The Last Martin Read online

  “Come out of your room, Martin. It’s time to get you some help.”

  “Sorry, Mom. I’m kind of busy.”

  Up and down.

  Mom bursts in. She sees me and gasps. “Parasites. If you could see the millions of parasites that cover the floor —”

  “Can you see them?” I ask.

  Up and down.

  She taps her toe and checks her watch. “I made you an early appointment with Dr. Stanker. You may continue your unsanitary activities after we return.”

  “I don’t want to see him. I don’t need rest.” Up and down. “I want to go to school.”

  “Not in your condition. Come.” She takes three steps down the stairs, turns and motions to me. “Come!”

  I exhale long and slow. Up and dow — “Ouch!”

  Maybe we can talk about the divot in my head.

  I trudge to the car and throw my pack into the backseat.

  Julia’s drawing. Forgot all about it!

  I grab the sketchbook and set it on my lap. Better to examine it at the doctor’s office. If I ooh and aah now, it’ll just be more questions from Mom.

  We arrive at Dr. Stanker’s office building. It’s bleak and drab. A lot like detention, without Julia.

  “Now Martin, I know that you haven’t always felt … comfortable with me.” Mom pauses at the elevator and her gaze drops to the ground. “I suppose I can understand some of that.”

  I blink. It’s the most human I’ve ever seen Mom. No Barn Owl in her. It’s almost a normal, nice thing she just said and I don’t know what to do with it, so I turn and stare at the up button.

  “But I want you to feel free to open up during your session. Tell him anything.” She grabs my arm and I peek at her. “It’s just not normal for you to smile so much. We need to get that insidious urge under control.”

  Mom’s back.

  “Right,” I say. “I’ll open up for one hour.”

  We hop on the elevator.

  “Dr. Stanker is an old friend of your father’s. He specializes in death, death obsessions, death fixations, death fetishes …”

  The door opens and I jump out, Mom spewing Death behind me.

  “… death manifestations, death — “

  I knock on the door to Stanker’s suite; Mom fires her hand into her pocket and squirts my knuckles with hand sanitizer. She’s like Jesse James.

  I wipe gel off my fingers and the sketchbook. “I’m going to buy you a holster for Christmas. At least I would if I was around —”

  “What’s that? What were you just going to say?”

  The door swings open. “Welcome, Martin, no need to knock. There’s a waiting room inside.” The exceptionally cheery receptionist smiles at me. I smile back, turn, and smile at Mom.

  She scowls and shakes her head. “This will take deep therapy. Mark my words.”

  “Mahtin, Mahtin Boyle?”

  “It’s Martin.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Gavin’s boy. Come in.”

  Dr. Stanker must be from New Yoke or New Joisey, and I can hardly understand him.

  “Sit. Sit.” He points at a couch. It looks comfy, but it’s cold to my hands.

  He takes a seat on another couch, grabs a manila folder, and squints.

  “It says here, you plan on dyink soon.” He peeks at me. “Speak to me.”

  I peek at the end table, reach for the thick book that rests there.

  Death and You.

  “Yep, I do. We’re down to under two months, and I, Martin Boyle, will be in the obituary page. Knowing Mom, I’ll be in color; you might want to keep an eye out.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful.” He wrings his hands in delight. “And how do you plan on dyink?”

  “You have some trouble with your g sounds.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “I can’t.” I rub my head. “I don’t know how that part works. And I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about that. I mean, will I just fall asleep? Will my heart just run out of beats? Will I mysteriously fall down a hole or happen to get run over by a truck? Or let’s say I never leave my house. What if I sit in the hospital lobby holding Mom’s danger bell? What would happen then?” I lean forward. “Have you ever died before?”

  “No, I don’t imagine I have.”

  “See that’s just it. You’re clueless too, no offense.” I lie down. “If you knew anything about curses, now that would be helpful.”

  “Coises? I’m from Boston, home of the Red Sox. And the boy asks if I know about coises.”

  I leap to my feet and raise my hands to heaven. “I’m now thankful for this curse expert!”

