Mr. McCormick sniffed at the bag. Even through the sack the noxious smell was disgusting and nasty. “It smells like my Uncle James after he’d been eating cabbage. This should keep the devil himself out of that chute.”
Norman smiled at Mac’s pronunciation of Devil. He said Divil and spat the two syllables out like poison.
“You said there were two things, Sonny?” Mr. McCormick set the sulfur a safe distance away.
“I’ll finish the freezer tomorrow, Mac. But I was wondering if I could have an advance on my pay?”
The Grocer hit NO SALE on the cash register and it sprang open, “Big date tonight?”
Norman squirmed and shook his head.
“How much, Sonny?”
“A five will do.”
The Irishman peeled a five from the register. “How does a midget say goodbye?”
“How?”
“With a microwave, of course.” Mr. McCormick handed him the five.
“Your jokes are getting worse, Mac.”
“But you can’t find fault with the wages I’m paying.”
The noisy diesel bus clattered across the railroad tracks, crossed the Petaluma River Bridge and stopped at the corner of Petaluma Boulevard and East D Street. Norman hopped down the bus’ steps, crossed the boulevard and walked the three blocks to El Camino Construction. The construction yard was fenced by an eight-foot-tall chain link fence with two strands of barbed wire across the top. Pipes and plywood and bags of concrete were stacked inside the compound. Two forklifts were unloading bundled redwood shingles from a tractor-trailer. A small office, just a little larger than Norman’s room huddled between two stacks of scrap lumber. Norman walked to the office and opened the door. It smelled of cigarette smoke. Two men, both dressed in plaid shirts and blue jeans, were arguing about the amount of wood needed to frame a house. Norman stood quietly, surveying the office. A huge silver coffee urn that reminded Norman of R2D2 was perched on a card table. An ancient desk littered with papers dominated the center of the office; file cabinets lined the far wall. A Playboy calendar hung above the file cabinets. The men in plaid finally noticed Norman.
Red Plaid said, “What can I do for ya, kid?”
“How long have you worked here?” said Norman.
“It’s a miniature IRS agent,” said Blue Plaid.
“Right,” said Norman.
“I’ve worked here too long,” said Red Plaid. “Much too long.” He lit a cigarette and exhaled. Along with the smoke came the response. “Fifteen years. I’ve been here a little over fifteen years.” He motioned at Blue Plaid. “This joker’s been here twenty.”
“Do you remember a guy that worked here six or seven years ago? His last name was Babbit?”
“Roger,” said Blue Plaid. “I remember him. Kind of a strange character. Real quiet. He used to read on his lunch hour.”
“Why are you interested in Roger?” asked Red Plaid.
“I’m his son.”
“Oh,” said Blue Plaid. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” said Norman. “I was real little when he died and I just wanted to find out about him. What he did for a living, what kind of guy he was. You know.”
“Huh,” said Red Plaid. He studied Norman. “Like this joker said, he was kind of quiet. Good hard worker; never complained. And he was always reading books.”
“Big thick books,” said Blue Plaid, “on Astrology. He was real deep into Astrology.”
“Astronomy,” said Red Plaid. “Stars and planets; not the Psychic Friends Hotline.”
“I always get those two mixed up,” said Blue Plaid.
“Here’s a story about your Pop. What’s your name?” said Red Plaid.
“Norman.”
“Norman, this was at least ten years ago. We were doing that Sunnyslope Subdivision. Heavy equipment everywhere, grading the land, leveling out the little hills so we could lay out streets and start pouring foundations. We had an army of workers out there and Roger, he was foreman on that subdivision, stops everything. Everything.” Red Plaid smiled, “You know why?”
“No.” Norman shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Why?”
“In one of those little hills there was a fox who’d just given birth. She had these new kits suckling. Brand new. Roger stopped the whole operation for an hour while he gathered them all up in a blanket and drove them about ten miles out of town.”
“I remember that,” said Blue Plaid. “When we got done that day the boss took him into this office and screamed at him for half-an-hour. We could hear him yelling from across the yard. Then Roger comes out with this ear-to-ear grin. He’d do it again in a minute. Your father was a good man, Neal.”
