Micah Carson, the town’s banker, once asked Bottles about the vast fortune he amassed, offering to open a savings account for the boy.
Politely declining, Bottles explained he reinvested some of his money.
Micah nearly choked on his beer when the boy told him what he invested in.
With wide-eyed innocence, Bottles answered, “the Raytown Raccoons. What else would someone invest in?”
The boy had it figured to a science. An outfield bleacher seat cost twenty-five cents. At the rate of two cents per bottle, he needed to find thirteen bottles per every game he wanted to see from the inside. You would think he found every last bottle in town. It was easier than it sounded, because out in the mid-west, it got mighty hot and dry during the summer. Everyone drank sodie-pop and after a while, he had a regular, exclusive clientele.
Yes, life was good for Bottles, until he turned ten. Then one of those life-altering events happened. You know, the kind of life event that becomes a movie plot. In one brief week, his world turned completely upside down.
His mother had severe stomach pains and went into the hospital. They ran a few tests and discovered her appendix was inflamed. They operated, a routine surgery they said, but her appendix ruptured and she died from blood poisoning.
Bottles couldn’t understand that. They ran tests. They knew what was wrong. They operated. They were doctors. How could his mother die? She had always been so healthy.
Being healthy had nothing to do with it, his dad explained. Appendicitis happens. Think of it like a tire. It could run for a long time, with no problems, but you overinflate it and BOOM, it explodes.
That analogy, the boy understood, having several bicycle tires blow up on him.
So, in a rare summer rainstorm, Bottles stood dutifully at his father’s side with the other townsfolk while his mother was lowered into the ground. Afterwards, the church ladies delivered pot-luck covered dishes to the house along with an urn filled with strong, hot coffee. Guests came and went, all stopping to offer their condolences. He mumbled a few words, but was overwhelmed by everything.
Later that evening, after everyone was gone and the house straightened, father and son sat at the kitchen table staring at the empty chair. Neither spoke to each other. Neither knew what to say. Bottles eventually went to bed, leaving his father sitting next to a jug, half-full of moonshine.
When the boy woke the next morning, the jug was empty and his father gone. Bottles wasn’t concerned, because his father sometimes disappeared for days at a time. The family had an understanding.
This time, however, it was different. Conrad Steadway was now gone for a week. Bottles became worried. He rode his bike to the factory where his father worked. He was shocked to find the parking lot empty. He wondered where all the cars were. He pedaled to the guard’s hut, happy to see Stan Majors still on duty.
Stan greeted the boy with, “so sorry about your mom, Bottles. She was a good woman.”
“Where is everyone?” he blurted out.
“Didn’t your dad tell you? The factory was sold last week. New owners came in and shut her down. Dang near the entire town is out of work.”
Bottles sped away, not even hearing what Stan called out to him.
The boy pedaled hard down the black topped driveway, then onto the dirt road. The wind blew dust into his face, but he didn’t notice the stinging from the sandy soil. “Why didn’t you tell me, dad?” he called out, eyes filled with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He wasn’t paying attention where he went. He only stopped because he reached the shore of the lake. They still called it a lake, even though it was nothing more than a wide depression of cracked dirt. Far out, in the very center, was a shallow puddle of water. Mosquitos buzzed over it. And, bordering the puddle were a few sparse blades of grass.
Bottles leaned over the handlebars of his bike and sobbed—deep gut wrenching, soul cleansing sobs. “What am I supposed to do?” he screamed.
He sat there, as if waiting for a sign. A sunray broke through the clouds, reflecting off something buried in the lake bed. He let his bike fall as he marched down the shore. Kicking at the dirt, he uncovered a bottle. He shrugged, marched up the shore, and put the bottle in the basket of his bike. On his way back into town, he found a dozen more.
Glass soda bottles, it seemed, were his destiny.
He cashed them in, pocketing twenty six cents. Stopping at the store, he bought some bread and boloney, enough for a couple sandwiches.
Later that evening, after tidying the house, he sat down with a boloney sandwich, a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil. He felt if he wrote out his plans, they were more apt to come true.
“Let’s see,” he mused. “Number one: find out where my dad is. Number two: find out--”
A car horn interrupted his concentration. Bottles ran out on the porch, just as a taxi skidded to a stop. A door opened and his dad emerged from the back seat.
Bottles rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t believe it!
“Hi, kiddo.”
With tears of relief, the boy ran into the outstretched arms. “Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? Why didn’t you--”
“Ahem.”
Bottled looked up. Standing next to the open door of the taxi was a tall, bleached blond woman wearing too much make-up and not enough clothes. Standing at each shoulder was a sneering teenager, each with a cigarette dangling out of their mouths. You could look at them and smell trouble. They were the kind of boys you avoided in school. They gave Bottles the once over and snickered.
Bottles looked back and forth. “Who… who are you?”
His father knelt before his son, gesturing, “This is my sister, Louise, from Pottsville.”
The pair of hoodlums coughed.
“Yes. This is your Aunt Louise and her two sons, Jimmy and Biff.”
“Why are they here?”
“Harrumph. Well I never,” Aunt Louise screeched.
