Читать книгу The Last Summer - Chan Howell - Страница 13

Jupiter

Wyatt promised his mother he would check in before the night was over. She hugged him, and we jumped in my grandmother’s car. My grandmother did what most grandmothers do: she took us to eat. We stopped at Kermit’s and had BBQ sandwiches, then Wyatt and I both ordered milkshakes. My grandmother ate a banana split, and Wyatt helped her finish it off. An outsider would’ve thought she was his grandmother as the two giggled. Whitley was allergic to bananas, and the smell repulsed me. I left my grandmother and Wyatt at our booth and sat just out of the reach of the smell of bananas. The smell reminded me of Whitley violently puking them up when we were six years old. Neither Whitley nor I ever ate bananas.

My normally reserved grandmother seemed impressed with Wyatt. She was just as intrigued by the new kid in town as I was when I first met him. She asked him about his life, and he answered almost every question with exuberance.

My grandmother asked, “I did not recognize your mom. Is she from Swansville?”

Wyatt explained, “No, but my dad and uncle are.”

My grandmother asked, “Who is your dad and uncle?”

Wyatt proudly answered, “Jamie and Jacob Hartley.”

The smile on my grandmother’s face dropped. She knew of the Hartley boys, and she wasn’t prepared for another generation. The bill came just as their conversation began to be awkward.

My grandmother paid the bill, and we left. She stopped at a gas station to fill up. I watched a lone local scavenger dig out empty cans from the dumpster. I had seen him throughout my life, and he always made me feel uneasy. He was a large man with long greasy hair. His hair covered half his face, and when he walked, he only stared at the ground. He wore a camouflage jacket all the time, even in the heat of summer. My grandmother did not seem concerned with him and even gave him a slight nod as she walked by him.

RJ and Ogre walked out to the pumps. RJ laughingly asked, “What in the world happened? Y’all almost lost to the Castaways.”

Wyatt shouted, “Y’all might be next!”

The thought of Ogre losing to a team full of rejects made RJ’s head snap back in laughter. My grandmother headed our way, and RJ whispered, “Ogre and I will call you later. Stay in town tonight.”

Wyatt’s eyes dripped with excitement.

RJ was on Ogre and Jack’s team. He lived down the street from Ogre. RJ was the middle child, and his two sisters drove him crazy. He walked to Ogre’s house daily to escape them. It was not uncommon for RJ to be sitting in Ogre’s house, because RJ knew where the secret key was located. RJ just started playing baseball when we were eleven, but his athletic ability gave him a boost to learning a new sport. RJ did it all. He was still a raw talent, but he could play any position. He caught half the time and pitched and played all over the diamond. He was Jack’s jack of all trades.

RJ’s dad, Coach Ross, was the local high school’s football coach. RJ carried a football everywhere he went, and he wore number 16 in honor of his broken hero, Bo Jackson. The day Bo retired, RJ nearly cried, and I assume he did in private. RJ was built like a road construction barrel and could jump over one if he was asked. He did not look like a phenomenal athlete, but he was one. Earlier that fall at a Little League Football game, RJ danced with the cheerleaders during their halftime show. He did somersaults and backflips while wearing his shoulder pads. RJ was everything his dad dreamed of as a football player.

Coach Ross was a no-nonsense guy. He looked like a character in a Dick Tracy novel with his square jaw and good looks. He had the stereotypical deep coach’s voice, and he dressed the part. He looked like he ironed his golf shirt every five minutes. He was always wrinkle-free. I assumed his years in the military made him take pride in his appearance. RJ was always in athletic shorts and his father’s football team shirt or, more likely, his faded “Bo Knows” shirt. Coach Ross stood with his arms crossed or behind his back just past the dugout. He only spoke when he witnessed what he believed was disrespect or poor sportsmanship. He was very intimidating, and his powerful voice would make us freeze and sheepishly say “Yes, sir” when he shouted our name in displeasure.

