Lump Page 2

  In fact, Mr. Throttle was the one who'd banned Buzz from the store for life...not that Buzz would let a little thing like a lifetime ban keep him out. If anything, it made him want to be in there even more.

  His stomach growled again, and he thought about the doughnuts in the case beside him. First things first: there'd be plenty of time to talk to Mr. Throttle after lunch.

  Ducking down, Buzz watched between coffee pots, waiting for his chance. When a customer stepped up to the front counter, a heavyweight man who blocked Mr. Throttle's view, he made his move.

  Buzz felt like a commando as he popped up, darted around the front of the case, and eased open the door. On fire with adrenaline, he grabbed a dark chocolate honey-glazed ring, shoved it in his mouth, and scooped out two more.

  Gently closing the door, he dove back into his sweet spot just as the heavyweight customer walked away from the counter. His heart was still rabbit-punching his ribcage as he crouched down and shoveled in sweet chocolate mouthfuls, dribbling crumbs everywhere.

  When he'd finished the third doughnut and was thinking about running to the cooler for milk, he shot a glance at the front of the store...and froze.

  The counter was empty. Mr. Throttle was gone.

  Panic raced through Buzz like a stampede of buffalo wearing jet packs. Frowning, he stood all the way up, watching the front counter for signs of life. Maybe Mr. Throttle was just hunkered down back there, cleaning something up or looking for cigarettes or lottery tickets. Maybe this was the perfect time for Buzz to snatch more doughnuts, or better yet snag candy or beer or energy drinks from adjacent aisles.

  Cautiously, he stepped out of the sweet spot, craning his neck for a glimpse of Mr. Throttle. Still nothing. Then, slowly, he tiptoed backward, ready to break for the candy aisle.

  But something stopped him. A hard object jabbed the middle of his back, keeping him from going any further.

  Buzz spun, wondering what he'd walked into...and quickly realized why he couldn't see Mr. Throttle at the front counter.

  "Why hello there, Buzz." It was because Mr. Throttle was standing behind him, pressing the business end of an aluminum baseball bat into his back. "So nice of you to stop by, son."

  Buzz, who was good at thinking on his feet under pressure, nodded and smiled. "Merry Christmas Eve, Mr. Throttle."

  The dark brown skin of Mr. Throttle's face creased into a smile of his own...a smile with an edge. "Please extend my condolences to your family, son."

  Buzz scowled. "Why?"

  "Because you must be dead," said Mr. Throttle. "Otherwise, you couldn't come in here since I banned you for life."

  Buzz laughed, pretending he wasn't worried about the ball bat now staring him in the face. "That's a good one, Mr. Throttle. That's a real side-splitter."

  "More like a head-splitter if you don't get out of here, son." Mr. Throttle raised his bushy gray brows and waved the bat at the door. "Now amscray."

  "But aren't you curious about why I'm here?" said Buzz. "Don't you wonder what I came for?"

  "Other than those doughnuts you wolfed down?"

  Buzz put on his best innocent angel face. "What doughnuts?"

  Mr. Throttle reached out and brushed chocolate honey-glazed crumbs off Buzz's shirt. "The ones you're wearing, Einstein."

  Buzz shrugged and sighed. "So do you want to hear about the deal or not?"

  "Deal?" Mr. Throttle smirked. "Well you know I like a good deal." He lowered the tip of the metal baseball bat to the floor with a clink. "Go on."

  Buzz cleared his throat. "You know how you banned me for life, but you still can't get rid of me? Well, what if I walk out of here today and never come back?"

  "How about this instead?" Mr. Throttle tapped the bat on the floor at Buzz's feet. "How about if you run along home as fast as you can before the police get here?"

  Buzz tipped his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. He hadn't heard Mr. Throttle calling the cops. "You're bluffing."

  Mr. Throttle winked. "What if I'm not?"

  Buzz got nervous but stood his ground. He wasn't going to leave without getting what he came for. "So do you want to hear the rest of the deal?"

  Mr. Throttle checked his wristwatch. "If you think you can get it all in before the cops get here, sure."

  "Okay then." Buzz resisted the impulse to glance out the window to see if a cop cruiser had pulled up. "Here's the deal. I'll walk out of here and never come back..."

