I asked, "What does all that mean? What's a power-eye? Is it like a telescope?"
Hawg stopped still. He looked at me like I had just asked what planet we were on. But then he seemed pleased to be able to explain, "A power-I, my darlin', is a football formation. The center—which is me—the quarterback, the fullback, and the tailback all line up in a straight line, like a letter I. It's smash-mouth Southern football at its finest."
We reached the intersection of Everglades Boulevard and Route 27. Route 27 is a four-lane highway with a thin grass median. It was once the western end of Atlantic County, and of civilization, until the Lyons Group built the West End Mall and Century Towers.
I stopped and checked the traffic to the south. Suddenly, Hawg spun around and yelled, "Here's how she works, Roberta!" He looked around him at some imaginary teammates. "The center hears the play and the count. Then he breaks the huddle." Hawg clapped his hands together once and spun around, like he was doing a comical dance step. "He leads 'em all up to the line." He strode forward three paces, to the edge of the highway, and crouched down with his rear end facing us. "He snaps the ball, and he fires out!" With this, Hawg exploded out of his crouch like he had been shot from a cannon. He sprinted blindly, faster than I ever thought he could, running recklessly across all four lanes, and into the mall parking lot, where he slowed and stopped.
A white station wagon in the northbound lane, and a U-Haul truck in the southbound lane, whizzed by right after Hawg's sprint. The truck leaned on its horn. I waited with Ironman while a stream of other vehicles raced by. I asked, "Does he do that a lot?"
Ironman grinned nervously. "I've seen him do it before. When he's showing off for somebody."
"Why would he show off for me?"
"I don't know. People don't usually ask him to explain football stuff like you did."
We waited until the light changed, and crossed to the parking lot. Hawg yelled out to Ironman, "Hey! What took you girls so long?"
We walked together across the nearly empty parking lot, toward the tall glass doors of the mall entrance. It was already hot, Florida-asphalt hot, and the parking lot was a shimmering mirage. I noticed Dad's Chevy Malibu parked next to Suzie's Miata. Hawg noticed it, too. He looked at me and pumped his fist. "All right! Won't need to watch Mr. A-rab's damn TV today!"
We parted company at the mall office. Suzie was already seated behind her desk. She had Dad's copy of the newsletter in front of her, and she didn't look happy. She snapped at me right away, "Roberta, what is this turtle thing that you wrote?"
I sat in one of the two seats in front of her desk and looked at her, confused. I finally said, "You know. It's the feature you asked me to write. About the mall's mascot."
Her mascara'd eyes narrowed. "Roberta, this is not the feature I asked you to write. I asked you to write up something about how Toby the Turtle came to be our mascot." She held out both hands toward me, as if they contained a crystal ball. She spoke like she was seeing back into the past. "There was a contest. Hundreds of kids entered this contest. One kid sent in the name Toby the Turtle and a cute drawing of a turtle. That kid won the contest. End of story."
I sat up. "No, that's not the end of the story. And that's not the real story."
My dad came in with two Danish pastries. He walked around behind the desk and handed one to Suzie.
I told them both, "Ten years ago this area was a big turtle habitat. Hundreds of alligator snapping turtles lived here. An environmental group from Brevard County called Save the Turtles got an injunction against the Lyons Group and stopped the bulldozers from rolling and from plowing them all under. It was a big news story."
Dad said, "I never knew about that."
At that moment I realized that Dad hadn't read my feature after all. I answered, "Mr. Lyons agreed to donate another parcel he owned as a wildlife sanctuary. The environmental group rejected the offer, but an Atlantic County judge overruled them. One day later the bulldozers started to roll. They entombed all those turtles."
Dad said, "That's awful."
Suzie slammed her pastry down on the desk, scattering crumbs. She rounded on Dad. "Will you help me out here, please? I have to explain to Mr. Lyons why we're digging up some ten-year-old dead turtles in his newsletter when we're supposed to be spreading positive news about the West End Mall!"
Dad looked from Suzie to me. He finally said, "Well, Roberta, I guess what Suzie is saying is that this turtle business is really water under the bridge. You know? Part of the past. The newsletter is strictly for good stuff."
