My sister, Amelia, who’s starting college next fall, levels with me about most things. Not because we’re close or anything. I mean, it’s not like we sit around and have Brady Bunch talks. The reason she levels with me, I think, is that she doesn’t like the idea of people kidding themselves. It’s like she’s allergic to it. “Get a grip” is one of her big sayings. What she means is Get a grip on reality. Don’t pretend the world isn’t the way it is.
When I told her that Quentin had a tumor, she did this thing where her eyes got real wide, and she brought her hands up to her mouth, but only for a couple of seconds. By the time she brought her hands down, she had that get-a-grip look on her face. “What are his chances?”
“Julian, do you understand what’s happening?”
“Miss Medina said he’s going to be all right.”
“Who’s Miss Medina?”
“She’s the guidance counselor. She spoke to Quentin’s doctors.”
“What if she’s wrong? What if the doctors are wrong?”
“What you really mean is, what if Quentin dies? Right?”
“That’s what I mean,” she said, real calm. “Have you thought about it?”
“Yes,” I said. Which was the truth. I mean, how could you not?
“And?”
“I need you to drive me and Lonnie to Jamaica Hospital tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“One o’clock,” I said.
“I have school, Julian!”
“C’mon, Amelia, you’re a senior. I know you cut classes.”
“Don’t you have school?”
“Lonnie got us permission to leave early—as long as we get picked up in front of the school.”
“Let me guess,” she said. “He talked to Miss Medina.”
“That’s right.”
She smiled. “Why don’t you get Mom or Dad to do it?”
I just kind of stared her down.
“All right, I can cut out early and drive you there,” she said. “But you’ll have to take the bus home.”
“Thank you,” I said.
The thing of it is, I didn’t have a grip on what was happening with Quentin. Not until I got to the hospital. Not until I walked into Quentin’s room and got a look at him. His forehead and skull were wrapped in bandages and gauze, and there was a thick tube coming out of his mouth, and a narrow tube coming out of his right arm, and a medium tube coming out of his left side. I couldn’t see how the side tube was attached, but it ran out from under his hospital blanket to a machine with pumps going up and down. The only good thing you could say about him was that he was awake. The lights were on in his eyes. They sparked up as soon as we walked into the room, and a couple of times he looked like he was trying to say something. But he couldn’t because of the tube in his mouth.
Lonnie and I sat there with him for an hour, just yakking about stuff that was going on on the block, and every so often he’d blink back at us, which told us he was interested. That’s the thing about Quentin. The guy is Thirty-Fourth Avenue. I don’t know how to describe it, but he’s the heart of the block. He’s the kind of guy who squirrels don’t run away from, the kind of guy other guys’ moms love to pinch. I mean it. You sit Quentin down in the middle of a mah-jongg game, you might as well drop him into a tank of lobsters.
An hour after we got there, Quentin’s parents came in and said he needed rest, so Lonnie and I left. We headed downstairs and waited for the bus and got seats in the back. For the first couple of minutes, neither of us said a word.
When I couldn’t bear the silence anymore, I said, “He’s going to be all right, right?”
Lonnie exhaled real loud. “You heard Miss Medina.”
“You think she’d tell us the truth?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“Beverly doesn’t think she’d tell us the truth.”
Lonnie grinned. “Well, if that’s what Beverly thinks …”
“You think there’s such a thing as heaven?”
That made him laugh. “Where did that come from?”
“I’m just curious,” I said.
“How the hell should I know if there’s a heaven?”
“I didn’t expect you to know.…”
“Use your brain, Julian! The only way I’d know would be if I was dead, which I’m not.” He balled up his fist and punched me in the arm. Not hard, just enough to get my attention. “You see? If I was dead, you wouldn’t have felt that. But you did. So I don’t know the answer.”
“I thought you might have an opinion,” I said.
He leaned back. “Well, sure I have an opinion.”
“What is it?”
“If there’s a heaven, it must be full of old people.”
“Really?”
