“It’s a good thing you came,” Louanne said when we were riding up the street. “I stuck a pack of Aunt Michelle’s Camels in with the sandwiches.”
Maggie looked back over her shoulder. “What? We’ll get in so much trouble if anyone finds out.”
“Don’t worry. Aunt Michelle won’t miss one pack of cigarettes. I got them out of a half-empty carton—she’ll never remember how many packs were in there.”
Maggie and I exchanged glances.
“I’ve wanted to smoke for a while,” Lou continued. “Just last night I read that men like women who enjoy a highball and little ciggy.”
“Louanne, where do you read this stuff?” Maggie snorted.
“Mostly in Aunt Michelle’s Cosmo. They have stories on fashion, makeup, and, yes, Maggie dear, even sex.”
“Did you bring highballs too?” I asked, smiling at her.
“I can’t get my hands on that stuff,” Louanne said, turning off the road into the field. “Right now, I just enjoy what’s left in the glasses after my aunt and grandmother finish their after-dinner drinks.”
We hid our bikes under the bushes and walked up the dirt path toward the hollow. The dirt was wet from the rain the night before, and today the mosquitoes were out in force. I wished I had on a long-sleeved shirt. Birds called to each other in the trees, and squirrels ran in front of us, skittering up trees and warning us not to follow them.
Sweat dripped down the back of my neck. I stopped and pulled a rubber band out of the back pocket of my red capris. “It’s even hot in the shade,” I said, twisting my hair up into a ponytail. “I can’t wait to stick my feet in the stream.”
Maggie brushed a mosquito off her forehead. “Jeez, these things are annoying,” she said, wiping her brow.
Louanne had on a pink sleeveless blouse and navy-blue Bermudas. Her wavy blond hair was in a low ponytail, tied back with a pink-and-white scarf. She reached into the lunch bag and pulled out the Camels. “Voilà!”
“Are we going to smoke here?” Maggie asked, looking around. “Do you think it’s safe?”
“Why not?” I said, shrugging my shoulders. On a scale of one to ten—ten being my father’s suicide—what did it matter if somebody caught me smoking?
“Well, I wish I was sitting in a nightclub with a handsome man like James Dean to light mine. But,” Lou said, lighting up, “I’m not, so I’ll just do it myself.”
Maggie took the matches from her and lit up too. Before I had time to ask her to pass them to me, she inhaled and swallowed the smoke. Her eyes filled with tears, and she doubled over, coughing like crazy.
“Oh my God,” she said between coughs. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”
I smiled at Louanne. “Did you really say that men like women who smoke?”
“She’s not doing it right, Grace,” Louanne said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Maggie, puff the smoke out—it makes you sick if smoke gets in your lungs. You told me you tried smoking before.”
“I’ve tried…” Maggie said, holding her chest.
“No you haven’t! You’re a virgin smoker. A virgin smoker.”
“Wait,” I said, pointing toward the bend in the trail. “Someone’s coming down the path.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when the twinnies rounded the bend and ran toward us. We dropped our cigarettes on the ground and squished them into the dirt with our shoes.
“Do you think they saw us?” Maggie said, waving some smoke away with her hands. “Do you think they can smell it?”
“Not if you cover your mouth and stop coughing,” I said. “They’re too far away.”
“Wonder what’s got them all wigged out,” Lou said, watching them.
“Boys! Skinny-dipping! Naked!” Twinnie Number One yelled as she raced past us. “We’re telling. They’re in big trouble.”
“Disgusting,” Twinnie Number Two yelled, following her sister back to the main road.
“Who?” Maggie called, but the twins were too far away to hear her.
“What difference does it make?” Louanne said, grabbing the lunch bag and heading for the creek. “Let’s see for ourselves.”
“Come on,” Maggie said, pulling on my arm. “This is gonna be fun.”
We traced the path the twins had taken, and when we got closer to the stream, we heard kids laughing and splashing in the water. Lou got there first.
“Oh my God!” she said, covering her eyes. “I’ve been waiting forever to see a naked man, and who do I see?”
“Who?” I asked. “Who is it?”
