by Jim Guhl
“Yes.”
“For what offense?”
“Stink bomb, sir.”
“In the teachers’ lavatory?”
“Yes.”
“It gives me no pleasure, Mr. Marmotti, to inform you that you will all be punished for these acts in the form of suspension from school. For you it will be a period of two weeks.”
Mark gave no reaction as the principal turned toward Steve.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Hawkins, the inventor of the ridiculous contraption that showered such wrath upon Menasha’s special day.”
Steve tried not to smile but couldn’t help himself.
“You think this is funny, Mr. Hawkins?”
“No.”
“Your father is a dentist, isn’t he, Mr. Hawkins?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m certain that he will be thrilled to learn that his delinquent son has received a one week suspension from school.”
“I’m more concerned about my mom, sir.”
The principal lifted his eyebrows and grinned. Then he directed his attention toward me.
“Well, Mr. Finwick, I am especially troubled to learn of your role in this debacle. These events seem to me especially despairing considering the burden that your family has already endured due to the untimely death of your father.”
“He didn’t just die. He was murdered.” I regretted it as soon as I said the words.
“Yes—of course. And for you, Mr. Finwick, as the pawn in this scheme, I sentence you to three days suspension from school.”
“I wasn’t actually a pawn, sir.”
“Shall I amend your sentence to a week?”
“No.”
“Very well. Three days it is.” He lifted his index finger for emphasis and smiled like the devil himself. “In addition to your suspension you will have to endure the humiliation of knowing that your elderly grandfather is likely to be charged with a crime for which you are ultimately responsible.”
I almost said something that I would have regretted. Luckily my mouth stayed shut.
“Mrs. Abraham is presently calling your parents,” said Mr. Baggert. “They will be picking you up shortly.”
I knew that was true for Steve and his parents. For Mark and me, things weren’t so predictable. By 2:30 Steve was long gone. At five o’clock Mark and I were still sitting there. Things got pretty quiet with all the students gone and members of the faculty walking out the door one by one. The school secretary got up and pulled her coat out of a closet. She looked at us without smiling.
“Just go,” she said. We did and she locked the door behind us.
I told my mom about the suspension and what I had done to earn it. She just sighed, shook her head, and lit up another cigarette.
“Your father would be disappointed,” she said.
Those words hurt even more than a Larry Buskin punch to the ribs. I swallowed hard and could feel the tears coming. Like a jerk, I clomped up the stairs and dumped my school stuff on the floor like none of it was my fault. Then I slumped in the corner and cried.
Our suspensions were scheduled to begin immediately. When I woke up Wednesday morning I didn’t know what else to do so I got out of bed at the usual time. Sally was in the kitchen getting ready for school.
“I hope you’re happy, ruining everything for Mom and me,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think, you little brat? You got suspended from school for that idiotic fountain prank.”
“It was actually a geyser,” I said.
“Whatever! It was a dumb thing to do! There was a picture of it in the paper, you know. That’s how bad it was.”
I almost smiled as I thought about the picture. Somehow, the photographer had captured the perfect shot, with the geyser at its maximum height. The article in the Post-Crescent had even compared it to Old Faithful—a big compliment for sure. Anyhow, I cut out that page and had saved it in the Eskdale bottle on my dresser.
“How does my suspension affect you?” I asked Sally. I knew that I was lighting a fuse but couldn’t resist.
“How does it affect me? You’re clueless, Del. Everybody’s going to be asking me questions about my stupid little brother. ‘Why did he do it? Is your brother going to juvie? Why is your little brother such an idiot?’ That’s what my life is going to be like. And think about what you’ve done to Mom and Grandpa and our family’s reputation. When Dad was alive, people respected us. Now, thanks to you, the Finwicks are the white trash of the neighborhood. Believe me, little brother, it affects me. Maybe you should have climbed into that hole you dug on the football field and just stayed there.”
