The Crow and Frank James
Lady bug, lady bug, fly away home
Your house is on fire
and your children are all gone
All except little Ann
She hid under the frying pan
How it all Started
I probably should have taken it as a sign, like an omen or something, because I can see now that it was the start of everything. I was sitting in the 6th grade art room. I had been the first to arrive for class, so I took a seat in back to wait for everybody else to show up. A newspaper covered the table in front of me to protect it from paint spills, and the headline of the paper read: "Its All Over At The Hill Climb." I clearly remember seeing the headline and then not giving it another thought. Other stuff occupied my mind. I stretched back in my chair and started daydreaming about the upcoming summer vacation, the sunny days, the warm nights, the freedom. It was only three days away, and I was all warm and cozy with that idea. Maybe too warm, maybe too cozy, definitely too oblivious, because the next thing I know I'm crashing down onto the checkered tile floor, and my chair is clattering across the room. My daydreams zipped away like a dragonfly in a quick breeze and left me flailing around in confusion, trying to figure out how I managed to fall off my chair. When I got stable and looked up, there was this kid standing there. I knew the guy, sort of. I mean I knew who he was. His name was Knochreiner, but I'd never really talked to him or anything. And he says, "hey," like he was my old friend. But I don't say hi back. I ask him why he yanked my chair out from under me, but he just shrugs and grins. So I get up and stand there in front of him and look him right in the face, but nothing. I knew the guy. I mean I knew his name, but that's about it. So I can't figure what he's up to. And he's still not saying a thing, but it's like he wants to. So I wait, but still nothing. And I'm standing there wondering what'll happen next. Is this guys going to pull something else or what? And then, he just moves across to the other side of the room and sits down, still grinning, still looking at me. I know it's weird, but that is how it all started.
Oh, just so you know, my name is Howard James. The kids at school have nicknamed me Frank. I got the nickname when we studied the cowboy outlaws Frank and Jesse James in school. Since my last name is James, somebody started calling me Frank, and the name just stuck.
I'm in the seventh grade now. That's junior high school. Last summer was the final summer before I graduated from 6th grade over to the junior high side of the school, kind of the last summer of my kid days. That whole time is full of stuff I want to talk about. I suppose the same kinds of things that happened to me happen to just about everybody, so you can probably relate. That day in the art room was the beginning, so let me continue the story right around there with the final days of 6th grade.
II The Beginning of the End
A day after the art room incident and one day before school would be over for the year, our teacher, Miss Olson, made an announcement to our class. Miss Olson had been our teacher all year, and we liked her. She taught us a lot of stuff. The stuff we had done hung all up and down the walls of our classroom, stapled and glued and taped to every inch of available space.
The announcement went like this: "Class," she said, "for the last part of the last day of school I would like each one of you to bring whatever you would like for a snack. I will bring some music, and we will have ourselves a little party in celebration of a job well done." Everybody smiled and bobbed there heads in approval. But I didn't like the way she said the word party. She let the syllables hang on her tongue. She dangled the idea in front of us like a scrap in front of a hungry animal. Most kids liked what she told us so far, but something was not right. She continued. "Yes, and everybody, I would like you all to prepare a speech describing what you plan to do this summer. We will all get up and present them during the party." The entire class did a collective slump down in their chairs. It wasn't a celebration at all. It was one final work assignment. What a way to end the year. She couldn't have just let us off easy.
When I got home that night, I told my mom that I needed a snack for a thing on the last day of school. She told me that would be fine, and she would put something together for me. And when I came downstairs the morning of the last day of school, sure enough, a brown paper sack was waiting for me on the kitchen table.
I scooped up the bag as I walked through the kitchen toward the side door. The weight of a soda bottle flopped around inside the bag. "Bye Mom, I'm leaving," I yelled behind me as I walked through the kitchen.
My friend Ron was standing in the driveway waiting for me when I walked out the door. Ron had been my friend for the last couple of years, mostly because we both like going down to the lake and goofing around. We just started running into each other a lot down there. We like a lot of the same things. The only thing that he likes that I hate is baseball. He loves his baseball.
We live in a place called Garden Grove. It's a medium size town on the edge of a pretty good-sized lake. The lake is a great place to mess around without anybody knowing what you're doing. Once, Ron and I caught two bass, which are fish, on a piece of line and a gold hook and that's all, no bait or anything. I still remember what Ron said. He said, "how does it feel to be smarter than a fish?" He's always trying to be funny, but he's not really.
A larger city sits on the other side of the lake. If you listen you can hear the droning buzz of the cars on the connecting highway and if you look across the water you can see the tall buildings way off in the distance. At night the buildings send light reflecting off the lake in all kinds of crazy colors and patterns.
Garden Grove is an odd name for my town because there aren't really any gardens in it. Lots of oak trees and elm trees line the streets, but no gardens, just a business section, a park, and a lot of houses that all look alike.
"Did you bring some stuff for the party?" Ron said as I came down the porch step.
"Yeah, but I don't like talking in front of people. I really hate it."
"So what," he said. "It'll be easy."
Ron is much more outgoing than I am. He's popular with everybody and friendly with all different groups of kids at school. He fits in anywhere. "Any plans for summer?" he asked as we started walking toward school.
"No, nothing special. Just hang out probably. I don't know."
"Hey nothing wrong with just hanging out, is there?"
"No, I guess not," I said. "But it doesn't make much of a speech topic."
He laughed a little and then we walked along in silence. We turned off the street and cut across the park. The dew covered grass dampened the toes of our shoes. Baby crickets hiding in the short grass jumped out in front of us as we walked along. Sometimes we kept kicking up the same cricket over and over until finally it would veer off to one side. We passed the lagoon and the baseball diamond and started to cross the soccer field, and then I went fishing for information.
"Hey Ron," I said, "You know that John Knochreiner kid?"
"No, not really," he said. "He showed up last year. I never really talked to him. Why?"
"Oh, no reason," I said, "nothing." We walked on across the park. I couldn't make much sense of why a kid I didn't even know kicked my chair out from under me that day.
"Hey Frank," Ron said, "I got a joke for you."
"What?" I asked warily. Ron always tries to tell jokes, and sometimes they're OK. But sometimes they just plain stink.
"I made this up myself," he said. "It's a three parter."
"Go ahead," I said.
"Why did the chicken cross the road?"
"OK, why?"
"Anywhere he wants." Then there was an uncomfortable silence as he searched for my response, and I tried not to make eye contact.
"It doesn't make sense," I said.
"Sure it makes sense. I'll tell you the other parts later." He giggled, and we continued walking through the cool morning.
III Party Day
The so-called party was to take place the last two hours of the day. The anticipation of the weeks of vacation to come was too unbearable for some kids. The increasing warmth of the afternoons made everybody restless. We would come in from playing after lunch all hot, and sweaty and covered with grass stains. It would take a good hour of untucking your shirt and fanning air up onto your body to be able to concentrate on anything at all. Miss Olson sensed our restlessness and usually went easy on us. But the last day of class was different for her. She wasn't tolerant of our restlessness. Disruptions and yelling were all over the place, and you could see Miss Olson getting madder all the time. I just tried to hide in the background of confusion.
