Middle Falls Time Travel Series (Book 3): The Death and Life of Dominick Davidner
Page 3
“Sure, Mom,” Dominick said, throwing the covers back and setting his feet on the floor. “I’ve got her.”
“Thanks, sweetie. She’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, having her Cheerios. Don’t lay back down, now,” she said, hurrying out the bedroom door. “I’m already late for work.”
Dominick stood up on tiptoes and watched Sam sleeping. “You were already making allowances for him, weren’t you, Mom?”
At 10:30 Sam finally wandered into the living room, hair askew, dressed only in his Fruit of the Looms.
“Mom asked me to watch Connie while you got your beauty sleep. She knew you needed it more than I did.”
Sam brushed past him without acknowledging his presence, poured himself a bowl of cereal, and sat with his back to the living room to eat.
“I’m gonna go outside. Mom said I could leave as soon as you were awake.”
Without looking, Sam raised his hand over his head and waved, middle finger extended.
Dominick kneeled down, looked Connie in the eye. “Try not to break anything, okay, Squig?”
“’K, Bubby.”
Dominick kissed the top of her head. “You sure were a cute toddler.”
He went outside into the already-hot August morning.
Dominick walked around his yard. It wasn’t much—a falling down picket fence, patchy brown grass, and a one-car garage behind the house.
Typical for Emeryville in the sixties, I guess. You’d never know this place would be a high-tech haven in another thirty years. In the sixties, it was meat packing plants, manufacturing, and blue-collar jobs. Pixar isn’t even a glimmer in anyone’s eye yet. It was an okay place to grow up, I guess, but it always felt like we had just missed out on living somewhere cool. A few miles west, Haight-Ashbury and the counterculture will be kicking off. A few miles north, it’s Berkley, and the University. Of course, a few miles more to the south, it’s Oakland, so it could be worse.
Dominick walked to the small garage and pushed the side door open. It was dark inside, but the light switch turned on a single bare bulb, dangling from a cord. The heavy air smelled of dirt, oil, and gasoline, mixed together into a heady potpourri.
Almost all the interior space of the garage was taken up by a black 1942 Dodge Town sedan. Dominick smiled to himself. Dad said he was fixing up this old Dodge for twenty years. I think eventually, he finally admitted he was never going to do anything with it, and sold it, so someone else could dream about fixing it up.
Dominick stood back and looked at the Dodge appraisingly. It had no tires, and sat on four concrete blocks. The windshield was cracked, and a thick coat of grime covered the whole vehicle. He pushed his nose against the dusty driver’s door window and looked inside. It was slightly better inside than out. The upholstery had a few tears, but everything else looked worn but functional.
I’ll bet we could get it up and running in a few weekends, if we tried. I’m a better than average mechanic, and Dad was always kind of a genius with holding stuff together with chewing gum and bailing twine.
He walked outside, squinting into the bright sunshine and saw two boys about his age walking through the gate. One was a black boy, tall and thin with a good start on an afro. The other was short and slight, with straight dark hair. Oh, crap. They look familiar. I know them, I know them.
“Hey, Dom!” the young black boy said.
What’s his name? In a flash of insight, it snapped into Dominick’s brain.
“Hey, Wardell, what’s up?”
Wardell and ... and ... Vinny! Yes, Vinny! My two best friends when we lived here. I remember that we spent a lot of time together, but what did we actually do all day?
“Wanna head down to the bakery?” Vinny asked. “It’s Wednesday, so Mr. Miller might be there by himself. Mrs. Miller is so tight she squeaks when she walks, but he’s nice. He might flip us a cookie or some doughnut holes.”
“Sure,” Dominick said. I have no idea what he’s talking about or where the bakery is, but yeah, sure, let’s go. Is this my life, then? Hanging out with little kids all the time? I might go a little crazy. Still, it would be cool to see what the town looked like back then. Er, now. Whatever.
The three boys turned right out of the yard and followed a meandering path along a cracked sidewalk. Everything seemed to be of interest to them—a weird bug crawling up a fence, a stray dog, a hubcap jammed into the V of a tree.