Her words didn’t really bother me. Sally hardly ever said anything nice about me anyhow, so arguing with her was sort of like a game. She slammed the door and left. I dropped a Pop-Tart in the toaster, stirred up a glass of Tang, and poured milk on a bowl of Froot Loops. Then the phone rang. It was Mark.
“Hey there, you delinquent.”
“Hi, Mark.”
“I really need to get out of my house. You want to meet somewhere?”
“I was thinking about going fishing at the Point.”
“Good. I’ll be there in an hour.”
Mark didn’t bring a fishing pole. For all I knew he didn’t even own one. I dug around under some rocks and found a crayfish for bait so I could rig up my pole for bottom fishing with a bell sinker, a swivel, and a number 4 snelled hook. I speared the critter through the tail and hefted it out in the current. Then it was just a matter of propping the pole upright in the rocks and waiting for it to twitch. When it came to fishing by the Neenah lighthouse, I fancied myself the world’s foremost expert.
“What are you going to catch on a crayfish?” asked Mark.
“Sheepshead or walleye,” I said. “Most likely sheepshead.”
“How did your mother take the news of your suspension?”
“Not very well. How about your dad?” I asked.
“Not good. He smacked me and cussed me out. Then he went downtown and got drunk.”
“He hit you?”
“Nothing serious,” said Mark. He lifted his hair from his face and showed me a purple lump on his forehead.
“Holy crap,” I said. “What’s going to happen when you go home?”
“Why do you think I got out of there?”
“You have to go home eventually.”
“Not necessarily. I’ve got a place south of here.”
“A place?”
“Yeah. Sort of a hideout. When you’re done fishing I’ll show you.”
We fished for an hour. I caught three sheepsheads altogether, stomped the lucky stones from the biggest one, and threw the rest back. The needle was pinned on my curiosity meter and I couldn’t wait to see Mark’s hideout.
“In here,” said Mark. He looked both ways on Bayview before jumping the ditch and walking into a thick swamp of cattails, scrub brush, and willows. I hid Ike and my fishing pole, then jumped the ditch and followed him.
The walking was easy at first, but then it got as thick as the African Congo, and pretty soon we were ankle-deep in freezing-cold muck and black water. It was the darkest, nastiest swamp I had been in. That was saying something too, because I had explored them all, mostly, from the north shore at Plank Road in Menasha to the sloughs behind the golf course to the willows around the Fresh Air Camp. It seemed like I had spent half my life looking for frogs, snapping turtles, and old bottles. Besides, I learned long ago that swamps are the best places to go for avoiding contact with adults.
We were only three minutes in and our shoes were already bricks of black gunk. All of a sudden, things opened up into a small clearing just big enough for what looked to me like a makeshift wigwam.
“My second home,” said Mark.
We crawled through the small opening on a floor made of leaves and a plastic tarp. A green metal cooler sat at one side, a rolled-up sleeping bag on the other. I looked it over once inside. Mark
had bent about a hundred willow branches and joined them all together with knotted twine. Each branch made an upside-down U-shape so that, overall, the hideout was a miniature dome. In between the sticks, a sheet of plastic poked out here and there—Mark’s attempt at a waterproof roof, I figured.
“This is cool,” I said.
“Thanks.” Mark nodded. He smiled with his eyes. I could tell he was proud of the place, not so much because he built it himself, which he did, but because he had figured out a way to escape his father.
“Is it waterproof?”
“Mostly,” he shrugged. “You want something to drink?”
“What’ve you got?”
“Pop and beer.”
“You’ve got beer?”
Mark shrugged. “It’s easy to steal from my dad. You want one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you drank beer before?”
“A couple times,” I said, and it was true. I had taken a few sips from Grandpa Asa but had never drank a whole one.
Mark moved a hunk of driftwood and lifted the lid on a metal box buried in a hole in the ground. “This is where I keep the good stuff,” he said. He pulled out two cans of Old Style and handed one to me. We pulled the tabs and tossed them out the door.
“Here’s to the volcano,” said Mark.
