Boone

by Berntson, Brandon

  Vince kept his eyebrows raised, amused, maybe even surprised. “And you don’t understand why such a cool guy would have such a vice, or be ostracized from the community even at the very church that he probably doesn’t respect all that much, but will repair and fix, because they give him a check for it. Maybe he isn’t very welcome, either, but . . . well . . . at least it gives him a sense of place. And that’s important for a man to have. Is that it?”

  Peter had never felt so ashamed in his life. “I’m so sorry, Vince.”

  Vince reached for the flask and took a quick nip. He put it back and turned to Peter. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, Petey. If anything, I should be apologizing to you. I could tell you the truth, if you wanted. There are a lot of reasons people drink. I hope and pray you don’t discover any of them. But if you’d like, I’ll tell you . . . only because I trust you not to tell your parents, and I like you. Your heart’s in the right place. Okay?”

  Peter nodded, eyes focused on Vince. He looked over at his parents, who were immersed in the Yahtzee game with Veronica and Stephen, trying to make Mira and Burt feel comfortable and at home.

  “I had a wife at one time,” Vince explained, looking at his cards. “Her name was Jasmine. Vince and Jasmine Laguna. It sounded good, see? I had planned a boating trip for our honeymoon. The Florida Keys. She’d never been there and always wanted to go. It was kind of a special moment because we never had a honeymoon, just a quick marriage. We were together one week was all. A storm came, similar to the one we’re experiencing now. Worse, in some ways. See, off the Atlantic, they call that kind of storm a hurricane. In the Pacific, it’s called a typhoon. In the South Pacific and Indian Ocean, it’s called a cyclone. Not sure that makes a difference, but there you go.

  “She bought this hat, like a giant sunbonnet. She looked so damn beautiful in that thing, I could hardly take my eyes off her. I took about a thousand pictures of her in that sunbonnet, and I will tell you something else . . . I have every picture I ever took of her. They are hanging on my wall in my house. I keep a couple in my wallet. Here.” Vince reached into his wallet and took out a picture. He handed it to Peter. There was a slim girl, very tan, with a white sunbonnet on her head, and a slit summer skirt. The smile and eyes were radiant. He had to admit, looking at her, she was one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen. There was an intelligent, spirited look in her eyes. He would guess she was in her mid-twenties.

  “Jasmine of the Sea,” Vince said. “That’s how I like to think of her. I made a plaque of it, if you can believe that, something you would have on a boat, something you name a boat. I didn’t want to go to the ocean anymore, though, but I had a plaque made, and I have it in my house. Jasmine of the Sea, it reads. I don’t know what happened. Honestly, to this day, I don’t know what happened. We got caught in a storm, and she’d gotten thrown over the side. The waves were brutal, and everything just happened so fast. I fell and hit my head on the railing. Knocked me out cold. I still have the scar right here.” He touched the back of his skull and let Peter see it.

  “She’d been looking forward to that trip. So had I. They never found her. She was the only thing I ever loved more than myself. And even though we were together a short time, it was more than anything I could have imagined for myself. And I mean that sincerely. I was blessed . . . you see what I’m saying? I keep that alive the only way I know, and I guess I never got over it. To be honest, I’m not sure I want to.

  “There is a powerful sort of love and devotion going on in humanity, Peter. I’ve seen some pretty amazing things, and you will, too, if you haven’t already. So, drink? Sure. In honor and memory of Jasmine of the Sea. Why the hell wouldn’t I? Judge not, or judge if you will. But that’s why people should never make assumptions about each other, because unless you’re willing to hear their story, you never know or understand. So, we judge by what we see, thinking we know, when we don’t know a damn thing. Maybe we need that sense of superiority. I don’t know. I think it’s a crock of shit myself.

  “But . . . sometimes a man is lucky enough to experience perfect love, the perfect mate, if only for a short while, as the song says. And that’s okay. For me, it happened, and I consider myself pretty damn lucky because of it. I feel like God deliberately gave me something beautiful even if I don’t believe in Him, or even if I didn’t have it for very long.