"Now class," she kept saying, trying to make her small voice carry some heft, "be good, or no party." Big deal, I thought to myself. I just wanted to get it over with and get out of there. Then I would do some celebrating.
John Knochreiner was in that class. He had always been there, but I guess I had never really acknowledged his presence before. Strangely, Knochreiner didn't seem to acknowledge my presence, like we had never encountered each other that other day; and that was fine with me. He made me kind of nervous now. Eventually he got sent to the principals office for talking and not facing the front of the class. Miss Olson kept telling him to turn around, and he would for about two seconds. Then he would be right back to looking backward again. It was like he wanted to get booted. And she booted him. Or more precisely, she sent him to the principal's office. I smelled a stale heaviness as he brushed past my desk. I didn't look up. Then the door slammed hard behind me. We never saw him again that day, and I wonder if the principal ever did either.
When the party time finally came two kids were in the hall, and, of course, Knochreiner was long gone. Miss Olson looked real tense. Her face was getting kind of prickly and flushed. Finally she said, "All right class, it's party time." And as she turned away and mumbled, "Whether you deserve it or not." She wanted us to hear her mumble that. I think she had just about enough of 6th grade for a while. "Everybody sit quietly and we'll begin our reports," she said as she went to get the two kids out the hall.
Reports, ha! I thought, no way to start a celebration if you ask me. We started eating our snacks, and Miss Olson put on some music. It played real low like background music.
The first student started her report, and I pulled the bottle of soda out of the paper grocery bag. "Root beer," I whispered to myself, patting the bottle. Root beer is my all time favorite drink. Sometimes my mom is really thinking. I twisted off the top and gulped a big gulp from the bottle. At first the soda fizz felt fiery in my mouth, but then the sweet root beer taste put out the fire. I repeated the sensation again. The girl giving the speech was telling how her parents were taking her to Disneyworld.
"Disneyworld is in Florida," she said, "and is a major tourist attraction for young and old alike." You could tell she had memorized that out of a travel brochure because it didn't sound at all like a persons normal speech. I took another drink of root beer. It was a little warm, but I didn't care. It was a good drink even warm, and it was fun playing with the fizz. The girl said, "I hope to see Jiminny Cricket and take lots of pictures."
>As the next kid started telling his report, I took the next thing out of the bag, a brownie wrapped in tinfoil wrapped in plastic wrap. When I took a bite the chocolate walnut frosting matted into my teeth, which required another gulp of soda. The brownie was great, but the sweet combination of soda and chocolate made a lump in my stomach. The kid was talking about being in the Boy Scouts and going to summer camp to earn some merit badges or something. I heard him say, "My brother is an Eagle Scout, and I want to be one too." Then he continued on, but I wasn't really listening. I was too involved in eating, and thinking about my turn in front of the class. I don't know what it is about standing in front of people, but having eyes looking at me clenches me up inside. I become a mindless slug. My turn to speak was coming soon. I was really starting to wish I had planned something in advance like the girl that was going to Florida.
Another kid got up and said he was taking piano lessons in the summer. Poor kid, I thought, splashing the last of the brownie down with some root beer.
The next girl said she was going to summer school to get ahead. "I'm going to take summer band. I'm going to learn to play the flute," she said. "And nobody is making me either," she added quickly as she sat down.
The next snack out of the bag was three chocolate chip cookies. My mom's cookies are the best. The three cookies were gone in about three bites. When I took another gulp of pop I began to realize how heavily the whole combination of stuff hung in my stomach. It made me swallow real hard and feel a little light-headed.
My turn was coming soon. That thought tightened my gut some more, and the sweet mess inside my stomach started feeling like a rock. My lip began sweating. A guy was talking about mowing lawns for money. Mowing lawns," he said, "is a good way to make money. I want to buy a bike...." I decided to see what was left in the bag. I stuck my hand into the brown-paper treasure chest, fiddled around, and wouldn't you know it, a nut roll, my absolute favorite: salty peanuts with that white, gooky filling. I knew I shouldn't eat any more sweet stuff, but I just had to take a bite. The thing about those nut rolls, though, is you can't take just a bite. I shoved the whole thing in my mouth. I followed it quickly with the remaining root beer. My turn neared. The candy bar hit bottom just as the teacher called my name.
"Howard," she said, "you're next. Tell us what you have planned for the summer."
When I stood up I knew there was trouble. The first thing out of my mouth was a long "Ummm." I couldn't speak. It's as if the switch that controlled my voice was turned off, and no words could come out. "I'mmm," I said. Then I paused again. "Thiiiiis," I choked out. The class stared with their mouths gaping open. I felt dizzy. My brain felt as if it was outside my body looking down and laughing at me. The class chuckled along with my rebellious brain. A foolish grin crept onto my face. Sweat soaked into my shirt. Titters of laughter drifted through the room.
The soft music in the background started echoing in my ears. "Frankie," someone heckled from the other side of the room.
I tried to look out the window to compose myself, but my eyes could only focus on a little spider web full of tiny gnats in the corner of one pane of glass. I looked back to the room. Twenty seven pairs of eyes were all fixed on me. Nervousness turned to panic. My stomach tightened down around the sweet glob of soda, and sugar, and nuts. The room went silent except for a buzz in my ear. I put my hand on the desk top, opened my mouth and took a deep breath. Dizziness made the floor look like it was slanted and the walls look like they were leaning. I tilted my head to try and make the walls look straight again, but it didn't work. They just looked more crooked. I looked back at the little spider web and then back at the class. Everyone waited on me. And then little voices started coming from way down in my stomach.
"I want out," said the nut roll.
"I want out," said the brownie and cookies.
"I want out, " said the root beer.
My face burned. My head pounded. A hard lump developed low in my throat. I took another deep breath, letting the air expand my lungs.
I heard a distant call that bumped off the back of my skull. "Howard." I heard the call again, louder, "HOWARD!"
"Yes?" I said weakly, looking over toward Miss Olson.
"Howard," she said again. I swallowed and looked at her again. "Perhaps Howard, you should step outside for some air." I nodded my head in agreement.
On my way out of the room I concentrated hard to keep dizziness from running me into a wall or a desk. Everything blurred and tilted. Noises echoed and fuzzed. "Frankiee," someone called from behind me.
The walk down the empty hall was like a bad carnival ride. I wobbled from wall to wall as I made my way down toward the exit at the end of the corridor. It seemed to take hours.
Outside a cool breeze blew across the playground. I squatted down on my heels and leaned against the brick wall of the school. I hung my face down and took deep breaths to clear my head.
