Just a Hat, page 17
“Look, son,” said Officer Oliver. “You’re not in trouble. Not at all. If you can tell us the same story Roberto told us, then we can go to the judge and obtain a warrant to search the premises. We need you to confirm what Roberto said. Don’t be scared to tell the truth.”
Joseph looked at Baba. “Tell the truth, Youssef,” he said again. “Don’t be afraid.”
“Am I in trouble for trespassing?” Joseph asked Officer Oliver. Maybe they’d better clear up that part of the deal.
Officer Oliver grinned. “It would be easy to miss that posted sign.”
Joseph looked at him doubtfully.
Extending his hand, Officer Oliver selected the photo of the gap in the fence line. He tapped it. “See? It doesn’t show up in the photograph at all.”
“But . . .”
“Son, if you tell us what you saw in that barn, I promise you that the posted sign won’t be there tomorrow.” He tore the picture in two and pushed it across the table to Joseph. Officer Oliver was a practical man. He’d do well bargaining in the markets in the Old City of Jerusalem.
Joseph sighed. “We saw the Edmondsons drive their old blue GMC pickup into the barn.”
“Date and time?” asked Detective Bender.
Joseph gave it.
Baba glared at him.
Oy veh. There was no way Joseph was going to get out of this okay. If he survived this interview, he’d be grounded from riding his dirt bike for a month.
Joseph said, “They changed into different clothes, dressed-up cowboy clothes. Then they loaded white packages of marijuana into the toolbox of a newer truck. A big, red, shiny dually Ford. They covered it back up and drove off.”
“How did you know it was marijuana?” asked Detective White.
“After they left, we sneaked inside. There was a trapdoor built into an old feed bin inside a storage room. Roberto went down the ladder. He said it was a big room, a basement. That was probably where all the dirt piles came from.” Joseph leaned back in his chair. “That’s all I know.”
“Thank you, son,” said Detective Bender. “That’s enough for us to obtain a search warrant. You’ve been a big help.”
“One more thing,” said Detective White. “I’ve been investigating marijuana and pills sold at the high school. My sources say that most of it is actually coming from a dealer at the junior high school. Do you know anything about that?”
Joseph froze. He’d just told on Larry’s and Brian’s dads. They’d go to prison. If he told the detective that Brian was selling drugs at the junior high school, Brian would also go to jail. “Juvy,” as the kids called it. Suddenly, Joseph had the power to make sure the Edmondsons were thoroughly punished for their bullying and for LaLa’s lost groceries.
It should feel good to get them back, but it didn’t. The Edmondson cousins had been kept back a grade in elementary school because their dads were in prison. Maybe Larry’s mother had moved away because she needed a job or from embarrassment. Maybe she had put Larry back a grade to be with Brian, to face the embarrassment together. Larry wasn’t dumb. He knew the football plays better than anyone on the team.
If Persians understood anything, it was saving face. The Edmondsons were not rich people. Larry and Brian didn’t have much of a chance. They didn’t have a father there to take them to a church, to help them with math, to watch their football games. Larry and Brian’s fathers never came to watch. Even though Brian sold drugs, it didn’t change anything. He still wore worn clothes. He still rode his old bicycle. He was still on free lunch at school. What if Brian’s dad was making him sell the drugs?
Keep my lips from speaking deceitfully. Maybe it was deceitful, and maybe it wasn’t.
“I don’t know any drug dealers,” said Joseph.
“The look on your face is telling me different,” said Detective White.
“Maybe there are drug dealers at the junior high school,” said Joseph. “But they’re no friends of mine. You should ask someone who hangs around with that crowd. I hang out with the nerds, the jocks, and the Mexicans. Not druggies.”
39
BOTTLE CAP
“Joseph.”
Joseph paused in unlooping his bicycle security chain from around its frame. He looked up. It was Vonda. His heart skipped some beats. Maybe it hadn’t read its typed obituary yet.
“Yeah?”
