Shades of Simon Gray

by Joyce McDonald

  The man nodded but said nothing. He slid from the split-rail fence, landed solidly on his feet, and strutted over to the base of the tree. He walked with an easy gait, as if there weren’t a half foot of snow on the ground, and leaned one shoulder against the bark. If he saw the tar-patched gash, he didn’t mention it. Folding his arms, he looked straight at Simon.

  Just then, Mr. Neidermeyer came out of his front door and began to sweep snow from the steps of his porch. A plaid wool scarf, wrapped about the lower part of his face, covered his gray beard. His wool cap was pulled down so far, all Simon could make out was the glare from the porch light glinting off the lenses of the old man’s glasses.

  Simon waved and shouted hello. This was a test. He wanted to see if the rules here by the Liberty Tree were the same as in the hospital. And apparently they were because just like the doctors and nurses, Mr. Neidermeyer never looked up, didn’t even hear him.

  But when Simon turned back to the stranger, the man stared at him as if he’d completely lost his mind. “Who are you shouting to?”

  Simon looked back at the Neidermeyer house to confirm what he saw. Certain he was seeing what he thought he was, he said, “Mr. Neidermeyer.”

  The man shook his head, obviously bewildered. “I see no one in that pasture.”

  What was he talking about? Pasture? There was no pasture. There was only the Neidermeyer house and front yard. Simon tried to wrap his mind around the inconceivable. He was beginning to realize this man couldn’t see the Neidermeyers’ house, couldn’t see Mr. Neidermeyer sweeping the snow from his steps. He had no idea how that could be. “You don’t see a house there?” Simon asked him.

  A brash wind shook the branches overhead, thrust clumps of snow to the ground. Simon jumped back to avoid getting clobbered, but the man didn’t seem to notice the snow or the wind. Loose strands of his hair, Simon saw, didn’t even move. But then, neither did Simon’s own hair or his hospital gown. Yet all around them branches rattled like brittle bones.

  “A house?” The man turned to look again, then shook his head.

  “You were sitting on the Neidermeyers’ fence,” Simon said, pointing to the split rails.

  “You mean Joseph Alderman’s fence. And a fine job we did on it, too. I spent most of the summer helping him.” The man pulled at his chin, looking thoughtful. “Though this drought makes for poor grazing. Joseph will likely lose some of his cows before winter.”

  Simon stared down at the snow and back at the man. “You don’t see the snow, either, do you?”

  The man let out a surprised laugh. “Snow? This time of year?”

  Simon’s heart had begun to beat faster. “What time of year is it?”

  “Don’t you know your seasons, lad?” The man spread his arms skyward. “It’s late summer, of course.” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Where do you hail from, friend?”

  “From right here,” Simon said. “Bellehaven.”

  “Bellehaven? Surely you are mistaken. This is the village of Havenhill. And I, young sir, am Jessup Wildemere, at your service.” The man swept his hat from his head, clicked his heels together, and made a polite bow. “And you would be …?”

  Simon told the man his name, all the while thinking someone was playing an elaborate joke on him. This man couldn’t possibly be Jessup Wildemere, not the same drifter who was hanged from the branches of the Liberty Tree—the Hanging Tree, the very tree they both now stood beneath—for murdering Cornelius Dobbler. Simon stared at the man in disbelief. Like every kid in school, he knew the story of Jessup Wildemere.

  Simon had always imagined Jessup Wildemere in smelly, sweat-stained buckskins, with a grizzly lice-laden beard and brown rotting teeth. But the man who stood before him was young, only a few years older than he, and well dressed. Or at least as far as Simon could tell. He looked like a decent enough person. Not at all like someone who could commit murder.

  “What are you doing here?” Simon all but whispered the question. He felt foolish even asking it. Because by now it seemed obvious to him that this was a dream. It had to be. Jessup Wildemere had been dead more than two hundred years. Things like this didn’t happen when you were awake.

  The man looked beyond Simon and smiled. “I’m waiting for someone.”

  Simon knew that smile, had felt it on his own face many times. It was the same look he got whenever Devin McCafferty walked into view.

