The Life and Times of Benny Alvarez (13 page)

Another Alvarez Goes AWOL

I
'd like to say it's raining outside as I begin my journey, that the sky is raven black, the wind pummeling me like the breath of an angry god—something poetic. But the weather's not cooperating with my mood. There's not a cloud in the sky, and the birds are chirping like crazy. About halfway home, I stop at a little park and sit on a swing, trying to compose myself so some passerby doesn't think I'm a nutcase and call the cops.

Two squirrels are chasing each other around an old pine tree, stopping once in a while at its base to nibble on something. Seeing as I'm not going to eat lunch today, I take two snack bags of chips from my box, slowly approaching so as not to scare them away. I crush the chips, then toss crumbs to the birds, trying to lure them toward me, remembering that day at the playground. At first they're shy, but then they creep closer, sometimes stopping to gawk, while standing on their thin legs. I wonder if they can sense my confusion. Wouldn't it be nice if they would circle and sing a song, like they did in
Sleeping Beauty
? But all I hear is my father's unhappy voice. “Another Alvarez gone AWOL,” he says.

When I turn around, I'm surprised to see him smiling.

“You and Crash are going to bury me yet.”

“Not appropriate, Mom would say.”

“Thanks for at least choosing a playground that's on the drive to school. Otherwise, I'd be scouring the whole town.”

“Is Ms. Butterfield mad?”

“No, she said to take it easy on you, that your motives were noble. I guess that poet guy spoke up for you.”

“So I'm not in trouble?”

He laughs. “Well, let's see. You walk out of school in the middle of class, which I guess doesn't happen every day, and then everyone has an hour-long nervous breakdown, hoping you haven't thrown yourself into a lake or been abducted by a serial murderer.”

“Only we Alvarezes think of those scenarios.”

“Not according to your principal, who by the way I should call, so he doesn't contact the police.” He looks at the squirrels, who have scampered away and are hiding behind the trunk of the pine tree. “Say good-bye to your friends. You shouldn't have even gone to school today. You still look terrible.”

When we arrive home, my father thaws out a container of Irene's chicken soup, and we have lunch, not saying much. He isn't mad or interested in grounding me, though after we eat, he orders me to my room. “Get some sleep,” he says. Before I leave, I open my backpack and give him a copy of my poem. “Read this,” I say. “It's important to me.”

“Then it's important to me, too.”

I can't begin to explain the weird dreams I have. There's even one where I'm at Becky Walters's party, slow dancing, yes, my friends, slow dancing with Claudine. My hands are clammy, and I'm looking over her left shoulder, trying to avoid eye contact. Surprisingly, I'm a pretty good dancer as I lead her around Becky's backyard. It's like one of my basketball dreams where I can dunk the ball.

I wake about four, feeling rested. I blow my nose for about a half hour, then shower and come downstairs. My father and Crash are playing Scrabble Junior and ask me to join them.

“That's so cool, Benny,” Crash says.

“What?”

“That you walked out of school.”

“Yeah, cool,” my father says. “I always wanted Crash to look up to you, Benny, though I was hoping it would be for getting As on your report card.”

“What Dad means, Crash, is that's it's not cool to break out of school, and if you ever do it, you better have a good reason or Mom will blame me for ruining your personality, and you're unhappy enough on your own.” Though he doesn't look very unhappy as he creates a double word for ten points.

“Very nice, Crash,” my father says.

We play for about fifteen minutes; then Jocko and Beanie show up. I let them in, and Jocko says, “Is your dad home? Is he mad?”

“I'm only twenty feet away, Jocko,” my father says, “so you better not compare me to your mother again.”

Jocko peers around the corner. “Is he serious?”

“Dead serious,” my father says.

“Man, the dude has big ears.”

“Yes, the dude hears everything,” my father says.

Next thing I know, my father's standing behind me. I can tell by the terror in Jocko's eyes.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Alvarez,” Beanie says.

“I have a question for you, Beanie. When you're with Benny and someone shouts, ‘Hey, Beanie,' how do you know they aren't saying Benny?”

Beanie's looking at him like it's a trick question.

“Ah, forget it,” he says. “Why don't you guys go downstairs and I'll make some popcorn, as long as Jocko doesn't think that's effeminate.”

Jocko begins to explain himself but my father interrupts, saying, “Not necessary, Jocko, not necessary at all. Just watch your back, dude.”

When Crash lets out a loud laugh from the kitchen, Jocko realizes my father isn't going to whack him over the head with a poker and seal him up in a box.

In the basement, Beanie says, “What was that exit all about, dude? Everyone thinks you had a nervous breakdown.”

I can't help but laugh.

“It's not funny, Benny. The guys were counting on you, and that poem is awesome.”

“I was laughing at ‘nervous breakdown.' What seventh grader uses that?”

“Mostly the girls,” Beanie says.

“What did Ms. D and Caulfield end up doing?”

“So it's Ms. D again?” Jocko says.