“Here’s to the geyser,” I said, and we clanked beer cans together.
Mark took a long, large gulp. I took a sip and tried not to make a face.
“You can use this place if you need it,” said Mark.
“Thanks.” My mind was on the beer and how the heck I was going to drink it all. Mark took another long swallow from his can.
“The mosquitoes are bad in the summer,” he said. “But this time of year, it’s perfect.”
I nodded and attempted another quarter-ounce sip without gagging.
“There’s a muskrat trapper who pokes his nose back here sometimes, but I don’t bother him and he doesn’t bother me.”
I nodded and coughed.
“I’ll be staying here for a few nights,” said Mark. “Just until my dad gets back on an even keel. After that I’ll just use it for emergencies.”
“Emergencies?”
“Yeah, he gets mad for no reason sometimes.”
I nodded.
“When is your grandpa going to check with the cops about your dad’s murder investigation?”
I shrugged. “Today maybe.”
“Good.” Mark took another drink.
I forced down a sip and nodded.
“Do you know where we could get a metal detector, Delmar?”
“Mr. Johnson has one,” I said. “He looks for coins at Riverside Park sometimes.”
“Can you borrow it?”
“Probably.”
“See if you can get it. We need to go back to the crime scene and do some more snooping around.” Mark inverted the beer can over his open mouth and emptied it. “How are you doing with that beer?”
“I’m not that thirsty.”
“That’s okay, Delmar. Just dump it in the swamp if you don’t want it. It’s no good for you anyhow. My dad’s proof of that.”
“Okay.” I reached outside the wigwam door and poured my beer into the black muck of the swamp.
After leaving Mark’s hideout, we walked all the way through town to Emerald Gardens to see Grandpa Asa. It was barely past noon, but the man with the spider tattoo sat on his throne of concrete steps working on a six-pack.
“The cops were here,” he said. “They talked to your grandpa. You know anything about that?”
“No,” I said.
Mark and I walked through the dark, stinky hallway and knocked on 118.
“Door’s open!”
We walked into the mess that looked and smelled even worse than usual. I kept an eye on Mark for his reaction, but he didn’t even flinch.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I said.
“Damn cops are onto me,” said Asa.
“I know. We all got suspended. That’s why we’re not in school.”
“Who squealed?”
“Steve.”
“I figured he was the weak link. It was worth it though.”
“What did the police say?” I asked.
“They told me to appear before a judge tomorrow morning. If they throw me in jail for a few weeks don’t worry about it. Can’t be any worse than sitting around this dump.”
“Did you get a chance to check on the murder investigation?” asked Mark.
“Made a few phone calls,” said Grandpa Asa. “On my first call, they connected me to somebody who claimed to be a detective. He said he was in charge of the investigation and had about as much energy as a road-killed deer. Sounded like he hadn’t done a thing since finishing up at the crime scene the day after the murder.”
“Did they find any evidence?” asked Mark.
“Hell no! No fingerprints, no bullets, no shell casings, no witnesses. I asked him if he had any suspects and he said they were investigating someone. I don’t believe him.”
“What about the autopsy report?” asked Mark.
“I didn’t get that far yet.” Grandpa looked out the window, then back at me and Mark. “You boys want ice cream?”
18
By the time I got home, I was hungry again. As I parked my bike in the garage, the smells of something good drifted out of the kitchen through the screen door and found my nostrils. Was Sally cooking supper? It had to be her because I knew for sure that it wasn’t Mom.
I walked inside and found Mom sitting between two women at the kitchen table like a corn stalk between two boulders. Another lady was standing at the stove. They were the same three women who had helped after Dad’s funeral. The two big ones, Mrs. Samuelson and Mrs. Weiden, wore flowered dresses with aprons and filled up their chairs completely. The skinny one, Mrs. Stevens, resembled a length of twine as her hips sort of shimmied like a kid with a Hula-Hoop while she stirred a big kettle of brown stuff and another steaming pot of something else at the same time. A loaf of homemade bread cooled in a basket on the counter. Holy smokes! I thought . . . The church ladies! They came!
