Last Summer Boys(32)
Today is some sort of political decision day in California. Bobby Kennedy is expected to win. If he does, Will says, he’ll be the Democrats’ candidate for president in the fall. Will’s been waiting for it all week, and last night he fell asleep reading the magazine.
I can’t use Will’s magazine to kill a mosquito.
But then the itch on my wrist comes again, worse than before.
The mosquito circles Frankie’s sleeping face.
I decide.
Glancing carefully at my sleeping brothers, I hop down and take the magazine. I roll it up and tiptoe on creaky floorboards over to the window.
The mosquito jumps up, misses the window again, and taps the glass once. Twice.
The third time, Will’s rolled-up magazine is right behind him.
Splat.
When I bring the magazine away, I see I’ve smashed him good. He’s smeared to the glass in a sticky mess.
“Gotcha,” I whisper.
Then I look down and see the blood and bug juice on Will’s magazine.
If I’d been smarter, I’d have rolled the magazine with the front cover facing in. Those bug guts would have splattered across the Winston cigarette ad on the back cover. Instead, a blotch of blood has smeared right across the front—right across Bobby Kennedy’s smiling face.
Uh-oh.
Quickly, I try wiping it with my finger.
It smudges.
I press a little harder. Soggy paper slides under my thumb. I stop.
A sudden sigh from my brothers’ bed sends me shooting back to my own. I toss the magazine and dive into my bed, pulling up sheets still wet with my own sweat.
I roll over and pretend to be asleep. That mosquito bite on my wrist itches like mad, but I don’t scratch it. I lie still.
I stay that way until I hear Will roll out of his bunk, cross the room, and stagger sleepily down our creaky staircase to the bathroom.
I lie in bed a while longer. Pete gets up next, throws a flannel shirt over his bare shoulders before taking the stairs two at a time down to the kitchen. His thundering wakes Frankie.
Outside, Butch barks. Day has come to Stairways.
Even still, I wait until I hear them all downstairs, hear the clinking of forks and dishes. I give it another two minutes, then make my own way down those spiraling stairs to join my family in the kitchen, looking as innocent as I know how.
It’s us boys and Ma at breakfast. Dad’s gone to work early at the game preserve. And since Dad’s not here to holler at him, Will talks about the election and how Bobby Kennedy’s going to win it.
“Today’s the day,” he says. “Kennedy wins California, then it’s on to the White House!”
I haven’t seen Will so happy in ages. He bounces on his seat as he chews.
“I thought the election wasn’t ’til November?” Frankie asks.
I expect Will to frown. Instead, he shakes his head and patiently explains. “That’s the general election between the two parties. Today is the primary election for the Democrats in California. Every state has primaries. They’re smaller elections before the bigger one. They have them so people in either party can choose who they want for the big election in November. If Kennedy wins today, it’s almost for sure he’ll be the Democrats’ nominee.”
Frankie nods. “I get it.”
I don’t. I’ve never understood any of Will’s political talk, or why he and Dad have such nasty fights over it.
And I don’t really care at all about the primary election in California.
I do care about finding that old wrecked fighter jet. I’m just about to ask Pete if we can go today when Ma ruins it.
“Today we’re going into town,” she says.
I sigh. “What for?”
“You need new pants. Will needs new shirts.”
“Can’t it wait ’til tomorrow?”
“It could,” Ma says, “but it won’t.”
Will spreads raspberry jam across a biscuit. “Terrific,” he says. “I want to stop by the newsstand and see if there’s any early results from California.”
“That’ll be fine,” says Ma. “After we get your shirts and Jack’s pants.”
“Do we have to go?” I ask again.
“John Thomas,” says Ma, her voice getting sharp. “I already told you. Yes.”
I eat my eggs and sulk.
Another wasted day.
“If you don’t fuss any, maybe we’ll get some ice cream,” Ma adds. “Maybe.”
That helps. Some.
Next to me, Pete leans back in his chair and takes a sip of coffee. I don’t know how he can drink it, but he does. No cream. No sugar. Just like Dad.
“Hey, Will, I got a question,” he says suddenly. “Suppose old Bobby Kennedy loses today?”
Will frowns. “He won’t. He’s going to win.”
“Sure,” says Pete before he sips more coffee. “But what if he doesn’t? That’s possible, right?”
I smell their fight brewing in our kitchen the way you smell a storm coming in the late afternoon. So does Ma, and she ends it before it can start.
“Pete, you stop. Let Will be.” She rises. “And come to think of it, you could use some new shirts too, so don’t you wander off anywhere.”