As Ever, Gordy

by Mary Downing Hahn

  "Let's see what he's doing," I whispered.

  The three of us crept down the driveway and peered into the kitchen. Whitman sat at the table playing solitaire. A bottle of Lord Calvert whiskey, the old man's favorite, stood at his elbow, and there was a glass next to it. Every now and then, he took a sip from the glass. Mrs. Whitman was washing dishes, her back to us. And to him, too.

  "He looks kind of sad," Toad said. "Maybe we should just leave him be."

  "I've got no pity for drunks," I muttered.

  "He's not like your dad," Toad said. "He—"

  "What do you mean?" I glared at Toad. In the light from the kitchen window, his face was as pale and round as the man in the moon. "Are you saying it's okay for a rich guy to hit the bottle? But not a bum like my old man?"

  That confused Toad. "No, Gordy, I just—"

  "Can it, you guys," Doug said. "We're here to throw some cherry bombs, not-get into a dumb argument."

  "All I meant was—"

  "Shut up. Toad," I hissed, "or I'll kick your fat behind from here to next Sunday."

  Toad scowled, but he had enough sense to hunker down beside Doug and keep quiet.

  "I'll hold the storm door open," Doug said, "and Gordy can throw the cherry bombs into the vestibule. They'll go off with a really big bang in a little space like that."

  For a second, I thought about asking Doug how come I was the one throwing the cherry bombs and he was the one holding the door. But then I decided I'd be the true hero, the guy who did the actual deed, who took the biggest risk. Doug would just be my sidekick.

  Toad frowned. "How about me? They're my cherry bombs. Don't I get to do anything?"

  "I thought you didn't want to be involved," Doug said.

  "Well, now that I'm here," Toad muttered, "I might as well have some fun."

  "You can be the lookout," I said. "Go hide in the bushes and yell if you see anything."

  "Like what?"

  Doug sighed. "Use your imagination. Toad."

  "Listen up," I whispered. "This is a sneak attack, a raid, like the old days when we played war. As soon as I throw the cherry bombs, everybody rim. We'll meet up at the Little Tavern."

  The three of us shook hands and slapped each other on the back. Three musketeers, buddies forever, "one for all and all for one"—that was us.

  After Toad disappeared into a clump of fancy evergreens, Doug and I crept around the comer of the house and tiptoed up the back porch steps. I waited till Doug eased the storm door open. Then I lit the cherry bombs and threw them.

  As Doug predicted, the cherry bombs exploded with a deafening blast. A second later, the porch light flashed on and the door flew open. Whitman yelled my name, following it with a string of curses. Dogs barked.

  I turned to run, but I tripped over a little bush and fell flat on my face. It knocked the wind clean out of me. The next thing I knew, the professor had an arm lock on me. I struggled to get away, but he was pretty strong for an old guy.

  "There's no use putting up a fight," Whitman snarled. "My wife's calling the police. I hope they haul you to jail and throw away the key."

  He yanked me to my feet and shoved me up the steps and into the kitchen. Before the door slammed shut, I looked over my shoulder. No sign of Doug or Toad. My buddies were probably home already, hiding under their beds for fear I'd tell on them.

  Well, Gordy Smith was made of finer stuff than that. Even if his buddies betrayed him, he'd be true to them.

  18

  THE PROFESSOR SLAMMED ME DOWN IN A CHAIR AT THE kitchen table and told me not to move. While he hollered about mayhem and destruction, his wife leaned against the sink and gazed at me like she wasn't sure what to think. The room was hot, the light bright, and I was so hungry my stomach was growling almost as loud as the professor was yelling.

  Just when it seemed things couldn't get worse, Mr. Crawford arrived in full cop uniform—badge, gun, and everything.

  I stared at Lizard's dad and he stared at me. Just thinking of what she must have told him about me made me feel sick. No doubt he'd be happy to haul me off to jail. Why let a beast like me roam the streets? As long as I was loose, the good citizens of College Hill weren't safe in their own houses.

  "What's going on, Roland?" Crawford asked.

  Whitman immediately launched into a long, ram bling tirade about the cherry bombs and all the other stuff he thought I'd done, including the theft of his wife's underwear.

  When the professor stopped to take a breath, Crawford turned to me. "Is this true, Gordon?"

