Last Summer Boys(41)

On the other side of the lot, Everett is stumbling off. The crowd of kids is thinning out again. One of them walks by and says, “How ’bout that? I bought one ticket but got two shows!”

Will looks at Frankie’s shirt. “Ma’s gonna pitch a fit,” he says, as his face falls. He’s realizing now that he’s going to have to explain it all. He sighs. “Come on.”

We begin to move toward the cars.

“Where we taking him?” Anna May asks.

“My family is back here somewhere,” Will tells her. “You can go now, Anna May. He’s all right.” He pauses. Then: “Thank you.”

“Let me at least help you walk him back,” Anna May says. “I want to make sure he’s all right. And you’re not in such good shape yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Will snaps. “Why don’t you go take care of your boyfriend, Everett? He’s the one needs helping.”

I expect Anna May to run off right then and there. But she doesn’t.

“You listen to me, Will Elliot,” she fires back. “Everett Scott is not, nor was he ever, my boyfriend. After tonight, I am never speaking to him again. And if you don’t let me help you now, I’ll never speak to you again either!”

Will takes a big breath, as if to say something back. And stops.

“Fine,” he says.

“Fine,” she says back. “Now, which way?”

“This way,” I sigh. “Follow me.” I lead them down the narrow metal canyons, past shiny fenders and foggy rolled-up windows, toward our family’s Ford.

Will and Anna May quit their talking. They walk either side of Frankie, each with a hand on his shoulder.

I try to make sense of what all just happened. I can’t. One minute, Will’s completely defeated. Next, Frankie’s talking like nothing I’ve ever heard. Everett smacks him. Will clobbers Everett. And now Anna May is walking with us back to our truck. I just can’t figure it out.

All I know is this: Will’s back. Really, truly back. My brother is back. As if it wasn’t just poor Everett Scott he was whaling on at the concession stand, but his own sadness.

I look at Frankie, walking wobbly-legged next to me. Did he want Everett to hit him? I shake my head. That’s utter foolishness.

Why on earth would you ever want to get hit in the face by Everett Scott?





Midnight in the kitchen.

Frankie sits in a chair with a pack of ice on his lip. Will beside him, a piece of ground chuck wrapped in white paper pressed to his eye. Dad stands over them, arms folded across his chest.

Pete and me watch from the doorway.

We’ve dropped Anna May back at her house in the new development on the other side of the train tracks. Dad walked her to the front door and explained to Pastor Fenton why it was us bringing her home and not Everett.

But Dad ain’t said a word since, and now all four of us are waiting.

Not Ma. She went straight upstairs soon as we got back. She would have no part of it. Whatever would happen, it would be just the boys.

Dad looks at Will with icy eyes, but he ain’t spoke yet. That means there’s still hope for him.

A bottle of whiskey sits uncorked on the counter. Frankie nearly choked on his spoonful. Will just took his in one gulp.

“Dad, I got hit in the face too,” Pete says.

“Be quiet,” Dad tells him—and he does. Then, turning to Will, he says, “Talk.”

Will does. He tells Dad everything.

When he’s finished Dad lifts one eyebrow. “Is that it? This Everett boy hit Frankie and you hit him?”

“That’s it.”

My father’s blazing eyes fall upon me.

“That’s just how it happened, Dad. Honest.”

“Gosh, Will,” says Pete. “If I thought it would get me some time with Anna May, I’d have licked old Everett ages ago.”

“Pete, I told you to be quiet,” Dad tells him.

“Yes sir.”

Dad’s stern gaze returns to Will. “You goin’ to fight this boy again?”

Will frowns. “Only if he wants it.”

Dad frowns, but I know he likes what he’s heard.

“Not even Everett Scott is that stupid,” I say.

Dad sighs. “Rest of you boys go on up to bed now,” he says, looking at me and Frankie. “Pete, you too.”

Frankie slides off his chair. Will stays still on his. Dad is going to talk to him alone. That piece of ground chuck is starting to thaw. Bloody water trickles down between his knuckles.

Pete and Frankie and me go as far as the second landing before we stop to listen. But the voices in the kitchen are too low for us to hear. Then the floorboards creak and we hear them moving for the front door. The three of us head up to the bedroom and make for the window. But by the time we get there, Dad and Will are crossing the yard, heading into the fields.

They’re going walking together.

“Well, shoot,” I say as they disappear into the dark. “How we gonna hear what they’re saying now?”

Pete climbs into his bunk. “Forget it, Jack,” he sighs. “It’s gonna be a long one.” He looks over at Frankie. “How’s that lip, Frankie?”

Our cousin is lying on his mattress with that ice packet pressed to his mouth.