Sunstroke

It was hot. San Joaquin Valley hot. The kind of oppressive polluted hot that drives sensible people indoors. But there we were, nonetheless, goofing off in Nora's front yard in the 105-degree weather, blades of Bermuda grass stabbing into our bare feet. We were all of about nine years old, Nora, Chuck, and myself. We had been let out of school early that day on account of the mobile classrooms not having proper ventilation. God knew we should have been indoors under air conditioning doing our homework, but somehow the proper execution of a one-handed-left-sided-round-off seemed more important than memorizing the difference between a prime number and a composite.

Having changed from our school clothes, we were each dressed in our summer ‘uniforms’.  Chuck in his standard stringy cut-offs and striped sleeveless T, Nora in blue satin Dove shorts and a pale pink tank top adorned with a glitter stencil of a lion. For myself, I had that afternoon haplessly chosen to look like an orange flavored creamcicle in a pair of tangerine colored terry cloth short shorts and matching halter. The pale fruity color complimented my dark tan and the terry cloth was light and soft, but in the heat of the afternoon it still seemed like too much clothing. 

We must have been out there for about hour or so and I was just about to do my best impression of Nadia Comaneci when Chuck, his red hair sweat plastered against his ears, looked like he might pass out. His freckles had become frighteningly three dimensional against the sudden pallor of his skin. He wobbled to the edge of the yard like a drunkard and sat down in the shade of the wooden fence that separated Nora's property from the neighbor’s. He slumped onto the grass and pitifully laid his forehead on his bare knees.

I approached him tentatively. My heart rushed a little. I was worried that he might throw up. Just last week Michael Flowers lost his cereal on the playground during morning recess. Cheerios. I had fled the scene like a gangster from a liquor store robbery and I hid in the covered breezeway between the cafeteria and the school office. There, in the almost subterranean coolness of shaded brick and concrete, I tried to un-see what I had seen, un-hear what I had heard.

I recalled images of the last episode of Wild Kingdom- little lion cubs frolicking beneath a Bushwillow. I thought about roller-skating. I thought about the beach. Anything that might scour the image of Michael's half digested breakfast splattering out onto the asphalt. As I stood there looking deep and hard into my happy places, an older kid suddenly appeared from out of the office. He gave me the stink eye as he walked passed me toward the playground. As the office door swooshed shut behind him I caught the not unpleasant scent of air-conditioning, paper, and typewriter ribbons.
 
Now, as I found myself looking down at Chuck, I knew that I didn’t want to have to catalog another vomit memory under “That Which I Will Never Try To Think About”. Maybe I should just make my escape now, I thought, before it's too late. Maybe my grandma needs me! I looked hopefully across the street to where my grandmother lived in a two-toned green ranch with a big shady tree dominating the front yard. I wondered why we had chosen Nora's yard to play in that day and not in grandma’s yard under that big tree. Nora's yard didn’t have so much as a bush to hide under. For that matter, not many houses on the street did. It was a rather stark subdivision of cookie cutter mid-century American houses with square yards and oil stained rectangular driveways.

Shade or no shade, it was quite obvious that grandma was not coming out to rescue me with a plate of graham-cracker and buttercream frosting sandwiches. 

My second great idea was that I should go get help. Chuck lived up on the corner and I considered running over there to get his mom, or better yet, maybe he’d feel better if he could just drink some water. I suggested it to Nora and she said that he could use the garden hose. “He won’t want to drink from a super-heated rubber tube,” I said, so I clarified, “cold water.” 

Nora hesitated, and then finally agreed. “Wait here,” she instructed and then she bolted off to the house.  I didn’t want to be alone with Chuck incase he got sick all over himself so I chased after her. I slipped into the house through the screen door just before it slammed shut with an air-compressed whoosh.

I found myself standing in dim yellow kitchen. The place was a depressing mess. The countertops were littered with dirty dishes, ashtrays, junk mail, and rolled up newspapers. There was a general stink- a rancid bouquet of grease, sour milk, and cigarettes. The wallpaper gave the impression that someone had loved this kitchen once. Loved it enough to swath its walls with an artists rendering of happy white daisies floating in a sea of yellow. But now it seemed that no one cared enough to even take out the garbage.

Nora's older sister Rhonda was sitting at the table smoking and talking on the phone. She had feathered hair, and a plastic comb in the leg pocket of her white painter’s pants. She was fishing around inside a hammock sized leather purse and she hardly took notice of us. Nora had to duck under the telephone cord to get to the sink. While she searched through the maze of filth for a clean glass I peered into the adjoining living room.

All the curtains were pulled shut. The light that oozed in from around the edges of the drapes was a murky orange. It was like a cave, dank and stale, and because of the swamp cooler, it was also damp. It made my skin feel sticky. I could see that the carpet was matted brown shag textured with crumbs and dirt and things I didn’t want to know about. I wondered if anyone in Nora's family knew how to operate a vacuum cleaner.

After my eyes adjusted fully to the darkness I could see that there, in this humid gloom, was Nora's dad. He was sitting in an old worn out recliner in a shroud of motionless smoke. He wasn’t reading or watching television. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t even smoking the cigarette that burned between his fingers. He was just sitting there frozen in the amber haze staring into nothing.

I was only nine years old, but I could sense immediately that there was something wrong with him. He was sick or stoned or both. Maybe he was dying. I began to feel a little sick myself; clammy like I had suddenly developed a fever. I did not like this house. I was startled by the condition in which Nora was forced to live and more so by the strangeness of her father. I felt like I was looking into a bad dream. I longed to be home. Not grandmother's house. My house. I wanted to be in the soft cheery-pink safety of my bedroom surrounded by my stuffed animals and the clean scent of fabric softener. I wanted to know that my mom was close by and that my dad was on his way home with a take-out pizza.
 
Nora finally found a glass, filled it with water and we headed back outside. I never in my life felt happier to be out in the scorching Bakersfield heat. The brilliance of the sun was purifying. We found Chuck where we had left him. Poor kid looked like a ghost. Nora gave him the glass and he took a few tiny sips. After a moment his color came back. He must have felt a little embarrassed because he smiled weakly and said, “I’m okay now. Don’t tell anyone, kay?"

Nora and I looked at each other and then back down and Chuck. “Okay, Chucky,” I said. “I won’t tell.” And I never did.