by Pete Hautman
“She still knows the names of things,” Tucker said, staring at the smear of fly guts on his father’s brow. “She still knows the names of all the flowers and trees.”
The Reverend’s smile became wistful. “She has retained that, at least.”
“Maybe she really does see ghosts.”
“Tuck, you know she is not right in her head. Watch your bobber!”
Tucker’s bobber had disappeared beneath the surface of the lake. He jerked his rod up, felt a moment of resistance, then the bobber leaped out of the water, plopped back to the surface, and settled, sending out a succession of concentric, expanding ripples.
The Reverend grunted. “You lost him.” He watched Tucker reel in his line and lift the empty hook from the water. “Lost your worm, too.” Another deerfly landed on the Reverend’s arm and bit into him. He cursed and swung at it, but missed.
From behind them, a reedy voice filtered down through the maples.
“Your mother is calling us to dinner,” said the Reverend. “Thank God. I’m getting eaten up out here.”
They trudged up the path through the trees to the house, where Emily Feye stood on the porch waiting, hollow eyed, her forehead creased, her fine, brittle hair standing out — now almost completely white with faded orange at the tips. Her thin hands clutched at each other like fearful waifs.
Dinner was canned chicken soup, frozen broccoli boiled nearly to mush, and undercooked potatoes. Emily Feye’s days as a formidable cook were far in the past. Still, Tucker would always remember that modest supper with his parents even though it was no different, really, from hundreds of others.
It would be their last meal together.
TOM AND WILL KRAUSE SHOWED UP ON THEIR BIKES shortly after dinner, just as Tucker was finishing the dishes.
“Rope swing!” Will yelled.
Tucker did not need a second invitation. He ran upstairs to tell his dad where he was going. He stopped short when he saw both his parents sitting on the edge of their bed. His mother was staring vacantly at nothing, her mouth open, her features slack. His dad sat close beside her, holding her hand. His cheeks were wet with tears.
“Dad?” Tucker had never seen his father cry — it frightened him.
“Tuck.” The Reverend wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Are you okay?”
The Reverend attempted a reassuring smile. “We’re fine, Tuck.”
Tucker did not know what to say. They weren’t fine. Part of him wanted to throw himself on them and hug them both, while another part of him saw two strangers inhabiting his parents’ bodies. The longer he stood there, the more uncomfortable he became.
“Was there something you wanted, Tuck?” his father asked, straining to hold on to his smile.
“Um . . . I’m going over to Hardy Lake with Tom and Will. . . . Is that okay?”
The Reverend nodded. His face relaxed, erasing the false smile.
“I’ll be back soon,” Tucker said.
“Take your time, son. Enjoy yourself with your friends.”
That was a strange thing for his father to say. Usually he would say something like Don’t be late. Or simply nod and say nothing at all.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Tucker asked.
The Reverend said, “You know I would do anything for your mother. Anything.”
“Me too,” Tucker said.
“I know you would.” His father tried to smile again, but failed. “Go on, Tuck. Your friends are waiting for you.”
Tucker walked slowly back downstairs and outside. Tom and Will were already pedaling down the street. He hesitated. Maybe he should stay home. His dad seemed really upset. But what could he do? Nothing.
Tom and Will disappeared around the bend. Tucker felt a spark of anger. None of this was his fault. Why should he feel bad about going off with his friends? He looked back at the house. His mom and dad would still be there when he got home. It wasn’t as if anything would change, as much as he wanted it to.
Tucker hopped on his bike and went tearing off down the road.
Tucker caught up with Tom and Will just as they reached Hardy Lake. Tom leaned his bike against the rope-swing tree, took off his backpack, and triumphantly dumped out an assortment of illegal fireworks: a brick of firecrackers, three Roman candles, and several packets of bottle rockets.
“Where’d you get ’em?” Tucker asked.
“Our cousin Tony,” Will said. “He bought them in Wisconsin. Let’s shoot some off!”
Tom said, “We gotta wait for dark.”
