A stopping-off place, I’d told Avanelle, but that would be five long years. I rolled off the bed, picked up my Barbie case, and locked myself in the bathroom. I needed to have control of something, even if it was nothing more than a block of wood.
I slept fitfully that night. In my dreams, Punky was being tortured in a warehouse by a whip-cracking monster while Aunt Queenie yelled, “Hit him again!” and kept tabs in a notebook. I tried time and again to scream, but the sounds caught in my throat.
When I woke up, my throat felt dry and scratchy. I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to take a hot shower. I was out of bath soap, so I washed with shampoo. I wouldn’t ask Aunt Queenie for a bar of soap. What’s more, I wouldn’t ask Aunt Queenie to throw me in the river if I was on fire.
I spent a long time just standing at the closet, trying to decide what to wear. I didn’t want Avanelle to think I’d dressed up for a visit to her house, yet I wanted to look nice for Tree. At last I settled on a pair of soft stone-washed jeans and a mint-green shirt that had elastic in the waist and made my chest look one size bigger than Ping-Pong balls.
As I blow-dried my hair, I pictured Mom’s damp hair curling into ringlets. Mom would never have let Aunt Queenie ship Punky off to work. Wouldn’t she just die if—
Instantly, a cold sweat popped out all over my body. Mom was already dead. Shaking violently, I shut off the hair dryer as .my legs gave way. I sank onto the edge of the tub and sat staring at the God’s eye above the mirror. I might have sat there all day if Punky hadn’t come into my room, saying, “I’m starved.”
When I didn’t get up, he came into the bathroom and perched beside me on the tub. Taking my hand, he said gently, “I love you, D.J. You love me?”
His eyes were puffy from sleep, and his cheeks still had streaks from being pressed against the covers. He looked as soft and defenseless as the Pillsbury Dough Boy. “You bet I love you,” I said, pulling myself together. “Let’s see what we can find to eat.”
SIXTEEN
Sitting on a Time Bomb
My aunt and uncle were gone, and Aunt Queenie had left a note telling me she’d be at the athletic field, of all places, until early afternoon.
“Probably checking all the fence posts to see if they’re in line,” I muttered, tossing her note aside. I knew I’d have to face her sometime, but it was a relief not to have to look at her this morning. She was bound to be mad about the fit I’d thrown the night before. Well, let her be mad. That’d make two of us.
After breakfast, I scribbled a note of my own: “Punky’s with me.” Feeling smug, I stuck it on the refrigerator. I’d left out the details on purpose.
I told Punky we were going visiting, which was the wrong thing to say. He took great pains shaving and perfuming himself, washragging his spiky hair, and packing his Jellybean lunch box. Finally he put on his red jacket and rammed his cowboy hat down over his ears, and we were ready to go.
We walked to Avanelle‘s, where Birdie, Randolph, and Eddie were waiting for us on the porch.
“Clown hair,” said Punky, tousling Eddie’s hair as he scooted in between Eddie and Birdie on the steps.
Eddie responded to Punky’s teasing by crossing his eyes and pulling on his ears.
“You’re a clown,” said Punky.
Birdie giggled.
“You’re a clown, too.” Punky tweaked her curly mop.
Randolph hadn’t said a word, but his eyes were enormous when he saw all the treasures in Punky’s lunch box.
“One, two, three, four ...” Punky counted, taking out his clowns and animals and lining them up at his feet.
“We can play pet store,” squealed Birdie.
“Or zoo,” said Eddie. “Let’s have a zoo.”
“Yeah, buddy,” replied Punky.
I could see he was in good hands, so I crossed the porch and tapped on the door.
“Come in,” Avanelle yelled from somewhere at the back of the house.
I found her in the kitchen, where she was up to her elbows in soapsuds.
“Pull out a chair and sit down beside it,” she said with a grin. “I’ll be done in a minute.”
“Hi, Delrita,” Mrs. Shackleford called from a bedroom, where she was dressing Gordy.
I sat down and glanced around, but there was no sign of Tree. Maybe he slept late on Saturdays.
