“Someone died.” I say it for him.
“Yeah. Tough,” he says. He scratches his bearded jaw. “I hope it wasn’t somebody close to you. You’re very young,” he says, as if he has just noticed that.
“I wasn’t even around,” I say. The cat jumps down from the file cabinet and tiptoes over the mess on the desk. It hops to the floor and slinks out of the office. I hear it meow somewhere near the entrance. “Mr. Bosco . . . I don’t understand about the bags of garbage,” I say. I can’t stop eyeing the one he has picked out for me.
“Oh, not garbage,” he says. “Well, that’s debatable, I suppose.” He reaches and pops the bag open for me with a snap. He looks inside and gives the contents a shake and a rattle. He dumps it out. I see receipts and gum wrappers, a ChapStick and a few coins. But something heavy slid out too. I heard it hit the desk. “My job is to clean up the scene after the police are done,” he says. “Big stuff. Small stuff. I save everything in case the police ask for it. But nine times out of ten, they don’t.”
“Really?”
“If there’s no investigation, no lawsuits or legal stuff, they don’t take the time. Then I’m supposed to call the car owners to come get it, and I do. But I’ve seen a lot of wrecks go right to scrap. Sweet old cars somebody once loved.” He grins slightly. “I sweep them out before they go, but like I say, most of the time nobody comes for, as you say, the garbage.” The cat lets out an impatient yowl. Bosco says, “Anyway, kiddo, I’m ninety-eight percent sure that this is what I’ve got from the night you’re asking about. It’s yours if you want it.”
“You can just give it to me?”
“I’m supposed to throw it out after four years,” he says. “But as you can see, I’m not much for getting rid of things.” He steps out of the office to tend to the cat.
I should hurry. The gas tank of the SUV is probably full, and Zoey is hurting. I give the pile on the table a stir with one finger. I catch something—a strap. It’s bright orange and bendy. I pull on it and uncover that one heavy thing that slid out of the bag. It’s a sports watch with a face like a dashboard but it’s smashed—and I want it. It’s just that it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. A picture! I need my camera! But my backpack is in the SUV.
“Sure. He’s inside,” I hear Bosco say.
Then I hear Zoey’s mom. “Hey, Perry? You ready?”
“Yep!” I close my hand over the watch and tuck it up into the cuff of my fleece.
chapter sixty-five
TIMEKEEPER
At the VanLeer supper table, Zoey feels better again. She’s had her medicine. She eats oatmeal and tells about our trip. “. . . and my tooth was the least of it, Tom. This was sad but amazing,” Zoey says. “We were actually at the intersection where Perry’s mom had that accident, and it turns out that—”
“What? Where did you go?”
“We went to the oral surgeon.” Zoey’s mom pushes those words out. “We think we had lunch at the intersection where it happened. It seems like maybe it was the place.”
Wow, I think. She’s still not sure. Even after I told them in the car, “Bosco remembers.” That’s what I said, and I showed her bright eyes from the backseat. Then again, she never saw the photos from Mom’s file like I did. She doesn’t know about the watch. I’m keeping that to myself—I’m dying for a better look at it. So far, I haven’t dared. I haven’t even taken off my fleece jacket. I’m sitting right here at the VanLeer table with the watch still tucked up inside my sleeve. I try not to look down at my wrist.
“Perry talked to the tow truck driver,” Zoey says.
“He wasn’t a witness to the crash,” I say. “But afterward he saw a girl wrapped in a blanket staring at the night. That’s how my mom told the story to me.”
Mr. VanLeer seems squirmy. He looks at his wife and shakes his head. She is silent. I push my food with my fork. I’m not that hungry after our late lunch.
Then Zoey says, “You can’t get mad at Mom, Tom. Nobody can plan a coincidence.”
Boy, do I love that. Zoey Samuels is right.
After dinner, the VanLeer adults excuse us from cleanup. They ask us to go ahead to our rooms, please. On the way down the hall, Zoey whispers to me. “I bet they take it to the street,” she says, which means the adults are going to argue. About me. At least they will be busy.