“She’s sort of moving in while I go out of town looking for work. I got a line on another factory job about fifty miles from here.”
“Why not just take me and we could move?”
He stood and leaned into the taxi. “Don’t leave,” he told the driver. “I’ll be riding back with you.”
Louise marched onto the porch and into the house. Her sons both glared at Bottles before following her, letting the screen door slam behind them.
“Dad…” Bottles started. “This isn’t right.”
Conrad gestured to the tree swing out in the yard. “I know you don’t like this, son. I know I should have talked to you, but when the factory—“
“I already know about it.”
His dad looked down, his shoulders slumping.
“Send them home, dad. We can survive.”
Conrad shook his head. “I can’t. Louise is staying here. Her husband left her and she has nowhere else to go. She’s going to stay here while I work. It’ll just be for a month or so… until I get some money saved.”
Bottles nodded. “Sure dad.”
He looked into his son’s eyes. “I want you to promise you’ll behave. Don’t upset her. I swear I’ll come back.”
Yeah, dad. I promise.”
One of the bullies yelled from the porch, waving Bottle’s uneaten sandwich. “There’s no more boloney. I’m hungry.”
His brother yelled, “Where am I supposed to sleep?”
Conrad squeezed his son’s shoulder.
After brief instructions, Conrad packed a bag and rode off in the taxi.
Bottles waved, but as soon as the taxi rounded the bend, Louise dug her cheap fingernails into the boy’s shoulder and ushered him into the house.
And, thus, Bottles fate was sealed.
CHAPTER 2
For the first week, life was pretty much the same for Bottles. Oh, he had added chores, but his free time was his own. He still rode around every day and gathered the empty bottles, stopping to cash them in before pedaling home.
&n
bsp; He whistled as he pulled into the yard, but stopped and stared at a box of his belongings on the porch. He hopped off the bike and ran inside. The house was in total disarray.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“Just a little rearranging.”
“Why is some of my stuff on the porch?” he gestured.
“Oh, that,” she glanced at her sons, snickering on the steps. “That’s just some stuff that got broken in the shuffle.”
Bottles looked back and forth from his aunt, his cousins and the box.
“Oh no. What have you done?” He ran between the brothers blocking the stairs. He stopped in the doorway of his room. It was nearly empty. All his belongings piled in boxes in the hall; the bedroom floor littered with torn autographed posters from the Raccoons. His eyes filled with tears as he gently picked up the scraps of cardboard.
“What’s the matter Ralphie?” Jimmy taunted, kicking at the toy stuffed raccoon.
Bottles looked up. “Why?”
“I want this room. I don’t want to share a room with Biff.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?”
“That’s no fun.”
Bottles face went red. He dropped the priceless pieces of cardboard and tackled his cousin, knocking him to the floor. Straddling his opponent, Bottles pounded his cousin.
“Mom! Mom! He’s hurting me,” Jimmy cried as Biff doubled over with laughter.
Louise bounded up the stairs taking a second to survey the situation. She ran into Bottle’s room and physically pulled her nephew off her son.
“Get your stuff out of here,” she ordered.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” she shrugged. “You can move into the attic or the cellar. I don’t care. Just clean out this room.”
She put her arms around her sons and the three of them went downstairs.
Bottles shut his door and walked around staring at the damage. “Oh dad, he didn’t even bother to take the thumb tacks out. He just ripped my pictures off the wall.” Gently, he pulled out the tacks and salvaged what posters he could. He picked up the torn scraps from the hall and added them to the pile.
It took most of the evening, but he managed to get everything into the attic. He didn’t have a lot, but it took time maneuvering up the narrow stairway.
Satisfied the room was empty enough for Jimmy, Bottles went down for supper.
The other three were still eating as he slid in at the table. Their plates were piled high with food. His was empty.
He looked around. “Where’s my food?”
“You weren’t here. The boys didn’t think you were hungry, so they ate yours.”
“But you told me to clean out my room.”
“MY room,” Jimmy corrected.
“You know what time supper starts. Surely you don’t expect me to cook two suppers a day just because you’re not on time, do you, Ralphie?”
“No ma’am. I guess not.” he mumbled. “Is there any boloney left?”
“I don’t know,” she spooned at the pile of mashed potatoes.
Biff called out. “I think I finished it for lunch.”
Shoulders slumped, Bottles made his way to the kitchen. He managed to scrape enough peanut butter from the bottom of the jar to coat a slice of bread. The jelly jar was empty, but he found a browned banana, that he sliced onto his sandwich.
He glanced up at the clock. It was barely seven, but he decided to go to bed.
Passing through the dining room, Jimmy called out to him. “Hey Ralphie. Did you get everything of yours?” He wrapped his hand around the pocket of his jeans and shook it.
Bottle’s eyes opened wide.
Louise screeched, “What’s that noise?”
Jimmy laughed as his cousin ran upstairs.
Sounds echoed from the attic, followed by footsteps running down. Bottles ran outside and tore into the box on the porch. A minute later, he ran back inside to confront his cousin.
He put the baseball holder on the table. The base was broken and the ball missing. Hands on his hips, He demanded, “Where’s my baseball?”
