"Can you press your own weight?" asked Henry.
"With you on top of it."
"Liar."
"Fool."
"Big butt."
"Skinny runt."
And that was the way the rest of the laps went, until the last one, when Henry did sprint ahead and did come in way before Sanborn and didn't begin with the intention of locking Sanborn out of the locker room but did it anyway, so that Sanborn had to go way around the school and in through the front doors and fuss with Dr. Sheringham about not having a pass and coming into Whittier without a shirt on.
Henry dressed before Sanborn could find him, figuring that nuclear power's dangers would give him a chance to cool down from any desire to murder his best friend.
That afternoon at home, Henry and Black Dog went into Franklin's room. Black Dog had never been in there before, so she set to sniffing around. Henry opened Franklin's closet and found his backpack. He took out Franklin's compass, his propane stove, and a length of rope. In the front flap of the backpack he found the maps of Katahdin's trails, and he opened one to look at the Knife Edge—which did look steep as all get-out. He wondered if he would need to have Black Dog tied close to him when he crossed it. Then he took out the tube saw, and the steel hatchet, and the match canister, and even a couple of flares that Franklin had kept for a long time—just in case—and which his mother would have hollered about if she knew he had kept them in the house. Henry took it all back to his room and stored it in his own new pack, which he slid carefully under his bed when he was finished.
He would wait for the right time to go. And he wouldn't tell Sanborn about it anymore.
After supper, he went down again to the cove. The Blythbury-by-the-Sea Historical Society had finished digging all around the ship, and her entire backbone was being held up by wood and steel supports and cables. They had found three more swords (which they had also taken away), more than a few cannonballs, shards of broken bottles, and more round barrel hoops, mostly melted out of form. There had been four muskets (they had taken these, too), and more broken brown pottery that anyone could ever hope to piece together—which had not stopped the Blythbury-by-the-Sea Historical Society from resolving to try.
Black Dog sniffed around at all the new smells they had left behind. Henry checked to see that the stain of his blood was still along the ship's rib.
It was. He could see it plainly in the long light of the lengthening day.
And that was when he smelled the smoke.
It came from the west. It wasn't strong, but even so, it sent the seagulls scattering and shouting into the air, and Black Dog turned and lifted her snout toward it. They watched as far away smoke columned upward, and after the sky darkened, Henry could make out a dim glow diffusing against the clouds. He thought he could hear sirens.
Henry and Black Dog watched the opening story on the late local news that night. It reported that one of the old boarding houses had been burned to the ground, representing a huge historical loss to the town. The only business destroyed was Merton Masonry and Stonework, which occupied the boarding house's first floor. It was owned by Mr. Chouan of Merton, whose son had been involved in the recent hit-and-run incident in Blythbury-by-the-Sea. No one had been injured. The police had not ruled out the possibility of arson.
Black Dog, who was curled up in front of the television, her nose in her tail, never moved at the news. But the palm of Henry's hand began to throb.
8
BY THE NEXT MORNING, arson had been confirmed.
No one in Blythbury-by-the-Sea got that news sooner than Henry, who got it around seven from two Merton policemen who came over to ask a few questions. They were large, really huge men whose presence filled the kitchen. When Black Dog put her ears down and lowered her head to be scratched—which the bigger of the two policemen did—Henry couldn't help but feel that she was being a traitor.
Maybe Henry's mother felt this, too. She didn't offer the policemen any of the coffee percolating happily on the counter.
They sat down at the kitchen table. The less big policeman wiped away some muffin crumbs left over from breakfast. "That coffee sure smells good," he said.
Silence for a minute. The bigger policeman coughed lightly. Then he opened a notebook and turned to Henry. "Yesterday, did you come home right after school?" he asked.
"After crew practice."
"And what time was that?"
"Around four thirty," said Henry's mother.
"And, ma'am, were you here when he arrived home?"
"I drove him home."
