by Rich Wallace
I can feel myself shaking, but I’m pretty sure he’s okay. I stare at him. He stares back. So I just turn and get back to class. He shows up there in about five minutes, too. It looks like he washed the blood off in the bathroom.
“Lorne,” Mrs. Munson says when we’re halfway through arithmetic, “what happened to your forehead?”
I freeze.
“I got hit by a BB last night when me and my father were shooting at robins,” he replies.
“Well, it’s starting to bleed again,” the teacher says. She writes him a pass to see the nurse. Next day there’s a purplish, dime-size spot around the cut, and it lasts a few weeks before fading away.
But that was the last I thought of it.
Until now.
CHAPTER FOUR
I lean across to my desk from bed in the morning as soon as I wake up, and an IM from Gary appears on my computer screen:
ck this out. found it online
There’s an attachment and I click on it. It’s an obituary, dated Thursday.
LORNE BAINER, AGE 12
It says he died Tuesday, and I just stare at the screen for a few seconds and think backward. He was already dead when I saw him on that video.
I print the obit and get dressed quickly and text Gary to meet me by the bagel place. The smell of coffee and toast is coming up the stairs.
“You’re not eating?” David asks as I hustle through the kitchen.
“I’ll grab something out. I’m late on a project, so I gotta get in early.”
“You have lunch money?”
“Yeah.”
I’m out the door in a few seconds. Then I open the door again, run up the stairs and brush my teeth, and rush back to the street.
“You read this?” I call to Gary when he finally appears. I shake the printout at him.
“Of course I read it.” But he grabs the corner of the paper and starts reading it again.
“It doesn’t say how he died,” I say.
“Oh no? That’s a pretty good clue right there about the brain injury foundation. That’s no coincidence.”
I read the whole thing again.
Lorne Bainer of Davenport, Pennsylvania, died Tuesday, Nov. 12. He is survived by his parents, Arnold and Leslie. He attended Lake Erie Middle School in Davenport and was a member of the city’s First Presbyterian Church. He was born in Cheshire Notch, New Hampshire, and attended Franklin Pierce Elementary School there before moving to Davenport.
Funeral arrangements are by the Miller Funeral Home of Davenport.
Memorial contributions can be made to the Brain Injury Foundation at the University of Western Pennsylvania.
“Yeah,” I say slowly. “That brain injury thing would do it.”
Gary gives a halfhearted laugh, but he’s looking squirmy. “Wonder which was the fatal blow.”
“You mean, from somebody out in Pennsylvania?”
He shrugs. “Could be. I mean, he was probably getting beat up out there, too. He was always asking for it.”
“Was he?”
Gary hesitates, scratching at his lower lip and staring at the obit. “I didn’t hit him much.”
“Me either.”
“Scapes did more than his share.”
“That’s true.”
“But like I said, it all added up.”
“Yeah, I guess it did.” I just hope nothing I did was a factor. “You said he died a year ago.”
“Guess I was wrong. But he sure is dead now.”
It’s warmed up by the time we get out of school, so we take the long way home and circle toward Main Street. Neither of us mentioned Bainer’s death to anyone at school, but it’s all I thought about. I don’t even know what homework we have or whether we’ve got a test coming up. I’ll find out from somebody over the weekend.
“Still can’t believe this,” I say. My stomach is growling like crazy; no breakfast and just a couple of chicken nuggets at lunch. I couldn’t eat anything. “The freakiest thing isn’t that he’s dead—I mean, that totally sucks for him—but that I saw him the day after he died.”
Gary shrugs. “I guess his energy was still around. Something like that. They say ‘rest in peace,’ but how can you do that if you still have scores to settle?”
“What would he have to settle with me?”
Gary kicks at an acorn on the sidewalk and shoves his hands into the big pocket of his sweatshirt. Then he lets out his breath. “Maybe you just happened to be available. You were online, late at night … maybe he wanted to send you a message.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. So he wouldn’t be forgotten around here. Maybe so people would think twice about the consequences before smacking somebody else around.”