  I smile sheepishly and ease back down. My shrink sets down his pad and stares.

  “Sorry,” I shrug. “I forgot to scream today. It’s a prayer.”

  “This is a prayer? Do you think God is deaf?” He rubs his right ear and winces. “That was a thankfulness scream. Why are you thankful? You’ll be dead in eight weeks.”

  Again, I rise and walk slowly around his office. “I don’t know. But seems like I really am, like it’s more than a bargain I made with Poole. I can’t stop thanking. For Poole and Julia and Dad and Lani and sometimes Mom and now for you, my curse guru.”

  He frowns. “A boy who yells his prayers.”

  “What I told you.” I catch his gaze. “I’m making up for lost time. I didn’t pray before. Now that’s interesting.” I scratch my head and restart my walk. “Why thank God now? I mean, I’m mad at him too. Can you be mad and thankful at the same time?”

  He straightens his glasses. “Let’s get back to the death fetish —”

  I pause. “No way. I’m doing deep therapy here. Can you be mad and thankful at the same time?”

  “Yes. Now regarding death —”

  “That settles it. I’m thankful and mad. It’s possible. There’s a nugget you can share with your other shrinkees. Now, about the curse — “

  I spend the rest of my time explaining my wretched condition. He doesn’t say or write a word. He sits and eats mints, little pastel pillow-shaped mints that grandmas have on coffee tables.

  “If she delivers on time, I figure I have about two months.”

  He taps his temple. “You don’t want to die, do you?”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes, stands, and throws my file in the garbage. “Why did your parents bring you here? You don’t need help with dyink, you need help with livink.”

  I bite my lip. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Here’s what you do, kid.” Dr. Death thrusts his raised pointer in front of my nose. “First, accept it. So you’re coised. We all are; you should meet my in-laws. But with coises, you got to find out where they started.”

  “Where they started.”

  “Yeah, where they started. For me, I should have known when Irene’s mother first looked — find where this coise started and then undo it.”

  “Undo it.”

  “Sure, undo it. Unless it’s an in-law, then you just keep — yeah, undo it.”

  I stroke my chin. “You can do that?”

  “Sure, kid. Whatever. If I can live through Irene’s mother, you can live through anything.”

  “I think this is a little more complicated than your mother-in-law.”

  “You listen.” Dr. Stanker leans forward, toting some serious anger-management issues. “We’d been married one day, one day! We were on our honeymoon. Irene looked beautiful. And her mother …”

  I glance down at the sketchbook. I flip to the seventh page and stare.

  In the center of the new drawing, a baby, held by his father. Proud men in robes and men in armor encircle the pair, each one laying a hand on the tiny child. And in the back, drawn so gray and black he almost fades into the castle wall background, is a sinister face I know well from the other sketches. His hand grasps the baby’s toe.

  “The Black Knight,” I whisper.

  “… you can be certain,” Stanker continues. “It was
a very black night …”

  I squint hard. Beneath Julia’s scene, she had penciled a small caption.

  The “Blessing” of the White Knight.

  “… so I tell Irene, our marriage is one day old and your mother has already cursed it …”

  I rub my fingers over the child. That’s me. I’m the White Knight. A hero cursed from birth.

  I jump up.

  “But you said I can undo it!”

  Dr. Death scratches his head. “Oh, your little coise situation. Yes. Find the start and undo it.” Find the beginning. Find the Black Knight. I grab the sketchbook and squeeze it to my chest. “Julia, you’re a genius.”

  I shake the doctor’s hand, hard. “You don’t know how much you helped me.”

  “Glad to be of assistance. When you feel like dyink, then you come back and we’ll talk.”

  I throw open the door into the waiting room, a smile so wide I feel it on my face.

  “Oh, doctor!” Mom stands up. “What have you done?”

  “Hi, Mom! Get me to school! I have a lot of work to do. It’s time to start Operation Save Martin.”

  “Martin.” Mom’s fingers whiten on the steering wheel. “Are you listening to me? What did the doctor say to you?”

