The Summer of Winters

by Mark Allan Gunnells

  “Hey, did you know there’s this neat graveyard not too far from here?” I said, pushing back on the pedals to slow my bike. “Has all kinds of little roads running through it, great for bike riding.”

  “We’ll explore the graveyard some other time. I wanna go on the merry-go-round.”

  With that, Paige rose up off her banana seat and really pumped her pedals, zipping across the parking lot before skidding to a stop by the bicycle rack. She pulled a small chain from her wicker basket and secured her bike to the rack. I didn’t have a chain, so I just parked my bike next to hers and trusted that no one would want to snatch the Purple People Eater when my back was turned.

  “Come on,” she said, taking my hand and dragging me toward the merry-go-round. It was a round, rusted affair, bright red with yellow handrails spaced around the circumference at regular intervals. The thing was nearly filled to capacity, with a handful of kids standing on the ground around it getting ready to push.

  Paige jumped up on the merry-go-round, squeezing herself into the group, then pointed to the nearest handrail. “Help push.”

  The few times I had played on the merry-go-round, I never wanted to be one of the kids pushing. It scared me, and sometimes once the merry-go-round picked up momentum I wasn’t able to jump on and enjoy the ride; once the centrifugal force had knocked me flat on the ground where I cut open my chin on a rock. All the kids on the merry-go-round had laughed, even some of the nearby parents.

  However, as happened at the Central jungle-gym, I found myself doing what Paige told me. I hadn’t even been hanging out with her an hour yet, and already I was letting her talk me into things I would normally never do. Maybe this was the peer pressure I was always hearing so much about. Next thing you knew, she’d be getting me to smoke cigarettes and jump off bridges.

  When the other kids standing around the merry-go-round started to push, I grabbed hold of the yellow handrail in front of me and did my part. Started out at a trot that turned into a jog, but then the thing picked up so much speed that I really had to hoof it to keep up. I noticed the other pushers jumping up onto the merry-go-round, their whoops of joy trailing behind them. I wanted to jump, but I was too frightened to make the leap. And yet I wasn’t going to be able to keep pace with the thing much longer. Already my feet were started to skid along the ground, and I just knew I was about to eat dirt again…but then I felt a hand grip my forearm and pull.

  Paige yanked me up and I collapsed against her, actually putting my arms around her to steady myself. She laughed in my ear, which made me start laughing. The ride was dizzying, the world passing before my eyes in a kaleidoscopic blur of color. I felt vaguely nauseated, but it wasn’t a bad feeling. I had to keep a finger on my glasses so they didn’t fly off my face. The ride couldn’t have lasted more than a couple of minutes, but it seemed longer. When the merry-go-round finally slowed and came to a stop, Paige and I stared at one another for a second then without a word we both jumped off and took up positions to push.

  We rode three more times then moved on to the slide. She got me to go down on my stomach, which I’d never tried before, but it was exhilarating, almost like I was flying. Yes, that was me, Superman, transplanted from Metropolis to Gaffney. Also transplanted from a barrel-chested muscleman to a gawky pimply little kid.

  We were waiting in line for the swings when I glanced toward the sandbox, and that was when all my good feelings seemed to dry up and blow away on a foul wind.

  Standing with a group of his friends, facing away from me, was Dennis Winters. He was by far the meanest kid at Central Elementary, came from a bad family I’d heard my mother say and was certainly carrying on the tradition. He’d once cornered me in the boy’s room before lunch and demanded my lunch money. When I hesitated he’d grabbed my crotch and squeezed so hard I felt he was going to rip my thing right off. I’d ended up in a heap on the floor while he rifled through my pockets until he found the crumpled dollar my mom had sent me to school with.

  When Mrs. Childers had asked me why I wasn’t eating, I said I must have dropped my lunch money on the way to school. She’d looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust, then she bought my lunch for me. I didn’t tell her what Dennis had done for fear of what else he might do if I tattled.

  And I made it a habit to avoid him if at all possible. So when I saw him standing by the sandbox, his kid sister Sarah standing beside him tugging on his shirt, I knew I had to get out of there.

