Trouble

by Gary D. Schmidt

  And suddenly, immediately and surely, Henry knew what he was going to do.

  He was going to climb Katahdin. He was going to do what Franklin thought he could never do. Then he would come back and tell him, and Franklin would do the unlikely thing: He would get well.

  He would climb Katahdin. Alone. Well, with Black Dog. And afterward, everything would be what it used to be before Trouble came.

  A deep heat filled his guts. He would climb Katahdin.

  In the dark, in the light, always imagining her face, remembering her face in the moments before the accident. Her laugh. Her easy wave. How her wave had been the first thing about her that told him all he needed to know.

  How had his father guessed? "Remember, you were Cambodian before you were American." And so his father had taken his dog to teach him what he had to learn. He beat her. He made him watch. He starved her. He made him watch. "Learn how to be strong," he said. Then he took her away. "The dog is drowned," he said when he returned. "Learn to be cold inside."

  But this was not what he learned, as his heart ached, and a drowsy numbness took hold.

  He had not realized how much he had missed her face.

  7

  THE NEXT DAY, they waited for the plea bargain that Mr. Churchill expected.

  Henry's mother said nothing about it when she picked up Henry and Sanborn at Whittier that afternoon, or when they dropped Sanborn off at his home. She said nothing about it to Sanborn's mother—who just about came out and asked but didn't quite dare. She said nothing about it when they drove home with the radio playing a ten-minute commercial for Terrian Green Dietary Drink with Turtle Egg White Supplement. She said nothing about it when they stopped outside the carriage house and Henry dragged the six new bags of dry cement away from the doors while Black Dog barked and romped inside.

  But when they all got into the kitchen—even Black Dog—Henry's mother stood with her hands on the edge of the sink and began to cry. She would not be comforted. Not even when Louisa came downstairs—Henry could hardly believe it!—not even when Louisa came downstairs to cry beside her. And not even when Henry's father came out from the library as well—unshaven, hair uncombed, clothes the same as yesterday.

  He took his wife up to their bedroom, but they walked as though they were behind a bailiff and heading toward prison.

  When Louisa started to leave after them, Henry stopped her. "At least help me figure out what we're going to put together for supper," he said.

  "Supper?" said Louisa, as if she had forgotten that there ever had been such a thing. "There's not going to be any supper."

  This was not a happy word for Black Dog, who whined and then flopped down with her belly up beside Louisa's feet and made herself look as pathetic as possible.

  "If you don't want to help," said Henry, "at least keep me company. And—"

  "All right," said Louisa. She sat down on a stool by the kitchen counter. "Happy?"

  "Ecstatic."

  "Good."

  "Fine," said Henry. He opened the refrigerator door and looked in.

  Louisa said nothing as he brought out several packages of celery, assorted peppers, a dozen eggs, a package of bologna—whose green edges could be trimmed off—a hunk of provolone—whose blue edges could be trimmed off—a package of bacon—whose gray edges could be ... well, nothing could be done with it and Henry threw the thing out—cups of yogurt with suspicious expiration dates, a bag of baby carrots, and something wrapped in plastic that didn't need to be identified, just discarded.

  "You could try an omelet," said Louisa.

  "Good idea," said Henry.

  He got out a bowl, put eight eggs into it, and handed it to Louisa, who looked at him. He waited, and finally she took the bowl, removed the eggs, and began to break them into it, one by one. He handed her a whisk, and she beat them. He poured some milk in, and she beat that as well. Then he cut up the peppers and the baby carrots, added an onion that had begun to sprout in the pantry, and grated the provolone—the parts that weren't blue. He looked into the garbage at the package of gray bacon again, and decided against it. Reluctantly. He looked in the freezer and found some frozen spicy sausages; he took out eight and put them into a skillet to fry.

  The whisking stopped.

  "Henry," said Louisa.

  He looked at her.

  "Do you think Frank will be all right?"

  He closed the bag of spicy sausages. "Yes, I do," he said. He put the bag back in the freezer.