RJ was boisterous and constantly chatted on the baseball field and in class. Everyone loved RJ because he was respectful, but he never seemed to stop talking. He could do anything on a baseball field, and he entertained everyone with his odd talents. He always obliged when asked to perform some amazing feat. He once captivated the crowd by balancing a baseball bat on his forehead while juggling three baseballs. RJ’s constant talking landed him in detention regularly. He and Wyatt became friends while being locked away in detention together. Coach Ross took notice of the troublemaking new kid. Coach Ross warned RJ not to be guilty by association.

RJ’s mom could not be more different from Coach Ross—she always screamed, “Come on, baby, you can do it!” among other embarrassing things. She was loud, and she usually brought snacks and would even give snacks to the opposing team. She went simply by Missy; even RJ called her Missy. Missy was our unofficial mother when our moms were not around. She fed us, made sure we washed our hands, and hugged us when we needed it. Her camera was her weapon, and she required a picture after every game.

My grandmother lived just down the street from RJ and Ogre. When I stayed at her house, I always ended up at Ogre’s house. I asked Wyatt if his mom would mind if we stayed at my grandmother’s house instead of my house. He said, “Of course not.” The day’s game was long gone, and now we just went to my room to play some Super Nintendo. Wyatt was terrible at every game. Wyatt had rarely even played a Nintendo, much less a Super Nintendo. He was bored quickly, and he only played for my benefit. He did not like losing at every game, and he kept saying, “This game is so stupid.” Eventually, Wyatt asked to go out to play Wiffle ball. I reluctantly agreed. I searched, and I finally found the yellow Wiffle ball bat, but I could not find a ball. I was embarrassed. We went to the backyard to see if we could find a ball. All Wyatt saw was my sister’s soccer goal, orange cones for drills, and four soccer balls. Our backyard was her practice facility.

Wyatt and I decided to see if we could score against each other. I set up in goal. I slapped my knees as if I were some sort of expert. Wyatt lined up his first kick with only a few steps for a head start. Swoosh! His leg swung through the air, and before I could react, the ball stretched the back of the net. Kick 2 was almost the same, but at least I dived the correct direction as the ball buzzed my fingertips. Wyatt laughed, then said, “This is too easy. I can’t believe this is even a sport.” His third kick, he decided to kick the ball with his left foot. The results were similar, and the ball blew by again. He was three for three as he trotted back to kick the fourth ball from five feet farther. The grass was his wake as he kicked the ball. The ball sailed over the goal, flying to the back deck of my house.

My sister announced her arrival as she caught the ball, “I am home!” Neither Wyatt nor I cared she was home. She then said, “I won today. How about you?”

I said, “I did,” just as Wyatt’s words pinned mine down with, “Barely.”

Wyatt and I traded positions as Whitley looked on. He manned the goal as I lined up my first shot. I ran hard and fast, but he must’ve read my eyes, because my last-second maneuver did not fool him. The ball bounced off his hands as he stopped my first attempt. Whitley laughed from her view from the deck above. My next attempt easily flew through the air and reached the back of the net. Again, Whitley laughed at us, and she sarcastically applauded my goal. I lined up my third shot, and Whitley began to float down the back of the steps. My eyes watched her more than the ball, and I kicked the top of the ball and slipped as the ball rolled weakly to Wyatt.

Whitley carried the fourth ball down with her to line up her own shot. She was still in her bloodstained jersey, and her lip was slightly swollen. She played soccer violently, and her cut lip was nothing new to me.

Wyatt asked, “Did you get beat up today or what?”

Whitley responded, “Of course not. The other girl lost the game and the fight.”

Whitley pushed me aside to see if she could kick one by my new friend. Wyatt mimicked my early move of slapping my knees. Whitley laughed at him. “Is that supposed to scare me?” She ran toward the ball full speed. Her right leg whipped back, and her legs scissored, and at the last second, her left foot sneaked out from behind. She kicked the ball slowly past Wyatt as he dived to her right. He hopped up, defeated and embarrassed. She pranced back up the deck stairs, holding her hand out as if waiting for a kiss on the ring. He did not ask for a rematch.

My parents came out to tell me to thank my grandmother for taking me to my game.

