. Dad was supposed to be here tonight, but there’d been a problem at the store again.

Mona Arnold, the physical therapist, wore a white jacket
and white pants. She’d been born in Ethiopia in eastern Africa, came here as a girl.

She stood alongside Grandpa. “Learning to move without that leg is going to feel different than when you were walking with an injured one, Leo. Our brains are wired to have all our limbs working. I want you to take it slow and not be a hotshot.”

“Check.”

Grandpa didn’t like going slow. He grabbed the bars, slid forward, up on the riser and down again. Over and over. Tree watched.

“That’s good, Leo. How does that feel?”

“Like the leg’s still there and hurting.”

He’d have sworn last night it had never gotten amputated at all.

Mona nodded. “That’s called phantom pain. It’s very normal.”

Grandpa muttered that it might be normal, but it sure felt weird having a ghost for a leg.

“The big goal,” she said to Tree, “is to get your grandpa strong so he can get his new leg. I need to teach him how to do things with half a leg that lots of people take for granted. Getting on the toilet. Taking a bath. Getting dressed. Getting in and out of a car, maneuvering around the kitchen, carrying food from one room to the next. The more you understand how this works, Tree, the more you can help.”

Tree nodded, brought the walker over. Grandpa wheeled himself to an exercise pad, hopping on his good leg. Tree helped him lie down, strapped a leg weight to his stump.

Other men were exercising, too.

“Lift, Leo,” Mona said. “Hold it for eight.”

Grandpa struggled with this.

Luger, a huge vet who’d lost a hand, was practicing holding a cup with a prosthetic hand. He kept dropping the cup. Over and over he tried to pick it up.

“You almost got it, Luger,” a soldier in a back brace shouted.

“How’s that leg feel, Leo?” Mona asked.

“Like I’ve got a lead weight attached to a sore stump. You’re a cruel woman.”

She smiled. “I get meaner. Three reps on that. Then switch to your good leg. Five reps. We’ve got to strengthen the good leg because it’s going to be taking more of the weight. All through this process we’re going to strengthen the best you’ve got. So, what have you got, Leo?”

Grandpa looked at his half leg. It was easy to see the loss of it. He was a one-legged man; disabled.

But he wasn’t going to concentrate on that.

“I’ve got every part of my body working except below my right knee. I’ve got a decent mind, a big-time stubborn streak, and a world-class grandson.”

Tree smiled bright.

“That’s a lot, Leo.”

A few more reps, Grandpa switched the weight to his good leg. This was hard work.

Luger dropped the cup again, frustrated. He’d been a drummer. He sure couldn’t do that now.

He shouted out like a drill sergeant, “
Men
, are we having fun yet?”

“No, sir!” the vets cried out.

“
Men
, are we going to fight this like soldiers or fools?”

The vets looked at one another, grinned.

“Like fools, sir!”

Everyone laughed.

Luger dropped his cup again, but this time he kicked it hard across the room.

“
I can still kick!
”

And everyone in rehab worked a little harder.

Tree took it in, thinking about his oral report he had to give tomorrow on the Vietnam War.

Tree hated oral reports.

Jeremy Liggins smirked at him, made him forget things. Once Jeremy held up a sign when Tree was giving a report on wolves.

B
EHEMOTH
B
OY
, it read.

Tree forgot a whole section of his report that day.

“Gargantuan Gargoyle”—that was Jeremy’s latest name for Tree.

Tree took the names apart. Decided Jeremy had his species confused—he could be either a boy or a gargoyle, not both.

Tree wasn’t going to look at Jeremy tomorrow.

He’d look at Sully, who would seem interested even if he was bored stiff. Sully wore a hearing aid and
never
turned it off when Tree was giving a report.

That’s the kind of friend he was.

Tree had never worked so hard on a report in his life.

He hoped he could change Mr. Pender’s C-minus opinion
of him as a public speaker. He always got a C minus from Mr. Pender.

“More energy, Tree.” Mr. Pender always said this. “Make eye contact. Make that delivery snappy. Show us you care. Make
us
care.”

“What is the purpose of war?”

Tree said this loud to the class; tried to make eye contact, nervous as anything.

“Sometimes the answer is clear. In the Revolutionary War, the United States wanted freedom from taxation from England. In the Civil War, the country fought over slavery. In World War Two, countries came together to stop Hitler’s invasion across Europe. But the Vietnam War was different. To many people, the purpose of that war is still unclear.”

Tree felt his mouth get chalky; he looked at Mr. Pender, who actually looked interested. Sully leaned forward in his seat.

Tree turned to the first poster he’d made—showing antiwar demonstrations and soldiers fighting in the jungle.

“Our country was divided about Vietnam. Some people believed the war should go on and some people felt it was wrong. It was a new kind of war, too, because people could see it on their TV screens and watch people die in battle. It was a different
kind of war because of the military weapons that were used.”

Another poster. This one of unusual words.

“The Vietnam War had its own language. A ‘Bird’ was a plane. A ‘Big Boy’ was a tank. ‘Bug Juice’ was insect repellent.”

The class laughed. Tree felt strong, way above C minus.

“‘Greased,’” Tree said solemnly, “meant killed.”

He talked about the U.S. presidents who oversaw the war—Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford. He talked about President Jimmy Carter, who gave amnesty to the draft dodgers, men who left the country instead of fighting in a war that they didn’t think was right.

He talked about how so many vets felt like unwelcome strangers when they came home because the country had changed while they were gone.

He showed them pictures of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., which had every name of every soldier who had died carved into a wall.

He talked about putting a wreath by his grandfather’s good friend’s name.