The Truth as Told by Mason Buttle

by Leslie Connor

  The lieutenant leads Uncle Drum and me. Walks all the way around the pond. I tell him Calvin and I were not on that other side. Just Matt and Lance were. I tell him two times. He brings up the flashlight. Makes me squint. He says, “Why don’t you want me to walk around this pond, Mason? Any reason why Calvin couldn’t have come back this way?”

  I say, “I don’t know.”

  Makes me feel stupid to say it. I feel stupid that I don’t really know what the lieutenant means.

  We go around the pond. Find nothing. But the lieutenant calls for helpers. They come quick. He sends them out around the pond.

  I say, “There’s more of the map. A part that comes after the pond.”

  He says, “And you say Calvin was still with you?”

  I say, “Yes.”

  He wonders if I am sure. But I am. He tells the searchers to stay with it. Stay at the pond. He tells me, “Okay, Mason. Let’s go on.”

  So we do that.

  On through the orchard. And then comes the hard part of the map. I say, “Calvin and I split up. Was near here. Not sure where.”

  The lieutenant points me at the orchard rows. The grasses. He watches my face. I can feel that. Sometimes he holds up the light. So he can see me. He says, “Think. Look and think.”

  Uncle Drum says, “He’s doing it. Give him a chance.”

  I look up to the left and point. Finger moving. I say, “Calvin went up that way. On his own. But I don’t know exactly where. But I went on—”

  The lieutenant says, “I’ll bet you can remember.” He shines that light in my face. Then up that hill. He says, “Where, Mason?”

  I scan. We are near it. Pretty sure. Near the place I saw Calvin go scrambling. I’m afraid to say it in case I am wrong. There is some part where the tall grass is flat down. A trail. We walk it even though it is not my map. The trail goes sort of toward the crumbledown. But it winds a bit. I tell the lieutenant, “You know, this path could be made by Calvin. Or by a deer. Or rabbits. It’s hard to know.”

  Uncle Drum says, “You’re right. Could be an animal path.”

  The trail dies away in the shorter grass now. But the lieutenant and Uncle Drum and I make a guess. We go up and across the front of the crumbledown. The lieutenant shines his light all along the stony foundation. In behind the shrubs.

  I think this: Already looked here. Did that myself. But I don’t say it.

  We cross the porch. To the mousey chair. The lieutenant gives that a shove. Might be because he is mad. But then we see it. Calvin’s backpack. Drops out from behind the chair.

  My heart takes a hop. I say, “That’s Calvin’s! That’s his!”

  The lieutenant goes stony faced. He bounces his foot up and down on our cruddy porch boards. He eyes the steps. He says, “I want to have a look under this decking. Now.”

  It is Uncle Drum who does it. Starts kicking up the boards himself. They come up easy. If they don’t he yanks on them. Bare hands. Or he kicks harder. I drag the mousey chair down the old steps. The lieutenant shines a light. Grandma and Shayleen hear the racket. They come watch from the window. We all call out.

  “Calvin? Calvin?”

  But Calvin is not beneath our porch. The joists sit there. Bare old bones with no skin on top. Everything is worse than a minute ago when we still thought we might find him.

  Weather comes in. A downpour. Makes the search harder. Postponed, is what I hear.

  I tell the lieutenant I can’t postpone. I will go back to my map. Walk the orchard again. Rain doesn’t bother me. Not as much as wondering where Calvin is. But he says no. He wants me in. He is firm about it.

  Grandma wonders do I want the rest of my supper. Because I left my plate. But I can’t eat. I climb the stairs. I kick off my shoes. Skip stuffing them with newspapers. I drop my pants in a heap. I don’t really go to bed. I lie on top in my sweaty T-shirt. Stare up at the chestnut beams. I think this: The Buttle house won’t sleep tonight.

  And it doesn’t. I know because I hear the washing machine filling. Later, it spins. Empties. Spins. Then the dryer flips clothes. My T-shirts. Tink-tink-a-tink. Tink-tink-a-tink.

  I lie awake wondering where I would be if I could be Calvin. I hear the rain and hope he is dry. And safe. I think of the Chumsky parents. I wonder if I will see them in the morning. I wonder if they will wear sad-to-see-you faces. I think of the first missing boy. Benny, who believed that shafts of light make the path to heaven.

  chapter 50

  HOT RAIN

  It might be that I have slept for a few minutes. Can see the darkest part of night just ending. I think about light and dark. I sit up. I suck a breath.

