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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Fairy Tales & Fantasy
- Subject: Friends / Friendship
- Published: 06/09/2018
Miracle Toothbrushes, Part 2 of 2
Born 1947, M, from Oceanside, United StatesMiracle Toothbrushes, continued....
Chapter 9
“He wouldn’t listen to me,” J.J. said. By now he was breathing normally again and his face wasn’t as red with anger as it had been before.
“He wouldn’t listen to you about what?”
“I tried explaining to Bobby several times about what Ernie’s grandfather had told us, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
“When did you do this?” I asked surprised. He never told me he had talked to Bobby.
J.J. made a shooing motion with his hand. “Oh, it was a couple of times when you were visiting your grandmother.”
I looked at him amazed. “But that’s no reason to beat up on him like you did,” I said.
J.J. looked down. He seemed embarrassed. That’s when I guessed there must have been more to this than what he was telling me. “So?” I asked. “What’s the other reason?”
J.J. continued to hang his head. He spoke in a low voice. “He told me he didn’t want to be my brother any more.”
“He told you what?” I asked, not sure if I had heard right.
J.J. replied louder, “He said he didn’t want to be my brother any more.” Some of his anger had returned.
“What does that mean?”
With a sigh, he replied, “A while ago, before you moved here, Bobby and I made a promise to be blood brothers for the rest of our lives.”
“You mean, like the Indians do?” I asked. J.J. nodded. “You mean, you cut yourselves and everything?” Again, J.J. nodded.
I winced, thinking about how the Indians and the cowboys in the movies cut their palms with knives, then clasp their hands together, mixing their blood while pledging undying loyalty and friendship. It gave me the willies.
“Why did Bobby say he didn’t want to be your blood brother anymore?”
J.J. replied, “Because he said it was babyish and he didn’t want to do that kind of stuff anymore.”
“So?” I replied.
“Yeah, but Bobby was like a brother to me even before we made our pledge. I could always talk to him about stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
J.J. shrugged, “Oh, just stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing,” he snapped. “Just stuff!”
Usually, I know when to back off, but I had to know. “Is that why you hit him so hard?”
J.J. shook his head. “I hit him like that because he said he was too grown up to be with us, and we’re all just babies to him.” That last part, he said with a sneer.
I stared at J.J. amazed. I couldn’t believe Bobby would have said that. I also couldn’t believe I was hearing this from J.J. Usually, we just joked around a lot, or maybe we would talk about things like building a fort, or collecting marbles, or who had the best baseball cards, or who was braver: Tarzan or Flash Gordon? Or even what dumb thing our parents had done the night before. Neither of us had brothers or sisters to complain about. And, of course, lately, there were all the crazy things that had happened to us since we had gotten our toothbrushes. But hearing J.J. talk like this about Bobby being like a brother to him—it seemed . . . well, it seemed weird! I mean . . . this was grown-up stuff! Something else was grown-up stuff, too: having to apologize to someone for hurting them, which is what J.J. had to do to Bobby. His parents made him.
But that didn’t stop Bobby from acting like we had the cooties or something. After the fight, he refused to go anywhere near us. If he saw either J.J. or me in the hallway at school, he’d look the other way. And in the mornings, he made sure he left either before us or after us. We also found out he told everyone at school that the reason he was walking around with a bandage on his nose was because a wrench fell on his face from the top of a car he was working underneath at his father’s shop. That was a laugh, I thought. Bobby wasn’t even a mechanic. He either helped pumped gas, or worked the register.
Anyway, like I said, Bobby refused to talk to J.J. and me, let alone Ernie, or any of our other friends. Instead, he hung out with some older kids he met through Rocko, the other teen who worked for his father. They formed a gang of sorts, and did a lot of things together, some of which I was sure were bad. Not that I knew for sure they were doing bad things. They just looked as if they were always getting into trouble, the way they strutted around in their leather jackets and motorcycle boots. I was positive they were causing all kinds of problems for people.
For instance, there was the time bicycles started disappearing all over town and ended up out at the lake all smashed up. That didn’t make sense. You steal a bike to ride it, or sell it—not smash it up. That was just being mean, which was why I thought it might have been Bobby and his friends.
And then there was the time someone killed one of Mr. Jenkins’ pigeons. Mr. Jenkins lived on our street. He had racing pigeons in a coop in his back yard. One night, someone tossed a long stick into the coop through an air hole near one of the small barred windows. It hit a pigeon right in the eye and killed it. But the worse part was, of all the birds to be killed, it had to have been Mr. Jenkins’ prize bird.
Mom and Dad asked me if I knew who had done it. Of course, I didn’t, and said so, but I had my suspicions. Bobby and Mr. Jenkins never did get along, especially after Bobby started shooting at birds with his sling shot. Not that he shot at Mr. Jenkins’ pigeons. It just made Mr. Jenkins afraid he would.
And then another night, someone knocked down a whole bunch of headstones in a local cemetery. The police never did find out for sure who had done it, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover it was Bobby and his friends, especially after of the way they acted at school. They were always horsing around and being too loud, and getting detention for not dressing right. They’d smoke in the boys’ room, they’d bother other kids and take their lunch money. Once or twice, I even saw them talk back to their teachers. It was behavior like this that had me positive Bobby was going to end up in reform school if he didn’t change.
As it turned out, he never got the chance.
Chapter 10
The day I found out Bobby was sick was the day I came home from school with great news. Mrs. Sissler, the librarian, said I could be a page at the town library three days a week if I wanted. I’d go there right after school and put up books for a couple of hours and she’d give me two dollars a week to start. That would pay for all my movies, and along with my allowance, allow me to buy all the popcorn and candy I wanted. It was going to be great!
But then I arrived home and found mom looking like someone had died. I got scared, because I thought it was grandma. But it wasn’t. That’s when she told me about Bobby.
“He’s in the hospital,” she said. The scared feeling didn’t go away. In fact, it got worse.
“Why? What happened?” I asked, feeling my stomach tighten.