Inside the closet, I kneel beside the warden’s suitcase and switch on the reading lamp. I slide the watch out of my sleeve and turn it over in my fingers. There’s a white starburst crack in the glass that makes it hard to see the face. I see three circles under there. Must be for different functions. The clip on the watch is broken. The orange band is still bright after all these years. On the inside of the band someone has written with black pen.
For Flip, my timekeeper for all time. Love, J.C.
My heart stops beating. J.C. has to be Jessica Cook. Who is Flip? And what is this message about a timekeeper? Of all the voices in this world I hear Mr. Krensky telling me that Mom had to be protecting someone.
I whisper in the closet. “Who is Flip?”
chapter sixty-six
JESSICA
Jessica Cook looked down into the common from the Upper East Lounge. Halsey Barrows stood with a duffel strung across his body. He was dressed in street clothes—no chambray. A few more minutes and he’d be gated out—gone. She’d had to distance herself from him these last couple of days—no other way to bear the impending separation. Perhaps he felt the same; he’d been moving around her rather than to her. Even now, she kept back from the railing just in case he’d look up and deepen the crack in her heart.
She saw the small assembly: Big Ed as his support person, one foreman, and the temp. So often Perry had joined these small sendoffs. This was going to crush him. Halsey had been one of their special ones. She watched the taxi pull up in the circle. She saw Halsey hand Big Ed two . . . envelopes . . . she was fairly sure.
At the end of the work day, Big Ed put both of them into her hands. One was addressed to Jessie, one to Perry. The supper line was forming, and the common was too busy for the delicate business of letter opening. So she hiked up the stairs, took a chance, and tried the door to Perry’s old bedroom at the end of the Upper East Lounge. To her surprise it was unlocked. Inside, she sat on his stripped-bare bed and gently worked her thumb along the triangular flap of the envelope addressed to her. She slid the folded paper out, and when she opened it, several bills fell onto her lap. She felt herself blush as she packed them deep into her palm with her fingers. Then she read:
Jessie, I tried and tried to write you something that would tell you all the things I want you to know. I failed again and again. Sorry. But you’re quick, and you’ve got a read on this whole world like nobody I’ve ever known—and isn’t that ironic given the long years you’ve spent on the inside? (I hope you’re smiling.) Point is, I think you know what’s in my tongue-tied heart. Stay strong. Do it for you; do it for Perry. I’m leaving my gate money for you and your boy. I don’t need it. I’ve got an honest gig—pretty far from here—but it pays well.
Love, Halsey
Jessica dumped herself onto her side. She pulled her knees up and curled around them. She wept convulsively. When she could, she took her salt-burned face down to a late supper, where Eggy-Mon put up a serving for her. He cooed softly, “I saved you a biscuit—crumb and flake, and a bowl of split pea—the best I make. Birds fly high and birds fly low. When birds fly out, we watch them go . . .”
He came around the counter, took Jessica’s tray, and walked her to the table where Gina, Callie DiCoco, and Sashonna Lewis sat. From inside his apron pocket Eggy-Mon produced a napkin full of oatmeal raisin cookies, which were met with squeals of approval. When the women broke the cookies, the smell of cinnamon filled the air, and Jessica leaned toward the warm shoulders of her friends.
chapter sixty-seven
THE ENVELOPE
On Friday at school, I dodge a few questions about missing the Coming to Butler County
projects. It’s pretty likely that Brian Morris has filled people in. I don’t care. I have something bigger on my mind—a job for the library volunteers.
Before we get into the Bucking Blue Bookmobile, Zoey helps me slip messages into magazines—again. I’m going to need the rezzes to keep six for me on Saturday like never before. I’m waiting until then to ask Mom about the watch. Friday afternoon is never enough time, and for this, we’ve got to be alone.
“So why do you need them to keep six on Saturday?” Zoey asks. I think about the watch with the orange band. I have it stowed in the interior pocket of the warden’s suitcase in the VanLeer closet.
I tell Zoey half the truth. “I need to talk to my mom about the coincidental lunch at the infamously dangerous intersection,” I say. “Your stepdad isn’t cool with what happened. So . . .”