“Who?” Maggie echoed like an owl.
“Your weird brothers,” she said, glaring at us. “Their little blue wieners look like turkey necks and gizzards!”
My jaw dropped.
Moving into the open so Denny and Jimmy could see her, Louanne cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, “Hey, wieners. How’s the water?”
Denny and Jimmy looked up in surprise. They screamed, grabbed their private parts, and ducked down in the stream.
“You dummies,” Jimmy jumped back up and screamed. “You made me get my cast wet.”
The water trickled over the rocks in the stream, making a cheerful bubbling sound, but it didn’t drown out Jimmy’s sobs as he made his way to the bank. The boys grabbed their clothes and headed for the bushes.
“My father’s going to murder him,” Maggie said, looking like she was about to cry too. “I wish we found the boys before the twins did.”
My mother and Doc wouldn’t be very upset when they found out about Denny skinny-dipping, but Maggie’s father was another story.
“This place is cursed,” I said, pulling off the rubber band and shaking out my hair. “Or maybe it’s just us.”
“It’s this summer,” Louanne said, nodding her head. “My parents are divorcing; everybody thinks my uncle’s an arsonist…”
“Mr. Kutter got us in trouble. Jimmy broke his arm…”
“My father killed himself,” I said, feeling sick to my stomach. “Let’s get out of here.”
We walked back to the bikes and slowly pedaled out to the road. Louanne and Maggie were riding behind me singing “Bye Bye Love” when I noticed an old green car coming down the road.
“Isn’t that Mr. Kutter’s car?” I said. “See?”
“You’re right,” Maggie said, catching up with me.
“Pull into that driveway,” I said, pointing to Hogan’s slaughterhouse up ahead. “Hurry.”
We turned into Hogan’s driveway just as Mr. Kutter drove by honking his horn like he did the day we were bike skiing.
“Let’s wait here in case he comes back,” I said, getting off my bike. I knew Mr. Hogan—he was nice. When I was little, I took tap dancing lessons with his daughter, and he drove in our carpool.
The front doors to the slaughterhouse were open, and we wandered in. Mr. Hogan was in the middle of the room facing away from us. He stood in front of a black-and-white cow holding a gun—a pistol like the one the Lone Ranger used.
The cow looked upset—almost panicked. She tossed her head back and forth and made funny noises deep in her throat. Her back leg had a metal band fastened to it just above her hoof. The band was attached to a chain that hung down from the ceiling. When the cow moved, the chain rattled and slid across the gray cement floor. The sound spooked the cow; she swished her tail, kicked her legs out behind her, and tried to spin around.
Mr. Hogan grabbed her head. The cow braced her legs and butted him hard in the chest. He swore, dropped the gun, and watched it skid across the floor into a pile of runny manure.
“Damn cow,” Mr. Hogan swore, pushing her away. “Goddamned cow.”
He picked up the gun and wiped the manure off on his apron. Taking a short step, he approached the cow from the side, murmuring, “Here, Bossy. Here, Bossy.” After a few moments, the cow relaxed and let Mr. Hogan put his hand on her shoulder. He stood there stroking her gently until she calmed down.
My father probably told him
self to calm down—just one more thing to do and his problems would be over.
Time slowed—almost stopped. It was as if Mr. Hogan and the cow weren’t real—like they were on a screen in a movie theater.
“Easy, Bossy, easy,” Mr. Hogan said, cocking his gun. He moved his feet farther apart and planted them firmly on the cement. “Stand still, girl. Stand still.”
My father stood on the loading dock holding his favorite rifle.
I trembled.
“Oh no,” Lou whispered. “Oh no.”
Oh yes. Oh yes.
Mr. Hogan fired the gun. The cow’s front legs buckled, and without a sound, she toppled over. Blood trickled out of her forehead onto the floor.
The cows in the corral next to the slaughterhouse sounded frantic; they bellowed and mooed, but Mr. Hogan didn’t appear to notice. He flipped a switch on the wall. The chain slowly hoisted the cow up and swung her body around in a half circle while her legs twisted and jerked.
My father collapsed on his back on the loading dock in a pool of his own blood. His left leg twitched three times, and he was still.