“Could you walk with me to the park? I have something I want to tell you. Something I meant to give you.”
“We shouldn’t,” said Joseph.
“I know,” said Vonda. “But I wanted to tell you how sorry I was about the Posse. You looked so awful. I should have told you at the tree house, but things moved too fast that day, and I never got to tell you. It nearly killed me not to talk to you and make sure you were okay after the fight.”
“You managed.”
“Joseph, please. I just want to talk for five minutes. I need to.”
This time it was Joseph who merely shrugged his permission.
They walked in silence to the park. Not a touch or even an accidental brush. Joseph walked on the street side of the sidewalk. The bicycle made a barrier between them. One of the Posse walked ahead of them. Joseph wondered if Vonda were setting him up. The Posse was outlawed at school, but they could lurk around the neighborhood. The boy was the one who had insulted Larry so vilely. He kept glancing around at Joseph and Vonda until he reached his house and went inside. Thug.
They reached the park, and Joseph propped his bike against a concrete table. He turned to face Vonda.
“What?” he asked. Might as well get it over with.
“Don’t hate me,” she whispered.
“I don’t hate you,” said Joseph. “But you need to get to the point. It’s not safe for you to be around me right now.” Where there was one Posse boy, there could be more.
Vonda took his hand, but Joseph pulled it away. It hurt too much. Her eyes grew watery, maybe with genuine tears.
“Joseph, have you ever done something just because you had to be the grown-up for your parents? Something you didn’t really want to do?” asked Vonda.
The electric shock to his heart was a real jolt. Joseph stared, wanting the feeling to die. How dare she touch that string. Pain. Control.
Vonda continued. “If you were Christian. If I were Jewish. If we were twenty years old instead of thirteen. We will never be together because our parents already have their burdens. In the end, we don’t want to add to them. If my father loses his pastorate, I don’t know what he’ll do. When I think of my sister, I don’t know what people do when they hurt so much they can’t stand it. I’m not willing to find out.” She took something from her jacket pocket.
“I know,” said Joseph. “I get it. So can I go home now?”
Vonda extended her hand, but as she did, she looked past Joseph’s shoulder. Her eyes widened in fear. What was it? The Posse? Joseph whirled to face whoever it was. Instead of a trench coat, it was Reverend Baer who strode toward him. So there it was. They were at a bottleneck. They couldn’t pretend they weren’t communicating. Reverend Charles Baer saw them.
“You should go,” said Vonda.
“No,” said Joseph. He wasn’t going to start running now. He’d rather take a tongue-lashing than end up like Baba, hiding from everything because of the authorities. Let Reverend Heavenly Authority himself bring it on.
It took over a minute for Reverend Baer to cross the street and make it to the picnic table, though. Joseph had so many second thoughts during the long wait that the second thoughts added up to well over a dozen. He was afraid, but determination finally turned the anxious jelly in his stomach to iron. It steeled his ribs, which throbbed in anticipation. When Reverend Baer reached them, Joseph had no fear at all. He was empty of anything.
“Daddy, no . . .” pled Vonda. The reverend closed the last few yards of the distance between them. In the fraction of a second before Reverend Baer shoved him, Joseph knew who snitched. The Posse boy had called ahead to the parsonage or church office and told on them.
The shove was hard. Joseph stumbled backward, knocking his bicycle down with him. He landed half on the brown grass and half on the concrete pad. It hurt, but not too much. There wasn’t much that hurt worse than a lock in a sock. Before he could disentangle himself from the bike and get back to his feet, the reverend unleashed a storm of hateful words at Joseph. It was so severe that Vonda interrupted, “Daddy, no, it’s my fault. I asked him . . .”
“Shut up and go home, Vonda,” said Reverend Baer. He kicked hard toward Joseph, catching the rear bicycle tire.
Whatever she wanted to say back, Vonda capped it tightly. “Sorry,” she mouthed to Joseph. She put something back in her pocket and walked toward home.
