“He keeps acting like he’s going to back out at the last second. I think he’s a fraidy cat, I think he’s going to chicken out. Maybe we should do it without him,” he suggested, knowing that Dallas would never leave James out of anything if he could help it.
Dallas shrugged at the notion. “He seemed all right the other day.”
Felix shook his head and looked at the ground. “I don’t think he’s going to be a help. I think he’ll chicken out and leave us hanging when we need him the most. You know what he’s like.”
Dallas watched James talking to his mother and didn’t say anything. He figured she was warning James to be careful and not to stray too far. The two waited in silence until a green Chevy Nova went by, slammed on the brakes, and backed up at the foot of Dallas’s driveway. The passenger-side window was open. The front bumper rattled where rust had eaten away the brace it was bolted to.
“Hey, pissant!” shouted a voice from inside the car. Felix walked down the driveway and leaned into his brother’s window.
“What’s up, little man, what are you up to?” Bob asked.
“You picking me up?” Felix asked.
“No. Just saw you standing there, figured I’d stop. What are you doing today?”
“Tell Dallas that you want to take me somewhere,” Felix blurted, hoping to escape Dallas’s plan.
“Get lost, go play with your friends.”
Felix looked down at the door panel and noticed a wide smear of dried blood. “The hell’s this?” he asked, pulling arms away in fear that he’d touched it.
“Friend of mine hurt his nose last night,” Bob answered nonchalantly. “Had to take him to the hospital.” The two brothers remained silent for a few seconds as Bob stared out through his windshield, down River Drive. “Well, I gotta go,” he said, pulling the gear shift down, “see ya later.”
Felix stepped back as Bob tore off, burning rubber in a screech of wheels. Felix turned back up the driveway.
“What’s up?” asked Dallas.
Felix frowned. “He wanted to take me to Sports Universe to play some games. I told him no way, we’re stealing some kids’ stuff today.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE PHONE RANG LOUDLY in David Westwood’s room while he was trying to sleep. He rolled onto his back, and pulled the covers off his face. He’d gone to bed wearing the same jeans from the night before, but his shirt was lying crumpled on the floor. The phone sang out again. He sat up, dropped from the bed, and grabbed the receiver before it rang for a third time. It was Julia. When David heard her voice, shaky and soft, every painful detail of last night crept back into his mind. She said she wanted to know how he was.
“I’ve been better,” he answered. A long moment of silence. David looked around the room, and then dropped down on the edge of the bed. He rested his elbows on his knees.
“I want you to know that I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you when I went back there.”
“Are you seeing that guy? That Cassidy guy?”
“He was drunk. I swear he wasn’t acting like that before you showed up.” David could hear the tears welling up in her voice. “I’m real confused right now,” she said. His heart stirred for a moment, but sank back to stone.
“If you’re confused, then obviously I have my answer.”
“It’s not that simple. I was flattered, and he was being so sweet. He was just drinking too much.”
“But you were flattered.”
“He’s, like, twenty years old, and he was the most popular guy at the party . . . Put yourself in my shoes.”
“What do you plan on doing, that’s all I want to know,” David blurted out. There was another long pause, and David stood, letting the phone cord dangle at his knees. He almost fell in love with the silence. The dread of what her next words would be made music of the empty buzz in the handset. It was clear where it was all going. He waited. He just had to know. In words. Though he didn’t want to know.
“David, I don’t know what I’m going to do, I can’t think straight right now.”
“Fine,” he said, slamming the receiver down.
He sat back down on the bed and pressed his face into his hands. He sat there, with every intention of staying that way for the rest of his life. His mind could not rest long enough to orchestrate his next move. Every option was dried up. He no longer had Julia. He no longer had any incentive to paint. He no longer had even a shred of pride, the way that bastard had manhandled him in front of everybody, laughing the whole time. He no longer had safety with his friends for he had gotten them dragged into a mess when he hit Phil. Like chess, every thought about his next move became checkmate. At every turn, there was a rook or a bishop in his path. So he sat there, stubbornly, the way the king sits on the board and the players shake hands before leaving the table. Even his tears had stopped. Every time his lip trembled he could feel tears building. He’d think of that bastard smiling with his hands in his pockets, and the hurt would subside to rage. He had no energy to get up and punch the wall. All the rage was compact, pumping through his body as he sat there on the bed.