  "Not all of it," I said. "I never stole anybody's underwear." I was trying to sound tough, even wisecrack a little, but my voice came out as high as a girl's.

  "What about the cherry bombs?" Crawford asked.

  I gnawed on my thumbnail. It made no sense to lie. Whitman had practically caught me red-handed. "It was just a joke," I muttered.

  "A joke?" Whitman turned on me, his face purple. "You call that a joke? You could've burned my house down, you miserable little anarchist!"

  "Now, Roland," Crawford said, "let me handle this."

  Whitman poured himself another glass of whiskey. Didn't even add water. I glanced at Mrs. Whitman. Twisting a dish towel nervously, she watched her husband sip the whiskey. I had a feeling she wished he'd put the bottle away before Crawford arrived.

  Crawford stepped closer to me. His holster creaked as he leaned across the table and stared into my eyes. "Where did you get the cherry bombs, Gordon? You know as well as I do they're illegal in Maryland."

  I gnawed my thumbnail harder. I was down to the quick now, and I tasted blood. "Maybe I found them."

  "Do you expect me to believe that?" Crawford shoved his face even nearer. "Who gave them to you?"

  "I bought them in D.C.," I said, avoiding his eyes. which were just as blue as Lizard's, the color of the sky in October. "They're legal there."

  "Not to a minor," Crawford snapped. "Tell me who sold them to you and maybe we can work out a deal with the professor. Get you out of this mess."

  "It was just some guy on a corner," I told him, making up my story as I went along. "He gave them to me for a quarter. I guess he needed money."

  Crawford sighed and turned to Whitman. "What do you want me to do with this boy?"

  Whitman knocked back the rest of his whiskey and reached for the bottle. "Haul him off to jail, lock him up, throw away the key."

  "Roland, you know I can't do that." Crawford took the bottle and handed it to Mrs. Whitman, who scurried away with it like she was running for a touchdown. If she had any sense, she'd pour it down the toilet. I'd gotten rid of the old man's liquor that way more than once. Of course he'd beaten me black and blue later, but in a way it was worth it.

  "Are you going to press charges?" Crawford asked.

  "Possession of fireworks," Whitman said, counting my crimes on his fingers, "disturbing the peace, destruction of property, trespassing—that little miscreant is guilty as sin."

  "Gordon may have disturbed the peace," Crawford said, "and he certainly trespassed, but I can't see that he destroyed anything. Why don't we forget the whole thing?"

  "Forget?"

  "Give the boy another chance, Roland. I'm sure he'll—"

  "Give him another chance?" Once more Whitman's face turned purple. "So he can bum my house to the ground next time? Trample my shrubbery? Ruin my lawn?"

  "I've talked to Gordon's brother. He says—"

  "He says—isn't his brother the coward who deserted during the war? The bum my former neighbors' daughter married?"

  "Stuart's a responsible young man now," Crawford said. "He's promised—"

  "I don't give a whoop-de-do about any deserter's promises!"

  Things went on like that for quite a while. I couldn't believe Crawford was actually taking up for me and Stu. Maybe Lizard hadn't said as much bad stuff about me as I'd thought.

  It was Mrs. Whitman who finally settled it. Though she hadn't said a word all night, she stepped up to he
r husband, looked him in the eye, and said, "Roland, the truth is, you're in no shape to decide anything. I suggest you go to bed and sleep it off. In the morning, when you can think straight, we'll talk it over."

  The professor scowled, but he didn't hit her the way the old man would have hit Mama if she had dared speak up like that. "I am tired," he admitted. "Hazel's right, it's late. We should all go to bed."

  Crawford took my arm and led me toward the door. "I'D drive Gordon home," he told the professor. "Call the station when you decide what you want to do. But don't be too hard on the boy."

  Keeping a tight grip on me, Crawford shoved me into the police car. "Where were you aD day, Gordon? Stuart's been worried to death."

  "No place special." I was tired and hungry, and I wasn't in the mood to answer any questions. What I would have liked most of all was to be home in bed.

  "Elizabeth told me she saw you at the library this afternoon," Crawford said.

  "Maybe I like to read," I muttered. "Maybe I'm not as dumb as Lizard thinks."

  "Lizard?" For a second, Crawford looked puzzled. Then the light dawned. "Do you mean Elizabeth?"