  “Some get it longer. Some . . . not at all. But I know this: I’ll never give my heart to anyone else, and that’s a promise, and I will toast to her every chance I get. So, believe what you will. But trust me . . . I wouldn’t have it any other way. I believe in true devotion. Once you found that one, you stick with them always, no matter what. I always have. People might say that’s a cop out, a reason never to love again, or maybe a fear of being hurt. I say bullshit. In honor of the storm, my young lad, and to curious boys soon to be men, I drink my toast to Jasmine and the sea that took her. And if the town of Shepherd’s Grove wants to judge, accuse and make assumptions, I say let ’em. It’s nothing to me. If they don’t care to ask, I don’t care enough to tell them.”

  Peter sat there for a long time, not knowing what to say. He was looking at his cards, then up at Vince. “I think people are funny,” he said. “It’s like you see all these people making assumptions about people, but no one takes the time to hear their story, to get to know them, like you said. Don’t you think that’s sad? I wonder why that is.”

  Vince looked at Peter and a smile spread across his face. “You’re gonna be fine, you know that? You’re parents must be some special people, Petey, because you got more heart in your little finger than most people get their whole lives.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because most thirteen year old boys aren’t interested in the things you are, and most of them don’t talk that way.”

  “I’m not sure Miss Dangle knows anything about that, either.”

  “You mean, Miss Dingle-Dangle-Daggerface?”

  Peter burst out laughing again. Vince smiled. “It’s not nice. We should be the bigger people, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Good. Now, you’re killing me at this game, and on top of that, it’s your deal.”

  “Yes, sir,” Peter said, smiling to himself, and dealt.

  ~

  The rain continued to beat on the First Presbyterian Church, where the congregation (not all of them) continued to play games, eat, and nestle in for the evening. Some of the smaller kids had already gone to bed, curling into sleeping bags and army cots. For the most part, it was a hushed crowd. Miss Dangle had fallen asleep in her rocking chair, her mouth hanging open like a wide, toothless abyss. The drool finally descended from her chin making a darkened patch on her shoulder. Peter recoiled looking at her, yet couldn’t bring himself to look away.

  He’d had fun with Vince, though, and he was glad he’d come.

  There were lanterns burning, some kerosene, some battery powdered, but the First Presbyterian Church on Hoboken Street and Decatur Avenue was quiet and still for the night.

  “How was the blackjack game?” his dad asked.

  “Good. I think Vince let me win a few. Can he stay over here with us tonight?”

  “I don’t see why not,” his dad said.

  “I think he’s been drinking,” his mother said. “I smelled some when I passed him on the way to the bathroom.”

  “I think he’s a happy drinker, which is okay with me, and I don’t think he’s harming anyone.”

  “Well, teaching Peter blackjack and drinking in the church didn’t bring out the best is Miss Dangle,” his mother said.

  His father shrugged, rolling his eyes. “There’s one in every bunch. Who cares what she thinks?”

  Peter got up and wandered through the pews to where Vince was sitting all by himself. The raised platform where the pulpit stood was set up with bunk after bunk. Grayson himself walked between the families, making sure everyone was snug and comfortable.


  “You guys doing all right?” he asked the Capstones.

  “Fine, Mr. Banks,” Gregory said. “We’re doing okay. I think all in all this was a pretty good idea. We’re up on higher ground, and not everyone could have made it out of town all right, but you did it all pretty well. It’s a regular party.”

  Grayson Banks was a small, much older man, but he smiled when Gregory told him this. His glasses reflected the lantern light. “Good. Very good. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Will do.”

  Peter had Vince’s hand and was dragging him over. His eyes were tired and slightly red-rimmed.

  “The lad tells me I’ve been invited to a marshmallow roast.”

  Anastasia smiled. “Of course. You look kind of all on your own, tonight, Vince. Peter says he took all your money.”

  “If I had any. Good kid.”

  “We like him, too.”