He looked up when he heard a knock at his door. The knob turned and his father stepped in, glancing around at David’s room. He locked eyes with his son, and nodded.
“You’re up,” he said approvingly. “I need you to go to Nino’s and pick up milk and butter.”
“Send Mom,” David answered.
“I’m not sending Mom, I’m sending you. Get dressed and go to the store.” Mr. Westwood watched his son grudgingly get up and root around for his shirt. “Oh, listen, under no circumstances are you to take that flag down off the house for your still life.” David looked at him in disbelief. “Last night, and this whole morning, I been seeing cars full of kids driving by the house real slow and then taking off,” his father said. “What’ve you been up to out there?”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Yeah, we’ll see. For all we know, you still got people pissed off about that mural. I’m sorry. If you want I’ll get you another flag.”
“Forget it,” said David.
“Butter and milk,” his father repeated. “Half a gallon’s fine.”
“Great, I’m going right now.”
Mr. Westwood dropped a five-dollar bill on David’s dresser, took another look around the room, and disappeared. David pulled on his T-shirt from last night, and put his sneakers on. He swiped the fiver from the dresser and stepped out of the room. Just then he remembered the cars full of kids. He went back, reached under his bed, and pulled out Nick’s BB gun, stuffing it into the waistband of his pants the same way he had the night before. He left the house for Nino’s Deli. Movement was his only solution to keep from crying.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JAMES TROTTED BACK ACROSS THE STREET and rejoined his friends. Dallas and Felix stared at him, as if expecting him to waver and go home.
“What did your mom want?” asked Dallas.
James shrugged. “Be careful. Don’t go too far.”
“There’s lots of crazies out there,” finished Felix.
James looked at him and smirked.
Dallas stepped away from the car. “We’re going to wait till around noon before we sneak down there,” he announced. “That way they’ll probably be inside eating lunch.”
“I think we should get there early and stake the place out,” said James. “Who knows if they’ll be eating lunch or not? If they’re not, we’ll be screwed again.”
“I like that idea,” Dallas said.
“Let’s go to the deli. Load up on drinks and snacks, for the stakeout,” offered Felix, as if any delay might derail Dallas’s plan. They all agreed, and headed for the trails behind Dallas’s house, intending to take their usual path to Mayflower Avenue, and cut through Zambrini’s Brick and Masonry Yard.
As they rounded a bend in the footpath, Dallas glanced up into the trees and fixed his eyes on the spot where he wanted to build his fort. Immediately, he began
to have daydreams about the nights they’d all spend up there, overlooking his backyard. Late nights under the full moon. There would be no rules. That would be the attraction. And whoever wanted to be in their club could be in it. The kids from the estates. Even Jason Brock. They would only have to swear their loyalty and they’d be members.
As they walked, Dallas’s eyes wandered up to the tops of the trees, and up farther to the bright clear sky, with its golden throb of light creeping toward noon. After scrambling across Mayflower Avenue, they ducked into the back lot of Zambrini’s and spied a gray corner of Nino’s roof rising over the treetops just a football field away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MICHAEL DARWIN FINISHED PREPARING LUNCH for his family and packed it away in the refrigerator. He double-checked to make sure his clothes were laid out and ready for ironing. Rebecca was sleeping late, and he let her. Earlier, he had crept down the hall and put his ear to the closed door to listen to her steady breathing. A comforting sound.
