The Heartbreak Messenger Read online

  “You have got to be kidding me!” He dove into the pile, climbing over a few toaster ovens and a lawnmower to pull up the corner of a road sign. He bent low to get a good grip on it, and then yanked upward. The sign must have been at least four feet from one corner to the other, and painted a bright reflective orange. Solid black lettering in the middle of the diamond spelled out DIP. Barbados growled again.

  The sign was still connected to the pole that had once held it up, so Rob struggled a bit to pull it all out. The pole was slightly bent, probably from where a careless driver had brought an end to its boring existence.

  “That’s nice, Rob. But we’re here to find rats.”

  “Are you kidding me? This is so much better than rats. This is … This is…” Rob was at a loss for words, which was a first, as far as I could remember.

  “You really want a giant broken road sign that says DIP?” That presented more insult opportunities than I could even count, so I just let it go.

  “Oh, come on, man. This is a once-in-a-lifetime find. I’m so glad I came along today. How much do you think that guy will charge for it?”

  “If you’re lucky, five bucks, since that’s all the money you have right now.”

  Rob tucked one side of the road sign under his arm and started dragging the pole behind him. It made a horrible rocks-in-a-blender sound as the twisted metal end dragged against the gravel. Barbados seemed to like that. He barked at the metal pole and tried to gnaw at it. He yipped and skittered in circles around us like a puppy. Apparently he thought Rob had found him a giant junkyard chew toy.

  Rob dragged that stupid sign for nearly an hour as we looked under dozens of pieces of junk for rat traps, or anything else that might indicate rodents. I told Rob to put the sign down, that we could come back for it later, but he was sure somebody else would take it the second he let it go. Somehow I didn’t think two DIP sign collectors could show up at the same scrap yard at the same time. The world would probably self-destruct or something.

  After an hour and a half Rob begged to take yet another break to give his arms a rest. “This thing is killing me, Quentin. I’m not going to have strength to do my chores when I get home. Not to mention my homework. You’ll have to do it for me.”

  Homework. “Oh, man.”

  “What?”

  “Abby was going to come study with us today.”

  “Abby? Is she back from the dead?”

  “I ran into her yesterday. She said she needed our help.”

  “Ah … I’m touched. I wish I had my cell phone back. Hey, why don’t we go see if Jorge has a phone and we can call her. Let her know we’ll be late.”

  If we didn’t show, she would write us off, I just knew it. Any chance I had of jump-starting our friendship again was being ripped to shreds and tossed into the wind. She had Justin. Why did she need friends that she couldn’t even count on to help save her English grade?

  Maybe Rob was right. There might still be time … but not enough for studying and for making fifty bucks.

  “Rob,” I said desperately, “the clock’s ticking. It’s going to be dark soon. I’ve got to find a dead rat, bike it all the way back to town, and go dump Duke Ripling before I can even start on my homework. I’m starting to feel a little stressed out here.”

  Rob was staring at me, as though I’d told him someone had already bought his DIP sign and was hauling it away at that very moment. “Did you say Duke Ripling?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Duke Ripling who’s going out with Lisa Monaghan?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. Some girl named Lisa with a sweet silver Mustang.”

  Rob threw out his hands as if I was missing something.

  “Duke Ripling, the king of the bench press? Duke Ripling, the first linebacker to ever be voted captain of the John P. Westmore high school football team? Duke Ripling, the guy that his teammates call Duke the Ripper? That Duke Ripling?”

  My limited sports vocabulary was still processing the term “linebacker.” I was pretty sure they were the really big guys that went to all-you-can-eat buffets just before a game.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” I said.

  Barbados whimpered.

  Rob somehow looked more scared than I was. He was probably concerned about who was going to help him with his homework after I got my brains beat out of me with a dead rat. “Don’t worry, man,” he finally said. “Maybe he wants to break up as much as she does.”

  I had my hands on my knees, staring at the ground, trying to breathe slowly. “Then why not give him a phone call instead of a dead rat?”

