Biding Time, Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

  I DIDN'T WEAR THE watch too much. I showed it to Eric, even let him push the buttons. Then I put it back in my top dresser drawer. There would be plenty of guys willing to yank it off my wrist at my junior high school. I figured I'd hang onto it.

  Uncle Rudy looked for it on my wrist. "Boy, if I didn't know better, I'd say you hocked that watch."

  "I like it so much I don't want to lose it."

  "If it'd be on your arm, you'd know where it was," Uncle Rudy said one day.

  You had to admire his simple thought process sometimes.

  If I'd had that watch on, I wouldn't have been late getting home after basketball practice that night in February. And if I hadn't been late, Tall Martin and his buddies wouldn't have gotten to me. Usually, I was with Eric. They almost never jumped two guys. They were chickens at heart. Maybe more like mean roosters.

  I didn't have but a buck on me. That made them mad as all get out. It wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't hit my head on the curb when they knocked me down. It was a dirty cut. I had to get a tetanus shot. But no stitches.

  That didn't stop mama from carrying on for two hours when I got home. If I could have washed up before she saw me, I could have told her I banged my head at ball practice. No such luck.

  Mama blamed the 'bad environment' at my school. I kept telling her school was all right, just a couple guys who went there were jerks.

  I wouldn't let her call the police. Uncle Rudy backed me up on that, at least. At first, I figured she'd get over it. After all, guys got beat up all the time in our neighborhood. Not shot too often, just roughed up.

  It was that cut on the head that made them think about me going to St. Francis for high school. When mama and Uncle Rudy both talked to me about it, I knew I was going to have a hard time getting out of it. It's not like they fought all the time, it's just they didn't agree on a whole lot. On this, they were more together than football players blocking for the quarterback.

  They had really planned it. I told mama I was going to go to high school with my friends. Everyone knew it was mostly sissies who went to St. Francis. Well, except for Eric's brother Jefferson, but he had a basketball scholarship.

  When mama said Eric's mom was going to make him go to St. Francis, too, I just about freaked. There was no way Eric would go for that. I figured he and I could stand up to them together.

  It ended up being sort of reverse bribery. Our moms didn't promise us anything if we went to St. Francis. It was what they said they would do if we went to Washington High. I knew mama wasn't kidding when she said she planned on picking me up at school every day if I stayed in public school. She said she lost Uncle Frank in a war on the other side of the world, she wasn't going to lose me to some local street war. Pretty dramatic if you asked me. Nobody did.

  Finally we made a deal. I would try St. Francis. If the brothers who ran it were as mean as I'd heard and I really hated it, I could transfer to Washington high for sophomore year. If I had decent grades. If my grades were bad, I had to stay. I planned on hating it. You couldn't even leave the campus for lunch.

  Campus. Three buildings crammed into half a city block just north of the train station. Who did those brothers think they were kidding?

  The first day of school was enough to make you drop out. Half the kids had gone to Catholic grade school together. They acted like they'd died and gone to heaven every time they saw somebody they hadn't seen all summer. Especially the girls.

  Nobody hugged Eric and me. Not that we'd have let them.

  Ninth grade was all right. Eric and me, we were the 'Shaw dudes.' That's what the kids from the suburbs called us. The black kids started it. Then the white kids started calling us that. They thought it was cool.

  Eric made junior varsity basketball. I was too short. I thought about soccer, but basically I wasn't into sports. Playing them, anyway. I watched the Redskins, and I went to all of Eric's basketball games and a lot of the practices. We decided we'd stick it out a second year. Maybe he could make the varsity.

  IN TENTH GRADE, I took geography. I kind of liked the idea of learning about the countries on my watch. I checked to be sure we'd study Asia. It was the only time I voluntarily went to the counselor's office. I didn't have to go there often for "behavior problems," just enough to establish my reputation as scornful of authority. Certainly not as often as Eric, who had gotten to be a regular on the wise-ass circuit by that time.

  "Why do you do that stuff, man?" I asked when he was suspended for throwing wads of paper at Larissa Taylor in the hall in between classes. Every day for a week, even after half the brothers in school told him to stop.

  "Don't you know cool when you see it?" was his response. It was getting so Eric was being a little too weird. I figured if he didn't watch it, he'd get thrown off the team.

  First we did Moscow. Part of the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Brother Rodriguez said the Russian alcoholism rate was higher than ours. Uncle Rudy could make a lot of friends. At least he'd have something in his blood to keep him warm. For me, no thanks. If I was going to go outside the United States, it had to be someplace warm.

  I actually got Brother Rodriguez to do Thailand the first semester. Or Southeast Asia, anyway. He had planned to do it after Christmas.

  "What difference does it make to you, Myers?" He always called everybody by their last name. "You planning to go there over the holidays?"

  "No," I thought fast. "It's just I may be dropped out by second semester." That got a laugh from about half the class.