  I know where Calvin is!

  I scramble off the bed. Jump into my pants. I stuff my feet into my open shoes. I hurry. Laces flying. I thunder down the stairs. Hands barely on the rail. I snag the flashlight off the hook and swing the door open. I leap over the ruined porch. Then I run. Full out.

  I round to the back of the house. Head for the dip. I call Calvin’s name. My foot lands on something strange. Slippery. Hard and round. My legs go out from under. I go down on my side. The flashlight slams the hill. I can see in the beam. The plastic salad-bowl thing. The cap of the light shaft. It is sliding away. Down the wet hill. Like a saucer sled.

  I scramble up. Hurry to the root cellar door. I reach into the thorns and haul it open. Inside, I stand below the Shaft of the Dead Man. All is dark. Too dark. I tip the flashlight up. Shine it into the shaft. What am I seeing? Is it anything?

  I call, “Calvin! Calvin!”

  Something comes down on me. Like hot rain. Stings my head. Drips down my shoulders and arms. There’s a smell. Not so good. I step up on a bucket. I reach my arm up. Up into the Shaft of the Dead Man. Something fits in my palm. I grab it. Tug it. Pull it down. And there I am holding one tan-sandy shoe.

  “Mason?”

  “Calvin? Calvin!”

  “Mason?”

  “Calvin! Oh! Holy cow!”

  He says, “I’m sorry . . .”

  “What? What did you say?” I talk up into the shaft. “You’re sorry?”

  “Yeah . . . I just peed.”

  I think this: hot rain.

  “But Calvin! It’s you!”

  He says, “Yeah. I’m hanging out . . . in the Shaft of the Dead Man.”

  He is hard to hear. He is raspy. Like he wants breath and can’t get any. Like he wants to be funny. But this isn’t.

  I say, “Aw, Calvin! How? We searched for hours! And then—just now—I woke up and I knew where to find you! Don’t know how. But I knew! But Calvin, I’m going to go get help. So you wait, okay? You wait.”

  He says, “I will. I have to. I’m stuck. It’s so tight. And Mason, I’m not in great shape. You need to tell them. I can’t stay awake . . . and . . . and . . .”

  “What? And what else?”

  Calvin grunts. Then he says, “Tell them I can see my left leg. Because it’s right here by my face . . .”

  “Yeah?” I think that does not sound good.

  “Yeah. But I can’t feel it. At all. It’s dead asleep. In a bad way. And I’m thirsty, Mason. My head is aching. I’m scared.”

  “You hold on, Calvin!” I cry it out loud. “Hold on!” Then I run.

  chapter 51

  EMERGENCY

  What happens is this: I yell. All through the crumbledown. “HELP! HELP ME! Uncle Drum! Grandma! HELP! I found him! I have Calvin!”

  What I really have is Calvin’s shoe. The tan-sandy. I tuck it into the waist of my pants. Then I crash through Grandma’s kitchen to the sink. I fill a cup with water. Everyone comes. Uncle Drum first. Pulling on his blue jeans. Grandma and Shayleen follow straight after. We go stepping over the broken porch. Then all of us running. Water cup spilling. They follow me out back.

  The four of us kneel in the brambles beside the hole. Flashlight shining down. We look and see Calvin’s one foot. The dead-asleep foot. Shoe still on it. And just below, down in the hole, his white head. W
et. And muddy. Grandma reaches in. Touches Calvin’s hair. She whispers, “Poor boy. We are here. Help is coming.”

  Uncle Drum says, “Damn! Oh! Damn! My god! Holy hell.” Then he swears a bigger swear. He gets to his feet. He taps on his phone.

  Shayleen says, “It’ll be all right, Calvin. Little buddy.”

  I say, “He needs a drink!” They make room for me. I lower the cup down. Reach past Calvin’s foot to find his face. Find his lips. He cannot take the cup. Not sure he can move his arms. I tip the water into Calvin. Not too much at a time. He sighs for the sips. I know when to give the next and the next.

  Everyone is asking how such a hole got here. How deep does it go? How did Calvin get in it? And why? And why didn’t we know it was here before now?