I asked my dad, “Can we stay with her?”

He excitedly said, “That would be great, as long as Wyatt’s mother doesn’t mind.”

Wyatt assured my parents it would not be an issue, especially since it was walking distance to his house. My dad asked my grandmother, and she, of course, agreed. My mom asked, “What about Whitley?” My parents wanted an evening out, and my grandmother agreed to take all three of us. My dad first insisted Wyatt call and ask his mother. She agreed, just as Wyatt predicted.

Whitley was not happy as she hopped in the front seat of my grandmother’s car. We passed the local scavenger again as he was now walking toward the grocery store with a wagon full of tin cans. Ogre and RJ were standing in Ogre’s front yard with both Mitch and Dale.

Whitley sighed in dismay. “Great, more boys.”

My grandmother assured her, “Don’t worry, honey, we gals will find something to do.”

Dale was already beginning to be wary of Wyatt, and his eyes did not approve when Wyatt stepped out of my grandmother’s car. Dale was the most mature of our bunch. Dale was the second of seven kids. His older sister was autistic, and she was six years older. That Dale’s parents, Ronnie and Candice, had their hands full was an understatement. Ronnie did the landscaping of every office and church in town. He was overworked and wore stained green boots. Candice cooked and chased kids along with heading up the PTO.

Dale seemed five years older than us, as he could cook and do laundry, since he was essentially second mate of his family. Dale was more like Coach Ross than RJ. He was a yes-sir type of kid. Duckworth called him Captain because Dale was constantly ordering everyone around. Dale hated it, but everyone frequently answered him with, “Aye, aye, Captain.” He tried to make sure everyone did nothing wrong. He was like the good angel on our shoulders, since he always advised us not to do anything stupid. Wyatt despised him. Wyatt assumed Dale was one of the many reasons he found himself in detention. Dale was just responsible and knew how to fly under the radar since his parents were chasing a set of toddler twins, his autistic sister, seven- and nine-year-old girls, and his defiant five-year-old brother.

Ronnie attended most of the games, but he was always late and usually only had at least one of the other Rutledge kids in tow. Dale could drive a zero-turn John Deere mower before he was ten years old. When he was not at school or on a baseball field, he was with his dad. He sat at the counter with all the old men in town when eating lunch at the Dixie Grill. He woke early to spend the day with his dad, and baseball seemed like a nuisance if his dad still had yards to mow.

Dale, Ogre, RJ, and Mitch ran after the car and nearly beat us to my grandmother’s house. They all knew my grandmother would offer them some type of treat. She was well-known by all the folks in town for giving out goodies. Everyone called her Granny Kaye. She did not disappoint and gave us all a two-day-old homemade cookie. Whitley and my grandmother went straight to the kitchen, as my grandmother put it, “to cook something up.” Mitch was spending the night with Ogre; thus, as long as we could stay out, the six of us had free rein over the streets of Swansville. Wyatt and I dropped our bags in my dad’s old room, then ran out the front door. My grandmother shouted, “Just check in by dark!”

We walked back to Ogre’s house. RJ said, “You will not believe what Mitch just showed us.”

Dale protested, “This has gone far enough.”

Mitch said, “Take it easy. It’s not a big deal.”

Mitch had shown everyone a new trick. Ogre’s front yard was not just littered with junk cars but now busted drink bottles. Mitch pulled a bottle of toilet cleaner called the Works from his backpack and a piece of tinfoil from his pocket. He squirted the cleaner, then placed a small piece of tinfoil in an old Pepsi bottle, then he squeezed it. He tossed it about ten feet away. We watched as nothing seemed to happen, until the bottle began to expand. Boom! We all jumped. The thunderous explosion even made Ogre’s pet goat Izzy faint. We all laughed as Wyatt shouted, “Holy shit!”

