Chapter Ninety-Eight
Zap!
Zap, zap!
Another rubberband grazed the top of my head as Puck clicked the trigger of his wooden gun.
“Hold out your head,” he grinned mischievously.
It was early. We were at Rose’s two hours after leaving the house following all that false pretense of thunderstorms and hail. But still, nice day. A nice day for Opening Day, which was already accounting for the increase of traffic as we approached the city to the USCIS government offices for yet another finger printing. Honestly, I don’t know what they’re looking for. We haven’t changed the pattern of our fingertips in the last fifteen months. They’re still the same old arches, loops, and whorls. All I can figure is it’s some sort of proof that we’re still alive someplace. They’re very friendly people though. They really are. And after I joined the line of foreigners hailing from – in my exquisite cultural expertise: Russia, Mexico, Thailand, and Pakistan – staring at me like they honestly wondered what I was doing there, the wait and printing was completely painless. The elderly gentleman who operated my printing was a jolly sort of guy, and we were done and gone.
The Bear returned with sandwiches at noon. On a half-blue half-gray afternoon in a city’s annual play-hooky-day. We didn’t have long before he had to be back for a meeting. This time we dropped him off, noting the expected surge of red. St. Louis had popped open like a new flower, people filling up the sidewalks and bicycles, celebrating spring and the return of baseball in a town where everyone wore red.
“Mom?” Puck noted as we drove through Clayton.
“Yup, my man?”
“Those potato chips Dad got were really good.”
“Yes, they were.”
“I can still taste them on my lips.”
We drove leisurely back down beautiful Forsyth towards Forest Park, blooms bursting on the old places.
“Mom? Did you not remember that bump in the road?”
“I did, bud. They fixed it, remember?”
“Yes, but. It still bounces my bottom.”
We had time for Peanuts, Garfield, Narnia, and mah-jongg, yes. But we had even more time for the wind and hills in Forest Park. On a day like today. 76 degrees and all was well. It started with the big brown turtles and snakes and amazing soft thick rich green spring grass. We walked around on it for awhile, like a carpet, admiring its thickness. Puck gripped my hand walking the back of the switchback snake from the overpass into the park, offering instruction on when I should let go and when to hold on…
“Let go target!… Hold on target!… Let go target!”
Of course then he thought he’d be sneaky…
“Close your eyes, Mom! I will lead you somewhere! Don’t look! Don’t look!”
It didn’t take me long to realize that he was trying to escort me across the overpass towards the Zoo without my knowing…
“Please, MOM! PLEASE!”
Instead, we hit the street just down for the World’s Fair Pavilion, Puck kicking his soccer ball along. We knocked it around for awhile in the great stone fountain, absent water. It wouldn’t be long before it was filled again. Already the warm afternoon was inspiring red-face on Puck and sticky-head under the red Cards cap. Even with the weather, the park was pretty quiet. Probably all clustered around radios and television.
A little after five we sat in our third park parking lot of the day, listening to the game while I made Puck a peanut butter sandwich. I passed it back to him on soft whole grain white Bunny Bread…
“How’d you build that so fast?” he asked me, amazed at my peanut buttering skills.
So Puck tore it up at that third park around all the kids and parents. The Asian-American mama with long black hair, dress, and spiky heels playing tag with her kids, an Atlanta 1996 Olympics backpack sitting on the bench. The girl in fuchsia tutu and pack of pirate booty. The other girl in butterfly tights, brightly colored geometric patterned dress, and purple Uggs. And the other girl with the red-headed Brave girl and three black bear brothers tee taking turns climbing the outside of the log slide with Puck. People are interesting.
When I looked up from washing dishes that evening, Puck was out of bed rubbing the bottom of his feet with the barbecue basting brush.
“MY FEET ITCH! AAAAH!”