The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin (11 page)

“Where were you, young lady?” Prefontaine snaps. “We are all
(something something something)
, and you’ve been, been …”

Apparently, she can’t guess what Leigha had been doing. But I can. I am pretty sure it doesn’t involve Pat Chambers. That look on her face is the look I had when I ate too much ice cream or, once, a whole bag of Baker’s chocolate. The same look I had that day the cafeteria served fried ravioli.

Lovely Leigha’s guts are in a full-on twist.

I want to shield my Leigha from the bad math whore. But I can’t. So I just stand by, watching.

Leigha whispers to Miss Prefontaine. Prefontaine looks a little smirky, then gestures that Leigha should get in the back of the line.

The balloon of salacious excitement is popped. We turn to get on the bus—but where is Pat Chambers?

The next weird thing
that happens: Miner Carl comes flying out of the Happy Memory Coal Mine emergency exit, screaming maniacally, a hyperball of panic. I can’t tell what he is yelling, but it must be something like “Call the police” or “Dial 911” because dozens of people begin tapping their cell phones.

Devon, one of the many trying to get his cell phone to work, grabs me by the shoulders and explains with a look of serious concentration on his face.

“
P-A-T I-SA-T T-H-E B-O-T-T-O-M O-F T-H-E M-I-N-E
,” he signs with shaking hands. “
M-I-N-E-R C-A-R-L T-H-I-N-K-S H-E M-I-G-H-T B-E D-E-A-D
.“ For a lip-reader like me, a real emergency is quite literally like losing my mind. I catch fragmented bits of conversations, everyone on the cell phone at once, everyone panicking and running as if a sudden tornado of acid rain has opened over
our heads. It is a madhouse. The Happy Memory employees—only used to pretending to work at a mine—turn to their leader, a panic-stricken bald man who just keeps running in circles yelling, “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod.”

Miss Prefontaine has collapsed like a punctured implant, becoming a weeping puddle of makeup and tears, still clutching her oversize playing card. Mr. Arterberry is a dead ringer for a fish out of water, his big mouth gasping, his wide eyes staring in every direction.

A whirlwind of emergency vehicles whips into the parking lot—police cars, ambulances, and even fire trucks from several townships. Shouting into their shoulders, the EMTs run like a descending army into the mouth of the mine. I stand baffled and bathed in the colored strobe of the revolving lights. People next to me are hugging one another, crying. I feel dizzy.

Next: platoons of reporters, TV vans, even a helicopter, descend in a blink of an eye, like rats sniffing out a meal. They jab cameras and microphones in all directions, training their zoom lenses on tearstained faces. What should I do if they ask me for an interview? If they stick their cameras in
my
face? I decide that I will give them the finger. Solves the language issue and also makes my point. I hate it when newspeople ask someone how it feels when something tragic happens. How do they think it feels?

When the first wave of EMTs emerges from the mouth of the mine, I can tell that the news is grim. Though their faces wear masks of seen-it-all tough guys, the shock is clear in every one of their twitching eyes. Finally, like the exclamation point
at the end of the sentence, the last group of workers emerges carrying a body bag. Pat Chambers is dead!

Fancy SUVs and Jaguars and pickup trucks cruise into the Happy Memory parking lot. Is it on the news already? No, of course: all those cell phone calls to Ma and Pa. Mom does have an old pager and always tells me to call “if there is ever any problem ever.” I didn’t even think to call.

I start to panic, because now how am I going to get home? Is Porkrinds driving us back to school? Do we have afternoon classes? What the hell is going on? I turn to Devon, who is looking in the other direction, toward the police cars. I can tell that he has recognized one of them. Duh … It is Mr. Smiley. Devon walks toward him.

Smiley Senior is not what I expect. Seeing him next to Devon makes me think not about genetics but about adoption. Bald except for a bushy mustache of epic proportions, he has a short, thick body and a face of sharp angles—the polar opposite of his son’s features. It is clear that they are related, however, as he runs over and says to Devon, “Tell me what on earth is going on, my good man.”

