Red Kayak

by Priscilla Cummings

  I held it and let the rake fall because I could see that there were flecks of red paint on the drill bit. I swallowed hard. Flecks of red that looked as though they might even be the same color as the red kayak.

  Was it possible? Instinctively, I looked around to see if someone might be watching me. My heart started pounding.

  Did someone drill holes in the kayak to make it sink?

  Was it Marcellus? Is that why he had disappeared?

  No, I decided pretty quickly. Because if Marcellus did it, why would he use one of my father’s tools?

  In a sort of daze, but still holding the drill, I stumbled back to the front of the boathouse and sat down on the wooden steps leading up to the door. As I did, my mind raced backward almost an entire year, to when the DiAngelos first bought the property from Digger’s grandfather. They had just begun construction on the house, but they had left a canoe onshore, and their sailboat at the dock.

  It was early evening that summer day last year. We three—J.T., Digger, and I—had come over to the beach beneath the bluff for a swim. It was the DiAngelos’ property, yes, but only the week before it had belonged to Digger’s grandfather, and many times we had come to swim in the little cove to cool off. The water was shallow, and the way the beach curved made it private, too.

  Digger was down in the dumps that day about his grandfather having to let go of the place, and we could see how it was eating him up. He wouldn’t even come in the water with us, but sat on the beach, stewing, while J.T. and I swam around, splashing and dunking each other.

  We felt sorry for Digger, though. A little sorry for ourselves, too, I guess, because it meant the end of swimming over there. After coming up onshore, we dried off with the towels we’d brought and aimed a few small rocks toward the DiAngelos’ sailboat. One of the stones Digger threw pinged off the metal mast. “Bastards!” he had cried.

  “Hey! I’ve got an idea,” I’d told him, tossing a glance at the sailboat. “Let’s get my father’s drill and put a few holes in her hull.”

  “Cool!” J.T. had exclaimed. “Then, when they come for a little day sail, they’ll realize they aren’t going anywhere!”

  Digger had looked at me, but he wasn’t laughing. “No. That’s stupid. The sailboat would just sink. It’s gotta be somethin’ worse than that.”

  “Okay!” I’d said. “Then we can put holes in that canoe instead. What you do is fill the holes back in with this water-based glue my dad has in the workshop, mixed in with some of the residue from what you drilled out so no one can tell. Maybe dab over it with a marker—a green marker. Then, after he’s out on the water about thirty minutes, the glue gives way, the water comes in—and he goes swimming!”

  Digger had stared past me with an intense look on his face.

  “Ouch!” I’d cried because J.T. had suddenly whipped me across the back of my legs with his towel. Grabbing my own towel, I had sprinted after him down the beach.

  As I sat on the steps of the boathouse, remembering, goose bumps popped up on my arms, and an awful scenario washed over me like a sudden chill, weakening my muscles and nearly taking my breath away.

  “My God,” I uttered, staring with horror at the drill in my hands. Did Digger have something to do with sinking the kayak?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  What was I going to do? In those first paralyzing moments I didn’t have a clue, just an increasingly sick feeling in my stomach. Finally, I pushed myself up. I stood and wrapped the drill inside the second, unused leaf bag. The bag was way too big, but I just kept wrapping the drill around and around in it.

  I carried it back up the hill to where I parked my bicycle in the shade by the side of the garage. I put the bag-wrapped drill in my backpack and got on my bike. I had to tell someone. But who? Not my parents. Not yet, anyway. J.T., I figured. I would tell J.T. Then, together, we could figure out what to do.

  All the way down the DiAngelos’ long driveway I pedaled faster and faster as I put more and more of it together. How angry Digger had been at the DiAngelos for buying his grandfather’s farm. How he had spit out: Paddle hard, you sucker! when he saw the red kayak that morning.

  When I hit the paved road I leaned into the turn so hardI almost spun the bike out of control. You’d have thought I was rushing to report a fire the way I sped down the road.

  At J.T.’s driveway, I put on my brakes, then pedaled hard up the long dirt road to his house. I thought about taking the drill and showing him right off. But then decided not to and left it in my backpack with my bike.