Mom shook her head. “They don’t know.” She was talking about the doctors, of course. “They think it might have been something he ate.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
Mom shrugged. “They’ve examined him, but they can’t seem to find anything wrong with him. He fainted while he was working at his father’s shop. When they couldn’t get him to wake up, his father had to call for an ambulance.”
“An ambulance!” I exclaimed. Somehow, even though he was already in the hospital, the idea of having to be taken there by an ambulance made it seem even worse for me. Mom nodded. Then I thought of something. “When did this happen?” I asked.
“Two days ago,” she replied.
No wonder J.J. and I hadn’t seen Bobby around school the last couple of days. We thought that maybe he had been sent home for doing something bad, or maybe, he had been sent to reform school!
That night, I kept thinking about Bobby, and what my mother said about the doctors not knowing what was wrong with him. In a moment of total childish whimsy, I thought to myself, I bet Bobby made his toothbrush mad at him, and this was the way it was getting back at him by making him sick. Unfortunately, I was closer to the truth than I realized. It wasn’t until I spoke to his father the next day that I became positive.
I went to his shop after school. I had already told J.J. about Bobby, but he didn’t come with me—not because he was still mad at Bobby, but because he was being picked up by his mother from school. They were going to the dentist’s office.
So alone, I walked up to Bobby’s father, who was working under the hood of a car, and said gently, “Mr. Madder?”
He looked up.“Oh, it’s you, Charles,” he said. He looked real sad—like he’d been crying. I didn’t blame him.
“How is Bobby doing?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not so good. He seems to be getting weaker.” That made me feel even sadder than I had been before. Suddenly Bobby’s father, who I always thought looked like a young John Wayne, pounded his fist once on the fender of the car. I jumped startled. “If only they could find out what was wrong with him,” he growled. “It’s like some evil spirit has him gripped by the throat and is squeezing the life out of him.”
I looked at Bobby’s father. Yeah, that sounded like Mr. Madder, all right. Like me, he was a big fan of weird stories. He went to all the monster movies the moment they came out in the theaters. His big heroes were H. G. Wells and Jules Vern, and he was the only grown-up I knew who liked the radio show Tales From The Far East as much as I did.
Speaking of Tales From The Far East, this whole thing with Bobby was like one of its episodes. A mysterious illness threatens the life of the eager young explorer, and it’s up to the hero to find out what is making the young man sick. Because of the nature of the show, the answer usually turned out to be that the person who was ill had somehow evoked an ancient curse by doing something that angered the gods . . . Hmmmm . . . Angered the gods? . . . Angry gods! . . . That was it!
I glanced at Bobby’s father. “Mr. Madder,” I said, “I have something to tell you.”
Just then, the phone rang.
I waited while he went inside his office to answer it. Through the open door, I heard him say, “No, I don’t have a tow truck, but if you can get it towed here, I can probably fix it for you.” Then he hung up the phone and came out of his office to where I was waiting.
“Mr. Madder—” I started to say again. I was interrupted for a second time by a loud horn.
I looked over and saw a shiny black Chevy sedan idling in the street outside the shop. A man wearing a fedora leaned out the window. “Ralph!” he called. “You got that part for my truck yet?”
Mr. Madder stepped over to the curb to speak with him. “No, Dave,” he said, while he wiped his hands on a rag. “But I’ll check on it. I’m pretty sure it will be here tomorrow.”
“Okay,” the man nodded then waving goodbye drove off.
Shoving the rag back in his pocket, Bobby’s father walked toward the garage; before he could reach it, Rocko came up to him and held out what looked like a dollar bill for gas a customer had just handed him.
I saw Bobby’s father look at the money then shake his head violently. “No, no, tell him I can’t change a hundred dollar bill!”
“But he already got his gas,” I heard Rocko say.
Bobby’s father stood a moment with his hands on his hips. Even though I couldn’t see his face (he had his back to me), I could tell he was angry. Suddenly, his shoulders went limp and his hands fell to his sides. “Okay,” he said quietly, “tell him the gas is on me.”
Astonished, Rocko asked, “Are you sure?”
Mr. Madder nodded then he turned and hurried back inside the garage. Arriving at the car he had been working on, he snatched a wrench off the fender and started doing something again underneath the hood. While he worked, he mumbled, “Some people think they can do anything just because they have money! Do I have change for a hundred? Of course, I don’t have change for a hundred!” He continued to ignore me.
I tapped his shoulder. “Mr. Madder?”
He whirled to face me, “WHAT!” he growled. He looked so angry, the words almost stuck in my mouth, but I was finally able to say, “I think I know what is making Bobby sick.”
He stared at me, blinking.
Chapter 11
The maroon Ford raced along the night-shrouded streets like a police car on its way to a crime. I sat quietly in the passenger seat, while beside me, Bobby’s father, who was driving, kept glancing toward where I was holding Bobby’s toothbrush carefully between my right thumb and forefinger, as if I was afraid it might sting me. I couldn’t help myself. It scared the snot out of me. I think it even scared Mr. Madder. I couldn’t believe Bobby had been using it to brush his teeth. I mean, if anyone had told me an object that wasn’t supposed to be alive could look angry, I would have laughed at them. But here it was—Bobby’s toothbrush, and boy, did it look mad!
Like all our toothbrushes, it had changed colors, but it was more than that. Besides being a smokey gray, almost black, his toothbrush was riddled with lightening bolts of color—angry-looking bolts of color! Some were bright red, others were a sickly, yellowish green. Entwining with one another, they prickled all through the handle and head like cracks in a mirror. Some even appeared to burrow deep inside the plastic.
I shivered. This was worse than worrying about getting someone else’s cooties. I thought for sure, any moment, Bobby’s brush was going to zap me with electricity, or even make me sick. But that was ridiculous. I knew better. I wasn’t Bobby; I hadn’t been mean to people. I was following the rules. And for that, I was being rewarded. Actually, we all were—all us kids who had bought the miracle toothbrushes that day at Mr. Hassen’s and who had kept our pledges to change. That was the promise our pamphlets had made—continue to become caring individuals, and we would be rewarded.