  "We don't know that for sure."

  Henry turned the burner on under the skillet. "He'll be all right. He's Franklin, remember. Destined to be the next Great American Hero."

  Was that a smile? If it was, it was quickly gone.

  "Great American Heroes don't go around choking—"

  "I know," said Henry quickly. The spicy sausages in the skillet began to sizzle.

  Louisa whisked the eggs again. "Do you think ... Henry, do you think Frank will remember what happened that night?" she said.

  "You mean the accident?"

  Louisa nodded.

  "Probably not."

  Louisa whisked the eggs up a bit more.

  "But I guess we'll never forget," said Henry.

  Louisa reached for two more eggs, cracked them, and dropped them in. Whisking again.

  "You're not supposed to put the shells in, too," said Henry.

  "We'll never forget what it was like," said Louisa.

  Henry took the bowl and scooped most of the shells out. He added a little more milk and whisked it again. Then he added the chopped vegetables and sprinkled the provolone on top.

  "You heard Dr. Giles," Henry said. "He's seen the unlikely happen. Why shouldn't it happen with Franklin? Anything is possible."

  "Not anymore," said Louisa quietly.

  The eight spicy sausages started to spurt up their hot oils. Henry found the largest frying pan in the cupboard and poured in the whisked eggs and vegetables and cheese. He put it on the stove beside the spurting sausages.

  Henry set the table while their supper was cooking, and when he was finished, he went upstairs to get his parents—he was afraid to send Louisa up, since he was pretty sure that she might not come back down again.

  Which would have made for a lonely meal, since his father didn't come down, anyway.

  But his mother did, walking carefully, holding her hands carefully, holding her face carefully. She sat down as if she had been beaten up. She smiled—the kind of smile that everyone in the room knows is put on deliberately—and ate a forkful of omelet. And another. Then she put her fork down.

  "It's good," she said. "And filling." She reached into her plate with a fingernail. "You're not supposed to put the shells in, too, unless you want to add fiber."

  "Look," said Henry, "I never said I could cook. But no one else was here to—"

  "You're right," said his mother. "And I'm not complaining, Henry. Really, I'm not." She picked up her fork and ate another piece. Henry heard a distinct crunch. She put her fork down. Then she let the deliberate smile fall away.

  And so the phone rang. It rang three times before Henry's mother stood to answer.

  She was gone long enough for the omelet to turn cold.

  When she came back in, she did not even try to put on the deliberate smile. She sat and left her hands on the table because she didn't know what to do with them. Her shoulders sloped as if the weight of the slate roof was upon them, and there were no great oaks to support her. "A plea bargain was offered this afternoon. Mr. Churchill thinks that we should accept it," she said.

  Henry and Louisa waited.

  "The Chouan family agrees to plead guilty to reckless injury. In return, Chay Chouan would be sentenced to two years of probation, the loss of his license until he is twenty-one, and two hundred hours of community service. When he turns twenty-one, he will get his license back, and the incident—that's what they call it, 'the incident'—will be wiped from his police record." She took a deep breath. "If we acce
pt, it will be binding, and it will not matter if Franklin's condition changes."

  Silence in the kitchen. Even Black Dog was quiet, though she smelled the omelet and knew that it was turning cold and was hopeful.

  "That's it?" Henry said finally. "Franklin's missing an arm for the rest of his life, and the guy who did it to him drives around in a few years like nothing ever happened?"

  "That's it."

  "No jail time?"

  She shook her head.

  "After trying to kill Franklin?"

  "He didn't try to kill Franklin," said Louisa quickly. "It was an accident."

  "Mr. Churchill says it's the best we can hope for," said their mother.

  Henry threw his fork into his omelet.

  "He says that a jury will see it as an accident. And that he did all he could to help Franklin. And he has no previous record."

  "And he's Cambodian," said Henry.

  "That's not fair," said Louisa.

  "Of course it's not fair. Poor refugees, let them get away with anything because they've had such a hard life."