  But just as his lips parted, about to form the question “Who?” Simon felt the pull of his body and the painful plunge back into dark silence.

  BY NOON ON FRIDAY ALL THE SNOW EXCEPT THE mounds left by the plows had melted. The magnolia buds had already begun to turn brown. A warm spring breeze carried an invisible airborne cloud from the pharmaceutical plant into town. It hovered over the houses nestled in the valley, a pungent odor that smelled like cat urine. The people of Bellehaven were used to it. They hardly noticed it anymore.

  Today they welcomed the smell as if it were a gift from heaven, an honest-to-goodness miracle, because when the odor drifted through the tree branches, the crows lifted into the air, squawking their indignant protests, and headed west.

  Nobody was as happy or relieved as Danny Giannetti, who barreled home from school, tires squealing as he made a sharp turn into the driveway. Without even bothering to change his clothes, he dragged the hose from the back of the house, got a bucket of hot soapy water, and began to scrub away more than four days’ worth of crow droppings from his Mustang.

  It was the first normal spring day since the previous Saturday when the four-day heat wave arrived, followed by the blizzard. The afternoon sun was warm. A light breeze swept the last of the dead leaves into the storm drain. Daffodils, buried under a half foot of snow two days before, their stalks bent to the ground, struggled to straighten up. Their stems, like hunched spines, swayed precariously in the breeze. Danny noticed none of this. His attention was on his Mustang.

  The spray from the hose as it hit the car left dark splotches on his jeans and olive green T-shirt. He felt the sun on his neck, the wind in his hair, and for the briefest moment, he dared to hope. Nothing more had happened since the police confiscated Simon’s computer on Tuesday. He was sure if there was something incriminating, the cops would have been pounding on his door by now, slapping handcuffs on him.

  Danny shook his head as if trying to dislodge the image. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. The sight of the shiny black paint, the shimmering beads of water, reassured him. No crows cackled overhead. No crows threatened to undo his hard work. All was right with the world.

  Until the image of Simon swirling the hose over his head suddenly popped uninvited into Danny’s head.

  Simon had come by Danny’s house one Saturday morning in September, an hour before everyone was to hook up at Kyle’s and head down to the school for the football game. Danny had been outside washing his new Mustang, his pride and joy, purchased with money earned from numerous after-school and summer jobs. He had the car stereo on full blast, ignoring the disgruntled remarks of his neighbors.

  He had no idea why Simon had come by so early. He found his presence annoying and even a little disconcerting. Danny wanted to be left alone to wash his car in peace. It wasn’t as if he and Simon were friends or anything. And without Kyle, Devin, and his other friends there, he didn’t have a clue what to say to the little geek.

  Simon slid inside the car on the passenger side and, to Danny’s horror, began to switch stations. First to some country western station, then an oldies station.

  Finally, after listening to some really boring classical piece, Danny had had enough. “What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”

  Simon blinked in surprise and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “What?”

  “What do you mean ‘what?’ I had it tuned to a decent station.”

  “Don’t you ever listen to anything else?”

  “Why should I?”

  Simon shrugged. “I don’t know. Just for the hell of it? Just to
hear something different?”

  “I like what I like,” Danny said, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Leave the damn radio alone.” He stood there, looking outraged, as the sponge dripped soapy water down the front of his pants. “Jeez. Now look what you made me do.”

  Simon didn’t look the least bit contrite. In fact, Danny noticed something in Simon’s expression he hadn’t seen before, although he couldn’t put a name to it. The next thing he knew, Simon had sprung from the car, grabbed the hose, pressed the handle on the spray nozzle, and was spinning a stream of water over their heads like a lasso. Before he knew what hit him, Danny was soaked to the skin.

  He lunged for the hose, shrieking obscenities at the top of his lungs, but Simon only laughed and continued to whip water over their heads. In no time flat, Danny was laughing too, smacking Simon with the soapy sponge.