Suzie interrupted. "Strictly for good stuff, from now on. And from now on, Roberta, I need to see every word that you write before it goes into the newsletter. Do you understand?"
I meekly said, "Yes."
Suzie wiped up the crumbs on her desk and dumped them into the wastebasket. Then she took a deep breath, stretched her lips around to her ears, and smiled. She said, "Good. I appreciate your help on the newsletter. You know that. But Mr. Lyons is very sensitive about this turtle stuff. Especially since he's running for the state senate. He could read this at the wrong time, on the wrong day, and I'd be fired on the spot."
Something outside the glass caught Suzie's attention. She said quickly to Dad and me, "Oh no! I forgot about the steering committee meeting."
The door opened behind us, and I turned to see Sam and Mr. Lombardo. Mr. Lombardo is a real old guy, about seventy-five, and he looks it. He owns the drugstore in Slots #44 through 46. He, Sam, and Suzie make up the steering committee of the West End Retailers Association.
Sam said, "This is going to be a quick one. Right, Suzie?"
Suzie smiled. "Right. It should take about five minutes."
Mr. Lombardo demanded, "Is this about the fall slogan?"
Suzie tensed up. "No, Mr. Lombardo, as I told you on the phone, this is about capital improvements. We need to approve the funds for the new fountain."
"What fountain?"
"In the rotunda."
"There's no fountain in the rotunda. There's just a bunch of loose tiles lying out there, waiting to trip somebody."
"There is a fountain under the tiles, Mr. Lombardo. There always has been. You've been here long enough to remember it. They say it was a very beautiful fountain, and we now want to bring it back to life."
Mr. Lombardo held up his newsletter. "I want to talk about this slogan." He pointed a long finger at the banner headline above and to the left of my turtle feature.
Sam protested, "I'm here to talk about capital improvements."
But Mr. Lombardo ignored him. "'Fall in the Mall.' What kind of cockamamy slogan is that? 'Fall in the Mall.' Like, 'Come in here and pretend to slip on a floor tile and sue us'? 'Take what little money we have left'?"
Sam rolled his eyes.
Suzie explained, as if to a child, "Mr. Lombardo, I think you know that the slogan means it's fall in the mall. Like autumn. Except that autumn doesn't rhyme with mall, but fall does."
"I don't care if it rhymes. It stinks."
"You're entitled to your opinion, Mr. Lombardo. It happens to be the same slogan the Gold Coast Mall used last year, and I don't recall that they had any lawsuits."
"No. They didn't have loose tiles piled up in their walkway, either, I'll bet."
"Mr. Lombardo, we are fixing the floor. We are making capital improvements to the rotunda. Do you understand that? We're restoring its beautiful fountain. People are going to remember that fountain, and they're going to want to come back to the West End Mall to enjoy another look at it."
Mr. Lombardo looked at Sam. He said, "Great. Maybe they'll throw some pennies in it, and we can divvy them up."
Sam stood up. "Sorry. I don't have time for this today. I have a business to run." He said to Suzie, "I vote in favor of the fountain. Does it take a simple majority to approve this?"
"It does."
"Then it's approved. Let's go for it." Sam exited as quickly as he had entered.
Mr. Lombardo stood up. "I have
n't approved anything!"
Suzie offered, "If you wish to vote against the fountain, your vote will be duly noted."
"Yeah. I vote against the fountain, and I vote against that slogan, too. And that Arab boy isn't the only one who has a business to run around here. I've been running a business in this mall since he was in diapers. If those people even use diapers." Mr. Lombardo started to stalk out, but he suddenly stopped and looked over at me. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded newsletter, and pointed it at me. "Oh yeah, and I remember this turtle thing, too, little girl. Mr. Lyons wants to be a senator? I wouldn't vote for him for dogcatcher." He stomped out.
Suzie waited until she was sure he wasn't coming back before she smiled at us and said, "It's official. The fountain is approved."
Dad went up to Suzie and gave her a big hug and kiss. I moved back up to the desk. Suzie disengaged from Dad and said to me, nearly in tears, "Do you see why I get so upset about little things? There are some real nasty people around here." She picked up the newsletter, came around the desk, and playfully banged me on the head. "Listen, Roberta, Mr. Lyons himself wants to be the feature in October's newsletter, right before the election. Do you think you can write a little something about him?"