  "No one is saying that," said Louisa.

  "Franklin would say that, but Franklin isn't talking. He's in a hospital room with his brain smacked around, and Chay Chouan is sitting at the dinner table eating egg rolls. 'Everything is going to be fine, after all.' That's what they're saying. 'Pass the ginseng.'"

  Louisa stood. "Don't think you know everything, Henry. It isn't like that at all."

  But Henry stood, too. "And how would you know what I think, Louisa? You have no idea, because you've been hiding up in your room since Franklin got hit, and you don't know a single thing about what we've been going through while you mope around by yourself. So don't tell me what I think. Don't you dare tell me what I think."

  "I do know what you think. You think that Frank is the next Great American Hero, but it doesn't help anyone to live a lie. Because he isn't. No, he isn't. Just say it, Henry, because you already know he isn't."

  Henry put his hand up to his neck.

  "That's right," Louisa said. And then she went upstairs.

  Neither Henry nor his mother ate much of the omelet. And it wasn't because of the eggshells. Or because it was cold.

  They didn't talk while they did the dishes.

  Black Dog flopped at their feet with her belly up.

  But she did eat the rest of the omelet that they scraped into her bowl. Even the shells.

  It was still light out after supper—the days were getting longer now—so Henry and Black Dog went down to what was left of Salvage Cove again. Henry brought a Frisbee—though Black Dog didn't understand the point of the game. Henry would throw it, and Black Dog would sit beside him and watch to see what happened next. So Henry would fetch the Frisbee and come back with it, show it to Black Dog, and throw it again. And then Black Dog waited until Henry went to fetch it again. Henry tried six times and finally gave up after Black Dog yawned and stretched out on the strip of sand, bored. He lay down beside her, and together they watched the waves turn black-purple before they broke and their white insides erupted.

  Before they left, Henry threw the Frisbee down the beach once more—in case Black Dog had finally gotten the hang of it. Black Dog watched it sail, and then she yawned.

  "Good dog." Henry sighed and went to fetch the Frisbee, stopping to rub his hand along the clean ribs of the ship.

  He didn't expect the jagged splinter of wood that pierced his palm. When he jerked his hand back, he pulled the wound open farther and left a streak of blood along the wooden beam. The blood caught the very last light and glistened darkly. Henry pressed his two hands together, and then went down to the water to rinse off in the stinging salt. But the wound was deep, and the blood did not stop. When Black Dog came to investigate and smelled the scent of it, she howled and howled like Disaster.

  And "Disaster" was the word Blythbury-by-the-Sea used when word got out about the plea bargain.

  It was reported in the Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle. Mr. Horkesley, on his way to make his deposit at the Blythbury-by-the-Sea Bank of New England, told Mrs. Ramsey, on her way to the Blythbury-by-the-Sea Delicatessen, that it was a scandal, a perfect scandal, and that the Smiths must certainly refuse it. Mrs. Taunton, checking books back into the Blythbury-by-the-Sea Free Public Library, assured each new patron that of course the Smiths would refuse it. Wasn't their son still lying in a coma in the hospital with both arms gone? Of course they would refuse it. Mrs. Syon, who ran the Blythbury-by-the-Sea Antiques and Collectibles Shoppe, mentioned more than a dozen times that she knew Mrs. Smith quite well—she'd furnished her with an Oriental rug and two Phoenix glass lamps—and she knew for a fact that the Smiths would never, ever accept such a ridiculous plea bargain with those foreign people.

  But they did.

  Henry hid the next Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle, since he read the "Letters to the Editor" first and he didn't think his parents needed to.

  Because the letters were right. Chay Chouan had crashed into his brother. Franklin's left arm was gone. He might not ever open his eyes again. And Chay Chouan was going to have his driver's license suspended? His driver's license?