Wyatt was still new to town, and hearing the new kid curse in either excitement or fear let us all know he would become one of us before we knew it. We set off a few more bombs, much to Dale’s displeasure, before we had to break up for dinner. We made plans to meet after dark, except for Dale. Dale was afraid trouble was in our future, and he warned us, “Do not do anything crazy.” Mitch directed me to tell my grandmother we needed to go out around 10:00 p.m. to see Jupiter since it would seem closer to Earth tonight.

Wyatt and I went back to my grandmother’s house. She and Whitley were almost finished cooking dinner. My grandmother’s pots were old, and the wooden spoons she cooked with made all her meals taste even more delectable. Her pots looked like they had been used before on an open fire. We sat to eat a hearty grandmother meal as I began to ask about going back out. I told my grandmother exactly what Mitch had directed just an hour earlier. She looked skeptical, until Whitley assured her she had learned the same thing in Mrs. Casandra’s science class. My grandmother agreed, but only if Whitley could tag along. As she put it, “Ms. Whitley will keep y’all boys out of trouble.” I bemoaned but agreed.

My grandmother was fast asleep as the three of us walked out the front door. It felt like we were sneaking out. Whitley carried our only flashlight as we walked down the middle of the street to Ogre’s house. Ogre, RJ, and Mitch waited on Ogre’s front steps. All three boys had flashlights, while Mitch carried his green book bag. Neither Wyatt nor I had told Whitley anything about the bombs.

RJ asked, “Whitley, are you ready to see one?”

She snobbishly said, “See what?”

Mitch told everyone, “Let’s go to Scarborough Park. It will be quiet.”

We walked over to Winslow’s and threw bombs in the water. Whitley was impatient. “Wow, guys, this is amazing.” Boom! Brown water and the plastic bottle shrapnel went flying. Whitley was mesmerized. We walked over to the playground and buried a bomb in the sandbox, then sprinted away. Sand went flying as we all laughed.

Whitley said, “Let’s get some two liters. I have an idea.”

Mitch only had two more small bottles, and we were running low on tinfoil. We decided to sprint to the gas station before it closed to get more supplies. We only had a little over four dollars between us. The value of money was still lost to us. Mitch and Wyatt walked in the store and bought three two-liter Pepsis. Whitley sneaked to the hot dog grill and grabbed a few tinfoil to-go wrappers. She waved, saying, “See ya!” as she walked out, believing she was untouchable. The store clerk locked the door as the three exited at eleven.

Ogre and RJ had to be home by eleven, or Jack would not be happy and he would come looking for the boys. They went home despite Whitley taunting them, “Y’all are scared, the biggest and fastest boys in town. Just go home to bed.” Mitch told Ogre he’d just stay with me since he had his bag with him. Ogre and RJ gave us their flashlights. We headed back across town as they went back home.

Mitch told Whitley, “Let’s hear your plan.”

She said, “I want to make sure anyone that is too afraid goes back to bed.” She looked at me and said, “Are you in?”

Wyatt agreed for me. “We are all in.” He still had to prove his merit, whereas I was not privy to trouble. Whitley began to detail her plan of going over to the scariest house in Swansville.

On the other side of Scarborough Park stood an old house with a white fence. The white paint was peeling off, and the old tin roof was burgundy with rust. The house looked like it belonged on a post card for Swansville before it succumbed to time. Overgrown trees hid the once-immaculate house. The trees protected it from almost every angle, and the house was assumed abandoned. Everyone had heard the stories of lights being on at the big house and the small building just to the right of the old well. Every Halloween, brave teenagers would see who could walk the farthest down the potholed driveway lined with magnolia trees. Each year the old estate was swallowed more by time.

Whitley told us there was a trash and scrap pile we could reach by climbing the fence. The four of us walked across the lit park to our frightening, dark destination. She directed us to a path through the woods. Warning signs lined the trees in red spray paint: “Stay Away,” “Danger,” “No Trespassing,” then “Turn Back Now.” Whitley led the way, with Wyatt following. Mitch and I walked almost side by side—we might as well be holding hands.

We reached what was the back corner of the once-white fence. I whispered, “Whitley, how do you know about this place?”

She silently laughed, then whispered, “I know about lots of things.”