We pass the library, the YMCA, and the newspaper office, then duck into the bagel place and stare at the drink cooler.
“You want a bagel?” I ask.
“Sure.”
I order two cinnamon-raisins and Gary says he wants to hit the skateboard park. I avoid that place because a bunch of dirtbags hang out there looking for trouble. You’ll find Scapes there most afternoons.
“Come on,” he says. “For five minutes.”
“I told my mother I wouldn’t go there.”
“She’s in Europe.”
“So? I still told her.”
He doesn’t even have his skateboard with him, but he goes anyway, so I walk the rest of the way alone, waiting again to cross Main Street. Cheshire Notch is the county seat. We have plenty of bars, which are filled with college kids most nights, and of course a bunch of hair places and funky stores and college buildings. Walmart and McDonald’s and those other chains are out on the highway, removed from the downtown.
I sit on a bench and read the obituary again. I could show Uncle David, to prove that his urban legend idea really did come true, but I think I’ll keep this to myself for now.
After dinner David says he’s going down to the Shamrock Tavern for a few hours. “It’s open mic night,” he says, picking up his guitar. “And I ought to pay my respects at my father’s old hangout.” Grandpa died a long time ago. Grandma, too.
I go up to the attic. Spike is lying on my bed, purring in her sleep. I lie next to her. I’m tempted to look for that Freewheeler video again. With David out of the house I’m kind of scared to even go online, but I can’t hold back. Maybe I can learn something more.
Gary’s sent me another link, this one to the funeral home’s “guest book” for sympathy notices. I click on it to see if anyone cared. The notes are addressed to Lorne’s parents: “So sorry to hear of your loss,” “Our deepest sympathies,” “In our thoughts and prayers,” etc. Then there’s one that makes me think a little harder.
From: Ann Torre, Lake Erie Middle School
Mr. and Mrs. Bainer, please accept my deepest condolences for your loss (and ours). Lorne was in my class for only a short while, but I enjoyed his lively spirit and have missed him during his lengthy hospitalization. Please know that his classmates miss him, too. It’s hard to come to terms with the death of one so young and dear, but we’re soothed that his lingering distress is over and that he’s found a better place in Heaven.
Whew. A “lengthy hospitalization” and “lingering distress.” Sounds like his days in Pennsylvania weren’t too great. I swallow hard and blink a few times, then lie on the bed and shut my eyes.
There was another time.
I’m walking up the dirt hill from the Little League field a couple of springs ago, carrying my glove and minding my own business. The game had gone well—I didn’t strike out and had fielded the few balls hit my way in left field without any trouble. I had a couple of red Twizzlers that I’d tied into knots and was gnawing on them. This wasn’t exactly a shortcut, but I liked climbing the rocky path and cutting through Wheeler Park on my way home. This was wilderness compared to most of Cheshire Notch.
And there’s Lorne, sitting on a boulder alongside the path. I look back and see that you can watch the baseball
games from up here, although the view of the field isn’t great.
He jumps off the rock, right into my path. “How ’bout a bite?” he asks.
“Of what?” I know he means the Twizzlers, but no way he’s putting his mouth on them. I’ve got them balled up in my hand and was enjoying the rubbery texture as much as the flavor, so they’re all slimy from my spit. Why would anyone even want a bite of something like that unless it was your own?
He doesn’t respond to that anyway. “I saw you ground out twice,” he says triumphantly, as if that’s such a big deal. Even the best baseball players only get hits about a third of the time. And Bainer isn’t even in the league.
“Better than you,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I play in a professional league for kids over in Boston on Saturdays. I’m leading the league in home runs.”
“Sure you are.” This was a Saturday. And Bainer had never demonstrated any athletic skill. Like anybody would pay him to play baseball.
He climbs back up on the boulder. “Let’s chuck rocks,” he says.
“At what?”
