I’d never hated anyone before, but I was beginning to hate Chuck Stiller.
I’d never hated school, either. But by Halloween, every day at Armadillo Middle was a living nightmare. My locker was the dump for Stiller’s leftover lunch garbage—banana peels, plastic utensils, sandwich scraps, anything he could shove through the vents. After ruining two new pairs of jeans by sitting on gum wads Stiller had planted, I had to check every seat in every class before sitting down. And it seemed like no matter which hall I was in, Stiller was there too, sneering at me and throwing paper wads—or worse.
November proved to be more of the same. A few days before Thanksgiving break, as I waited for Mom to pick me up after school, Stiller strutted over with his usual crew of spineless onlookers.
“Know something, Kevie?” Stiller stretched his neck so his mouth could reach my ear. “I don’t think you like me.”
I ignored him.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Kevie. Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.”
I refused to give him the satisfaction.
“Just a minute,” Stiller said. He turned to his audience. “I think Kevie is scared of me! Is that true, Kevie?” He stretched up to my ear again and spoke in baby tongues. “Wittle Kevie-Wevie is afwaid of Chucky-Wuckie? Poor baby.” His friends roared. He reached up to pat me on the head and I smacked his arm away.
Breaking my resolve, I whirled around and tried to bore a hole through his oily head with my eyes. “Get away from me.”
“Ooooh, Kevie-Wevie is m-a-a-a-a-d,” Stiller said. He laughed and gave me a shove. “Don’t mess with me, prissy boy. I’ll beat you ’til you wet your pants and beg for mercy.” He moved closer, but I stood firm.
“Come on,” he said. He shoved me again, this time knocking my books out of my arm. His face was red and sweat ran off his temples and down his cheeks. He was so close, I could smell his BO.
It was time to introduce him to the blacktop. I shoved him back. My face burned, my arms tensed, and my hands balled into tight fists. I knew I could whip him, and I was ready, but I’d make sure he was guilty of the first punch. I jammed my fists into my pockets, ready to release them at the first sign of assault. But there was something soft and squiggly in my right pocket—the fishing worm Herb Conrad had given me at Cletus McCulley’s funeral. For a second my mind cleared, and my right fist relaxed. It was like someone opened the top of my head and let all the hot air out. Then two words entered my mind, as distinct as the ring when a crystal vase is tapped: Walk away.
My face must have gone blank, because Stiller stepped back and stared at me. “Wake up, Stupid,” he yelled. “I want you paying attention when I beat the crap out of you!”
I heard the words again, just as clear as at first: Walk away. But why? I was bigger than Stiller, and I figured I was stronger, too. He’d be a big greasy spot on School Avenue by the time I finished with him. Then the voice came back once more, this time more forcefully: Walk away, Kevin!
I picked up my books. I didn’t know why I should do it, but I knew what I had to do. I walked away. Stiller called after me, “You’re afraid! You know I can ruin you! I’m not through with you, Kevin!”
I walked down the school drive and met Mom as she pulled in. I got in the truck and she asked if I was OK, because my face was red and I was sweating like crazy. I told her I was fine, and she didn’t question me anymore about it.
The next day, Stiller was absent. And the next. Every day he was absent made me feel better, especially knowing I had Thanksgiving break—four more Stiller-free days—to look forward to. I also had something else to anticipate: Grandma and Granddad Kirk were stopping by on their way to Florida to spend the weekend with us—and to celebrate my thirteenth birthday. I figured we’d all get a vacation, since I’d never heard of a funeral being held on Thanksgiving Day.
I was wrong.
When Mom picked me up after school on the day before Thanksgiving, she told me I’d have to help her get the chapel ready. Oda Mae Pidcock had passed away in her sleep. She was 104 years old. Her funeral would be Thanksgiving morning at ten. She wasn’t a Latter-day Saint, but since the family had no church to call on, President Carter offered to do the funeral. Grandma and Granddad had already arrived for the weekend and had parked their RV in the back lot. Grandma would cook Thanksgiving dinner for us, so we would celebrate later in the day.
We pulled into the Paramount parking lot, and I could see Granddad’s motor home parked in the grass behind the home. As Mom eased the S-10 into the garage, I saw my bird baths, disassembled and leaning against the back wall. Mom had moved them from the back lot before Granddad and Grandma arrived. Granddad wasn’t very observant—she probably assumed he would run over them while trying to park the RV.
Grandma was waiting for me outside the door of the motor home. She’d been making pumpkin pies and the smell wafted out the screen door, wrapping around me like a hug before I’d even reached Grandma’s outstretched arms.
“Sweetie,” Grandma said as she draped her fleshy arms around my neck, “you’ve grown so much!”
I laughed. “So have you, Grandma.”
