Sawyer was rubbing my nerves blood-raw, but Anne opened the door then, carrying a mitt that looked like it had been through the Great War. Aidan fell into step beside Sawyer as he led us around to the front of the houses so we didn’t have to worry about Ziegler’s dogs leaping the Demons’ Door to tear out our throats. Aidan and Sawyer walked shoulder-to-shoulder which meant there wasn’t enough room on the sidewalk for Anne and me. Anne acted like following them didn’t bother her, but I figured it did, because of the way she stomped on their shadows.
The town square where we played was nothing more than a patch of grass surrounded by the Corner Tap, Franklin’s Drug Emporium, the post office, Nelson’s Funeral Hall, Swanson’s Grocer, and Nichols’s Hardware. Posters for war bonds plastered the boarded-up windows on the rest of the stores, which had all closed during the years leading up to the war. Crisscrossing sidewalks connected the four corners of the town square and met in the middle, where they circled around the statue of a soldier. Tall and stiff, he stood at attention as if standing guard over all of Harmony.
The first thing Anne did was squint up at the statue. “Who’s that?”
Sawyer followed her gaze. “Aw, cripes. Don’t get Cory started.”
“My grandfather,” I said, ignoring him, even though I knew full well ignoring Sawyer never worked.
The square was empty except for old Mrs. Baird, who acted like it was her sworn duty to spend afternoons in the park digging up dandelions with a rusted old soup spoon. Just seeing her made me remember walking with Dad across the square when I was a little kid. We had paused to look up at my grandfather’s face, lost in a halo of sunshine. The way his head touched the sky made me think the statue was tall enough to reach up and grab a passing cloud.
That day, Mrs. Baird’s spoon had been crusty with dirt. A mutilated worm dangled from the handle, writhing in front of my nose. Dad wanted me to look at her, to say something polite. He squeezed my hand so hard my bones crunched, but I couldn’t move. My eyes were locked on the dying struggle of that worm. It hung, suspended for a split second, curling up as if trying to reach out for me. Then it lost its grip on the tarnished silver. I pulled away from Dad’s hand, hopping back so the worm wouldn’t splat on my shoe.
“Don’t you worry,” Mrs. Baird had said. “That ugly ol’ thing can’t hurt you.”
There was the sound of a smile in her voice, but I couldn’t know for sure since my eyes were still on the worm, watching as it twitched one last time.
“Don’t be silly, Cory,” Dad had said, and I could tell by the sound of his voice he was disappointed in me. “It’s just a worm.”
That was the day I swore I’d never embarrass him again. I’d never show the least hint of fear. Ever. I would be like him. And Grandpa. Woodford Brave.
Anne shaded her eyes with one hand, blocking out the sun to get a better look at my grandfather’s stony face. “He looks a little like you. Tell me about him.”
“He was a hero. Not like the Mighty Space Warrior or Captain America, since he didn’t have superpowers. But he died saving a bunch of men during the Great War.”
“I didn’t mean the part about how he died,” she said. “How did he live? Did he collect stamps? Did he like to play checkers? Did he snort when he laughed?”
I opened my mouth, then shut it fast when it occurred to me that I didn’t have the foggiest idea. I had grown up hearing how Grandpa went to war and saved a lot of men. How he suffered from mustard gas and died a painful death. That made him a hero, and that was that. Everybody said so. “I’m sure he was brave his whole life,” I finally said. “Just like my dad.”
“Too bad everyone remembers him for the way he died,” Anne said. “I mean, what if your grandpa was just a normal kind of person but he died doing one great thing? It seems how a person lived should be more important than one single deed.”
“All that is ancient history,” Sawyer interrupted, proving yet again that ignoring him didn’t work one iota. “Are you ready to play, or are you just stalling because you know I’m going to beat the freckles off your nose?”
Anne stepped up to the dirt patch that was our pitcher’s mound. “Cory and I will take on you and Aidan. You’re up first.”
“You really think you can pitch it in the wheelhouse?” Sawyer asked Anne.
“I don’t think it. I know it.”
“This ought to be good for a laugh,” Sawyer said, jogging to take his place at the worn-out dirt patch that was our home plate. I took the catcher’s position and Aidan headed across the park, figuring Sawyer would slam that ball to kingdom come, but he was wrong. It took only four of Anne’s pitches to prove that Sawyer wasn’t the only one who had a fastball guaranteed to take the skin off your nose.
