by Bryn Roar
“Joe?”
“Josie O’Hara. The Irish lass who stood between you and Lester Noonan. You want to know the truth I’m scared to death of that asshole. Josie—she’s the fearless one in our group. The one who doesn’t take no shite.”
“What about Bud Brown? He sure didn’t act scared of Lester. One look at him and that country boy took off like his britches were on fire!”
Rusty nodded sagely. “True that. It’s easy, though, to stand up to someone weaker than yourself…not so easy when that person is bigger and tougher. And ain’t nobody ‘round here tougher than Big Bad Bud Brown.”
“You’re Rusty Huggins, right? My family had dinner at your house early in the summer; remember?"
“Sure I remember. You didn’t say boo all night. Thought you were a mute or something.”
“I’m kinda shy, I guess.”
Just then the double doors banged open. They turned and let out a joint sigh of relief. It was Josie and Bud. “You scared us half to death, man!” Rusty said, standing up and brushing off the seat of his pants.
“Relax, Gnat, all that anxiety is what stunts your growth,” Bud said, in that gravelly voice of his. He’d permanently damaged his vocal cords the night the Red Eyed Man killed his mother. Screaming all night long will do that to you. Josie O’Hara thought it made him sound dangerous and sexy.
He threw a new shirt onto the fat kid’s bare shoulder. “This should fit you,” he said, knocking a cigarette loose from the pack he’d withdrawn from the pocket of his army coat.
Tubby quickly slipped the shirt on, noting that the very pretty girl had turned her back to him, to give him some privacy. A wave of gratitude swept over him as he tucked the shirt into his pants. This one actually covered his whole belly! “Is this your shirt?” he asked Bud doubtfully.
“Buddy boy took it from the supply closet,” Josie said, turning to face Ralph again. There was more than a hint of pride in her voice, thought Tubby.
“You stole it?” Rusty blinked. His eyes were comically huge behind his Mr. Magoo specs.
“I expect his old man paid for it with his tuition,” Bud drawled sleepily. He pointed his cigarette at Tubby. “Let me know when you need another one, Hoss.”
Tubby blinked in awe as Bud Brown cupped his cigarette and fired it with a flick of his silver Zippo. With the collar of his faded green army coat flipped up, his dark bangs hanging over his eyes, Bud Brown exuded confidence and cool. Like one of those defiant J.D.’s from the ‘50’s. Brando in The Wild One, or Jimmy Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. He’d saved Tubby’s skin, given him a shirt, and just like that, Ralph worshipped the ground Bud Brown walked on. In his mind (or maybe it was his male pride), it was Bud, not Josie, who had come to his rescue that day. Bud, who would later make all his dreams come true. As well as a few nightmares.
Rusty checked his watch and threw up his hands in mock despair. “Well, fuck a damn rubber duck! If we go in now it’ll only mean a week of detention! So…”
Josie’s thick auburn eyebrows bounced up and down mischievously. “So…”
“So we ditch,” Bud said, grinning. He tucked the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, where it dangled like the sword of Damocles. “What say, Tolson?” he asked Tubby, much to Tubby’s surprise. Rusty and Josie looked even more taken aback by Bud’s unexpected invitation. They stood gaping in wonder. “You in or what?”
Tubby had never skipped school in his life. At that moment, though, the thought of returning to class with all those knowing eyes laughing at him, as he skulked to his desk, was a bit too much to consider. He took a deep breath and gulped. “Golly! I guess I’m in, too.”
Tubby waddled behind the three kids, following them across the dirt road in front of the schoolyard. He looked nervously up the street where the Drive-In was, expecting to see his mom driving towards him. It would be just his luck to get caught playing hooky on his very first try. They made it across the road, though, and entered into the dark piney woods.
After tucking away their backpacks (Tubby held onto his lunchbox) in a thicket of wild azalea bushes, they came upon a narrow, well-trodden path of sand and crushed oyster shells. “The Old Oyster Trail”, Bud called it. “Ham says its been here since prehistoric times, left behind by the Kiowa and Yemassee tribes that used to hunt and trap back in here.” They walked single-file, with Bud in the lead, Josie behind him, then Rusty, then Tubby.
Tubby hung a little ways back, feeling out of place among the close-knit group of friends. He admired their green army coats, with the raised stitch-work over each chest pocket. The thick black font looked familiar…and then it hit Tubby: it was in the same trembly style of his favorite monster magazine:Famous Monsters of Filmland.
He wondered if that was by accident or design. Either way, it brought out a desire in him to own such a coat, to be a part of this group that had stuck out their necks for him. This surprised Tubby, for he’d given up on being part of a group, a long, long time ago.
He’d never been in the Pines before and he found himself enjoying the scenery. He had wanted to explore its verdant depths but his mother had forbidden him to do so. She had heard stories about the dangerous sinkholes supposedly back in here, and the disquieting rumors regarding the dense woodlands, and that had been that.
