by Rick Hautala
Herb wasn’t exactly sure what the boy meant, but he chuckled as he shut the cash drawer by nudging it with his belly.
“Well, then,” he said, “I guess that there roll of Life Savers is just gonna have to be on the house, huh?”
In an instant, Mikie’s smile brightened his face again. He stood there for a moment, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and staring at Herb as though he didn’t quite believe what he had just heard.
“Ah-ah—thanks. Thank you very much, Far—I mean, Mr. LaPointe. I—uh, I really appreciate it.” He was halfway to the door but then turned back and shouted. “I get my allowance every Friday. I can pay you back next week, I promise.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Herb said. “I don’t think eight cents is gonna bust me.” He picked up his newspaper, shook it out, and settled back in his chair to continue reading. “Someday when you’re rich and famous, you can pay me back double, okay?”
“Sure thing! It’s a deal,” Mikie said; then he turned on his heel and left the store, whistling an off-key tune between his teeth.
The abandoned Hollistown Lumber Mill was located four miles from downtown Summerfield on the north bank of the Saco River, about two miles north of where Stackpole Creek joins the river in its southeasterly flow. The only approach to the mill was from the south, along a long-unused dirt road that runs parallel to the river. The road was overgrown with tall grasses, scrub brush, and saplings, mostly birch and maple. Canoeists on the Saco could easily see the antique building, a weathered, gray hulk that stood out against the sky like an ancient, brooding castle, but a series of rapids prevented all but the most intrepid adventurers from attempting to land there.
The building itself had withstood almost three-quarters of a century of disuse quite well, considering the abuse it had taken since closing its doors to business back in 1927. All of the windows had been broken out long ago by barrages of stones thrown by local kids. On the first floor inside the mill, the wide-planked floors and walls had been stripped clean of anything and everything of value. All that remained in the echoing, empty rooms were scatterings of stones that had taken out the windows, shards of glass and splintered wood, and fifty years of accumulated debris—mostly dried leaves, old newspapers, mouse and bird droppings, and litter left behind by careless visitors. Age had dried out and weakened the floorboards, which creaked and threatened to break whenever anyone walked on them. On the riverside, a gaping square hole in the floor marked where the sawing frame and cutting bed had once been. In the center of the opening was a long, metal shaft which still had a rusted saw blade attached to it.
Not much light entered the building, especially the cellar, where narrow windows lined the mill’s stone foundation at ground level, front and back. Inside, the basement was a warren of small, interconnected rooms, some of which still contained an assortment of junk no one had bothered to carry away—rotting barrels and supply boxes, piles of unwanted lumber and debris, rusted tools and equipment, and literally hundreds of cans and broken bottles—soda, beer, and liquor—littered the floor along with old food wrappers. Some of the cellar’s interior dividing wails, also made of granite blocks, had caved in, leaving piles of rubble that looked like gigantic dominoes had spilled. Beneath the gaping hole of the sawing frame was a huge mound of rotting sawdust which, over the decades, had become home for a colony of rats. The dark holes of their burrows made the sawdust pile look like a huge chunk of spoiled Swiss cheese. At the front of the building, beneath the ruins of a large landing, a set of stone stairs led down into the cellar from outside, but most of the kids who came out here were adept at squeezing through the narrow windows or dropping down from the first floor, either through the small trapdoor near the front door of the mill or else through the gap of the sawing frame.
Generation after generation of Summerfield boys and girls had come out to the mill to explore and test their bravery by entering some of the darker, narrower recesses of the cellar or by going up into the echoing, dust-filled attic. Although there were the usual stories that the place was haunted, there had never been any officially recorded incidents of anyone entering the mill and never coming out. Of course, there were rumors, and tall tales told by older kids to frighten the younger ones, but even those exaggerated stories didn’t stop many of the area’s youngsters from visiting the site and from using it as an unofficial hangout.