“It’s Norman.” His lower lip quivered and he looked down at the floor.
“Another thing about your old man,” said Red Plaid.
“What?”
“That man drank more coffee than anyone I’ve ever seen. Cups and pots and Thermos bottles full of hot black coffee. Never any milk or sugar. Just incredible amounts of black coffee.”
“Thank you,” said Norman.
The waitress approached Norman, who sat at the counter with his schoolbooks piled in front of him. “What can I get you?” she said. “Coke? Seven-up? Root beer?”
“No,” said Norman. “Coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“Yeah,” said Norman. “Black.”
Chapter 20
“Chris, I can’t come over tonight,” said Norman into the telephone. “Mom was hot when I got home late from school.”
“What were you doing after school?”
“Stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Just stuff.”
“Okay, don’t tell your best friend.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
Chris laughed. “Maybe you can help me over the phone. What do you know about Teflon?”
“I did a little research in study hall. Hang on.” Norman pulled a piece of folded paper from his pants pocket. “Teflon,” he read, “was invented by DuPont in nineteen-forty-three. Its chemical structure is chlorine and flourime arranged in a polymerized alkene.”
“Great Normy, how do you spell that?”
“Polymerized?”
“No. DuPont.”
Norman spent the next ten minutes spelling into the phone. Following the spelling bee Chris said, “A polymerized alkene. What exactly does that mean?”
“It means,” said Norman, “that the eggs won’t stick to the pan.” Chris was silent for about ten seconds. “You still there, Chris?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking.”
“That could be dangerous if you’re not used to it.”
“Shut up.”
Norman did.
“Okay,” said Chris, “what kind of pot does food really stick to? Aluminum?”
“I’d say cast iron. Big black cast iron.”
“Okay. Thanks Norman. See you tomorrow.” Click.
“Yeah,” said Norman into the dead telephone, “see you tomorrow.”
“Wake up, Sport,” said Marcus. “Do you want to go jogging with me?”
Norman shook the sleep out of his head and stared at Marcus. He dressed in baggy gray sweatpants and a scarlet 49er jersey.
“That jersey clashes with your face. You should know red doesn’t go with purple.” Norman rolled over and covered his head with the pillow.
Marcus ripped back the blankets, “C’mon lazybones.”
“Won’t jogging hurt your face?” asked Norman, muffled, from beneath the pillow.
“I jog with my feet, not my face.” He slapped Norman’s pillow. “C’mon Sport, let’s hit it.”
Norman rolled out of bed and dressed quickly. Luigi slept, perched on the coyote skull. Norman pointed at the owl. “Luigi’s the only smart one in the room, Marcus.”
The morning was clear and cold as the brothers started their third lap around the block. “Is your face hurting?” asked Norman.
“W
hy?”
“You’ve got the left side all scrunched up.” Norman forced his face into a lopsided grimace. “Like that.”
“I hope I’m not that ugly.”
“You’re worse. You’d scare small children and animals,” said Norman, “if any were awake.”
They jogged in silence for several minutes. “This,” said Norman, “is my last lap. I’ve got a few things to do before school.”
“I think I’ll run over to Suzanne’s for some orange juice.”
“Remember you promised to drive me and the mice to school today?”
“I haven’t forgotten about your precious vermin.”
“Potentially prize-winning vermin.”
“I won’t be late.” Marcus turned left, toward Suzanne’s, and sped away.
Norman walked the final quarter-mile.
After a quick shower and a breakfast of juice, toast, eggs and bacon—without the bacon, of course—Norman quickly entered the answers on Tom Allen’s dummy test. Then he loaded his three mice cages and display into the van. While waiting for Marcus, Norman planned:
THINGS TO DO TODAY
1) Set up my science project before school
2) Slip Tom the dummy test (a dummy test for a dummy)
3) Study at lunchtime for the real Algebra test
4) Help Chris study for Thursday’s English test
5) Stop by Mr. McCormick’s after school
6) Boxing lesson before dinner
Mr. Davies handed the Algebra tests out face down, settled himself behind the gray, steel desk and said,” Begin.”