“Oh! Right! And you have the picture to show her!” Zoey’s thinking of the History Wall at Toni’s Corner. I’m thinking of pictures I took of the watch because it seems more important. “You need Tom out of your way,” she says. “And if I see your mom today, I won’t mention any of it,” she says. Zoey Samuels is the best friend in the world.
At Blue River, Mrs. Buckmueller settles in her chair. Zoey and I empty the bins. As we stack the periodicals, I am so focused on the notes inside it about knocks me over when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Mom! You’re so early today.”
“I asked for permission,” she says. “I wanted more than a few minutes with you.” She gives me a tired smile, and I wonder what’s up. When she excuses us to a far corner in the common, I am sure she has bad news.
She holds out an envelope. I take it between my finger and thumb. It feels warm from being inside her pocket. “From Halsey,” she whispers, and instantly I know that he is gone. Released.
“Should I open it here?” My voice is small.
“Up to you,” she says.
I peel the envelope open.
Dear Perry,
Blue River is gating me out today. I’m glad about that. But it means I’m going to miss saying good-bye to you, and we’re going to have to take a rain check on that game of one-on-one. I wanted to give you my story, so here it is:
I am a pro player. No joke.
Once, I had everything in place for a crazy-good life, but I messed it all up. Not proud of that. But that’s my story. That’s how I ended up at Blue River trying to figure out how to rise up again. I’m on the comeback trail. I’m suspended from playing in the US for a while longer. So I’m off to train with a team in Germany. I hope to see you again one day. In fact, I’m counting on it.
Until then, you keep listening to your mom. She knows it all. Thanks for being around, Perry. Thanks for raising me up.
Fraternal love,
Halsey
“Well, we knew he was getting out,” I say. My throat is a little sandy. “Good for Mr. Halsey.” I blink but I won’t cry because a good thing has happened—same thing we want for Mom. “We’ll see him again,” I say.
“I hope so,” says Mom.
“I know we will,” I tell her. “He promised me a game.”
chapter sixty-eight
THE WHOLE TRUTH
On Saturday morning my rezzes have my back. Big Ed comes to distract VanLeer.
“There’s our district attorney!” he says. “How about you drink a cup of coffee with me? You’d like that. Sure you would.” VanLeer is looking over his shoulder at me.
Mr. Rojas comes up the other side of VanLeer, saying, “Coffee. Yeah! Yeah! This is a man . . . this is a man who loves coffee. Needs coffee!” So VanLeer is squished between Big Ed and Mr. Rojas, and he’s not getting out of there. They take him to a table where some of the rezzes are serving sweets to the Saturday visitors.
I walk up to Mom. We skip the swing-around. She says, “Perry, what’s up? You’ve got everyone keeping six.” She sticks her chin out toward the common. “Is this about Halsey leaving?”
“No. Mom, we need to get lost in Blue River today. Way away from VanLeer.”
She’s confused, but she’s with me. We circle around the common and find Fo-Joe. I’ve never had to ask him for a favor this big. “Please,” I say. “Can you let us go upstairs?” I beg him. He rolls his eyes like I’m asking for the moon. Fo-Joe can be like that. “You’re the temp,” I tell him. “You can decide.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His lips barely move. “Back it up this way,” he says. His eyes scan the common while we shuffle back toward the bottom of the stairs.
Across the way, Miss Sashonna is chirping at Mr. VanLeer. “You’ll like that cookie. Oh that’s a good cookie!” She holds the oatmeal raisin in a set of serving tongs. She pushes it at him. He’s already holding a very full cup of coffee in the other hand.
“That’s your cookie,” Big Ed says. “Take that cookie.” He points. But VanLeer is not taking it. He’s trying to turn around.
Sashonna gives us wild wide eyes. She reaches out and gives VanLeer’s hand a slap. “COOKIE!” she repeats. He draws the hand back. His coffee sloshes. There are people up his back now. He’s taking the cookie. I think he’s afraid to take his eyes off Miss Sashonna or she’ll swat him again.
