THE NINETY-EIGHTH DAY . . .
(Thursday, September 17, afternoon)
CÉCE:
Anthony comes home in
a rainstorm. Vic and me go to the airport to pick him up. The
accordion tunnel reaches out to the plane.
“Dazzling feeling,
fear,” Vic says.
“What?” I
say.
Vic
shrugs.
The guys start coming
off the plane. Tears, laughing, kissing, but no Anthony. Down the
tunnel is this guy in a wheelchair. He’s turned away from us,
talking to the pilot. He shakes the pilot’s hand. I can read the
pilot’s lips, I think. “What’s he saying? ‘Thank you for your
service’?”
“Sacrifice,” Vic
says. ‘Thank you for your sacrifice.’ ”
The wheelchair spins
around, and there’s that smile. He rolls fast at us. I scream and
laugh his name, everybody laughs. I practically knock him out of
his chair when I hug him.
“Welcome home, kid,”
Vic says.
I pretend I’m
thrilled, and I am, but more I’m in shock. Again and again I
watched that video he sent, so I would be ready. But now, here,
Anthony in the flesh, I can really see it: He’s a mess. The burns
on his face aren’t minor. The stumps
where his fingers were. He’s in a wheelchair, and he’s never
getting out of it. His legs are gone.
Ma waits at the door.
It’s dark in the vestibule but I can see her by the dull glow of
her teeth as we’re heading up the driveway. She’s leaning against
the door frame. Anthony coughs out, “Yo.”
“Yo,” she
says.
My brother wheelies
up the ramp. The two of them are out on the porch. Each says the
other looks great. I’ve never seen Ma this happy, and I wonder if
she’s like me, pretending.
“So tell me about
this dog,” Anthony says.
She does. “. . . and
then Boo pees right into it, I swear.”
Anthony rasps a hoot.
“Mack Morse, man. Love that kid.”
He does a backward
wheelie into his room, and we laugh. Ma yells at him to be
careful.
I go to the backyard
to cut some tomatoes for dinner. On my way back up the ramp to the
kitchen, I hear murmuring from the basement. I look through the
window.
He’s on the floor. He
fell out of his chair as he was taking off his shirt—one sleeve is
still on. He talks softly to himself. His head is down. He sits
himself up on the floor, leaning himself against the bed. He wipes
his eyes and catches his breath and pulls himself onto the bed and
into a clean T-shirt.
(Three days later, Sunday, September 20, night of the
hundred and first day . . . )
He’s coming tomorrow
night, the new dog.
The new
Boo.
After the green van
disappeared that day, I limped up the block, my toe bleeding, to
where I threw the stickpin. Of course it was still there in the
curb sand, because at that point it was nothing more than soft
grimy metal and cracked glue where the fake jewels used to
be.
I carefully wrap it
in tissue paper and put it away in the shoebox in the back of my
closet where I keep all my really special stuff like old pictures I
don’t look at anymore. I tuck it next to the letter he sent the day
after he and the dog came to the house. I take the letter out for
one last read:
Dear Céce,Just so you don’t think I got smart all of a sudden in here, I’m dictating this to my friend Wash. I wanted to tell you what I think you already know: that I never meant those things I said the day you came to visit me. The day I pushed you away. I think you know I meant the exact opposite of what I said. That instead of pushing you off, all I wanted to do was hold you. I know you are going to take great care of Boo. He’s going to be great to you too. He’s a Boo, all right. He’s a treasure like she was. Céce, you and the Boos are with me until I die, okay? I’ll never forget you. You are going to be awesome, in your life, I mean. Your future. When I think of you living a beautiful life, I’m happy. All I have to do is close my eyes, and I’m with you, and I’m free. Good-bye, Céce. Thank you for being my friend. Sincerely yours, Mack Morse
And then, at the
bottom, he handwrote:
I koodint this say inin frun t uv Wahsh,
but I wil yoo luv youyoo aw-ll ways.
I fold the letter and
tuck it into the box. I put the lid on the box and wrap tape around
it and put it away for good.