Four Octobers Page 5

  Today was a perfect Indian Summer day—an unseasonably warm afternoon in late October. Not even the hint of a sea breeze stirred the oven-hot air. A cold snap had rolled through earlier in the week, so the leaves had started to change color and fall, but today it seemed as though summer just didn’t want to let go, and that was just fine with Andy.

  The two-mile walk to town was almost unbearable, but that morning, Andy’s mother, Etta, had paid him for raking the front lawn, so he had fifty cents in his pocket and was looking forward to splurging on a bottle of Coke and a bag of potato chips. He was feeling so flush, in fact, he had offered to buy Jimmy Nikanen, his best friend, a bottle of Coke, although the closer they got to the corner store, the more Andy regretted his burst of generosity. Halloween was tomorrow night, so they’d be getting plenty of candy and treats then.

  Maybe he should save his money.

  Fifty cents didn’t come his way very often. Once the leaves were all raked up and burned, he wasn’t going to make that kind of money until the snow fell and he went around asking neighbors if they wanted him to shovel their walks and driveways. Andy was starting to think it might have been wiser to save a little—“for a rainy day,” as his mom always said.

  The sun beat down mercilessly on the boys as they made their way down the “shortcut”—a path along some old railroad tracks that cut through the woods and passed several abandoned granite quarries. The boys’ Keds, worn and scuffed since the first days of summer, dragged in the dirt, raising thin clouds of yellow dust that drifted like sulfurous smoke behind them before settling like a film of pollen over the bright red and yellow leaves of the oaks and maples lining the path. Off in the woods, they could hear the conking call of blue jays and the rustle of squirrels and chipmunks in the carpet of brown, fallen leaves. Because the day was so warm, they had talked about going out to Nickerson’s Quarry for a swim before their football game that afternoon.

  One last fling at summer.

  Downtown Stonepoint wasn’t much. Besides the old homesteads that fronted Granite Street—the strip of road leading down to the harbor and wharf—there was the small town library built of local gray granite, an even smaller post office across the street, and Moulton’s corner store which everyone called simply “Frank’s.” In the open area beside the library, directly opposite Miss Henry’s house where Curtis Street branched off from Granite Street, there was a war memorial. It listed all the residents of Stonepoint who had served in both World Wars and the Korean War. The bleached gray paint on the memorial was peeling off in long, chalky flakes. Pretty much every time Andy came downtown, he would, out of habit, locate his Uncle Arnie’s name on the memorial. He knew the gold star beside Arnie’s name meant he had died in battle, but he had no idea where or how. His father never talked about it, even the few times Andy dared to ask him directly. Andy couldn’t help wondering from time to time what it must have been like for his dad, losing a brother in the war. He knew his father had served during World War Two in the Philippines, but his dad never talked much about that, either. Only one time, Andy asked him if he ever killed a Japanese soldier. All his father would say was that he had done his duty.

  “Man, is it a crack-sweater or what?” Jimmy said, wiping his face with the back of his arm and exaggeratedly puffing out his cheeks. “Why don’t we get a quart of Coke and split it? Be cheaper.”

  Jimmy’s blue eyes widened with anticipation and encouragement, but Andy clenched his teeth and shook his head resolutely.

  “No way,” he said. “You’re lucky I’m spending even one nickel on you. Plus an extra penny for the bottle deposit.”

  “Ohhh… A whole penny extra!”

  “Just be happy with what you get, why don’t you?”

  Andy cringed inwardly when he heard himself echoing something his mom and dad said to him so many times he’d lost count, but he held his expression firm because he didn’t want Jimmy to get his hopes up too high. The truth was, he’d been thinking the exact same thing, and it was just like his best buddy to practically read his mind. But twenty-five cents for a quart of Coke was a luxury he wasn’t sure he should indulge.

  Much better to save a little for that rainy day.

  As they approached the corner of Granite and Curtis, Andy stopped short and nodded in the direction of Miss Henry’s house. Jimmy knew instantly what he meant. The faded curtains were motionless in the open window, looking old and brittle, stained dull brown with age and shadow. The torn lace pattern was like a tangle of dried spider webs, and there, in the center, was the looming, dark figure they both dreaded.