“Yeah, right,” Will said. “You just want to wait and see if Kathy Aamodt shows up.”
“Shut up!” Tom said.
“Tom asked his girlfriend to come,” Will said.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Tom said.
“You got the hots for her.”
“I do not. Anyway, she said she can’t come.”
Tucker believed Will, partly because just about everybody had the hots for Kathy Aamodt, the best-looking girl at Hopewell Public, and in part because Tom was blushing.
Tom looked at the rope. “Who’s first?”
They took turns, each time attempting to introduce a new variation into their routine. Tom did one swing standing on the knot. Will tried launching himself from farther out on the branch, which sent him spinning in a figure eight and brought him perilously close to the trunk. Tucker hung from the knot by his knees, holding the rope with one hand, letting the other hand skim the water as he arced low over the lake.
None of them had yet dared to let go at the high point — about thirty feet above the lake — and jump. Tucker had made several attempts, but at the critical instant, his hands had failed to unclench.
The other thing that prevented Tucker from letting go was the memory of the face he had seen the first time he had used the swing. Every time he reached the highest point of the arc, he half expected to see it again, but he never did.
As the sun dropped behind the trees, Will came up with a new variation. Tom was climbing the trunk for one more ride when Will unwrapped a packet of bottle rockets.
“What are you doing?” Tucker asked.
“Watch this.” When Will Krause said “watch this,” it often turned out to be interesting — and dangerous.
Tom settled himself on the branch and wrapped his legs around the rope.
“Are you gonna jump?” Tucker shouted.
Tom pushed himself off the branch with a howl — he always yelled as he dropped. The instant he left the branch, Will lit one of the rockets and held it out, pointing it over the lake. The rocket fizzed, then leaped from his hand, heading straight at Tom. It missed his feet by inches and exploded in a shower of yellow sparks.
“Hey!” Tom yelled on the backswing. “Cut it out!”
Will, laughing hysterically, lit a second rocket. This one zoomed right under Tom’s butt. Tom dragged his feet hard in the water, slowing himself, jumped from the swing, and took off after Will.
Will dropped the matches and ran down the shore, laughing. Tucker was laughing too. A few seconds later he heard shouts, followed by a howl of pain. Soon, the brothers came walking back. Every few steps, Tom would slug Will in the shoulder, eliciting an angry curse with each blow.
Tucker knew that the best way to make peace between the two was to come up with something more interesting than fighting.
“C’mon, you guys, let’s blow something up.”
“Blow what up?” Tom said, once again hammering his knuckles into Will’s shoulder.
“I saw some beer cans over there. We could pack, like, fifty firecrackers in a can and see if there’s anything left after they go off.”
“Forget it,” Tom said. “Let’s just go home. My shoes are soaked and I’m tired. Besides, the mosquitoes are coming out.”
“Come on. It’s just getting dark,” Tucker said. “Tell you what: how about I swing and you guys try to shoot me?”
“You’re crazy,” said Tom. B
ut Tucker could tell he was interested.
“You get two shots each. If you both miss, then one of you has to take a turn.”
“What if we hit you?” Tom asked.
“Then I have to go again.”
“Why build your swing on the edge of a lake if you are not going to jump?” The three of them looked up. Lahlia was standing on the bank, her face barely visible in the fading light. Bounce sat at her feet, his tail twitching.
“Why don’t you jump?” Will said.
Lahlia did not deign to reply.
“Hey, you want to shoot a bottle rocket at Tucker?” Will asked.
“For what purpose?” she asked.
“It’s a contest,” said Tucker.
The doubtful look Lahlia was giving him made Tucker feel stupid and angry. He hated that look, and he hated anybody telling him what to do. He decided he had liked her better before she’d started talking.
Lahlia picked up her cat and climbed down the bank. “I heard explosions. I suspected it was you three doing something perilous.” She nudged the bag full of fireworks with her foot. “Are these the noisemakers?”
“They’re called fireworks,” Tom said.
“How do they work?”