“Do you like parades?” asked Avanelle.
Her question surprised me, and I said, “Well, uh, sure. Doesn’t everybody? Why?”
“The high school’s homecoming parade is this afternoon. If you want, we can take Punky and all the kids to see it.”
Suddenly the cereal I’d had for breakfast rolled into a knot in my stomach. Mom and Dad had taken us to see lots of parades, but we’d always gone early enough to get a good parking spot and watch from the car. I didn’t like the idea of Punky standing on the street with a ‘mob.
“I don’t know,” I said, searching for an excuse. “Punky gets too excited. He might get sick.” Automatically, I touched the bulge in my pocket that was Punky’s bottle of nitroglycerin pills.
Avanelle pulled the plug in the sink and reached for a dish towel. “It can’t be any more exciting than going to Silver Dollar—” she began. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.” I heard peals of laughter coming from the front porch, and in that instant I knew I would take Punky to the parade. Why shouldn’t he get to see it? Besides, I thought darkly, Aunt Queenie was going to throw him to the lions soon enough. At least today, I’d be there to defend him.
Avanelle led me down the hall, and I saw that there were only two bedrooms in the house and Tree wasn’t in either one. I didn’t have the nerve to ask where he might be.
In Avanelle’s room, the two double beds were old and sagging, but they were covered neatly with faded handmade quilts. I thought how much friend lier a quilt would be than the slick pink coverlet I had at Aunt Queenie’s. Avanelle’s curtains had seen better days, but they let in the sunshine as Aunt Queenie’s custom-made draperies never could.
We sat down cross-legged on one of the beds, and I told Avanelle about Aunt Queenie’s decision.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of handicapped people, and they seem to have a good time wherever they are.”
“You’ve been to the workshop?”
“No, but in St. Louis I’ve been to their practice sessions for Special Olympics. I’ve helped out here a couple of times, on Saturdays. They’re always needing huggers.”
“Huggers?”
Avanelle laughed. “Sure. Huggers hug everybody. If it’s softball, you hug anybody who gets hold of the bat. If it’s track, you hug anybody who crosses the finish line, even the very last one.”
I couldn’t imagine Punky playing ball or running track—not Punky, whose physical activity consisted of swinging and switching channels. But I was curious about Special Olympics, so I asked, “How’d you find out about the hugging?”
“From Tree. He and some of the other guys teach the handicapped people how to shoot baskets and stuff. That’s where he is now—at the athletic field.”
The athletic field. Aunt Queenie’s note.
“Your aunt’s a hugger,” said Avanelle. “Didn’t you know?”
“No,” I said, finding it hard to believe. Aunt Queenie struck me as somebody who would be barking out orders and keeping score.
The morning passed quickly as Avanelle and I discussed everything from rock singers to what to wear to the football game next week. Every so often I glanced out the window to check on Punky. Once, I saw him singing to a real audience of Birdie and her brothers. When he finished his song, the boys clapped and Birdie blew her whistle. Another time, I was amazed to see Punky clamp his precious cowboy hat on Randolph’s head as Randolph rode the porch rail like a bucking bronco.
There were only six chairs at the Shacklefords’ table, counting Gordy’s high chair, so at lunchtime Avanelle and I
had. to stand up. I asked Punky to give her his seat, but she shook her head, saying, “I’m used to it. Tree always beats me to the chair, then tells me I can eat more standing up. Big brothers are a pain. »
I pictured her and Tree fighting for the chair and grinned. It felt good to be crowded around a table with a real, honest-to-goodness family.
After lunch, Mrs. Shackleford put Gordy down for a nap and sent the rest of us off to the parade.
As we traipsed across the McDonald’s parking lot, Punky said, “Look. Clown,” and pointed to a poster of Ronald McDonald in the restaurant window.
“Yeah,” replied Randolph. “He’s coming next month.”
“Here?” I asked.
“It’s their anniversary celebration,” said Avanelle. “He’s going to put on a magic show.”
By then we were at the street, which was lined with people on both sides as far as I could see.