  "She's probably told you a bunch of lies about me—how stupid I am, how rude I am, how bad I am. She hates me. Loathes me. Despises me. Just ask her. She'll teD you."

  "Is that right?" For some reason Crawford seemed to think what I'd said was funny. "I must admit we hear a lot about you at the dinner table. Too much, as a matter of fact. Gordy this, Gordy that I'd like to get through one meal without hearing your name."

  "None of what she says is true," I mumbled. "Not one word."

  "Was Elizabeth lying about the fight you and Bobby Pritchett had at the dance?"

  I toyed with the zipper on my jacket, running it up and down till it got stuck hallway. "We had a little disagreement," I admitted.

  "Is that how you got the black eye?"

  "Maybe," I said, remembering the lies Mama had taught me. "Then again, maybe I fell down the steps. Maybe I walked into a door. Maybe I—"

  "Let me tell you something," Crawford cut in. "You're not half as tough as you pretend to be. Right now you're scared to death."

  I shook my head, trying to keep up my act, but Crawford wasn't finished reading my mind.

  "If you're not scared, you should be," he went on. "Whitman's a nice guy when he's sober, but after he gets a few whiskeys under his belt, he's nobody to fool with. You better pray he forgets about those firecrackers. If he presses charges, you could end up doing a couple of months in reform school."

  I went back to biting my nails. Reform school—that would just about kill Stu. Wouldn't do much for me, either. Donny had told me plenty of stories about his six months there. Getting beat up by guys twice his size wasn't the worst of it.

  Crawford pulled into the apartment parking lot and cut the engine. "I'd be willing to bet you had some accomplices tonight," he said. "Tommy Sutcliffe and Doug Murray come to mind."

  I let Toad's and Doug's names drop into the silence like stones. If Crawford thought I'd betray my buddies, he was wrong. Even though they'd deserted me, I didn't plan to save myself by blabbing on them.

  When I didn't say anything, Crawford cleared his throat. "Listen to me, Gordy. You're not stupid. Use your brains once in a while. Behave yourself."

  A gust of wind struck the side of the car and rocked it. Down the track, a train whistle blew. I felt like telling Crawford to pass the news about my brains to his daughter. She'd laugh in his face.

  A few seconds passed, maybe a minute. Crawford sighed and opened the car door. "Well, there's no sense keeping your brother waiting."

  I followed him toward the apartment building. The light was on in our living room, and I saw someone look out. Stu must have waited up for me. Soon I'd have to face the music, as Grandma would have said.

  19

  WHEN CRAWFORD RAISED HIS HAND TO KNOCK ON OUR door, it flew open and June came running out, followed by the troll.

  "Gordy, Gordy!" June wrapped her skinny little arms around me, and her head banged into my chest so hard she almost knocked me over. The troll hopped from one foot to the other, babbling about bad Yuncle Poopoo.

  "Where have you been, Gordy?" Stu's face was pale, worried, almost scared. "I've been all over town looking for you."

  At the same time, Barbara said, "Your eye—oh, Gordy, what happened to your eye? And your lip—it's cut, too."

  June dung to me. "I thought you went off and left me, I thought you weren't coming back, I thought I'd never see you again, I thought—" She was crying too hard to finish the sentence.

  "Don't be silly," I muttered, secretly pleased she was making such a fuss over me. "I wouldn't go anywhere without you, June Bug."

  Barbara gave me a hug. "I saved a hot dog for you. It's cold by now, but I bet you haven't eaten a thing all day."

  I was too surprised to answer. The way I'd acted, I hadn't expected Barbara to offer me food. I opened my mouth to thank her, but she was already leading June and Brent to bed.

  "Is Whitman pressing charges?" Stu asked Crawford.

  "When he sobers up, he may decide it's not worth pursuing. But on the other hand—" Crawford shrugged. "Whitman's hard to predict."

  Stu looked about as glum as a man can look, but he reached out and shook Crawford's hand. "Thanks for bringing Gordy home," he said. "I'll make sure he stays here for a while."

  Crawford eyeballed me and then turned to Stu. "Gordon's not a bad kid," he said. "I've seen lots worse, believe me."

  The door shut behind him. "I'm sorry, Stu," I said. "I didn't think—"

  "That's just it," he said wearily. "You didn't think. You never think."