  My heart was pounding like crazy and I was out of breath as I climbed the wide front steps and stood on his porch, knocking on the door. It was pretty scary to think that one of my friends might have had something to do with Ben dying. And I was beginning to wonder what would happen to Digger if it turned out to be true.

  Kate opened the door and caught me off guard with her nice smile. “Hi, Brady!”

  “Hey,” I said, still breathing hard.

  The smell of something baking, something chocolate, wafted up behind her, and I spied J.T.’s cute little sister Kerry peeking around the corner to see who had come.

  Kate’s smile disappeared. She lowered her voice. “Guess you heard.”

  “What?” I asked, confused, a little panicked. Did she know what I knew? Had I missed something?

  “My father’s in the hospital,” she said. “Carl came with the ambulance this morning and took him.”

  “No—no, I didn’t know,” I managed to say. “Your father?”

  Kate nodded. “He passed out at the breakfast table.” She indicated with her thumb. “He’s back awake now—they called from the hospital. We think it’s his kidneys. Remember when he had that really bad attack a year ago?”

  I did remember. J.T.’s father was in the hospital for almost a month. I even came over and helped J.T. with his chores after school.

  Kate’s news blew some of the steam off my anger.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your dad,” I said. But I wasn’t forgetting why I had come. “Is J.T. here?”

  “He’s culling, down at the chicken houses,” she said. “Wouldn’t you know it? We had a huge shipment of new chicks yesterday.”

  “Think it would be okay if I went to see him?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Kate said, nodding eagerly. “He’d be glad to see you.”

  “I’ll go give him a hand, then,” I said.

  I went back down the steps and walked across their flat dirt yard, past several outbuildings and the huge grain silos, to the first of four long chicken houses. I hated going inside those things because they were so warm. That and the ammonia smell from the chicken waste was so strong you could hardly breathe. But I was desperate to talk to J.T.

  Inside the door to the first house, I peered down the narrow building, but all I saw were thousands of yellow baby chicks peeping up a storm and crowding one another around the feeders. They were actually kind of cute at this stage, so small and fluffy. In a matter of days, though, they’d shed that pale yellow fuzz for tough new white feathers, and in just a few weeks, the chicken people, Perdue or whoever, would be back to collect them.

  There were big electric fans droning in the windows to keep the birds cool, but it was just as hot as I remembered.

  I scoped out the chicken house as far as I could see, but I didn’t spot my friend.

  Back outside, I took in deep breaths of fresh air and walked, my feet scuffing up dust, over to the next chicken house. Inside the door, I saw J.T. right away. Wearing a bright red T-shirt, he was about halfway down the building, walking slowly, the chicks parting and making a path as he moved. He had a pillowcase in one hand, and when he bent over occasionally, I knew he was picking out the dead chicks, or the ones that were hobbling around, getting ready to keel over.

  As I walked toward him, the chicks scattered at my feet, too. Their high-pitched peeping vibrated in my ears, and the soles of my shoes picked up layers of crappy chicken manure, but it was impos
sible to avoid.

  It wasn’t until I was right behind J.T. that he finally noticed me.

  When he turned and our eyes met, I could see the pain he had bottled up inside. Because of his dad? The sweat dripping off his face could have been tears for all I knew.

  J.T. dropped his eyes. I looked away, too, and when I did, I spotted a dead chick, its little feet twitching, and bent over to pick it up.

  “Here,” I said, offering it to J.T.

  He opened his pillowcase and I placed it inside.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” I said loudly, so he could hear above the din.

  He nodded. “Let me finish this house,” he replied just as loud.

  Together, we waded through the ocean of yellow chicks, both of us stopping here and there to pick up the dead or dying ones, adding them to the bag.

  Outside, we walked over to a compost bin, where J.T. dumped the contents of his pillowcase and made a body count, noting the number on a piece of paper. It was a lousy job, but twice a day, someone at the farm had to do the culling.

  “So you heard about my dad?” J.T. asked. He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of one hand.