Mine came in the form of better eyesight. I always hated wearing my glasses. I was seven when I got them, but wished I could be like all the other kids who didn’t have to wear glasses. Well, after J.J., Ernie and I made our pledges to change, so did my eyesight. Gradually at first, but eventually, I noticed I didn’t have to wear my glasses to see clearly. Although it was a bit unusual, Dr. Paragus, our family doctor, thought it might be a natural part of my growing up. But I knew better, it was a gift from my toothbrush.
It was the same for J.J. He didn’t want to be fat anymore, so, he changed the way he ate and exercised. That would have been enough for anyone to lose weight, but not as fast as he did. In less than two months, he lost something like six inches off his waist and developed enough muscles to make Tarzan jealous. Well, maybe not that many, but he did get them a lot faster than he should have.
And then there were the rest of my friends.
Who wanted to run faster, or be a better speller, or be prettier, or more handsome, or just do things better? Nearly every one of them got their wish, as long as they continued to follow the rules set out by our pamphlets. Of course, if they didn’t, then whatever they gained, they lost—at least, part of it, anyway, until they got back on track.
And then there was always the possibility that something bad could happen, too. I found this out in a small way the night I tried soaking my brush in milk instead of lemon juice. I wasn’t trying to go against the rules or anything, I was just curious to see what might happen. Well, I found out, all right! In less than an hour, the milk in the glass turned sour. Not only that, it fizzled like soda pop! Can you imagine milk fizzling? I never did that again. And I apologized to my brush for doing it this time.
And that is what Bobby needed to do. He needed to tell his brush that he was sorry for all the mean things he had been doing. He needed to tell it that he was going to start following the rules, and not throw stones anymore at his ch’i, the way Ernie’s grandfather said he had. He needed to learn how to keep his toothbrush happy.
How did I know all this? I didn’t for sure. It just made sense to me. It was like an episode of Tales From The Far East. Whatever magic or spirits were making our toothbrushes act the way they were, they had to be constantly appeased or kept happy; otherwise, if they were angered in any way, then bad things could happen, such as what was happening to Bobby.
That’s why when I told Mr. Madder what I thought was happening and what we needed to do, he believed me right away. After all, I said he was a big fan of the radio show. He knew about weird stuff like this. My problem was, how was I going to convince Bobby?
After we pulled into the parking lot behind the hospital, I said to Mr. Madder, “I hope this works.” He looked at me and nodded. Then as we stepped out of the car, I slipped Bobby’s brush into the pocket of my jacket where it joined the other two items I had brought. Next, Mr. Madder and I walked toward the front entrance.
I prayed all the way.
Chapter 12
I always hated hospitals—the alcohol and witch hazel smells—they reminded me of going to the doctor’s office. Every time I went to see him, it seemed as if he wanted to give me a shot and I hated needles! They hurt like heck! That’s why I had this prickly, scared feeling all through my body as I rode the elevator along with Mr. Madder up to the fourth floor and to Bobby’s room.
Actually, it wasn’t a room. He was in a ward with some other kids. Each child had his or her own room-like cubicle with glass that ran from half a wall on both sides up to the ceiling, and a totally open front with no doors. If they needed privacy, there were curtains that could be pulled across the front and glass sides.
Every ward had six cubicles, each containing a single bed, a small chest of drawers with a lamp on top and a couple of chairs for visitors to sit on. In the middle, between all six cubicles, was a desk where a nurse sat. Bobby was in one of the cubicles closest to the entrance.
After Mr. Madder and I told the nurse who we had come to visit, we went over to stand by his bed. I was hoping no one would ask; I wasn’t supposed to be there. I wasn’t family, but Bobby’s father had fibbed and said I was Bobby’s brother. That must have had the nurse wondering; I didn’t look anything like Bobby. He had black hair; mine was a straw-like blond. He had brown eyes; mine were blue. He was much taller than me and looked older than his age. Many people still made the mistake of thinking I was only eight or nine.
Dressed in plain, blue pajamas, Bobby was lying on his back with his eyes closed. He looked so peaceful, it was hard to believe he was sick enough that he could actually die. But that was the case as I stood behind Mr. Madder while he gently called Bobby’s name. When Bobby’s eyes opened, he turned his head to look in our direction, but he didn’t see me.
“Son,” Bobby’s father said, “how are you feeling?”
Standing behind Mr. Madder, I heard Bobby mumble, “Weak.”
“I’ve brought someone with me to visit you. He’s been worried about you.”
I stepped from behind Mr. Madder. For a moment Bobby’s eyes went wide with surprise, then he turned his head away from us to face toward the opposite side of his cubicle.
“Hi, Bobby,” I said. I waited for him to say hi back. When he didn’t, I continued anyway. “I know you’re probably still mad and all, but I’ve brought you something that may help you get well.”
I pulled out his brush and held it up for him to see. When he saw what I was holding, his eyebrows shot up in a questioning gesture, then he frowned. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” he asked, his voice sounding weak and slightly hoarse.
The only thing I could think to say was, “It’s what has been making you sick.” Bobby’s questioning look deepened. “Remember the day we bought our brushes?” I said. “Remember the man who sold them to us? He told us we should read this.” I pulled the pamphlet from my pocket and waved it at him. “He said it was important. But you didn’t. You threw yours away.”
Bobby shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
Huh? I looked at him surprised. “But you told me you did!”
Bobby shrugged. “I lied.”
That made me angry. “You see,” I said. “That’s why you’re sick.” I could tell by his expression he didn’t understand what I was talking about, so I said, “These toothbrushes are magical. They know when you’ve been good or bad, which is why you don’t want to make them mad at you. They can make you sick like you are now. Why do you think yours looks the way it does? It’s been getting madder and madder at you because of the way you’ve been acting lately.”
Bobby huffed. “You expect me to believe that?” he asked.