  Before they left for the game, Danny changed his clothes, but Simon, still dripping, his sneakers squishing and oozing water with each step, didn’t bother. He told Danny he’d be dry before the second quarter, sitting out on those hot bleachers, and a whole lot cooler than everyone else. Danny thought Simon had a point and almost wished he hadn’t changed his own clothes.

  Now he lifted the hose from the driveway and stared down at the nozzle. The temptation to point it straight up in the air and swirl it the way Simon had was overwhelming. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not without Simon.

  Danny was busy smearing paste wax on the car, taking pride in each large swooping circle he made, when his sister, Marni, pulled into the driveway and parked her classic ’65 T-bird right next to his car. She wore khaki hiking shorts and a pale orange T-shirt and held a Diet Pepsi in one hand. Danny spotted her grease-stained jeans tossed in a heap in the backseat and figured she must have changed at work.

  She glanced at Danny’s Mustang; then, shading her eyes with her hand, she squinted up at the treetops. “Thank god,” she said. “If those damn crows were still here I was going to borrow Austin McAllister’s BB gun and blast their feathers off.”

  Austin McAllister lived next door, and as far as Danny was concerned, he was a dorky little seventh grader with psychotic tendencies. On more than one occasion Danny had seen him sitting on his deck shooting at robins that settled on the branches of a black birch a few yards away. He was one of the few people Danny steered clear of.

  “Nice talk,” Danny said.

  Marni shrugged and bent forward to check her reflection in the shiny surface of Danny’s car. “Mrs. McCafferty is in the hospital.” She ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them. “They’re saying it could be that West Nile virus.”

  It took a few seconds for her words to register. Danny stood there with the can of paste wax in one hand and a rag in the other. “Devin’s mom?”

  “Her grandmother, I think.” Marni straightened up and looked at him. “I told you. It’s those damn crows. Ron Snyder, who heads the Mosquito Commission, was in to pick up his Pathfinder this afternoon. He says they found a dead crow in the McCaffertys’ backyard and they’re having it tested.”

  The hair on the back of his neck bristled, although he wasn’t sure why that should be. He didn’t even know Devin’s grandmother, except to say hi in the A&P or when he saw her in town. “Did he actually say it’s West Nile virus?”

  “No. That’s what some of the guys at the station are saying.”

  Danny smirked. “Oh, right. Yeah, like with their Ph.D.’s in biology, they’ve got it all figured out.” This was a sore point with Marni and he knew it.

  She took the bait. “Just because a person chooses not to go to some hotshot university doesn’t mean they aren’t smart.” She spun around and headed toward the back door. “And there are plenty of stupid jerks who think because they’re going to some snotty fancy school people won’t notice they’re brain-dead.”

  Danny laughed. He knew this was aimed at him, at his recent acceptance by Dartmouth. “It’s too early for mosquitoes,” he shouted to her back.

  “Sorry, genius, but you don’t know everything,” she called over her shoulder. “Ron says all that rain we had at the end of March, followed by the heat wave that came through last Saturday, set off a mess of early hatchers.” She bounced up the back steps and let the screen door slap shut behind her.

  Danny went back to applying the paste wax, but the pleasure he’d felt earlier was gone. West Nile virus. So big deal, he thought. People got sick all the time. Only, for some reason, he couldn’t shake a feeling of dread, the same feeling he’d had the morning the crows first descended on Bellehaven.

  Kyle gently brushed Devin’s hair away from her bowed head, trying to read her expression. They were standing inside the custodial closet, the same one Kyle and Danny had brought Simon to the day Kyle decided Simon would be Walter Tate’s replacement.

  “I thought you were going to drive me to the hospital,” Devin said.

  “I will, okay? After you talk to McCabe.”

  “I told my mom I’d be there right after school.”

  Kyle rolled his eyes and assumed his most patient look. “Dev, I know you’re worried about your grandmother. I can understand that. But this computer security situation is definitely code blue. We have to move fast.”

  “Why can’t you do it?” she said, looking up at him.

  “McCabe’s not about to tell me squat.”

  “So why should he tell me anything?” Devin took a step away from him. Her back was against the metal shelves.