  “Sorry,” I said. “How is he?” J.T. folded up the paper and pushed it into his jeans pocket. “I don’t know. We’re going to see him after we eat.”

  “Look,” I started, “I know this isn’t a good time for you, J.T. But I just discovered—”

  “You ever had surgery?” J.T. asked, cutting me off.

  “Surgery?” His question—and the bluntness of it—threw me.

  “Yeah, you ever been put to sleep?”

  Hesitating, I nevertheless answered. “Once,” I said, wondering where this was going. “Remember when I tore the cartilage in my knee? During that basketball game back in sixth grade?”

  “Oh, yeah,” J.T. said, fidgeting with the pencil in his hand. “Anyway, I’m thinking I’ll give my father one of my kidneys. If I’m compatible, that is. People at the hospital, they’re gonna do a blood test on my mom and me.”

  I stared at my feet, not sure how to respond, then peered back at J.T. “J.T., I’m sorry about your dad—”

  “Yeah, it’s awful.”

  “But you got to listen to me, man,” I continued firmly, the urgency returning, “because I need your help.”

  There was a pause. J.T. was not making eye contact. Still fidgeting with that damned pencil, he asked in a small voice, “What is it?”

  “Over at the DiAngelos’, where I’m working now? I was down at the boathouse, raking up…”

  Finally, J.T. looked at me.

  “And I found my father’s drill.” J.T.’s eyes grew large.

  My heart jumped into my throat. “J.T.?”

  He didn’t say anything, but he took a step backward, like I was going to hit him.

  Only something hit me instead. “Do you know something about this? J.T.? Did Digger drill holes in that kayak?”

  Barely, barely I saw J.T. nod his head.

  I stared at him, and a terrible expression consumed J.T.’s face. “We didn’t mean for Mrs. DiAngelo and Ben to get hurt,” he blurted out.

  “Holy shit, J.T.! You were in on this?”

  A screen door slammed, and Kate called us. “Guys! Where are you?”

  J.T. threw up both hands at me. “Please, Brady! They don’t know! Please don’t say anything in front of Kate!”

  “Why?” I demanded, screwing up my face. “Why’d you do it?”

  It was a horrible time for Kate to show up, but she did just then, innocently rounding the corner of the chicken house.

  “There you are! Hey!” She put her hands on her hips and smiled. “Grandma wants to know if you’ll stay for dinner, Brady. It’s just BLTs and corn because we’re going to the hospital after dinner to see Daddy. But you’re welcome to stay.”

  J.T. and I glanced at each other.

  “I made brownies,” Kate chimed sweetly, trying to entice me to have dinner with them.

  “Sure—why don’t you?” J.T. said in an uncertain voice. His hand, the one holding the pencil, was shaking.

  “I can’t,” I declared, angry beyond words at J.T. and Digger and trying real hard not to show it. Some friends they were, I thought. “I’ve gotta go. In fact, I’m late already. Tell your grandmother I’m sorry, Kate.”

  I walked away, but when J.T. tried to stop me—“Hey, Brady!”—I started running. When I got to my bike, J.T. was right behind me, breathing hard.

  “Don’t go to Digger’s!” he told me, grabbing my arm. “Don’t go without me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to be there, and I can’t go right now.”

  I yanked my arm away. “I can’t believe you guys did it. Why? What the hell were you thinking, J.T.?!”

  “It was a mistake!” J.T. exclaimed.

  “Yoo-hoo! Boys!” J.T.’s grandmother waved her handkerchief and called to us from the front steps. “J.T., can’t you convince Braden to stay?”

  When J.T. looked back at his grandmother, I jumped on my bicycle and tore out of there. Straight for Digger’s house.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Digger was in his front yard, shooting baskets with his little brother, Hank, when I skidded to a halt on my bike. But Hank was the only one who seemed happy to see me. “Hey, Brady, watch this!” he called out as he bounced the ball off a rusted and netless basket rim.

  Lowering my bike to its side, I took off my backpack and set it on the wheel, my eyes fixed on Digger, who was retrieving the basketball and still hadn’t said a word. Did he suspect something? Had he been dreading this moment for a long time?

