It's night, Diary. I turned off the ceiling light. I'm sitting on the bed with my flashlight on, so I can write in you. Six days have passed since Bob Martin died. I miss him as much as I miss Grampa Frank, but as what happened with Grampa, I'm getting used to Bob being gone. Mr. Peters is Bob's opposite. So, it doesn't matter where I spend my pennies. This morning, I bought a four-cent box of Cracker Jacks at Turbin's.
After Dad finished lunch today, he said, "Gordon, I want to investigate the paint job your brothers did above the front porch. So, I'll need your help."
"Yes, sir." That's the first time Dad ever required my services except for playing the piano for his bedridden, stinky patients. Since Doc III and Dork were painting in the back of the house, that's the likeliest reason Dad needed me. "Here's what I want you to do," Dad said as we stood on the lawn, looking up to the front porch roof that one of Otto Schuman's heavy, wooden, two-piece extension ladders leaned against. Dad pointed downward. "I want you to stand on that bottom rung."
"Just stand?"
"Yes."
So, I hopped on the bottom rung.
"Not now. Stand there after I start climbing. That way, the ladder won't slip and fall."
Dad isn't like Albert Kell, who wears work clothes and work shoes and climbs extension ladders as fast as monkeys zip up trees in Johnny Weissmuller Jungle Jim movies. Dad, however, was wearing a white shirt, colorful paisley tie, dark brown trousers, and brown wingtip shoes. He held on tightly to a rung above him and took one shaky step with one foot at a time. When both feet made it to the next higher rung, which took some doing, he waited before he started to raise himself to the next rung. I was looking up at his duff. "You don't have to worry, Dad. The ladder can't slip because I'm here."
"That's good," he replied, his voice as wobbly as his legs. Later, level with the rooftop, he got off the ladder, stepped on the roof, turned ever so slowly, looked down, and grinned. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"No," I fibbed.
Dad disappeared. I figured he was making his way to the attic's exterior wall, with its two windows that makes it look as if the house has eyes. I waited and waited some more. I'll tell you this, Diary: Being an extension ladder's anchor is borrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring.
"Hey, Gordy." That was Johnny Nelson, calling from across the street. "What're you doing?"
"What's it look like? I'm standing so the ladder won't fall."
"See my new truck?" He held up a shiny red and blue toy dump truck. "Works like a real one." Johnny jerked a lever on the truck's side, causing the bed to rise and fall. He had more toys than all us Hoffmans put together. I guess it's because the Nelsons have only two kids, not five like us, plus Johnny's dad hardly drinks at all, maybe two bottles of Point beer on a hot, summer day, and that's it.
"Looks really neat," I yelled. I got off the ladder and backed away. Dad was still inspecting. Time advanced as slowly as a three-toed sloth. "Dad, when are you coming down?"
"Soon."
Considering how he made his way up the ladder, I figured coming down would take longer. When Albert Kell wanted to come down, he approached the ladder, grabbed one ladder side, turned around, held on to both ladder's sides, quickly lowered a leg until a work shoe's sole touched a rung, and then down he'd come, as fast as a monkey.
I just had to see that truck. I jumped off the rung, backed off, and watched Dad run a hand alongside an attic window that was painted the other day. So, I ran across the street, figuring I'd have enough time to inspect the truck and get back to the ladder before Dad started down. I looked at the new toy. "Keen," I said. "It's super kee—"
A blood-curdling scream.
Everything stopped.
Everything.
Including my breathing.
Maybe my heart stopped, too. I don't know. I do know this: Dad was on the lawn, staggering as if he was drunk. The two parts of the ladder had separated and lay kittywampus on their sides. Dad spun around as if he were "It" in a game of Blind Man's Bluff. "Is he drunk?"
"Huh? What did you say?"
"I said your dad—is he drunk?"
"No, he joined AA. I'm not supposed to say anything about it. We'd better get out of here because I was supposed to be over there so the ladder wouldn't—"
"Looks like it did. Where should we go?"
"Your backyard. Let's see how the truck works with real sand."
Much later, I peeked around the corner of Nelsons' front porch. The Oldsmobile wasn't in the driveway. I figured Dad must've left for his office. So, I walked across the street. Making certain nobody saw me, I stared at the ladder's two parts and spied a spot near the halfway part of the top extension. The rung was missing. It must’ve busted off. Zillions of splinters stuck out.
At supper time, I sat at the kitchen table. Everyone was there, except for Dad. "Where is father?" asked Crazy Annie.
"He's not a priest," said Doc III, sneering.
"When you said 'father,' James thought you meant Dad was a priest," translated Dork, the Hoffman interpreter and know-it-all.
"He is, too, my father," Crazy Annie shot back.
"Kids, your father doesn't feel well," said Mother. "He's in bed, resting. So, don't make a lot of noise."