I guess this is what we did.
It took them forty-five minutes to walk ten blocks. Vinny had picked up a stick and rattled it along the picket fences as they passed, making a satisfying thunk-thunk-thunk sound. Wardell and Vinny talked the whole time and didn’t appear to notice that Dominick wasn’t joining in.
I feel lost. They obviously know me, and trust me, but I can barely place them. This whole situation would almost be easier if nobody knew who I was.
They had left the neighborhood of small houses behind, and approached the edge of the business district, when they saw three other boys approach from the opposite direction.
“Oh, shit,” Wardell said. “Billy Stitts. I hate that guy.”
Wardell, Vinny, and Dominick moved closer to the brick wall of the dry cleaners they were passing by, trying to blend in and give most of the sidewalk to Billy and the other two boys. Instead of passing by, though, the three older boys stopped.
“Hey, look who it is, moron number one, two, and three,” Billy Stitts said, cracking himself up.
The two other boys, Brian Halloran and Dick Woods, laughed too. “You’re funny, Billy,” Brian said.
Vinny tried to push by and get around the corner to freedom, but Dick, who was built like a future offensive lineman, blocked his path. The three older boys had been wandering aimlessly, but had found three bugs they could torture with a magnifying glass.
“Wait a minute,” Billy said, zeroing in on Dominick. “I know you. You’re Sam Davidner’s little brother, aren’t you?”
Dominick gazed back at Billy. “Yep.”
“I hate that prick. Last week, he called my sister a whore.”
Way to go, Sam. Ever the diplomat.
“I want to give your brother a message from me.” Quick as a shot, Billy’s fist shot out and connected with the soft flesh between Dominick’s shoulder and collarbone.
“Ow!” Dominick said, and without thinking, pushed back against the bigger boy, who stumbled backwards. Billy tripped over the curb and nearly fell, but caught his balance at the last minute.
“Uh oh,” Wardell said, under his breath.
Billy smiled, a mean, petty smile that showed small, yellow teeth. He lifted his right fist above his shoulder like he was about to take off in flight, and bull rushed Dominick.
Dominick stood his ground until the last minute, then shifted his weight to the left, caught Billy’s right wrist with his right hand and used it to catapult Billy toward the brick wall. As Billy flew past, Dominick thrust his left hand out, lightning-quick, and pushed hard against Billy’s elbow. Three sounds followed in rapid succession: the snap of Billy’s elbow as it broke, the pop of his shoulder as it dislocated, and the thud of his face as it slammed into the brick wall.
Snap, crackle, splat.
Thank you, Judo Night at the “Y.”
The four other boys stood looking down at Billy with mouths agape.
A banshee wail came from Billy, crumpled on the sidewalk, writhing in pain, trying to find a non-existent way to hold his right arm that didn’t result in waves of agony.
“Oh, man,” Wardell said. “You crushed him.”
“I didn’t mean to. I didn’t have time to think about it. It just happened.”
Mr. Chen, who owned the dry cleaners, pushed open the door to his shop to see what the screaming was all about. “Hey, you kids! What are you doing? You are scaring off my customers! Get away!”
Dick Wood pointed down at Billy, then at Dominick. “I think he killed him!”
Billy’s high-pitched scream continued non-stop.
“I think I need to wait here, explain what happened.”
“Like hell you do,” Vinny said, grabbing Dominick by the arm and pulling him in the direction they had come. “Let’s go!”
The three boys ran, Wardell in the lead, Vinny dragging Dominick by the arm.
“Holy crap, Dom! Where did you learn how to do that?” Wardell yelled over his shoulder as he ran.
“I saw somebody do that on TV,” Dominick answered.
“I’m watching the wrong shows!”
Chapter Six
Wardell and Vinny walked with Dominick back to his house. They made the trip in just a few minutes this time—no time for bugs or hubcaps after what they had just seen. At the gate to Dominick’s house, the other boys split off for their own houses for lunch, still buzzing about the destruction of Billy Stitts. The legend, only minutes old, was already growing.