“Hello, Del,” said the biggest one. Her puffy, pink face glowed like the full moon and she had a voice like Popeye the Sailor Man.
“Hi, Mrs. Samuelson.” I couldn’t keep from smiling. The cavalry had arrived.
“We just stopped to say hello to Dorothy. Mrs. Weiden and Mrs. Stevens suggested that we bring a few things for supper. Do you like chili and corn?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Stevens lowered her gaze and spotted my filthy clothes.
“You better get out of those pants,” she said. “Kick your shoes off and run upstairs. Tell your sister to come down while you’re at it. Supper’s ready in five minutes.”
I looked at my mom and noticed that she wasn’t wearing her usual pajamas. I imagined her trying to chase away the church ladies but giving up and changing clothes after losing the battle. Mom gave me the signal with her eyes to do as I was told and go upstairs.
“I’ll be right back!” I practically shouted the words. Mom gave me a suspicious look and I realized that I should have dialed back the enthusiasm.
I gulped the food like a half-starved lion—three helpings of chili, a full scoop of corn, and about half of the loaf of bread. Even Sally dove into the delicious meal, although she kept looking at me like I was guilty of some new crime. Mom did okay, nibbling here and there and managing to eat a bowl of chili. Through it all though, she kept glancing at her pack of cigarettes on the counter like it held the golden ticket to Wonka’s chocolate factory.
“Your mother has agreed to help us with the church rummage sale on Friday,” said Mrs. Samuelson, with a smile as big as the backyard. “Isn’t that right, Dorothy?”
“Yes.” Mom looked like a mouse in the shadow of a great horned owl.
“It’ll be fun,” said Mrs. Samuelson. “You’ll see.” She gave Mom a playful tap on the shoulder th
at nearly knocked her out of the chair.
Mom pretended to smile, then glanced at me again. It was a look that said, I’ll get you for this.
“Dorothy’s going to help us with the bake sale too, isn’t that right, dear?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say you would bring, Dorothy?”
“Peanut butter cookies.”
“Goodness,” said Mrs. Samuelson. “I can hardly wait to taste them.”
I chewed and listened and glanced around the table. Sally had her eyes aimed at me like laser beams. You better not rope me into this, they seemed to say. I quickly shifted my eyes back to Mrs. Samuelson.
When the meal was done, after ice cream and coffee, Mom finally managed to shepherd the church ladies to the front door. I tried hard not to grin, but on the inside I felt like the shah of Iran.
“We’ll see you in a few days, Dorothy,” Mrs. Samuelson said.
“Yes, of course,” said my mom. “Thank you for visiting.”
“It was our pleasure.” She hugged her like a wrestling bear. Mrs. Weiden gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze, and Mrs. Stevens simply waved her spatula on the way out.
The door was almost shut when Mrs. Samuelson pushed it back open.
“I almost forgot the most important thing of all,” she said. Her eyes landed on me. “Good news for you, Del. I’ve spoken with Pastor Olson and together we’re going to help you get caught up in confirmation class. We’ll see you this Saturday at nine o’clock.”
The chili and corn took a turn in my stomach. What had just happened? None of this was supposed to be about me. My mom looked me over with a gotcha smile that was rooted in a mixture of satisfaction and revenge. Mrs. Samuelson smiled and pulled the door shut with a clunk. Mom made a dash for her cigarettes.
The next morning, Mom and I picked up Grandpa Asa and drove him to the courthouse in Oshkosh for his appearance before the judge.
“Be polite and respectful, Dad,” said my mom to Grandpa. “Maybe they’ll go easy on you.”
He just gazed out the window as the choppy, gray waters of Lake Winnebago passed by. True to his nature, Grandpa Asa was neither polite nor respectful. He refused to admit anything and shot his mouth off to the judge every chance he got. It was almost like he wanted to go to jail.
