Last Summer Boys(53)

We warm ourselves by the fire, but there’s no food, so after kicking it out we make our way slowly down the mountain to see what’s become of Apple Creek. It’s a torrent of gray, frothy water. Clumps of long grass rush by in the current.

“That’s one good thing the twister’s done for us,” Pete says, tilting his head at several fallen trees. “It’s given us a way home.”

“What’s that?” Frankie asks him.

“Floating.”





The raft comes together by noon. It isn’t much to look at. A mess of branches bound together by that rope of Frankie’s and some monkey vines that Will drags down out of a stand of pine trees. But it floats. That’s all we care about.

On Pete’s orders, I sit with Butch while they hack and bind it all together. I am miserable, shaking, and feeling fuzzy inside my head.

When it comes time to shove off, Frankie and me take up our places in the raft’s center. I hold Butch so he won’t get skittish and swamp us. The raft dips under some when Pete and Will climb on, pouring cold water into our laps. I am sure we’re about to sink, but then Pete and Will spread out and we come up out of the water again and suddenly we’re moving, riding the current. With a pair of long branches, my brothers steer us farther out into the creek.

We get a last look at that old Indian warrior as we go. I am not sad when he slips behind the bend. I never want to see him again.

“Sure beats walking,” Pete says. “Just nobody drown.”





Farther along, the water flattens out. With our little raft just about steering itself, Pete lies back across those knotted branches and shuts his eyes. Next to him, Will hunches over Dad’s map. He’s had it in his back pocket this whole time and it’s soaked clean through, but he stares at it just the same, trying to find out where we are. Won’t be easy. Apple Creek’s banks are completely washed over, the trees seeming to grow right up out of the water. There’s not a landmark to recognize anywhere.

As if I wasn’t feeling bad enough already, the sight makes me think of Kemper and his reservoir. That worm will flood our whole valley worse than this if he gets the chance.

Of us all, only Frankie seems to be anything other than miserable. Covered head to toe in mud, with the seat of his pants soaked from the water that trickles over the branches of our dingy little raft, he leans on one elbow, lost in his own thoughts, watching the world slide by. Peaceful. How different a sight he is from the boy we found on the train platform.

I am surprised at what he says.

“I hope Caleb is all right.”

“That’s downright charitable of you,” Pete says tonelessly from his corner of the raft.

I’m about to tell Frankie that I don’t care if Caleb’s drowned body is stuck in a tree somewhere when someone appears in my mind, clear as morning sunlight shining off the creek. It ain’t Caleb; it’s my mother. Standing on the porch against a stormy sky. She looks at me.

Don’t you ever do anything to make somebody feel like their life is no account to you, hear? It’s the worst thing you can do to a person. It’s a kind of killing, a killing of the soul.

At the memory of my mother’s words, I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed because I know I have done things to make Caleb feel his life was no account to me. A boy who gets hit by his father. A boy whose mother is insane, likely because of his father. And in that moment, I know Frankie is right to hope he’s safe.

“What do you think is wrong with him?” Frankie asks.

“With Caleb?” Will looks up from his map and furrows his brow. “Caleb’s crazy. That’s all.”

Frankie chews his lip. “Don’t you think something made him that way?”

Will shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it don’t matter. You saw what he tried to do to Jack. And that ain’t all. He’s crazy in other ways. Did you know he likes to light fires?”

Frankie shakes his head.

“He’s a firebug,” Will goes on. “He lights fires for fun. It does something to him, puts his mind a certain way that he likes.”

The raft creaks and groans. Creek water splashes through the planks again. Sun comes out, making the creek sparkle around us. The day is getting beautiful, but I shiver just the same.

Frankie asks another question.

“How do we bring this thing ashore when we get where we’re going?”

Will frowns, thinks, laughs. “You know something? I don’t know. In fact, I haven’t a clue. We could float right past Stairways, on through town, for all I know. We could drift down into the Chesapeake and then right on into the Atlantic Ocean.”

From my place on our wobbly raft, I wonder if that’s really possible. I remember hearing somewhere that every drop of rain that falls eventually ends up in the ocean. I suppose Apple Creek eventually finds its way there too.

“We really are a ship of fools,” Will says, laughing once more. “Hey, Pete, what’s your plan for getting us ashore?”

Pete don’t bother to open his eyes. “Just enjoy the ride.” He yawns. “And don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking.”

Will sighs and looks back to Frankie. “We’ll figure something out when the time comes.”





We do. We swim.