Dominick walked into the house. Sam was laying on the couch, watching a movie. From the ruckus he heard, Dominick guessed that Connie was jumping on the bed in her room.
Should I tell Sam that his big mouth just about got me beat up? Or, that I might be in trouble for breaking Billy’s arm? Probably not. Nothing to be gained.
Dominick sat down in his father’s chair and tried to focus on the movie.
It was a long afternoon. Dominick tried to eat something, but his stomach was upset. The more time that passed since his confrontation with Billy, the worse he felt about it.
I should have just let him punch me. What would have been the worst thing to happen? Maybe I get a black eye or a bloody nose? So what?
Five o’clock brought a replay of the day before. Joe rolled into the driveway first, carried his lunchbox in and swept up Connie in a hug, then grabbed a Budweiser and sat down in his chair. A few minutes later, Laura came in, changed out of her work clothes, and started bustling around the kitchen making dinner.
Dominick sat on the couch, holding an Incredible Hulk comic book in front of him, and stewing. What’s best to do? Just hunker down and hope the whole thing passes? Broach the subject now? If so, with whom? Mom? Dad?
They had just sat down to a dinner of what his mother called hamburger hash—crumbled hamburger mixed with boiled potatoes and onion—when there was a knock on the front door.
All conversation, scraping of silverware against plates, Connie’s non-stop chatter, even chewing, stopped. A knock on the door during a Davidner dinner was a rare event.
Joe raised his hand, said, “Don’t everyone get up at once. I’ll get it.”
Dominick could hear his father opening the front door, and muffled conversation, but he couldn’t hear anything more than that. After just a few moments, he heard his father say, “Laura, I think you need to come here.”
Laura dabbed at her mouth with a paper towel, then disappeared around the corner. Sam continued to shovel hamburger hash in, oblivious to any drama that might be about to play out. Connie, on the other hand, seemed very interested in where everyone had gone.
“Where Mama, Bubby?”
“She’ll be right back. Here, eat some of this potato,” Dominick said, prodding a piece with his fork. “It’s cool now.”
Dominick’s stomach did flip flops. I know this is about me. Who is it, the cops? Did I make this whole trip back here just to end up in Juvenile Detention?
A moment later, Laura came back into the kitchen. She looked as though she might be seeing her youngest son for the first time. She wiped bits of potato and hamburger off Connie’s face and picked her up, settling her on her hip. She turned to face Dominick.
She stared at him for a long moment before she said, “Billy Stitts’ father is here. He’s on his way home from the hospital. He says you broke Billy’s arm today.”
That was enough to catch Sam’s attention. “No way! That’s awesome,” Sam said with a chortle.
Laura looked sharply at Sam. “No, Sam, it’s not awesome. They think he might have done permanent damage to his arm. It’s not awesome at all. Finish your dinner. Dominick, come with me.”
Dominick nodded miserably and followed his mother into the living room. His father was standing next to a man Dominick had never seen before. Sitting on the Naugahyde couch, looking even worse than Dominick felt, was Billy Stitts. His right arm was in a cast from his hand all the way to his shoulder. The cast was bent at a forty-five degree angle at the elbow, so it could fit in the sling he wore. He didn’t have black eyes yet, but the redness, puffiness, and butterfly bandage across his nose spoke of their imminent arrival.
Ned Stitts was a big man, taller than Joe, and outweighed him by forty pounds. He was dressed in jeans, work boots, and a well-worn chambray work shirt rolled up at the sleeves. The clothes and boots had both seen better days, as was true of Ned himself. He eyed Dominick suspiciously, turned to Joe and said, “No, it can’t be this one. Don’t you have another son?”
Joe nodded and over his shoulder, shouted, “Sam!”
A scene like this was one of the few things that could draw Sam away from an unfinished plate of food. He came around the corner, still chewing. “Yeah?”
Mr. Stitts looked appraisingly at Sam, then nodded, as though he found him more acceptable. He nodded his head at Sam and said, “It’s gotta be that one, right, Bill? The big one?”
