Last Summer Boys(25)
“Yes.”
He rolls over on his mattress.
“Good night, Jack.”
Another question I won’t ever get answered.
I roll over and try to let my galloping mind tire itself out. Takes a while, but eventually that old horse slows himself down to a trot, then a walk. A faint scraping again from the attic. I decide it’s my friend the mouse, that he escaped that old black snake after all.
A little while later Mrs. Madliner comes into the room—floats right over the windowsill and hovers above Frankie’s mattress. I realize I’ve fallen asleep because I’m dreaming now. She’s a frightful thing to see, red eyes and white dress that clings to her body, letting me see more of her than I should. Awful as she is, I decide she’s better than those popping machine guns in my other dream—the one about Pete in that jungle. I wait for her to melt away into the dark. She shuts off the moon as she goes, and in that inky dark my tired old horse finally lays down to sleep.
Our kitchen smells like coffee and bacon. Morning sunlight spills through the windowpanes and shines through Frankie’s ears, making them glow bright red as he eats his eggs at the corner of Grandma Elliot’s old table. In that cheery light, the Ticking Tomb and Mrs. Madliner seem like a bad dream, though I know they ain’t.
Will’s buried in his newspaper, reading an article on Senator Kennedy campaigning in California. I catch his eyelids fluttering, and I know he’s fighting sleep. Across from me, Pete’s on his third biscuit, honey dripping from his fingers. Of the four of us boys, only he seems completely awake. At the stove, Ma tells him to get a napkin for the last time. When a big, fat yawn takes hold of me, I decide on a nap after breakfast.
The floorboards creak and a second later Dad strides into the kitchen, looping suspenders over his wide shoulders as he comes in. The kitchen shrinks around him, the whole place somehow smaller now that my father has entered it. He kisses the back of Ma’s head, then crosses to the coffeepot to pour himself a cup of steaming black liquid. Without waiting for it to cool, he lifts it and drinks. Then he says something that makes my hair stand up straight:
“Arthur Madliner came by early this morning.”
At his words, Will’s head snaps up from his newspaper and Pete’s hand stops with a biscuit halfway to his mouth. A thin strand of honey doodles shapes on Grandma Elliot’s table.
Dad takes another long, slow sip before going on. “Storm the other night knocked down that oak in his yard. He needs help clearing it.”
Us boys trade looks around the table, but Pete gives the barest shake of his head. I stuff another strip of bacon in my mouth and chew to keep myself from speaking, but the bacon does not taste so good anymore.
“So eat up,” Dad continues. “And be ready to go after breakfast.”
“Did Mr. Madliner say anything on Mrs. Madliner?” Pete asks, dabbing the spilled honey with a napkin, real casual, like he doesn’t care a whip one way or the other.
“He did not.” Dad drinks more coffee.
Will and Pete trade looks.
“Is Caleb gonna be there?” Will suddenly asks.
“It’s his house,” Dad says, sitting down and reaching for the bacon himself now. “I expect he will.”
I shudder. Caleb Madliner. The bacon turns to hot lead in my stomach.
“You treat Caleb Madliner right,” Ma says. “He’s different and difficult, but he’s got a harder life than you. And no brothers to help him live it.”
“Frankie’s got no brothers and he turned out fine,” I say, before I can think any better. “Caleb could have fifty brothers and he’d still be awful.”
Ma gives me a dark look. “Some people fight hard battles, Jack. Just be glad yours are so easy.”
At Ma’s words, I remember Mrs. Madliner wandering among the tombs last night, weeping like a lost soul. I guess I’d be awful if my mother was that way. Or if I had Arthur Madliner for a father. Now there was something to make you rotten. He was creepy to look at, like a pale aspen tree that had uprooted itself and gone wandering for better soil but couldn’t find any.
Then there’s what Pete said about him last night: He hits a lot.
Ma joins us at the table and our family eats together. If my parents know anything about last night, they don’t let on. When Dad takes the sports page from Will’s newspaper, I decide we must be in the clear. Only now I’m fretting this trip out to the Madliners’ will force us to delay our search for the fighter jet another day.
Waterfall of sunshine soaks the whole world in gold as we climb into the pickup. Butch hops up for the ride and blinks his big brown eyes sleepily as he hunkers down by me and Frankie in the bed, his thick fur warm to the touch.
Dad brings the Ford to life, and soon the big tires are crunching gravel as we roll down the dirt lane. Apple Creek flashes at us through gray sycamores, calling to us. We turn onto Hopkins Road’s smooth pavement and Dad gives the engine some gas. Warm wind makes Butch’s fur ripple, and there’s a sweet scent of honeysuckle in my nose. I imagine us stopping a while at the bushes along the road’s edge, breaking the fragile green stems and drawing out the tiny, delicious drops . . .
But Dad keeps the Ford moving.
Almost a mile later, we come up on Sam Williamson’s place: his trailer with its sagging porch and corrugated roof; his red-white-and-blue painted mailbox. Sam himself is sitting in a rocker on the porch, dressed in his same long underwear and wide-brimmed hat. He lifts a hand at us as we go by, and Dad gives the horn a tap.