  “Ready… set… go!”

  Andy started running with Jimmy only a step or two behind. Their sneakers snapped like gunshots on the sidewalk as they raced past the house. They were already several paces beyond it when the old woman began to rail at them.

  “…can’t even get a moment’s peace… hot day like this… know who you are… call your parents… I swear I will…”

  Miss Henry’s voice faded away as they crossed the street and, still running, passed the war memorial and library, and took the steps up to the front door of Moulton’s store two at a time.

  Sweat beaded along the fringes of their crew cuts and ran down the sides of their faces, leaving thin tracks in the dust and grime on their cheeks and necks as Andy swung the heavy door open. The boys were both panting when they entered the dusty cool darkness of the store. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust after being outside, but seated in the far corner, beneath a gray wreath of cigar smoke, his face lost behind the morning edition of the Boston Globe, was the store’s owner, Frank Moulton. A window fan turned slowly behind him, but it didn’t seem to be making much of a breeze. Frank wore a white strap t-shirt and baggy, grease-stained khaki pants that were rumpled and damp with sweat.

  “Mornin’,” Frank said with a curt nod as he peered over the top of the newspaper. Even the newspaper looked wilted and limp from the heat.

  Over the years, Frank’s left eye had gradually turned milky white. Andy didn’t like the way Frank watched him whenever he was in the store. It was common knowledge that Frank suspected every kid who ever came into the store was plotting to steal him blind—especially targeting the nudie magazines like Gent and Dude, which he kept on the top rack of the newsstand beside the soda cooler. A couple of years ago, when he was ten, Andy had managed to grab a copy of Gent and get it out of the store without Mr. Moulton catching him. He’d hidden the magazine in the rafters of the family chicken coop, but it had long since disappeared. He’d always suspected Mike, his older brother, had found it and kept it, but he never dared confront Mike about it. It wasn’t worth the punch he’d get whether Mike was guilty or not. He didn’t dare think what would happen if it had been his father who had found the magazine.

  “Hot ’nough for you, Mr. Moulton?” Andy asked.

  He was just being polite and didn’t really expect Mr. Moulton to respond. The truth was, Mr. Moulton never was very friendly to anyone who came into his store. He’d hire someone to help every now and then, but no one ever seemed to stay long. Andy figured it was because Frank didn’t pay them very much. Now that he thought about it, Andy hardly ever saw Frank out of the store, either. He was as permanent a fixture here as the battered, black register and the old, stuffed armchair where he sat, smoking cigars and reading his newspaper while waiting for customers.

  With Mr. Moulton’s milky white eye tracking them, the boys made their way over to the soda cooler. Andy opened the door and snagged two thick, green Coke bottles. Their coldness numbed his hand.

  “I’m telling yah, it’d be lots cheaper to get a big one and split it,” Jimmy whispered.

  “You’d backwash,” Andy said, but he had to give Jimmy credit for trying one last time. He quickly shut the cooler door, popped the tops off both bottles using the opener hanging by a string on the side, and walked over to the counter. He didn’t want Mr. Moulton to think they were whispering plans to steal a girlie mag.

&nbs
p; Beside the counter was a metal rack loaded with dessert treats—five and ten-cent bags of Wise Potato Chips, an assortment of Ring-Dings, Hostess Cupcakes, and beef jerky. Andy took a five cent bag of Wise chips and then, nodding to Jimmy, said, “Go ahead. Grab something for yourself.”

  Jimmy’s eyes practically popped out of his head with surprise. For an instant he regarded Andy as if not quite trusting his offer.

  Was this a trick?

  Then, as a widening smile split his tanned face, he reached over and grabbed a ten cent package of cupcakes.

  “Hey! I didn’t mean something that expensive!” Andy shouted, but Jimmy ignored him and plunked his choice down on the counter next to his bottle of Coke.

  “You said I could,” Jimmy said with a smirk.

  Mr. Moulton let his newspaper fall in a heap to the floor as he heaved himself up from his armchair and made his way slowly to the counter. His breathing made a high wheezing sound, and he squinted with gray cigar smoke curling up into his face as he methodically rang the price of each item into the hand-crank register.

