One for the Murphys: Chapters 20–50

Afterward, Daniel trudges over to his mother. His chin touches his chest. “I’m the absolute worst.”

I follow her off the bus as she turns up the walk of an L-shaped white house with two brick chimneys, black shutters, and a black front door. The dormers on the roof look like little separate houses. It’s like a house you’d see in a movie.

She slaps something together and hands me a sandwich with white stuff oozing out of the sides. Reminds me of the caulk that Mr. Murphy redid the tub with.

“Toni,” she says. “Don’t you like the vibrant color of her shirt?”

My science teacher accused me of plagiarism because my paper was “too good.”

“Well, it’s like that with Elphaba,” Toni says. “She’s ostracized because she’s green. And she’s labeled wicked when she isn’t.”

Back at the Murphys’, Daniel is tormenting himself with that basketball again.

“I really don’t know. But I am willing to help you if you want. I’d kind of...like a truce, I guess.”

Mr. Ruben steps onto the bus with what looks like a band uniform and a tricornered hat and most of us laugh. “Good morning, ye lads and lasses! As you can see, I am your captain!” he says in a bold voice.

Mr. Ruben is holding sheet music, thinking that we’ll all sing sea shanties.

She just about keeled over when I told her she could keep the name Charity.

The Yankees have the bases loaded with no outs. The guy at bat has a “2” on his jersey; how intimidating can he be with a number like that?

“And there’s nothing better,” she continues, “than watching the Red Sox get pummeled into dust by the Yanks. Don’t you love a team that goes eighty-six years without winning a Series and, when they finally do, they act like they own baseball?”

“Jack goes off into those little dazes too. I call it the Irish abyss. Always deep in thought about something, you Irish.”

Murphy stands up, wipes his mouth, and musses Adam’s red hair. “It’s okay, pal.”

I count the spindles on the staircase, but it doesn’t seem to be helping this time. “I have to go.”

“Look,” I say, “my old coach used to say that forty percent of success in basketball is desire and another forty percent is confidence. You have the desire but no confidence.”
“What’s the other twenty percent?” he asks.
“Paying off the refs,” I say, deadpan.

I dribble the ball and smile. “You’re so gullible. Do you believe everything people tell you, Murphy?”

Then she gets serious and leans toward him. “Look, you waste. I don’t know who would win, but I promise you that I’d bloody you enough to make you the laughingstock of Smith Middle School.”

“Toni, can you tell me how it came to be that you actually root for those blowhard Yankees?”

In the fireman room, Toni lounges on the bed as we listen to her Wicked CD. A song called “What Is This Feeling?”, also known as the “loathing song,” comes on and she cracks up.

“What’s the story? Is he delirious?” I ask.

“No, Carley, she’s not in trouble. I was going to talk to you about that. It seems the charges against your mother have been dropped in exchange for her testimony.” She leans forward. “Do you know what that means?”

The phone rings and I’m not sure what I’ll do when she answers. It rings five times and just as I move to hang up, her voice is there. Raspy and tired, but unmistakably her. “Hello?”

I am mesmerized by the little puffs of steam that rise out of the iron as she gently pushes all the wrinkles out.

I feel like my head rests firmly in a guillotine. She reaches for me and I twist away.

“When you do go, Carley, it will be excruciating”—she clears her throat—“for this family because, in many ways, you’re one of us now. I think leaving would be harder for me and for you if you called me Mom. Not to mention...”

“Well, Carley.” I can see she measures her words. “That book is about unconditional love. You know, loving no matter what. Giving completely of yourself because it makes you happy to give, not because you expect anything in return. It’s about loving someone more than yourself. And you’ll notice that the tree doesn’t mind.”

He glances at me but answers while watching the TV. “Well, Carley, I don’t really decide. The fire does. She always wins when she wants to. The first rule is that your own safety is paramount. I try to remember that I’m no good to anyone dead.”

My mother stood, but stumbled. She shrieked, "No! No! You monster! You leave her alone!" I heard scuffling around the room.

“I bounced around foster care for four years. Not optimal situations. But it forced me to decide what kind of life I wanted. And I went after it when I was old enough.”

She studies me for a bit before saying, “Tell me.” Her voice coaxes a child from her hiding place. “Tell me what’s going on.”

My stomach muscles harden. “I don’t want the boys to see me blubbering.”

She laughs out loud. “You mean that little drop of water? I don’t think that constitutes blubbering. Besides, they’re used to me. They wouldn’t even notice that!”

“You mean once I stopped picking fights with waiters and stuffing rolls behind cushions?”
She laughs again. “Oh boy. Let’s not resurrect that memory!”