“Strrrrr-iiiiiike three,” she yelled. “You’re OUT!”
It was the first time anyone had ever said those two words to Sawyer. His face was red, and sweat rolled down the sides of his face. He was hot, all right, but not from swinging at the ball. He let the bat hit the ground with a hollow bounce before switching places with Aidan.
Aidan held the bat just like Sawyer had coached. When he popped a ball toward the dirt patch we called third base, Anne sprinted over and caught it before it had a chance to bounce in the grass.
Aidan looked at Sawyer with eyes that would’ve made a hound dog seem downright cheerful. Sawyer didn’t notice. He was too busy glaring at Anne in a way that would freeze the Torch of Evil in his tracks.
Anne took her turn at home plate, the bat hovering over her right shoulder. I expected Sawyer to throw a beanball, but Sawyer eyed the spot in front of her shoulders, wound up, then let a fastball rip. Anne didn’t move a muscle until the ball crossed the plate. Then she swung. Hard. The bat hit the ball with a crack that should’ve shattered windows. It sailed back over Sawyer’s head, over Grandpa’s statue, and clear to the other side of the square.
“Wa-hooooooooo!” I shouted without thinking.
Sawyer spat on the ground and glared at me. “Nothing but luck,” he said.
“Admit it,” Anne said, holding safe at third, “I’m better than you.”
I barely had time to snatch the bat out of the air when Sawyer tossed it to me.
All ball players had good luck habits. I was no different. I patted the latest edition of the Space Warrior comic book riding in my hip pocket, then tugged on the bill of my lucky ball cap. I imagined becoming the Kid from my comic strip. My arms, rippled with muscles, effortlessly hoisted the bat high, ready to hit a torpedo of doom over the Atlantic Ocean to where the Warrior was surrounded by the Torch and his evil henchmen.
Sawyer smacked the ball in his mitt, obviously itching to prove he was better than a dumb Dora. He wound up and sent a fastball straight for my heart, making sure to put extra smoke in the pitch. Instinct, not fear, made me dodge. I stumbled, tripped on my own left foot, and fell down on my keister.
Sawyer shouted loud enough to wake the Mallory ghosts. “Strrrr-iiiiiiiike one!”
The first thing I did when I got up was to make sure I hadn’t torn the cover of my comic book. The next thing was to glare at Sawyer. “You did that on purpose.”
“I’d never beanball you, Cory,” Sawyer said. “But I bet that Space Warrior of yours wouldn’t play with his foot in the bucket the way you do. This time, stare the ball down and wait to swing until it’s close enough to kiss. Think of it as Anne.”
Aidan hooted at that and Anne rolled her eyes. I made sure my cap was down over my ears and then waited, waited, waited. Just before Sawyer’s pitch sailed past me, I swung. My arms jolted with the crack of the bat when it smashed the ball, but my hit went high and wild, bouncing off my grandfather’s nose with a sharp thunk before ricocheting across the park.
“D-D-Duck!” Aidan yelled, barely getting the word out in time.
Mrs. Baird fell flat on the grass as the ball breezed over her flowery straw hat. Sawyer doubled over, almost swallowing his gum, he laughed so hard.
Aidan reach
ed Mrs. Baird first and was quick to help her up. “I’m sorry,” I told her, jogging up beside Aidan. “I wasn’t aiming for you. Really, I wasn’t.”
Mrs. Baird eyed me over the tops of her sweat-dotted glasses. Gray hair had sprung loose and a clump of grass was stuck in her straw hat. I couldn’t help but check out her rusty spoon for worms. There weren’t any.
“You should have more respect for your grandfather’s memory,” she huffed, pulling down her dress. “He deserves better than to be smacked in the nose with a baseball.”
The base of the statue was cool and solid under my hand when I patted it. “Grandpa died a hero and my dad is just like him. A hero, I mean. Not dead. A hero for fighting the Nazi aggression.”
Then I added the obvious. “I’m like him, too. My dad, I mean. Not Hitler. I’m brave. Woodford Brave.”