  “That’ll be twenty-seven cents, counting the deposit on the soda bottles,” Mr. Moulton said. He finished with a deep cough that wracked his body so hard his face turned purple, but he never took the cigar out of his mouth. “Looks like I’ll be able to retire to Florida sooner than I expected.”

  Neither boy got his sarcasm. Andy dug the handful of coins from the front pocket of his jeans and counted out the exact change, placing it carefully on the worn counter. Mr. Moulton’s beefy hand scooped the coins away, dropped them into the register drawer, then slammed it shut with a loud ka-ching.

  “Have a good one,” Andy said, echoing what he always heard his father say in stores, but he didn’t quite dare make eye contact with Mr. Moulton as he grabbed his bag of chips and soda, and turned toward the door.

  “A-yuh. You too.”

  Mr. Moulton walked back to his armchair by the window, grunting as he sat down heavily. Andy wasn’t sure if he had been sincere or not, but it didn’t matter. They had what they’d come for and were out of there.

  The sudden white glare of the sun hurt the boys’ eyes as they walked slowly down the store steps to the sidewalk. Without a word, they headed up the street to the stone wall in front of the war memorial. This was where they waited for the school bus every morning and, out of habit, they usually sat there to consume whatever treats they bought at Frank’s.

  As he walked, Andy leaned his head back and stared up at the cloudless blue sky while taking a long, noisy gulp of Coke. The carbonation stung the back of his nose and throat, making his eyes water as his mouth filled with the sweet, syrupy taste. After another gulp, he opened the bag of chips and dug into them while Jimmy fumbled to unwrap his cupcakes without spilling his soda, which he had tucked under his arm against his chest. Jimmy cried out when the first cupcake fell, landing frosting side down on the sidewalk, but he quickly scooped it up, brushed the dirt off the top, and took a huge bite.

  “Ten second rule,” he said, smiling at Andy with a mouth ringed with crumbs and white frosting.

  “Ten seconds only counts if it lands on a floor,” Andy said. “It’s two seconds on the ground where people have been walking and spitting and stuff.”

  “I still think I made it,” Jimmy said.

  “Think about it. Dogs crap on the sidewalk.”

  Without another word—because they had followed this ritual too many times to count—the boys settled themselves on the stone wall in front of the memorial and dug into their treats. Jimmy placed his soda and cupcakes on the stonewall, then slid off his t-shirt and draped it over his head so it hung down his back.

  Andy let Jimmy have a handful of potato chips only after Jimmy gave him one of the cupcakes. They ate and drank in silence for a while, squinting in the harsh glare of the sun as they looked around at their small corner of the world.

  “You think anyone’s really gonna show up at the pit this after’?” Jimmy asked.

  The rim of his mouth was smeared with cupcake crumbs. Andy thought he looked ridiculous but he resisted the impulse to tell him to wipe his face clean.

  “Dunno,” Andy replied. “I bet the pit’s already wicked cold, anyway.”

  The “pit” was Nickerson’s Quarry, where Andy and Jimmy’s friends went swimming pretty much every sunny day of the summer. Once it froze over in the winter, they skated and played hockey there. The older boys—teenagers who smoked cigarettes and bragged about stealing booze from their parents—swam on the far side where they jumped off the highest cliff, named Blood Ledge. They usually left the little kids alone, but Andy and his friends never went over there. It was an unwritten but clearly understood rule that you didn’t go over to Blood Ledge until you were going to jump… unless, that is, for some reason you were looking to get the shit kicked out of you. Even having an older brother who went over there, like Andy did, didn’t guarantee there wouldn’t be trouble.

  “You gonna play football this after’?” Jimmy asked.

  Andy looked at his friend and was about to tell him of course he was going to play football today, but the mess of cupcake crumbs still covering Jimmy’s face grossed him out.

  “Wipe your face, will yah?” he said. “For cripe’s sake! You look like a baby who doesn’t know how to eat.”

  In response, Jimmy took his last bit of cupcake and crushed it against his closed mouth, rubbing it around until it crumbled away to nothing and fell into his lap.