The rant resumed, and Joseph separated himself from the bike and stood. He faced Reverend Baer. His jacket was torn. Oddly, this angered Joseph worse than being shoved. Rage. Control. Vonda leaving him alone to face her father angered Joseph worse than being shoved. Rage. Control.
When the shouting stopped, or at least when the man took a breath, Joseph lifted his bicycle and said, “Six hundred and thirteen.”
“What?” asked the reverend.
“Six hundred and thirteen,” said Joseph. “There are six hundred and thirteen commandments, not ten. Every Jewish second grader knows that. And every Jewish second grader knows you don’t push people around who didn’t do anything to you. You don’t damage other people’s property. You should know that even if you only know the ten. Your Bible’s bigger than mine.”
For once, Reverend Charles Baer was speechless. Joseph rode away. The bicycle chain rubbed a metallic, grinding rhythm against the bent derailleur.
40
CYCLING HELMET
Joseph had cut and scraped his hand deeply in breaking the fall. He thought of going to LaLa’s first so she could clean the cut and put a Band-Aid on it before Maman saw it. LaLa had first-aid spray that didn’t sting as bad. Really, he just missed LaLa, but he didn’t want to involve her in another transgression. He’d take his chances at home. Maman quizzed him about it at supper. Joseph said he fell down with his bike. Next came that stinging orange stuff and a Band-Aid.
Maman noticed Joseph’s dark mood, but since all the trouble started, she’d questioned him less and consulted him more. He’d just keep it to himself. No sense in worrying about Maman picking up the poker to visit a church for the first time in her life. Baba didn’t say much about the hand on Friday evening. He was more concerned about getting to the apartment to prepare for Friday-evening synagogue service. After the Shabbat afternoon nap on Saturday, Joseph walked with Baba back to the synagogue for concluding prayers. On the walk back to the apartment, Baba asked.
“I fell with my bike, Baba,” said Joseph.
“Youssef, your English is better than mine,” said Baba. “Tell me what happened. Americans don’t fall with their bikes. They wreck their bikes.”
So Joseph told. And Joseph waited for the rebuke. He knew he shouldn’t have walked to the park with Vonda. He should have walked away. But there was no rebuke. There was only a frown of sadness. Baba placed his hand atop Joseph’s kippah in a gesture of comfort. They walked like that for several strides. Joseph felt his father’s helplessness match his own.
Joseph wanted to stop and wrap his arms around Baba, to be comforted or even gently scolded like when he was little. Instead, Baba left Joseph to sort out his questions, anger, and disappointments as they walked. Baba finally spoke.
“Joseph, you will marry a Jewish woman. There’s no point in becoming emotional about a girl who isn’t.” He said it with such finality. “You’re too young to be so serious about a girl. When it’s time to marry, then you can allow your heart to open. Your maman was barely sixteen when we married,” said Baba. “Barely more than a child. Americans marry when they’re older. Hold on to your heart.”
“Why did she marry so young?” asked Joseph.
“Girls married younger back then,” said Baba.
Joseph asked, “How did you meet?”
“Our parents arranged it. My family went to her family’s home. She served us tea and sweets. She was so very beautiful. Big, dark eyes and the blackest hair. You have her lips, Youssef, so red and perfect. Persian women are very modest, but when she served me tea, she looked me directly in the eye. I liked her fire even though I knew that was why we were matched.”
“I don’t understand,” said Joseph. “Maman’s almost always calm.” It was better to keep the bareheaded, fireplace-poker-wielding, cursing Maman to himself.
“Her brothers were known for having fiery tempers. This was not safe for a Jew in any nation, much less a Jewish woman. Her family wanted her to marry into a more conservative family. Our family always have been doctors, engineers, scholars. I had returned to Tehran from England with an engineering degree. It was time to marry. I liked her instantly, but I think she was daring me not to.” Baba laughed softly, something he rarely did. “You inherited her temper.”