Mrs. Baird looked like she was going to lecture me all the way to kingdom come, but instead, she thumped me on top of my cap with her spoon before grabbing her paper sack full of dandelion greens from Anne and marching to the far side of the square.
Sawyer shifted the wad of gum from one cheek to the other, watching her go. “You know, being a hero isn’t something that runs in families, Cory. It’s not like being fat or skinny or having freckles.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“Just what I said. You talk like some big crackerjack, but the truth is actions speak louder than words ever will. And you act like a chicken.”
Anne tossed the ball into her mitt, her eyes moving back and forth between us. I wasn’t about to let Sawyer make me look like some kind of fool in front of the new girl. Not that it mattered what a girl thought. No sir-ee. But with Dad fighting the Nazis, it was up to me to uphold the Woodford name. “Everyone in Harmony knows I’m brave just like my dad and my grandfather,” I said. “Tell him, Aidan.”
Aidan knew me better than anyone, considering we’d been best friends forever. That’s why I couldn’t believe it when he took a step. It was a tiny one, but it was big enough to move him closer to Sawyer than to me.
Sawyer didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He grinned around his wad of gum, then turned his back on my grandfather’s statue and headed for home.
6
THE DEMONS’ DOOR
Anne kept talking a blue streak as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Is your dad in the Pacific or on the European front? My dad supports the war, but he has flat feet or else he would’ve enlisted. Back in Illinois, I was a member of a club and collected a wagon full of old tin.”
“So did we,” I told her when she finally took a breath. “Aidan and I were members of Captain America’s Sentinels of Liberty Club, even though I like the Space Warrior comic books better. We pulled Aidan’s wagon halfway across Harmony collecting old newspapers.”
Most kids in Harmony had collected tin, scrap material, and even our mothers’ silk stockings. Metal to be melted down for ships and bullets. Material to be made into bandages and uniforms. Silk to make parachutes. Everything went toward winning the war.
“That was b-b-back when we were little kids,” Aidan said over his shoulder, as if he were some kind of grownup all of a sudden. “We wanted to join the B-B-Boy Scouts of America but Mr. Dunne enlisted and there weren’t any other dads around willing to be leaders so the Harmony troop f-f-fizzled.”
Aidan didn’t tell her that his own dad used his busted-up leg as an excuse not to volunteer. Or that Sawyer’s dad had offered, but by the time he sobered up he had forgotten.
“I would’ve gotten a badge for collecting the most tin, but we had to leave Joliet, so I never did get it,” Anne said.
“What do you mean you had to leave?” Sawyer asked.
Anne’s mouth opened and shut, making her look like a catfish blowing bubbles. “I meant we decided to move. My dad used to own a store, but he got a better job working as a manager at Nichols’s Hardware. Managing is much easier than owning. He’s been in the hardware business longer than Hitler has been stirring up trouble in Germany. Dad wanted to join the Navy, and I think he’d look good in a sailor’s uniform, but he has those flat feet and all.”
When we reached the alley that paralleled Catalpa, Anne barreled onto it as if she didn’t have a care in the world. I reached out and grabbed her arm without thinking. “Shh. You have to be quiet on Satan’s Sidewalk.”
Anne squinted into the shadows. “You never did tell me why you call the alley that.”
“Because of the Demons’ Door,” I told her as if that explained it all.
“Demons’ Door?” Anne repeated.
“The gate to Ziegler’s yard,” Sawyer answered before I had a chance. “Cory thinks Ziegler is some kind of enemy spy.”
“What makes you think he’s a Nazi?” Anne asked.
“That’s easy,” I told her. “He’s straight from Germany.”
“You’re a bunch of knuckleheads,” she said. “Just because he’s from Germany, it doesn’t mean he’s a Nazi.”
“It’s more than just his accent,” I told her. “He carries a case and goes off on secret missions. We’ve seen him. And he has trained dogs guarding his house.”
“Cory’s afraid of puppy dogs,” Sawyer added.
“Am not,” I snapped. I wasn’t about to let Sawyer paint me yellow in front of the new girl.
“Z-Z-Ziegler’s dogs aren’t puppies. They’re the kind of dogs the d-d-devil himself would keep,” Aidan added.
“I’m still not afraid of them,” I muttered.