The old growth trees in the forest seemed to reach up to the very sky. Wild ferns, palmetto bushes, and a dense tangle of flowery underbrush carpeted the spaces in between most of the lofty spires. An occasional magnolia tree, gum trees, and the odd stately oak, with its draping Spanish moss, broke up the arboreal monotony here and there, though it was clear why everyone called it The Pines. An evergreen scent hung sappy and sweet in the air.
The cheerful twitter of a thousand birds animated this vibrant backdrop. They seemed to fill every branch of every tree, though in a completely non-Hitchcockian sort of way. Squirrels flew in the limbs overhead, chattering down at the kids like angry old biddies. Every now and then, unseen animals would crash heavily through the choking underbrush, causing everyone to pause and look that way.
To Tubby it was like walking down a jungle trail in a Tarzan movie. A hint of adventure filling the air. He was enjoying it so much, in fact, that the miles unrolling beneath his plodding sneakers barely registered in his mind. “Are there really sinkholes back here?” he wondered aloud.
Rusty turned to look at him. “Yeah, some of ‘em are even flooded! You wouldn’t want to fall in one of those unless you had somebody nearby handy with a rope. We know where they are, so just stick close, big guy.”
“Besides,” said Josie, giving Tubby a smile that caused his breath to catch in his throat. “You’d have to go well off the path to find one. The worst holes are out in Oak Swamp, where the Army Base is. You don’t want to go back there, anyway—not without a boat and a bazooka,” she added cryptically.
“Army Base?” Tubby said.
“It’s not actually an Army base anymore. It’s some sort of research facility; animal testing, that sort of thing. Dogs, mostly, I think. Maybe some monkeys. Some genius decided to name it The Research Center. Original, huh? Mooners still call it the Army Base.”
“I’ve never seen any signs or roads leading to it,” said Tubby, trying not to smile. Josie’s Irish accent, so thick on the school steps, was now sweet and light.
“Cause there aren’t any. It’s cut off from the rest of the island. In case any of its test subjects escape, I guess. Oak Swamp guards it from the inland side, while an ankle-busting rocky beach protects its outer exposures. The only reasonable access is their docks. The employees there have to take a boat to get into town.”
“There’s quicksand back there, too,” Rusty put in, apropos of nothing at all as far as Tubby could determine.
“Aww, that’s just an old wives tale,” Bud said. He picked up a stick and hurled it into the woods. Seconds later it crashed into the brush, scaring some birds in its wake. They scolded the kids as they took flight.
Rusty seemed to take o
ffense at Bud’s dismissive tone. “Oh yeah? Then what about that Jenkins kid who disappeared out there two years ago?”
“He could have drowned in the swamp,” Bud said, shrugging. As if that prospect was more reasonable than dying in a pool of quicksand.
Josie shuddered. “Probably ran into those man-eating guard dogs.”
“Not according to the mad scientists,” Rusty insisted.
“Mad scientists?” Tubby asked, blinking.
“That’s what we call those lab rats over there,” Rusty explained. “They’re all so mysterioso, if you know what I mean. Anywho, they swore the Jenkins brat never set foot on their base, even though his friends watched him climb over the fence! Ask me, there’s something funny going on over there.”
“Adam Sandler funny, or Twilight Zone funny?”
Bud rattled off the opening bit of that show, in what Tubby could only assume was supposed to be a Rod Serling impression. If so, it was god-awful.
“Just where are we going?” he asked, trying to change the subject. Ralph was beginning to feel uneasy in the company of these kids who called themselvesThe Creeps. Besides, they had been walking for some time now. His flat feet were starting to throb.
“Lizard Lake,” Bud replied over his shoulder. “We got a little place there we go to now and again,” he added vaguely. “Nobody ever bothers us out here. ‘Cause most Mooners think the Pines are haunted.”
“Is it your clubhouse?” Tubby asked, pretending he hadn’t heard the last. He at once regretted the question. Clubhouse? Only little kids have clubhouses!
“It’s more like a second clubhouse,” Josie replied. “Our real hangout is on top of the wax museum.”
“If you say so,” Bud muttered under his breath.
“The Dark Side of the Moon, on Main Street?” Tubby recalled seeing Bud and an older looking fellow, possibly his dad, changing some of the bulbs on the marquee. Gee, Bud, is that your family’s museum?”
Bud turned and gave him a rare smile. The sight of which warmed Tubby’s heart as much as the grin Josie had bestowed upon him earlier. He was a little ashamed at his earlier notion that these kids might mean him harm.
“Me and my old man’s,” Bud said.
“Have you been there yet, Tubby?
Josie turned on her friend, her Irish brogue dark again. “Rusty Huggins! Don’t you dare call him that!”