Norman flipped his paper over and smiled when he saw the test’s format; exactly as it had been all year; and exactly how he prepared Tom’s fake test. “I’d have hated to give Tom too many wrong answers,” said Norman quietly. He smiled and began solving the first equation.
Mr. Davies grew restless and began roaming around the classroom. He erased the black boards and cleaned the chalk trays. He arranged papers on his desk. He fiddled with the thermostat. He studied his students. Dave Davido chewed his pencil, Marcia Waites yanked unmercifully at her left ear, Norman concentrated on his test, Tom Allen studied the inside of his left wrist. Mr. Davies returned to his desk and scribbled in his gradebook.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it Norman?” said Tom Allen.
“I had a little trouble with problem seven, but it wasn’t too bad.”
“Not the test, stupid.” He punched Norman in the chest. “Stealing it.”
Tom spit on the inside of his left wrist and began rubbing out the answers.
“Easier than you’d think,” said Norman, rubbing his chest.
“Good,” said Tom, “because you are going to steal the next test for me too.”
Chapter 21
Mr. Lewis’ science class looked like a flea market. Science projects occupied every square inch of counter and table space. The students sat in their own seats, but most of them had to peer over or around a project to see. The three volunteers who were to demonstrate their projects had them displayed in the front of the class on the first lab tables. Mike Caldwell had his butterfly collection, the same one his sister had used for a project two years ago, leaned up on a placard explaining commonplace facts about butterflies. Darcy Norton’s project was a standard 3’ x 4’ display with pictures and careful, hand-lettered explanations. Chris’ project consisted of a single Bunsen burner and a brown grocery sack.
After Mike Caldwell had explained his dusty and faded butterfly collection to the class, Darcy presented her project, The History of the Microscope. She had pictures of the compound microscope and informed the class that the Dutch scientist Janssen had invented it in 1590. She explained the difference between the electron and the field-ion microscope.
But all this information eluded Norman. It was as if Darcy was the specimen under observation and Norman were the microscope. Every word and gesture of Darcy’s was magnified in his eyes. No detail escaped him. Her blue jeans with a rip below the left knee, a white scar the size of a dime on her right elbow, her crescent moon earrings. After Darcy had presented her final sketch to the class—an electron scanning microscope—Norman started clapping.
No one else joined in and Norman finished his brief ovation alone. On the way back to her desk Darcy hesitated in front of Norman and said, “Thanks, Norman.”
He turned the color of Marcus’ 49er jersey.
Before Norman had returned to his natural color Chris stood in front of the class setting up his experiment. He clumsily connected the Bunsen burner to the gas outlet and ignited it. The blue flame sputtered a moment, and then burned steadily. Without speaking Chris reached into his shopping bag. From the sack he pulled a dozen eggs, a jar of pickle relish, a carton of strawberries, a mixing bowl and various utensils. Chris popped a strawberry into his mouth and extracted two frying pans, one made of cast iron and the other coated with Teflon. Reaching into the sack for the final time he dug out a chef’s hat. He donned the hat and bowed to the class.
“Chris,” said Mr. Lewis, “this is General Science, not Home Economics.”
“I know,” said Chris, “I got kicked out of Home Ec for eating the ingredients before the class could cook them.”
“This project better be worthwhile, or you’ll get kicked out of General Science,” said Mr. Lewis.
Chris cleared his throat and touched his chef’s hat, “The title of my project is The Miracle of Teflon. Rather than merely explaining the procedures, I will demonstrate them. Observe.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Behold two types of frying pans. First, an old-fashioned cast iron skilet.” He banged the skillet on the table, knocking over the flaming Bunsen burner. Chris calmly turned the gas off, set the burner upright and relit it.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Chris,” said Clarence Bleeker.