  "I know, you're right, I never think." I was so tired I'd have agreed with anything Stu said. But it was true—I never thought, at least not straight My head was full of ideas, but they were all jumbled, some urging me to do one thing, others urging me to do the opposite. It was like trying to tune in a radio station during a thunderstorm—nothing came in but static.

  "Tell me about it," Stu said wearily. "Start at the beginning."

  "Can't we go to bed?" I asked. "In the morning, things might not seem so bad. They might—"

  "I want to hear it now." Stu sat down at the dining table, and I took a seat opposite him. Between us was a sloppy heap of books and papers so high I could barely see over it.

  "Well," I said slowly, "it all started when I asked Lizard to the Sweetheart Dance and she turned me down." I went on from there, telling Stu pretty much everything except for stealing the record album—no sense making things even worse for myself.

  "It's this town," I finished up. "Nobody likes us here. They make cracks about you and the old man. Call you a deserter, call him a drunk."

  Stu chewed his lower lip, but he didn't say a word. The dock ticked, the refrigerator cut on and off—monotonous sounds you hear everywhere.

  "It was different at Grandma's," I said. "She made sure people treated us right. She took up for us. She cared."

  Stu looked startled. "I care about you, Gordy."

  "No, you don't." I waved my hand at the table. "Books—that's what's important to you, that's all that matters. You keep your head buried in them like an ostrich, just hoping nobody will bother you. It's not me you care about, it's your dumb education."

  "That's not fair, Gordy. It isn't even true." Stu peered over the books, his face tight with worry. "Our whole future depends on my graduating and getting a job. Can't you understand that?"

  I snorted. "You think teaching English is going to make you rich?"

  "I don't want to be rich," Stu went on. "I want to do something important with my life, and teaching—well, teaching seems like the best way to—"

  Red-faced, Stu ground to a stop, as if he'd just revealed some deep, dark secret about himself. "Does that sound pompous?" he asked, looking even more worried than usual.

  "How should I know?" I scowled at him, annoyed at the way he threw fancy words around. Was he trying to
make me feel stupid?

  "Never mind." Stu sighed as if I was too dumb to understand.

  Suddenly fed up, I jumped to my feet. "Why don't you say what you're really thinking? Why don't you cuss and yell and call me a stupid, no-good juvenile delinquent? Why don't you haul off and punch me?"

  My voice rose with every word, but Stu just sat there looking at me. "Yelling doesn't solve anything," he said in a maddeningly calm voice. "Neither does swearing or hitting. I should think you'd know that as well as I do, Gordy."

  I lost every shred of patience. How could he be so blind, so bullheaded, so smug? It was beyond belief. "Who do you think you are?" I yelled. "Saint Stuart?"

  "All I want is a nice home, a decent place where nobody fights or loses his temper!" Stu's face reddened, and his voice began to rise, too. "Why can't you understand, Gordy? Why can't you help?"

  "Help you live in some dreamworld?" It was all I could do not to punch his stupid face. "The only way I can do that is leave, go out to Tulsa, and find Donny. He hasn't gone to college, he's not smart like you, but he's no chump. He knows a lot more about life than you ever will!"

  Before Stu could stop me, I swept everything off the table—books, papers, pencils and pens, a coffee cup. "There," I shouted, daring him to do something about it. "That's what I think of you and your books!"

  Stu ran around the table and grabbed me. "Stop it, Gordy, stop it!" he yelled.

  "Make me, you coward, you yellow deserter!" I struggled to get away from him, I cussed, kicked, hit. I wanted to throw more stuff, smash things, fight. If I could have, I would've hurled the typewriter out the window.

  Barbara ran into the room. "Stu, Gordy, what are you doing?" she cried. "Have you gone crazy? For God's sake, stop it!"

  Stu let go of me so suddenly I reeled backward. "It's like Davis Road all over again," he shouted. "I'll never escape from that house, never! Yelling, swearing, fighting—why does he behave like this? I've done all I can. Why can't he at least try?"

  While Stu ranted and raved, Barbara stared at me, her face bewildered. Unable to meet her eyes, I tried to breathe normally. My heart was pounding so hard, I thought it might burst. I'd done what I wanted, I'd made Stu lose his temper, I'd made him see the real me, but I felt worse instead of better. Without looking at anybody, I started picking up the books. There'd been just enough coffee in the cup to spill on some of Stu's papers and ruin them. Barbara would have to type them over.