Last Summer Boys(42)

“Not as bad as Everett’s,” he says.





Pete is right. It is hours before I hear Will come up the steep stairs and into our room. By then, Pete and Frankie are asleep.

“Did you get in trouble, Will?” I whisper.

“Not exactly,” he answers.

“That’s good.”

I wait.

“Dad wants me to talk more,” Will says.

“About what?”

“About anything I feel like . . . He says he’ll listen.”

Away in Knee-Deep Meadow, the crickets play. Their soft song drifts through our open window.

“You gonna do it?” I ask him.

Again, Will takes a long time before answering. “Yes. I think so.”

I wonder what that will be like. Will talking more. “Well, if you didn’t get in any trouble and all you have to do is talk . . . then it sounds like you got off pretty easy.”

“Yeah.”

Will lowers himself into his bunk.

I wait for a bit, trying to decide if I should say it.

“Hey, Will?”

“What?”

“Just one thing. Next time . . . don’t wait so long to hit somebody who says such nasty things about you . . . about us. Okay?”

He sighs. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Jack.”

“Good night, Will.”

I roll over. Our room is quiet now. That cricket symphony is still playing across the creek. It’s beautiful.

“Hey, Will?” I got one more question.

“What, Jack?”

“You sure whooped old Everett good, didn’t you?”

Will don’t say nothing.

“I mean, you really clobbered him ’til he couldn’t take no more.”

Will sighs.

“Not even Pete could have whooped him no better. You really laid into him.”

Will sighs. “Go to sleep, Jack.”

I quiet down, but in my mind I live it all over again. Will’s swinging fists. His beautiful cusses. It was a thing to see.

Then there was Anna May there too. She’s pretty, for sure, but there’s more important things to be thinking about. Like that old wrecked fighter jet.





Sunday morning again, and that means church.

This time we drop Frankie off at Saint Peter’s Catholic Church in town so he can pray with his people before we drive down to Main Street Lutheran. Saint Peter’s looks more like a castle than a church, with iron-colored stones and narrow stained-glass windows and a statue of old Simon Peter himself out front holding an enormous key. As Frankie passes through the arched doorway, I see what must be a thousand candles glowing softly in smoky dark inside, and it seems to me mysterious and awfully old but also very pretty. Will says something about Catholics sure liking their smells and bells, and we drive off across town to our church.

Low clouds over the cornfields look like they’re fixing up some soft summer rain when we arrive, which suits me just fine as it keeps everything that much cooler inside.

Services begin with us all singing, and from our pew I see Anna May Fenton over with the choir, in a green dress with tiny pink flowers all across it. About a minute or so later, I catch her looking at us. Let her look. I imagine she’s feeling mighty foolish about ever spending any time with Everett Scott. She’s still looking our way once the song ends, and that’s when I see she ain’t looking at us, really, but at Will, and just at Will.

I glance to Will to see if he’s taken any notice. He’s redder than a turnip.

We sit for Pastor Fenton’s sermon, and this time he’s talking about holding on to what’s true in a time of so many confusing changes and telling us to keep our eyes aimed at the Lord. I don’t think Anna May’s listening, because every time I look her eyes are aimed right at Will, who’s more focused on the white paper pamphlet in his hands than I’ve ever seen him.

When services end we all lift one last “Amen” before filing out of our pew for the front. I’m hoping to walk with Dad to Mr. Hudspeth’s, but he stays a while talking with Pastor Fenton. Ma goes to her church-lady friends, and I’m amazed to see Pete go along with her.

I turn to ask Will if he wants to go up Main Street, but he ain’t next to me no more. A minute later, I find him out front with the other kids, standing at the edge of their circle, hands in his pockets, like usual. Only this time, Anna May is standing next to him. Not right next to him, but closer to him than anybody else.

Lordy.

“Come on, Will,” I say to him. “Let’s go on down to Mr. Hudspeth’s ’fore it starts raining and we can’t.”

Will squints skyward and rocks forward a little on his toes as if that could help him see them clouds any better. He bites his lip. About five feet away, Anna May is looking at the sky too. She don’t say a word. She stands very still.

Will seems to be wrestling with a thought. He takes a big old breath of June air and blows it out through his lips.

“Well . . .”

“Well, what?” I ask.

The cornfields begin rustling. The same breeze finds its way over to us and pulls playfully at Anna May’s green dress, swishing it around her shoulders, her hips.