  How could he tell her it was because she was hot, because no guy could keep anything from her even if he tried? “It’ll seem more innocent coming from you. You’re just trying to find out about a friend who might be in trouble.”

  Devin twisted a loose button on her sweater. “You’re better at getting what you want from people. I’m just going to blow it. I’ll get nervous and screw it up.”

  “Dev, we’ve only got a short window of opportunity here. McCabe’s still in the computer lab. If we don’t move fast, we’ll have to wait until Monday. I don’t think we can afford to do that. Do you?”

  Devin stared down at the button in the palm of her hand. She hadn’t realized it had come off. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger over the smooth surface. Kyle was right, of course. They couldn’t afford to wait.

  A few minutes later, Devin stood outside the computer lab. The door was closed, which surprised her, but it wasn’t locked. She opened it a crack and peeked inside. At the far corner of the room a bunch of seniors from the football team hovered over one of the computers. One of them let out a whistle. The others laughed.

  Her heart was beating so fast she couldn’t think straight. She had to be out of her mind to let Kyle talk her into this.

  She was barely halfway into the room when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around. She was face to face with Mr. McCabe. He frowned at her.

  Scuffling sounds, the sounds of chairs being pulled out, and general clatter echoed behind her. Devin glanced over her shoulder. All the boys had suddenly taken seats in front of the other computers and seemed to be working. Vaguely she thought, Jocks? Computers? After school? It doesn’t wash.

  “You want something, Devin?”

  Devin turned back to Mr. McCabe. She was momentarily distracted by the wild yellow and orange Hawaiian print shirt, buttons stretched to the limit across his bulging stomach. His red mustache was so thick and bushy, it hid his entire upper lip.

  “Yes,” Devin said, finally answering his question. “I need to talk to you.” She looked over at the jocks. “Maybe this isn’t a good time.”

  Mr. McCabe had assumed a more relaxed position. The frown had given way to a grin. A truly creepy grin, to Devin’s way of thinking. “They’re here for extra help,” he said, nodding toward the group at the other end of the room. He shrugged and gave her a knowing look, as if to say, What do you expect, they’re jocks, then steered her over to his desk and pulled up a chair for her.

  “So, what’s on your min
d?” His voice was friendly enough, but Devin could see he was preoccupied. Every so often he shifted his eyes to where half the football team appeared to be working at the computers.

  “It’s about Simon,” she said. She dropped her backpack next to the chair and sat down.

  That got his attention. “Simon Gray?”

  Devin nodded. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?”

  Mr. McCabe rested his elbows on his desk, linked his chubby fingers, and leaned forward. He took a deep breath, obviously stalling. “I’d say so. Being in a coma, that’s—”

  “I’m not talking about that,” Devin said, trying not to sound impatient. “I mean, well, I heard something.”

  From the back of the room, one of the jocks yelled, “Hey, Mr. McCabe, my screen’s frozen.”

  Looking as if the cavalry had arrived, Mr. McCabe got to his feet. He shoved his chair back with one leg. Devin knew if he retreated to the other side of the room, he could be there for a long time. Surprising even herself, she yelled to the boy, a senior named Alan Caldwell, to hit the Alt, Control, and Delete keys in sequence.

  Alan stared at her for a minute, then shifted his gaze to Mr. McCabe. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Right. Forgot about that.” He shrugged and stabbed his fingers at the keyboard.

  “I just want to know if it’s true,” Devin said, before Mr. McCabe could escape. “Is he in trouble?”

  “I’m not sure what kind of trouble you’re talking about. What is this ‘something’ you heard?”

  Devin swallowed hard. If she told him she knew about the breach of computer security, about the conversation he’d had with Dr. Schroder, Mr. McCabe would know she was somehow involved. “I heard the police came to his house and took his PC,” she said.

  “Who told you that?”

  She had to think fast. Recalling what Charlie Atwater had told Danny, she said, “Simon’s sister. She was at home when the cops showed up.”

  Mr. McCabe looked over at the jocks. He sighed. “Devin, I’m really not at liberty to discuss this case.”