Red Kayak

by Priscilla Cummings

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “You know darn well what I’m doin’ here, Brady.”

  “You’re looking for the drill,” I said.

  Digger stepped around the barrel. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll give it to me.”

  “It’s not here.”

  “Well, then. If you picked it up, it’s got your fingerprints on it, too, doesn’t it?”

  I scowled. “I had my work gloves on,” I said, but the truth is that I had taken my gloves off before I picked up the drill. It never occurred to me then that I might be handling evidence!

  Digger’s voice started to sound panicky. “I’m tellin’ you, Brady, if you don’t get rid of that drill and keep your mouth shut, you’ll be in a lot of trouble.”

  “You did do it, didn’t you? You put holes in Mr. DiAngelo’s kayak.”

  Digger didn’t say anything, but I took the silence to mean yes.

  “You and J.T.?” I pressed.

  Digger’s mouth became a tight, straight line. “You couldn’t never prove it!”

  An image of the red kayak, lying on the bottom of the river, flashed through my mind.

  “Why?” I threw up my hands. “Why’d you guys do it?”

  Digger looked away for a second, and when he looked back at me, his voice had lost its angry timbre. “You remember that day we went over there in your boat, Brady? The day we had us a smoke?”

  I settled my hands back down on my hips, recalling an afternoon in early April when Digger said he had something to show us—and the “something” turned out to be a cigarette.

  “Yeah,” I said, frowning. “I remember.”

  “Well, think back on it,” Digger told me.

  So I did. I thought back to how we had gone there, to the DiAngelos’ beach, because it was a favorite spot of ours. We hadn’t been worried about the new property owners seeing us because their new house was out of sight, up the hill beyond their new, three-car garage.

  Nearby, Mr. DiAngelo’s new, red kayak rested on two wooden sawhorses. We’d already seen the kayak. We three just happened to be at the 7-Eleven a few weeks previous when Mr. DiAngelo pulled into the parking lot with the new kayak strapped to the top of his silver Porsche. It was quite a sight because the kayak was longer than the car. Agape, we’d stood on the sidewalk with our sodas while he waved and dashed into the store.

  “Probably needs to run in and buy a Rolex,” J.T. had joked.

  “Yeah, or a diamond stud to put where the sun don’t shine,” Digger had muttered.

  The kayak rested on the sawhorses by the DiAngelos’ dock, the day Digger tried to get us to smoke.

  “Come on, what are you afraid of?” Digger had goaded me, shoving the cigarette in my face.

  “I had an uncle who died from lung cancer,” I’d told him. Carl’s dad, in fact, and I didn’t want anything whatsoever to do with smoking.

  Digger had cupped his hands around the cigarette to relight it after the wind put it out. Then he blew smoke out the side of his mouth like an old pro and offered it to me again. “One puff ain’t gonna turn you into an addict.”

  I had to screw up my face to make the point. “They make me gag.”

  So Digger had turned to J.T., thrusting it at him. “For cryin’ out loud, you weakling, it’s not like you’re gonna keel over and die right here on the spot.”

  Digger had a way of pushing J.T. around, and darned if J.T. didn’t accept that cigarette, take a quick puff, and hand it back.

  It was at that moment that Mr. DiAngelo had shown up with a golf club in his hand. Scared the you-know-what out of us. He must have been behind the house, practicing his swing or something, and heard us talking.

  “What are you guys doing?” he’d asked. J.T. was coughing, but we’d both stepped away from Digger, who brought the cigarette down quickly and pulled his incriminating hand behind his back.

  “I see,” Mr. DiAngelo had said. “Look, it’s none of my business if you guys are smoking. But it is my business when you’re on my property. You guys need to leave. I catch you here again, I’m calling your parents.”

  I had hung my head I was so ashamed. It was only a couple weeks before that I’d baby-sat for Ben all afternoon.

  “That’s it. Out of here!” he had ordered us.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” I had tried to apologize. “We didn’t mean anything.”