Grandma pushed me back, looking me up and down the way grandmothers do to make sure you’re healthy and still eating plenty. Dressed in orange sweats, she had a green scarf tied around her hair, making her look like a pear-shaped pumpkin. “Oh, poo. I’ve only gained a few pounds,” she said, patting her hips. “Besides, grandmas are supposed to be soft and cuddly.” She began shaking her backside to emphasize her point, and her entire body below the neck jiggled like the big pan of orange gelatin they’d set out for lunch that day in the school cafeteria.
Mom nudged me in the back with my backpack. “I’ve told you not to make comments about Grandma Kirk’s weight.”
“Oh Freda, don’t be so uptight,” Grandma said, and she giggled. “Kevin and I like to have a little fun with each other, don’t we, Sweetie?” She turned her head to the side and gave me a big, open-mouthed wink.
I gave Grandma one right back and Mom let out a big sigh. “Since I’m the only one who thinks it’s rude to discuss someone else’s weight, I’ll just take your backpack upstairs.” She walked back toward the Paramount, dragging the backpack and shaking her head.
“So Grandma, how long can you and Granddad stay?”
“Just ’til the day after Thanksgiving, Sweetie,” Grandma said. She held the door open for me to step inside the motor home. “We have reservations at a campground near Fort Walton Beach, and we can’t be a day late or they’ll sell our spot to someone else.” She rummaged through a drawer underneath the built-in couch and pulled out a big brown envelope. She started to hand it to me, but Granddad opened the door.
“Where’s my grandson?” Granddad stuck his head through the doorway and looked up and down the interior of the motor home, pretending like he couldn’t see me. “I drive all the way to this ungodly Arkansas hole-in-the-wall to see my only grandson and he doesn’t even stick around to greet his elderly grandfather who’s already got one foot in the grave.”
“Now Papa,” Grandma said. “Armadillo is a quaint little town.”
“Only if you can stomach running over the little buggers.” Granddad loved to travel, but he also loved to find things to gripe about while traveling. Our town’s namesake was giving him something to grouse about. “Armadillos, I mean. I think I hit at least three of ’em after I crossed the city limits. They crack like walnuts.”
Grandma shuddered. “Hush, Papa. That sounds awful.”
Granddad stretched his arms out and motioned to me for a hug. “It’s the truth and you know it. They’re speed bumps with legs. You hit one doing sixty-five and there goes your front end. Betcha I’ll have to get it realigned before we get to Alabama.”
I hugged him back, but didn’t have to stretch to do it. Granddad wasn’t much taller than Dad—but he did have a lot more hair, all of it a peppery gray, with a moustache to match. “Well, Granddad, I hate to disappoint you, but that’s about the only excitement you’ll find around here.”
As it turned out, I was wrong about that, too.
Oda Mae Pidcock’s family trickled in for the visitation Wednesday evening. She was so old that she must have outlived all of her friends and most of her family. This was the smallest group we’d had for a visitation so far. But they also turned out to be the rowdiest.
Ten minutes before closing, her grandsons gathered around the casket. From my spot at the door, I couldn’t hear very well, but I could see their rough gestures. They were in heavy disagreement. One pointed to the casket, another to the body; one pointed to the door, another began shouting. I began to catch bits of the conversation, like, “This is mine,” “That’s mine,” “I did this,” and “She promised me.” Then the shoving started, and just like that they were all over each other. I beeped Dad on the radio. He and President Carter were in the office together, planning the next day’s service.
“Dad, there’s a fight!”
Dad didn’t answer. By this time the men were rolling on the floor, fists flying. One fell back and his head hit the front pew with a loud pop.
I beeped again. “DAD! GET UP HERE, NOW!”
Dad had heard the noise, and he and President Carter were already coming down the hall. The floor rattled and vibrated each time one of the cousins got knocked down. By the time Dad and President Carter made it halfway across the chapel, the casket stand was swaying back and forth, as if it were dodging the cousins’ fists. I punched 911 on the cell phone and in less than two minutes we had blue lights flashing in the parking lot. It took four police officers to untangle the kicking cousins. They pulled them up from the floor, out of the fight, and arrested them all. One officer called central dispatch for extra backup, and I held the door as the screaming, handcuffed family was escorted to the waiting cruisers.
Dad got his toolbox out of the maintenance closet, and he and President Carter got to work tightening the bolts that were supposed to sturdy the casket stand. They looked like two auto mechanics, occasionally sliding out to exchange tools. I sat in the back of the chapel and listened.
“I should have expected this,” Dad said in a muffled voice. “Freda said when she went to pick up the body, the family was arguing over that poor old woman’s jewelry.”
President Carter scooted out to get a bigger socket. “At least they didn’t tip the casket,” he said. He picked up several different sockets and inspected them, only to find none were the right size. “Arlice, have you got the five-eighths socket?”
“Sure,” Dad said, handing it to him from under the stand. “Take this one and give me the three-sixteenths.”