“Who do you think does most of the dying? So I’m guessing, if there is a heaven, it’s most likely like a humongous old-age home, except with wings and harps.”
“What about kids who die?”
“I’m talking about the majority,” he said.
I rolled the idea over in my mind. “Maybe there’s a separate heaven for kids.”
“So it would be like a giant sandbox, just floating around up in the clouds?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “Sand is much heavier than clouds, so it would fall right through. We’d wake up one morning, and it would be raining sand outside.”
“I’m not saying it is that. I’m just saying it could be.”
“Yeah, and the moon could be made of Swiss cheese,” he said. “Except it’s not.”
“The moon is way different than heaven,” I said. “We know what the moon is like. Neil Armstrong flew a rocket to the moon. The last time I looked, no one’s flying a rocket to heaven.”
“You asked me my opinion. You got my opinion.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said, rolling my eyes.
He nudged me with his elbow. “You’re welcome.”
The bus rumbled and sputtered along Jamaica Avenue, then turned left onto Parsons Boulevard. It was a hard turn, and it sent us careening to the right.
“Do you want to goof on the bus driver?” Lonnie said.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty tired. Plus, it’s cold outside.”
“C’mon, Jules!”
I took a deep breath, then stood up and walked to the front of the bus. “Excuse me, sir, can I have a transfer?”
The driver was a tall skinny guy with a bony face. “Why didn’t you ask for it when you got on?”
“I guess I forgot,” I said.
“Your pal need one too?”
“No, just me.”
He tore off a transfer slip from the roll next to the coin machine and handed it to me. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I want to get off at the next stop.”
“You sure cut it close, kid!”
He pulled the bus to the curb, and I hopped off. As soon as the doors slid shut, a gust of cold wind came up Parsons. It felt like a hard slap in the face. The truth was I didn’t mind goofing on the bus driver. But it was a lot more fun in July than in December.
I stood on the sidewalk and watched the bus pull away from the curb. Down at that end of Queens, Parsons Boulevard is a real narrow street, with lots of twists and potholes, so I waited a long time—until the bus was out of sight. Then I tore out. The one good thing about the cold weather was that the sidewalks were deserted, so I didn’t have to dodge moms pushing baby strollers or kids playing hopscotch or clusters of old people walking slow.
The first half block, the wind was hitting me so hard in the face that I kept blinking. I could feel tears leaking down my cheeks. But then, without warning, the wind changed direction. It came up behind me, and it pushed hard against the back of my coat, getting up underneath the hem, and for about ten steps I felt like, if I leaned forward another inch and lunged, I might take off. The only thing keeping me on the ground was knowing how hard the sidewalk was, and how much it would hurt if I fell. You know what it felt like? It felt like, if I could just get myself to believe it was possible, I could’ve flown.
Two blocks later, I caught up with the bus. I ran even with it for another block, hanging back so the driver wouldn’t notice me. Then, when the next stop came into sight, I sprinted ahead. I got to the yellow line a good ten seconds before the bus, then put out my hand to signal for it to stop.
The driver recognized me the second he cracked open the doors. I was huffing for air as I handed him the transfer, and he shot me a dirty look, but he was also kind of smiling.
“Wise guy,” he said, just loud enough for me to hear it.
Lonnie was grinning at me as I stumbled toward the back of the bus, still out of breath. He made room, and I slid back down onto the seat next to him. Then he gave me a quick shove, just playing around. “You look sort of familiar, but I can’t place the face.”
“Did you miss me?” I asked.
“Didn’t think you’d make it.”
“It wasn’t even close,” I said.
We sat quiet for a couple of minutes, listening to the rattle of the bus. I could feel my heartbeat coming down and the air coming back into my lungs.
Then, at last, Lonnie said, “If it’s bugging you, you know who you should ask?”
“If what’s bugging me?”
“Heaven.”
“Who should I ask?”
“Magoo.”
The bus hit a huge pothole right after he said that, which knocked us into the air and sprawled us out across the backseat. It sounds stupid, but that jolt convinced me to ask Magoo.