December Park(114)

It was dusk when the movie ended. We biked back home, going our separate ways once we crossed the Superstore plaza. I was exhausted from riding Adrian all over the city, and the two of us walked my bike the rest of the way. We talked excitedly about the movie. Then we talked about what kind of story line I could come up with for the superhero comic book he was drawing.

“It should be something like the Fantastic Four,” he said. Then added, “Only, you know, with five of us.”

“The Fantastic Four,” I said. “That’s like with Iron Man and the Incredible Hulk and all those guys, right?”

Adrian gaped at me. “Are you kidding? No way! You’re thinking of the Avengers.”

“Oh.”

“But we can be like the Avengers, too. I can lend you some comics so you can see how the stories go.”

We hadn’t talked about the Piper for the entire walk home, and it was refreshing. After all, it was summer vacation. It was a time for running wild in the parks and racing bikes in the streets. It was a time for jumping off the docks at the Shallows and swimming out to the barges. It was a time for losing yourself in the air-conditioned darkness of the Juniper Theater, watching public domain horror movies and shouting at the actors on the screen.

“Do you think I could spend the night at your place?” Adrian asked when we approached his driveway.

“I guess so,” I said.

“Thanks. My mom’s been in one of her moods lately. She’s been staying home from work, sitting around the house in her robe, drinking.”

“Do you need to get some stuff from your house?”

Adrian looked at his house, contemplation etched on his otherwise expressionless face. “I’d rather not.”

“I think we’ve got a spare toothbrush you could borrow.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Ew. Borrow?”

“I mean, you can keep it,” I said and slugged him playfully on the forearm.

Inside, the TV was on in the den and the smell of my grandfather’s pipe wafted through the open porch windows. My grandmother greeted us in the hallway, a cup of steaming coffee in her hand. “Well, you two look like you’ve been through the wringer. What have you been up to all day?”

“Not much,” I said, catching Adrian’s sidelong glance in my direction. For whatever reason, I felt very close to bursting out in a gale of laughter. “Can Adrian stay over?”

“I don’t see why not. Should I heat up some food? There are plenty of leftovers. Your father ate nothing.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

Adrian nodded vehemently, a keen hunger in his eyes.

My grandmother reheated a dinner of veal cutlets and peppers for us, then went upstairs to get clean sheets for my bed.

As we ate, my grandfather came in, paused in midstride as he saw Adrian shoveling a second helping of peppers onto his plate, then said, “Are we adopting neighborhood children now?”

“Hi, Mr. Mazzone,” Adrian said.

“Hi, Grandpa,” I said.

“I hope you two are aware that you’re eating my lunch for tomorrow.”

“Where’s Dad?” I asked.

“He had to drive to Baltimore for work.”

“Why Baltimore?”

“Do I look like the chief of police?” my grandfather said, then ambled out of the room.

After dinner, we played Uno at the kitchen table for an hour or so. We talked about ideas for Adrian’s comic book while we played, but what I really wanted to know was what was going on with Adrian’s mom.

“I’m sort of writing a story about us already,” I said, laying down a Draw Four card. “Maybe we can work it around your comic book drawings.”

“What do you mean?”

I set my cards down. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

We went past the living room where my grandparents exchanged snores from dueling recliners, then up the stairs to my bedroom. This was the first time he had been in my room.

Adrian looked around in awe. “Do you know how to play that?” he asked, pointing at my acoustic guitar.

“Sure.” I picked it up, sat on the edge of the bed, took a second to tune it, and then strummed the first few bars of “Glory Days.”

“Wow.” He actually leaned forward, staring at my fingers splayed across the frets. “I didn’t know you could play the guitar.”

“It’s not hard. I can teach you.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Watch.” I strummed a G-C-D progression, calling out the chords as I hit them.

“That sounds familiar,” he said.

“It’s just like every single song ever written. Do you see how I move my fingers?”

“Yeah, but I couldn’t do something like that.”

“Of course you could. It’s not hard. I taught Michael.”

Adrian sat on the bed beside me. I slid the guitar into his lap, and it suddenly looked like an oversized novelty instrument. I reached over and finagled Adrian’s fingers onto the strings so they approximated the fingering for G major.

“That’s a G chord,” I said, handing him the pick.

“What’s this?” he said, pinching the pick awkwardly between two fingers and holding it up to his face.

“It’s to help you strum. Go ahead. Try it.”