  “Have a seat, Vince,” Gregory told him. “We found another cot and have a spare blanket.”

  “Ahh, the kindness of strangers. It can’t be beat.”

  “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Peter said.

  He turned and headed through the pews. There were other families in the church, all of which—those he made eye contact with anyway—he smiled and nodded at. Everyone seemed rather neighborly in Shepherd’s Grove, with the exception of Daggerface Dangle. Peter couldn’t help but chuckle at the name.

  He went into the back and through the men’s room. Inside, he took care of business, then washed his hands, a habit he thought a trifle ridiculous, but one his mother had ingrained into him. He remembered once when he’d come out of a public bathroom, and he hadn’t washed his hands. His mother had scolded him for it, and he’d replied, “I didn’t pee all over my hands, Mom.”

  “It’s the handle, Peter. The handle on the urinal, and the door. Bacteria traps. Who knows what kind of filth is just waiting for you in there.”

  She could be dramatic sometimes, but he loved her.

  Walking back through the pews to where his family was, Peter turned and saw something had been carved into one of the pews. Boone is coming, it read. Peter frowned.

  He went back to his family, who was making Vince feel right at home. They were all joking and having a genuinely good time. He stood there for a second and asked, “Who’s Boone?”

  The conversation stopped, and everyone looked at him.

  “Excuse me?” his father asked.

  “Boone. It says on one of the pews, ‘Boone is coming.’”

  “Just some kids destroying church property, is my guess,” his mother said.

  Vince looked at each of them. “You guys haven’t been in town long, have you?”

  Gregory shook his head. “About six months.”

  Vince raised his eyebrows. “Probably not the kind of thing to discuss in church and before bedtime at that.”

  “Aww, come on,” Peter said. “Who is he?”

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” his mother said, though she had a curious gleam in her eye.

  “Well, you got everyone curious, Vince,” Gregory said. “Now you have to tell us.”

  Vince looked at each of them, raising his eyebrows. He seemed amused. “Well, if you really want to know . . . Boone’s kind of a local celebrity. He’s been in the Shepherd’s Grove Psychiatric Hospital for the past . . . oh . . . twenty years, I think.”

  “What for?” his mother asked. She sat up, wide-eyed, her fair skin looking golden in the candlelight.

  Vince didn’t reply, but he looked at them all and grinned.

  “Come on, Vince,” Peter said. “Tell us. Mom lets me watch scary movies all the time.”

  “I most certainly do not!”

  “Hush,” Gregory said, though he’d started to laugh. “People are trying to sleep.”

  “Mom, come on! I’m thirteen. I’m not a baby. And you’re embarrassing me in front of Vince.”

  Vince watched all this, amused.

  “Secrets out, Vince,” Gregory said. “This is our hazing into the village folklore. Nightmares or no.”

  The storm continued to rage and patter at the windows. Thunder rumbled.

  “Yeah. What did he do?” Peter asked.

  Vince looked at each of them. “You sure?”

  Peter nodded. Even his mother looked intrigued. He had Gregory’s attention as well.

  “He killed his mother,” Vince said, and looked at each of them. “When he was ten years old. Drowned her in the Miramac. His mother used to call him ‘devil child.’ She’d tell him that right to his face, right in the middle of town, in the supermarket, even at school. Hell, everyone in town probably heard her say it at least once. Boone was a troubled kid. But you can’t really blame him. Never spoke. Never did anything in school. His father just disappeared one day, left her alone to raise him. I don’t think Boone took kindly to that. But he’s a local legend around here. Kids sing songs about him. You’ll see his name pop up here and there . . . like on bathroom walls . . . or church pews.”

  “Dear Lord!” Anastasia said, putting a hand to her heart. “That’s awful.”

  “True enough, though,” Vince said, and grabbed his flask, taking a drink. He held it out to Anastasia, who shook her head. He held it out to Gregory, who took the flask, a light nip, and handed it back to Vince. Vince put the cap back on and tucked it away.

