Last Summer Boys(12)

“Depends. Sometimes a day. Sometimes longer.”

“Could you write stories here?”

“You can write stories anywhere.”

On the far bank, the insects are buzzing. I drain the last of the juice from the jar, screw the lid back on, and stick it in the sand.

“I want you to write stories about Pete. I want to get his name in the newspapers and make him famous so he won’t have to go to war when he turns eighteen.”

I’ve said it. My idea is out in the world now.

Frankie’s face is smooth as the creek.

“Pete turns eighteen in a month,” I go on. “If he gets drafted, the Army will send him to Vietnam. I know serving is the most special thing a person can do. Only, I don’t want him going. I don’t want anything to happen to him. Yesterday at the barbershop, Mr. Hudspeth said something that got me thinking. He said, ‘If you’re famous, you don’t have to go to war.’ I remember those words exact. They been burning in my brain ever since. I mean to save my brother’s life, Frankie. Your stories can do it. I know you can write stories about Pete that’ll make him so famous the Army won’t be able to send him to Vietnam, even if they wanted to.”

Frankie’s kept quiet the whole while. Now I wait for him to speak, but all he does is watch with those dark eyes.

From the poplars on the far bank, a jay calls. For a long time, neither one of us speaks and there’s the jay making his sweet sound again and a stray breath of wind blows, carrying the smell of creek mud with it, and all that time Frankie ain’t spoke a word.

“Well, what do you think?” I ask. “Will you do it?”

“You really think my stories can save your brother’s life?”

“Yes, I do.”

Frankie stands up slowly, walks to the water’s edge, where he stoops and picks up one of the smooth river stones. He holds it in city-boy hands, feeling the smoothness of it. When he turns back to me, his eyes have a sudden hardness, like he’s borrowed some from that stone.

“Writing takes time, Jack. I’ll need time to think.”

My heart thumps.

“Pete don’t turn eighteen for a whole month. Ain’t that plenty of time to think?”

He turns out his lower lip and frowns. “And I can’t make anything up. Pete has to be doing things worth writing about.”

“Pete does the most amazing things you’ve ever seen!” I stand up, because Frankie ain’t said no yet and now there’s excitement rising within me, blowing like a hot air balloon. “He runs. He swims. He fights with the boys in town. Hell, he and Will are planning an expedition to find a wrecked fighter jet! Ain’t that exciting enough?”

“Running, swimming, and fighting, no, it isn’t,” Frankie says, shaking his head. “But a wrecked fighter jet, now that’s different. That’s exciting. Tell me more.”

“It crashed on a snowy winter night ages ago,” I say, aware that I’m talking fast now. “This was before I was born, mind you, so I don’t remember it. Will barely remembers it. But Pete remembers, and Pete wants to find it.”

Frankie slowly begins to nod. “An expedition. An adventure. That could work.” He begins pacing beside the creek, shoes snuffing up clumps of creek sand. He passes the stone from hand to hand, and I know what he’s really doing is tossing my idea, turning, feeling, testing. All at once, he stops. The stone falls with a plunk.

“Okay.”

I’m trembling.

“I’ll need a few things,” Frankie says, brushing the sand from his hands.

“Anything,” I say. My eyes are getting watery.

“I need a typewriter.”

“I’ll find one,” I say. “If I have to steal it. What else?”

“A quiet place to write where nobody will bother me.”

“The barn.”

“The barn?”

“It’s perfect! It’s quiet, and you can use Grandma Elliot’s old sewing desk.” The blood is rushing in my ears. I can hardly believe it.

Frankie frowns.

“And I need one more thing, Jack: I need to be there when they find it. I have to be there. The story won’t work if I’m not. You understand?”

I tell him I understand. I begin to sob. Next thing I know, I’ve got both arms around my cousin, thanking him over and over. Frankie don’t know what to say. It’s a while before I quit my blubbering, and by then, the softness has come back to his face.

“Don’t thank me yet, Jack . . . Not until we get a story and get it published.”

“We will. I know we will. You’re the best writer I’ve ever seen!”

“Maybe, maybe,” Frankie says. “But I need those things: a typewriter, a quiet place, and I go with you all when it happens.”

I stand up straight and stick out my hand. “A typewriter, a quiet place, and you come with us.”

We shake.

From his place in the sand, Butch looks up and barks.

It’s another second or two before we hear what he hears, a deep rumbling from up Hopkins Road. Faint, like thunder. Only there ain’t a cloud in the sky.

Butch barks again and stands up. And that’s when I know.

“Better help me get hold of Butch,” I say, grinning, wiping snot from my face. “Here they come.”