Billy looked away, staring at the painting of Jesus. He shook his head slightly.
“Really? The scrawny one? What the hell, son?”
Billy continued to look anywhere other than his father.
“Dominick,” Joe said, “Mr. Stitts says that you did all this to his son. You want to tell me what happened?”
I really wish now that I’d told you this earlier.
Dominick sucked in a deep breath and said, “Wardell, Vinny and I were walking around downtown this morning. We ran into Billy and two of his friends. Billy said that Sam had called his sister a whore last week –“
“Samuel!” Laura said, more upset at the use of that word in her house than she had been by the battered boy on her couch.
Sam flushed and tried to melt back into the kitchen.
“I’ll deal with you next, young man. Dominick, I never want to hear that word in my house again, understood?”
Dominick nodded. “Anyway, Billy said that he wanted me to take a message back to Sam. Then he punched me. It hurt, and it kind of made me mad, so I pushed him away. He was off balance, and he almost fell down. Then, I think he got mad, because he ran at me. I jumped out of the way, and he ran into the wall.”
Okay, not one hundred percent truthful, but close enough to give me plausible deniability, I hope.
Mr. Stitts waved a piece of paper in front of him. “What are you going to do about this, Davidner? The hospital bill came to over $350!”
Welcome to 1968. I can only imagine what that would cost in 1999.
Joe took the paper and looked it over. He was silent for a long minute before he said, “You’re in the meat packing union, so you’ve got insurance through them, right?”
Stitts nodded.
Joe continued, “This is August. You’ve got a wife and three boys, I’m willing to bet you’ve met your deductible already, haven’t you?”
Again, Stitts nodded.
“So, that covers 80% of it. That leaves, what, Laura?”
“Seventy dollars.”
“Right, seventy dollars. It sounds to me like both our kids made a mistake, and maybe even your kid started it. Just because yours the worst of it doesn’t give us any obligation—“
“Now wait a minute—“
Joe held his hand up. “But, we’ll still do the right thing. Laura, go get the checkbook and write Mr. Stitts here a check for thirty-five dollars. I think that’s more than fair.”
Dominick watched Stitts face work. After a few seconds, he said, “Fine.”
I think Dad missed his calling. He should have been a union rep with those kind of skills.
; “Good, then. That’s settled. Do you want a beer?”
“The sun hasn’t risen on the day Ned Stitts turns down a beer.”
“Good enough.” Joe went into the kitchen.
For a moment, it was just Dominick and father and son Stitts. Ned narrowed his eyes, obviously unable to figure out how this little wisp of a boy had beaten his beefy son badly enough to send him to the hospital. “So, you boys are all square now, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Dominick said.
“Billy?”
Billy looked like he would rather be anywhere else than sitting on the couch of the smaller boy who broke his arm. Still, he managed a nod.
“Not good enough, son. I need to hear you say it.”
“We’re square.”
“If I hear of you starting something with either of the Davidner boys, I’ll break your other arm myself.”
Joe came back into the living room and handed the check and a Budweiser to Ned.
Ned tucked the check into his shirt pocket, cracked the beer and made a small salute with it before draining a quarter of it in one long gulp. He wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt and said, “Well, we’ve gotta take off. The old lady’s out in the car.”
Dominick nearly laughed at the absurdity of that image—Ned and Billy Stitts inside the house, Ned with a beer in his hand, while Mrs. Stitts sat quietly in the car—but he managed to squelch it in time.
He tried to slip quietly back to his bedroom, but Joe caught his eye, shook his head, and said, “Come here, Dominick.”
Joe sat in his chair, grabbed Dominick by the arms and stood him straight in front of him. This would not be a “sit in Dad’s lap” conversation.
“This is a serious, Dominick. You really hurt that boy.”
Dominick nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“You’ve been awfully different the last few days. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s going to stop. I guess I shouldn’t have let you off so easy when you bloodied Sam’s nose. This is what comes from sparing the rod.”
You talk tough, Dad, but I don’t remember you ever whipping us, no matter how much we deserved it.
“How much is your allowance?”