  I say, “We dug it. We made the hole!” But it seems like nobody hears. No one except Calvin.

  He takes tiny breaths to speak. He whispers, “Yep. We did. It was awesome.” He says, “Sorry, Mason. Sorry about the root cellar . . .”

  I try to tell him the cellar is fine—fine! But all the talking is drowned out by sirens. I look up from the hole. Red lights and blue lights flash through the orchard trees.

  The yard at the crumbledown fills up quick.

  There is the Merrimack Pee Dee. Then the fire department. Rescue truck. All the volunteers. And searchers who have walked the whole night through. Feet come thundering. Voices come shouting. Equipment jingles. The sounds gather in my chest.

  Calvin is an emergency.

  I wave them to the place. Arm circles. Big as I can make. I warn about the thorns. I bring them to the top of the light shaft. I tell about the door down below. I give up the root cellar. I show everyone where Calvin Chumsky is.

  Mr. and Mrs. Chumsky come. Tired faces. Smiles and tears. They hold their own knuckles. I show them the way to Calvin. And they are so so glad. They rush to see him. No one can believe it. How a boy can fit in a hole this way. How he ended up with one foot near the top and his head just below.

  Tell you what I know. Calvin Chumsky is as slim as a wire. Now he’s bent like one too.

  chapter 52

  EXTRICATION

  “Step back! Step back!”

  I’m crowded out. Sent away. A woman takes charge. She says, “Emergency personnel only. Clear this area. Please get back!”

  There is a plan to make. Some parts go quick. Uncle Drum moves the tractor. The firemen take the root cellar door off the hinges. They tear brambles and vines. They drag it all clear. Now the root cellar stands with its mouth wide open. Don’t you know it, Lieutenant Baird arrives. He plants himself. Stands guard. People have come. From up the hill and down the hill. Coats over pajamas. Feet in their boots. They keep hands stuffed into pockets.

  The rescue workers move inside. Then outside. So many people in and out the small root cellar. They check top and bottom. Flashlights shining. They talk to each other. To Calvin. Then they measure things with their eyes.

  I run alongside. Close as I can get. I call out, “It is five feet deep! Or might be six. It’s a light shaft! Made from a Sonotube and—”

  Lieutenant Baird turns his back to me. Arms wide. He pushes his elbows backward. He flaps his hand. He says, “Stay out of the way, Mason. Way out! Extrication is very tricky. Let them assess the situation. Let them work.” Then he swings that arm back at me again.

  I want to be everyplace. I want to be inside the cellar. And up at the top of the tube. I want to see Calvin.

  But they have to set up tall lamps. They have to stretch the yellow tape. Equipment and rescuers are like a fence around Calvin.

  I get an idea. I go inside and upstairs. I put my head out the window of the bedroom where I sleep. I hold the one tan-sandy shoe tight until I can give it back to Calvin. I look straight down. I can see the hole. And Calvin. Barely. But I know this: If he looks up—if he can look up—he will see me. Up here. In this window. He will know. I’m at the vantage point. I am with him. Much as I can be.

  A digger comes. Slow roll off a flatbed. Vibrations jiggle the crumbledown. Rattle the window frames. The excavator bites through the brambles. Into the earth. I smell the dirt. I smell the rain that came down in the night. They cut close to the shaft. So close to Calvin. Puts my heart in my throat.

  But then a fireman comes running out from the mouth of the root cellar. Arms in the air. He warns the woman in charge. Something is not right. So she hollers, “Halt! Halt!” The digger lurches. Stops.

  I put my head and shoulders out the window to see better. Tell you what. The crowd is some bigger now. I watch the digger crawl back. Away.

  The woman goes to Calvin. Talks to him. I can’t hear what. But I see her stretch her arms deep into the hole. I wonder, will she try to pull him out? Could I have done that?

  But she doesn’t try. She stands up. She says, “Where is the homeowner? I need dish soap. The whole bottle. Two if you have them.”

  And the bottles come quick. From Grandma’s kitchen.

  Then the woman says something about using gravity.

  And I try to remember what I know about that. I think she means the weight of Calvin. The dropping down of him. Must be.

  She pipes up. Tells the others, “We’re going to keep him going in the same direction he was going. From the top down.” She shows it with her hands. She says, “Are we ready below? The soap will lubricate. He will start to slide.”