“Anything. Squirrels. Trees. Bet you can’t hit that window.” He points down the hill to a storage shed in the lot behind the baseball field. There’s one small window in the door.
“That’d be stupid,” I say. “Why would you want to break a window?”
He shrugs. “Just something to do.” He jumps down again and picks up a stone. “I could hit somebody in the outfield from here if I wanted to. Nobody would ever know where it came from.”
I look down the hill. The players for the next game are on the field, but there’s no way he could throw it even half that far.
I’ve had enough of him. “I’m leaving.”
“Don’t be a baby. Stick around.”
“Get lost.” I start walking.
“Come on, Jordan,” he pleads. “Let’s hang out together.”
I don’t even reply. When I’m about thirty yards away I hear a thunk and see a stone bounce into the woods. I doubt that he really tried to hit me with it, but he came close enough. I turn and call him a jerk.
He picks up another stone, but I know he doesn’t have the guts to throw at me again.
“Put it down,” I say.
“Make me.”
“You think I won’t?”
“You’re chicken.” He starts making buck-buck sounds.
No way I’m letting a guy like Lorne Bainer get away with that. I start running toward him. He holds his ground for a few seconds, then turns to get away. I catch him immediately and tackle him to the dirt.
“Lay off!” he cries.
I get to my knees and grab his shirt with both fists. “What’d you call me?”
He turns his head, wincing. “I didn’t mean anything.”
“You’ve got the nerve to call me a chicken?” I shake him a bit. He makes a very obvious sound in his throat as if he’s gathering saliva to spit at me.
“I wouldn’t try that if I was you,” I say.
He spits at me anyway. I let go with my right fist and bring it back. I hesitate, and he starts crying. “Lemme go,” he says.
I push him into the ground and step off him. He scurries into a ball and covers his face. “Come on, Jordan,” he says. “I was fooling around.”
“By throwing a rock at me?”
“It didn’t hit you. I was just kidding.”
“You’re an idiot, Bainer. A total jerk. Stay out of my face.”
He stands up and brushes off his knees, then gives me that stupid, challenging smile that I hate. He can go from crying to laughing in about a tenth of a second. “Let’s hang out for the afternoon,” he says. “You got any money?”
“I wouldn’t hang out with you for a million dollars,” I say. I start walking again, throwing the dusty remains of my Twizzlers into the brush.
That was a few months after the thing in gym class when his forehead hit the chairs. Right before the Bainers moved out of state.
Spike yowls suddenly and runs downstairs. I look over at the computer screen and catch a glimpse of Bainer’s face. Just a split second, but it’s him, glaring at me before the screen goes blank.
I hit the space bar and the screen lights up, but it’s just my desktop—not Bainer. But he was there, right? He was.
Or maybe I’m imagining things, just a vivid memory playing tricks on me.
One thing’s for sure. I’m not staying in this house alone.
* * *
The Shamrock is off Railroad Square, half a block in from Main Street, and Dad says it’s one of the quieter downtown bars. That’s because it’s mostly older people; not enough action for the college crowd, I suppose. I’ve never been in any of the bars, of course, but you hear stories.
It’s raining very lightly, but it’s still fairly warm. There are small piles of dirty snow here and there, but most of it’s melted away. The streets are quiet. The alley you take to the Shamrock is dark, but there’s plenty of light coming from Main.
I can see Uncle David sitting at the bar with a mug of beer, but he’s turned away from the front window, talking to somebody on the next bar stool. I take a seat on a bench under the awning and wait for him to come out. Could be a while.
A police car goes by on Main with its lights flashing but no siren. An older man in a green Celtics cap walks a black Labrador past. Soon two scruffy guys who might be students come walking up.
“Hey,” one of them says to me as he reaches for the door. “You get kicked out?” He laughs.
“Could you tell my uncle to come out here?” I ask.
“Sure. Which one is he?”
“He’s sitting at the bar. Argyle sweater-vest. Ponytail.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
David comes out a few minutes later and lights a cigarette. “What’s up, Jordan?” he asks.