Mr. Hogan grabbed a knife from his workbench and sliced through the skin on the cow’s throat. Blood gushed out, spattering his apron and boots.
I choked on the fresh mineral smell of the cow’s blood.
“Oh my God, Grace,” Louanne said, hitting me on the back. “Are you okay?”
Mr. Hogan jerked around, holding the bloody knife. “What in the jackrabbit are you girls doing here? Christ a’mighty! You kids shouldn’t watch this stuff.” He pointed at the cow with his bloody knife.
“She’s not dead,” I said, begging him to do something. “Mr. Hogan, her legs are moving. Please, you have to help her.”
“Grace, that’s reflexes. This here cow’s dead,” he said, wiping the knife on his apron. “What are you girls doing here?”
“Uh, uh…” Maggie stammered, keeping her eyes on the knife.
“This ain’t no place for kids. I got eight more cows in the corral to put down.” Mr. Hogan pointed to the door. “Go on, now.”
Still shaking, I followed Louanne and Maggie out of the building. My legs were so weak that I tripped over my own feet, and when we got to the corral, I held on to the fence rail for dear life. The cows had stopped mooing, and they were pulling hay out of some bales on the other side of the corral. When I stopped shaking, I took a few deep breaths, climbed up on the top rail, and sat down.
“I won’t think about it,” I repeated to myself, seeing my father lying on the loading dock in a puddle of blood. “I’ll think about it later—not now. Not now.”
“Grace, you’re as white as a ghost,” Louanne said, putting her hand on my back. Are you okay?”
I would have helped my father if I had known what he was going to do. I would never have let him die.
A pretty brown cow with a white face looked at me and trotted over to the fence. She had big brown eyes. “Poor cow,” I said, smoothing out the soft velvet spot on her forehead. “You’re a good cow.”
“Oh my God,” Maggie said. “Will Mr. Parker shoot that cow too?”
“Grace, don’t touch her. You’ll get cow germs,” Louanne said, pinching her nose shut. “Seriously, she smells. I think she’s toxic.”
“She’s a cow, Lou,” I said, petting the cow’s ear. “She smells like a cow.”
Louanne got down off the fence. “This place stinks so bad. Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes, this is a hurtful, terrible place,” Maggie said, shifting from one foot to the other. “Grace, did you know Mr. Hogan killed the cows?”
“No,” I said, wondering if there was anything in the world I could do to save that poor cow. “I knew he sold meat, but I didn’t know he butchered the cows.”
Louanne pointed to the front of the building. “Well, what did you think ‘slaughterhouse’ means, Maggie?” She pulled a paper napkin out of her pocket and wiped her shoes off. “Yuck! I just touched cow poo. Seriously, I just touched cow poo.”
“This place feels like death,” I said, shivering. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I know,” Louanne said. “It reeks of blood. Everywhere I look there’s a slew of flies and a pile of cow manure.”
“I hate flies,” Maggie said. “They’re nasty.”
We were almost to our bikes when I glanced over my shoulder and looked back at the corral. The cow was standing in front of the gate watching me.
“You guys go ahead,” I said, pointing toward the road. “I’ll catch up; I forgot something.”
I waited for them to ride away; then I hurried back to the gate and lifted the latch.
CHAPTER 21
My friends were waiting impatiently for me on the other side of the bridge. Maggie stood next to her bike pointing down Hudson Avenue. Louanne had turned around and was waving her hands at me, trying to make me hurry.
“What’s up?” I asked, pulling up beside Louanne.
“Can’t you smell the smoke?” Maggie said, shaking her head. “There’s a fire at the end of your street.”
“Grace,” Louanne said, her voice full of fear. “Could it be my grandmother’s house?”
My fingers tightened on both handlebars, and I looked down the street—there was smoke everywhere, and it was impossible to see what was burning. Uncle Tony had only been back from the hospital a few days. Would he set his own house on fire? Doc would have told me not to jump to conclusions…
Louanne took off down the street like she had been shot out of a gun. Her long blond ponytail streamed out behind her as she crouched low over her bike.