  "Well, you may want to stay. Maybe I'm saving the best for last." He was always talking about how we should stay in school. Almost every other day he brought in a newspaper article and put it on the bulletin board. Somebody who dropped out of school and was caught for something, or doing time. Somebody who went to college and "made it out." Those articles were magnets for his fast-moving eyes. "Speaking of staying, please remain after class for a minute."

  He always tried to get you to talk to him about "whatever's on your mind." I didn't need a Catholic clergyman for a friend.

  I stayed in my seat after class, ignoring the jeers from a couple of guys as they moved toward the cafeteria. I wasn't about to walk to the front of the room. If he wanted to talk to me, he could come to me. Of course, he did.

  "What's with Southeast Asia, Myers? Know someone there?" Brother Rodriguez leaned on the desk across from mine. Guess he thought we were going to have a long talk.

  "Yeah, I got an uncle there."

  "I have a friend who stayed after the war. Married a Laotian woman."

  The war. He was in Vietnam? This was a new twist. I hardly knew anyone who'd actually been there. And most of them were drunks. I looked at him, but I didn't have anything to say.

  "I was a chaplain there. My brother was a medic.

  I still didn't say anything. My stomach growled loud enough for him to hear it, but he ignored it.

  "I thought maybe someone in your family had been there. Have you visited your uncle in...what country did you say he was in now?"

  "I didn't say." Me, the tough guy. I met his gaze. He was looking at me as hard as mama did when she knew you were lying. "My uncle never came home."

  "I'm sorry. No wonder you want to learn about it. If you'd like..."

  "I'd like to get to lunch." I stood up. What was this! I was almost ready to cry. I never even met Uncle Frank. What did I care?

  "Of course." He stood up as I walked out, bumping into every desk in my path in the short distance to the door.

  Well, that was that. I couldn't go back there. Brother Rodriguez would talk about it. He'd probably tell everybody. I ran into Eric, who was looking in the back of his locker for something. Not likely to be a book. "Hey, man," I called to him."

  He turned around. Uh oh. His dreamy look told me he was feeling no pain. "Hey, maaaaan. What's happenin'?" He a
lways thought he was funny when he was like this. I didn't.

  I hated being around him when he was drunk. Plus, he was always trying to get me to drink with him. He had a beer in his locker one day. I didn't tell on him, of course. But it was tempting. Maybe it would help him get off the sauce.

  "Not much, man," I said. "You goin' to lunch?"

  "I got my nurrrr-ish-ment for today." He laughed, throwing back his head. But then he had to grab the locker door to keep standing.

  "Looks like maybe you over ate," I said, trying to keep the scorn out of my voice. This was Eric. We used to share everything.

  "You are so out of it." Mocking me. This was how he'd taken to talking to me when I wouldn't join him in his new form of fun. He'd already been suspended once for coming to school drunk. One of the guys said he used drugs. I didn't believe it.

  "Come on, man. Let's get something to eat."

  "Can't," Eric said. "I got the rest of the day off. Courtesy of Brother Becker. He thinks I'm drunk." He laughed again.

  I regarded him. "Can you make it home?"

  "Do I have fool written on my face?"

  I avoided saying yes.

  He gave me a big grin. "If I got a day off, I'm gonna go have some fun." His expression changed as he asked, "You comin'?"

  "No." I walked around him, staying out of arm's reach. "I'm hungry. I'm gettin' something to eat." I walked past him.

  "You are no fun. You better check, see if your head's up your butt."

  I heard him stumble against his locker as he fumbled for his coat. Some friend.

  STUDYING SOUTHEAST ASIA was tough. Rodriguez surprised me by never mentioning Uncle Frank. As if he knew his name. I'd decided if he said anything, I'd quit the class. He kept his cool.

  "Of course, you can't study geography without examining a country's position in history." That was one of Rodriguez' favorite lines. "In the case of Southeast Asia, much of that recent history is bound with our own in the form of the so-called Vietnam War, which we can't really call a war, because the U.S. Congress never openly declared...."

  "People get shot it's a war." This from Reggie Marcus, in the back of the room. Reggie never said anything--ever--in any class. I'd known him since grade school.

  "I happen to agree with you, Marcus." Rodriguez didn't seem to mind being challenged on that point. "Vietnam wasn't the first time in this century that U.S. troops got killed in something our politicians didn't want to call a war. Anybody know the other time?" Nobody said anything. "Remember what they called Korea?"

  "Home of the 23rd Olympiad," came a derisive sneer from the back of the room.

  He ignored it. "They called it a 'police action.' I had an uncle killed in that 'police action.'" My ears perked up. "I can assure you, my parents never called it anything but a war." There was silence. He didn't say anything for a few seconds. "That's the same way a lot of people feel about Vietnam, only they usually have stronger opinions about it, since it was more recent."

  "My grandfather died there." A further revelation from Reggie. Unbelievable.

  "More than 50,000 American men and women died there. I'm sorry your grandfather was one of them."

  "So's my mother." Reggie half laughed.

  "You must be particularly interested in this part of the class," Rodriguez said.

  "Just a class, brother." Reggie settled back into his customary half-sitting, half-lying position in his chair. You always had to be careful or you'd step on his big feet.