Inside the building my class continued. The other kids were standing up and giving their talks. I imagined all the kids laughing at me when I went back in. I saw their grinning faces in my mind, sneering grins and snickers from the girls, jeering calls from under the breaths of the boys. It made me sick again just thinking about it.
Then I started thinking, thinking in my usual way; maybe there was a way out: My desk was cleaned out. It was the last day of class. Why would I have to go back and face humiliation at all?
My head was clearing. My gut felt better. I could see the green grass of the park out in the distance past the asphalt playground and the jungle gym. I kept debating to myself, stay or go, stay or go, stay or go. And while I debated the question I stood up, and my feet started walking. After a few yards my walk turned into a trot. Going back wasn't an option anymore. Once your feet start running it's hard to stop. Boy, did I run.
When I reached the open part of the park I slowed to a walk and put my hands on my hips to help settle my breathing. I stopped to look around and only then realized how empty the park was. I stood alone in the flat, grassy plane. The place was completely empty. I turned to look back at the school. It stood low and solid, rising out of the flatness. It buzzed with activity, but no evidence of what was going on inside showed from the outside. It looked like a lonely fortress, but I was the one that felt alone. I took a long time walking the rest of the way home.
IV Crows in the Tree
The next day I spent the morning in my room, sure I was going to catch it for skipping the previous afternoon of school. So I just waited... and waited. I got out of bed late and went down to the kitchen to make myself some toast with butter and grape jelly, my favorite breakfast food. It had to be jelly, not jam. Jam is mashed berries with the skins and everything. Jelly is nice and clear. Jelly is better. Jam is just too much.
I walked back up to my room with the toast and a glass of milk, flipped on the television and began devouring my breakfast. My room is a converted attic on the second floor. The room is great, just right for me. Steep ceiling angles jut down all over the place, scraps of carpet cover the unfinished wood floorboards, and the walls are unpainted. It's unique.
In my room I have an old black-and-white television that I rescued from someone's trash. It works pretty well. Sometimes you have to mess with the antennas on top, but that's all right. Black-and-white television isn't really bad either. I saw a lot of my favorite shows on black and white TV first, and when I finally saw them on a color television they really looked fake, especially this one science-fiction series. They actually looked better in black and white. We don't get cable TV at our house. My dad says it would turn our brains to mush. Sometimes he is so unreasonable.
That morning I watched some forgettable cartoons, and a comedy rerun in which a kid accidentally drilled holes in the wall of his Dad's garage with a power drill. That was just too stupid. Something like that would never happen to a real kid. After that a game show came on. The contestants were making fools of themselves, like usual, jumping up and down, flapping their arms and screaming. After a while it got annoying. All the other channels had soap operas on, so I turned the television off and concentrated on a stack of comic books that lay on the floor by my bed. The time passed quickly, and I was almost finished with my third comic when the phone rang downstairs. My heart quickened.
I tried to sit real quiet and listen. I held my breath in. Mom answered the phone. Her voice drifted up the stairs in low mumble sounds. I strained to hear what she was saying. I thought it had to be Miss Olson calling to tell about my skipping school. I waited in silence. Then Mom yelled up the stairs, "Howard...it's Ron." I let the air rush out of my lungs. Maybe I was in the clear, I thought, maybe Miss Olson didn't care I skipped, or maybe she forgot. I trotted down to the phone. Maybe Ron was ready for our first turtle hunt.
"What's up?" I said into the phone receiver, "turtle hunting today?"
"No. Something better. There's baby crows in a tree by my house," he said excitedly. "I heard them this morning when I was in bed. They woke me up with their racket. They're right in a tree in my yard."
Let me tell you right now, I'm really someone who likes stuff like that. Crows are cool. How could I resist taking a look? I told Ron I'd be right over. I slipped on my tennis shoes and headed for the door, grabbing an apple to eat on my way out. I avoided Mom. She would want me to eat lunch, but sometimes there's just no time for routine. I trotted out to the garage with the apple clenched in my teeth and hopped on my bike.
On the short ride over to Ron's I thought about a crow I know about that lives in the shoe store over in the business section. A big black, glossy thing. It cackles and makes a ruckus all the time you're in the store. The shoe store owner keeps him in a chicken wire cage right in the store for the customers to look at. The crow's name is Ralph, and there's a little wooden sign by his cage that says "Ralph" on it. It was always fun to watch that crow hop around in his wire cage, flapping his wings and squawking up a racket.
When I got to Ron's I went around in back of the house to the cement patio where he was sitting in a busted out lawn chair. "What happened yesterday?" Ron said.
"I got lost maybe?" I replied. "How did it end?"
"After you left," he said, "The whole room started acting up. She ended up letting us leave early. I didn't even give a speech. She completely forgot about me."
This news was too fantastic. It meant I was in the clear. She couldn't possibly remember that I had skipped out. And it really meant I was finished with the 6th grade.
"You ready to see?" Ron said.
"You bet. Where are they?" I replied lightheartedly.
"One's right here," he said, pointing to a a little beat up box with a piece of plywood on top of it and a rock on top of that. "I wanted to make sure it didn't jump out."
"You got it in that box?" I said.
"Yup," he said, proud for having shinnied up the tree and brought it down. "It was the only one up there." I admit it must have been a great athletic feat, but I could tell he had never heard what I had heard: That you're not supposed to capture wild baby animals.
"You moron," I said. "You don"t mess with wild baby animals."
"What?" he said blankly. "Why not?"
"I don't know," I said. "I'm not a wild animal...cause they're delicate. That's why. They might die. Did I ever tell you about the rabbits and the lawnmower?"
"No," he said.
"One time we had rabbits in our lawn, and the nest got uncovered when I ran it over with the lawnmower. The mower blades skinned the top right off the nest, but it didn't even hurt the bunnies. They were all shivering and just laying there. My dad said the mother might not come back because it would be confused and run off.
"Well did the mother ever come back?" Ron said defensively.
"I don't know. The babies were gone the next day. What difference does it make? what a moron."
"Shut up," he said. "At least I don't throw up when I have to talk in front of people."
"Shut up yourself," I snapped. "I didn't throw up. "
"Jerk," he said with a snarl that widened and flattened his upper lip.
"Fine," I said. "Whatever." Then I walked over to the box and slid the lid back carefully. There on the bottom the bald little creature crouched with its head resting on the bare cardboard. Its quick breathing rocked its whole body. It looked freakish and ugly, with thin skin covering its bulbous eyes, not even like a real bird, not like the slick creatures you see sailing on the hot summer breezes or perched so gracefully on a branch. "So what are you going to do with it?" I asked.
"I don't know," Ron replied, shrugging his shoulders. Why don't you take it?"
"take it?"
"I guess I haven't seen the mother for a long time. It was the only one up there."
"Oh," I said.
It might not be coming back. I don't know what happened to its brothers and sisters."
"Oh!" I said.
