by Avi
Within forty-five minutes Ann came in with the van.
We quickly headed out, me in the front with Ann, Uncle Dave lounging exhausted in the back, quickly nodding himself into a doze. I kept my eyes on the road.
I had met someone, or something. This . . . thing . . . who looked, talked, and acted like me, who was me, and yet . . . I reminded myself, who was as completely different as anyone could be from me. I recognized myself in all ways but one, and that one was his mind. It was not mine.
“John?” It took me a second to recognize Ann’s soft voice.
I shook my head clear. “Sorry. I was watching the road.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Keeping my eyes before me, I felt myself tense. We were heading down, the curves of the road an almost perfect spiral. “What do you mean?” I asked, though I knew perfectly well what she was talking about.
“You’re acting like you’re in shock.”
“Just worried about Uncle Dave. Think he’s all right?”
“Probably pushed himself too far. Too much excitement. Do you drive?” she asked.
“Nope.”
Again, silence.
“It was you I was asking about,” she said, her voice low. “You went back for that canteen. When I found you there . . . something—”
“I told you,” I insisted quickly. “I’m just worried about Uncle Dave.”
“Okay,” she said. Then, after a few moments, she said, “I thought, you know, you might have seen something. You’re acting funny . . .”
“Am I?”
She glanced at me. “Like you were frightened of something.”
I wanted to tell her everything that had happened, but I also wanted to get away, to run home where everything would be safe again.
“I told you it was a strange place,” she said.
I didn’t know how to begin. I nodded yes to her words. “You told me,” I said, but I couldn’t say more.
15
When we got back to Lickdale, the other Fentons were still gone. But Uncle Dave, awake, seemed revived. I was anxious to go. Instead, we sat around the kitchen table while he had some coffee.
It was about two o’clock in the afternoon when he announced he was ready.
“You sure you’re up to it?” Ann questioned.
“Fit as a fiddle,” he insisted.
“You could wait for my folks.”
“No point. Besides, I’d rather drive in daylight.”
Silently, Ann appealed to me. I shrugged, then gathered up our few things and put them into our car.
“Why don’t you go by the Little League field and say good-by to my mom,” Ann suggested. “I’ll show you the way. She’ll feel badly about not seeing you off.”
“Don’t want to bother her,” said Uncle Dave.
Wanting only to leave quickly, I made up an excuse. “He promised to get me home early,” I said. Ann threw me a look.
Uncle Dave went out to the car. Ann held me back. “I don’t think you should go,” she said flat out. “I don’t think he’s that well.”
“I can’t make him stay.”
“Yes you can,” she said. “Tell him it’s not safe.”
I held out my hand. “Thanks for your help.”
“Will you at least call and let me know you got home all right?” she asked. Quickly, she wrote out their number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “I’m worried about him.”
“You sound like my folks.”
She put a hand to my arm. “John, please, I don’t think you should go.”
Her touch made me hesitate. There was a beep of the car horn.
“I’ll call,” I said.
“I intend to worry till you do,” she said, giving in with a smile.
“I take it back. You’re worse than my folks.”
That time she laughed.
“Call,” she repeated as I left.
The day was still bright, but Uncle Dave didn’t drive as fast as when we had come. He was quiet. No wisecracks. No teasing. No philosophy. He did make one effort to get me to talk. “Was the trip worth it?” he asked.
“Suppose.”
He gave me a timid glance. Then after a while he said, “I need some coffee. I’m going to pull off at the next town.” His face was drawn, flushed, like it had been on the trail.
“You feeling okay?” I asked, alarmed.
“Tired.”
“Pull off.”
He took the next exit, which had a couple of gas stations and a diner right there. We pulled into the diner’s parking lot.
We got a booth right away, and a waitress took our orders. I had pie à la mode and a soda. He ordered more coffee.
While I ate he sipped at his drink, his eyes staring off into some distant place. As we sat there, my concern grew for having pushed him so much.
“Maybe we should go back to Lickdale,” I offered.
He shook his head, took a couple of gulps, wiped a tearing eye with his fingers. His hand trembled. “Look,” he suddenly said, “I need to tell you something.”
I braced myself, afraid of what he might say, not certain I wanted to hear. Instead of speaking, he placed an arm on the table, pushed the mug away, and cradled his head. The next moment he slipped out of the booth and fell to the floor, unconscious.
Fortunately, there was a guy behind the counter who knew what to do. Some sort of volunteer fireman. After checking to see that Uncle Dave wasn’t choking, he covered him so he would stay warm. Someone else, meanwhile, called an ambulance.
I called home. No one was there. My folks had gone away for the weekend, and I couldn’t remember who they were visiting. Next I called Lickdale, using the number Ann had given me. She answered.
“Ann?” I said.
“What happened?” I told her about Uncle Dave.
“I knew you shouldn’t have gone,” she said. “How bad is he?”
“Don’t know. They’ve called an ambulance.”
“You okay?”
“Yes,” I said.