  Mr. DiAngelo had spun away. He didn’t even wait to make sure we were gone.

  We did leave, though. Got right in my boat and went home. I was so ticked off at Digger I could barely stand to look at him.

  When we got back to the dock at my house, Digger was itchy for revenge. “Let’s do somethin’ to get back at that creep.” (Except he didn’t say “creep.”)

  I had waved a hand at him. “I’ve got homework. I’m going in.”

  “You, then,” Digger had ordered J.T. “You owe me one for the other day when Curtis was hittin’ on you.”

  Curtis was an incredible bully at school.

  They had set off down our driveway, arguing, while I went inside.

  I had never looked back at them. And it had never, ever occurred to me that they didn’t blow off their steam and go home that day! That instead, they went down to my dad’s workshop, stole the drill and the glue, and sneaked back to the DiAngelos’ beach.

  I squeezed my eyes shut recalling these events. When I opened them again, I looked sadly at Digger. “You did it because Mr. DiAngelo kicked us off his property?”

  “He didn’t need to talk to us the way he did,” Digger argued. “But you know damn well, Brady, it goes a lot deeper than that. I hate DiAngelo! How the hell did I know his wife was gonna take the kid out for a spin in that kayak?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to believe what I was hearing.

  “Look, Brady,” Digger pleaded as he came up to me, “no one knows what happened. If you get rid of the drill and don’t say anything, no one will ever know—and none of us will get in trouble.”

  “But, Digger, it was wrong, man. I mean, Ben’s dead!”

  Suddenly Digger grabbed the front of my shirt. “You think tellin’ the cops is going to change any of that? You think tellin’ the truth brings the kid back?”

  I knocked his hand off and pushed him away.

  “No!” Digger came back at me so angrily he practically spit in my face. “It just makes it worse! Because then they’ll accuse us of murder!”

  “Murder?” I repeated in disbelief. I stared at him.

  “Yeah! Murder! They’ll send us all to reform school—J.T., me, and you, too,” he railed, thumping me on the chest with his finger. “Because don’t you forget, Brady—it was your frickin’ idea in the first place!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  My mother’s cool, gentle hand on my forehead was like an ice cube on a bonfire, I thought. She had no idea the torment that ravaged me inside, even though I was stretched out, quiet and still, on the living-room couch, Tilly on the floor beside me.

  “You don’t look so good, Brady. What’s wrong?”

  “My stomach,” I told her. The last thing I wanted to do was go to a Memorial Day picnic with my parents.

  “Your stomach,” she repeated. “What did you eat for lunch?”

  “Chicken,” I mumbled. “Mrs. DiAngelo left me some chicken.”

  Mom sucked in her breath. “Chicken! I’ll bet that was it. You’ve got to be so careful with chicken.”

  “I’ll be all right,” I argued. “It’s just a stomachache. You and Dad go on ahead.”

  “You’re sure?” she asked with a pained expression. “I made that lemon cake you like—”

  “Mom, please—the last thing I want to do is eat.”

  She dropped her hands in her lap and nodded sympathetically. “Well, can I get you something before I go? A ginger ale? An ice water?”

  I barely moved my head. “Nothing.”

  After my father was done showering, they dragged a cooler acr
oss the floor in the kitchen, dumped in a bunch of ice, and packed up stuff. It took them so long I thought they’d never leave. But finally Dad came to the doorway and said, “We won’t be late. If you feel better and change your mind, call us at Uncle Henry’s.”

  “Okay,” I replied, keeping the back of my hand over my eyes.

  As soon as I heard the door latch, I stood up and went to the kitchen window to watch them drive away. I bit my thumbnail and then I actually cried a little because I did not know what to do.

  I sank back down in a kitchen chair, then leaned forward and held my head in my hands. The right thing was to go to the police and tell them what happened. It was so obvious. But then I started thinking about how much trouble we’d all be in. What if Digger was right about the murder charge? About us all being to blame? Even if I didn’t take part in drilling the holes, it was my idea…

  Reform school would be awful. And it would just kill my parents. They wouldn’t be able to face any of the neighbors again. They might even want to move! But how could they? Dad’s work is here, on the river, in the workshop. We loved it here. This was home!