V The First Days of Motherhood
I carried the box home balanced on the handlebars of my bike, and when I got home I didn't know what to do. I sat on the back step awhile, looking down into the box. I thought the bird would die for sure. It was so fragile and naked with only wisps of hairy, black feathers on its bony, pink skeleton. Its frail neck connected a head that was too large for its body, and connected to that was a beak that was too large for its head. It could barely hold the big skull up for more than a few seconds. When it did the baby bird wavered and trembled.
I picked up the box and carried it into the house and set it on the kitchen table. Mom came over from the next room to see what I was doing. Now I don't know what's the matter with some people, but she went berserk.
"Get that thing out of here," she screamed. "You know they have germs? Disease? Lice?" She glared at me with her face pulsating a prickly red color.
"All right, I'm going," I said, snapping back the way you sometimes do when someone is yelling at you.
"Now I have to go wash my hands." She snarled as she headed toward the bathroom. "And you wash yours too," she yelled. I picked up the box and headed for the door as fast as I could. How many germs could a bird have anyway? I don't know what's worse, knowing you're in trouble or never knowing when to expect it. You think she would have liked seeing the little bird, really!
My sister heard the commotion from the living room. She came out the back door and onto the porch steps where I had set the box down. Angelica is three years younger than me and thinks she is awfully smart. Angelica is an inside person. She likes to sit and read a lot. And she likes to watch a lot of television. If she's not reading a book she's watching television. I can't believe how much television that kid can watch.
Angelica walked up to the box and peered inside. "Ooo," she said disgustedly. "Is that thing ugly. Wow!"
"Shut up and get lost," I yelled. "Get your big nose out of my business."
She never usually talks directly to me, but right then she turned to me and said very seriously, "You better not let Digit see that thing." She lifted her chin high and walked back into the house. Digit's our cat. She was named Digit because when my the veterinarian removed her front claws, he somehow missed one. That left the cat with one lone claw on her right paw. After we saw how bloody and painful it was to have her first seven claws removed, we didn't have the heart to take her back again.
I looked around. Angelica was right. The cat would love to get at a baby bird like that one. I looked back into the box. The crow was shivering weakly. I got an old hand towel and nudged it under and around the bird to keep it warmer. It just lay there trembling. I sat down and looked out into the yard. Another fine mess I've gotten into, I thought to myself. A ladybug caught my eye as it climbed up on a leaf of the bush that grows next to the back steps. It crawled industriously from leaf to leaf, on the way to who knows where. They are supposed to be good luck.
I heard a small noise and looked around. Mom stood on the other side of the back door talking out through the screen. "Well, what are you going to feed it?" I looked out into the yard and shrugged my shoulders, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin in my palms, ignoring her the best I could. Her voice had lost its anger. "Let's see what I can do" she said and then disappeared back into the kitchen.
I sat on the step and waited. The ladybug I had been watching was gone. It must have flown away home like that old nursery rhyme you hear when you're a kid says. You know, the one about "Lady bug, lady bug fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are all gone." I guess ladybug luck is only good for people who see a ladybug, not the actual bug itself. Back in the cardboard box the crow was resting its beak on the towel and breathing heavily. It was sleeping.
Mom stayed in the kitchen for about a half-hour or so, and when she came out she was carrying a cookie sheet with yellow-brown balls of sticky gunk spread out all over it. The balls were a concoction of egg, and hamburger, and oatmeal and I don't know what all else formed up into little nuggets. My mom always tries to stuff food into everything with a stomach. It shouldn't have surprised me she'd want to feed that baby crow.
"Let's give this a try," she said, bending down to set the cookie sheet on the step. We weren't sure what the little bird was going to do with the food at first, but I held one of the little nuggets out in front of its beak to find out, waving it a little to get the birds attention. Mom and I both watched eagerly, but the bird just laid there trembling. "I don't know," Mom said. "You never should have messed with it in the first place." I didn't want to explain to her that it wasn't my fault. I didn't really want to get into it with her again. She walked back into the house. If the bird didn't eat soon it wasn't going to make it.
I passed the food in front of its beak a couple more times. It just lay there. Seeing it was no use, I left the bird and went back in the house. It was discouraging. I went in the living room and sat down near where Angelica was watching television. I kind of watched with her. she ignored me. She never took her eyes off the glowing screen. I thought about how rotten I was going to feel if that bird died. The responsibility of its safety was dumped on me, and I didn't even want it. Ron was completely off the hook. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the TV sounds rattling around the room. I didn't know what to do, so there I sat.
After awhile I went back outside to where the box was and lifted the lid off to peek inside. The crow was laying just like when I had left it. My stomach quivered. The frail body heaved with each jerky breath it took. "Please," I whispered, jiggling the box a little. "Please wake up." The little creature stirred. I jiggled the box again. It picked its head up. I waved my hand a little to get its attention. It sensed the nearness of my hand and jerked upright. It gaped its knobby beak straight up at the sky and started screeching. I grabbed a little food nugget and dropped it straight into its open throat. It wanted exactly that. The crow gulped and gagged it down, creating these really disgusting eating noises, like a chicken being strangled. Then it screeched for another, and another, and another, choking each mouthful down eagerly. Both my mom and my sister heard the obnoxious eating noises and came to the door to see what was creating them. I just grinned and grinned.
VI Angelica Tells a Story
From that day I played the role of mother and protector to that crow. Four or five times a day the bird screeched to be fed. Feeding the nuggets to the little thing became like routine. It devoured the sticky globs at an enormous rate. I kept on feeding. It kept on eating. And the bird started changing. Its eyelids popped open within a few days, and real feathers started replacing the black hairs that had covered its body. A little while after that Mom started letting me keep it on the back porch. as it started looking more like a real bird instead of just some gross thing. She saw how interested I was in its welfare she started making sure it had everything it needed to get along. I didn't know if the bird was male or female and didn't have any clue how to find out, so I called it crow, or bird or whatever seemed appropriate. That worked just fine because it really didn't make any difference to me what it was.
For three days in early June it drizzled a misty rain that made going out and doing the things a kid likes to do in the summer impossible. I spent the first day taking care of the crow. I read all my comic books. I played some computer games, I watched TV until I was numb. I was bored. On the morning of the third day I was desperate for something different. I lay on my bed lazily waiting for some idea to cross my path. And then I heard footsteps clumping up the stairs. I looked down the hall to see my sister Angelica coming through the gray light.
"Hey brother. What are you doing up here?" she said.
"Nothing. Why?"
"You want to play a game?"
I usually wasn't interested in playing with Angelica. She can annoy me real fast. But boredom had weakened me. I didn't know why she wanted to spend time with me, but anything would have been better than just sitting. "All right," I said, sitting up on the bed to give her room to sit down. She was being nice to me. Angelica could be nice, and she could be mean as anything too. It was hard to predict her, and I have to say I didn't always understand what was going on in her head.
"Let's each think of a story." she said. "We'll tell them, and whoever has the best story wins. How's that?"
"Why? I asked.