  “Hang on.”

  He’s talking to the old guy, blah, blah, okay.

  “But how can I defeat an unknown enemy? This knight in black? Where does he come from? How does he draw his strength?”

  The old man gestured to the single chair in the center of the hut. “Sit. I will tell you a story. I have not always lived a hermit’s life. Years ago, I lived at court in the employ of King Gav the Brave.”

  “My father!”

  “I was one of his most trusted advisors, but I was not alone. Another had the king’s other ear. Our counsels were never in harmony, and over the years, your father learned to heed my wisdom and the kingdom prospered.

  “Still, the Dark Counselor remained. As the king had no heir, the counselor’s desire was for the throne. He was waiting for an opportune time to take your father’s life.”

  “He would kill the king?”

  The old man eased down onto the floor. “He would do much more. When the news came that Queen Ele was expecting a child, the Dark Counselor’s fury knew no bounds. Now there would be an heir. The kingdom would be out of reach for another generation.”

  The old man bowed his head. “I cannot tell you how close he came to destroying the queen and the child. Their protection consumed my every thought.”

  “I owe you a debt I cannot repay.”

  “Perhaps, but I did not foresee the depth of the counselor’s treachery, the pain of which you now endure.”

  “What? Speak.”

  He inhaled deeply. “A child was born, a boy, handsome and perfect. But sadly, the child was stillborn. No breath of life filled his lungs.”

  “But, I have no dead brother.”

  “Quiet, sir. Your father ran the child into the court, lifted the boy to heaven, and prayed. Every court official and advisor gathered around the baby to lay hands on his tiny frame. Every advisor.”

  “Including the Dark Counselor?”

  “I did not see him, cloaked as he was. We prayed a blessing on the child and the kingdom. And the baby coughed. The baby came to life. But the Dark Counselor had not joined in our blessing. Instead, he placed a curse.”

  A tingle ran down the White Knight’s back. “But I was that child. King Gav, that’s my father … Pray tell, where did the Dark Counselor lay hold of me?”

  The old man reached over and removed the knight’s boot. He touched his foul toe. “Here.” The man smiled. “He thought that you would quickly die. You did not.”

  The White Knight shuddered. “Who is this man? What is his name?”

  “Get out of the car, Martin. I’m late to the library. You’ll have to go to school today.”

  I blink and wipe sweat from my forehead. “Yeah. We’re at school? Okay.”

  Find the beginning. Find the Black Knight.

  CHAPTER 17

  I CHECK IN AT THE OFFICE, LEAN OVER THE COUNTER and hand Ms. Corbitt a note.

  “I saw a shrink. The man’s brilliant. If you ever need advice, I’ll set you up.”

  Ms. Corbitt glares. “I don’t need a shrink, Martin.”

  “Never can be too sure. What’s your first name?”

  She yanks off her glasses and glares. “None of your business.”

  I lower my voice. “Two questions. Were you named after a relative? And is that relative dead?”

  She looks pale, and I nod. “You might want to check into this guy. He’s a death dude, but I think he’s pretty good with curses too.”

  From inside his office Principal Creaker clears his throat. “I just spoke with the health teacher. He seems to think that you should be excused from detention to run on the track team.”

  “I totally forgot,” I glance into his office. “That’s today.”

  “I told him it would not be fair to release you and detain Ms. Snow for the same crime. So … the terms of your parole will dictate that Julia accompanies you each afternoon. She doesn’t need to run, of course, but she does need to watch practices from the stands.” He winks. “How do you feel about that?”

  “She won’t do it.” I shake my head. “She’s mad.”

  “Make her … unmad, son.”

  “Unmad?”

  “Shoo.” He whisks me out of the office.

  Undo the curse. Unmad the girl.

  There’s still hope. Death said so.

  I find Charley at lunch sitting with a herd of guys.

  “Charley,” I bump his back with my lunch bag. “I need your help.”

  “Oh, do you now? Kind of like I needed yours. How does it feel not to get it?”