The six of us drew a lot of stares as Punky bellied us through the crowd to a position in the front row. When he was satisfied with our location, he stuck his hand out to an old man and said, “Hi, buddy. Parade. ”
The old man was wearing an army coat that stretched tight across his shoulders and a cap with the VFW insignia—Veterans of Foreign Wars. Quickly he switched his cane to his left hand and shook hands with Punky. “That’s right, son,” he replied. “I’d be in it, too, if I didn’t have a bad leg.”
Someone snorted, and I looked down the row and met the eyes of a preppy-looking fellow seated on the curb. His tanned, hairy legs stuck out in the street, and he was sporting Reeboks with hot-pink half-socks. To no one in particular, but loud enough so I could hear, he said, “A general and a retard. This should be a good show.”
My pulse throbbed in my ears. I was barely aware that Avanelle had grabbed my arm and was whispering, “Don’t pay attention to him.”
I shot the loudmouth a dirty look, and he looked back at me with an expression that was frightening.
A siren sounded in the distance, signaling that the parade was on its way. Punky clapped his hands and chuckled, but by then the crowd’s attention had shifted away from him down the street.
A police car rolled toward us slowly, its red light flashing and its siren silent. Behind the car marched four old men in military uniforms and VFW caps, their faces solemn as they escorted the Stars and Stripes.
The parade was still half a block away when Punky snatched his cowboy hat from his head and held it over his heart. As the flag inched toward us, the guy with the pink socks remained seated on the curb. Punky strode over to him, jerked a thumb upward, and said, “Up, dummy!”
Children giggled and stared while grown-ups shuffled uncomfortably. The young man gawked at Punky but didn’t move.
Pointing down the street, Punky said, “The flag. Up!”
The fellow glanced around and saw that all eyes were on him. With a strangled laugh, he leaped to his feet.
“Okay, buddy,” said Punky. He stepped back in place beside the “general,” who winked at him, and together they snapped a salute as Old Glory passed.
“Wow!” whispered Avanelle. “That guy came off of that curb like a puppet being jerked on a string.”
I nodded, feeling weak in the knees at the close call. What if the loudmouth had refused to get up? What would Punky have done then? A chill passed through me at the thought that Punky might lock horns with a scary stranger at the sheltered workshop.
We watched the Tangle Nook High School band and drill team, the floats, and the convertibles carrying the homecoming queen and her court. A tractor passed, hauling a wagon full of people wearing red sweatshirts and waving furiously.
“They’re from the sheltered workshop,” said Avanelle. “See their Special Olympics shirts?”
My mouth gaped open. I hadn’t known there were that many handicapped people around Tangle Nook. I glanced quickly toward the preppy fellow, expecting him to call out an insult, but he had disappeared into the crowd.
After the parade, we went back to Avanelle’s house, which was filled with the tantalizing smell of chocolate. As I stood at the table eating warm brownies, I wished Punky and I never had to return to Uncle Bert and Aunt Queenie’s. But it was almost three o‘clock, and I knew we’d better be going. I wanted us to be invited back again, so it wouldn’t do to wear out our welcome.
Punky and I said our good-byes and left. Every step of the way, I dreaded having to face Aunt Queenie.
She was waiting for us as we entered the front door, her bun so ratty and lopsided that it perched on her head like an abandoned bird nest. “Where have you been?” she demanded, tearing off her sunglasses to reveal white-rimmed raccoon eyes on her windburned face.
“Kids. Play,” said Punky, sidling past her on his way to the family room.
I couldn’t answer. I was too shocked at seeing her in a Special Olympics sweatshirt and blue jeans.
“What kids? Where?” asked Aunt Queenie. She folded her arms and tapped her foot, which I was staring at because it was in a scruffy old tennis shoe.
“We went to the Shacklefords’,” I said. “I left you a note.”
“Some note! You didn’t say where you were going or when you’d be back. Didn’t you think that Bert and I might worry? He’s driving all over town right now, searching for you and scared half to death that Punky’s had a heart attack.”