The only extensive damage to the mill had occurred in two places. Some years ago, the peaked roof on the riverside had collapsed inward, looking—at least to the canoeists on the Saco River—as though a huge-fisted giant had punched in the top of the building. Over the years, rain and snow had poured into the mill, speeding the deterioration of the walls and floor on that side of the building. The other area of damage was on the backside of the building where a small L-shaped extension—some say it had once been the lumber mill managers’ office—had burned flat to the ground, leaving nothing but a pile of blackened, broken timbers covering the foundation hole. The side of the building had also suffered some damage before the fire had been put out; but because the mill was no longer in operation, no attempt had ever been made to restore it.
On this particular Saturday morning, three boys were huddled together in the basement, near the pile of rubble in the corner where a stairway had once led up to the first floor. Two of them—Eddie Fraser and Charlie “Fish-eyes” Costello—were standing behind Ray, who was seated on a makeshift bench made out of an old, charred timber. A cigarette dangled from Ray’s mouth as he slowly, almost religiously turned the pages of his stolen issue of Playboy. Narrow beams of dusty sunlight filtered through the cracks in the walls and floor, turning the cigarette smoke into bright blue spikes. The air was cool and moist, thick with the smell of rotting wood and damp soil. The beam of the flashlight Eddie was holding darted like a dragonfly across the glossy pages.
“Oh, my God—my God!” Charlie shouted as he did an excited little dance. He’d gotten his nickname years ago because of the Coke-bottle thick glasses he had to wear. He was the smallest of the three boys, with arms and legs as thin as rails. He reached forward and slapped the magazine, almost knocking it out of Ray’s hands. “Jesus Christ! Look at the bazoobas on that one!”
“I want to see the foldout again.”
“No, no—keep going, Sandy. Maybe there’s something even better.”
“Just look at her titties!”
“I wish they’d show the real thing, if you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, some pussy! I wanna see some real pussy!”
Eddie leaned his head back and made a yowling cat sound that elicited frowns from the other two boys.
“I saw the real thing once—some real tit, anyway,” Charlie said.
“Yeah, but your sister doesn’t count!”
The boys had plans to go swimming at the Nickerson’s Quarry just as soon as they finished checking out Ray’s stolen treasure; but for right now, none of them were thinking about what a beautiful September morning was wasting away outside.
“I don’t see why you have to stash it way the heck out here, though,” Charlie said, using that high-pitched, whiny voice of his that drove everybody nuts.
“Why?” Ray replied. “Because my old man’d kill me if he ever found something like this in my bedroom. That’s why!”
“Naw … he’d just keep it for himself to jerk off with,” Eddie said. A thin blue stream of cigarette smoke draped over Ray’s shoulder and drifted into Eddie’s face. Eddie waved it away vigorously with one hand. For some reason, the smell of something burning made him nervous—especially in a closed, confined space like this. Maybe it had something to do with one of the stories his mother had told him about the mill.
“Remember what happened when he found that copy of Gem we had stashed up in the rafters of the chicken coop?” Ray said.
“Yeah, but that one didn’t even show any nipple!” Charlie said, sounding ultimately disappointed.
“I thought it was funny as
shit the way you couldn’t say a word when he caught you,” Eddie said, chuckling with the memory. “You kept stammering so bad, I thought you were gonna have a permanent stutter.”
“Can something like that really happen?” Charlie asked.
“Sure thing,” Eddie replied. “If someone hits you on the back while you’re stuttering, you’ll never be able to stop.”
“Ever—?”
“That’s right,” Ray said with a chuckle. “Never! And I heard if you jerk off too much, hair will grow in the palm of your hand … or else you’ll go blind.”
“For real?” Charlie asked.
“You tell us, Fish-eyes,” Eddie said. “Check your own hand … or better yet, check Sandy’s.” He sneered as Ray’s cigarette smoke wafted into his face.
“You guys have gotta be putting me on, right?”
“’Course we are,” Eddie said, “those are just … just old witch’s tales, or whatever the hell you call them.” In truth, he had no idea what could or couldn’t make someone a stutterer or grow hair on the palm of their hands. “Come on,” he said, indicating the magazine. “Keep turning the pages.”