On Thanksgiving morning, the crowd for Oda Mae Pidcock’s funeral was even smaller than the visitation because half of her living relatives were still in jail from the night before. President Carter offered a short sermon and the organist played an abbreviated version of “Amazing Grace.” When what was left of the family filed by the casket for the final viewing, a large distraught woman threw herself on top of the open coffin. Her hair was dyed tomato red, and she had on so much cheap jewelry that I wondered how much change it had taken to empty out the Gum ’n Gems machine at the Cow Palace. She wailed over and over, “Nanny! Nanny! Oh, dear Lord! Give me back my Nanny!”
President Carter leaned over to console her and was thanked by getting her arm, which was about the size of a tree trunk, whacked across his chest. President Carter staggered back and caught himself on the edge of the pew before he totally lost balance. With an arm like that, I figured she must have been the one to teach all her cousins how to fight.
The more the tomato-haired lady rocked back and forth, the more the casket, and the stand, rocked back and forth too. That squealing-tires sound slipped up from Mom’s throat.
“Arrrrrrlice,” she screeched, “do something!”
Dad dashed down the aisle as dignified as one could dash in a suit and in the middle of a funeral chapel. He reached for Tomato Lady, hoping to back her away from the casket, but he was too late. The stand tilted and the whole enchilada hit the floor with a sickening thud. Every flower arrangement on the right side of the room somersaulted through the air. The casket tipped over on its side, and poor Oda Mae Pidcock was dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.
Tomato Lady fainted. Mom and Dad stuffed Oda Mae back into her box, then they helped the paramedics haul Tomato Lady out to the ambulance.
That afternoon, we ate Thanksgiving dinner in the motor home with Granddad and Grandma Kirk—turkey, gravy, dressing, mashed potatoes, the works. By the time evening rolled around, I’d finished off an entire pumpkin pie by myself. Mom was in bed by seven with a terrific headache. I don’t know if it was caused by the funeral or the jokes Dad and Granddad cracked about it all through dinner. The worst was when Granddad said he knew a good pharmacist if Mom needed something to “stop her coffin.”
While Dad and Granddad cleaned up the Thanksgiving dishes that night, I took Grandma out behind the motor home to show her where I liked to sit and record animal sightings. She was impressed and told me she’d take lots of pictures of the wildlife at Fort Walton Beach and send them to me. The only wildlife I could imagine at a campground full of retired people would be the Saturday night bingo crowd. So I smiled and told her I’d like that a lot. Then she pulled a big brown envelope out of her jacket. It was the envelope she’d tried to give me earlier.
“Kevin, I want to give you this,” Grandma said, and placed the envelope in my hands. “I hope to be able to give you more sometime, but this is all I have right now.”
I opened the envelope and pulled the papers out. They looked like charts, but I had no idea what they were for.
Grandma pointed to the first name on the top sheet. “This is a pedigree chart. This is you, and this is your family tree.” She let her fingers trace along the brackets. “This is Arlice, and your granddad, and your great-granddad, and your great-great-granddad. And below there’s me, your great-grandma, and your great-great grandma.” She slid the papers back in the envelope, bent the clasp, and put the envelope in my hands.
“Thanks, Grandma.” I didn’t understand why she’d want to give me stuff like this, but I didn’t want to sound ungrateful.
“Granddad and I aren’t getting any younger, Kevin,” Grandma said. She gazed out beyond the trees. “Someday we won’t be around anymore.”
“Don’t talk like that, Grandma.”
“It’s true. Sweetie. Not talking about it won’t make the truth go away. Over the last few months, I’ve been researching our family history. I’m recording as much as I can remember about all the old family stories. If I don’t write them down, they’ll be forgotten. People will be forgotten.” She caressed my cheek with her wrinkled hand. It was warm and soft, her skin paper thin. “And Kevin, a grandma doesn’t want to think that she’ll be forgotten.”
I let Grandma pull me in for a hug. I didn’t say anything because I felt a sharp pain in my stomach and was afraid if I opened my mouth, the only thing to come out would be a squeak—or worse, a sob. Instead, I concentrated real hard, and wished Grandma could hear what was in my mind.
I will never forget you. Grandma. Or Granddad. I promise.
We heard a slight rustle a few feet away. Armadillos! Their clumsy, armored bodies looked like soldiers’ helmets with legs and snouts. They scampered in and out of the trees. It was the first time I’d seen live armadillos since we’d moved to Armadillo.
“You guys had better not be here in the morning if you don’t want to end up like your cousins,” Grandma said. The armadillos stopped their game of tag and studied her. I wondered what they thought about this orange, pumpkin-shaped human who was trying to give them advice.
We tried intimidating them by staring them down, but Grandma got tickled and let out a loud snort. The armadillos turned their backs to us and retreated into the safety of the trees, their pointy tails dragging through the brittle autumn leaves.