Free Captain Nobody by Dean Pitchford

When Cecil saw the guy, he shouted, “Hey! You! Get offa him, mister!”
    The man flinched at the sound of Cecil’s voice. He let go of me, and then he shook his head and rubbed his red eyes as if he were just waking up. My first thought was that this guy was drunk and had stumbled into the alley to sleep. But once I got over the shock of being grabbed, I saw that he was sort of nicely dressed.
    And that’s when I realized that I knew him.
    â€œMr. Clay?”
    The man looked up at me and blinked. “Tuesday. It’s Tuesday,” he said.
    â€œYou know this guy?” Cecil asked.
    â€œMr. Clay’s a locksmith,” I explained.
    I should have said, Mr. Clay was a locksmith. Over the years, Mom would sometimes arrive at a house she was trying to sell only to discover that she had forgotten—or lost—the keys. That’s when she’d call Mr. Clay. He’d zip right over and pick the locks or re-key the doorknobs, and then he’d cut extra keys with the machine he had in the back of his little cherry red van. Mom had used him for as long as I could remember, but about a year ago, I overheard her tell Dad, “I’m afraid that sweet Mr. Clay is beginning to drop the ball.” She hasn’t called him since.
    Mr. Clay looked up with wide, watery eyes and extended a closed fist to me.
    â€œWatch it!” Cecil warned. “The guy’s probably a wino.”
    â€œMr. Clay’s not a wino,” I said. “But I think he’s got that thing older people get . . . where their mind gets fuzzy?”
    â€œOh, yeah,” Cecil said. He gave Mr. Clay a sympathetic look. “My Grandma Butterworth got that. It’s no fun.”
    I reached my hand out to his. Mr. Clay dropped an empty plastic medicine bottle into my palm.
    â€œOh, I get it. He’s out of medicine,” I explained to Cecil. “Is that what happened, Mr. Clay? Did you go for a walk and get lost?”
    He stared at me, confused and hesitant. “Do I know you?”
    I knelt down and took him by the arm.
    â€œMr. Clay, my name is Captain Nobody,” I said, helping him to his feet, “and I’m here to take you home.”

    I held Mr. Clay’s hand and walked him the six blocks to his house. I knew where he lived, because when he wasn’t off doing a job, his cherry red van was always parked in front. Cecil followed us, hauling his drum in the wagon. None of us said anything until we turned onto Mr. Clay’s block.
    â€œI know this street,” he smiled weakly.
    â€œI bet you do,” I assured him.
    Cecil waited on the sidewalk as I led Mr. Clay up on his front porch. I was about to ring the doorbell when he put out his hand to stop my finger.
    â€œMrs. Clay will be worried,” he said with an embarrassed wince.
    I nodded and left him there on the porch so he could ring the bell himself.
    By the time I’d run down the driveway and joined Cecil at the curb, the front door had opened and a woman’s voice cried, “There you are! I was worried sick!”
    Over a low hedge, Cecil and I watched as a little lady with gray hair in a flowered dress—Mrs. Clay, I guessed—hugged Mr. Clay with all her might.
    â€œHow did you get here?” we heard her ask in a voice choked with emotion.
    â€œCaptain Nobody walked me home,” said Mr. Clay.
    â€œOh. Captain Nobody, huh?” Mrs. Clay chuckled as she scanned the empty porch and wiped tears from her face. “I hope you thanked him.” She gently led Mr. Clay into the house and closed the door.
    Cecil and I exchanged a smile.
    â€œYou saved that man,” Cecil said.
    â€œOh, c’mon,” I scoffed. “I walked an old friend home.”
    He held up a hand, and I high-fived him. Then we rolled his precious bass drum over to his house, thumping it as we went.

13
    IN WHICH DAD MEETS CAPTAIN NOBODY

    It was getting dark by the time I got home and saw Dad’s car