“Yeah, I'm going back to it.”

“Can I ask why?”

“No.”

“I'm with Benny,” Beanie says.

Jocko agrees, then Beanie says, “Ms. D guessed I had a copy of the poem, so she asked me to read it.”

“And you did?”

“No. I knew you had your reasons for leaving.”

“That must've burned Caulfield.”

“The opposite. Everyone heard what you said to Claudine, and you should've seen your face. I thought you were going to hug her. Caulfield mellowed things out by saying some poems weren't meant to be read and that the contest wasn't important anymore. Finally, he gave Claudine a collection of sonnets and said he had something special for you.”

“But how are you going to explain bailing to everyone else?” Jocko says.

“He doesn't have to,” Beanie says. “Complimenting Claudine's poem really impressed the girls. They think you're sensitive. And guys aren't going to care about poetry in another week.”

I've been called a lot of things in my life—negative, combative, confrontational—but never sensitive. I kind of like it.

“The poem is great, though,” Jocko says. “You should read it.”

“We'll see.”

Everyone falls silent, seeing my father's feet appear on the basement stairs.

He hands me a bowl of popcorn, then walks slowly and quietly upstairs, swaying like a zombie. I should tell Beanie and Jocko he's doing this on purpose, but I don't want to ruin his fun.

“Did you see the way he looked at me?” Jocko says.

I'm trying not to laugh.

We shoot pool for a while, then I hear my mother come home, followed by her voice from the top of the stairs. “We have to talk, Benny.”

“Uh-oh,” Beanie and Jocko say as one, and before they leave, I thank Beanie for having my back.

“Huh?” he says.

“For not reading the poem.”

“No problem, and thanks for deciding to call her Ms. D again.”

“Yeah,” Jocko adds, “that Butterfield is a real mouthful.”

Claudine and a Dog Not Named Hobo

T
he next day my mother makes me stay home because she thinks my sickness caused me to weird out at the Poetry War. “People become maudlin when they're ill,” she says. “Maudlin: bathetic, cornball, drippy, lachrymose, weepy.” What she doesn't realize is that I knew exactly what I was doing, but fortunately, she's not mad once she discovers why I left, and I guess Ms. D and Caulfield convinced the principal not to make an example of me. My mother said the two of them were so concerned, they actually wanted to visit but then changed their minds.

Caulfield and Ms. D sipping wine in my living room? Now, that's a weird image.

I sleep late and go to breakfast with my father and Crash, who, unknown to my mother, has also called in sick. “Sometimes,” my father says, “there are more important things than school.”

“This coming from a teacher,” I say.

“Which gives me the right to declare a holiday, Benny.”

Crash couldn't care less about the logic of his day off. All he knows is he's being treated to pancakes and bacon, then later a movie. We return from the matinee early enough so I can take a nap, then I sit on the back porch, playing Scrabble Junior with Crash. We're in the final stages of Indian summer, and in spite of the rain earlier in the week, the temperature today is in the midfifties. While Crash and I are rearranging our letters, Irene and Aldo appear on the porch, Irene watching us play while Aldo fills the bird feeders.

“Grandpa's coming over tomorrow,” Crash says.

“Yeah, Dad told us,” I say.

“He's changed a little, Crash,” Irene says, “so don't be disappointed if he's a little frail.”

“We're going to watch the birds,” Crash says.

“Were you listening to me?” Irene asks.

“Grandpa said to arm the Nerf gun, so we'll be able to ‘come out packing.'”

Irene gives up and turns her attention to Aldo.

Just as I'm about to lay down the word “nabob,” which I know Crash will unsuccessfully challenge, the doorbell rings and Spot goes crazy, even though he's heard this sound a thousand times. Irene is now helping Aldo to move a bird feeder to a safer area, and I can't locate my father, so I head for the door, hoping it's not Jocko or Beanie. I don't feel like any Benny-bailing-out-from-the-poetry-contest updates today.

I open the door, shocked to see Claudine standing before me. She looks uncomfortable, her hands behind her back. She's wearing jeans and a green fleece top, which makes her eyes seem even greener, and she's not alone. There's a tan Labrador puppy attached to a nylon leash she's obviously clutching behind her back. It's then I realize I must still be napping, so I anticipate waking or morphing into another weird fantasy, but nothing changes. Claudine's still standing there, as the puppy jerks on the leash and Spot barks and growls like a lunatic, throwing himself against the screen door.

“Is this a bad time?” she asks. When she shows her hands, one holds the leash, the other is grasping a rectangular package with blue wrapping paper and a red ribbon.

“It's always a bad time with Spot,” I say. “‘Weird' is probably a better word.”

“Always the right word, hey, Benny?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” she says, and I catch a glimpse of the old Claudine, the one who has spent the last five or six years annoyed with me.

“Spot won't do anything but lick you to death,” I say, “and he loves puppies.”