They spent the next ten minutes exclaiming over the full-color photos of naked women, hurrying past the articles cartoons, and stories, none of which any of them would ever read, although Eddie thought the story by a guy named Ray Bradbury looked sort of interesting. During a moment of silence, they all became aware of a faint voice chattering away outside the building. They listened for a moment, then realized that it was getting closer. At first, they caught only snatches of what was being said.
“… unless I tell them … how far it’s gone … last night, but I don’t want it to happen again …”
“Who the hell is that?” Charlie asked, his eyes rounding wide behind his thick glasses.
Ray’s expression was one of surprise, almost panic. “Oh, shit! What if Farty found out that we’re out here?”
“Everybody ditch it ’till we find out,” Eddie said. Without another word, he snapped off the flashlight, and all three boys blended into the dark corners of the basement. They waited in silence as the voice grew steadily louder, the footsteps crackling in the dried leaves and grass outside.
“Can’t tell … never know when it’ll happen … without warning now that they’re so close … should’ve told someone else.”
“It’s gotta be Dougie, late as always,” Charlie whispered. “Christ, yes. He was ’spozed to meet us out here half an hour ago,” Eddie said, glancing at his wristwatch.
“Dougie Dog-shit will be late for his own damned funeral,” Ray added, but all three boys remained where they were until they could find out for sure who it was.
“No—wait a minute,” Eddie said.
As the voice grew steadily clearer, he moved out from his hiding place. Standing on tiptoes, he peered out through one of the narrow, glassless basement windows. The bright sunlight stung his eyes. “I think it sounds more like—”
Before he could say the name, a thin figure with a pale, round face topped by a shock of dark brown hair appeared on the road, heading toward the far side of the building. The boy had a curiously blank, almost detached expression as he shaded his eyes with his hand and surveyed the mill. A long-handled shovel was slung over one shoulder like a rifle. A large, flat, black leather carrying case dangled from his belt, bouncing against his leg with every other step he took.
Ray skittered over beside Eddie and, looking outside, snickered softly. “Ahh, shit—it’s just the retard.”
“Don’t you go calling my brother that!” Eddie said, backing away from the window and clenching both hands into fists.
Ray shrugged. “Well, that’s what he is. What should I call him?”
“How about his real name? Mike!”
“You mean Mikie? … Mental Mikie? Mikie the Mental Midget? He is a retard, though, ain’t he?”
“Is not!”
“Is so!”
While this heated whispered exchange was going on, Mikie—obviously unaware of the boys in the basement—angled off to the right, heading around to the back of the building where the extension had burned down so many years ago. He kept mumbling senselessly to himself, interspersing his comments with an off-key rendition that might have been the Davy Crockett theme song. His voice faded away when he rounded the corner of the building.
“I say we check out what the retard’s up to,” Ray said, glancing at the other boys to gauge their reactions.
“Let’s just stash the magazine and leave,” Eddie countered. “I thought we were heading out to Nickerson’s, anyway.”
Charlie just stood there, staring back and forth between them. Then, with a touch of menace in his voice, Ray said, “I say we’ve got to see what he’s up to.” He gave Charlie a leering look. “We don’t want him to find my Playboy while he’s out here poking around, now, do we?”
That got to Charlie, who shifted closer to Ray, obviously taking sides.
“Hey, he saw me take it yesterday,” Ray said, giving Eddie an earnest stare. “If he tells Farty about it, and then finds it out here, you’re gonna get in just as much trouble as me.”
Eddie shifted back and forth on his feet, feeling both nervous and frustrated as he looked at his friends. He’d realized for years that unofficial leadership of their group had always been hazily divided between himself and Ray. He always got nervous whenever there was a direct conflict because, while he was the “brains” of the group, Ray was definitely the muscle; he had the courage to act. He was the one who had stolen the magazine.