  “His mother tried to kill him,” he continued. “That’s the rumor anyway. Dragged him down to the Miramac, but Boone turned the tables. He was a big boy for his age. And from what they’ve been able to piece together, seems his mother was the reason for it all.”

  “And he’s still in the hospital?” Gregory asked.

  “Still there, alive and well. Doped to the gills. Doesn’t talk much. But there just the same.”

  “That’s a terrible story,” Anastasia said.

  “But true enough.”

  Anastasia looked at Gregory with a horrified expression.

  “What are you looking at me for?” he asked. “I didn’t kill her!”

  “I just . . . can’t believe it. How did we not know about this until now? I’m gonna have nightmares.”

  “No one talks about Boone much these days,” Vince said. “It was twenty years ago after all.”

  “Yeah,” Gregory said. “And we’re in church. What could happen?”

  “Still, it’s a pretty gruesome story before bedtime,” Anastasia said.

  “That it is. Now, who’s up for some shut-eye?” Gregory said, trying to make light of the situation.

  Vince smiled. Peter did, too. Anastasia looked at her husband and gave him a scowl, albeit a friendly one.

  Outside, the storm raged on.

  Thunder rumbled.

  ~

  Boone was picking up everything on sonar. The rain was falling harder and faster, wading barefoot through several inches now. The thunder and lightening were constants. He turned his head like a satellite dish, zeroing in on everything within a few miles. They were talking about him in the church just ahead. They were telling his story.

  The televisions he saw had begun to fade in and out through the rainstorm, losing reception, then gaining solidity again, like bad reception, their pictures coming and going, as if the storm were having an effect on his hallucinations.

  Boone walked on, holding tightly to the axe.

  Chapter 9

  Peter couldn’t sleep, not so much because of the story he’d heard, but because there was so much snoring going on around him. He wasn’t comfortable being out of his bed. You got used to something after a while and sleeping in a church wasn’t one of them.

  His mother and father had gone to sleep (no problem there), whispering to each other for a while before nodding off. Peter wasn’t scared of some doped up lunatic in a hospital, but he was trying to figure out Vince Laguna more and more. He wondered what it would be like to lose someone as quickly as he had. It didn’t seem fair, and now people saw him as nothing more than the town drunk. H
e wondered why God did things like that to people or allowed them to happen. If Jasmine were alive today, Vince might not be drinking at all. He might be sailing around the world with the woman of his dreams.

  His dad always explained things to him when he asked difficult questions:

  “Suffering, a lot of the time, Peter, is for or own good. It builds character, even faith, and without it, without trials, without suffering and pain, we wouldn’t learn who we really are inside, how much strength we have, or even where to grow. If life were perfect and everything worked out all the time, we’d be nothing more than a bunch of lazy slugs and wet heads. Some people want to be that way. You and I, I hope, do not. We don’t want the suffering, sure, but it’s necessary. Understand?”

  It seemed like a cop out, but in a way he did understand. Vince had had a chance at the perfect life, and it had been taken away. It wasn’t up to Peter to understand why. Only God could answer that, but it still seemed unfair. Why didn’t God just make everyone a superhero, give them more power to overcome their pain? Everything seemed so hard all the time with very little joy sprinkled in it hardly seemed worth it, like some impossible test more people failed at than they overcame. It was difficult to understand or even imagine how God could expect anyone to have any faith when they were bombarded with such tragedy and heartbreak all the time.

  But maybe that was the point.

  He’d met plenty of people who didn’t have it well at all. His classmate, Genny Phelps, for example. Her mother was single, her dad skipping out on both of them only a year ago. Her mom was trying to raise her on her own, working a fulltime job. Genny had asthma and a heart condition. She had to go to the hospital all the time, which was why she missed so much school. That seemed insanely unfair, as well, but the more unfairness Peter saw around him, the more he realized it was just the way life was, no different than how Burt and Mira were treated. The secret was to keep plugging along, which seemed like insanity. It made him question God’s justice, even His existence sometimes.