The policeman turned back to Henry. "And your school is"—he checked his notes—"John GreenleafWhittier Academy."
"Yes," said Henry. He tapped his knee so that Black Dog would come over to him, which she did—good dog.
"Here in Blythbury?"
"Yes."
"Pretty snooty," the less big policeman commented.
Henry's mother stiffened.
"Did you know anyone in the Chouan family, Henry?"
"Not personally."
"I'm guessing that you're pretty angry at that family."
Henry didn't answer.
"Are you angry enough to burn down a business they own?"
"I didn't burn down any business," said Henry.
"Henry has already told you where he was yesterday afternoon," said his mother.
The bigger policeman looked hard at Henry. "Do you know anyone who might want to burn down the Chouans' business because they were angry enough?"
"Maybe everyone in Blythbury-by-the-Sea."
"Anyone in particular?"
"No."
"Any guesses?"
"No."
"Huh," said the bigger policeman. He scratched the back of his head, sort of the way Black Dog did. "Henry," he said, "this is serious business. I mean, really serious business. If somebody had been in that building, then the charge would be murder—and who knows if whoever did this won't do something like it again. So I'm asking you again, Henry, do you know anyone who might have burned down the Chouans' business?"
"No," said Henry.
"Have you ever heard someone threaten to—"
"How many times does Henry need to answer the same question?" his mother snapped.
"I'm hoping to hear something that's helpful, ma'am. Maybe something that could save a life," the bigger policeman explained. He was being officially polite.
Henry's mother stood up and Black Dog went under the kitchen table. "We're done here," she said. "Henry has to get ready for school."
Neither policeman moved. They heard Black Dog's nails clicking on the quarried-stone kitchen floor as she circled and circled, tramping down whatever it was she was tramping down before she could collapse.
"We could take the kid in for questioning," said the less bigger policeman.
"If you had a warrant. And Henry won't be saying anything to anyone without our lawyer present."
"Well, Mrs. Smith, technically we don't need a warrant to ..."
The bigger policeman stood—and when he stood, he stood a whole lot higher than Henry's mother. "Why so uncooperative, Mrs. Smith? We're investigating an arson case and you're—"
"And I'm about to drop my son off at school and then head to the hospital, where my other son is lying in an induced coma to control the swelling in his brain, while you want to harass Henry after he's already told you what he knows about an arson case involving a family that almost killed my boy. Who's being uncooperative?"
"Then maybe we should speak to your daughter." The bigger policeman looked down at his notes again. "Louisa Smith."
Henry's mother shook her head. "I don't think so. No."
"Why not?"
"Because the justice system has been so kind to us."
"Mrs. Smith, you really don't think that these two cases are unrelated."
Henry saw his mother stiffen even more. She leaned over and put her hands on the kitchen table. They were trembling. "I hope that they're not,"
she said quietly.
"Mrs. Smith—"
"But if they are, we had nothing to do with it. And I don't like you coming into my house thinking you could have your case all nice and solved if you could prove that this was a case of revenge, because the family who has to live with a maimed son for the rest of their lives are angry because the one who did it to him got off with a slapped wrist. I don't like that at all, and I wish you would leave now."
The bigger policeman closed his notebook. He looked at Henry and his mother and smiled. "I understand," he said. "But these are questions that have got to get answered. We could have done it here. Maybe now it'll be under a court order. But I want you to know, Mrs. Smith, I do understand." He nodded to the less bigger policeman, who rose. They all stood together—even Black Dog, who jumped up to have her head scratched again.
"Come here, Black Dog," said Henry's mother. She reached down, grabbed Black Dog's collar, and held her close to her side.
"I'm sorry for what's happened to you," said the bigger policeman. "Nobody deserves that kind of trouble."
"Thank you," said Henry's mother.
"That coffee sure does smell good," said the less bigger policeman.
Henry's mother nodded.
"Since we're here," said the bigger policeman, "do you mind if we go down to see the ship? I've been reading about it in the papers and I'm something of a history buff."