  Rob thought a moment. “Maybe his hobby is taxidermy.” Rob must have noticed my doubled-over, hyperventilating form, so he tried to change the subject. “Anyway, speaking of rats, let’s get a move on. Hey, I know…” Rob gently walked toward the dog and clapped. “Good boy. Do you know how to find rats? Rats?”

  Barbados was up on all fours.

  Rob scrunched up his face and made whiskers around his nose with his fingers. “Rats?”

  Barbados barked.

  Rob scurried around, crouched down low, with finger-whiskers on his rat face.

  “Rats? Yeah? Find the rats. Go find the rats, boy. Go! Find the rats! Go!”

  Barbados tore off down the aisle of scrap, turning for a moment and barking for us to follow him. Rob looked at me and shrugged, then picked up his sign and started to run. I grabbed the other end so we could go faster.

  Barbados went up to the end row, ran two rows over, and then down one, the chain whipping back and forth behind him. Halfway down, he came to a stop and barked like crazy, nose pointing to the scrap pile. We came up behind him and both stared at a metal garbage can lid lying flat on the ground. The dog scraped at it with his paw.

  I looked at Rob. “You think?”

  “Could be,” he replied. Then he held up his hands and took a step back. “But it’s your rat.”

  I looked around and found a golf putter. I carefully wiggled the putting end underneath the garbage can lid. I hesitated, wondering what was under there. If it was a live rat, I would have to be quick. Cute little hooded fancy rats were one thing, but a lean, mean junkyard rat was something entirely different.

  With a single motion I flipped the can lid over and then raised the putter, ready to strike whatever was under there. Half a breath later, I dropped the putter, my hands flying to my nose and mouth.

  “Ugh!” Rob said.

  The stench was overwhelming. I took a few steps back before turning to look at what I had uncovered. I was stunned. Amazed. Absolutely speechless (and breathless) at the canine-produced miracle lying on the ground. Barbados had led us straight to a dead rat. Really dead. Roadkill-type dead. Dead-lying-under-a-hot-garbage-can-lid-all-day dead. Putrid-can’t-breathe-because-the-smell-will-fry-your-brain dead.

  And exactly the type of gift Mustang Girl probably had in mind.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. Not a chance. I wasn’t about to touch that rat with a ten-foot pole, much less a three-foot putter. I wasn’t going to strap that thing to the back of my bike, even in a box. I couldn’t.

  It took several minutes and twenty feet of distance before I could breathe clearly again. “There’s no way, Rob,” I said. “I’d gag and puke before I could even get out the message.”

  “I don’t know, that might be a good thing. Duke would probably pass out, too, before he had a chance to kill you.”

  I seriously considered that for a minute. But, no. Not a chance.

  “There’s got to be something else. Something we haven’t thought of.” I turned to the dog. “Hey, boy. Another rat? Take us to another rat, boy!”

  Barbados sat motionless. He looked at me under heavy dog eyebrows, seeming just a little annoyed. I groaned.

  “Come on, Rob, think. What else can I do?”

  “Well, she said a dead rat, but really it’s the meaning she cared about right? Isn’t there something else that sends the same message as, ‘Hey
, baby, our relationship means as much to me as this piece of roadkill? Hug hug, kiss kiss?’”

  Again, Rob had a point. I was a messenger. It’s what I did. If I substituted a dead rat with something equal, it would still get the point across. It was the end message that mattered, right? The client might not even find out. Maybe.

  “Okay, so what else can we use?” I asked. “What can we find in the next fifteen minutes that’s slightly more bearable than a decaying rat carcass?”

  Suddenly there was another stench in the air, but this one was different. Gross, but more familiar. I glanced at Rob, who was looking at the dog, who was coming out of a squat. Rob grinned broadly. “You’re just full of answers today, aren’t ya, boy?”

  I took a tentative breath, knowing that Rob, for too many times on the same day, was right. “Oh, crap,” I said.