The plan was to climb the fence, then set three two-liter Works bombs under the junk piles and tin cans lining the side of the big house. We would throw the two small-bottle bombs in front of the yard as a diversion to escape. Mitch and Whitley mixed up the concoctions for the bottles, but we did not seal the bottles or place the tinfoil in. Mitch warned Whitley she had used too much of the cleaner, and she disagreed. “The bigger bottles need more.” Whitley, Mitch, and Wyatt decided to take the two liters while I would set the diversion bombs. Once my diversions were set, I was to flash my light. We all agreed, if something happened, it was everyone for themselves.

Whitley and Wyatt fearlessly climbed the fence. Mitch looked back at me, then whispered, “It will be fine,” then he headed over. I kept my flashlight on, as the light of Jupiter or the moon was not strong enough for me to see in the pitch-black night. I aimed it at the ground. The grass was unexpectedly well-kept and short. Mitch set his bomb under what was a pile of tin cans as Wyatt placed his under an old woodpile. I watched as my bombs were last to be placed. I panicked. I had lost my sister. I quickly searched with my flashlight as Wyatt and Mitch openly objected. I shut it off as I saw her shadow. She was putting her bomb inside a trash can on the porch. I threw my two bombs toward the driveway, then flashed my light twice as instructed.

Boom! Wood went flying. Mitch was right: my sister had used too much of the cleaner, and Wyatt’s bomb ignited quicker than expected. A light on the small house-like building flickered on. Someone was on the property. Mitch screamed, “Run for it!” A dog began to bark. I headed for the main driveway as Mitch headed for our hidden entrance. I looked over my shoulder for my sister and my new friend, but my frantic pace made it impossible for me to find them. Boom! I then heard the rain of tin cans.

The fear in my heart was fueling my feet. I did not see Wyatt as much as I could feel he was running nearby. His shoes hit the grass with a thump thump sound. I looked to my left and saw him, then boom! A gravelly voice shouted, “Stop, or I’ll call the police!”

Wyatt said, “We are out of sight. That’s not for us.”

He was right; the magnolia trees provided cover. I told Wyatt, “Mitch is long gone.”

He looked at me. “I’ll head back.”

I was too afraid, and I knew if she was captured, I would be of little help.

Wyatt slumped over, then jogged back down the driveway. Boom! A diversion bomb exploded. I walked to the edge of the driveway to try to find my sister as Wyatt also searched for her. Boom! The last bomb had exploded. I spotted her on the ground, trapped. I shouted in a whisper Whitley’s location to Wyatt. Her foot was caught on an old partially fallen clothesline. A large man lumbered off the porch in her direction, carrying a hound. The hound was violently barking, and the shadow-faced man had trouble holding his dog. Whitley’s ankle was bleeding from the rusted old clothesline. I did not run away as I watched Wyatt scoop her up and free her from the unintentional trap. He effortlessly ran with her in his arms. Whitley let out a screech, “Ooowwwwhhh!” just as the hound broke free. Wyatt arrived just before the hound, and a chase began. The hound was no match for Wyatt, and they escaped. His long powerful strides left the hound and his caretaker standing at the back of the magnolia driveway. The large shadow retreated back to his small shack, with his hound feverishly barking.

I met Whitley and Wyatt back at Scarborough Park. I could hear police sirens from two directions. Whitley’s ankle was no longer bleeding, but her leg as well as Wyatt’s arm all the way to his wrist were covered in blood. We decided to sneak back to my grandmother’s house as cleverly as possible. We darted between cars and bushes, hoping not to be seen. We ran for cover as two cars rode past. We hid underneath the branches of a magnolia tree in the courtyard of Mount Zion Baptist Church. Whitley limped the entire six blocks. She refused any assistance. When we arrived, Mitch was hiding among my grandmother’s azalea bushes. I told him what happened as my heart was still racing.

We did not get to sleep in as expected. Coach Ross woke my grandmother, then she got Wyatt, Mitch, and me up. He detailed bombs being exploded and that RJ admitted we were all involved after Dale confirmed everything. Coach Ross forced us over to Jack’s house to clean up the littered bombs. Jack watched all of us clean up the debris, but then he invited us all in for breakfast. RJ followed his disappointed dad home for further punishment.