I nodded nervously.
"Without putting anything about dead turtles in it?"
I laughed, although I wished I hadn't. I said, "Yes. I can do that. What should I write?"
Suzie put her arm around Dad. "Explain what a recapitalization is, very simply, for people like Mr. Lombardo. Explain that the bank has to reapprove the mall's loan every five years. It's important that the merchants here get a personal statement from Mr. Lyons so they know he's behind them and the recap. We need something to buck up the troops here! This place is so depressed, my god!"
Dad sympathized. "Yeah. That old Lombardo's a fun guy."
Suzie answered, "Sam can be just as bad, in his own way. He sends in these Arabs, with pushcarts, to talk to me about renting mallway space. I have to tell them no. That's only going to scare away our remaining white customers. What we need are upscale businesses—boutiques, salons, bistros. I'm not turning this place into some Arab bizarre."
I corrected her. "It's bazaar."
"What?"
"B-A-Z-A-A-R. It's not 'biz,' it's 'baz.'"
Suzie snapped at me, "Roberta! What on earth are you talking about?"
Dad said, "Honey, I think Suzie needs a little quiet time."
"Oh. Okay." I exited the office. By the time I passed by the window, Dad was already kissing Suzie again.
All the stores were open now, but the mallway was practically empty. Karl was alone in the arcade, standing behind the counter. I went around to get my name tag and was surprised to hear him ask, "So how's it going, cuz?"
I looked at his eyes. Karl seemed in focus and very relaxed. This happens sometimes when his medication is just right. Kristin calls this Karl's "window of opportunity," when you can talk to him for a while like he's normal.
I said, "It's going okay, Karl. How about you?"
By way of reply, he handed me a note and commented, "I guess this is for you."
The note was in Uncle Frank's handwriting. It said, Roberta, take the Wizard dummy to the trash trailer. Ask our own dummies to help you. I reread the note, puzzled. Was he trying to be funny?
Karl eyed me curiously. "I'm not one of those dummies, am I?"
"No."
"Good. Good." Karl returned to his magazine, his brow furrowed in concentration.
When I opened the back door, I saw that the guys had dismantled the Wizard already. The Wizard had been our mallway display dummy for the past three months. We all thought he looked pretty cool, with his star wand and his pointy blue cap, but the Crusader made him look like a garden gnome. Now, Hawg and Ironman had stuffed his various parts into two large garbage bags. I said, "Are you guys ready for the trash trailer?"
Hawg was sweating from his exertions. He grunted, "Yeah. Hell, it'll be nice goin' someplace cool. Right, Ironman?"
Ironman grinned. He didn't have to say anything. I knew that he, too, really liked this part of the job. He and Hawg each grabbed a bag. I grabbed a fast-food drink cup that Karl had left behind and led them out the door, across the back parking lot, to the trash trailer.
The trash trailer is a long rectangular box—ten feet high, ten feet deep, and fifty feet long. It is actually a walk-in refrigerator. The temperature inside is a constant twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. All trash from the West End Mall has to be stored in the trash trailer overnight and picked up first thing in the morning. It's the law. Ray Lyons got the law passed shortly after the mall opened and his Century Towers condos were overrun by rats.
I pulled on the big metal handle and opened the door. Hawg and Ironman pushed past with their bags, eager to get into the cold air. They carried them down to the far end and placed them next to some barrels marked FOOD COURT ONLY. Then Hawg reached up and pulled the string on the overhead lightbulb. I let the door close behind me and followed them down there, laying my cup in the barrel. Then I said, "Come on, guys, it's freezing in here."
Hawg said, "Well, it's a damn refrigerator, ain't it?"
"Are you coming?"
"Naw, we're gonna chill here for a little while. Right, Ironman?"
I didn't need to look at Ironman to know he agreed. Against my better judgment, I said, "All right. But don't tell Uncle Frank I let you. And don't forget to turn the light out when you leave."