  Chapter 22

  Getting the dog poop scooped into the gift box was a little tricky, and Barbados growled at us a few times, but fortunately kept his distance. He seemed to sense how critical the situation was. I worried the guy at the front gate would want me to show him what was in the box. But Rob’s DIP sign came to the rescue, since both Rob and the big guy were determined to get a good deal. They finally settled on seven dollars and fifty cents. Rob asked me if he could have the five I owed him, and then asked to borrow two-fifty. He said he’d started on the bucket of walnuts and would have the money to pay me back soon. I was pretty anxious to get out of there—the scrap heaps were already casting long shadows—so I forked over the money.

  I strapped the gift box to the back of my bike. Rob laid the signpost across his lap and tried to balance it as he jammed down on his pedals. He kept one hand on the signpost and one hand on the handlebars and weaved back and forth as he picked up speed toward the road. He looked like an old-time tightrope walker about to plummet to a broken neck. I shook my head and followed.

  It was slow going on the way back to town. Rob had a hard time balancing both his bike and the DIP sign. Once he tipped the balance of the sign and it dropped to the ground, scattering sparks across the asphalt. Once he tipped his own balance and careened into a ditch. After the second car passed us with its horn blaring, I rode up within earshot.

  “Rob, let me take one end of the sign,” I shouted.

  He came to a stop and shook his head. “Go on without me, man. I’m slowing you down and you’ve got a thing to do.”

  I didn’t want to leave him there alone with his trapeze act, but time was short. “All right. Thanks. Should I swing by your place and tell Marcus to come pick you up?”

  “No, I’m … Oh! Marcus. That’s right.” He tipped the sign to the ground and dug into his jeans pocket. “He gave me a note for you.” Rob pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper and handed it to me.

  I grabbed it and shoved it into my shirt pocket. Whatever Marcus had lined up for me next would have to wait until this job was in the bag. “Thanks, Rob. Don’t get run over by a semi.”

  “Ha! You’re in more danger of that than I am.”

  He didn’t have to say the words—the feeling of dread was already wedged in my stomach like a fruitcake. I knew I was probably pedaling furiously toward my doom, but there was still the money to think about. No delivery, no money. No money, no apartment. The thought of our stuff sitting out on the curb spurred me on.

  It took awhile to get back to civilization. I stopped at the garage for a minute to let Mom know what I was up to. Well, to let her know I was working on a “project” and would be back for dinner. If I was still conscious. I didn’t get off my bike, and I didn’t let Mom get too close, since the client’s dead-rat substitute was starting to stink outside the box.

  Next I rode over to the Windy Terrace neighborhood. I wandered up and down the narrow streets filled with mobile homes, looking for the address that Lisa had given me. I finally found it, a small rectangular house with a neat flower bed in front—a perfect place to lay my body to rest once Duke was through with me.

  As I unstrapped the gift box and left my bike on the front lawn, my hands were shaking. Professionalism, I told myself. Just doing my job. For fifty bucks.

  I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and knocked on the hollow wooden door with a trembling fist. A woman’s voice called out, “’Round back.”

  I walked past the corner of the trailer and found a back porch. A woman with scraggly pepper gray hair sat on the stairs. Lines hung under her eyes and she looked a lot older than my mom. She wore a uniform, maybe from a hospital or a restaurant, and a glowing cigarette dangled from her fingers.

  The woman glanced up at me with tired eyes. “You looking for my Duke?” she asked.

  I nodded, fingering the stinky gift box nervously. The woman shoved her cigarette into a flowerpot full of sand and brown butts, and then grabbed the stair railing and carefully hoisted herself up. She opened the back door. “Duke, someone looking for you,” she called out in a husky voice. She gave me a last glance, and then slipped into the house.

  The door opened a minute later and a head with auburn hair poked out. Duke stepped onto the small wooden porch, an almost-smile on his face. “Hey. Did you bring my new cleats?” His voice was deep and resonated like a bear’s voice might, if it wore shoulder pads and was a senior in high school.

  I shook my head, a little tongue-tied. Duke was immense. At least six-foot-eight and … well, who knows. Big. Refrigerator big. The stainless-steel Maytag kind with two doors that open side-by-side. The pink gift box felt slippery in my sweaty hands.

