I learned a lot about Stewart “Stewy” Upton, ninety-seven, from his obituary. I read it to Dad on the way to the service. Sissy had chosen a photo of him dressed in a tuxedo and smiling through the same eyes but with a much younger face. I learned he was an avid collector of Civil War artifacts. (Alice was right. Old men did like Civil War stuff.) He loved music and travel and had been a lifelong Rotarian and supporter of various animal organizations. He was predeceased by his beloved mother, Ingrid; his sister, Tabitha; and a nephew named James. There was no mention of the lizard. Donations were to go to Rotary International or the Humane Society.
I had asked Dad to take me to the funeral. I felt like maybe I’d get a clue, some postmortem breadcrumb that would help me understand what Mr. Upton wanted me to do with the contents of the suitcase.
On the way to the service, Dad told me Mr. Upton had been a regular.
“Oh, yeah. Stewy was one of my old-timer customers. I’d drive the truck right up to his front door. He’d come out in his floppy sun hat and Bermuda shorts, always had exact change. And always got an ice cream sandwich.” Dad smiled. “I’m gonna miss him.”
A crowd of mourners filed into the Presbyterian church. We sat near the back and listened to Sissy get emotional as she tried to read a passage from the Bible. Her sister had to go up and help her finish. Sissy’s whole family, decked out in all sorts of elaborate funeral hats, took up the first pews.
I kept thinking about how he said I was the one for this job. Of all these people in Mr. Upton’s life, he chose me to do something noble with that bizarre old suitcase. It hit me that while I thought the contents of that suitcase were boring and creepy, it all meant something to Mr. Upton. And he chose me to do what he never could.
Dad dropped me off at work in my funeral dress and flip-flops, which made it a little tricky to sit on the crate directing Ramon and Papi and the other farm guys as they unloaded the trucks.
During my lunch break, I went onto Val’s school’s slam page after she texted, Check out the slam page. It’s blowing up!
Other people were troll-slamming. Somebody named GANDHI-ISH wrote:
Who cares about bangs, fatness, or other people’s issues? Be kind, people!
Somebody named FLORAL ARRANGEMENT wrote:
Go back to your caves, trolls. We’re done here.
After work, Daniela drove me to Val’s apartment complex, a cluster of three-story buildings surrounding a courtyard full of hanging laundry and a broken swing set. Daniela and Val’s mom spoke Spanish while Val and I ate tamales and watched the six o’clock news. Unlike the previous summer, which had been a predictable four-point trek (work to home to pizza place to Shawn Flynn’s, with occasional deviations to the beach), this summer was a wild card. Who knew I’d end up at an apartment near a strip mall, surrounded by statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary?
“Five years of Spanish and I only know how to say, Do you like to play tennis or football?” I said to Daniela.
“Alice is downstairs,” Val announced just after Daniela left to pick up her son.
Alice stormed in, red-faced and furious. She had found Izzy, temporarily at a psychiatrist turned drug lord’s trap house in Westhampton. Izzy had run out of the house barefoot and jumped into the elusive dealer Hector’s car. “Screw it. I’m done. I can’t babysit her anymore. I guess she’s going to have to hit rock bottom on her own. These are delicious, by the way,” Alice said, in between wolfing down tamales.
We sat on the double bed Val shared with her ten-year-old sister and scrolled through the slam pages while I told them about Mr. Upton’s funeral and Val told us how she was in a huge fight with Javi because he’d found pictures on her phone of the five of us from the night of the sand temple.
“He seems like a giant prick. I get he has lupus, but maybe this guy is not for you.” Alice told it like it was.
“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just tired. I’ve been through it so many times with him. In the two years we’ve been together, I’ve lost a lot of my friends.”
“So why are you with him?” Alice said.
She flashed a weak smile. “He has good qualities. He can be really affectionate. And he’s funny, like when the two of us are alone together. And I love him. And yes, it’s kind of hard to leave when he’s sick. I feel bad.”
Alice shot me a raised-eyebrow What the hell? glance when Val wasn’t looking.
Val’s mom brought us delicious coconut-flavored desserts. They reminded me of Grandma Hosseini’s rice pudding.
“I feel like we should do some real-life troll-slamming,” I said.
“Such as?” Alice licked her plastic spoon.
“Well, don’t judge, but I’m kind of famous for my care packages.”
“Wow. Okay, Grandma.” Alice shook her head.
“Stop. I was thinking, what if we put together cute little care packages and hand-deliver them to the victims of trolls from Val’s school? We’ll do it anonymously.”
Val tilted her head and thought for a minute. “Aw. I like it, Sadie. It’s a really nice gesture.”
“Maybe a little too nice,” Alice said.
“Okay, but I’m feeling bummed about Mr. Upton and I want to do something in his memory. Will you humor me?”
Alice agreed. “We’ll be little troll-fighting elves,” she said, sticking her spoon in my dessert and shoveling the rest of it into her mouth.
We scraped up eleven dollars and left Val’s building through the side entrance.
“Valeria!” A man’s voice shot through the parking lot.
“Oh, God. It’s my dad.” A short, stocky guy in boots and a cowboy hat race-walked over to us looking very pissed off.
“What’s he saying?” I whispered to Alice as we stood while Val’s dad yelled at her and pointed at us.
“I don’t know. I take French.”
Val came back, eyes averted, while her dad stormed off.
“What’s wrong?”
“I was supposed to work at my grandparents’ store and I totally blew it off to do school-supply stuff. He’ll get over it.”
“Why was he pointing at us?”
“He said you white people are a bad influence on me.” Val laughed.
“Hey. I’m half Iranian,” I said.
“As far as my dad’s concerned, you’re white enough.”
We drove to the pharmacy and wandered around, trying to figure out what we could buy with eleven dollars.
“Manicure kit?” Val said.
“No,” Alice said.
“Journals?” I said.
“No,” Alice said.
“Cheez-Its?” Val said.
“Come on, let’s get serious,” Alice said. “This.” Alice held up a package of candy necklaces. “Who doesn’t like candy necklaces?”
“You are so right.” Val picked up another package. “Everybody loves candy necklaces.”
We put the candy necklaces into tiny gift bags with cards that said We’re launching a troll-slamming revolution. We hope you’ll join us. Have a great day!
“A revolution, Alice?” I said, watching her write in script with a purple pen. “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”
“I like revolutions,” said Val.
The revolution started a few blocks from the pharmacy.
Alice’s Subaru crawled up the street, and I jumped out wearing a rain poncho over my funeral dress and a baseball cap I found under the front seat. I sprinted to the porch of the saddest little beige house, with chipped paint and no landscaping. Mom would go out of her mind if she had to live in a flowerless house.
I dropped the tiny gift bag addressed to CARLY (trolled for “looking ugly with bangs”) and ran to the car. Alice peeled out.