Devon fills Señor Smiley in on the details. Smiley the Elder nods quickly, like a dog trying to shake something off his head.

“Come on,” he says, reaching up to throw an arm around Devon. “Let’s get you out of this
(something something something)
.”

Apparently, Devon has read my mind and said something to his father, because in a moment I am met by two somber Smileys gesturing toward the cruiser. They are offering me a ride home. I accept, feeling relieved. It is bizarre sliding into
the back of a police car. I feel sort of important and tough. From fatass to badass. Mr. Smiley sits in the front with the officer who drove him there, a young guy who seems annoyed that he has to play chauffeur.

Devon and I sit hunched in the cramped seat. A row of scabbed metal bars and a sheet of Plexiglas separate us from the Law. There are no handles on the inside (of course), and the smell is a mix of sweat and steel and criminality. I start to feel claustrophobic and fear a panic attack coming on, a hyperventilation spell that would be the perfect cap to this fabulous field trip.

I close my eyes tightly and try not to think of anything. A blank haze fills my mind, and then I feel the car swing to a soft stop. We are in my driveway. Had I told either Smiley where I live? As if emerging from a dream, or maybe stepping into one, I get out and thank Team Smiley for the ride with a nod and salute. They return the gesture.

“Why didn’t you call?” Mom is standing in the foyer signing angrily, then waving her pager like a foil in a jousting match. “And why are the police bringing you home?” Dad must be confused too, but he simply stands next to her, eating a handful of something.

“That’s Devon, a … guy from school,” I explain. “His father works for the police. He brought us home.”

“Is it true what they are saying on the news?” she signs. “A boy from your school is …” Either she has forgotten the sign for “dead” or just can’t bring herself to form the word.

I flip my hands over, finishing her sentence. “Dead” is an
odd sign, because it’s very morbid yet somehow it makes you look like you’re dancing. Dance move completed, I head straight for the TV.

My field trip is headline news. The first person I recognize on the screen is Marie Stepcoat, her eyes welling up at the memory of a guy who wouldn’t bother to spit on her if she was on fire. Mrs. Stepcoat comes over and puts her arm around her daughter. Marie looks embarrassed at her mom’s presence, like being cool is important even at such a moment.

Then the newscaster comes back on. The closed-captioner has to work fast to keep up with the breaking news. “Tragedy here in Carbon County. A teenage boy from Carbon High is dead after a ball at a lime.” Poor Pat, victim of a citrus-themed dance? An imperfect art form, closed-captioning. It has been a Halpin family joke from happier times to laugh at weird captioning goof-ups on live TV. Once, the captioning for a live broadcast of an evacuation said people were “ejaculating from their homes.” We go back to staring at the screen. The next person to show up on the screen is, to my surprise, Chuck Escapone. His normally sleepy eyes are fully alive, darting manically around like flies. “Sad day for everyone. … Big P will be missed. … Sad day.”

Then, a split second before they cut to commercial, Jimmy Porkrinds leans into the frame, his head popping over Purple Phimmul’s shaking shoulder. He grins. And then he blows the camera a kiss. Nutcase.

It is very early
. The gloom of night hangs like a curtain over the town. I am vaguely, inexplicably, afraid. In the dazed instant between sleep and wakefulness, I feel I truly know what it is like to die. For Pat there will never be any of this. No more mornings. No more nights. High school is supposed to be something we all look back on and laugh about. Or maybe we look back and cringe. But we are supposed to look back—that much I get. It’s not supposed to be all there is. …

Poof. He’s gone.

Trying to chase the ghosts from my brain, I trudge to the kitchen to stuff my stomach. There is a bowl of chicken wings in the fridge. I eat every bit and then proceed to lick the bottom of the bowl. This doesn’t make me feel better, so I fire up the computer.

Hello, world.

Online, the story has spread like a virus, reaching around the entire world. CNN, already interested in all things Chambers, gives Pat’s death third-highest billing. Among all the events on the whole planet, only a nuclear scare somewhere and a massive bloody train crash in India rank as more important.