"To see who can tell a better story." she said. I hesitated to agree at first. A game like that with her could be trouble. "Oh just try, come on." she begged some more, and then I gave in.
"Fine. Who goes first?" I said.
"You go first," she said. I agreed. We didn't spend much time together. It seemed like we didn't have much in common, but Mom was always urging us to do things together. I never tried to tell a story, so I had no idea what I was doing. Angelica smiled and tucked her leg up under her body to get comfortable. I searched for something to start me off. And then I just jumped in with the first words I could think of.
"It had rained for days and days and the two kids sat inside looking out the window. ummm." I stalled. "And they were bored. So bored that the brother and sister had to talk to each other, and nobody believed they could ever do that."
I sat for a few seconds trying to think of what to say next. Nothing came to my mind. I couldn't think of anything to say. I couldn't remember what a story was supposed to sound like, what its parts were. Who knew it would be so hard. Angelica looked impatient as she stared at me. "And then they, I don't know, uh, bored each other to sleep, and when they woke up the rain had stopped." She looked displeased. " I don't know, I don't tell stories." I said in frustration. "This is dumb." I folded my arms and looked out the window.
Angelica laughed. "Now it's my turn to see if I can top that," she said full of confidence. She settled down very quietly and seriously for a few seconds and then began to speak.
"In a good land near some high mountains there lived a little girl and her family. The girl was different from her family. She liked her family, but she felt different from them. They were common and plain and worked every day just to live a humble life. The girl however had the soul of a princess. She felt different from everybody else. She felt there was more in the world than just her family's life. Often she would walk alone in the mountains near her home, sometimes traveling high up above where the trees stopped growing and the huge rivers of ice flow. Sometimes she would walk deep into the valleys where fierce rivers raged through rocky canyons. Sometimes she walked the wide plains where wild horses ran free and wild. These were the places and things that made her happy. Her family didn't like her wandering off and wanted her to stay and work, but they couldn't stop her.
One day while her mother and father and brother were digging turnips in there scraggly vegetable garden beside there sod hut, she once again sneaked away. She wandered high up into the mountains again, higher than she had ever gone before. she traveled far up onto the ice rivers to get a view of the land below. And while she stood on the top of the highest mountain a strange thing happened. A single huge cloud passed over her head, crackling lightening and roaring thunder. She hid in a shallow cave and watched the single cloud move in. The cloud speared the ground with lightning and shook the mountain with thunder.
When the cloud moved off the girl came out of hiding. And there on the ground in front of her were a scattering of glistening stones that had not been there before. She quickly gathered up the stones. They sparkled in her hand. Then she heard a voice from the cloud that hung off in the distance. 'These are magic stones. Take them and use them wisely.' And then the cloud drifted away.
She didn't know how to use the stones, but she knew who would understand their power. She would seek out the mysterious sorcerer woman who lived by the roaring river at the edge of the far wilderness. It was a dangerous journey but she knew the sorcerer woman would have the answer. The girl traveled many days and survived many dangers to reach her destination. When she found the old hag and convinced her to tell the secret the old woman said, 'These stones are of the most powerful nature and extremely volatile. A touch of fire will be what's needed to unleash there magic. A little touch of fire and they will protect you and make you powerful.
The girl returned home with the stones, her head spinning with thoughts about what the stones could do. And as she walked toward her family's hut she saw her parents and brother sitting high in a tall tree. As she got closer she saw that at the base of the tree evil ogres howled and screeched, clawing and drooling to get her parents and brother and devour them. Quickly she ran into the hut, over to the smoldering hearth and plucked out a hot coal. She ran to the tree where the ogres were. She threw down the magic stones and set them ablaze with the hot coal. Sparks and fire erupted, singeing the ogres stinking hair and frightening them far off into the woods. She saved her family.
When the people around the countryside heard of her power and bravery they decided to make her their queen to rule over and protect them. From that day on she had many adventures and kept the people of the land safe. The princess had become a queen."
Angelica looked at me and smiled. "Man you win," I said. "Where did you think that up?"
"It's easy," she said. "You just got to have an imagination." Then she bounded back down the hall and down the stairs, singing all the way, "I win, I win, I win, I win."
The rain still drizzled against the window pane. I looked out into the street and heard the cars go splashing by. I always thought Angelica was just a stupid little kid, and now I wasn't so sure
VII Swimming Lessons
The bird grew at an enormous rate, and one morning in early June the little bird hopped right out of its box, wobbled for a second, and trotted across the floor. The crow had the potential to turn into a real bird, I thought, a real pet in no time, sitting on my shoulder and everything. I wanted to be the envy of the other kids, with a real crow for a pet, just like Ralph the crow in the shoe store. That's what I thought.
Early June is a good time of year because everything is fresh and green, and the lakes are still nice and clear before they get clogged with weeds and algae. It was during this time that my dad announced I would once again be taking swimming lessons.
"It's important to learn how," he said. "And besides, this will be your last year, then you wont have to worry about it anymore. You only have one more classification to go, right?" My dad's a nice quiet guy who usually lets my mom give most of the orders. Mom gets upset at us a lot and it's one thing. But if my dad is mad, you know you're in big trouble.
"Swimming lessons again?" I said. Swimming lessons are the biggest pain.
Years earlier I had started taking the lessons. They progress through several different levels, one taken each year. The thing I remember most about them is that the instructors never actually get in the water with you. There is a reason for this, of course. The reason is that the water is stinking freezing in the morning when the lessons are scheduled. The sun is just up, and the water hasn't had time to get warm. And what do the instructors do to make you warm up. Warm up? They make you leap into the water and jump up and down ten or twenty times. Of course the instructors don't jump in the water to warm up with you. No, of course not. They stand around in sweaters and sweat pants and socks with their arms hugged around themselves. I don't even know if they could swim. I never actually saw them swim.
Let me tell you something. When you jump in an icy pool in the early morning after a frigid June night everything on your body goes into shock. I mean everything. And you have to pay money for this treatment. Those teenage instructors probably get some sort of thrill out of making us younger kids miserable.
So I decided to plead with Dad not to send me to the lessons again. But he wouldn't listen. He just looked away when I really started my begging act. I gave it my best try. Sometimes begging is a kids best option when dealing with a stubborn parent. Unfortunately after a couple of minutes of really good whimpering, my dad just looked at me and said, "Howard, don't beg." The conversation was over. His mind was set. A few mornings later I found myself walking across the park in my swimsuit, a towel draped over my shoulders, on my way to the icy community pool.
I had got a late start taking the lessons, and I was already the oldest kid in the class. I cringed at the thought of being back with the younger kids, standing there like an overgrown stork with all those other kids wondering what was the matter with me, wondering why I was in their group. The humiliation burned in me. I could already swim OK anyway. I just didn't have the piece of paper showing I could do it. Who needed that anyway? But as I walked along in the cool morning air I got to thinking. I walked to lessons alone and came back alone. It was kind of an honor system. And since it was an honor system no one would know if I just didn't quite do the honorable thing, if I didn't quite make it there. I created a plan. It made perfect sense. I could leave in the mornings like I was going to the pool and then just not show up there, just walk around the hour or so they lasted. I could get my hair wet in the drinking fountain in the park on the way home, and no one would be the wiser. Who would know the difference? What would be the harm?