Jimmy innocently turned to his brother. “Was that a baseball we were kicking around in the yard?”
“Gee, I think so.” Biff turned to Bottles. “Was it valuable, Ralphie?”
Fighting to hold back the tears, he answered through gritted teeth. “To me it was.”
“Well, I think it’s outside somewhere.”
“Where’s my money?”
Louise looked up. “You had money and I’ve been buying food for you?”
“Jimmy,” Bottles demanded, “Where’s my money?”
“Are you accusing me?”
“Yes. If you broke the case to get the baseball, then you took my money. It’s in your pocket.”
“This is my money.”
“Aunt Louise, please tell him to give me back my money.”
“Jimmy, give him back his money.”
“I don’t have it.”
“It’s in his pocket. I had seven dollars and eighty-seven cents. Check it out, Aunt Louise.”
“Jimmy—put the money on the table.”
Jimmy pulled out everything in his pocket: a pack of matches, a pocketknife, two crumpled one-dollar bills and eighty-seven cents in change. Louise counted it and looked at Bottles.
Biff, standing off to the side, pulled the corner of a five-dollar bill out of his pocket. He nodded and smiled at his brother.
“You shouldn’t go around accusing people of theft without proof. Apologize.”
“No! I know he took it.” Bottles spun around and ran out of the house, letting the old screen door slam loudly against the wood frame. He stopped at the end of the porch and looked around. He wondered how he was going to find his signed baseball.
Most of the grass had died away leaving large patches of dirt. He spotted the ball near the drainage ditch by the shed. He jogged over to it. And stared. His once mint condition, autographed ball laid at his feet. It was scuffed, dirty, and most of the names were unreadable. He gingerly picked it up and tried to wipe the dirt off the scratched leather.
He glared at the house, his face contorted with anger and rage. “I hate you! I hate all of you!”
Bottles put the ball in the box with his other broken treasures and slowly walked through the house, stopping downstairs long enough to get his broken ball holder. He carried the box upstairs to take it to the attic.
At the top of the steps blocking his way, Jimmy and Biff doubled over, howling with laughter.
Bottles glared at them. Even though they were older and taller than him, and outweighed him by a hundred pounds, they were smart enough to step aside.
Bottles opened the attic door, set the box on the steps, then turned and locked the door from the inside.
On the other side of the door, Jimmy pointed to the lock and whispered in his brother’s ear. They had one more surprise planned for their cousin.
CHAPTER 3
It took half the night, but Bottles rearranged the attic into a comfortable room; quite spacious, in fact. It was hot, of course, but by opening both the front and back windows, there was a pleasant breeze.
Around two in the morning, Bottles had to go to the bathroom. It took a few seconds to get his bearings. He tiptoed down the steps, not wanting to wake up anyone. He turned the door knob and pushed. The door didn’t open. He pushed again. Still the door didn’t budge.
He scratched his head, then he knew.
“Jimmy,” he hissed, “unlock the door. Jimmy? Can you hear me?”
On the other side, he heard the brothers’ stifled laughter.
“Biff? I know you’re there too. Unlock the damn door.”
Neither boy made an effort to let their cousin out.
With clenched fists, he pounded on the door, screaming, “Unlock this door! Jimmy, I’m gonna kill you. Let me out! Let me out!”
Louise, wearing a frumpy cotton robe over her nightgown, stumble
d into the hallway. Her hair was in rollers and she had green beauty mud smeared on her face.
“Let me out! Jimmy, unlock the door.” Bottles kept pounding.
“What is going on around here?” she screeched in her soprano voice.
The boys spun around, swallowing their laughter. “Uh, nothing, ma. Nothing is going on.”
Biff slipped behind his brother and unlocked the door.
“Aunt Louise? Make them unlock the door! I can’t get out. I have to pee.”
She marched to the door and opened it. Bottles fell forward onto the floor, striking his head on the baseboard. She examined the doorknob.
“There’s nothing wrong with this.”
“It was locked. I heard the bar slide out.” He turned to his cousins. “Someone locked me in.”
“I’m beginning to think you moving to the attic was a bad idea. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Needless to say, Bottles didn’t sleep at all. He spent the rest of the night repacking his belongings to move into the cellar. He didn’t even bother waiting for morning. Once he was finished packing, he went down to the cellar to look around.
It wasn’t as bad as it sounded. The cellar wasn’t like a dungeon with dripping water, barred gates and thick, stone walls. It was rather clean. The previous owners had started building a secure room in case a tornado touched down. Bottles helped his dad finish it. The walls separating it from the rest of the cellar were solid. The door locked both from the inside and outside. It had plenty of shelving, a chaise lounge he could use as a bed, and it had a private outside entrance. There was even an old refrigerator.
On the other side of the cellar was the laundry area. There was also a toilet, the laundry sink and a hose rigged up as a shower. He had his own private bathroom.
Bottles moved some boxes from the secure room into the other side of the cellar, opening space for his stuff.
He stood, hands on his hips, and admired his handiwork. Nodding appreciatively, he was satisfied with his new bedroom. His only dilemma was to keep his cousins out of the cellar.
After Forever Page 13