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CHAPTER TWO
 

Monday started the last week of school at Valley Christian Junior High.  Where else would a P.K. go to school, right? Heaven forbid that a P.K. rub shoulders with real sinners. The last week of school was a waste of everybody’s time. In History, Mr. McIlvaney read from the Bible. Book of Job. His favorite. I closed my eyes, pretending to listen, and pictured Debbie Burnside. Black straight hair down to her waist. A face like...Raquel Welch. Great legs. Walked like...I don’t know...like honey drips. Only way to describe it. Had her in two classes: math and choir.

            After class, I stopped at my hall locker. On the inside of the door, I’d taped surfing pictures. Staring at them, I was suddenly on a wave shootin’ the tube on my surfboard, cuttin’ right, cuttin’ left, on the verge, and I look to the beach, and there’s Debbie, wearin’ a black bikini, and she’s watching me—really impressed—and I...I suddenly remember the stupid skateboard I got for my birthday. I slammed my locker and banged my head against it.

            “Guy, Matt, kill yourself why don’t you.”

            I jumped, embarrassed. It was Debbie Burnside. My mind raced, and when she spoke to me, I had to take my foot off the accelerator so my mouth wouldn’t rattle off something stupid.

            “You okay?”

            “Oh, yeah, sure.”

            “What’s wrong?” She threw her head to the side, sending her hair around her shoulder out of her face.

            “Nothing. Forgot something at home.”

            “So you beat your head against a locker?”

            “It was pretty important.”

            She seemed to accept my answer.  “Want to sign my yearbook?”

            “Sure.”

            She handed it to me. There were only four days left to let her know how I felt about her. If I wanted any chance at having a girlfriend that summer, I had to take the opportunity, so I took my time finding a page that didn’t have anybody else’s writing. I wanted to write something good. Something that would let her know how much I liked her. But I didn’t want to get too mushy, just in case she didn’t feel the same way, which was probably the case, since she loved surfers and I wasn’t one.

            “I got to get to my next class, Matt,” she said impatiently. I couldn’t think of anything perfect. I settled for so-so. When I handed her book back, I handed her mine with it so she wouldn’t read what I wrote in hers. She wrote something without hesitation. I figured it was probably what she wrote to every boy she considered just a friend.

            “Thanks for signing my book,” she said, smiling at me. “I gotta go. See you in choir.”

            “Yeah, see ya.”

            When she was gone, I turned page after page, until I found her curly-cue handwriting. I read it. Read it again. My heart pounded and I couldn’t swallow. I read it again to make sure I wasn’t spacing out.

            My dear Matt, it read, I think you’re one of the cutest guys in school and you have the best voice in choir. I want to see you this summer, O.K? I love the beach (hint, hint). Have a cool summer. Debbie B.

            The last week of school was a waste of time all right, but it sure had its moments. That was one of them.

            At lunch, I didn’t drink any milk. Milk made my voice sound like I’d swallowed glue. And I didn’t want to disappoint her.

* * *

            I locked my bedroom door. Not that I had to worry about anybody coming in. Lukey played Monopoly with his friends in his room. They never ever finished a game, but they sure tried. Mark studied like a monk at the dining table. He always studied after dinner. He had to get good grades. If he didn’t get straight A’s, he got depressed. It’s hard to believe that a twelve-year-old could be depressed, but Mark had to be perfect. His half of the room was in complete order. He wrote a daily record of everything he did. If he missed a day, it was like the end of the world or something. And he had his ceremony. About every other week, to keep from getting depressed, he’d start his whole life over.

            First he’d slip into the hall closet. It was the biggest.  He’d close the door. Dad and I stood outside the door one time to hear what he did. From inside the closet we heard: “Starting...right...now.” We heard him take a deep breath, blow it out, and then he burst out of the dark closet—a new person. He’d clean his half of the room, organize his drawers, his side of the closet, line up his shoes by color, clean the kitchen—top to bottom—wipe everything down, pick up junk around the house, bring his journal up to date, swab the toilet with cleanser, clean out the tub and sink, scrubbing all the black scum from between the tiles with an old toothbrush, take a scalding hot bath, wash his hair—twice—mop up the water from the floor, brush his teeth, comb his hair, dab on some Hai Karate cologne, put on clean clothes and do his homework. Did I mention he was only twelve? How could anybody get like that in only twelve years?

            But it made Mark happy. For a few days. Then he’d do it all over again. We got used to it.