“He’s telling the truth, son,” said Mr. Madder.
Bobby glanced at his father but his expression didn’t change. “So what does that mean?” he asked.
“It means, you have to talk to your brush,” I said. “You have to apologize to it for the way you’ve been acting.” I saw his eyebrows shoot up again. “You have to tell it you’re sorry and that you’ll start following all the rules.”
Bobby chuckled. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he replied.
I shook my head. “I’m serious.”
“Listen to him, son,” said Mr. Madder. “He knows what he’s talking about.”
Again, Bobby looked at his father. Then to me, he said, “Suppose I don’t. Then what?”
My stomach jumped. “Then whatever magic or spirit that makes our toothbrushes work the way they do is going to make you sicker. It could even kill you.” Bobby didn’t say anything for a while, so I added. “If you’ve read the instructions, you know there’s a reward for changing your attitude.”
“Yeah, I know,” he quipped. “If I’m good, I go to heaven, right?”
“No, it’s not like that,” I said. “Let me explain.” I put the pamphlet and Bobby’s brush down on the chest of drawers, then I turned to him and said, “You saw how fast J.J. got his muscles, right?” Bobby nodded. “That was because his toothbrush was happy with him for the way he’d been acting. It decided to give him exactly what he wanted most—muscles.” Bobby looked at me skeptically. “I’m not kidding,” I said.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I don’t have to wear my glasses anymore, see?” I pointed to my eyes. Again Bobby cocked a sideways glance at me. I could tell he still wasn’t buying it. “Ask any of our friends,” I said. “I mean, my friends. You don’t hang around with us, any more. You have your other friends.” I made sure I put a lot of sarcasm in my voice. “Either way, they’ll tell you; every one of them who bought brushes that day, and who have been doing what our instructions said to do, have been rewarded.”
“What kind of rewards?” he asked.
I replied, “Oh, stuff like being able to run faster, or having a bigger chest or straighter hair, or getting all A’s in school, or having all the girls following you around.”
His eyes went wide, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And that could happen to me?” he asked.
I nodded. Bobby got quiet all of a sudden. I could tell he was thinking about the getting all the girls part. That’s why I asked him, “What is the one thing you’d like most to change about yourself?” I thought I knew what his answer was going to be.
He looked at me and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“There must be something,” I insisted. I waited while Bobby continued to think. “Come on,” I said, “the one thing that really bugs you the most about yourself.” I knew it bothered him that he wasn’t able to play baseball as well as some of the other kids. I even thought he might say he wanted to be a mechanic like his father.
But that isn’t what he said. Instead, his mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he replied, “You really want to know what it is?”
I nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Okay . . . I’d like to be able to read books the way you do.”
“You what?” I asked, not sure I had heard correctly.
“I want to read and understand books like you do.” I stared at him as he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand. “I go into stationery stores, or candy stores and see all these books I’d love to read, but when I try, I don’t understand them! I can’t seem to make sense out of what they say. I want to be able to understand them the way you do; the way my father does.”
I don’t know about Mr. Madder, but I stood there with my mouth open. I was absolutely floored! Of all the things Bobby could have said, that was the last thing I would have expected to hear from him. But since he did say it, it made my next move all that much easier. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the book I had been keeping there. “I brought this along for a different reason,” I told him, placing it on the covers next to his hands. “But since you want to understand so badly, I can’t think of a better place to start than with this.” I followed his gaze as he stared at the gilded lettering and golden cross which sparkled so brightly from its shiny black leather cover. “Whenever you’re ready,” I told him. “I’ll be here to help you.”
Bobby didn’t say anything. Instead, he continued to stare leery-eyed at the small Bible as if it was a snake wanting to bite him. I waited for his answer.
It came the next morning.
Chapter 13
That was 50 years ago.
As I sit here in my office on the fiftieth anniversary of the day we all got our toothbrushes, my thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in!” I call. No one enters, so I call again louder. “Come on in!” Still no one enters.
Exasperated, I get up from behind my desk and stride to the door. Yanking it open, I find myself staring at a very official-looking police detective’s badge, which has been thrust so close to my face, it’s practically sticking up my nostrils.
“Charles David Gammon?” asks a familiar but ominous voice from behind the badge.
“Yes,” I reply in an equally serious manner.
“I need you to accompany me.”
“Where to?” I ask, knowing full well.
“You’ll see when we get there,” says the voice.
Unable to contain myself any longer, I break into a grin. “E-r-n-i-e-e!” I whine. “Do you realize you can get arrested for impersonating a police officer?”
“If I am,” he quips, “I’ll just contact some of my old buddies on the force and have them vouch for my character.” He puts his simulated police badge (the real one he had to turn in when he retired) back into his jacket pocket and steps into my office. “And if that doesn’t work,” he says, clasping me around my shoulders, “I’ll call on my good buddy, the Mayor, to talk with them.”
I snort sarcastically. “Yeah, the Mayor.”
Ernie turns to face me. His expression shows his concern. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “You sound depressed.”
I nod. “I am.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I say, “this gig is turning out to be a lot harder than running a library, or even a newspaper. I can’t seem to get anyone to agree on anything!”
Ernie smiles and pats me on the back again. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll get them to come around. Look what you did for Bobby.”
“Speaking of Bishop Madder,” I say as I pick up Silver off my desk and tuck it into the breast pocket of my jacket. “Has he arrived yet?”
“He and our ex-football playing, ex-sportscaster friend came in on the same flight over an hour ago. They should be at the hall by now with the rest of the ‘Toothbrush Brigade’ waiting for us to arrive. So—” Ernie taps me playfully on the posterior, “get your butt in gear and come on, let’s go.”
Closing the folder of proposals on my desk, I start to accompany Ernie to the door, when I suddenly remember something I have forgotten to do.
“Wait a minute,” I say to him, as I walk back to my desk. There, I lean down close to the nearly empty pencil cup next to my calendar and whisper to Inkwell, my pen, “Good night, and thank you for everything you helped me to accomplish today.”