  I grab his collar and pull. His butt slides off the bench and onto the floor. He’s up and in my face in a hurry.

  “What’s wrong with you?” He shoves my chest.

  “This isn’t a stupid story. This is life and death.” I shove back.

  Charley breathes deeply. “Life and death? Sure it is.” Shove.

  I nod. Shove back.

  “Explain,” he says, and shoves.

  “I’m calling it Operation Save Martin. I’ve been talking to Dr. Death all morning and the man is a genius. He’s from Boston, you know. He told me I needed to find the beginning. I think I’ll need help.”

  Charley leans forward. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Big shove.

  “Right.” I grab his sleeve and yank him away from the table. “Meet me at the boxcar at midnight. The Barn Owl should be hibernating, Poole should be free, and I’m going to try and convince Julia.”

  His eyes widen. “Julia, or your Julia.”

  “Just Julia. I need a commitment here.”

  “You need to be committed here.”

  I wait.

  “Fine. Tonight. Midnight. At the boxcar.” His eyes narrow. “Better be life and death.”

  “Thanks.” I slap his back hard. That’s one; now for Julia.

  I run toward the lunchroom doors.

  “Hold on, young man.”

  It’s Gladys, the head cook. I don’t know why we call her Gladys. She’s the only staff that we call by their first name. I don’t even know if she has a second name. Maybe it’s Gladys too. Gladys Gladys.

  “Yeah?” I wince and peek into the hall, stuffed with kids. I don’t have time for Gladys Gladys.

  “Do you notice what we’re having today?”

  I shrug.

  “Here’s a hint. Small, round, purple, and staining. I don’t know how Principal Creaker has allowed you to sail on without apologizing to the kids. But this seems the appropriate day.”

  She points to the loudspeaker, and I tramp over and pick up the cordless mic.

  Gladys Gladys’s arms fold over her apron. She is a large woman, imposing, and at times terrible. “Make this sincere.” She flicks the mic switch to on and
cranks the volume. Feedback squeals and everyone winces.

  “Children. Martin Boyle would like to say something to you.”

  The group hushes. I scan the silent mob. Waiting. Wondering. What will Martin say? Any other year, I would snivel and grovel. But no, behold the Dandingo! I feel the power.

  “Yeah, well, I — “ I glance at Gladys Gladys and run to the other side of the lunchroom. “Has anyone seen Julia Snow?”

  Hands shoot up.

  Gladys pounds toward me, arms outstretched — looking like my deployed airbag with legs. I keep moving. “Where is she now?”

  “Check the gym!” A girl yells from table four.

  “Give me … give … that mic, Martin!” Gladys loses air fast.

  I weave between tables. Kids pull in their feet for me, cheer me as I go.

  “And, uh,” I gesture around the lunchroom. “I see you all have prunes.”

  The kids groan. One long, loud groan.

  Gladys Gladys pulls up, doubles over and huffs. She peeks up from across the room.

  “It’s been brought to my attention that many of you were purpled last time we had prunes, and you probably got in trouble at home. I’m sorry for that whole thing. It’s just …” I peek at a prune cup, reach down, and lift it off a kid’s plate. “These little buggers taste so bad.” I pluck a prune out of its purple bath. “And fly so good.” I fling it over the tables, over Gladys Gladys, toward the garbage bins.

  Swish!

  “Viva la Martin!” Hector stands and whips his prunes, and the room erupts.

  I shouldn’t have done it. I know it. But it felt so good.

  I drop the mic and flee the carnage.

  Next stop, gymnasium.

  Two minutes later I burst into the gym. “Julia?”

  I’m alone and my heart sinks. I quickly stroll to health class. I’m the first one to arrive. Laughing, purple kids stream in behind me. I stare at the announcement speaker hanging from the ceiling.

  Five, four, three, two —

  “Martin Boyle, to the lunchroom please. Martin Boyle.”

  I sit down across from Creaker and Gladys Gladys. I’m flanked by two custodians and surrounded by purple. Purple lights, purple windows, purple walls.