“When you find out which hospital they’re taking him to, call back,” she said. “I’ll wait by the phone. Mom should be here soon. We can get to where you are pretty fast.”
By the time I got back to Uncle Dave, the ambulance had arrived. So had a police car.
While the medics were tending to Uncle Dave, the cop, a state trooper, talked to me. I gave him as much information as I had, which wasn’t much.
When they got Uncle Dave into the ambulance, the trooper took me to his car and we followed. They were taking the old guy to the nearest hospital emergency room, but even before we got there, a radio report came through from the ambulance. “Acute exhaustion,” they said.
“That all?” I said to the trooper.
“That’s all they’re saying.”
The trooper would have stayed at the hospital, but I said he didn’t need to, telling him that relatives were on their way. All the same he gave me a number to call as well as his name, making me promise to let him know how things worked out.
Soon as he left I called Lickdale. I gave Ann a report, including where we were. As we were talking, Nora came back. I spoke to her. She was very upset.
“Hang on,” she told me. “We’ll be there soon as we can.”
There was nothing to do then but wait in an empty room with Muzak and some six-month-old magazines for company. As I just sat there, an awful notion was growing in my head: Whatever had happened to Uncle Dave, it had been my doing. The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that it was my fault. Over and over again it came, “I did it, I did it.” But a second voice kept insisting it was not me. If anyone had done anything, it was him, the other John Proud. Not me. Not me.
16
When Nora arrived she gave me a big, comforting hug, then went right off to find someone who could give her some answers. Martin read a magazine. I slumped back into my chair. Ann stood in front of me, hands in the high pockets of her jeans.
“What’
s going on?” she asked quietly.
I lay back in the big, soft chair, my eyes closed.
“John,” she persisted, “what happened out there?”
“Where?” I said, pretending not to understand.
“The cemetery. Something happened. Did you tell him about it?”
“Who?” I said, feeling immediate alarm.
“Cousin Dave.”
I shook my head.
“You going to tell me?”
I said nothing.
Nora came back. “Exhaustion,” she announced. “Pure and fortunately simple.”
I sat right up. “They sure?”
“Absolutely. He just shouldn’t have made that hike. It’s like someone pulled the plug on his energy. Just gone. They say he’ll be all right, but with his age they want to keep him under observation for a couple of days. Just a precaution. He’s sleeping now. Why don’t you try your parents again?”
I did, but still got no answer. “They weren’t expecting me to be home till late tonight,” I explained. “They went to visit some friends. I don’t know who.”
“Well, he can’t be moved,” said Nora. “And we won’t get another report till late tonight, or early morning. I want you to come back with us, John. I’m sure your parents would rather you were there than here. We’ll figure out the details later.”
“What about his car?”
“Where is it?”
“At the diner.”
“Remember the name? I’ll call them and work out something.”
She did, too, so we didn’t have to worry about that. Then we went out to the Fentons’ van and, without much talk, drove off.
It wasn’t long before we saw a long line of army trucks moving east on the highway. They were in a single line, maybe forty of them, moving slowly with their headlights on even though it was still daylight. It made me think of a funeral procession.
“Looks like a war,” I said.
“Week’s army camp is over,” explained Ann. “Tomorrow a whole new load of reserves come in.”
With no one talking much I found myself sleepy, my head nodding.
“Go lie in the back,” suggested Nora. “You must be beat.”
I didn’t argue. There was a sleeping pad in the rear section. I lay down and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew we were in Lickdale.
I tried my folks again, but still didn’t get an answer. Then it was time for dinner. Tom Fenton came back and learned what had happened. He shook his head. “One thing after another,” he said. I looked up sharply. Ann was watching me.
When I finally reached my parents, it was late. Naturally, they were shook. But when Nora got on the line they sorted it out. We would all meet the next morning at the hospital.
I went to sit out on the front steps, trying once more to clear my head.
After a while Ann came out and sat down next to me, penny whistle in hand. At first she said nothing. Then, “That first time I went up there, I got frightened. It was like . . . well, once I went to Philadelphia with my mom. At one point we split up. Then when it was time to meet, I couldn’t find her. I thought everyone was a mugger, or out to get me. You know, everyone. It turned out that Mom was just waiting on the opposite corner. But I sort of freaked out. . . . And up there, at the cemetery, where there was no one, John, I had the same panicky feeling. Like someone was going to . . . I don’t know. Attack me.”
I kept silent, not sure how I could even begin to explain.
“Why won’t you tell me?” she finally said.
“Nothing to tell.”
She sat awhile longer, then lifted the whistle and began to play. No sooner had she begun, however, than she changed her mind, got up, and without another word went inside.
I stayed alone, feeling miserable, wishing I had the courage to speak to her, to tell her what had happened. I really needed some answers.
That made me think about Uncle Dave. He had been about to say something before he collapsed. I wished I could find out what that was without having to see him. He made me too uncomfortable. Then I began to wonder if he would talk to anyone else about me, about John Proud. Would they believe him? Maybe they would think he was just crazy. I found myself wishing that he would just . . . disappear, be gone.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of booming over the military range. It made me ask myself how anyone could live with that racket so near, so constant.