“Besides,” Ray added, meanly eying Eddie, “we don’t want anyone coming out here without our permission … right?”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Eddie said, fighting to still the low tremor in his voice. “The mill’s on my mother’s property, so Mikie has every right in the world to come out here.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ray said, curling his upper lip into a sneer, “So what? And anyway, don’t you think we ought to watch out for him? I mean, he shouldn’t be out here all alone! Why, he might fall down and hurt himself. We’ve got to keep an eye on him, right? I mean, what if he—”
“What if nothing!” Eddie said. “I say we leave him alone and just head on out to the quarry and—”
“Come on, Fish-eyes,” Ray snapped. “Are you with me or not?”
He stood up and slid the Playboy under one of the old barrels; then he turned quickly on his heel and, waving once over his shoulder, started climbing up the rocks and debris that were piled beneath the trapdoor. He quickly scaled them and then, grunting loudly, jumped up, grabbed the edge of the opening, and hoisted himself up onto the first floor. Charlie followed close behind. Before boosting himself up through the trapdoor, he turned back to Eddie and, waving to him, said, “Come on! Are you with us or not?”
“Screw you, Fish-eyes,” Eddie replied, but Charlie was gone.
From outside, Eddie heard the thumping of footsteps as Ray and Charlie, having jumped out the open doorway at the back of the building, ran around to the front. A cold, hard knot twisted in his stomach as he balanced his loyalty to his friends and his retarded brother. Then, nodding to himself, he moved slowly and followed Ray and Charlie up to the first floor and out into the bright sunshine.
As he followed the overgrown road through the woods to the old mill, Mike Fraser squinted up at the sunlight which skimmed like white fire through the autumn-tinged trees. It was a little past nine o’clock in the morning, and already the temperature was close to sixty degrees. All around him, the woods flickered and rippled with flashes of light and quivering shade. Dappled shadows slid like splotches of dark water across his face and bare arms. On his left, through the trees, the Saco River sparkled with reflected sunlight, looking cool and inviting. Mike pushed aside any thoughts of going swimming. Besides being well aware that he should never go swimming alone, he was afraid of the river, especially this close to the mill, where it ran fast, turning into a bubbling, white-capped
froth that looked to him like curdled milk. No, sitting in the shallow end of Nickerson’s quarry—in what his brother’s friends teasingly called the “Baby End”—was more than enough swimming for him.
But summer and swimming were over, and as beautiful as the day was, Mike found it difficult, almost impossible to be happy. He knew he should be happy because he was finally doing something about what had been bothering him for so long. At last, he had a plan; and he was proud that he was doing more than most people were doing these days. Ever since last year—last October, to be exact, when President Kennedy had blockaded those Russian ships loaded with nuclear missiles on their way to Cuba—Mike had wondered and worried and fretted about what he could do to help protect himself and his family. Just last night—at last—he had gotten the idea to build a bomb shelter; and the old, deserted lumber mill was the perfect place to do it!
“But you know damn right well—” he said, then stopped himself. Smiling nervously, he glanced around to see if anyone was nearby and might have heard him swear. He chuckled to himself and went on, “You know damn-damn-damn right well that when the time comes, everyone’s gonna want to use it!” He sniffed loudly and wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. “Oh, yeah—sure, sure! They’ll all wanna use it! The whole town will! But I won’t let ’em in. No-sir-ee! I won’t! Just me and my family … and maybe not even Eddie! Not unless he gives me some of his Life Savers.”
Through the screen of trees, the old mill came gradually into view, its weathered gray sides looking like a steep, granite mountain against the pale blue sky. Mike shivered as he drew to a stop, wiped his forehead on his bare arm, and swung the shovel to his other shoulder. He had no idea how long it would take him to do what he planned to do. As far as he was concerned, he should stay out here until he was finished—work right up until lunchtime. He was positive he wouldn’t be done by the time his mother rang the cowbell to signal him to come home for lunch. At the very least, he’d have to come back this afternoon and work until dark. Maybe all night, he had to. With luck—and plenty of hard work—maybe he have everything done by tomorrow morning.
