—Maniac Magee—
by Jerry Spinelli

Chapter 42

 

George McNab was the first to speak up. He was stretched out on the only new piece of furniture in the house, a tilt-back lounge chair. Said McNab: "What's he doin' here?"

The awkward silence that followed was mercifully broken by Piper, tugging on Maniac's arm: "Where's my birthday present? Wha'd you get me?"

Maniac pulled the present from his pocket. Piper exclaimed: "A watch!"

"No," said Maniac. "A compass. It tells you which direction you're going."

"Like to the ocean?" asked Russell.

"The ocean, Mexico, anywhere in the world. Only one thing."

"What's that?"

Maniac took the compass from Piper's hand. "I'm keeping it till school's over. If you go every day --- both of you --- then you can have it back and sail around the world."

"On our raft!" Piper cheered.

"Is it a deal?"

Piper and Russell and Maniac did a three-way highfive. "It's a deal!"

George McNab pulled himself up from the easy chair and shuffled into the kitchen. He wore barebacked slippers over bare feet. His white ankles were dirty. He took a beer can from the fridge and headed for the steps. "Let me know when it leaves," he said and went upstairs.

Maniac could feel the voltage that surged through Mars Bar and crackled black lightning from his eyes. Quickly he clapped his hands. "Hey --- isn't this a party? Where're the games?"

So they played games. Silly games, whose main object seemed to be shrieking and screaming. Mars Bar allowed himself to be dragged into them, but his jaw was clenched and his eyes kept straying to the gaping hole in the ceiling --- and to the Cobras, who were slouching against the walls and baseboards, sipping beers and watching his every move. None of them had spoken since Mars and Maniac walked in.

Of course, as far as the little kids were concerned, the highlight of the whole party was not the birthday boy, Piper McNab, but the McNab's new pillbox. They found every excuse to stay inside it. They fought over space at the narrow gunnery slots. When Mars Bat whispered to Maniac, "What is that?" Maniac said it was a bomb shelter.

Then Russell called: "Let's play Rebels! Whites in the pillbox, blacks outside."

A cheer went up, and a dozen kids stampeded into the pillbox. Their gabble circled the cinder-block walls and popped from the gunnery slots.

"I'm gonna be white!"

"I'm white!"

"Me, too!"

"Too many in here! We need more blacks!"

"Not me!"

"Not me!"

"We ain't got enough guns! Only the ones with the guns are in! The rests ya, get out! Yer black!"

"Gimme a gun!"

"I had it first!"

"C'mon, you meatballs --- blacks is the best part. Ya get to charge."

"Yeah, we get to lose!"

"Look - you can use beer cans for grenades. You can lob grenades!"

"'Then you do it!"

"Well, somebody gotta be black, else we ain't playin'. I'm counting. Time I hit ten, I wanna see five-a ya outta here. One..."

Russell counted. No one came out, not at "nine," not at "ten," not after "ten." Maniac and Mars Bar stared in silence at the gunnery slots, where wide-open eyes began to appear, one pair atop another.

 

The three words that Mars Bar sneered, the joke that he spat out --- "Yeah, bomb shelter" --- did not even have the moment to themselves, for just then another word --- "Geronimo!" --- came plunging from the sky and landed with a floor-jarring, heart-stopping crash directly behind him. A Cobra had jumped from the hole, a fat, red-haired Cobra, who was now rolling on the floor and laughing so hard, as were all the Cobras, that his face matched the color of his hair. "Ya see him? Ya see him jump? I never seen... I never... See his face? Somebody check out his pants... check out his drawers... oh, man... oh... oh..."

Maniac had to wrap Mars Bar in a bear hug to keep him from charging the fat red roller. The laughter stopped as if cut by scissors. The Cobras were standing. John McNab sauntered forward. "You got a problem, sonny?"

"That wasn't funny, John," said Maniac. "He could've been hurt."

McNab kept his eyes on Mars Bar. "I ain't talkin' to you, Magee. I'm talking to sonny here. Don't you like our parties, sonny boy?"

Mars Bar strained against Maniac's arms. "You ain't got to worry about me comin' to no more your parties, fishbelly. And you ain't got to worry 'bout me invading this pisshole. Anybody come to a block away, they faint from the smell."

McNab advanced.

Maniac shouted: "John! You owe me one. I brought the boys back."

McNab took another step, then stayed. The Cobras stayed, and Maniac, clamping the struggling Mars Bar for dear life, lugged him down a gauntlet of seething eyes to the door and the street.

Mars Bar wrenched free and stomped on ahead. Maniac followed. It was almost dark. High above, the streetlights were buzzing on, one by one.

After several blocks, Mars Bar wheeled. "You suckered me. You soften me up with them Pick-peoples, then bring me here. Wha'd you think? I was gonna cry? Okay, I come over. I did it. It's done. And don't you be comin' 'round no more, ya hear me, fish? 'Cause you ain't only seen me half bad yet."

He turned and headed due east. Maniac walked another way.

It was a good question. What had he thought? What had he expected? A miracle? Well, come to think of it, maybe one had happened. While he was looking for one miracle, maybe another had snuck up on him. It happened as he was clamping and lugging Mars Bar down the gauntlet of Cobras, trying to keep him alive --- and what was Mars Bar doing? Fighting him, Maniac, straining to get loose and bust some Cobras. Out-numbered, out-weighed, but not out-hearted. That's when Maniac felt it - pride, for this East End warrior whom Maniac could feel trembling in his arms, scared as any normal kid would be, but not showing it to them. Yeah, you're bad all right, Mars Bar. You're more than bad. You're good.

Maniac stopped. He had been walking in circles. It was dark. He turned one way, then another, for the briefest moment thinking to go home. Thinking, it's time to go home now. Then remembering that once again he had no home to go to.