I left the back door of Arcane unlocked for Hawg and Ironman, something I would never have done if Uncle Frank were there, and walked up to the front of the arcade. Dad was out in the mallway looking at the Crusader, so I joined him. He pointed at the Crusader's chain-mail collar and asked me, "Are those words there? Is something written on his collar?"
I looked at it again and answered, "Yeah. We think it means 'two volts' in Latin. He has one of those battery-operated heads. Like the Wizard."
Dad said, "Cool. People are going to love him. Who do you fight?"
"I don't know." I called inside, "Karl, has anyone done Crusader yet?"
Karl looked up from his magazine. "Yeah, I did it this morning. It's awesome. Real kick-ass."
"Who do you fight against?"
"I don't know. Some guys with turbans on their heads."
I said, half serious, to Dad, "We might think about an Arab Policy." He just laughed and walked off toward the food court.
I looked around the arcade. Not one customer was in there, so I sat down on the Crusader platform to rest. It was shaping up like a bad day, financially speaking. Sundays often are. That's why Uncle Frank usually takes Sundays off. Kristin does, too. Karl, on the other hand, never takes a day off. He comes in every day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. At least he did for his first two years. Last year he stopped taking his medication for a while. He went nuts one night and started smashing windows with a tire iron. He got sentenced to ten days in the Positive Place, so he messed up his perfect attendance.
I never work the whole day on Sunday because I ride with Mrs. Weiss out to the cemetery. She visits her husband's grave; I visit my mom's crypt. Today, Mrs. Weiss had invited Mrs. Roman to join us.
Dad was behind the counter when I went to turn in my name tag. He asked me, "Are you going with Mrs. Weiss today?"
"Yes."
He shook his head and sighed. "You know, sweetheart, I would like to go with you. I just can't take it."
"I know. That's okay."
"I do stop at Mommy's grave on my own, when I get my courage up."
"You do?"
"Yes, of course. More than you might think." He managed to smile. "I sit by that statue of Jesus, and I look up where Mommy is, and I pray."
A voice interrupted him. "That's not a statue of Jesus!" Dad and I turned and saw the short, skinny body of Mrs. Weiss on the other side of the counter. She added, "That's an angel. I'm Jewish and I know that."
Dad laughed uncomfortably. He sa
id, "Yes, of course. I guess it is."
"It definitely is. It has wings. Did Jesus have wings?"
Dad shook his head. "No, I don't think so."
"And it has a big sword. Did Jesus carry a big sword?"
Mrs. Weiss lifted her right arm high enough to show me what she was carrying. "I brought the stepladder from the store for you, Roberta."
I took the stepladder from her and we started out together. Dad called, "Have a good time, you two."
We both stopped and stared at him. Dad got flustered and added, "I don't mean it like that. I mean, have a good, safe trip."
Mrs. Weiss walked away ahead of me. When I caught up to her in the rotunda, she said, "Maybe if they served beer and had dancing girls, he'd go to the cemetery."
I said, "He goes to the cemetery, Mrs. Weiss. More than you might think."
Mrs. Weiss made a small snorting sound. She pointed ahead, to the entrance door. "There's Millie. I told her to meet us here. Her dead husband's out at the cemetery."
Mrs. Roman had on a dress and panty hose and a rain hat. She called out, "I didn't know whether to bring a raincoat. Do I need a raincoat? I have an umbrella."
Mrs. Weiss told her, "No, you'll die in the humidity. We're never more than a short walk from the car. You'll be fine."
The three of us hurried out into the parking lot. A strong gust of air, thunderstorm air, hit us just as we reached Mrs. Weiss's Lincoln Town Car. It's a really big car, and really white, with a red leather interior. We pulled out of the mall parking lot just ahead of the black wall of storm clouds.
Mrs. Weiss talks more than I do, but she is no match for Mrs. Roman. Mrs. Roman did most of the talking on our ride. I sat in the backseat and listened. Every few minutes I leaned my head back and looked out the window at the swiftly moving storm in the west. The sky seemed to have a green tint.
I was surprised when Mrs. Roman turned around and asked me, "So, Roberta, how old are you?"
"I'm fifteen."
"And you go to high school?"
"Yes, ma'am. I just started my junior year."