THIRTY-FOUR: HARLAN

 

For a second, Zooey’s dad just stood there glaring at me with a deep line of puzzlement creasing his forehead. Although I’d never actually seen him in person before, I realized that he looked exactly as I’d expected—a big, broad-shouldered, red-blooded American in his late thirties with a bristly crewcut and a squirmy vein running along the side of his head, ticking in time with the last remaining seconds of my life. He was wearing a suit and tie, and I could smell his aftershave, something inexpensive and basic that he’d probably been wearing since the day he’d met Zooey’s mother.

“Who are you?” he asked in a low, ominous voice, taking a step toward me. “And what in God’s name are you doing in my daughter’s bedroom closet?”

I held up my hands. “Sir—”

“Daddy,” Zooey said, “wait. Don’t touch him. He’s—he’s contagious.”

Mr. Andrews stopped and snapped a glance back at her. “He’s what?”

“He’s got chromoblastomycosis,” Zooey said, and blinked in total bewilderment, as if she herself couldn’t believe the sheer size of the word that had just popped out of her mouth. “It’s a fungal infection of the subcutaneous tissue.” Before her dad could say anything, she turned and grabbed a Post-it note from the desk and sketched a diagram, then held it up where her father could see. “See, what typically happens is that an erythematous papule initially appears at the site of inoculation. Although the mycosis slowly spreads, it usually remains localized to the skin and subcutaneous tissue. It’s rarely fatal, but it’s highly infectious, and...”

Mr. Andrews just stared at his daughter as those last words trickled to a halt. I was staring at her too. For a moment we were united, two guys in a state of total confusion.

And then I remembered the code word.

Freaking Lenny, I thought, impressed in spite of myself. You actually made it to her brain.

After what felt like a very long time, Mr. Andrews turned back to me.

“Is this true?” he asked. “You’ve got this chromocyto-whatever-it-is?”

“Yes, sir,” I said gloomily, looking down at the tips of my shoes. “That’s right.”

“Then what exactly are you doing here?”

“I wanted to help him,” Zooey blurted out, and now she actually looked horrified at what she was saying.

“Zooey, your Christmas play starts very soon. Why in the world would you be back here with—”

“I was the one who gave it to him.” She clapped her hands over her mouth and shook her head, but it was already out there, and the vein in Mr. Andrews head looked like it was about to pop.

“What? You? How?”

“That’s not actually how it happened, sir,” I said. “Zooey—”

“That’s enough out of you.” He turned to her. “I hope you have an explanation for this, missy. And for your sake, it’d better be the truth.”

“We were doing a unit on swimming in gym class,” Zooey said, “and neither one of us was wearing appropriate footwear by the pool...” She shook her head again, harder, her voice coming out in a threadbare whisper. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“You. Mr. Fungus.” Mr. Andrews pointed at me with a finger the size of a Browning nine-millimeter. “I want you out of my daughter’s bedroom and out of this house, right now—do you understand?”

I nodded and stepped out of the closet. Zooey’s dad edged backwards and gave me a wide berth as I made a beeline for her bedroom door. For just a second, Zooey made eye contact with me as I turned to leave, and I glimpsed the pale, freaked out, what-the-heck-is-happening expression on her face. I tried to send her a telepathic message, beaming the words into her mind that it was all going to be okay, that her brain hadn’t been abducted by aliens or anything like that.

Except that it was something like that. Kind of. Almost.

“It’s okay,” I muttered. “I’m really sorry.” I started down the hallway, heading for the stairs, and my phone began ringing again, but before I could answer it, the front door swung open.

I stopped in my tracks and looked up. A tall, darkhaired woman in a business suit and a long coat stepped inside. She was carrying a bouquet of roses and looked at me with a combination of surprise and confusion.

Zooey’s mom was home.

We stood there for a second, staring at each other. My phone was still ringing like crazy.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Harlan Williams.”

Zooey’s mom blinked. “Nice to meet you.” She craned her neck to look around behind me. “Is my daughter or my husband home?”

“Yes, ma’am. They both are. I was just leaving.”

“That’s right.” She glanced at her watch and frowned a little. “Today is a school day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. It’s—it’s a long story. I play Santa Claus in your daughter’s play, though, and—”

“That’s why I’m home early from work.” She held up the bouquet of roses. “To see Zooey’s play.” Then she looked at my phone, which was still ringing like crazy. “You probably ought to answer that, Harlan.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Maybe I’ll see you after the performance.”

She nodded, and I slipped out the door and down the sidewalk, hitting Talk on the phone as I made my way outside.

“Harlan?” Lenny was shouting. “Can you hear me?”

“What’s wrong with you?” I yelled back.

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe a little thing called chromoblastomycosis?”

“So you got the signal?”

“I got it, all right.” I picked up my bike and started wheeling it down into the storm. “What, is that supposed to be funny? Of all the code words in the world, you have to give me...”