“All right, Tits. Damn!” Rusty smiled at Tubby, rolling his eyes conspiratorially in Josie’s direction. “Hey, uh…Tolson, I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Tubby didn’t know what to say. No girl had ever stuck up for him like that before, much less twice in the same day. Much less one so beautiful! The desire to stare at Josie O’Hara was overwhelming; like being in the presence of the Sistine Chapel without glancing up at the ceiling. He smiled bashfully, equally pleased to be included in Rusty’s banter. “Really, it’s okay. I prefer Tubby to my real name.”
“What’s that then?” Josie insisted on knowing. She and Rusty had fallen behind. Bud, meanwhile, walked ahead of them. Adrift in his gloomy thoughts.
“Ralph,” Tubby said, grinning sheepishly.
“Too true,” Rusty snickered. “Ralph is something you do when you’re sick. Unless you’re a Jackie Gleason character, it’s not a fit name for a human being.”
“I know, right? My dad’s a huge fan of Jean Shepherd—you know, the satirist and author? Only my mom wouldn’t let him name me Jean. Thank God! Ralph is bad enough.” Tubby could tell by the looks on their faces that they didn’t know who Jean Shepherd was. “The author of A Christmas Story? You know, little Ralphie Parker and his quest for an Official Red Ryder bee-bee gun?”
Their eyes lit up. “With a compass in the stock! I love that movie,” Rusty hooted. “Fra-gi-lay. What a riot!”
“Ralph is the name of Jean Shepherd’s literary alter- ego, and it was one my mom had no objections to, especially since it was the name of her favorite poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson, coincidently my middle name.”
“Waldo?” laughed Rusty.
“Jeepers, no! Emerson.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Rusty said solemnly.
“Yeah?”
“How does Flick Emerson Tolson grab you?”
“Golly! I’d give my pinky toes for that name!”
“Ralph is a fine name,” Josie said definitively. “But Ralphie is even better. And that’s what I’m going to call you.” She mussed his already messy hair and then took off after Bud, her copper mane flouncing from side to side.
Rusty caught the wild look Tubby threw after her, and shook his head. He knew that goggled gaze all too well. He’d seen it often enough on Bud’s moody-ass face.
Tubby gasped as they left the woods’ evergreen embrace. One second, soaring pines surrounded them, the next they were walking into a vast clearing. A clear blue lake dominated this lush landscape. Tall grasses grew wild along the mostly steep banks, the green margin spreading unchecked until a rather odd collection of rocks on the eastern ledge of the lake interrupted the growth. On the far side of the water, the steep banks grew more and more shallow, until they reached a narrow point where the swamp emptied into the lake (or the lake emptied into the swamp, Tubby couldn’t tell which). The cypress and moss-strewn oak trees, comprising the majority of the marshy timber, made the wetland a more diversified environment than the Pines. Deep into the swamp, Tubby could make out a lumbering fence before it melted into the gloom. Ghostly looking egrets lazily patrolled the inky waters, and crusty old turtles sought out the sun wherever they could find it. A bald eagle soared out of the darkness and let out a mournful cry, sending a shiver down Tubby’s spine.
“Gee whiz,” he intoned, duly impressed.
Josie and Rusty laughed at his hokey vernacular, and Tubby flinched as if expecting a blow. Still laughing, neither noticed the recoil. If they’d known that Tubby had gotten most of his social skills and word play from TV shows like Ozzie & Harriet and Father Knows Best, they wouldn’t have been so quick to razz the poor guy.
“Golly gee, Opie, maybe you and the Beav could come by later for some milk and cookies!”
“Don’t forget to invite Lumpy,” giggled Josie.
Tubby laughed along cluelessly, wondering what was so dang funny.
He peered down into the clear blue lake. He could see fish swimming near the surface. The lake was deep, though, and except for the water close to the shore, he couldn’t see to the bottom. “Just how far down does it go?”
Bud crushed out his cigarette against his shoe and put the butt in his coat pocket. “If you count the aquifer that feeds it, who knows? The lakebed itself…” Bud turned to Josie. “What do you think, Red? Twenty, thirty feet?”
“At least,” Josie nodded.
Tubby looked confused and Bud explained. “We’ve snorkeled out here several times, but Josie’s the only one who’s been able to reach the bottom. See that disturbance out in the middle of the lake? Where it’s bubbling? That’s the spring water rising up from below. This used to be a part of the Army base, back before World War Two. They’re the ones that dug down to the underwater table.”
“Who stocked it with fish?”
“I asked my dad that once,” said Rusty, “and he swears no one did. That one day they were just there. I don’t know if he’s pulling my pickle or what, but so far nobody’s given me a better answer. Shiiit, maybe they came up through the aquifer.”
“You guys do any fishing up here?”
“Sometimes,” Josie said. “But Ralphie,The Creeps aren’t about fishing or contemplative hikes in the woods.”
Tubby’s breath caught in his throat, as Josie once again turned that thousand-watt smile on him—like one of the Xenon bulbs in his dad’s old Century projector. So bright it could melt your retinas. He’d only recently begun to find girls interesting. Truth was, Tubby still preferred monster movies to the opposite sex.