Joseph said, “Maman isn’t hot-tempered, Baba. The only time I’ve seen her really angry was when the Shah came to America and when people trashed the yard. Anybody would get angry about that.”
“Not now,” agreed Baba. “Life has broken her many times. Now it’s you she lives for. You’re the light of her eyes.”
“How did life break her?” asked Joseph.
“She tried so long to get pregnant in Iran. She miscarried several times. I was often gone working. She was alone during much of the grief.” Baba’s eyes moistened. “And then we lost everything because of her brother. He nearly got us killed. She took it personally even though I never blamed her.” Baba paused, pain shadowing his face. “We were respected in the Jewish community in Tehran. When we moved to California, I was reduced to cleaning other people’s toilets. It hurt her dignity. Her brother and sister-in-law were killed in the car bomb. And I hurt her. So when she had you, you were her redemption from all the suffering. Suffering changed her. You’d have liked to know her before . . .”
Joseph waited, but Baba didn’t finish.
“How did you hurt her, Baba?”
“God has saved all her tears in a bottle, Youssef. They will testify against me someday.”
Maybe the hurt Baba was talking about was not letting Maman adopt Shahla. Maman was Shahla’s closest kin. She was the logical choice, not strangers.
Joseph felt like he was translating again. He was sorting through what was Iranian, what was Jewish, what was American, and what was Texan to make sense of what people were doing. Did every kid have to do this? To figure out the world around him against who he is, where he was born, and where his parents were born? Probably not.
41
PILLBOX HAT
Now that Joseph played with the basketball team, he improved his pickup games at the park. He couldn’t play in Saturday tournaments, but he started every other game. His muscles started showing like the other eighth graders. Larry’s masculine shape was no longer something to be envied. One time Joseph lingered before running out to the gym for practice. Larry was the only one left in the locker room. “Why?” Joseph asked. He didn’t have to say what.
Larry looked at him with eyes more careworn than Baba’s. He said, “Fly high or die. Hawks stick together. You go down swinging, kid.” And that was it.
The team was what meant something to Larry. Like when Coach put Joseph in the game for the first time at tight end. Larry had assured Joseph that he could make the catch. The team was Larry’s family.
As his father’s court case dragged on, Larry’s basketball skills suffered. He’d always worn his hair a little long. Now it fell below his shoulders. He smelled strongly of cigarettes. His eyes were often bloodshot. He missed shots and made bad passes. The coaches benched him. He missed some practices. When the grades posted in early March, Larry was dropped from the team. He disappeared from school a week later. The truant officer was looking for him, but no one answered at their house.
Brian still came to school. He stayed with the druggies and no longer hung out with the jocks. Last-period gym class was reserved for athletes, so Brian’s gym period was changed after football season. Joseph rarely saw him.
At one of the home games, Joseph dressed out in the locker room. He remembered that he needed his Texas history book to finish his homework assignment. He’d already made enough Texas history with Mrs. Draper. He had to keep his grade up. “Tell Coach I had to run to my locker to get my history book,” Joseph asked a teammate. He trotted through the long hallway toward the classrooms. When he turned the next corner, he pulled up short.
Mr. Lamb, Detective White, and a uniformed officer with a German Shepherd on a leash stood in the hallway. Brian stood to the side, head down, pockets hanging inside out. The policeman searched the open locker. Mr. Lamb looked Joseph’s way.
“You can’t be in the hallway right now, son,” called Mr. Lamb. “Go back to the gym.”
Joseph eased back. He felt exceedingly sad.
That night, Joseph said the bedtime prayer. It was the first time since the peach sharbet incident that he could be sincere.
“Master of the Universe, I forgive anyone who angered me or sinned against me. Whether it was against my body, my possessions, my honor, or against anything of mine. Whether he did it accidentally, willfully, carelessly, or purposely. Whether he did it through words, actions, thoughts, I forgive . . .”
Why pray? Did you just keep saying the words until they were true? If so, then prayer didn’t change anyone else. It changed the one saying the prayer. Like a translator.