  Andy started to laugh, then shook his head sadly.

  “You are so pathetic, you know that?” he mumbled as he kicked himself off the stone wall and started walking up the street. Jimmy remained on the wall until he’d taken the last swig of his Coke, then jumped down and ran to catch up with Andy.

  In spite of the shade of the tree-lined street, the heat hammered the boys mercilessly. Rings of sweat soaked Andy’s armpits and ran down the back of his neck. Jimmy’s thin, summer-tanned shoulders glistened in the sun as if they’d been oiled. The air was filled with the heavy scent of creosote bubbling out of the telephone poles that lined the street.

  As they approached Miss Henry’s house, Jimmy suddenly jerked to a stop.

  “Hey,” he said, smacking his lips dryly and reaching for Andy’s Coke. “Gimme a sip of that, will yah?”

  “No way,” Andy said, twisting to one side to shield his soda from his friend. “You already finished yours.”

  “Come on. Those cupcakes were wicked dry. I wanna wash ’em down. Just a sip.”

  “You should have thought about that before you finished off yours.”

  Andy held the thick, green bottle at arm’s length and looked at what little remained. Before he could react, Jimmy lunged forward and grabbed it from him, spilling a little as he did. Tilting his head back as he ran, he started gulping down Andy’s soda.

  Andy caught up with him after a few steps, grabbed him by the shoulder, and yanked back, hard. He heard a loud clink when the bottle banged against Jimmy’s upper teeth, but it was too late. Jimmy had finished the last of his Coke.

  “You jerk!” Andy shouted. His voice was muffled by the humid air.

  Jimmy’s eyes were watering, and he shook his head as though dazed.

  “Fuck you!” he yelled, doubling over and covering his mouth with both hands.

  As soon as Jimmy said the “F” word, Andy knew it was serious. No matter how badly the older kids talked around town, he and his friends never swore out loud in public. They especially never used that word where any adults might overhear them.

  “You finished my soda, you creep,” Andy shouted. Before he could launch into Jimmy further, he stopped cold.

  Jimmy dropped both soda bottles to the pavement and leaned forward, bracing himself with one hand on his knee, his t-shirt draped around both sides of his face. The vertebrae lining his back stood out in sharp relief. When he looked up at Andy, his mouth hanging open, a stream of blood flowed from his upper gums, turning Jimmy’s front
teeth slick pink. A scarlet string of bloody saliva looped from his lower lip.

  “Oh, man… I’m really sorry,” Andy said, placing one hand on his friend’s sweat-slick back and patting him lightly.

  Jimmy glared at him with a pained expression. Tears welled in his eyes, making them shine like quicksilver.

  “Jesus! You didn’t have to nail me so hard,” he said before hawking a glob of bloody spit onto the sidewalk.

  “Well you didn’t have to take my last sip of my Coke, either,” Andy shouted.

  Andy did feel some pity for Jimmy, and he was ashamed that he had hurt him. They were, after all, best friends. But he could still be angry with him. In the first place, he never had to offer to buy Jimmy anything. And now, what had been a generous gesture on his part had turned ugly. The bottom line though, was that it was all Jimmy’s fault. He’d started it.

  Jimmy took his t-shirt off his head and gingerly blotted his front teeth. The wound left bright red crescent imprints on the yellowing fabric.

  “Man, my mom’s gonna kill me when she sees this,” he said in a high, trembling voice. He was trying not to cry. They were, after all, both twelve years old—old enough so it wasn’t cool to cry in front of anyone, not even your best friend.

  Especially not your best friend.

  “Hey, man, I said I was—”

  Before Andy could finish, a high, shrill voice filled the air around them.

  “You boys get away from here right now, or I’ll call your parents! I swear I will!”

  A spike of cold fear shot through Andy when he looked up and saw a dark silhouette looming behind the lace curtain in Miss Henry’s window. The backs of his legs were as loose as rubber as he started to back away from the house. Jimmy was still bent over, spitting out globs of bloody saliva onto the sidewalk.

  “Let’s get moving, man,” Andy whispered as he nodded in the direction of the old woman’s house.