With that done, Ernie and I leave.
Miracle Toothbrushes, Part 2 of 2(Tom Di Roma)
Miracle Toothbrushes, continued....
Chapter 9
“He wouldn’t listen to me,” J.J. said. By now he was breathing normally again and his face wasn’t as red with anger as it had been before.
“He wouldn’t listen to you about what?”
“I tried explaining to Bobby several times about what Ernie’s grandfather had told us, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”
“When did you do this?” I asked surprised. He never told me he had talked to Bobby.
J.J. made a shooing motion with his hand. “Oh, it was a couple of times when you were visiting your grandmother.”
I looked at him amazed. “But that’s no reason to beat up on him like you did,” I said.
J.J. looked down. He seemed embarrassed. That’s when I guessed there must have been more to this than what he was telling me. “So?” I asked. “What’s the other reason?”
J.J. continued to hang his head. He spoke in a low voice. “He told me he didn’t want to be my brother any more.”
“He told you what?” I asked, not sure if I had heard right.
J.J. replied louder, “He said he didn’t want to be my brother any more.” Some of his anger had returned.
“What does that mean?”
With a sigh, he replied, “A while ago, before you moved here, Bobby and I made a promise to be blood brothers for the rest of our lives.”
“You mean, like the Indians do?” I asked. J.J. nodded. “You mean, you cut yourselves and everything?” Again, J.J. nodded.
I winced, thinking about how the Indians and the cowboys in the movies cut their palms with knives, then clasp their hands together, mixing their blood while pledging undying loyalty and friendship. It gave me the willies.
“Why did Bobby say he didn’t want to be your blood brother anymore?”
J.J. replied, “Because he said it was babyish and he didn’t want to do that kind of stuff anymore.”
“So?” I replied.
“Yeah, but Bobby was like a brother to me even before we made our pledge. I could always talk to him about stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
J.J. shrugged, “Oh, just stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing,” he snapped. “Just stuff!”
Usually, I know when to back off, but I had to know. “Is that why you hit him so hard?”
J.J. shook his head. “I hit him like that because he said he was too grown up to be with us, and we’re all just babies to him.” That last part, he said with a sneer.
I stared at J.J. amazed. I couldn’t believe Bobby would have said that. I also couldn’t believe I was hearing this from J.J. Usually, we just joked around a lot, or maybe we would talk about things like building a fort, or collecting marbles, or who had the best baseball cards, or who was braver: Tarzan or Flash Gordon? Or even what dumb thing our parents had done the night before. Neither of us had brothers or sisters to complain about. And, of course, lately, there were all the crazy things that had happened to us since we had gotten our toothbrushes. But hearing J.J. talk like this about Bobby being like a brother to him—it seemed . . . well, it seemed weird! I mean . . . this was grown-up stuff! Something else was grown-up stuff, too: having to apologize to someone for hurting them, which is what J.J. had to do to Bobby. His parents made him.
But that didn’t stop Bobby from acting like we had the cooties or something. After the fight, he refused to go anywhere near us. If he saw either J.J. or me in the hallway at school, he’d look the other way. And in the mornings, he made sure he left either before us or after us. We also found out he told everyone at school that the reason he was walking around with a bandage on his nose was because a wrench fell on his face from the top of a car he was working underneath at his father’s shop. That was a laugh, I thought. Bobby wasn’t even a mechanic. He either helped pumped gas, or worked the register.
Anyway, like I said, Bobby refused to talk to J.J. and me, let alone Ernie, or any of our other friends. Instead, he hung out with some older kids he met through Rocko, the other teen who worked for his father. They formed a gang of sorts, and did a lot of things together, some of which I was sure were bad. Not that I knew for sure they were doing bad things. They just looked as if they were always getting into trouble, the way they strutted around in their leather jackets and motorcycle boots. I was positive they were causing all kinds of problems for people.
For instance, there was the time bicycles started disappearing all over town and ended up out at the lake all smashed up. That didn’t make sense. You steal a bike to ride it, or sell it—not smash it up. That was just being mean, which was why I thought it might have been Bobby and his friends.
And then there was the time someone killed one of Mr. Jenkins’ pigeons. Mr. Jenkins lived on our street. He had racing pigeons in a coop in his back yard. One night, someone tossed a long stick into the coop through an air hole near one of the small barred windows. It hit a pigeon right in the eye and killed it. But the worse part was, of all the birds to be killed, it had to have been Mr. Jenkins’ prize bird.
Mom and Dad asked me if I knew who had done it. Of course, I didn’t, and said so, but I had my suspicions. Bobby and Mr. Jenkins never did get along, especially after Bobby started shooting at birds with his sling shot. Not that he shot at Mr. Jenkins’ pigeons. It just made Mr. Jenkins afraid he would.
And then another night, someone knocked down a whole bunch of headstones in a local cemetery. The police never did find out for sure who had done it, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to discover it was Bobby and his friends, especially after of the way they acted at school. They were always horsing around and being too loud, and getting detention for not dressing right. They’d smoke in the boys’ room, they’d bother other kids and take their lunch money. Once or twice, I even saw them talk back to their teachers. It was behavior like this that had me positive Bobby was going to end up in reform school if he didn’t change.
As it turned out, he never got the chance.
Chapter 10
The day I found out Bobby was sick was the day I came home from school with great news. Mrs. Sissler, the librarian, said I could be a page at the town library three days a week if I wanted. I’d go there right after school and put up books for a couple of hours and she’d give me two dollars a week to start. That would pay for all my movies, and along with my allowance, allow me to buy all the popcorn and candy I wanted. It was going to be great!
But then I arrived home and found mom looking like someone had died. I got scared, because I thought it was grandma. But it wasn’t. That’s when she told me about Bobby.
“He’s in the hospital,” she said. The scared feeling didn’t go away. In fact, it got worse.
“Why? What happened?” I asked, feeling my stomach tighten.
