The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(25)

When my father came home, I heard my parents talking but didn’t bother to get off the bed to listen through the floor vent. I deduced enough to know my mother was telling my father I was upstairs and didn’t feel well. No, she didn’t think I was sick. And yes, she’d taken the car in for its oil change, but it had cost more because they had to replace a radiator hose. My father wasn’t happy about this, lamenting that he could have done it himself and saved the labor cost.

Minutes later, I heard his heavy footsteps bounding up the stairs. The door to my room crept open, and my father stepped into the striped shadows from the fading light through the wood shutters covering the window above my headboard. He touched my forehead. “Your mother says you don’t feel well.”

“I’m okay.”

“I hope so. I need my partner for Bonanza tonight.”

“I think I’ll be okay.”

“Something happen at school today? Something you want to talk about?”

“No, nothing.”

“Well, if I were a betting man, I’d bet something was bothering you.” He held up the Tootsie Pop, still wrapped.

I sat up. “Dad, what does it mean when someone says they’d like to bend someone over a bumper and use their dipstick to check the oil?”

My father straightened. “Where on earth did you hear . . . ?” Then before I could answer, he reconsidered the Tootsie Pop. “Oh.”

“What does it mean?”

My father pursed his lips. “It means it’s time to find another mechanic,” he said.





7

David Bateman now lurked everywhere, hiding behind a pillar, circling the playground as I ate my lunch. The last thing I did each morning before leaving my house and the first thing I did upon getting home was go to the bathroom; I was not about to take the chance of being caught alone in the school bathroom. Fridays were the only day I enjoyed going to school. I knew when the afternoon bell rang I had a solid two and a half days before I had to reenter Bateman-infested waters. It was on one of those Friday afternoons, while hurrying down the school steps, that I saw my mother talking to a tall, black-skinned woman.

“Samuel,” my mother said. “This is Mrs. Cantwell, Ernie’s mom.”

Mrs. Cantwell’s hair sat atop her head like a halo. I extended my hand as I had been taught. “How do you do,” I said.

“My, what a polite young man,” she said. “Ernie has told me all about you, Sam. He doesn’t stop talking about you. Sam this and Sam that.”

“He does?” I said.

“He certainly does,” she said. “And I wanted to thank you for being such a good friend to Ernie.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied, though her comment confused me. Being Ernie’s friend had been the easiest thing about school, and, if anything, I should have been thanking him. Without him, I’d have still been on the bleachers.

Ernie ran down the sidewalk to meet us. “Did you ask? What did she say?”

Mrs. Cantwell’s penciled eyebrows arched. “Excuse me?”

“Excuse me,” Ernie said. “Did you ask?”

“We were just discussing it,” Mrs. Cantwell said.

My mother put her hand on my shoulder, smiling. “You’ve been invited to Ernie’s house tomorrow afternoon.”

“Ernie’s been asking all week,” his mother said.

I was stunned. I’d never been invited to anyone’s home before. “Can I, Mom, please?”

My mother’s smile widened. “Of course you can.”

“Why don’t you drop him off just before lunch,” Mrs. Cantwell said.

“Can we ride bikes?” Ernie asked.

“Does Samuel have a bike?” Ernie’s mom asked.

“He does,” my mom said.

“Then we’ll see you tomorrow,” Mrs. Cantwell said.

Ernie turned around several times as he walked up the sidewalk to their Volkswagen Beetle, but my enthusiasm had quickly dissipated. My bike was the one I’d learned to ride as a baby, with training wheels. I was convinced Ernie would take one look at it, burst out laughing, and that would be the last time he invited me over.





8

My father had been out Friday night at a pharmacy meeting, preventing me from talking to him about the bike situation. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I didn’t ask my mom, but she tended to push aside my concerns about things like bikes. I didn’t realize it then, but money was tight. My father’s business was doing all right, but he had loans he was repaying to buy the business and the building. So a bike was an extravagance we couldn’t afford.

The following morning, I got up early on my own. When my dad saw me sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed and wearing my coat, he laughed.

“You’re a bit anxious, don’t you think?”

“I’m going to Ernie’s house,” I said.

“I heard. No cartoons this morning?” I had completely forgotten about Saturday-morning cartoons. “I think you have some time,” my father said. “How about I pour us both a bowl of cereal?”

As we slurped and crunched our Cap’n Crunch cereal, I eased, as subtle as a buffalo, into the subject. “Ernie wants to ride bikes,” I said.