  I stood up and started to pace the room.

  If I said something, if we all ended up in trouble, then J.T. and Digger might never, ever talk to me again. I knew how much it had hurt the past month, them shutting me out. Imagine what it would be like forever! Not only that, but all the kids at school would think I was a snitch if I told on my two best friends. Even if I got in trouble, too! I would have to go to school someplace else—Mom and Dad would have to get permission for me to go to high school in Kent County or something.

  I stopped walking and slapped a hand on my forehead. Tilly whined. My pacing had confused her. I knelt and scratched behind her ears for a minute, and while I did, I looked into her soulful brown eyes, wishing she could tell me what to do.

  “Come on, let’s go outside,” I told her.

  We walked down to the water, and for a long time I sat cross-legged at the end of the dock while Tilly sniffed around in the marsh. The soles of my shoes were still caked with chicken manure, but I didn’t care. I pulled my Swiss army knife out of my pocket and must have opened and closed it a hundred times. But I couldn’t seem to come up with a decision about what to do with the drill. Turn it in? Keep it hidden? Get rid of it? What?

  Maybe no decision was my decision, I thought.

  I closed up the knife and slid it back in my pocket.

  When Mom and Dad came home at ten-thirty, I met them in the kitchen and told them I was feeling better, even though I wasn’t really.

  “Thank goodness,” Mom said, cutting me a thick slice of leftover lemon cake. “I worried you had food poisoning.”

  I sat at the kitchen table eating the cake with a glass of milk, but I couldn’t finish.

  “Why don’t you get some sleep?” Mom said. “It’s been a long day.”

  Boy, she had no idea just how long it had been.

  “I will,” I said. But after my parents went to bed, I stayed at the kitchen table. A moth had come in the door and was trying to beat itself to death on the light over the kitchen sink. It got to me after a while, although it sure was entertaining Tilly, who sat at attention and monitored its every move. Between the annoying smack and flutter, and the lump of cake that sat in my stomach, I felt I had to do something. So I finally did go to bed. Even though I knew I couldn’t sleep.

  Mrs. DiAngelo returned a couple days later, but she came home alone and she didn’t seem happier. She had those dark pockets under her eyes again, like she hadn’t slept either, and her hair was pulled into a skinny ponytail that didn’t look clean. I knew I couldn’t ask, but I wondered what had happened with her husband. And I wondered if he still blamed her for Ben dying.

  “Did you see the boathouse yet?” I inquired gingerly.

  Mrs. DiAngelo sat at the table in her bathrobe, halfheartedly trying to make a list of chores for me, but she perked up a little when I asked.

  “No, I haven’t,” she replied, looking up at me.

  I found myself watching her, but every time she moved her eyes toward mine, I focused on something else.

  “Show me!” she said, putting down the pencil and grabbing her coffee.

  We walked down the hill to the boathouse together. Over the past two days I had cleaned out the entire place and had eighteen leaf bags tied up ready for the trash, along with two big piles of junk: one about five feet high for the land-fill, and one with some decent stuff including a porch swing and a twin-size bed frame for the Salvation Army.

  “Good job!” she complimented me. “I can’t believe you did all this!”

  “My dad’s got a pickup truck,” I told her. “He said we could come get this stuff one evening when he’s done work and haul it out of here for you.”

  “That would be great.” She really seemed amazed. “You must have worked like a dog, Brady!”

  “It was hot,” I conceded, staring at my shoes.

  “Well, I think a bonus is in order—”

  “No!” I protested.

  She looked at me funny. Maybe because I had practically shouted at her.

  “I’m going to insist,” she countered, folding her arms. “Brady, if you work for me, you get paid.”

  I didn’t want to fight her, and I didn’t want to make a big thing out of it. “Just regular hours,” I agreed weakly. “Please. Nothing extra.”