  Duke nodded, as though showing me he understood something perfectly. “Well, okay, but let’s do it quick. I’ve got some math homework tonight that’s killing me.”

  Huh?

  Did he know I was coming? Had he known his girlfriend was going to dump him? Using a seventh-grader? Was he almost-smiling because he knew, as a consolation, he would at least get to practice tearing someone apart limb from limb?

  “You know why I’m here?” I croaked, readying myself for the first blow.

  “Well, yeah. Same reason the other kids come.”

  I kind of doubted that.

  “Um, Mr. Ripling…”

  “Call me Duke.” He pulled a Sharpie from his pocket and reached toward me, gesturing to the gift box. I yanked it away but his whole muscular body seemed to keep extending until I couldn’t pull it away any farther. He took the box and looked at it for a moment. “A gift, huh? A superstar autograph will add a nice touch.” He pulled the cap off his pen with his teeth and signed the box lid with a flourish that seemed carefully practiced. He shoved the box back into my hands and capped his pen. “You can tell her that’ll be worth a ton when I’m named an NFL MVP. Anyway, seeya, champ.”

  My target turned and headed back up the narrow stairs, pausing for a moment to glance at the soles of his shoes.

  “Whoa, Duke, uh, hold on a minute. Please.” The words tumbled out. I caught my breath, afraid that I might sound a little too chummy. His head swung back around on his telephone-pole neck and he looked at me. His almost-smile was gone.

  I pushed through the lump in my throat and kept going. “Uh, the autograph’s really great, and, I mean, thanks a lot. But I’m here to talk with you about something.”

  He didn’t move. As motionless as a rock. Seriously. He eyed me the same way he might stare at the other linebacker, or whatever you call the dead duck on the other side of the line of scrimmage.

  I am about to die.

  I cleared my throat. “I have a message for you. From Lisa.”

  His hand fell to his side. The door slammed shut. He turned slowly, no longer looking at me like I was just some little kid.

  “You’re him, aren’t you?” The bearlike resonance was gone. His voice was hollow.

  It was the same hopeless look Goat Girl had given me, with just a little more violence behind it. “You’re the Heartbreak Messenger. And Lisa sent you.”

  Suddenly his face flushed red. His jaw trembled. His fists c
lenched. An ugly cry came from his throat, something barbaric and animal. His eyes fell on the large ashtray flowerpot sitting at the top of the stairs. He picked it up like a pebble and hefted it above his head. I stumbled backward as it crashed down a few feet in front of me on the cement driveway. Dirt and cigarette butts and shards of pottery poured across my shoes. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and I scrambled, ready to tear around the corner of the house and put some distance between us.

  I glanced at him once more, expecting to see him lunging for my neck. And just as my eyes met his, the anger drained from his face and he collapsed. Like his muscles had given out. He crumpled onto the top step, his arms on his knees and his forehead on his arms.

  And then Duke Ripling, a grizzly bear from the turf of manly men, cried like a baby.

  Heaving sobs. And big, wet, slobbery sniffs. His body shook as he cried. He didn’t hold back—maybe he couldn’t. I’m sure the neighbors must have heard something. But he went on and on, like a storm.

  My job was finished. Message delivered. The result may have even surprised my client. She probably would have liked to hear about it. All I had to do was place the autographed gift box at his feet and say, “Tough game, champ. Better luck next season.”

  But I couldn’t. Just like with Goat Girl. I simply couldn’t walk away from someone that was, well, blubbering. This was just a little different than Goat Girl, though. She was cute. She was a girl. A damsel in distress. This was an ogre.

  I took a few steps toward him and waited for a reaction. When none came, I walked carefully up to Duke and sat next to him on the stairs. The storm was tapering off now. More snotty sniffles and less sobs. I put the gift box on the stairs, off to the side, and waited. I didn’t think the situation really called for a hug. Footballers were probably more into head butting or something, anyway.