Part 12 (1/2)

I had looked for Mrs. Worthington every day but she was staying inside with the door closed even in all the heat.

I was full of good throws on my last day of the route. End over end. Side arms. High shots. Low shots. Curves around posts. I even threw one through a porch railing. The folded newspaper split the small opening slick as a whistle and came to rest against the house. I didn't miss one porch.

I was counting on my last night of collecting being just as good as my last day of throwing.

In my room I picked out my best shorts and a clean s.h.i.+rt in case I might get to see Mrs. Worthington.

I knew Mam had gone to the grocery store because her little black hat and parasol were gone from the hall tree at the foot of the back stairs. It felt strange to leave the house without Mam there but strange feelings had been coming in bunches the whole month of July.

The first surprise of the night was seeing TV Boy out on the porch swing when I skipped up the concrete steps to his house. I figured it must be too hot for even him to be inside with his nose stuck to the screen.

When I rang the doorbell his mother told me to wait on the porch while she got some change. TV Boy was swinging and looking straight ahead into s.p.a.ce.

s-s-s-s-Nothing on s-s-s-s-television?

He acted like he didn't hear me.

What s-s-s-s-do you watch all the s-s-s-s-time?

Not one word from TV Boy.

His mother came out of the door about that time and handed me the correct change. Then she did something that knocked me off my rocker. She turned to TV Boy and started moving her hands fast like she was a third base coach giving him signals.

She was talking to him with her hands.

TV Boy said something back to his mother by moving his hands and then got out of the swing to go inside. When he stepped through the door he turned around and smiled at me. I smiled back. Two kids don't have to say words because they can say all they need to sometimes with their smiles.

I remembered going with my father to his office and riding up on the elevator to his floor. The elevator man looked at my father when we got on and then my father pointed at me and back to himself without saying anything and the elevator man smiled at me. When we got to his office my father said the man was a Deaf Mute meaning that he couldn't hear or talk. My father told me that he was a nice guy and if I ever met anyone like him I should never call them Deaf and Dumb. He said this guy was just as smart as everyone else except that he was born not being able to hear or talk.

I thought about TV Boy as I walked from house to house and felt bad about getting mad at him the week before. Just like I couldn't help it that I stuttered it wasn't his fault that he couldn't hear or talk. Being able to hear is nice but I wanted to tell him that he wasn't missing anything by not being able to talk.

I decided TV Boy would make a good friend. He wouldn't have to hear my bad talking and he could teach me how to say things with my hands instead of my mouth. I was pretty sure I would be good at that kind of talking because my baseball coach always said I had good hands.

The street names in blue tile on every corner left me with a lonely feeling as I walked my route for the last time. It was like saying goodbye to friends.

I thought about how Mr. Spiro's route had taken him to countries all over the world but these few Memphis streets had been my whole world up until now.

I was an eleven-year-old kid standing on a street corner in Memphis in short pants. I felt like I was so small that I would be blown away if the slightest puff of wind came up.

But you didn't have to worry about any kind of a breeze showing up on a late July afternoon in Memphis.

Chapter Fifteen.

When I had delivered Mr. Spiro's paper earlier in the day the front door had been closed as usual but at collection time it was propped open with a crate of books.

Mr. Spiro's old bicycle with the rusted handlebars was on the porch leaning up against the house. The basket on the front of the bicycle held something that looked like a canvas sack with straps on it. I stuck my head in the door and called out for him instead of ringing the doorbell.

Mr. Spiro answered from the back of the house.

Be there in a moment, Messenger. Do come in.

I listened in my head again to the way he put the Do before the Come In. He could add one little word to a sentence and that word would make all the words more important.

Inside the house some of the crates of books had been moved around with more crates sitting in the middle of the floor.

But the room didn't feel right to me.

A white duffel bag like the one our team carried bats in was on the floor with clothes and books beside it. CONSTANTINE SPIRO was printed on the white bag in faded black square letters. Beneath the name was SS Patrick Henry.

I didn't like what I saw. My father's packed bags on the bed always made me feel bad and Mr. Spiro's duffel bag was giving me a double whammy to the stomach.

Mr. Spiro came into the room with a small green bottle in his hand. He poured a little of what was in the bottle in his other hand and began patting his face and neck. He was in khaki pants and a T-s.h.i.+rt so white and clean that it looked like Mam had just washed and ironed it.

Lilac de France. The best antidote in the world for close quarters belowdecks.

Mr. Spiro was smiling and his voice had an excited sound.

You're going away?

The words spilled out of my mouth before I could think about stuttering. Even the G sound that usually stopped me dead in my tracks.

An investigative reporter you are. Yes. I'm going on a short excursion but I'll be back in the fall.

Where?

Early tomorrow I'm catching a tow headed up the Mississippi and then I'll take my bicycle and jump s.h.i.+p somewhere in the Badger State. Wisconsin.

I felt like being a smart mouth and telling Mr. Spiro that I had learned all the way back in the fourth grade that Wisconsin was the Badger State but I could feel myself getting upset and everything clogging up inside of me. When I didn't say anything Mr. Spiro kept on talking.

The Seven Seas and the Seven Continents have long been my ports of call and now I want to explore the Seven States of the Great Lakes.

I didn't like the way Mr. Spiro kept saying Seven. Seven was my favorite number and a number I could say most of the time. Mickey Mantle wore No. 7. I saw a green scoreboard with a seven beside Mr. Spiro's name and a big fat zero beside my name. I tried to keep myself from looking too down in the dumps because it was plain to see that Mr. Spiro was excited about his trip and all his sevens. But covering up my feelings when something got sprung on me was another thing I wasn't very good at. He stood in the middle of the room studying me and patting his face with a white towel he had pulled out of his bag.

I had considered leaving earlier in the week on another tow up the Mississippi but I wanted to make sure we had a good conversation before I left. And ... we have some unfinished business.

My stutter always got worse when someone threw me a curve like Mr. Spiro had just done with his packed bags. Sure I wanted to know about the fourth word but I wanted to calm down inside and wait until I could talk better.

s-s-s-s-Could I s-s-s-s-do the rest of my s-s-s-s-collecting and then s-s-s-s-come s-s-s-s-back?

Certainly, Messenger. That'll give me a chance to get s.h.i.+pshape here. I'll be expecting you forthwith.

I gave him the best smile I could come up with and backed out the door.