  "For real?" said Mr. Throttle.

  Buzz nodded, though he was lying through his teeth, and ribs, and kneecaps. "I'll never come back, if you'll just answer one question."

  Mr. Throttle shrugged. "Depends on the question."

  "Have I done anything nice this year?" Buzz folded his arms over his chest. "That's the question."

  "Well, that depends," said Mr. Throttle. "Does shoplifting count as nice? What about switching price tags? Or opening packages and putting them back on the shelves?"

  Buzz listened, careful not to show any expression though he liked what he was hearing so far.

  "When you say 'nice,' does that include peeing in the parking lot? Spitting in the coffee pots? Shaking up the soda bottles and beer cans so they'll explode when people open them?"

  Buzz really had to fight to keep a proud smile off his face as the list went on. He loved being reminded of some of the high points of the year.

  "Does 'nice' include streaking through the store? Letting in stray dogs? Telling hobos it's a free beer Friday? Fishing for dumpster rats and tossing them in customers' cars?"

  Buzz had forgotten about the rats and hobos. He made a mental note to try those two again in future visits to the store.

  "If by 'nice,' you mean doing everything you possibly can to make my life miserable, then yes." Mr. Throttle rapped the bat on the toe of Buzz's left sneaker. "Yes, you've been the nicest kid on Earth."

  *****

  After leaving Full Throttle, Buzz rode his bike around the neighborhood, searching for an answer. If Squealie, Mrs. Clementine, and Mr. Throttle couldn't remember him doing anything nice, then who could?

  The more he rode, the less likely it seemed that anyone had seen him act nice. Every house he passed had been the site of some kind of mischief or vandalism, bullying or payback. The streets were like a hall of fame to him, bringing back sweet memories of crime and conflict that made him smile...but those memories only deepened the mystery of the missing lump.

  By the time he got to Yellow Street, he was starting to think he'd never solve the puzzle. Maybe he'd go the rest of his life without ever knowing what good deed he'd done.

  Then, as he approached a low, gray house on an overgrown corner lot, he thought of something. The house belonged to old Mr. Bittermaker, one of Buzz's favorite targets.

  A few weeks ago, as a prank, Buzz had stolen garden gnomes, a lawn jockey, and a birdbath from several houses and set them up in Bittermaker's front yard. They'd been there ever since. Was it because Bittermaker liked them? Was that the one nice thing Buzz had done? Did it count even though he hadn't meant it to be nice?

  Reenergized, Buzz pedaled faster, racing toward old Bittermaker's place. As he got closer, he saw that the gnomes, lawn jockey, and birdbath were still in the front yard, right where he'd left them.

  But something new was there, too. At the edge of the yard, next to the curb, was a bright orange sign suspended from a wire frame stuck in the ground.

  Buzz had seen signs just like it before, in front of other homes in the neighborhood. It was a realtor sign with the words "House For Sale" in big white letters above the name of the biggest local real estate company, Grove and Peel.

  Buzz stopped his bike at the curb and scowled at the sign and the house. Why was Bittermaker selling? Was he still living there until he found a buyer?

  There was just one way to find out. Buzz rolled his bike up over the curb and parked it against the real estate sign, then headed for the front door. When he got to the welcome mat, he raised his index finger, aim
ing at the white button of the doorbell on the wall.

  Before he could ring it, he heard a car pulling up and the honk of a horn. Whirling, he saw a sea foam green BMW barrel into the grass-and-gravel driveway alongside the house. The driver honked again as he rolled down his window.

  The face of a pudgy man with tightly curled black hair and a gray mustache appeared in the window, yelling in his direction. "Can I help you with something, kid?"

  Buzz got nervous and ready to run. Who knew where this was going? "I just came to see Mr. Bittermaker. I want to ask him about something."

  "Max Bittermaker doesn't live here anymore," said the man in the Beemer. "So unless you're interested in buying the place, you better get rolling."

  Buzz scowled and scratched his chin. "Well, where does he live then? Where can I find him?"

  The man narrowed his eyes with suspicion. "Who wants to know?"