Henry's mother hesitated, then nodded again. Slowly.
"You want to show it to us, kid?"
Henry's mother started to speak.
"I promise, no questions about arson cases."
She looked at him, then at Henry. "Only for a minute or so," she said. She let go of Black Dog.
So Henry took them both down to Salvage Cove, along with Black Dog, and the bigger policeman whistled low and rubbed his hands along the boat's ribs. He paced off the length and width of the wreck and wrote down the figures in his notebook. He stepped inside and stood on the ship's exposed backbone, and Henry could see him imagining the ship as a living thing, twisting to let cold currents slide beneath her chin.
"Quite a sight," said the bigger policeman.
"I'd rather have the whole beach back," said Henry.
"I guess I would have, too, when I was your age. But now I look at this, and it reminds me that some things are made to last—like this boat. Look at that keel. You could imagine her still sailing after three hundred years."
"Not after it's been burned."
The policeman shook his head. "No, not after it's been burned. This shore has had trouble before, Henry. Lots of it. A boat that catches fire doesn't get washed up. It comes apart and sinks. This boat was beached and then set on fire. It probably started up by the bow." He pointed. "You can see how the damage is more extensive there than down to the stern." He looked up and down the ship again. "Someone wanted it destroyed."
"Maybe it was an accident," said Henry.
"Or maybe it was someone who was angry."
"Maybe," Henry said, "but you weren't going to ask any questions about arson."
The bigger policeman put his hands in his pockets and studied Henry. "No," he finally said, "I guess I wasn't." He looked at the wreck again. "It's quite a ship, Henry. I wonder if you'll ever find out what really happened to her." He studied Henry again. "She deserves to have someone find out what really happened to her." He held his hand out, and Henry shook it. The less bigger policeman nodded. Then they climbed back out of Salvage Cove, and the policemen got in their car and drove away.
Henry and his mother left for Whittier not long after—but long enough for Mrs. Smith to call Mr. Churchill, and for Mr. Churchill to issue stern warnings against saying anything to any policeman—any policeman at all—about the Merton arson case without him being present.
But the news of the arson had already reached Whittier, so when Henry got there, it was all anyone wanted to talk about.
Even his teachers.
There was Mr. DiSalva in American History.
"You've all heard about the fire in Merton?" he asked Henry's class.
Nods.
"Burned the place down like it was made of cheap match-sticks. That's what comes of not having strict building codes. Sometimes fires have changed the face of an entire city and affected the course of human events. So today we're going to take a break from Lewis and Clark and look at the burning of Chicago. Who can tell me under what president that occurred?"
And there was Mrs. Delderfield in Language Arts.
"Have you heard about the fire?" she asked.
Nods.
"Have you heard that the policemen in Merton are saying that it might well be a case of deliberate arson?"
Nods.
"What an awful thing," said Mrs. Delderfield. "Do you all know the poem by François Villon?"
Henry looked at Sanborn, who was rolling his eyes.
"Prince, n'enquerrez de semaine
Où elles sont, ni de cet an,
Qu'à ce refrain ne vous ramène:
Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?"
The class was pretty much silent.
"Isn't that a pretty poem?" said Mrs. Delderfield. "'Where are the snows of yesteryear?' Doesn't your heart thrill to Villon?"
"Oui," said Sanborn.
And there was even Coach Santori in PE.
"If you don't pick up the pace on these laps, I'm going to light a fire under you hotter than anything they had to put out in Merton. Hear that, Brigham?"
"I think he's asking you a question," said Henry.
"PE teachers don't ask questions," said Sanford. "They holler out whatever comes into their pea-sized brains inside their thick-boned heads."
"Did you hear what I said, Brigham?"
Sanford picked up the pace. Henry stayed with him to urge him along, until Coach Santori yelled at him, too, wondering if he'd like to do sprints up and down the bleachers when he'd finished.