  Henry did what he could to not think about it. He rowed so hard in crew practice that Coach Santori said that if everyone only worked as hard as Smith here, then maybe they'd make it to State. As it was, Coach Santori wondered if they'd even make a respectable showing at Regionals—if they even got that far, because no one was working as hard as Smith, and they should all do what he was doing if they wanted to represent Whittier with anything approaching pride. And if they didn't want to represent Whittier with anything approaching pride, then they should get out of his shells before he took them out of his shells, and they had better move to someplace else—like Little Cambodia in Merton—because they wouldn't want to stay here and find out what he was going to do to them.

  Which speech, of course, made everyone—especially Brandon Sheringham—hate Henry's guts for the rest of the afternoon and probably accounted for his shampoo falling off the shelf and emptying into the shower drains and his missing red-and-white boxers—which he discovered with an identifying note hanging beneath the red-and-white Whittier Academy flag when his mother dropped him off the next morning and he went to see what everyone was looking at.

  Meanwhile, Blythbury-by-the-Sea seethed. The unfairness of it. The injustice. The judge must, must be going after the immigrant vote. Probably he was looking toward a political career. If these people wanted to come to America, why wouldn't they agree to abide by American laws? When was this country going to wake up? Everyone in Blythbury-by-the-Sea believed that something should be done. Something had to be done.

  Everyone except Sanborn.

  "There wasn't anything else your parents could have done," he said while they waited together after Debate—still on the future of nuclear power.

  "Wasn't it just a few days ago that I beat you up?" said Henry.

  "You must have been dreaming that, little man. Chay Chouan has no police record. He tried to help. He bandaged Franklin's arm. And he went to find the policeman."

  "And he's Cambodian. And no one is supposed to say anything mean about Cambodians, because America is big enough for everyone and we should try to understand people who are different from ourselves. Do you want me to keep going, Sanborn, or should I just go ahead and throw up now?"

  Sanborn shook his head. "I think you did just throw up," he said.

  "And since when did we become everyone's business?"

  Sanborn shrugged. "People like to see other people in trouble, as long as it isn't their own."

  Silence.

  "I really can take you, you know," said Henry.

  "I think I could probably pin you in under a minute," said Sanborn.

  "Maybe, Sanborn. Maybe you could pin me in under a minute—if I had triple pneumonia and five broken bones and a really, really runny nose."

  But Sanborn was pretty close when Henry's mother drove up to b
ring them home.

  The last week of April and then the first week of May came in soon afterward. There were sweet showers, and the forsythia burst into yellow blossoms, and the purple and white lilacs began to swell, and the tender daffodils bobbed back and forth in the warm breath of the wind. The gardens along the back side of the house came out with their solid greens and shy yellows and blues—as they did every year, to show that some things do not change.

  And still Blythbury-by-the-Sea seethed, and there were more letters in the Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle that Henry had to hide.

  And Henry grew more and more eager to climb Katahdin.

  He did not tell his parents about his plans. He didn't tell anyone except Sanborn, who looked at him with his eyebrow crooked as they jogged laps during PE under the baleful eye of Coach Santori. The new May sun was warm on their bare backs.

  "You're going to climb Katahdin alone?"

  Henry nodded.

  "How are you going to get there?"

  "I don't know. Thumb, I guess."

  "And you're going to climb it alone?"

  Henry smacked him on the arm. "Gee, Sanborn, you catch on real quick."

  Sanborn smacked him back. "Gee, Henry, it's been nice knowing you. People die when they climb mountains alone."

  "Like in Tibet, they do."

  "You know that Katahdin has a ridge called the Knife Edge?"

  "Yes, Sanborn. Are you my mother?"

  "And you know that you're not even allowed up there most of the year?"

  "You know, I'm really glad I told you about this. I've got this new surge of confidence."

  "I'm going with you."

  "You've never climbed a mountain, Sanborn."

  "So?"

  "You've never even camped out overnight."

  "I repeat: So?"

  "And you couldn't even stay up with me around this track if I was half trying."

  "Okay. So can you press your own weight?"

  "Yes."

  Sanborn didn't answer.