Mom shook her head. “They don’t know.” She was talking about the doctors, of course. “They think it might have been something he ate.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
Mom shrugged. “They’ve examined him, but they can’t seem to find anything wrong with him. He fainted while he was working at his father’s shop. When they couldn’t get him to wake up, his father had to call for an ambulance.”
“An ambulance!” I exclaimed. Somehow, even though he was already in the hospital, the idea of having to be taken there by an ambulance made it seem even worse for me. Mom nodded. Then I thought of something. “When did this happen?” I asked.
“Two days ago,” she replied.
No wonder J.J. and I hadn’t seen Bobby around school the last couple of days. We thought that maybe he had been sent home for doing something bad, or maybe, he had been sent to reform school!
That night, I kept thinking about Bobby, and what my mother said about the doctors not knowing what was wrong with him. In a moment of total childish whimsy, I thought to myself, I bet Bobby made his toothbrush mad at him, and this was the way it was getting back at him by making him sick. Unfortunately, I was closer to the truth than I realized. It wasn’t until I spoke to his father the next day that I became positive.
I went to his shop after school. I had already told J.J. about Bobby, but he didn’t come with me—not because he was still mad at Bobby, but because he was being picked up by his mother from school. They were going to the dentist’s office.
So alone, I walked up to Bobby’s father, who was working under the hood of a car, and said gently, “Mr. Madder?”
He looked up.“Oh, it’s you, Charles,” he said. He looked real sad—like he’d been crying. I didn’t blame him.
“How is Bobby doing?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not so good. He seems to be getting weaker.” That made me feel even sadder than I had been before. Suddenly Bobby’s father, who I always thought looked like a young John Wayne, pounded his fist once on the fender of the car. I jumped startled. “If only they could find out what was wrong with him,” he growled. “It’s like some evil spirit has him gripped by the throat and is squeezing the life out of him.”
I looked at Bobby’s father. Yeah, that sounded like Mr. Madder, all right. Like me, he was a big fan of weird stories. He went to all the monster movies the moment they came out in the theaters. His big heroes were H. G. Wells and Jules Vern, and he was the only grown-up I knew who liked the radio show Tales From The Far East as much as I did.
Speaking of Tales From The Far East, this whole thing with Bobby was like one of its episodes. A mysterious illness threatens the life of the eager young explorer, and it’s up to the hero to find out what is making the young man sick. Because of the nature of the show, the answer usually turned out to be that the person who was ill had somehow evoked an ancient curse by doing something that angered the gods . . . Hmmmm . . . Angered the gods? . . . Angry gods! . . . That was it!
I glanced at Bobby’s father. “Mr. Madder,” I said, “I have something to tell you.”
Just then, the phone rang.
I waited while he went inside his office to answer it. Through the open door, I heard him say, “No, I don’t have a tow truck, but if you can get it towed here, I can probably fix it for you.” Then he hung up the phone and came out of his office to where I was waiting.
“Mr. Madder—” I started to say again. I was interrupted for a second time by a loud horn.
I looked over and saw a shiny black Chevy sedan idling in the street outside the shop. A man wearing a fedora leaned out the window. “Ralph!” he called. “You got that part for my truck yet?”
Mr. Madder stepped over to the curb to speak with him. “No, Dave,” he said, while he wiped his hands on a rag. “But I’ll check on it. I’m pretty sure it will be here tomorrow.”
“Okay,” the man nodded then waving goodbye drove off.
Shoving the rag back in his pocket, Bobby’s father walked toward the garage; before he could reach it, Rocko came up to him and held out what looked like a dollar bill for gas a customer had just handed him.
I saw Bobby’s father look at the money then shake his head violently. “No, no, tell him I can’t change a hundred dollar bill!”
“But he already got his gas,” I heard Rocko say.
Bobby’s father stood a moment with his hands on his hips. Even though I couldn’t see his face (he had his back to me), I could tell he was angry. Suddenly, his shoulders went limp and his hands fell to his sides. “Okay,” he said quietly, “tell him the gas is on me.”
Astonished, Rocko asked, “Are you sure?”
Mr. Madder nodded then he turned and hurried back inside the garage. Arriving at the car he had been working on, he snatched a wrench off the fender and started doing something again underneath the hood. While he worked, he mumbled, “Some people think they can do anything just because they have money! Do I have change for a hundred? Of course, I don’t have change for a hundred!” He continued to ignore me.
I tapped his shoulder. “Mr. Madder?”
He whirled to face me, “WHAT!” he growled. He looked so angry, the words almost stuck in my mouth, but I was finally able to say, “I think I know what is making Bobby sick.”
He stared at me, blinking.
Chapter 11
The maroon Ford raced along the night-shrouded streets like a police car on its way to a crime. I sat quietly in the passenger seat, while beside me, Bobby’s father, who was driving, kept glancing toward where I was holding Bobby’s toothbrush carefully between my right thumb and forefinger, as if I was afraid it might sting me. I couldn’t help myself. It scared the snot out of me. I think it even scared Mr. Madder. I couldn’t believe Bobby had been using it to brush his teeth. I mean, if anyone had told me an object that wasn’t supposed to be alive could look angry, I would have laughed at them. But here it was—Bobby’s toothbrush, and boy, did it look mad!
Like all our toothbrushes, it had changed colors, but it was more than that. Besides being a smokey gray, almost black, his toothbrush was riddled with lightening bolts of color—angry-looking bolts of color! Some were bright red, others were a sickly, yellowish green. Entwining with one another, they prickled all through the handle and head like cracks in a mirror. Some even appeared to burrow deep inside the plastic.
I shivered. This was worse than worrying about getting someone else’s cooties. I thought for sure, any moment, Bobby’s brush was going to zap me with electricity, or even make me sick. But that was ridiculous. I knew better. I wasn’t Bobby; I hadn’t been mean to people. I was following the rules. And for that, I was being rewarded. Actually, we all were—all us kids who had bought the miracle toothbrushes that day at Mr. Hassen’s and who had kept our pledges to change. That was the promise our pamphlets had made—continue to become caring individuals, and we would be rewarded.