Principal Kroener, who I suddenly feel very bad for, is quoted a hundred million times with the same line. “We will look into this very seriously,” he says.

Searching for more information, I find that TheTruthIsNot.com, a popular conspiracy page, has an article on the story. I had spent some time on their message board a while back, arguing passionately that the site itself is a government-run conspiracy. Man, did that get people mad. What TheTruthIsNot has to say this morning is this:

Suddenly the light in the hallway flickers, and that weird sense of fear comes rushing back. I whip my head around like an attack dog staring down an intruder. It is just Mom. Of course.

“Time to get ready for school,” she signs, tapping her watch. “Getting late.”

I quickly shower, dress, and give Ace a few pats. My books seem pointless as I toss them into my bag. Who cares about any of this stuff? How can the world keep spinning no matter who falls off?

As I walk through
the halls, I see half-teary whispered conversations. Several phrases are repeated, mostly “messed up” and “I can’t believe it.” There are other words too. Words like “suspicious” and “pushed.” But I don’t see anyone mouth the conspiracy theorist’s favorite acronym. The only initials I see are
A
. and
J
. Everyone knows Fischels was furious about getting humiliated and uninvited. Is he responsible for Pat’s death?

Arterberry announces that “we
(something something)
very special visitors today.” He starts sending people one by one down to Principal Kroener’s office.

When my turn comes, Arterberry waves in the overly showy way he always uses to communicate with me. Note to all: being deaf doesn’t usually make one blind. As I head toward the door, Arterberry smiles encouragingly at me, and for a brief second, I see that he, like me, like the rest of us, is truly rattled by what happened. I realize—just for one second—that he is only a guy doing the best he can. I smile back at him, and he pats me on the shoulder.

A detective from the county boys in blue has taken over
Kroener’s office. He’s a large man with a tiny black notebook and a very official look about him. A no-nonsense police mustache is apparently standard issue along with the badge and gun. A Carbon High School tie tack is pressed into his sleek black tie. A former student? An alumni booster club member of our historically mediocre football team?

Kroener is there too, looking awkward on a folding chair under a surveillance camera that was, rumor had it, installed to protect students from his famous temper. Used to being the big dog, he is now relegated to the corner like a secretary.

Another person is there too. A lady cop. Mmm, sexy. Very young and very blond. She stands next to Hulk Mustache Man—a natural beauty in this unnatural setting.

“I’m Detective Hawley,” he says to me. The interpreter signs it like she’s not even there. Just like it’s supposed to happen. Some people talk directly to the terp and talk around the deaf person in front of them, which is like the most annoying thing in the world. But I’m so stunned to see this beautiful interpreter in front of me that I do something bold. I hold up my index finger to Hawley—why do I already know that name?—indicating that he should give me a minute. I address the interpreter. But then I feel a little less bold.

If you’ve ever wondered if a deaf person can stutter in sign language, well, we can. I’m normally Mr. Fluent but get stuck on “I—I—I—I,” until I blurt out, “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.” My lady? Damn you, Devon Smiley! But she doesn’t mind and instead signs her name—Melody—bestowing a luminescent smile upon me.

“I read lips pretty well, Melody,” I sign. “You did not have to come all the way out here just for me.”

“Would you like me to leave?” Melody asks, adding a little pout (with her lips, not her hands).

I am considering the possibility that she is flirting with me—a thought that is interrupted by Principal Kroener waving his hand and blurting out something like, “You guys going over signs like baseball players?”

“Something like that,” she says. Then, signing to me: “Is he always like this?”

I nod my head yes and feel a warm glow. Yes, indeed, he is.

Kroener waves again and asks Melody, “Are you telling him to steal third base?” He thinks this is hilarious.

Melody and I simultaneously make the sign for “bastard” and crack each other up with swirling fingers. I am pretty sure no one else understands, but the men look disconcerted. Melody composes herself quickly, smoothing her crisp white blouse and resuming her “all-business” face—except for a tiny wink.