Last Summer Boys(60)

There’s another murmur of voices in agreement with her. Around the room I see more heads nodding and even a few smiles. Dad grabs a pad of paper and a pencil. He passes them around the room and asks everyone to write down the names of friends and family they can ask to come to the council meeting.

“I think that’s a wise suggestion,” Mr. Halleck says when their talk has quieted down. “And may I make one more: our group should choose someone to speak for them at the hearing. It is a hearing, after all. Council members are supposed to listen to what the public has to say before they vote. I would like to nominate Gene Elliot.” Mr. Halleck looks to Dad. “Of any of us, I think he has the best chance of getting them to listen.”

“Hear, hear,” says Mr. Glattfelder.

The others around the room all nod in agreement.

With the decision reached, we can feel the meeting drawing to a close. Someone asks Pastor Fenton to close with a prayer. When he finishes, people rise and begin carrying dishes to the sink or stepping out to smoke. Pete gets more pie. Old Sam slips a bit of dip into his cheek and makes for the porch.

Mrs. Glattfelder passes by us on her way to the door.

“You boys should be proud of your mother and father,” she tells us. “It’s as good a plan as can be hoped for. Let’s hope we win.”

“Yes ma’am,” Pete tells her. “And we’ll do a lot more than hope.”

With all that’s at stake, Pete is absolutely right. Losing would mean our home and everything I’ve ever known would be underwater. Stairways and the barn. Knee-Deep Meadow. The Sucker Hole. And that wrecked fighter jet too.

It’s gotten hot and stuffy on our spiral staircase, and when I spy Will and Anna May going through the screen door, making toward the field, that seems a good idea to me. I go down the steps and follow them out onto the porch, which is now crowded too. At one end, Dad stands with Mr. Halleck and Sam. He and Mr. Halleck are smoking cigars; Sam is chewing. They stand with heads bowed, speak to each other in hushed voices.

Passing by, I can’t help but overhear them.

“It’s a good plan, Gene, but it won’t be enough,” Mr. Halleck says. “Kemper has money enough to buy votes to keep his people safe in the next election, and they know it. It doesn’t matter how many people you put in that hearing room.”

Sam spits over the rail. “Then that Arthur Madliner is right,” he wheezes. “We need power. Where do we find it?”

Dad is silent, puffing blue smoke.

“The old proverb will serve us well now,” Mr. Halleck says. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend—”

I don’t hear what he says next, because now I’m off the porch and halfway across the yard, following Will and Anna May into the field.

Enemies or no, it’s a perfect night for walking: grass is wet with dew, and the velvety dark above is pinpricked with the night’s first stars. I’m about to run to catch up to Will and Anna May when a voice calls from behind me.

“Let them walk together, Jack.” Frankie puts a hand on my shoulder.

“But it’s crowded and hot back there,” I tell him, whining now. “And I’m tired of political talk.”

“Then we’ll sit outside,” he says. “And maybe Pete left us some pie.”

Reluctantly, I follow my cousin back to where the light from Stairways falls in soft, yellow squares on the grass. Fireflies begin to wink at each other in the yard. The Glattfelders are leaving, waving goodbye. Mr. Madliner is climbing into his truck, and he doesn’t bother. Good riddance.

Dad, Mr. Halleck, and old Sam are still on the porch, still talking. I overhear Mr. Halleck again:

“Who can say if they’ll agree, but it’s worth a try.”

“Tomorrow then,” Dad replies. “I think I know where we can find them.”

Sam leaks brown tobacco juice over the rail in agreement.

Frankie and me don’t pay any more attention to it. Instead, we go find a place in the yard and sit down in the sweet-smelling grass. Pete finds us there, and I see Frankie was right: he’s brought us a slice of blueberry pie and three spoons.

“Last one.” My brother drops down beside us and we take turns scooping up pie while the fireflies spread their glowing quilt across the meadow. It ain’t long before Butch appears, his sniffer pulling him right for our plate of pie. We let him lick the plate when we’re through, and lean back in the yard to watch the stars.

Frankie plucks a stalk of onion grass and sets it in his teeth.

Looking at him, barefoot with that stalk in his mouth, it strikes me.

“You know something, Frankie?”

“What’s that?”

“Aunt Effie and Uncle Leone might not recognize their boy when he gets back home. He’s looking mighty country right about now.”





When all our guests but Pastor Fenton have left, we decide to play kick-the-can in the driveway. I get the old coffee can from the barn and we’ve gone two rounds when, from the field of bobbing fireflies, Will and Anna May walk out, holding hands.

“Mind if we join?” Will asks. He steps over the coffee can and stands with his knees wide, arms out.

“Does Anna May know how?” I ask.

“Just because I’m a townie doesn’t mean I’ve never played kick-the-can before,” she says.