She laughs, the first time I've ever made her do that. The dog is jumping on her as Spot continues to yelp. Something has to be done, but I'm feeling a bit comatose.

“Why don't you ask her in?” Irene says from behind me, where she's standing with Aldo and Crash.

I open the door, and Spot immediately rushes toward the Lab, smelling its behind.

“Don't have a heart attack, Spot,” I say, which is a real possibility.

Crash follows Spot, kneeling and petting the Lab, which makes Spot more excited.

“Relax, Spot,” Crash says. Then he stands and scrutinizes Claudine. “Are you the harpy who's ruining Benny's life?” Unfortunately, I remember making that nasty comparison in his presence, though I doubt he even knows what it means.

“Welcome to Crazy Land,” Irene says.

“You should see my house,” Claudine answers.

“Don't speak too soon,” Irene says. “You haven't met my father.”

I can hear him climbing the basement stairs.

“Who do we have here?” he asks. He's wearing tan shorts, a black T-shirt, his winter boots, and gardening gloves. He's been cleaning his workroom and is obviously still concerned a family of mice may attack him.

“You sure you want to stay?” Irene asks Claudine.

“Yeah,” Aldo says. “There's still time to reconsider, though you'll eventually get used to us all.”

“I feel like I'm missing something,” my father says.

“She's the harpy,” Crash explains.

“Does anyone mind if I say something?” I ask, finally inviting her in. After a few introductions, everyone stands around until Irene says, “Why don't you and Benny sit on the back porch?”

“You don't mind if Happy comes, do you? He's not completely trained yet.”

“Neither is Crash,” my father says, patting Crash playfully on the head.

“Don't worry about it,” I say. “The backyard's fenced, so the dogs can run around.”

It seems like two hours before Claudine and I end up on the porch. She still looks uncomfortable.

“You're probably surprised,” she says.

I'm about to reach for the Book to find the right word, because “surprised” doesn't cut it at all, but I don't want to annoy her again.

“Yeah” is all I come up with.

“I just wanted to thank you for what you said.”

“I meant it. I didn't know Hobo, but I felt like I did after your poem.”

“Do you think you'll read yours?”

“I want my grandfather to hear it first.”

“Jocko told me.”

Good old Jocko.

“I'd love to read it,” she says. “All this verse poetry/prose poetry stuff seems stupid now.”

“Don't expect everyone else to agree.”

“Who cares? They're not the ones who wrote the poems.”

“When did you get Happy?”

“The vet told my mother Hobo wouldn't get better, so she brought Happy home to keep him company, hoping she might make Hobo healthy. She didn't, but Hobo loved watching her play.”

“So Happy's a girl?”

“Yeah. Pretty sappy name, isn't it?”

The sunlight is making her hair shimmer. She looks toward Happy and Spot, who are chasing each other around a hammock. I can tell she's excited Happy is in her life, but Hobo's death still seems to weigh on her.

“I almost forgot to give you this,” she says, handing me the package. “I guess Mr. Jones bought it just for you. It's a book.”

I unwrap it. The title is
The Devil's Dictionary
by a guy named Ambrose Bierce.

“Mr. Jones told me to tell you, let me see,” she says. “I wrote it down.” Then she removes a piece of paper from her back pocket. “He said it's hundreds of definitions that are ‘funny yet also true but most of all irreverent.' He said to look up any two words and read them out loud to me.”

I page through the book. “Your choice: hand or history.”

“Why don't you read both?”

“Hand: ‘A singular instrument worn at the end of a human arm and commonly thrust into somebody's pocket.' History: ‘An account, mostly false, of events, mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers, mostly knaves, and soldiers, mostly fools.”

Claudine laughs. “I can see why he thinks they're funny.”

“Yeah, but my mother would hate them.”

“Why?”

“She'd think they're negative, though I'd try like heck to show her they're also true.”

“You can't question everything, though, or make fun of it. It's kind of exhausting, don't you think?”

“One thing's for sure,” I say, “Jocko and Beanie will like this book.” Then we spend the next half hour reading some of the definitions, my favorite being, “Heaven: A place where the wicked cease from troubling you with talk of their personal affairs, and the good listen with attention while you expound your own.”

Before she leaves, I go upstairs and print off a copy of my poem. I hand it to her, saying, “Don't read it until you get home.”

“Sure,” she says.

“And promise you won't show it to your friends, okay?”

“Promise.”

There's an uncomfortable silence, because we both know the rules have suddenly changed. Like me, she's probably wondering how we'll deal with each other from now on, because kids are used to us arguing.

After she's gone, Crash joins me on the porch. “Sorry the harpy thing slipped out. I knew it was a lousy word because I looked it up after you used it.”

“What did you find?”

“It's a filthy, hungry monster with the head of a woman and a bird's body. Don't know why you ever called her that, Benny.”

“Doesn't quite fit her, does it?”

“No, she's pretty.”

“Yeah, everyone says that.”

“Cool dog, too.”