  I didn't pay a lot of attention to the stuff on Vietnam. Every now and then I could feel Brother Rodriguez looking at me as he talked. He must have expected me to be more interested. What did I care if they called it Hanoi or Ho Chi Minh City? I was going to Thailand. I flunked the quiz on Vietnam. Reggie Marcus didn't even show up that day.

  I asked a lot of questions about Thailand. At the end of the week we studied Thailand, he gave me a small book, "Thailand Beckons." Beckons. I had to look it up.

  I studied the Thailand book. "Gateway to Southeast Asia." The map showed Thailand, Vietnam, Laos, Kampuchea, and a little bit of China. My finger traced the Vietnam map. Where did Uncle Frank's plane go down? I decided to ask mama.

  "Why do you want to know that?" she asked, suspiciously. "You never asked me that before."

  "I guess if I had, I wouldn't be asking you now." I stepped back instinctively, half expecting her to poke me in the side. Half tickle, half reminder she didn't have to take my lip.

  Instead, she stared at me for several seconds. "I don't know what city, if that's what you mean. I do know it was supposed to be near the border."

  "Border of what?"

  "Cambodia, I think."

  "I never heard of that. Don't you mean Thailand?"

  "It has another name now. Kampuchea. It was a long time ago, son." When she called me son, I knew we were having a serious conversation.

  "Well, why didn't they ever find him? Didn't they know where to look?"

  She regarded me seriously. "I think they knew the general area, but it was all jungle. Plus, they might have lost more men if they went looking."

  "What do you mean? Didn't they have good maps?"

  She smiled then. Sort of a sad smile. "They had maps. But the places Uncle Frank's planes flew were not friendly places. Not for Americans, anyway. They didn't want us there. Especially then." She paused. "Some folks think, someday, we'll find out about some of the men who are still missing."

  I couldn't believe my ears. "You mean he might come back?"

  That got to her. "No! He isn't..." She stopped. "We can be real sure he wasn't alive. Another pilot said he saw Uncle Frank's plane get hit and go down. It was on fire when it started down, and none of the men bailed out. Nobody used their parachute. So he has to be dead." She was telling herself this, not me.

  "So what do you mean we'll find out?"

  "I mean," she spoke very slowly, "that some people think that local people know where some of the planes are. The ones that crashed. Or maybe they even buried the bodies that were in them. And someday, when we're on friendlier terms again with the Vietnamese, we may find out what happened to some of those bodies."

  "That's gross." I was appalled at the idea that somebody would look for old dead bodies.

  She regarded me intently. "Well, it isn't real nice to think about. But I think I would like to know he's been put to rest the right way."

  I left the room. I didn't do that to her very often. Usually, I let her finish. We didn't talk about it again for awhile, maybe even a couple of years. I think Mama was glad. Maybe she was worried I would go looking for him.

  I did ask Uncle Rudy what he knew. Like Mama, before he answered my questions, he wanted to know why I wanted to know. "You and Mama talk about Uncle Frank like he was some kind of saint. I don't know any other saints, so I just want to know." I couldn't give him a straight answer, of course.

  "Well, near as I can remember, Frank's plane went down in, let's see, October. It was right near Halloween, and they told us on All Saints Day. That's why your mama, she hates Halloween so much."

  "Did Mama cry?"

  "Oh, Lord, yes. Well, we all did. I never cried that much before or since. That Frank, well, he was just so...friendly, or somthin'. Your grandma, she always said he was the apple of her eye. Not any of the rest of us minded either. Never saw such a nice young man." Uncle Rudy looked at me directly. "Course, when you put your mind to it, you can be a down right charmer yourself."

  I shifted my position on the front stoop, which we were sitting on as we talked about this. "What does all that have to do with Halloween?"

  Uncle Rudy nodded slowly. "Your mama, she says she was so upset, she kept gettin' up and wantin' to do something. So, she'd walk over and look out the front window, and that's where the leftover candy was sitting. So, she'd eat a little piece every time she looked out the window. Pretty soon, on
top of cryin' and bein' so upset, she's got a terrible stomach ache."

  I didn't get his point, and said so.

  "What I mean, or what your Mama means when she says she hates Halloween, is that every time you and Eric and all start talkin' about costumes and candy and all that, it makes her think of Uncle Frank dyin'. She don't like being reminded."

  I felt terrible. I always hassled her about how she didn't like Halloween. Just this year, I told her I didn't think she had to worry, the boogey man wouldn't come after her.

  "Maybe..it won't be so bad from now on. We don't go trick or treating anymore."

  "Just don't you be doin' like those kids down the street did last year."

  That made me mad. I'd never throw firecrackers at people's front windows. I stood up and told Uncle Rudy I had homework to do. I always figured that was sort of the ultimate insult, picking homework over talking to somebody.

  When I got upstairs I went to my chest of drawers and pulled out the watch. I hadn't looked at it in a long time. I slid it on my wrist. It fit better then the last time I tried it, which was probably a couple years ago. Seemed like it was time to wear it.