Mine came in the form of better eyesight. I always hated wearing my glasses. I was seven when I got them, but wished I could be like all the other kids who didn’t have to wear glasses. Well, after J.J., Ernie and I made our pledges to change, so did my eyesight. Gradually at first, but eventually, I noticed I didn’t have to wear my glasses to see clearly. Although it was a bit unusual, Dr. Paragus, our family doctor, thought it might be a natural part of my growing up. But I knew better, it was a gift from my toothbrush.
It was the same for J.J. He didn’t want to be fat anymore, so, he changed the way he ate and exercised. That would have been enough for anyone to lose weight, but not as fast as he did. In less than two months, he lost something like six inches off his waist and developed enough muscles to make Tarzan jealous. Well, maybe not that many, but he did get them a lot faster than he should have.
And then there were the rest of my friends.
Who wanted to run faster, or be a better speller, or be prettier, or more handsome, or just do things better? Nearly every one of them got their wish, as long as they continued to follow the rules set out by our pamphlets. Of course, if they didn’t, then whatever they gained, they lost—at least, part of it, anyway, until they got back on track.
And then there was always the possibility that something bad could happen, too. I found this out in a small way the night I tried soaking my brush in milk instead of lemon juice. I wasn’t trying to go against the rules or anything, I was just curious to see what might happen. Well, I found out, all right! In less than an hour, the milk in the glass turned sour. Not only that, it fizzled like soda pop! Can you imagine milk fizzling? I never did that again. And I apologized to my brush for doing it this time.
And that is what Bobby needed to do. He needed to tell his brush that he was sorry for all the mean things he had been doing. He needed to tell it that he was going to start following the rules, and not throw stones anymore at his ch’i, the way Ernie’s grandfather said he had. He needed to learn how to keep his toothbrush happy.
How did I know all this? I didn’t for sure. It just made sense to me. It was like an episode of Tales From The Far East. Whatever magic or spirits were making our toothbrushes act the way they were, they had to be constantly appeased or kept happy; otherwise, if they were angered in any way, then bad things could happen, such as what was happening to Bobby.
That’s why when I told Mr. Madder what I thought was happening and what we needed to do, he believed me right away. After all, I said he was a big fan of the radio show. He knew about weird stuff like this. My problem was, how was I going to convince Bobby?
After we pulled into the parking lot behind the hospital, I said to Mr. Madder, “I hope this works.” He looked at me and nodded. Then as we stepped out of the car, I slipped Bobby’s brush into the pocket of my jacket where it joined the other two items I had brought. Next, Mr. Madder and I walked toward the front entrance.
I prayed all the way.
Chapter 12
I always hated hospitals—the alcohol and witch hazel smells—they reminded me of going to the doctor’s office. Every time I went to see him, it seemed as if he wanted to give me a shot and I hated needles! They hurt like heck! That’s why I had this prickly, scared feeling all through my body as I rode the elevator along with Mr. Madder up to the fourth floor and to Bobby’s room.
Actually, it wasn’t a room. He was in a ward with some other kids. Each child had his or her own room-like cubicle with glass that ran from half a wall on both sides up to the ceiling, and a totally open front with no doors. If they needed privacy, there were curtains that could be pulled across the front and glass sides.
Every ward had six cubicles, each containing a single bed, a small chest of drawers with a lamp on top and a couple of chairs for visitors to sit on. In the middle, between all six cubicles, was a desk where a nurse sat. Bobby was in one of the cubicles closest to the entrance.
After Mr. Madder and I told the nurse who we had come to visit, we went over to stand by his bed. I was hoping no one would ask; I wasn’t supposed to be there. I wasn’t family, but Bobby’s father had fibbed and said I was Bobby’s brother. That must have had the nurse wondering; I didn’t look anything like Bobby. He had black hair; mine was a straw-like blond. He had brown eyes; mine were blue. He was much taller than me and looked older than his age. Many people still made the mistake of thinking I was only eight or nine.
Dressed in plain, blue pajamas, Bobby was lying on his back with his eyes closed. He looked so peaceful, it was hard to believe he was sick enough that he could actually die. But that was the case as I stood behind Mr. Madder while he gently called Bobby’s name. When Bobby’s eyes opened, he turned his head to look in our direction, but he didn’t see me.
“Son,” Bobby’s father said, “how are you feeling?”
Standing behind Mr. Madder, I heard Bobby mumble, “Weak.”
“I’ve brought someone with me to visit you. He’s been worried about you.”
I stepped from behind Mr. Madder. For a moment Bobby’s eyes went wide with surprise, then he turned his head away from us to face toward the opposite side of his cubicle.
“Hi, Bobby,” I said. I waited for him to say hi back. When he didn’t, I continued anyway. “I know you’re probably still mad and all, but I’ve brought you something that may help you get well.”
I pulled out his brush and held it up for him to see. When he saw what I was holding, his eyebrows shot up in a questioning gesture, then he frowned. “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” he asked, his voice sounding weak and slightly hoarse.
The only thing I could think to say was, “It’s what has been making you sick.” Bobby’s questioning look deepened. “Remember the day we bought our brushes?” I said. “Remember the man who sold them to us? He told us we should read this.” I pulled the pamphlet from my pocket and waved it at him. “He said it was important. But you didn’t. You threw yours away.”
Bobby shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
Huh? I looked at him surprised. “But you told me you did!”
Bobby shrugged. “I lied.”
That made me angry. “You see,” I said. “That’s why you’re sick.” I could tell by his expression he didn’t understand what I was talking about, so I said, “These toothbrushes are magical. They know when you’ve been good or bad, which is why you don’t want to make them mad at you. They can make you sick like you are now. Why do you think yours looks the way it does? It’s been getting madder and madder at you because of the way you’ve been acting lately.”
Bobby huffed. “You expect me to believe that?” he asked.
“He’s telling the truth, son,” said Mr. Madder.
