December Park(100)

“I’ve got a thought,” he said as he opened the box of matches, “but I didn’t want to say anything in front of your dad.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to tell me that he saw something horrible happen to Adrian. It was ludicrous, but that was the first thing my mind jumped to.

He took out a wooden match, then tucked the box into his breast pocket. Using one rough purple thumbnail, he ignited the match while setting the stem of the pipe in his mouth. Tilting the pipe down, he touched the flaming match head to the packed tobacco and made wet mawp-mawp-mawp sounds with his mouth as he puffed.

“My friend Callibaugh owns that thrift store on Second Avenue,” he said once he’d gotten the pipe sufficiently lit. Phantomlike smoke curled from the pipe, which he took from his mouth and examined. “You know the place I’m talking about?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I happen to know for a fact that old Callibaugh is looking for someone to work around the place for the summer—stock shelves, take out the trash, maybe man the cash register when he’s busy. That sort of thing.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Best of all, I don’t think he needs someone full-time. Knowing old Callibaugh, he probably couldn’t put up with anyone for more than a few hours, so it could be a good thing for both parties.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Seeing how I’m so goddamn old and wise, I know how precious summer vacation can be for a boy your age. That’s why I didn’t bring this up in front of your father. But seeing how I also don’t know where you stand on this whole summer job thing, I figured I’d let you know on the sly, in case that’s something you decide to look into. You hear me?”

“Yeah, Grandpa. Thanks.” It was thanks for not bringing it up in front of Dad, not for telling me about it. And I think he knew as much.

“I won’t stick my nose in it further. Just consider yourself advised of the situation. You have some interest in it, you can go on in, introduce yourself, and handle all the details yourself. You’re practically an adult now, ain’t you?”

I smiled. “Well, I’m sixteen.”

“Jesus. You know what I was doing when I was sixteen?”

“Shooting Japs and Nazis.”

“Hell.” He made a sour face and waved a hand at me. “I ain’t never seen a Nazi in my life. Was too warm for them where I was. Nazis got cold hearts and mercury for blood, so they stuck to the colder hemispheres. No, son, when I was your age and I was overseas in the war, I did some time as a lifeguard in Australia. There was a whole team of us Americans keeping in shape as lifeguards.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the pictures.”

“You know what a winch is?”

“It’s like a big . . . I guess, crank that you turn.”

“Yeah, all right. It was this giant spool made of wood with a rope around it, and the locals had constructed it from all these trees that had come down after a big storm. See, that’s how poor they were, that they had to build their own winches from deadfalls. But—”

“What was the winch for?”

“Well, when there was a shark attack, you’d tie a rope round your waist and swim out to rescue the victim—or, in most cases, what was left of the victim—and the guys on the beach would wheel you in with the winch.”

“You swam toward shark attacks?” I asked.

Again, my grandfather waved a hand at me. “Wasn’t nothing. But let me tell you about how the locals built this winch . . .”





That night, I dreamed I was trudging through the wet forests of some South Pacific island, my small frame burdened with heavy gear, my hands outfitted in the cold steel of a maple-stock rifle. There were other men with me, but when I looked at them I saw they had no faces beneath the greasy pith helmets they wore . . . or at least I couldn’t make out their faces with any detail.

—Don’t move, said a voice right beside me. A hand shot out and pressed against my solar plexus. I stopped walking and held my breath. Then the hand pointed with one grease-blackened finger at a fan of thick ferns sprouting from the earth.

—What is it? I asked.

—It’s where they hide.

—Who?

The man didn’t answer me. Instead, he looked out across the jungle and whistled high and sharp to the other men. They surrounded us like ghosts summoned in a séance.

I turned to see the man beside me. It was my grandfather. In this dream, he looked both old and young. And while I knew him to be my grandfather, I felt no grandfatherly emotions for him.

—Watch and learn, Poindexter, said my grandfather as he crept closer to the nest of ferns, his footfalls soundless and his movements as lithe as a cat’s. When his shadow fell over the ferns, he sucked in a great swoop of air, then swung his rifle down in an arc through the brush just as the men surrounding us pointed their weapons at the spot on the ground where the ferns had been just a second before.

What lay exposed in the ground was what looked like the rectangular opening of a ventilation shaft sans faceplate. It was dark within, but I could clearly see two startling, wet eyes blazing out at me and the bronze nubs of eight fingertips protruding from the opening.

Rifles roared and the glade filled with black smoke.

I stumbled backward until something took my legs out from under me, sending me crashing to the ground. My rifle and pith helmet spun away, and the sweat that poured from my scalp was so profuse I thought I’d suffered a head wound. I rolled onto my stomach and crawled through the muck until I saw the maple stock of my rifle through the thinning smoke. I reached for it, galloped my fingers across the wood and up along the steel of its flank. Just as I grasped it, someone plunked my helmet on my head and jerked me by my collar to my feet.