The plan reminded me of a part in a book that I read once and liked. The kid in the story went swimming instead of going to school. His aunt sewed his shirt collar shut, so he couldn't take it off and go swimming. But he got some thread and a needle so that he could take it off and then sew it back up again. I liked the idea of being like that kid, except in reverse.
So instead of going to lessons each day, I would leave the house in the morning and make sure my hair was damp when I got back. The first few days I hid in the library. The library is a good place to get lost, with all its secret corners and cushy chairs to escape into. It's air-conditioned privacy. It could be broiling hot and chaotic out in the real world, but it was always cave cool and quiet in the library. For a while I really liked looking in the dictionary. One dictionary the library has is huge and sits on a wooden pedestal in the center of the main room. In addition to word definitions it has maps of the world and little pictures to go with the definitions. That dictionary has every word imaginable. I mean every word, all printed up in tiny black type for everybody to read. My favorite word that I found was Tchoupitoulas, which sounds like "chop a two loose." Tchoupitoulas is a place in Louisiana. I just liked saying that word over and over. Tchoupitoulas. Sitting in the vinyl chairs and reading all the different magazines was endless entertainment. I remember a picture of a baseball player on the cover of a sports magazine. It was a picture of a guy's face, and he had a huge black eye. I tried to copy it on a copy machine, but then the whole face came out black. Sometimes I would find a section of books on a subject I liked, pull up one of those little rolling stools and look through all the books they had. There was a great book on how to make paper airplanes that I took home, but it was so hard to figure out I couldn't even make one plane that would fly right. It was a book for adults on making paper airplanes and too difficult for kids. Who knew adults played with paper airplanes?
After a few days in the library, I was anxious for a change. I decided to blow my cover a little bit and head to Ron's house. I figured I could trust him. His house was reasonably safe because both his mom and dad worked. Nobody would be home except maybe his older brother, Dennis. Dennis was a plague to younger kids like us. I avoided the jerk as much as possible.
So, one morning I left my house as if headed for the pool, and when I was out of sight I circled back and cut through the back yards of Ron's block. On my way I passed Spike, this scraggly cocker spaniel-type dog that lives in one of the yards. He paced happily by his doghouse as I walked by, wagging his stubby tail frantically. I petted him and tried to keep my hand away from his slobbery tongue. Then I continued on. When I got to Ron's, I rang the bell by the front door. I looked through the screen door and saw Dennis sprawled on the couch watching television and reading a magazine at the same time.
"Ron, it's Frank," he yelled without getting up, or moving or even saying hello. Everyone yelled at there house, not mad yelling, just yelling. Even their mother yelled when she wanted to call the kids in or whatever. You could hear her voice for a block, easy. I stood silent, trying to sort out the images of the inside of their house through the screen. "Ron, get out here." he yelled again.
"Back here," Ron hollered. "I'm around in back." I walked around the side of the house to the back where Ron was sitting. The next-door neighbor kid Rodney sat on a plastic milk crate watching Ron. Rodney is a younger kid that hangs around us sometimes. He had a sketch pad in his hand and a bunch of markers sticking out of his pockets.
"Hey Rodney, what are you drawing?" He held the pad up in front of him.
"It's my Grandpa," he said. The picture showed a smiling man going through the door of a little house in an area surrounded by trees with some water nearby.
"What's it about?" I said.
"My grandpa's going in this shack," he said.
"OK," I said. I figured he was just babbling like little kids sometimes do and turned my attention to Ron. Spread out in front of him on the patio lay a hacksaw, a knife, and two different kinds of pliers. In a pile next to the tools lay several plastic car and truck models and a few plastic figures of movie monsters like Dracula and Frankenstein. In his hand Ron held an electric soldering iron with smoke smoldering from the tip. "What's with the swimsuit?" he said as I walked over.
"Swimming lessons," I said.
"You going swimming?" Rodney said.
"But I don't think I'm going to make it."
"Not swimming? You got a suit on." Rodney said.
"Can I hang out here?" I said to Ron.
"Sure," Ron said. "Look what I'm doing." He picked up the dracula and placed the soldering iron on one side of its head. The hot iron tip smoked its way right through the plastic figure. "I finally found something to do with all these old models I don't want anymore."
"Let me try," I said.
"Sure," Ron replied. "I'll get some more stuff." He got up from that same broken out lawn chair he was in the day I got the crow and went into the garage. "How's the bird?" Ron said, coming back out of the garage with another extension cord and a soldering iron.
"What?" I said.
"How's the bird?" he said, settling back down in the chair.
"Good," I replied. "I think it will be OK. If the cat doesn't get it. You should come over and see it."
He nodded his head. "Hey, you been turtle hunting?"
"Nope, I gotta get this swimming lesson thing over."
He nodded. "Hey I got a joke for you." Rodney perked up to listen.
"Oh great," I said.
"Where does a three hundred pound canary sit?"
"OK. Where?" I asked.
"To hold up his pants." Then he faked a laugh.
That stupid joke kicked off the model mutilation get togethers. Many times in the next two weeks I left the house with a model or two from my collection wrapped in my swim towel. I'd always head out toward the pool, go down the street a few blocks, and then circle back and cut through some back yards. I'd stop to pet Spike the dog on the way and then go right to Ron's back patio.
Ron and I melted trucks to cars, and cars to planes, monster bodies to motorcycles, and motorcycles to aircraft carriers. We melted wheels where legs should be, and arms where wings should be. And we just melted plastic into big globby piles. I even melted a June bug on a car hood. Rodney got used to seeing me in my swimsuit. "Not going swimming today? He'd say. "Not today," I'd say, and he'd smile. It was intense fun watching that hot iron slice its way through the plastic, smoking and stinking and making my eyes water. I only burned myself one time. I wasn't paying attention and sat my palm on the soldering iron tip. It sizzled my flesh and smelled awful.
VIII I Talk With John
On the last day of swimming lessons, I once again decided to go over to Ron's even though I was out of old models and couldn't risk taking any of the good ones without raising suspicions. But I went over anyway. I walked down the street with my head looking down, not really paying attention, and that's when I had my second incident with him. The kid that had harassed me in the art room that day, John Knochreiner. He was looking down too and we just about butted heads. I jumped back and to the side in defense. I stared into his face for a bit, and he stared blankly back at me. He didn't recognize me at first. I kept moving passed him and he kept looking at me until he finally pointed and said "Hey Frankie, Frankieee." Then he laughed. I didn't realize he knew my name. I kept backing away. "Hey come here, he continued. Hey, what's the matter?" The guy scared me. That's what was the matter. I couldn't understand what he was up to. "Come here." he said.