“Just wondered if you’d be coming home soon.”
“Pretty soon.” He looks back through the window. “They asked me to play another set and I just got a fresh beer.… I’ll be home by midnight.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe sooner,” he says. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a couple of dollar bills. “The Citgo’s open, right? Get yourself a candy bar. Tomorrow’s Saturday; you can stay up tonight. Watch TV till I get home, okay?”
“I guess.” I grab the bills. He takes a drag on his cigarette and flicks the rest of it toward the gutter, then goes back into the bar.
I start thinking about where I can kill a few hours till he gets home and still keep my eye on Main Street in case he leaves the bar early. Brewbakers Coffee Shop stays open until midnight on weekends. I can get a hot chocolate and sit by the big front window. With the two dollars David gave me and some of my own, I should be able to pay my way and not get told to leave.
There are two guys at a table near the back of the very narrow café, huddled over a laptop. The only other customer is a balding man in a black Star Wars T-shirt that’s too small for him. He also has a laptop, and the coffee he’s drinking is in a paper Dunkin’ Donuts cup.
The skinny college kid behind the counter looks bored and sullen when I walk in, but he perks up when I come over. “Help ya?” he asks. His shirt says Cheshire Notch Cross-Country.
“Could I get a hot chocolate? For here.”
He nods and turns to make it. It’s kind of dark in here. Folky rock music is playing from somewhere, but I can’t identify it. This place has a hippie vibe to it, like much of the downtown: organic coffee, grainy homemade breads. I take off my jacket and drape it over one of the chairs by the window, and sit at a wobbly table the size of a garbage can lid.
The ceiling is old tin, and the wood floors are scuffed and wide-paneled. There’s about a dozen of these little tables; the walls have posters that say things like, THE DOORS—FILLMORE EAST—MARCH 22, 1968 or OPEN POETRY NIGHT, SUNDAYS 6 P.M.
The guy comes over with my hot chocolate in a ceramic mug. “You all right
?” he asks.
“Yeah. I’m supposed to meet my uncle here, but I’m way early. I might be hanging around for an hour or so.”
“Cool with me,” he says. He sits across from the Star Wars guy and they start talking about video games.
There’s a rumpled Boston Globe on a table, so I skim the sports section. Before long the wind picks up and the rain, too, and it starts driving against the window. Nobody comes in for a long time.
When I reach the bottom of the hot chocolate, there’s a quarter inch of gooey chocolate syrup, too thick to drink. So I get a wooden stirrer and eat it like ice cream.
By 10:30 I’m feeling antsy and figuring that I ought to buy something else, even though the other three guys are still here and they haven’t bought anything since I arrived. An older couple comes in, shaking off the rain, and they order decaf coffees to go. I get on line behind them, keeping an eye on the street. Every once in a while groups of college students have walked past, but there’s been no sign of David.
I get a blueberry muffin and a couple of napkins and go back to my table. I’m getting tired, but I know I couldn’t possibly sleep if I went home. Maybe if David’s in the house, but definitely not if I’m alone. I have to decide where to sleep, too. He’s got the couch, so I’ll probably sleep on top of my parents’ bedspread. (I don’t want to mess up the bed and have them think I was scared to be in the attic.) No way I’m going back up there yet. Not a chance.
Bainer’s dead. How is he doing this?
By 11:30 the clerk is sweeping the floor and I’m the only customer. No sign of my uncle, of course. I get up and leave.
I walk past the Shamrock again. There are more people in there and the music is penetrating through the walls—AC/DC, I’m pretty sure. I still have a clear view of the bar. David has a full beer. He’s pumping his shoulders to the music, and the woman sitting next to him is laughing about something.
I guess I can sleep on the couch till he gets home.
I take the side streets to avoid attention from the cops, since it’s coming up on midnight. There’s a loud party going on at one of the college rental houses; people are sitting on the roof above the front porch. The wet sidewalk in front of the house is shiny with bits of broken glass.