“You’ve never seen fireworks?”
Lahlia shook her head.
Tom lifted a handful of bottle rockets from the sack. “These are rockets,” he said. “You light them here.”
“And they make the noises?”
“I’ll show you.”
“Wait a sec,” said Tucker, grabbing the rope. “Let me give you something to aim at.” He pulled the rope up the bank and started up the tree trunk.
Will was all for it. “We can twist a bunch of rockets together,” he said. “Light them all at once.”
“Why does he want you to shoot rockets at him?” Lahlia asked Tom.
“He’s crazy, I guess,” said Tom.
Tucker crawled out along the branch as far as he dared. He wedged the rope between his legs. Funny thing — he wasn’t scared at all. Excited, but not scared. Maybe a rocket would explode in his face and knock him out. Maybe he would fall into the lake and drown. He shrugged it off. Whatever happened would happen.
“You guys ready?”
“Hang on a sec,” Will said. Tucker could see them fumbling with the rockets, twisting fuses together.
“Now?” He was ready to go and afraid if he waited any longer, he would lose the urge.
“Almost.”
Tucker saw the flare of one match, then another.
“Okay,” Tom shouted.
Tucker closed his eyes and pushed off. Time slowed. Each millisecond of his descent seemed to stretch. Images from the past year flickered through his head: the first time he saw Lahlia in her silver shift and blue stockings, his mother’s frizzy white orange-tipped hair, his father’s trolls, his father’s tears. The rope went taut, the knot jammed into the backs of his thighs. He swung out, then up.
This is it, Tucker thought. He opened his hands and legs, and the rope left him. Cartwheeling through the dark, rockets whizzing past him filling the sky with yellow sparks and sharp, bright explosions, he imagined Lahlia’s dark eyes upon him.
IT WAS NEARLY ELEVEN WHEN TUCKER GOT HOME, AN hour after his usual bedtime. The yard light, porch light, and the kitchen lights were all burning. Tucker leaned his bike against the garage and quietly let himself in through the side door. His parents were probably in bed, listening for his return. Or maybe they’d fallen asleep and wouldn’t know what time he got in. He turned the lights off and crept up the stairs, staying to the outside of the treads to silence the creaks and squeaks. The house was remarkably quiet. His parents’ bedroom door stood slightly ajar. Tucker peeked through the crack. Their bed was unoccupied and neatly made.
His dad was occasionally called away at night to minister to the sick or dying — but where could his mother have gone? He went downstairs and turned the lights back on. Maybe they’re out looking for me, Tucker thought. If so, his dad would be furious when he got home. But why hadn’t they left him a note?
Tucker looked outside. Their car was parked in front of the garage, so wherever they were, they hadn’t driven there. Maybe they had walked over to their neighbors, the Reillys, or into town. Or someone had picked them up.
Tucker searched the rest of the house, feeling increasingly uneasy. He looked in the basement, checking the root cellar, the furnace room, and the workshop, opening each door with an increasing sense of dread. He ran back upstairs to his parents’ bedroom and opened the door wide. Nothing. The bathroom looked reassuringly normal: three toothbrushes, his father’s shaving mug and brush, his mother’s fancy soaps and shampoos, the old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. His father’s study at the end of the hall contained the usual desk, chair, and books — but not his parents. He sat in his father’s chair and thought. There were plenty of perfectly reasonable explanations, he told himself. One of his dad’s parishioners might have driven over and said, Help me, Reverend. My mother is dying and she needs you to pray with her!
Of course, his father might have replied.
Won’t you come along, too, Mrs. Feye? My mother always liked you. . . .
Nah, Tucker thought, not likely. Nobody in their right mind wanted anything to do with his mother, not these days. Another thought hit him: what if his mom had gotten sick, and his father had to take her to the hospital? No, the car was still here. Unless the car had failed to start. Maybe they’d called an ambulance. Maybe his father had had a heart attack. Tucker’s brain reeled with morbid scenarios, none of which seemed likely when examined closely.