We back all the way up to the stairway rope. Fo-Joe unhitches it. “Wait . . .” He checks on the refreshment table. VanLeer is occupied. “Go!” Fo-Joe says. Together, Mom and I take the stairs two at a time.
“Your room! Your room!” Mom says. Her hands steer my shoulders. We duck into the room at the top of the stairs just off the Upper East Lounge. It’s the first time I’ve been inside my old bedroom since I left Blue River.
Mom breathes. “Perry, please. You have to tell me what’s so important.”
“I have to show you something.” I pull out my camera. I find a picture I took of the smashed watch face. I hand the camera to her. She takes a look but shakes her head at me like she doesn’t understand. I take the camera back and advance to a close-up shot of the writing on the orange band. I show her.
Mom’s breath goes into her lungs, and it sounds like a cry from an animal. She brings her voice back to a whisper. “Perry! Where did you get this? My God, tell me where?” She looks at the shot again. She is shaking and frantic and now I don’t know what to say.
“Mom, it was a coincidence,” I tell her. “I met the tow truck driver. He collects stuff after crashes. Nobody even comes for it—”
“It’s not possible!” she says. Her eyes fill, and she sits back hard against her chair. She drops her face into her hands. I look at the picture again, at the words in black pen.
“J.C. is for Jessica Cook, right, Mom? Who is Flip?”
Her shoulders are shaking. It’s real crying, and Mom doesn’t do that. “Perry, why did you do this?” I fight to hang on, but then I start to cry too. She leans forward, hugs me hard, and then holds my hands. She squeezes them tightly.
“I didn’t mean it like that. No, no. Don’t you be sad,” she begs me. “It’s okay, it’s all right. I’ll tell you everything. Right now. No pencil notes, no videos.” She wipes her face on the inside elbow of her chambray.
“So, I once loved a boy,” she begins. She sniffs hard. “You’re probably not surprised to hear that, because, well, here you are.” She manages a tiny smile.
“I know the biology part,” I say with a shrug. “Everybody has a father.”
“Yep. I called him Flip. His initials were FLP, and he had the quickest flip turn and the best push off the wall of any swimmer in the state. I gave him that watch. We used it to time each other during practice. We did everything together . . . and he was with me that night.
“We were trying to talk to my parents. We’d both won swim scholarships at the same school. We had decided to live together off campus in a co-ed house with some other swimmers. We wanted my parents’ blessing, and of course, they wouldn’t give it—quite the opposite. They were angry and drinking, and they said horrible things to that boy that I loved. I fought with them. Flip was better. He tried to be
reasonable. He defended me.
“But it went on and on. We gave up.” Mom’s face twists up. Her voice pitches high. “I told my parents this was good-bye. Flip and I got up to leave, and that’s when my father doubled over with chest pains. We wanted to call an ambulance—how I wish we had. But my mother refused. She got his heart meds for him. But his pains continued. Like I told you, I was the one with my keys in my hand that night. How they ended up in Flip’s hand instead, I can’t remember. My mother and I struggled to get my father into the car—so maybe it was then. Anyway, Flip got behind the wheel.”
A breath goes over my lips. I understand now. Mom looks at me. She nods.
“In so many, many ways, Perry, I am to blame for what happened. I pushed him to go fast, and so did my mother, screaming from the backseat. So he did, even when we drove into the hailstorm. When we got to that intersection, he slowed to take a left. He would’ve come to a full stop just like he was supposed to. The hail was beating down; my adrenaline was through the roof. I looked to my right and saw this silver sheet of hail with lights in the distance. I thought we had time, and I told him to go. I made him go. He trusted in me—and I put us right in the path of an oncoming truck.” Mom shakes her head.
“So what you told me is true,” I say. “You made a mistake at the intersection.”
“Yes, I did. Flip probably saved my life by speeding straight across instead of trying to make the left. It was a split-second decision. We got nipped hard in the rear quarter instead of dead on the side. We spun out and stopped when we smacked into a pole.”
It makes me cringe. I look at Mom. She could so easily be gone . . .
All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook Page 21