Now he was rubbing his hands nervously, and checking the time. He pulled out his Bible. This week’s discussion was on Job, and the suffering he had to endure for his faith. Michael was always moved by it. He knew, and it saddened him, that even under a tenth of what Job had suffered, he would have surely cracked. He would have cursed God, and died, just like Job’s wife had told Job to do. He prayed for that kind of strength, but he never felt it would be granted to him. He thumbed through the book, and put a mark on the opening page of the account. Then he closed it and sat quietly, looking around as if he’d forgotten something. He searched his mind for anything that still needed doing.
Abruptly, he remembered his son playing in the basement the night before, and he jumped up to see if it needed straightening. He scrambled down the stairs, and switched the light on. The basement looked fairly clean, except for Dallas’s bicycle lying on its side in the far corner. Some empty potato chip bags and a glass were scattered around a small scrap of the plywood he’d used to block up the basement window when it had broken a few months back. The small board, which was normally leaning against the far wall, was lying flat in the center of all their debris. He walked closer to it. It was not a complete mess. Still, he made a note to himself that he would have a chat with Dallas about tidying up after himself.
Mr. Darwin stooped down and picked up the plywood to put it back against the wall. He frowned, noticing the writing. Stepping further into the light, he saw the alphabet drawn neatly across the top, along with a string of numbers. The words YES and NO drawn underneath completed the image in his mind. He gasped and looked around.
“Lord, Jesus,” he whispered under his breath, “he doesn’t know the power of the demons he mocks.” As fear turned to anger, he bounded up the stairs and ran to the front windows—the Ouija board tucked under his arm. He searched the front of the house for his son. Then he crossed through the house and searched the backyard. He wasn’t there either. He stared at the Ouija board his son had made, this time in the bright sunlight. He shook his head and scowled in disgust. He would have to discipline Dallas, there was no doubt. He’d spank him good for this, and explain to him how real the demons were, how Ouija boards were a sure way to attract them. His face burned. He considered for a moment cutting the board up and using it as a paddle for the spanking. The message would certainly be carried. He wanted to wake up his wife, but decided not to. Instead he took the board into Dallas’s room, and threw it on the bed. Better that he sees his shame in broad daylight, he thought to himself. It’s because of his influences that he does this, he thought. Dallas had a poster of a Ferrari hanging on the wall. He reached over and tore it down. Then he flipped through Dallas’s record albums. He took everything but an old storybook album of Peter Rabbit. He pulled every book off the shelf and carried everything out of the room in one bulking, awkward pile spilling over his arms. He laid out his case on the dining room table. Even his wife needed to be made to understand the dangerous path Dallas was taking. Then he sat down at the dining room table and waited for his son to come home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DAVID WESTWOOD STORMED DOWN THE STREET toward Nino’s Deli, his eyes darting to every car that passed. There was no way he was going to let them catch him unaware. He could feel the awkward metal of the gun jabbing into his lower back as he walked. He kept looking behind him, and every time a tire screeched, he’d reflexively reach back for it.
Deep inside, he hoped they would come driving by, and that damned football star would be riding in front. He’d put one right between his eyes, or better yet, right in his eye, so a football star he’d be no more. He’d only see half the field. He robbed me of Julia; I’ll rob him of football.
He rounded the corner and headed down Turnbull Road, the way he had last night, and the night before, when he visited Julia in the pouring rain. Already he felt foolish for that, and wondered if she would tell her new boyfriend about it. The concept burned his mind—her new boyfriend. In one day, bam! She had a new boyfriend, and naturally it was a guy with none of David’s attributes. This was not a kid interested in art, or music, or love—who composed poetry for her. This was a kid who ran around, and sweated, and bled, and whose job it was to crush people, and destroy confidence, and bash, and ruin, and wreck, and conquer, and to make sure that somewhere in the world, there were people humiliated and injured. This was a kid like all the rest, and that realization made David rethink how he looked at Julia; perhaps she was like all the rest—a person who paid no attention to anything beautiful. The outer lines.
David’s thoughts were interrupted by the screeching of tires as a car stopped short behind him. Immediately he heard the driver’s-side door open and he spun around with the gun in his hand. He pointed and fired a BB before realizing it was Nick and Matthew. Nick ducked down behind his door as the shot ricocheted off his windshield.