"What?" I said, stopping my back pedaling.
"Where are you going?"
"No where?" I said.
"I'm on my way to summer school. Summer math. My Ma says I gotta. I'd rather not. It's summer. You know?" he stepped forward. I flinched. "Taking a swim?"
"Not really," I said.
"You got a swimsuit on. I heard you got yourself booted out of that last day of class speech thing? Just like me."
"Not exactly," I said. He stepped forward and I backed up.
"Hey you don't have to be chicken of me.",
"I'm not," my voice wavered.
"Yeah, right." I started to back away again. "You little runt."
He turned and walked away. I waited just a minute until he was a good distance down the street, and then I turned and ran, ran to get as far away from him as possible. I cut through the back yards to get to Ron's house. Spike ran out happily to the end of his chain when he saw me coming, but I didn't stop to say hello. The dog's ears drooped and his tail stopped wiggling when he realized I wasn't going to stop. He stared at me sadly as I ran off into the distance.
Ron was just walking out of his house when I got there. He wore his baseball hat and had his glove gripped under his arm. "Man did I have a close call," I said as we walked up to each other.
"What?" he said, putting on the glove and smacking the palm with his fist.
"That Knochreiner guy, from school. He's after me. I was walking down the street"
"Oh right. He's after you?" he said.
"Yeah, I never told you about it. He hassled me back at school. He wants to be my friend or something."
"Now that sounds serious," he said. "Sounds like you're in real danger. Wow,you should be shakin'."
"Shut up. You don't have to deal with it."
"I'm sure it's all in your head."
"No, he said hello to me."
"Hello?" I decided to change the subject. He just wasn't understanding.
"Fine." I said. "Where are you going?"
"Baseball," he replied. "What are you doing here?"
"I don't know. I was going to see what you're doing."
"Playing baseball. Want to come?"
"No thanks," I said. (I have never liked baseball. I was no good at it. I couldn't hit. I avoided it.)
"OK. well I'm going," he said. "I'm late, see ya. Don't let the big bad Johnnies get you." He laughed as he took off through the yard and out of sight, leaving me standing there alone.
Then I looked over and saw Rodney sitting on his back step. He saw me and yelled out, "Not going swimming today. Right?" I walked over to where he was sitting.
"Not today, Rodney." Rodney was drawing on his sketch pad. "What are you drawing today?" I said.
"A picture of my grandpa."
"Again?"
I looked at the drawing, another one of a smiling, wrinkled man and some woods and water and the same small building that was in the other picture he showed me. "What is that?" I asked pointing to the building."
"It's the shack in the wilderness. The one that's always their when you need it if you believe in it." I didn't know what he was talking about and just let it drop at that. "My grandpa's a good swimmer." Rodney said looking at my swimsuit. He made me feel like a caught liar.
After that I didn't know what to do. I felt drained and confused. I walked down to the lake and eventually wandered over by the beach. Two little kids were playing in the sand. I sat down on a bench. A newspaper lay next to me. The headline on the article that faced up read "Injury at Last Hill Climb." The final season of racing had begun out there. It was going to be leveled. A lot of people wanted to see it destroyed because it's a rough place, and rough people sometimes hung out there. My dad took me to a race once. It is crazy business with all those motorcycles ripping up and down the hill, kicking up dirt and dust and making a huge racket. Then I looked up and saw the two kids on the beach looking at me. I stood up and was going to leave, but I walked down to the water first and stood looking out at the calm lake for a few minutes. And then I went swimming. It sounds strange, but that's what I did. I waded out in the chilly water to my waist and then dove in with one big plunge. I stayed in the water for just a few seconds and then got out and walked home.
IX Down to the Shore
The crow eventually needed a bigger box because it was getting really active and needed the room to move around. It seemed it was feeding time all the time. The little creature had developed feathers over its entire body, and was starting to get the proportions of a real bird with real wings and a tail and everything. I began varying its diet a little. I would look for crickets or grasshoppers or just about any type of bug I could find, and the bird would gobble them all down with equal enthusiasm. It still loved Mom's little nuggets too. Digit was always kept locked in the basement when the bird was out. You could here that cat scratching and yowling at the door to get out and at the bird. No way.
Eating was that birds life. The quest for more to eat started the crow on its road to freedom. While sitting on the floor of the porch one day the bird caught sight of the lawn through the propped-open screen door. The temptation of the outside world spurred its instincts. The little bird shook its head, wobbled for a couple seconds and then trotted right out the door to the edge of the back steps where it toppled right off onto the ground. When the crow hit the ground it rolled twice and came right back up on its feet. It shook its head and gave out a little caw, blinking its eyes in the bright sunlight.
Dad was digging in the garden at the back side of the lawn, and that immediately attracted the crows attention. The dirt in the garden had just been turned over, and the secrets of the ground lay exposed. For a young bird these could be very exciting. The crow hip-hopped over to where my dad was working.
What are you doing here?" my dad said quite matter-of-factly.
Caw," the crow replied, tilting its head and looking out of one eye. It hopped closer to my dad, who was on one knee digging with a small shovel. The bird grabbed a bug or something out of the exposed soil and gagged it down quickly. I don't know how a baby animal that had spent its entire short life in a cardboard box could know that lunch would be in the dug up dirt of a garden, but it knew.
From then on the crow spent its days in the yard looking for worms or bugs, and a grub now and then, anything that looked good. It devoured bugs like an eating machine. Sometimes I would even help by digging worms and things, but it could pretty much handle it alone.
As the summer went on the crow started to experiment with flying. I think most young crows knew how to fly by this time of the summer, but living with people probably put it behind schedule. It would flap its wings furiously, cawing and hopping around the yard, trying to get off the ground. It tried hard but just didn't have it figured out yet. Then the bird would sit panting heavily with a bewildered look on its face. I tried to give the novice aviator a little help by tossing it gently in the air and letting it flutter down to the ground. A birds mother just kind of eases the babies out of the nest when they're ready, and that, I thought, was what I was simulating.
One day in late June I wanted to go turtle hunting. I gave Ron a call, and we decided to go down to the lake that afternoon. I was happy to see him; it had been awhile. He played baseball that morning, and we decided to do our turtle hunting on the lake shore in the afternoon. That time of year the water starts to gets warm, and the lake starts to grow thick globs of weeds and algae. It's the perfect place to catch turtles and crayfish. We usually caught them, brought them home, and kept them in buckets for a few days Digit loved it. She got to examine the curious creatures up close; Although she hated touching the water so much she would never stick her paw in and try to catch anything She just sat staring into the water, sometimes pawing at the air and twisting her head in frustration. Eventually we just let the things go. There really wasn't much else you could do with them. It's not like they have real personalities. Turtles always act like turtles and crayfish always act like crayfish. The turtles never seem to happy trapped in a plastic pail, and the crayfish are just plain ornery all the time. It's the thrill of the capture that was exciting for me.