If the arguing continued, we kids knew Dad would scream and yell and come out in a rage with his strap. Or worse, the buckle end. Everyone whispered. I didn't say one word. I was trying to figure out why Dad hadn't yelled or bawled me out. And why hadn't he told Mother? Or anyone else? I'll tell you, Diary, I'm thankful he didn't.
After Dad finished lunch today, he said, "Gordon, I want to investigate the paint job your brothers did above the front porch. So, I'll need your help."
"Yes, sir." That's the first time Dad ever required my services except for playing the piano for his bedridden, stinky patients. Since Doc III and Dork were painting in the back of the house, that's the likeliest reason Dad needed me. "Here's what I want you to do," Dad said as we stood on the lawn, looking up to the front porch roof that one of Otto Schuman's heavy, wooden, two-piece extension ladders leaned against. Dad pointed downward. "I want you to stand on that bottom rung."
"Just stand?"
"Yes."
So, I hopped on the bottom rung.
"Not now. Stand there after I start climbing. That way, the ladder won't slip and fall."
Dad isn't like Albert Kell, who wears work clothes and work shoes and climbs extension ladders as fast as monkeys zip up trees in Johnny Weissmuller Jungle Jim movies. Dad, however, was wearing a white shirt, colorful paisley tie, dark brown trousers, and brown wingtip shoes. He held on tightly to a rung above him and took one shaky step with one foot at a time. When both feet made it to the next higher rung, which took some doing, he waited before he started to raise himself to the next rung. I was looking up at his duff. "You don't have to worry, Dad. The ladder can't slip because I'm here."
"That's good," he replied, his voice as wobbly as his legs. Later, level with the rooftop, he got off the ladder, stepped on the roof, turned ever so slowly, looked down, and grinned. "That wasn't bad, was it?"
"No," I fibbed.
Dad disappeared. I figured he was making his way to the attic's exterior wall, with its two windows that makes it look as if the house has eyes. I waited and waited some more. I'll tell you this, Diary: Being an extension ladder's anchor is borrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring.
"Hey, Gordy." That was Johnny Nelson, calling from across the street. "What're you doing?"
"What's it look like? I'm standing so the ladder won't fall."
"See my new truck?" He held up a shiny red and blue toy dump truck. "Works like a real one." Johnny jerked a lever on the truck's side, causing the bed to rise and fall. He had more toys than all us Hoffmans put together. I guess it's because the Nelsons have only two kids, not five like us, plus Johnny's dad hardly drinks at all, maybe two bottles of Point beer on a hot, summer day, and that's it.
"Looks really neat," I yelled. I got off the ladder and backed away. Dad was still inspecting. Time advanced as slowly as a three-toed sloth. "Dad, when are you coming down?"
"Soon."
Considering how he made his way up the ladder, I figured coming down would take longer. When Albert Kell wanted to come down, he approached the ladder, grabbed one ladder side, turned around, held on to both ladder's sides, quickly lowered a leg until a work shoe's sole touched a rung, and then down he'd come, as fast as a monkey.
I just had to see that truck. I jumped off the rung, backed off, and watched Dad run a hand alongside an attic window that was painted the other day. So, I ran across the street, figuring I'd have enough time to inspect the truck and get back to the ladder before Dad started down. I looked at the new toy. "Keen," I said. "It's super kee—"
A blood-curdling scream.
Everything stopped.
Everything.
Including my breathing.
Maybe my heart stopped, too. I don't know. I do know this: Dad was on the lawn, staggering as if he was drunk. The two parts of the ladder had separated and lay kittywampus on their sides. Dad spun around as if he were "It" in a game of Blind Man's Bluff. "Is he drunk?"
"Huh? What did you say?"
"I said your dad—is he drunk?"
"No, he joined AA. I'm not supposed to say anything about it. We'd better get out of here because I was supposed to be over there so the ladder wouldn't—"
"Looks like it did. Where should we go?"
"Your backyard. Let's see how the truck works with real sand."
Much later, I peeked around the corner of Nelsons' front porch. The Oldsmobile wasn't in the driveway. I figured Dad must've left for his office. So, I walked across the street. Making certain nobody saw me, I stared at the ladder's two parts and spied a spot near the halfway part of the top extension. The rung was missing. It must’ve busted off. Zillions of splinters stuck out.
At supper time, I sat at the kitchen table. Everyone was there, except for Dad. "Where is father?" asked Crazy Annie.
"He's not a priest," said Doc III, sneering.
"When you said 'father,' James thought you meant Dad was a priest," translated Dork, the Hoffman interpreter and know-it-all.
"He is, too, my father," Crazy Annie shot back.
"Kids, your father doesn't feel well," said Mother. "He's in bed, resting. So, don't make a lot of noise."
If the arguing continued, we kids knew Dad would scream and yell and come out in a rage with his strap. Or worse, the buckle end. Everyone whispered. I didn't say one word. I was trying to figure out why Dad hadn't yelled or bawled me out. And why hadn't he told Mother? Or anyone else? I'll tell you, Diary, I'm thankful he didn't.