            I lay on my bed reading a Hardy Boys book, waiting for it to get dark. You know how mass murderers read Playboy to get themselves worked up to kill? The Hardy Boys did the same for me. Not for murder—stealth. Got my brain focused, quiet. Not all heroes are thrust into heroic situations. Sometimes you had to go looking for them. That is, if you wanted to be a true hero. That’s why at night, while Mark and Lukey watched Batman or Family Affair or The Monkees, and Dad read the paper, and Mom, when she wasn’t having her nervous breakdown, was home washing dishes or ironing patches over the holes in the knees of our jeans, I, Matthew Thomas Banning, secretly became...The Raven.

            At eight-thirty I put away the Hardy Boys book and stripped. From my bottom drawer, I took everything out and laid it on the bed. First, I put on the black, long-sleeve turtle-neck shirt. Then the tight, black stretch pants. Black socks. Up on the shelf in my closet in a junk box that Mom wouldn’t go through I got down the shoes. They were black high-tops. Not just any black high-tops. With white enamel paint, I’d painted wings on the sides of them. I took from the junk box a black sailor’s cap, pulled it on my head, and folded down the cuff. Last was Mom’s black scarf. It smelled of perfume. I tied it around my neck. Stepping in front of the mirror, I stared straight into my own eyes. For as long as I could stand it. Then I was ready. I pushed up my window, climbed out into the side yard.

            In our neighborhood, the houses all looked alike, because one unimaginative company had built them that way on purpose, which, if you ask me, seemed pretty dumb. The smart thing, though, was that they built block walls with red caps on top between every back yard and between the yards facing parallel streets. Walking on top of the walls made it easy to move through the neighborhood, except in some back yards where the walnut trees had overgrown and I had to hang on the limb and swing around to the other side. But for The Raven it wasn’t hard to do. Fact is, The Raven liked it. The Raven craved obstacles. Becoming a hero wasn’t fun if it was too easy.

            There were twenty-four houses on my block, twelve facing Chatsburn Street, twelve facing Variel Avenue, the next street over from mine. My house was in the middle of the block. The wall that ran the length of the block, dividing the back yards of the houses facing the two streets, was The Raven’s catwalk. The Raven stalked along the wall, and, without leaving the wall, gazed into the neighbors’ sliding glass doors and windows. Most kept their shades up and drapes open. They never expected The Raven to be up on the wall in their back yard. And with it dark outside and the lights on in the houses, The Raven saw things.

            At 7720 Chatsburn, Mrs. Toomey, who was a nurse, gave Mr. Toomey a back rub, while he sat in his favorite chair in the den.

            At 7733 Variel, which butted up to the Toomey’s back yard, two teenage girls sat at the dining table drinking Cokes and doing homework. Their mother, a fat woman with a cane, hobbled around the house from one room to the next. Couldn’t tell what she was doing. Maybe looking for her Snickers bar.

            Next door, at 7741 Variel, a young couple laid on the couch together in their underwear. Blue light from a TV in the room flickered over their half-naked bodies. The Raven watched for a few minutes. To think that one day a girl wearing only her bra and panties might lie on top of me was exciting and scary at the same time.

            Up and down the wall, through the walnut tree limbs, The Raven patrolled the back yards of the 7700 block of Chatsburn and Variel. Like a sleek, black high wire walker, arms out to his sides, one foot in front of the other, careful not to step on a loose cap.

            After reaching the end of the block, with nobody to save, no crimes to foil, no evil diversions, The Raven headed home. Coming to the house with the half-naked couple, The Raven stopped long enough to see the woman get up and walk to the kitchen. She had a slender, white body. Nothing wiggled when she walked. The Raven sat down on the wall, dangling his winged high-tops over the side and watched. The woman returned to the den. She had something in her hand. A bottle of something to drink. Probably booze. The Raven had seen them drinking before. She handed the drink to her husband. He took it, quickly set it down on the coffee table, wrapped his arms around her and grabbed her butt, one cheek in each hand. The Raven’s heart raced and blood surged to places where you didn’t think blood would go. Gee, I wanted to do that. How could I ever grab a girl’s butt and get away with it? He pulled her down on him. His hands slid down her back, into her panties—oh, God—I’d go to Hell if I did that—heck, it had to be worth it.

            Now, if the husband wasn’t her husband, and she was fighting him off, well, The Raven would have to swoop down from the wall and take care of it....Well, actually, The Raven was smarter than that. He’d run down the wall to his own house and call the cops. But they were married. And she liked it.

            Marriage had its mysteries. It was something to look forward to.

            Balancing carefully, The Raven turned, planted his hands on the wall to stand. A loose cap under his hand tipped off.

            I landed on my back in their yard and got the wind knocked out of me. I thought I was going to die, rolling there in the grass, holding my stomach, gasping for air.

            It’s hard to pay attention when you can’t breathe, so I hadn’t noticed that the guy in his underwear came out to his patio.

            “Who’s there!” he called.

            I would have answered him, but I still couldn’t get my breath. I heard him approaching across the grass. He cried out in pain, swearing.