My dad pulled up with a groggy Whitley. Whitley’s face was pale, and I knew the sign meant trouble for me. My dad shouted for me and Wyatt to get in the car. My dad rarely got upset, especially with my sister.

I asked, “What’s up?”

He said, “You know what’s up. You three are going to apologize.”

I said, “For what?”

His chuckle indicated he knew the truth. We did not stop at the park, as I had hoped. My dad pointed over his shoulder, then asked, “Did this new kid put you up to this?” Whitley said no, and that was all the answer he needed.

We drove down the potholed driveway. I shook at what was at the end of the magnolia tree driveway. The place looked different by sunlight. The yard was nearly perfect despite the overgrown flower gardens. This estate was surely the pride of town once upon a time. Standing on the porch of the small shack was the local scavenger and his small red chihuahua. We walked past the garbage on the main house porch; the scattered tin cans and the wood scraps littered the green grass.

My dad introduced us to Cecil Bane. Cecil was a Vietnam veteran. Cecil was from a prominent family in town. While he was away fighting in Vietnam, his father, brother, and mother drowned in a boating accident. When he came back, he had nothing. He lived in the small shack beside his father’s big house, and he collected scrap and did odd jobs. My dad was friends with Cecil’s younger brother. My dad was one of the few people Cecil would speak to. I am not sure how Cecil knew it was Whitley, Wyatt, and me that set off bombs on his property.

My dad instructed us to pick up everything we had destroyed. My dad left us with Cecil, and he told us he would be back in one hour. Cecil just sat on his porch and held his dog, named Sweetie. She barked the entire time. Cecil pointed out things we had not broken to fix or clean.

Wyatt kept asking, “Are we safe?”

Whitley responded, “Of course. Can we get some water?”

I said nothing.

Cecil showed us the old clothesline and asked us to help put it back up. He said very little other than,” help me here.” It did not take us long to get it back up. All he needed was another set of hands.

After we finished helping Cecil with the clothesline, he asked if we wanted to come in for some Cheerwine. We all agreed. The small shack house was meticulously kept. The only clutter was a stack of week-old newspapers. He handed Wyatt his hound as he went back to grab Cheerwines. Wyatt let the dog lick all over his face, and he laughed. “This killer terrified me last night.”

Cecil looked different in the light of day. He was still large, but he had a kind smile. His long hair hid his cloudy eye and scarred face. An explosion in Vietnam had burned his face, and he was blind in one eye. A Purple Heart was beside a black-and-white photo of his family from when he was a boy.

Cecil came back with our Cheerwines. He thanked us for coming back. Wyatt told him, “Their dad made us.”

Cecil looked at Wyatt, then said, “You will always come back. I can tell that about you.” He looked at Whitley, then asked, “How is your cut?”

She said, “I’ll be fine.”

He told her, “Don’t neglect it, or it will get worse and you might miss a soccer game.”

It was not unusual for someone to mention soccer to Whitley, since she had been on the cover of The Swansville Orator a few times, but it was odd the old scavenger obviously knew who she was.

He looked at me and just said, “Are you okay?”

My quivering lip must’ve shown I was still terrified. I nodded.

Cecil took a deep breath. He stuttered, then he began, “Bombs scare me. That’s why I have Sweetie. She keeps me calm.”

I tried to apologize at the same time as both Wyatt and Whitley. He shook his head, then rubbed his dog’s head. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Wyatt stood up and gave the large man a hug. A single tear rolled down Cecil’s cheek. I heard my dad’s car hitting the potholes and stood up. Cecil grabbed me and Whitley both in for the hug too. The three of us hugged him as he mumbled, “Roads find rewards. Time will stop. Victory is the curse.”

Wyatt and Whitley had puzzled looks on their faces. My dad honked the horn, and we ran out.

Wyatt shouted, “See you around, Cecil!”

He smiled and waved.