But by the end of the day, no one at Whittier—at least, no one that Henry heard—had said what everyone was thinking, and what everyone knew everyone else was thinking: That someone from Blythbury-by-the-Sea had burned down Merton Masonry and Stonework, that it was probably someone from Longfellow Prep, and that whoever did it should somehow, in secret, be declared a Blythbury-by-the-Sea hero, since he—or they—had done what the courts wouldn't do with a Cambodian immigrant. Justice had been served, after all.
But when Henry thought about the fire, or heard someone talk about the fire, the wound in his palm began to throb, and the deep heat that hid down in his guts—the heat to get to Katahdin—began to roil, so that he could hardly sit still through the burning of Chicago, or even François Villon.
The only place where Henry could ease the burning was at crew practice, and there he rowed as if it were Katahdin itself he was rowing to, stretching his legs and pulling back with all his might—even if it did make his palm scream for mercy. He passed his heat on to everyone else in the boat—even Brandon Sheringham—and they, too, rowed beyond what they had ever rowed before, so that Coach Santori began to smile—really—and he started to make grand predictions in the Whittier Academy newsletter about the great success that he was anticipating in the Cape Ann Coastal Invitational, where they would host crews from up and down Cape Ann, including, for the first time, a crew from Merton. After that, there were Regionals, and then maybe State. And who knew? Perhaps even Nationals!
"A crew from Merton?" said Henry's mother, when she read the newsletter in the afternoon.
"A crew from Merton?" said Henry's father, when he read the newsletter that night.
"A crew from Merton?" said Henry to Sanborn the next day. "They've never had a crew before. How can they have a crew?"
"Oh, I don't know, Henry. You get a boat, you put it in the water, you get eight guys into the boat, they row, you've got a crew. What's so impressive about that?"
"First off, it's a shell, not a boat. And second, that's not all a crew is, you jerk. There's coaching, and al
l the training, and learning how to row together as a squad. Crew isn't something you just start up. You have to have a long tradition behind you."
Sanborn looked behind Henry.
"I don't see anything behind you."
Henry looked behind Sanborn.
"I see a big butt behind you."
Which was why Sanborn was crushing Henry's face into the grass out in front of Whittier when Henry's mother came to pick them up that afternoon.
After they dropped Sanborn off, Henry's mother asked if he wanted to go to the hospital. But he didn't. In fact, Henry was going to see Franklin less and less, even though his mother asked him every afternoon if he wanted her to take him over. But what was there to go for? Franklin didn't even know that they were there. And every time Henry saw him, Franklin was whiter and stiller. And he would think of his brother, the great Franklin, of his rugby records, his powerful legs, his powerful arms. He would remember him laughing after a match, easy, strong, his hands bloody, maybe, his face gritty with sweat and dirt, but still laughing, like a champion who had condescended to play hard at a game he knew he could not lose.
But now he was white and still. And now, when Henry looked at his own legs, his own arms, his own face after a crew practice, he knew that he was the stronger one. And something deep and tiny within him was ... glad. It took all of his strength to crush the thought.
But it didn't matter, because Franklin didn't even know they were there.
Except maybe once.
It was late afternoon, on a day that God couldn't have made any better if He had set out to try. The sun was yellow, the skies blue, the new leaves gold and green. His mother had driven to the hospital after school without asking Henry if he wanted to come. While she went to the nurses' station to see if there was anything at all to report—there never was—Henry went to his brother's clean room and looked out the window. Bright green everywhere, the canvas on which all the other colors showed off. The grass was growing full and every tree had begun to dress itself. He could see pink and white blossoms in nearby orchards, and farther away, the brief yellow of the daffodils, so bright, they looked as if Van Gogh had just come from them with his paintbrush still wet in his hand. And everywhere, the branches, supple with their new juices, bowed and dipped and thrust upward with the sea breeze that had come far enough inland to whisper up the red brick sides of the hospital.
Trouble Page 9