  She says it like a promise.

  Then there she goes. On her knees in the brambles. She reaches low with the dish-soap bottle. Arm deep in the hole.

  Hard to see now. But she goes all around. Like making clock numbers. Smell of dish soap rises from the hole. Must be she is soaping the shaft. Must be she is squeezing soap all around all the sides of Calvin. All around inside that shaft.

  She works with her arms way down in the hole. One, then the other. She says it. “Progress!” Calvin is dropping down. I hear her tell him, “Calvin, relax. Let yourself fall. There are many hands below to catch you.”

  And we wait and wait. Slow go that is. Sliding a boy down a tight skinny tube.

  And then it is done! Out comes Calvin. Into the morning. There is cheering and clapping. It is for Calvin. For the rescuers. For an emergency that is over with.

  I wave with both arms from the upstairs window. I holler Calvin’s name. I see him seeing me—pretty sure. He holds up one pale thumb on one kitten-paw hand.

  Calvin Chumsky is out of the hole!

  chapter 53

  TROUBLE FOR BREAKFAST

  It’s not much past sunup when the last rescue truck leaves. First one out took Calvin to the hospital. I came outside to watch them go. Now I stand in the quiet. Funny thing. I am awake to see a Wednesday night turn into a Thursday morning. Seems not real in the daylight now. All that has happened. I try not to worry. I try to believe that Calvin will be all right. They said so. They all said it. And he gave that thumbs-up. Pretty sure.

  When I try to go back inside the crumbledown I see again what is left of our porch. Boards pulled up. I take the high step up into the house. I wonder how long that’s going to stay like that. How long before we get new planks.

  Inside Grandma has breakfast going. Scrambled eggs. Home fries. Uncle Drum is there. Turns out Lieutenant Baird stayed on. He is drinking coffee in the kitchen. But he’s quiet. More than usual.

  I don’t ask it. I tell it. “Calvin peed on me. He couldn’t help it. I need a shower. Right now.”

  Nobody disagrees with me. But Grandma passes me a basket full of clean, dry T-shirts before I head on up.

  I let the warm water pour over me. I shampoo my head two times over. Just glad, is what I am. Glad and tired.

  I come down. Clean. Sorry to see that the lieutenant is still here. Still drinking coffee. Might be that is all he wants. He has had a long night. Maybe that is why he is quiet.

  I get a plate of breakfast in front of me. Smell the comfort of it. Then don’t you know it, the lieutenant has got a question. He wants to know why
I did not tell about Calvin and me and the root cellar.

  I say, “It was a deal we made. Two friends. Because we didn’t want those other kids to know.” I put my fork in my eggs. Poke them.

  He wants more. He says, “Which kids?”

  I say, “Just the ones we have trouble with. The ones I told you about before.”

  He says, “Matt Drinker?”

  I nod.

  He says, “What kind of trouble?”

  I say, “Apple fights and chases, is all. And some stuff about his dog.”

  He says, “So you and Calvin had a hideout? A place of your own?”

  I say, “Yes.”

  Seems like the lieutenant understands. So I make the smallest smile at him. But he does not smile back.

  He says, “This is a whole lot like what you told me about Benny Kilmartin, Mason. You realize this.” The way he says it is not like a question. He says, “And so when Calvin went missing, you never thought to take me there? You never thought to tell the adults? You didn’t think we’d want to know that there was a hole a boy could fit into?” The lieutenant leans close. I see the ugly green. Comes in from the sides of my eyes. A circle cloud. He says, “Why, Mason? Why is that?”

  I hunch up. Wipe my sweat on my shoulder. Try to think of all the questions he just asked. I blink down hard on that fog of green. I say, “We didn’t take my map. And I didn’t know Calvin’s map. So I didn’t know he was there. And I just never—”

  “Never what?”

  “I never thought of fitting a boy in that hole. Because, like, why would I? That shaft, it was for light, is all.”

  The lieutenant scrunches his face at me. There is always something more he wants to know. I think about Ms. Blinny. Just quick. How she said don’t ever make up a thing to say just to make the lieutenant happy. Tell the simple truth. That’s what she said.

  The lieutenant says, “But why didn’t you at least tell us that you had been playing in that old cellar?”

  I say, “Well . . . I guess because . . .” I don’t finish. He won’t like what I say. Never does.