“I—I’m sorry,” I said.
“Sorry won’t get it, Delrita. I’ve been holding back because of all the trauma you’ve been through, but this is the last straw. If we’re going to be responsible for you, we deserve a little consideration and respect.”
By suppertime, Aunt Queenie had put on a dress and makeup and slicked her hair back into that lacquered bun.
Miss Perfect, I thought as I set the silverware on the table with the handles exactly one inch from the edge.
I managed to choke down half of a baked potato and some meatloaf before the lecture started.
“Delrita,” said Aunt Queenie, “in view of your behavior last night, I believe your taking Punky and staying gone all day was a deliberate attempt to punish Bert and me. You must have been delighted when you came home and found us crazy with worry.”
I squirmed in my seat and didn’t answer, knowing that the note I’d left had been purposely vague.
“I’m glad you’re getting to know the Shacklefords, but I refuse to let a thirteen-year-old child rule my household,” Aunt Queenie continued. “From now on, young lady, I expect you to ask permission before you leave the house.”
I could feel her eyes boring into me as I sawed away at my meatloaf.
“Well, I declare,” said Aunt Queenie to the ceiling. “This girl who had plenty to say last night is using the silent treatment now.”
Uncle Bert cleared his throat and said, “Speak up, Delrita. What do you have to say for yourself?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “It doesn’t make a dime’s worth of difference what I say. You two will do what you want with Punky and me.”
Uncle Bert folded his hands on the table and studied them. For a moment, seeing the pain in his eyes, I thought he was going to stand up to Aunt Queenie. Then he said, “I loved my sister dearly, but now she’s gone, and it’s up to Queenie and me to make the decisions. You’ve grown up in Punky’s shadow. We want you to stop hiding behind him and lead a normal life. We want him to have something that every person needs—the feeling of self-worth.”
“And the workshop will take care of all that?” I said dryly. “Poof! Like magic, Punky’s got a job, and Delrita Jensen’s the most popular girl in school!”
“Well, I declare, Delrita,” said Aunt Queenie. “I’d think, at your age, you’d want your own interests outside these four walls. I’d think you’d want to do things without Punky once in a while.”
“The workshop is a step in that direction,” said Uncle Bert. “It’ll make you both a bit more independent. ”
“Besides that,” added Aunt Queenie, “it’s
not like we’re sending Punky away.”
No, I thought, that will be the next step. Ship him off to a state hospital. Lock him up and throw away the key.
I was still upset the next day when the preacher announced from the pulpit that Punky was going to work at the sheltered workshop. At the end of the service, he prayed, “Lord, give this young man a new lease on life. Help him to find satisfaction and self-esteem in hard work. In Jesus’ name. Amen.”
“Bang!” said Punky, and laughter rippled through the church.
I escaped to the car, leaned my head back against the seat, and closed my eyes.
Someone tapped on the window and asked, “Need some company?” Before I could answer, Tree opened the door and slid in beside me, bringing with him the same spicy scent of my dad’s after-shave.
“I take it you’re not thrilled about Punky getting a job,” he said.
I shook my head.
“Because you think people will make fun of him?”
“Yes.”
“The ones who do will be the losers.”
“Then there are a lot of losers out there,” I replied.
“The real losers are the ones who don’t get to know Punky at all,” said Tree. He crossed his arms, and the sun glinted on their wiry red hairs. “Remember that day when he told me I had clown hair? He’s so honest, it’s a cinch he’s not out to impress anybody. With Punky, you never have to wonder where you stand.” He chuckled and added, “Avanelle told me about the guy at the parade.”
“That’s my point. It’s like sitting on a time bomb, not knowing when he’s going to offend someone or what the reaction will be. Think of all the trouble he could get into.”
“But most people aren’t cruel to someone who’s different.”
“How could you know that? You haven’t been with Punky every day of your life like I have. You haven’t seen what goes on.”
“No,” replied Tree, riveting me with his eyes, “but I know what it’s like to be different. How many kids do you know who have a father in prison?”