Whatever the explanation, the Reverend would not be pleased to find Tucker sitting in his study when he returned. Tucker turned off the light and closed the door behind him. He had looked everywhere — except in his own room. He pushed his bedroom door open and flipped on the light. Everything looked exactly as he had left it, except for a white envelope propped against his pillow. On the front, written in his father’s strong, slanting hand, was his name.
Tucker opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a typewritten message.
Dear Tucker,
Your mother has taken a turn for the worse, and I am taking her to seek treatment . . .
So they were at a hospital!
. . . to a place where, unfortunately, you will not be able to visit us.
I don’t know how long we will be gone, so I have contacted your uncle Curtis and asked him to take care of you. You may expect him to arrive first thing in the morning.
Your mother and I wish you to know that we love you very much. I am confident that Curtis will care for you to the best of his abilities.
At the bottom of the letter was his father’s distinctive, angular signature, complete with the stylized cross at the bottom:
Although the diskos had become passé among her peers, Iyl Rayn continued to maintain her existing network, relocating only those disks that were too easily accessible to corporeals. Still, creatures of flesh and blood managed to find the diskos from time to time. She devoted herself to observing those who employed the portals, with particular attention to the diskos located in and around the geotemporal intersection once known as Hopewell County, Minnesota.
— E3
TUCKER AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF THUNDER.
His mom would be upset. She hated storms. Then he remembered — his mother was gone. His father was gone.
He opened his eyes. Sunlight was pouring in through his bedroom window, but the thunder seemed to be getting louder. Tucker rolled out of bed and ran to the window. No clouds in sight. He could still hear the rumbling. A low-flying airplane, maybe? It was coming from the other side of the house.
The sound stopped abruptly — an engine shutting off. Tucker pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, ran downstairs, and opened the door.
A large, black, battered Harley-Davidson was parked between the garage and the house. Upon it sat a helmeted, leather-clad man
of greater than average size. The man climbed off the bike and removed his helmet. His head was shaved. Thick black eyebrows crowded the center of his face. A prominent nose crooked to the right, as if he were trying to sniff his own cheek. His long chin bristled with several days’ growth of black whiskers. His bright-blue eyes fixed upon Tucker and widened.
“I’ll be damned,” the man said.
Tucker did not doubt it.
“You Tucker?” the man asked.
Tucker nodded.
The man scowled. “You recognize me?”
Tucker shook his head. The man looked like a younger, beefier, outlaw version of Tucker’s father, but he was sure he’d never seen him before.
“Are you Curtis?”
“Nobody’s called me that in years. Call me Kosh.”
Kosh? Tucker’s mom had called him Kosh that one time.
“But you’re my uncle Curtis, right?”
“That’s right, kid. You sure you don’t recognize me?” He walked toward Tucker, stopped about eight feet away, and peered at him closely. “I must be nuts. You look exactly like this kid I met one time.” He took in the house, the garage, and the path down to the lake. “The old homestead. I remember it being bigger.” He looked back at Tucker. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that your old man came back and saved me the trouble of looking after you. I see his car’s here.”
“They didn’t take the car,” Tucker said. “I think they went to some hospital.”
“That’s what Adrian said.” Kosh stepped closer, bringing with him the smell of sweat, leather, and motorcycle. “They left last night?”
Tucker took half a step back. “They were gone when I got home. They left me a note.”
“Can I see it?”
Tucker ran back inside to get the note. When he returned, Kosh was standing on the path looking out over the pond, his hands tucked in the back pockets of his black jeans. Tucker took the opportunity to check out the bike, an aging, battle-scarred Harley. Nearly every exterior surface was dinged, dented, crumpled, or scratched. The studded black leather seat was worn nearly through — it had been crudely patched more than once. The chrome plating had peeled away from the exhaust pipes, revealing rusting steel beneath. Tucker circled the bike, marveling that it had made it all the way to Hopewell. The license plate read KOSH5, implying at least four other Koshes — or, more likely, that this Kosh owned several other bikes.