“Scientific inquiry is not without its risks.” Chris smiled. “To continue, the second pan is coated with that miraculous space-age substance, Teflon. As you all know, Teflon was developed by DuPont laboratories in nineteen-forty-three. Its chemical structure is carbon and flourime arranged in a polymerized alkene. Any questions so far?”
Alex Rhett raised his hand, “What are you doing?”
“Patience, Buckaroo, patience.” Chris cracked six eggs into the mixing bowl and scrambled them with a wire whip. He then held the cast iron skillet above the burner’s blue-and-yellow flame. “It takes a minute to heat up.” The pan creaked and cracked. Chris poured the eggs in. They sizzled and smoked slightly. “Time now for my world famous strawberry and pickle relish omelet.” He poured pickle relish onto the eggs and tossed in three strawberries. Chris selected a spatula and tried to flip the omelet, but it was charcoaled onto the iron skillet. A column of smoke circled Chris’ head like a wreath. “Please notice that the eggs stuck to the iron skillet.” He ran the skillet under water, creating a cloud of steam that mingled with the smoke.
“You’re burning the school down, Chris,” said Norman.
“We can only hope, Normy,” said Chris.
“Against my better judgement,” said Mr. Lewis, “continue your demonstration. And you’d better make a point, Chris.”
Chris smiled at the teacher, his smile was not returned. “Now,” said Chris, “for The Miracle of Teflon.” He whipped up six more eggs and heated the Teflon pan. He poured the eggs in, added the strawberries and the relish, folded and flipped the omelet and scooped it onto a plate. The omelet was a perfect golden brown. Chris began eating.
“Chris,” said Mr. Lewis, “this has been a cooking demonstration Martha Stewart would have been proud of, but it is not an acceptable science project. You haven’t even offered a conclusion.”
Chris swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “A conclusion! Thank you, sir, for reminding me. Class, I have shown that eggs do not stick to Teflon. In fact, nothing sticks to Teflon. Pancakes don’t stick, sloppy-joes don’t stick, vegetables don’t stick. NOTHING EVER STICKS TO TEFL
ON!”
“So what exactly is the Miracle of Teflon?” asked Mr. Lewis.
“Think about it,” said Chris. “Nothing sticks to Teflon. How do they make the Teflon stick to the pan? It’s a Miracle.”
If Chris had any more eggs he could have fried one on Mr. Lewis’ forehead. The teacher said in a low tone, “Your science projects will be judged tonight, ribbons will be distributed tomorrow. “Chris, I’d like to see you after class.”
“What did Mr. Lewis say?” asked Norman.
“He delivered the standard teacher-speech about how I’m basically an okay kid who thinks he’s a clown and I’m wasting my potential and yak-yak-yak.” Chris shuddered. “Norman, I am in such big trouble. He’s gonna call my parents.”
“Like a teacher’s never called your parents before?”
“I took those pans without asking mom,” said Chris. “No one ever touches her kitchen stuff. She’s gonna kill me.”
Chapter 22
Norman stood on his bed gluing shards of mirror onto his ceiling. Luigi munched a grasshopper in his cage. Chris entered the room without knocking. He tossed two pairs of boxing gloves onto Norman’s desk. “What are you doing?”
“I’m putting up the Perseus constellation,” said Norman. He squirted Elmer’s glue on the last bit of mirror and set it into the ceiling. Norman looked like the Statue of Liberty as he stood with his right hand extended above his head, holding the final star in place.
Chris motioned at the poster of Einstein. “That guy creeps me out. His eyes look right through you.”
Cautiously, Norman removed his finger. The mirror fragment stayed. “Good,” said Norman, “that’s done. Now that my science project is finished I have time for some fun.”
Chris picked up the gloves, “Like boxing lessons?”
“Yeah, but first I want to fix the flat tire on my bike.”
“I’ll help.”
Norman’s bike was his dad’s old three-speed Raleigh with silver fenders, a book rack, and a headlight. After a few minutes of wrestling with wrenches and screwdrivers Chris and Norman had the rear wheel off. As he peeled the tire from the rim Norman said, “I enjoyed your science project, Chris. Real entertaining.”