“Jesus, Dirty Harry, what the hell?” Nick barked.
David tucked the gun back into his waistband, embarrassed. Matthew was laughing loudly in the passenger seat. David saw the shadow of a female form in the backseat.
Nick approached him. “Little nervous, are we?”
“Who’s in the backseat?”
Nick looked back. “Krystal Richards. Picked her up at the beach this morning. She asked for you.” He punched David lightly on the arm. “How you feeling, slugger?” Nick crouched down and shadowboxed at David.
“Did she tell you Julia dumped me for that guy last night?”
“Bob Cassidy? No, she never mentioned it.”
“Just got off the phone with her. She won’t give me a straight answer, but that’s the way these things go.”
Nick nodded solemnly and looked down, then back up at David in time to see his eyes filling up with tears. He turned away and gazed down the street. “Where were you going with the gun, David?”
“My dad sent me to the store. Says kids’ve been driving past the house all day.”
“Massa’s buddies. Come on, get in the car; we’ll drive you to the store.” Nick turned back toward his car. David drifted to the other side. “And forget about that girl. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. We’ll get you a nice girl, no worries.” Nick motioned with his head toward Krystal, who was sitting quietly in the backseat. David frowned and shook his head before ducking into the car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
SINCE THE PREVIOUS DAY’S TORRENTIAL RAIN had kept the nearby airport closed, the small vintage planes were now out in full force, taking advantage of the wide, clear blue sky. Siemens-Schuckert biplanes, Albatros-D.Is, single-passenger Cessnas, and Glider planes zoomed about, crossing over Turnbull to land at the local airport. James, Felix, and Dallas were halfway across Zambrini’s Brick and Masonry Yard when a biplane roared overhead. Dallas leaped into the air and screamed out, looking up at the fishlike body streaming through the wind.
“I bet you could hit that plane with a rock, it was flying so low,” said Felix.
“I’m going to fly one of those
some day,” Dallas said as he watched the plane glide over the treetops and disappear. They all stared up at the point in the sky where they’d last seen the plane, as if its ghost was still hanging there.
As they approached Nino’s, something caught James’s eye and he glanced across the way. Peeking out from behind a rusted, disabled bulldozer was the forlorn face of Spybot. James nudged Dallas and pointed.
“Stupid dog doesn’t know when to go away,” Dallas said.
“I like him,” said James.
They approached the bulldozer slowly, and James could see the dog was leery of them. He bowed his head and watched them silently. The closer the boys got, the lower the dog stooped, till he began to back away. He was shaking and his hind legs wobbled slightly. He turned to trot off, and as he did, the boys saw his tail was pulled tightly against his legs. His jowls were wrinkled and sagging with distress. He started to jog. James made some kissing noises and the boys stopped their advance. The dog stopped in his tracks. James made the noise again. Spybot’s tail relaxed and he took a step toward them.
“He’s scared of us,” Dallas said.
“Yeah, well, if you didn’t tackle him and tie a rope around him . . .” said Felix, crouching in the dirt.
“Maybe if your dad didn’t hit him,” Dallas countered, looking at James.
“My dad didn’t mean to hurt him,” James said.
“Yeah, well . . .”
They stared at the dog again. They were, all four, squatting low in the middle of Zambrini’s lot. If it weren’t a Sunday, if this were a weekday, and the yard were open, the workers would have surely chased the boys out of there by now, threatening all sorts of horrible things as they ran. The boys knew this. It was one of the things they did when they were bored.
But all that moved in the back of the yard was them, and the dog, shivering and frightened. James made the kissing noise again and held out his hand as if he had food. The dog’s tail began to rise skyward. Another kissing noise, added with a slap on his knee, and the tail began to wag. The dog continued toward James with mincing steps. James crept closer. The two were like a teenage couple, shyly crossing the dance floor. The dog’s eyes shifted from James, to Dallas, to Felix, to the ground, and then started back with James.
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