  Honestly, the money meant nothing to me. And I was beginning to wonder about something else.

  While she was turned away, examining an old peach basket I’d put in the throwaway pile, I sucked in my breath. When she turned around, I warned her. “I don’t think I’ll be able to work for you—”

  “Brady! But why?”

  Her disappointment surprised me, made me sink back. I licked my lips, bit them. I couldn’t bear to add to her problems.

  “Not for a while anyway,” I replied. “See, I’ve, ah…got exams this week, and I need to study—”

  “Oh, exams. Sure, I understand.”

  I had to think fast because that only bought me a few days.

  “You scared me,” Mrs. DiAngelo said. “I’m not sure I’d know what to do here without you.”

  “But that’s just it, see. Because after school’s out, I’m going up to Rhode Island—to visit my cousins.” I said this even though I wasn’t sure Mom had actually made those arrangements.

  “Oh—”

  “It was planned a long time ago,” I added, sounding apologetic.

  “It’s okay, Brady,” she assured me, smiling and patting me on the arm so I wouldn’t feel bad about leaving her. “That’s important, too.”

  I sighed, feeling a little relieved. It gave me two weeks. Exams. A trip to Rhode Island. Two weeks and time away from her. Time away from everybody, I thought. Maybe that’s what I needed.

  Or was I just running away?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Hey there, stranger!” Carl called out.

  I hadn’t seen Carl for a while, but he came that morning to pick me up in the ambulance because it was the last day of school.

  “How’s it going?” he asked as I opened the passenger door. “You been stayin’ out of trouble?”

  I stepped up into the vehicle and slid onto the seat. “Yeah. Final exams will do that for you.” I tried to laugh as I pulled the heavy door shut, but his question wasn’t funny. I was in a heap more trouble than I’d ever been in my whole life.

  Carl started off down the driveway. “How’s the job going for Mrs. DiAngelo?”

  “Okay. I’m not working this week because of exams, but I’ve been mowing the grass and stuff.”

  Carl was kind of quiet for a few seconds, and I hoped he didn’t think it was weird, me working for her after what had happened. I’d been worried about how people would see it, I guess. Especially kids at school. I looked over at him, but I couldn’t see his eyes because of his dark glasss.

  “I’m making really good money,” I pointed ou
t. “Dad even said it was good I had another job this summer because crabs are few and far between.”

  Carl came back to life. “Yeah, I hear the season started out pretty slow.”

  As we rode along, I wondered if I should tell Carl about the drill. I even imagined us pulling up behind the Dumpster at the 7-Eleven for a few minutes so I could fill him in on what had happened. He’d listen, I knew he would. Then I could ask him what he thought I ought to do.

  I bit hard on the inside of my cheek. It still scared me to think of anyone else finding out.

  “How’d you do on those exams?” Carl asked, breaking into my thoughts.

  “All right, I guess.” I was pretty sure I’d done okay, although not as well as I could have. “I had a hard time concentrating,” I said. “I don’t know why.” A lie because I knew darn well what was on my mind. All week long, every time I saw J.T. or Digger, we avoided one another—until the day Digger caught up with me after school when I was cutting across the field by the tennis courts. I’d been heading for the post office, where Mom was picking me up. She did that sometimes, to avoid all the traffic in the parking lot when school let out.

  “Brady, hold up!” Digger had called. “I been lookin’ for you all day.”

  I had waited for him to catch up.

  Nervous and fidgety, Digger had stood there, rubbing his hands together. “Look, I just wondered what you ended up doin’…you know, with that drill.”

  Just like Digger to get right to the point.

  “Nothing,” I’d told him.

  “Nothin’? What do you mean, nothin’?”

  “Just what I said, Digger. I didn’t do anything with it. It’s at home.”

  He had leaned toward me. “What? Are you crazy?”

  “Hidden—it’s hidden, okay?”

  Digger had rolled his eyes dramatically and shook his head. “Geez, you can’t take the chance, Brady! You gotta get rid of it!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I’d mumbled, turning away.