Sawyer met my gaze for a full ten seconds before a slow smile turned up his lips. “Then you won’t be too scared to show your new girlfriend some of that Woodford Bravery, right, Cory?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I blurted. I didn’t know what bothered me more. The fact that Sawyer said it, or the way Anne waved away his words as if they were nothing more than the stink of cigar smoke. I couldn’t worry about it, because Sawyer started chanting the rhyme every kid hated.
“Truth or dare, double dare. Hero’s act or coward’s scare?”
Most kids say it as part of a game, but I could tell by the way Sawyer was trying to stare a hole right through my forehead that he was dead serious. But just like the statue of my grandfather, I would never blink. “Name it.”
“March up to the Demons’ Door and knock three times. Then we’ll know there’s brave blood running through your veins.”
“That’s c-c-crazy,” Aidan said. “Ziegler’s dogs’ll chew you up and sp-sp-spit out your bones.”
“It’s okay to admit you’re scared, Cory,” Anne said. “Nobody cares.”
She was wrong. I knew it. Aidan knew it. And most of all, Sawyer knew it. So I said the words the Space Warrior always threw into the face of danger. “I don’t know the meaning of fear.”
I automatically scanned the alley for the Mallory ghosts and tossed Aidan my mitt. Then I pushed my Yankees cap down to shade my eyes and stepped onto the gravel of Satan’s Sidewalk. The cap from Dad became my Helmet of Power, and my steps were the Kid’s fearless march of HyperSpeed Boots that left trenches in the earth behind me. Which made the fact that my knees felt like pudding a total mystery.
Anne acted like it was no big deal and fell into step beside me. Sawyer and Aidan followed, close enough to make sure I went through with the dare. It didn’t help when Sawyer armed his slingshot with a walnut and shot it straight at the Demons’ Door. Even though he missed, I could tell the dogs heard it crash into the bushes by the way they exploded with a spasm of snarling barks. When I started walking again, Anne fell back a few steps. I didn’t blame her. Besides, a hero never wants the girl to get hurt.
The trees blocked the August sun and something rattled their leaves. Instinct made me half-duck. I didn’t really expect acid dripping from a Mallory ghost to splat on my head and burn a hole clean through my brain.
Satan’s Sidewalk dead-ended at the bottom of the hill. Turning right up the hill would take me to the safety o
f my backyard. Going straight led past the Mallory House until it emptied onto Elm Street. At the intersection of it all was Ziegler’s yard and the Demons’ Door. I caught glimpses of his dogs through the bushes, their gray hair tangled in the shadows. There was absolutely nothing stopping them from leaping over that puny gate and ripping my throat wide open, but heroes never turned back. They never ran. They. Knew. No. Fear.
Sawyer and Aidan slowed. Anne stopped between them and me. “D-D-Do it fast,” Aidan whispered. “Before Ziegler’s dogs sink their fangs down to your bones.”
“Piece. Of. Cake,” I said through gritted teeth.
Just ten more steps. Then five. Three more and I would be there, face-to-face with the spy’s dogs. My fingers curled into a fist, ready to pound the gate hard enough for Sawyer to hear it loud and clear.
It was at that exact instant, the very moment I was going to prove Sawyer was wrong once and for all, that something crashed through the bushes of the deserted Mallory house and raced straight toward me. It was instinct, not fear, that ripped a scream from my throat.
I dodged left, but a ball of fury seemed to be everywhere, knocking against my shins and tangling my legs. I jumped back and stumbled into the strip of weeds creeping at the edge of the alley. A vine snared my shoe and pulled my feet out from under me. I butt-scooted away until I was trapped with my back against the Demons’ Door, kicking for all I was worth at my attacker.
“Stop, Cory. Stop,” Anne shouted. “It’s only a cat.”
Sure enough, when I quit kicking, I saw the mangy yellow-haired cat crouched in front of my shoes. The same one that had been hiding in the haunted house when we spied on Ziegler.
Sawyer hooted from his hidey-hole behind a trash can. “So much for the blood of the brave!”
Aidan echoed Sawyer like some bird-brained parrot. Anne stood next to both of them. All three of them eyewitnesses to how I had gotten twitchy over a silly cat. I was ready to point out that being startled was not the same thing as being scared, when something cold hit my arm and I looked up.
Woodford Brave Page 3
