December Park(5)

“You want us to come with?”

“Nah, I’m cool. Thanks, though.”

“Hey.” Peter thumped me on the forearm. “Come out tonight, all right?”

I sighed.

“Maybe your dad will give you an extension on your curfew,” Peter said. “It’s not like we’re gonna stay out all night.”

“It’ll be fun,” Scott added.

Stuffing my hands into my pockets, I said, “I’ll see.”

“Cool.” Peter grinned at me. Then he turned and shoved Scott out onto the sidewalk. They waited for a break in traffic before hurrying across Governor Highway. I lost sight of them as they disappeared among the shadows of an unlit parking lot.

I walked parallel to the highway until I hit the crosswalk, then waited for the traffic lights to change. Pastore’s Deli was a small family-run shop at the end of a strip mall. It stood across the street from the Generous Superstore, the grandiose supermarket whose slogan was Convenience is King! Even so, my grandmother had been patronizing Pastore’s since I was a little boy, and I maintained fond memories of Mr. Pastore feeding me slices of Boar’s Head bologna and wedges of stinky cheese as my grandmother did her shopping.

The store was usually empty, but on this evening, I noted a bit of a commotion outside. Several adults loitered by their cars in the parking lot, talking animatedly. My head down, I shuffled past them and entered the deli.

“Hello, Angelo.” Mr. Pastore peered at me over the bifocals perched on the edge of his nose. He was a dark-skinned old man with tufts of white hair over his ears. A man I did not recognize stood in front of the counter, and it seemed that my arrival had interrupted their conversation.

“Hi, Mr. Pastore,” I said, unzipping my coat. The little shop was sweltering, due to an overworked space heater mounted above the doorway.

At the back of the store, I grabbed a loaf of sliced Italian bread, then surveyed the rack of candy that lined the wall. Pastore’s always had the good candy, the stuff that was generally difficult to find: Astro Pops, giant Sugar Daddies, shoelace licorice and black licorice buttons, Jujubes, candy dots on rolls of white paper, wax lips, wax bottles filled with syrupy liquid, candy whistles, peanut brittle, Ocean City taffy, exotic jelly beans. After some deliberation, I selected a giant Sugar Daddy and a pack of Trident gum to mask the smell of cigarettes on my breath.

I walked to the counter, where I knew Mr. Pastore would have the rest of my grandmother’s order waiting for me.

Mr. Pastore talked in a low voice to the man I did not know. At one point, he glanced at me from over the man’s shoulder and forced a smile.

The man, who was dressed in a navy-blue sweater and chinos, stepped aside so I could put the bread and candy on the counter.

Mr. Pastore winked at me, then fished around beneath the counter until he produced several packages of cold colds, already sliced and wrapped up in wax paper. “I read in the Caller that you won first place in their creative writing competition,” he said as he rang up the items. “That’s wonderful, Angelo. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“Will they be publishing the winning story?”

“Well, they were supposed to, but they said it was too long,” I said. “But they mailed me a check for fifty bucks.”

“Fantastic!” Mr. Pastore pushed his bifocals up the bridge of his nose, then read the totaled amount on the cash register.

I handed over a twenty and waited for my change.

Beside me, the man in the navy-blue sweater tapped his foot nervously. I turned and looked at him. Our eyes locked. He had small, dark eyes that appeared equally as nervous as his tapping foot sounded. A second later, he looked away.

Undoubtedly sensing my unease, Mr. Pastore smiled wearily at me. “There’s been some commotion down by the park tonight. They’ve got the intersection of Counterpoint shut down. Maybe you’ve seen the police cars.”

“Well, yeah,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. The image of the dead girl with her head staved in flew in front of my eyes again. I couldn’t shake it. All of a sudden, I could feel nothing but the volcanic heat radiating out of the space heater above the shop’s door.

“People are worried something might have happened to someone,” Mr. Pastore continued. That false smile was still firmly rooted to his face, yet the tone of his voice was grave. “People are worried it might be one of the . . . well, you know . . .”

I opened my mouth to say that I had seen the police carry a dead girl out of the woods on a gurney, but then I shut it. I looked at the man in the navy-blue sweater. What if he was the father of the dead girl? The notion struck me like a zap from an electrical outlet. Did I really want to be the one to break the news to him?

Mr. Pastore handed me my change, which I stuffed into the pocket of my coat. I snatched the bag of groceries off the counter and thanked him as I moved quickly to the door.

“Angelo?” Mr. Pastore said. When I turned around to face him, he said, “Maybe it’s best you hurry straight home tonight, yeah? No dillydallying.”

Temporarily unable to speak, I nodded.

“Good boy,” he said.

I opened the door and ditched out into the encroaching darkness.





Chapter Two


The Shallows





It was dark by the time I arrived home. There were lights on in the old Dunbar house next door and a car parked in the driveway. The new neighbors had arrived a few days ago, but I’d yet to lay eyes on them. There hadn’t been a moving truck at the house yet, so I assumed they still hadn’t fully moved in.