  "Ellis Fingerling, sir," said Buzz, using Squealie's name as a cover...and his best innocent angel voice. "We play pinochle once a week, sir. I'd hate to miss a game."

  The man kept staring at Buzz, then seemed to make his mind up and sighed. "Well, he does need all the friends he can get right now. He's not doing so good."

  A strange, cold feeling rippled through Buzz. "Not good how?"

  "He's sick, kid. Moving-out-of-his-house sick. And he ain't coming back."

  The cold feeling got worse. "Where?" said Buzz. "Where is he?"

  *****

  Buzz left the neighborhood and set out along Cheney Highway to find Mr. Bittermaker. He ended up taking Route 1 to the north end of town. It was a long ride by bike, but he didn't have a choice; he figured it was his last chance to find out what nice thing he'd supposedly done.

  After a half-hour or so, he rolled up to the Whispering Palms Nursing Home, a sprawling brick building near the Parrish Medical Center. He threw his bike down under the one palm tree in the dry brown yard and marched up to the front door.

  Pulling the door open, he walked inside...and immediately came face to face with a cluster of old people in wheelchairs. There were six of them, all gaping at him with wide eyes and big smiles (except one old man who was sound asleep and snoring).

  Buzz smiled back, already imagining the mischief he could get up to in this place. So many wheelchairs, so little time.

  Then, one of the old folks spoke. "Well aren't you sweet?" She sat at the front of the group, wearing giant dark-rimmed glasses and a pink button-down sweater over a green blouse. Buzz thought she looked younger than the others, but her face drooped a little on the left side. "Come to visit your grampa, have you?"

  Instinctively, Buzz snapped right into con artist mode. "Yes, ma'am. Can you tell me where to find him? His name's Max Bittermaker."

  The old woman frowned and nodded. "Good for you, child. God bless you."

  Buzz kept smiling. "Because I'm visiting?"

  The old woman reached out and took his hand. "Because he might not be with us much longer."

  Buzz frowned. "You mean he's moving again?"

  She gave his hand a squeeze. "I mean he's very, very sick."

  *****

  As Buzz walked down the hallway, following the directions the old woman gave him, he stopped thinking about mischief for a change. He was too distracted by the sights and sounds and smells that flowed around him.

  A black man with a crazy look in his eyes lunged out of a room in front of Buzz, staggering toward him and lurching away at the last second. An old man moaned in a room that he walked past; further down the hall, a woman wailed incoherently. The ammonia-like odor of urine filled the air, mingled with the smell of Lysol.

  It was not a nice place to be. If Mr. Bittermaker didn't tell Buzz what he wanted to hear after forcing him to come here, Buzz swore he'd make him pay.

  When Buzz reached the end of the hall, he finally came to Room 42. The door was wide open, so he stepped inside and looked around.

  There were two beds in the little room. Buzz was surprised to see a young man sleeping in the one closest to the door. He looked like he was in his twenties or thirties; his hair was blond stubble, and he wore a white V-neck t-shirt and gray sweatpants. Buzz wondered why his wrists were strapped to the bed rails in padded restraints.

  The bed on the other side, closest to the window, was partly obscured by a tan curtain pulled midway across the room. All Buzz could see at first was the lower half of a body underneath a white sheet, ending in the peaks of two feet pushing up the sheet like tent poles.

  Slowly, he walked past the first bed with the sleeping young man. As he eased past the curtain and looked at the full length of the bed by the window, he saw the rest of Mr. Bittermaker--belly, chest, shoulders, arms, head. His eyes were closed, his hands folded on his stomach.

  But what interested Buzz the most, what really caught and held his eye, was something on the bedside table. There, beside the phone and a little gray-green pitcher of water in a Styrofoam shell, was a glittering black object.

  It was then that Buzz knew he was onto something. He'd come to the right man at the right place. Because the black object was what he'd been searching for all along.

  A lump of coal.

  Buzz stood there, unable to take his eyes off it, trying to process what it meant. He knew one thing for sure: its presence couldn't be a coincidence.

  "Well...well...well." Mr. Bittermaker's voice, which was usually deep and resonant, had been reduced to a hoarse, halting whisper. "Look what...the cat...dragged in."