Then I remembered: There wasn’t supposed to be anything that night. Hadn’t they told me the army people had gone home? I must have misunderstood. At the thought, the gun firing faded away.
I made up my mind that I would face up to Uncle Dave, ask him what he knew, then make him promise not to tell anyone.
I tried to figure out exactly what Uncle Dave knew about me that I didn’t. All that talk about evil . . . his hints. The thought of his teasing brought my anger back. Hadn’t John Proud pretty much said he had made a deal of some kind with Uncle Dave to get me to the cemetery? Talk about evil . . .
And what had I done? Pushed him so hard he collapsed.
So it went, back and forth, rage one moment, guilt the next. Finally I went to bed. Even then I spent a lot of time staring up into the darkness. My last thought of the day: I wished Uncle Dave would just . . . go away.
Early the next morning we drove back to the hospital.
As we pulled into the parking lot, the first thing I saw was my folks’ car. Right away my heart sank, wondering if they had gotten to Uncle Dave, and if he had told them what had happened, really happened.
But at the door when I saw their faces, I knew instantly something else had happened. Sure enough, they told us: During the night Uncle Dave had died.
17
It was as if my thinking had made it happen. Hadn’t I wanted him out of the way? Hadn’t I wished him to disappear? And to tell the truth, I felt a ghastly relief on hearing the news. I shoved that relief away, fast and deep, deep as I could, telling myself I hadn’t meant it, not really.
In the sudden confusion my eyes searched out Ann. Her eyes were right on me. Across that hall we tried to read each other’s thoughts. She was no longer asking me if anything had happened at the cemetery. She wanted to know what. I turned away quickly. The whole thing was over and done with. All I needed to do now was keep my mouth shut for John Proud to go away.
“Should I call you, or will you call me?” she said before we left.
“I’ll call,” I said.
“Promise?”
“Yes,” I said, but I knew I never would.
Before we left I talked to the doctor who had tended Uncle Dave. “Sir,” I said, “I was the one with my uncle when he got sick.”
He turned to look me over. That examining glance brought new fears. Maybe people could look at me—the way Uncle Dave had done—and see something wrong. I had a flash of memory about that history teacher saying that people could see that something was wrong. What did they see?
All the doctor said was “Sorry about all this. It must have been very hard for you.”
I got up my courage. “Was it just exhaustion?”
“Old age mostly. Something just went out of him.”
“Like what?”
“Just an expression,” he said, looking at me. “Did you have something in mind?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “maybe . . . something . . . I did.”
“You?” He put a hand to my shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done. Nothing. It was his idea to go on that hike, wasn’t it? People do what they want and take the consequences.”
There was that word again—want. What did I want? I wondered.
18
The funeral was held three days later. People, mostly family, kept coming up to me, consoling me. I was afraid to look anyone in the face. Maybe they would guess the truth. Just as they were lowering the coffin, I once more felt that strong sense of relief. I heard myself think, “I’m glad. It’s done with. It’s over.”
&nb
sp; Those thoughts shook me with shame. Tears gathering, I hung my head. My father, thinking I was showing grief for Uncle Dave, put a comforting arm around me. That made it even worse.
Over the next two weeks I kept more and more to myself. I didn’t feel comfortable with people, especially my friends. My excuse was that I had to study, that I needed to get good grades. The end of the term was fast approaching. I was left alone.
Not that staying home was easy. Restless, I started to take long walks, meandering through streets, malls, shopping centers, just looking at things. Half the time I didn’t know what I was doing.
Often my thoughts were of Ann. I missed her, but thinking of her made me think of the whole John Proud business, and I was trying to forget that. So I tried not to think of her either. Still, in my walks I would think of things to get her, like a special running outfit, or a recording of some music that reminded me of her penny whistle. Not that I bought anything.
Once, when I was looking at a fancy compass that I thought would be good for hiking, I felt a sudden urge to steal the thing. I was so startled by the thought that I all but dropped the compass and fled from the store.
The truth was that I did spend a lot of my time going over what had happened at the cemetery in St. Anthony’s Wilderness. How many times I visited the place in my head I don’t know. Over and over again. There were times I felt I was actually there.
Perhaps I was.
19
One Saturday morning after about two weeks, I got a call.
“Hi. It’s Ann.”
“Oh, hi,” I said, my heart doing a flip.
“I was hoping you’d call,” she said in her best direct way. “You okay?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means I’m all right.”
“Things settle down?”
“I guess.”
“You don’t seem very certain.”
“Sorry I didn’t call,” I said.
“That’s okay. But why didn’t you stop by when you were around last weekend?”
“What?”
“You were in town last weekend. You might have stopped by to say hello. Mom was upset. So was I. She thinks your parents blame her for what happened to Cousin Dave. Is that why you didn’t come by?”