To catch them you have to walk very quietly a few feet from shore with your net ready at your side. Then when you see movement in the water you run to the bank, flail the net into the water and hope you caught something. After that it takes a couple of minutes to sort through the smelly mess of weeds and muck to see what you actually got. Sometimes you're lucky and actually get a frog, or turtle, or something. And sometimes you catch nothing but muck. My dad says that they eat crayfish some places. I can't see it myself.
Ron and I met on the street adjacent to the woods that skirted the lake. We both had our nets and we each carried a plastic bucket to hold anything we captured.
"Hey," he said. "How's it going?"
"Good," I said.
"Still running scared from that Knochreiner kid?"
"I'm not running scared."
"Don't worry. I'll protect you. You have nothing to be afraid of," he said laughing. If he thought something was funny he loved to beat it to death.
"Let's go," I said, walking away quickly.
We plunged into the woods and after a few minutes of walking we stood on the shore. A cool breeze blew the cool stickiness of the woods off of us. We decided to work together instead of splitting up like we usually do. We started by walking down the shore along the area that has the thickest trees and underbrush. We usually see a lot of turtles there, but that day there were none. After that we headed down along the shore toward where it's much more open. We watched the bank near the water for movement as we went down along the lake shore passed an area where a large tree hung out over the water. A family of ducks, bothered by our presence, swam along the shore fifty or a hundred feet in front of us. As we came out of the thickest part of the brush I looked out ahead and saw two people on a pier down the way. But that's really no big deal. The lake shore residents don't usually mind if we mess around down by their houses. We kept quiet and thought about our hunt. Our eyes were trained on the water, looking for any possible movement. We moved slowly and cautiously, stalking our prey in stealth when a screech of a sound jumped into my ear.
"You jerk! What are you trying to do torch me?" The voice stopped us cold. I looked down the shore to where the people were on their pier, but it wasn't people on their pier. It was Knochreiner and some other kid. Ron and I stood motionless. We crouched down to try and conceal ourselves, but we were caught right out in the open .
"What are they doing?" I whispered to Ron.
"I don't know" he replied. "Just shut up and be quiet."
Knochreiner and his friend had floated a piece of plywood out onto the water and were pouring liquid from a red can onto the floating board. On the middle of the board was a small object about the size of a softball. The kid with Knochreiner took a book of matches out of his pocket, pulled a match out of the book, pressed it to the book and sent it flying onto the board in a little smoking arc. The floating plywood erupted into an inferno of yellow and red, flames flew up four or five feet and licked the air. The two jumped and laughed and screamed. We were close enough to see the fire glowing in Knochreiner's eyes. The small object on the center of the board blackened and shriveled into a cinder.
I looked over at Ron. He was looking real hard at the flaming plywood, squinting and sticking his chin out to help him concentrate on the images before him. Then Ron looked at me and said in a voice that could have been heard in the next county, "That's a little duck on that board." He almost shouted it at me. His voice startled me so much I stood straight up looked at him for a second and then looked over at Knochreiner. And he was looking straight back at me.
He recognized me right away. We stared right at each other for a few seconds. Then John stuck out his index finger at me and drawled, "Hey art room boy. Come'ere. You're next." He tilted his head back and let out a laugh that exposed the back of his throat. He flicked on the lighter he had in his hand, and he pointed the flame at me. Was he kidding? Was he being friendly again? I couldn't tell. He looked demented. I could tell that. I didn't know if that thing on the board was dead or alive, but if it was dead when they torched it, those kids were sick. If it was alive when they did it they would have to be insane.
I turned to Ron to see what we should do, to see if we should go over there. But when I looked over he was already way back down the shoreline. "Wait," I yelled. But he wasn't listening. I ran like a lunatic, trying to hold my turtle net out in front of me so that I wouldn't trip over it. I ran down the shore and then up into the woods and over towards Ron's house, trying to keep Ron in my sight, which wasn't easy because he was really moving.
When I finally caught up with him on his front lawn he was lying on his back breathing heavily. I threw my net down and collapsed on the grass. "Nothing to be afraid of, huh?" I said, gasping. Knochreiner's laugh rang in my ears. Ron turned his face toward me and just shook his head, too breathless to speak.
X The Fourth of July Turtle Try
The few remaining green days of June zipped passed, and the Fourth of July was on us. The Fourth is one of my favorite holidays. What could be better? Picnics with great food, families getting together and having fun, and, of course, the fireworks. We always get sparklers and those smoking worm things that you light on the cement that smoke and grow into ugly, long, curly cinders that kind of look like worms, but not really. I think they're called snakes. And on the Fourth of July you get to stay out after dark and run around. What could be better? It's the way a holiday should be. A holiday should be easy.
Ron and I had recovered from our experience with John down at the lake, and we decided to once again try a turtle hunt. I met Ron about 1:30. He had lost his baseball game that morning and was kind of down. But he brought his turtle net anyway. He moped while we were walking toward the lake, so I asked him, "Ron, why do you play baseball if you feel so bad when you lose?"
"It's fun," he said.
"How can it be fun to have your behind wiped by some other guys?"
"You win sometimes."
"But somebody loses all the time."
"Just being a part of it is fun. It's fun to hit the ball or catch it or run like crazy around the bases. The grass smells good, and that ball sounds so great when it's hit hard off the bat." I wondered if I was wrong about that game. Or maybe it was just right for him and not me. It didn't occur to me that maybe I was just afraid to lose.
We entered the woods that headed down to the shore on our usual path. But because a tree had fallen over the trail down to the shore we took a slightly different route. As we fought our way through some really thick brush and trees we came upon a clue to a riddle I never even pondered, so completely hidden from view that we didn't see it until we walked right up and broke through the dense brush that circled it: a tiny wooden house, a shack, like in Rodney's drawings from his sketch pad. It was completely out of place sitting there, and it wasn't until we got right up to it that we heard voices inside. Ron looked at me intensely, trying to convey some message with his eyes. I put my hands up and made a "Shhh" sound. We both listened for a few a seconds. I tried hard to listen to the voices but could make out none of what was being said.
"What do you make of that?" Ron said.
"I don't know," I replied. Our minds flew with ideas about who could be hiding in the little hide-out and what treachery might be occurring inside as we crouched in the bushes and stared at the tiny house.
"Hey, Ron."
"What?"
"You ever been punched before?"
"What are you asking me that now for? Shut up."
"I just wonder if it hurts."
"No, it feels real good."
"I just wonder if those guys in that shack would hurt us if they caught us spying on them."
"Maybe they'd invite us for tea," he said. He acted kind of puffed up and smart-mouthed because I was acting like kind of chicken.
"Well, have you ever been punched? I said.
"Yeah, sure."
"Who? Who punched you?"
"Never mind."
"Come on, tell me."
"Well, Dennis."