“I’d be scared too,” Maggie said, following Lou’s trail. “You never know what her uncle might do.”
“He wouldn’t do that, Maggie,” I said with conviction I didn’t have.
Louanne slowed down and let us catch her. “It’s past our house—it’s the old hotel.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling relieved. “That’s great—well, not great, but you know…”
“Doesn’t mean Uncle Tony didn’t set the old hotel on fire,” Maggie said. “It’s close to your house, Lou—would be easy.”
“Maggie, I’m telling you for the last time, my uncle wouldn’t do that.”
“Are you sure?” Maggie asked. “You have to admit—it’s really suspicious.”
The fire alarm sounded. People came out on the sidewalks and hurried down the street toward the smoke. When we passed the firehouse, the firemen were throwing their equipment on the truck, but most of the volunteers hadn’t even arrived.
The old Stillwater Hotel hadn’t rented any rooms in years, but the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, couldn’t bear to sell it, so they kept the bar open even though they lost money. Sulley, my grandfather’s friend, was the bartender. His real name was Francis Sullivan, but everyone called him Sulley, even the kids. He didn’t have a wife or family—he lived for the Yankees. Doc got Sulley a cap when the Yankees swept the 1950 World Series, and he never took it off. He even named his cat Casey Stengel.
Six days a week, when the noon whistle blew, Sulley unlocked the bar. There were always a few men waiting on the porch shuffling their feet and smoking, waiting to get in. My mother said they were lowlifes, but Doc said they were harmless, just poor fish who liked to hang out and talk about their glory days.
The hotel didn’t look good. It was an old two-story building with a front porch that butted up to the sidewalk. A few floorboards on the front porch were missing, but the men were used to it; even when they were tipsy, they remembered to step over the holes.
Mr. Phillips donated the leftover pizza from the bar to Saint Mark’s School, and the nuns sold it to the students for a nickel a slice. Sister Mary Magdalene heated it up in the convent oven, and if you drowned it in grated cheese, it wasn’t bad.
Sulley ran out into the middle of the street yelling, “Fire! Goddamn it, a fire!” He waved the smoke away from his face with his Yankees cap and shouted, “Tell the fire department it’s th
e hotel. Get ’em down here!”
The cat, Casey Stengel, stood on the sidewalk watching Sulley. Casey had puffed up his fur. His ears were flattened back, and his tail was swishing as if he was ready to take off.
“Damn it, Casey, get the hell away from the hotel!” Sulley shouted. “Ain’t you got any common sense?”
The front window of the hotel blew out, and Casey got common sense fast. He streaked across the street and slid under a parked car before Sulley could yell at him again.
O’Malley the cop roared up in his car, motioning for Sulley to get out of the road. He stopped the car in front of the hotel, leaped out, and started up the porch steps.
“O’Malley, wait,” Sulley yelled, pointing up the street toward the bridge. “Stop, goddamn it, look!”
The few cars on Hudson Avenue had come to a sudden halt; brakes squealed, horns honked, and people yelled at each other out of their car windows. O’Malley turned around. Lou, Maggie, and I ran out into the middle of the street so we could see what was going on.
“What the hell?” O’Malley said, beating his hat against his thigh.
CHAPTER 22
A large cow paraded proudly down the middle of Hudson Avenue—my cow!
“Oh my God,” I said, staring at her. “This cannot be happening.”
Lifting her horns at the people on the sidewalk, the cow mooed, tossed her head from side to side, and weaved her way between the cars toward me. She halted briefly, twisted her head around, and looked back up the street at the cars continuing to honk at her. Backing up a bit, she pawed the pavement with her front hoof and swished her tail back and forth.
The fire truck careened out of the side street and came to a complete stop. Hudson Avenue was blocked; there was nowhere for the truck to go. The firemen jumped off the truck and raced down the street to the hotel. The driver blasted his siren and blew his horn, O’Malley charged up the street yelling and waving his hands. The cow stopped swishing her tail and watched him approach. The people lining the sidewalks cheered as O’Malley slowed down and came within reach of the cow. When he drew closer, she lowered her head and stepped back.
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