  When I started walking toward him, Digger gave the ball to Hank and said, “Go on inside, okay?”

  Hank didn’t argue. Hank never argued with Digger because he looked up to him too much. He bounced the basketball once and left.

  Digger hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “What’s up?” he asked, kind of squinting his eyes at me.

  He suspected why I was there, I thought. And I stopped, hesitating. All those years we’d known each other—all the laughs we had, the plans we shared, the trouble we got into—spun by in a blur. But I realized we could never go back to the way it was. Already, the friendship had changed.

  “You know I’m working at the DiAngelos now, right?” I asked.

  Digger just kept staring at me.

  “Well, I found something over there today when I was raking up near the boathouse.”

  His expression didn’t change, but I saw Digger’s chin lift up a little.

  “I found my dad’s drill.”

  Digger arched his eyebrows. “So?”

  “So I am wondering how it got there!” I shot back, ticked off that he was making this difficult. “I’m wondering why it has flecks of red paint on it!”

  Digger swallowed.

  We locked eyes.

  “Beats me,” he said.

  “Come on!” I argued. “We both know what you did. J.T.’s already told me.”

  Digger frowned and his lips parted as a scared, hurt look softened his steely expression. I was sure he’d admit to it then.

  “Where is it?” he asked. “Where’s the drill?”

  “Back there,” I lied. “I left it where I found it. Why? What do you care?”

  “I don’t care!” Digger snapped, toughening up again. “And I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at, Brady.”

  We stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “I gotta go,” Digger said, pulling his thumbs from his pockets and turning away while I stood there like an idiot, watching him.

  “Digger!” I called out.

  Faster and faster he walked, but he never looked back. When the screen door slammed, I kicked at a stone and stomped back to where my bike lay on the ground. Tossing the backpack on, I yanked up the bicycle and hopped on, kicking hard at the pedals. I worried that I was being a coward, letting him walk away the way he did. Questions hammered a
t me: Should I turn around and force him to admit it? How? How would I do that? Should I tell my parents? Should we call the police?

  I didn’t know, so I kept on pedaling. When I got to the road, I headed for home.

  Riding up our driveway, I saw that Mom’s car was gone. Under a flowerpot, I scooped up the hidden key for the side door and let myself in. The house was silent except for Tilly’s toenails clicking down the tiled hallway as she came to greet me. I saw on the counter a lemon cake my mother had made for the Memorial Day picnic. Tilly licked my hands, and I touched her on the head before letting her out the back door.

  Next thing I did was take the drill out of my backpack and hide it because I was mixed up. Afraid one minute, angry the next. I needed time to think. In the basement, I opened up a cupboard underneath Dad’s workbench and pulled out a boxful of rags. Lifting a handful of old curtains, I stashed the drill deep down at the bottom, then pushed the box back underneath.

  Tiny Tim, on a shelf nearby, heard me and crawled out of his newspaper nest, so I let him sniff my finger, then I gave him a few sunflower seeds.

  Back upstairs, I suddenly realized that in my haste at leaving the DiAngelos’, I hadn’t put a single thing away. I hadn’t even closed up their garage!

  I moaned and slapped my hand against my thigh, then called Tilly in and got back on my bicycle.

  Right away at the DiAngelos’, I sensed something wasn’t right. As I walked down the hill to the boathouse, I heard a noise, like a door closing, and froze, midstep. My eyes darted around. I didn’t see anyone, but I noticed that the garbage bag I had filled with brush and trash had been spilled out.

  Forcing my feet to move, I made my way toward the boathouse and saw that the trash was strewn everywhere, like it had been kicked around. And that the rake I had dropped when I found the drill now leaned up against the building.

  Cautiously, I opened the door to the boathouse. “Who’s here?” I called in.

  At first, silence. But then, a soft scraping noise confirmed my suspicion, and Digger slowly stood up from where he’d crouched behind a grain barrel in the corner. Because of the way the light came through the boathouse, he was a silhouette, but I knew the compact, lean body and the way he held his muscular shoulders back.