  Buzz had a shock when he turned to look at him. For as long as he could remember, Bittermaker had been a beer-bellied man, short and slight but endowed with a huge bulb of a gut. Now, it was like a dinosaur had bitten it off in one giant bite. The belly was gone, the bed sheet pooling in the cavity left behind.

  The rest of him was similarly reduced. He was nothing but skin and bones, like twigs wrapped in tissue paper. His head was so emaciated, it looked like it was skinless, as if someone had just dipped the skull in flesh-colored paint and dabbed on a few patches of wispy white hair.

  His bloodshot eyes, like deflated balloons, had retracted into sockets that seemed to grow deeper by the minute. His cheeks were as hollow as if someone had dug them out with an ice cream scoop. A pair of thin plastic tubes ran from his scabby nostrils and wrapped around his gauzy ears, leading to a machine on the floor beside his bed.

  He looked awful. "Come to...play a prank on me...Buzz?" After he said it, he took a deep breath through the tubes in his nose.

  Buzz wasn't sure what to say first. "Hi, Mr. B-M." The words flew out before he could stop them--his own special nickname for Mr. Bittermaker, guaranteed to rattle his cage...though it didn't feel quite right this time.

  If the nickname made Mr. Bittermaker mad, he didn't show it. "Call me...Max." His trembling lips formed a weak smile. "So let me...guess. You've come...to gloat."

  Buzz frowned. "Why would I do that?"

  "Because the neighborhood...is all yours now. You win."

  Buzz shook his head. For once in his life, the snarky quips weren't flowing freely.

  "Well...if you've come to...get your last digs in...better make it snappy." Mr. Bittermaker's chuckle became a deep, wet cough.

  Again, Buzz found himself at a loss for a wisecrack. As he restlessly scrubbed his fingers through his rat's nest, his eyes drifted back to the black lump on the bedside table. It glittered and gleamed in the sunlight streaming in from the window.

  "Ah." Mr. Bittermaker nodded. "I should...have known." He lifted one bony, shivering hand and gestured for Buzz to come closer. "Go ahead. Pick it up...if you like."

  Buzz hesitated, then walked to the table. As he reached for the lump, he wrestled with the questions rolling around inside his head. Why was it that all of a sudden he was having so much trouble talking to one old man...an old man he'd taunted and ridiculed to his face so many times before?

  "So, uh..." The coal felt hard and light in his hand. "What's with this?"

  "It
used to be...a tradition." Mr. Bittermaker breathed deeply with his eyes closed, then opened them halfway. "But I had to stop...this year...when I got sick."

  Black dust stuck to Buzz's fingers and palm as he turned the lump over and around. "What kind of tradition?"

  "Every Christmas Eve...I'd leave it in the mail...for a certain holy terror." Mr. Bittermaker opened his eyes all the way and grinned. His false teeth were out, leaving only bright red gums behind quivering lips. "Care to guess...who that terror...might be?"

  Buzz gaped at him in surprise. He'd always thought Santa Claus was the one doing the lumping; his mom and dad had let him go on thinking it, too. Never had it crossed his mind that Mr. B-M might be the lump-leaver.

  "But why?" For once, Buzz's wide-eyed look of innocent puzzlement was for real. "Why did you do it?"

  "When I was young...someone did the same...for me." Mr. Bittermaker managed a smirk. "I was...a holy terror...myself. Worse than you...probably. But the lumps of coal...made me stop...and think."

  Buzz tipped his head to one side. "Think about what?"

  "All the terrible things...I was doing." Mr. Bittermaker rolled his head away on the pillow and stared out the window. "Maybe it wasn't...so funny...to hurt other people...after all."

  Buzz tossed the coal in the air and caught it. "You got all that from a lump of coal?"

  "At first...I thought Santa...was leaving them. Later...I found out...it was a neighbor." Mr. Bittermaker rolled his head back to face Buzz. "Eventually, I realized...whoever was doing it...was doing me a favor."

  Buzz tossed and caught the coal again. "How so?"

  "Because...he could have done...much worse...if he knew...where I lived...and what I'd done." Mr. Bittermaker took a long, wheezing breath, then let it out slowly. "But instead...of taking revenge...he sent me a message...and it changed me."