Hughes - Watch Out

Doorbell, said Tom. My brother didnt even look up from his computer.

Oh, man! I had just poured both of us bowls of cereal. I had just rushed them upstairs, spoons shoved in my back pocket. I was rushing because cereal needs to be eaten within thirty seconds of pouring in the milk, of course. For prime cereal/milk blending. Anybody knows that. Leave it one or two minutes and that cereal is doomed. It turns into a mucky, soggy mess. And who wants to eat that?

The doorbell rang again.

Charlie! Doorbell. I was busy choking back a few bites of perfect cereal. Tom grabbed one of his crutches and poked me with it. Cmon. Go see who it is.

Last week Tom broke his leg in two places in one of the most spectacular injuries in the history of Walter Watts High Schools football team. (The Wildcats. Name another W animal. Okay, I just thought of wolves, which would have been way better. Also wolverines. Never mind.) Anyway, it was a really grim injury. A hall-of-famer.

Even the doctor called it a super-ugly, ugly break. You know when a doctor looks scared and says ugly twice that its a bad one. It was one of those injuries they play over and over and over on the sports roundups. You know the ones a baseball player crashing into the wall trying to make the catch, or a ref accidentally getting clocked by a giant linebacker. Maybe with a voice-over of the announcer saying, Oh! Thats gotta hurt!

It was brutal, but it made Tom a minor celebrity at school. Who knew that a crippling injury was a ticket to popularity? I didnt. I might have to try it some time. It wasnt as if Tom needed more attention. Tall, popular, athleticTom was one of those twelfth-graders we tenth-graders pretty much hate. Well, not hate. Hes my brother, so thats the wrong word. Resent? No, thats too negative. Envy? Bingo.

But I did feel bad for him when he got injured. It was the kind of injury where parents run onto the field. The kind of injury where a leg bends in several places that no leg should. The kind of injury where bone rips right through the skin (Im feeling sick just thinking about it). The kind of injury where everybody holds their hands over their mouths. Or sucks in their lips and groans or says, Jeez. Or just turns away and prays that people with stronger stomachs will deal with it. I was in that last group. Mom was the parent running onto the field. And Uncle Dave too. Not a parent, but an adult. Sort of.

Now Tom was stuck in a huge cast. A toe-to-hip cast. What a massive hassle! For me especially. Because Tom was going to be, as far as I could see, living a great life for the next few months. Sure, he was in a bit of pain. Okay, a lot of pain. But he had medicine to help control that. He had special permission from school to do his schoolwork from home for a few weeks. He had his computer and his books. And he had a 24/7 personal servant. Me.

Uncle Dave had piggybacked him up to our room after he got back from the hospital. And other than some slow crutching to the bathroom, thats where hes been. Watching Netflix, playing video games, making music on his computer.

So I had to pick up the slack around the house. Do everything. Well, everything other than make the money. Mom took care of that one. She had a job cleaning the operating rooms at the hospital. She didnt panic much at all about Toms leg once she knew he was okay. Shes seen enough gore, I guess. She knows things heal. Shes a tough cookie, as Uncle Dave says.

So Toms injury became my problem. Mom works, and Uncle Dave, who is currently living in our basement, is looking for work. In theory. He also does volunteer stuff and other various things. That means I had to do all the yard work. Garbage. All the housework. All the running food upstairs, all the taking dirty dishes downstairs. All the stacking dirty dishes in the dishwasher. All the unwrapping and cooking of frozen foods. Everything.

Including answering doorbells.

I pounded down the stairs and gave the peephole a quick glance. But I knew who it would be. It was the middle of the day. I yanked open the door on the third ring. Gary is our mail carrier. No matter the weather, Gary always seems to have a cold. His baseball hat is too big for his little head. His mail bag looks too heavy for him to carry. It practically hangs to his knees.

Another package for ya, Gary said to the front step.

Gary always looks at something else when he is talking to you. At first I found this confusing. For example, hed tell our mailbox it was going to rain. Or mention to his shoes that postage rates were going up. But now I know hes actually talking to me. Hes not so into eye contact. Hes just an oddball, Mom says.

Gary wiped his nose with the back of his hand as he shoved the package at me. For Tom, actually.

Thanks, Gary, I said. This is where the door should be shutting, right? Mail guy comes with package. Mail guy delivers package. Its done. Thats how normal mail people do things. But not Gary.

Amazon again, he said, pointing to the package.

Yep. Sure is. I gritted my teeth and tried to be nice. Gary obviously didnt have much of a life. He always wanted to stop and talk, even if it was only about mail. Or the weather. Oractually, that was it. Mail and weather. Those were the only things we ever talked about.

You guys sure get lots of packages, said Gary.

I sagged against the doorframe. Gary is a death-by-boredom kind of guy. I was really, really hoping he wasnt going to tell me yet again how packages are tracked before theyre delivered. That one was a long, painful ramble.

Yep, we sure do. My brother does, actually.

Yeah? What did he order? He said this to the porch. He didnt care. He was just making lame conversation.

But somehow I hate it when he flat-out asks what is in the packages. It isnt like there is ever anything exciting or private in them. Just electronic equipment and software for the music Tom makes on his computer.

It is the principle of the thing. Gary just shouldnt ask. Isnt that against some mail-carrier code? Arent they just supposed to silently deliver things through rain and hail? This was like a grocery clerk asking why you bought that broccoli or how you were going to cook it. Mail, like broccoli, just seems private to me.

I dont know. Maybe Im the one with the problem.

Oh, just stuff. You know. Brrrits a little chilly.

Gary showed no sign of moving off the step. The guy could not take a hint. Ever.

He lifted his cap and scratched his mop of red hair. He glanced at me with his watery, pale-blue eyes. They swam fishlike behind his thick glasses. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose again.

Its fall. October, he replied. I nodded. Killer observation. He nodded too.

God, I felt sorry for the guy. Maybe I was the only person who ever talked to him. Gary took out a stained handkerchief and blew his nose.

Well, dont let me keep you, Gary. That looks like a wicked cold you have there. And you probably have lots of other mail to

Nah, pretty much finished the route. Did it in two hours, twenty-three minutes today.

Yes, he times himself. And has to talk about it.

Hey, nice. Sweet. One of your better times. Well, I better

You hear about all the break-and-enters in the neighborhood? Gary said suddenly.

No way. Gary was actually talking about something other than the mail or the weather. My brain snapped from half-asleep to alert.