            “What happened, hon?” his wife called to him.

            “Damn walnuts!  I thought you raked them up Saturday.”

            “I’ll get your shoes. Be careful.”

            He shaded his eyes with his hand trying to see out to the far reaches of his yard. I turned on my side. Lying in the dark corner where the wall met the ground, he couldn’t see me. “Who’s out there?”

            “Here’s your go-aheads, hon, put them on. What is it?”

            “I don’t know. I don’t see anything.”

            “Probably a squirrel.”

            “At night?”

            “A cat then. Skip it, hon, come back inside.”

            He put on his thongs. I thought he was coming out farther, but he must have considered her idea that the grunting and groaning was a cat. Good thing. You don’t want to get a guy in his underwear mad.

* * *

            Back home, I saw Mr. Hamlin through the sliding glass door, that orange-red hair, those billions of freckles that looked just plain silly on a grown man, and I knew something was in the works. Standing on the back patio, I cracked open the sliding glass door, stood out of view and hung my ear in their direction.

            “...God’s challenges,” Mr. Hamlin finished saying.

            “Can Henry and Ida put me up again?”

            “I don’t see why not. I’ll ask. They did before. They love the heck out you, John. And if they can’t, we’ll call The Burrs. They’re down in Jérémie anyway.”

            I knew then where he wanted to send Dad. But Mom was in the hospital. What would Dad do with us this time? Would she come home?

            “I don’t know, Mike. It’s just for the summer?”

            “As long as it takes you to get it built, John. That’s what I’m told. We’ve got enough funding for the building, but we need the land and you can get it for us. Henry tried, but they don’t like him—you know the way he is. He’s been there too long. Natives got to him. Man needs a break, John.”

            I heard Dad acknowledge him with a hum.

            “Let’s pray on it,” Mr. Hamlin said.

            “What about Rebecca? You know where she is, don’t you?”

            “Of course. And Eve and I have been praying for her.”

            “Thanks. You know, Mike, I have three boys who need a parent here.”

            “They’ve got one.”

            The pause was long. Then Mr. Hamlin got up. I stopped listening. I wanted to know what he meant by They’ve got one. Did it mean Mom was coming home? Or did it mean...we’d go with Dad? Couldn’t mean that. Had to be Mom was coming home. He’d never take us there. The place was...evil. Everything about it was wicked. He wouldn’t do it. It was no place for a good American boy. A good American boy with a dream. Big beach towels, Debbie Burnside in a bikini, tail of a Hobie surfboard stuck in the sand, corn dogs, lemonade, KRLA blasting The Beach Boys.     

            I didn’t want to go with Dad. Even the name of the place sounded evil. Haiti. Sounded like hate. And I hated the thought of going.

            Mr. Hamlin left. I slipped into my room while Dad was out front saying goodbye, put away The Raven’s wardrobe, and lay on my bed. Dad tapped on my door and walked in. He grinned. Like he did when he had a surprise for me. But I had a surprise for him.

            He sat on the edge of the bed; put his hand on my shoulder. “What have you been doing?”

            “Nothing.”

            “Mr. Hamlin just left—you remember Mr. Hamlin from the missions department?”

            “Uh-huh. Freckles.”

            Dad chuckled. “How would you like to go on a vacation?”

            “What, a surf vacation?” I said. “Hawaii, maybe?”

            “No, not Hawaii. This would be…an exciting and educational experience you’d never forget. A vacation in a different country. You’ve never been to a different country.”

            “I’ve never been out of California, but that’s because California’s got everything.”

            “Well, not quite everything, son, but yes, California’s a great place. I’m talking about Haiti—a place where you can experience a different culture, different people.”

            “You’ve told us about Haiti before, and the place sounds pukey. When you came back the second time, you said you weren’t going back because it made you sick.”

            “Not physically, Matt. Emotionally.”

            “So why go back?”

            “There’s important work to be done. God may want me to go.”

            “What, he send you a telegram or something?” As soon as I said it, I regretted it. “Sorry.”

            Dad’s face lost its excitement. Concern brought a frown to his face. At least I hoped it was concern, and he wasn’t mad at me. I hated when Dad was mad at me.

            He stood up. “We’ll let God show his will. Sound fair?”

            “Not really.”

            “God knows the right thing to do.”

            “Maybe He does—maybe not . Maybe God doesn’t give a hoot about the beach or surfing—”

            “There are beaches in Haiti. Beautiful—well, some beaches.”

            “Bet you can’t surf there.”

            “You like to fish, don’t you?”

            I nodded, but he wasn’t getting it. He patted my shoulder.  “I’ll pray about it.”

            You do that, I thought.  I’ll pray we stay home.  May the best prayer win.