Bobby glanced at his father but his expression didn’t change. “So what does that mean?” he asked.
“It means, you have to talk to your brush,” I said. “You have to apologize to it for the way you’ve been acting.” I saw his eyebrows shoot up again. “You have to tell it you’re sorry and that you’ll start following all the rules.”
Bobby chuckled. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he replied.
I shook my head. “I’m serious.”
“Listen to him, son,” said Mr. Madder. “He knows what he’s talking about.”
Again, Bobby looked at his father. Then to me, he said, “Suppose I don’t. Then what?”
My stomach jumped. “Then whatever magic or spirit that makes our toothbrushes work the way they do is going to make you sicker. It could even kill you.” Bobby didn’t say anything for a while, so I added. “If you’ve read the instructions, you know there’s a reward for changing your attitude.”
“Yeah, I know,” he quipped. “If I’m good, I go to heaven, right?”
“No, it’s not like that,” I said. “Let me explain.” I put the pamphlet and Bobby’s brush down on the chest of drawers, then I turned to him and said, “You saw how fast J.J. got his muscles, right?” Bobby nodded. “That was because his toothbrush was happy with him for the way he’d been acting. It decided to give him exactly what he wanted most—muscles.” Bobby looked at me skeptically. “I’m not kidding,” I said.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I don’t have to wear my glasses anymore, see?” I pointed to my eyes. Again Bobby cocked a sideways glance at me. I could tell he still wasn’t buying it. “Ask any of our friends,” I said. “I mean, my friends. You don’t hang around with us, any more. You have your other friends.” I made sure I put a lot of sarcasm in my voice. “Either way, they’ll tell you; every one of them who bought brushes that day, and who have been doing what our instructions said to do, have been rewarded.”
“What kind of rewards?” he asked.
I replied, “Oh, stuff like being able to run faster, or having a bigger chest or straighter hair, or getting all A’s in school, or having all the girls following you around.”
His eyes went wide, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And that could happen to me?” he asked.
I nodded. Bobby got quiet all of a sudden. I could tell he was thinking about the getting all the girls part. That’s why I asked him, “What is the one thing you’d like most to change about yourself?” I thought I knew what his answer was going to be.
He looked at me and shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“There must be something,” I insisted. I waited while Bobby continued to think. “Come on,” I said, “the one thing that really bugs you the most about yourself.” I knew it bothered him that he wasn’t able to play baseball as well as some of the other kids. I even thought he might say he wanted to be a mechanic like his father.
But that isn’t what he said. Instead, his mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he replied, “You really want to know what it is?”
I nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Okay . . . I’d like to be able to read books the way you do.”
“You what?” I asked, not sure I had heard correctly.
“I want to read and understand books like you do.” I stared at him as he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand. “I go into stationery stores, or candy stores and see all these books I’d love to read, but when I try, I don’t understand them! I can’t seem to make sense out of what they say. I want to be able to understand them the way you do; the way my father does.”
I don’t know about Mr. Madder, but I stood there with my mouth open. I was absolutely floored! Of all the things Bobby could have said, that was the last thing I would have expected to hear from him. But since he did say it, it made my next move all that much easier. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the book I had been keeping there. “I brought this along for a different reason,” I told him, placing it on the covers next to his hands. “But since you want to understand so badly, I can’t think of a better place to start than with this.” I followed his gaze as he stared at the gilded lettering and golden cross which sparkled so brightly from its shiny black leather cover. “Whenever you’re ready,” I told him. “I’ll be here to help you.”
Bobby didn’t say anything. Instead, he continued to stare leery-eyed at the small Bible as if it was a snake wanting to bite him. I waited for his answer.
It came the next morning.
Chapter 13
That was 50 years ago.
As I sit here in my office on the fiftieth anniversary of the day we all got our toothbrushes, my thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in!” I call. No one enters, so I call again louder. “Come on in!” Still no one enters.
Exasperated, I get up from behind my desk and stride to the door. Yanking it open, I find myself staring at a very official-looking police detective’s badge, which has been thrust so close to my face, it’s practically sticking up my nostrils.
“Charles David Gammon?” asks a familiar but ominous voice from behind the badge.
“Yes,” I reply in an equally serious manner.
“I need you to accompany me.”
“Where to?” I ask, knowing full well.
“You’ll see when we get there,” says the voice.
Unable to contain myself any longer, I break into a grin. “E-r-n-i-e-e!” I whine. “Do you realize you can get arrested for impersonating a police officer?”
“If I am,” he quips, “I’ll just contact some of my old buddies on the force and have them vouch for my character.” He puts his simulated police badge (the real one he had to turn in when he retired) back into his jacket pocket and steps into my office. “And if that doesn’t work,” he says, clasping me around my shoulders, “I’ll call on my good buddy, the Mayor, to talk with them.”
I snort sarcastically. “Yeah, the Mayor.”
Ernie turns to face me. His expression shows his concern. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “You sound depressed.”
I nod. “I am.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I say, “this gig is turning out to be a lot harder than running a library, or even a newspaper. I can’t seem to get anyone to agree on anything!”
Ernie smiles and pats me on the back again. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll get them to come around. Look what you did for Bobby.”
“Speaking of Bishop Madder,” I say as I pick up Silver off my desk and tuck it into the breast pocket of my jacket. “Has he arrived yet?”
“He and our ex-football playing, ex-sportscaster friend came in on the same flight over an hour ago. They should be at the hall by now with the rest of the ‘Toothbrush Brigade’ waiting for us to arrive. So—” Ernie taps me playfully on the posterior, “get your butt in gear and come on, let’s go.”
Closing the folder of proposals on my desk, I start to accompany Ernie to the door, when I suddenly remember something I have forgotten to do.
“Wait a minute,” I say to him, as I walk back to my desk. There, I lean down close to the nearly empty pencil cup next to my calendar and whisper to Inkwell, my pen, “Good night, and thank you for everything you helped me to accomplish today.”
With that done, Ernie and I leave.
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