  “I gotta get home,” I said.

  Paige turned to me. “What? Now? We haven’t gone on the swings yet.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I just remembered something I told my Mom I’d do today.” I hoped Paige wouldn’t ask me what that something was because I hadn’t thought that through, and at the moment my brain seemed incapable of coherent thought.

  But all Paige said was, “Okay, I’ll come with you.”

  “You can stay if you want.”

  “Nah, I should get back myself. It’s probably around lunchtime.”

  Neither one of us had a watch, so I wasn’t entirely sure what time it was, but the grumbling in my stomach suggested she was right.

  As we headed back for our bikes, I glanced once more at Dennis, hoping he hadn’t spotted me. He seemed sufficiently distracted by his sister, who was pestering him about something. He put a beefy hand on her chest and shoved her hard; she landed on her backside and started crying loud enough to get the attention of most of the people in the park.

  We didn’t talk much on the ride back to Jefferies street, but that was probably my fault. I was brooding about how much of a coward I was. It was like in that Kenny Rogers song Mom loved so much, “Coward of the County.” I was yella. I remember my father telling me once, when he was trying to “teach me to be a man,” that a person had to stand up to his bullies. That was all good and well for my father to say, but I had a feeling he’d never had his nuts crushed. That he’d never been left in a weeping pile with his pockets turned out.

  As we stopped in front of my house, Paige said, “I had a really nice time. Maybe tomorrow you could show me that graveyard you were talking about, if you wanna.”

  I was stunned. She’d hung out with me once, which could have been considered just an act of charity, but she actually wanted to hang out with me again? I nodded my head.

  Paige was about to say something more when the front door of her house opened and a teenaged boy stepped out wearing a pair of shorts and no shirt, his chest slicked with sweat. I guessed that the Moore house, like ours, didn’t have air conditioning. The boy’s hair was blond and curly, like Paige’s, but cut short, almost like a swim cap of curls. I figured he must be Paige’s brother.

  “Paige,” the boy said, “where have you been? You said you’d only be gone about an hour.”

  “Sorry, lost track of time.”

  “Well, Dad wants your room unpacked. I’m already done with mine, so if you get your butt in here now I’ll help you.”

  Paige started for her house then paused. “Oh, Mike, this is my brother Brody. Brody, this is Mike. He lives next door.”

  Brody nodded in my direction, and I opened my mouth to say hello, but all that came out was a croak that I was sure sounded like a belch.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mike,” Paige said as she wheeled her bike into her yard. “Same time?”

  “Okay, cool.”

  Paige and her brother went inside, and I stood where I was for a moment, just staring at the closed door. I felt funny, kind of disconnected as if I wasn’t really in my body at all. It was not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

  Chapter Three

  Oakland Cemetery was on College Drive, only a few blocks from Limestone College. It wasn’t as big as Frederick Memorial Gardens out on Highway 11, but I liked it better for two reasons. First, it was within bike-riding distance of my house. Second, it had actual tombstones and monuments as opposed to the flat-to-the-ground plaques at Frederick Memorial. I just felt that if you were going to be laid to
rest forever, you should at least leave behind something noticeable to mark that you were here.

  That Friday morning, Paige and I rode into the cemetery under the wrought iron sign arced over the entrance. We passed the Hamrick mausoleum on our left and crested a small hill, the oaks that gave the cemetery its name towering above us, branches reaching out like arms to provide ample shade.

  I took her to my favorite spot in the graveyard, by the angel statue that stood sentry over the Settlemyer plot. We leaned our bikes against a large tombstone that was almost as tall as we were and then stretched out on the grass in front of the angel. I had come to think of the Settlemyer’s stone guardian as Beatrice, though I wasn’t sure why, and I didn’t share that tidbit with Paige lest she think I was a complete loon.

  There were dandelions growing rampant on the ground, and Paige started plucking them up by the handfuls, blowing on them and sending that white dandelion fluff into the air like a cloud. She then began braiding the denuded stems together in a complicated chain.

  “It’s peaceful here,” she said.

  “Yeah, that’s why I like it. My mom’s friend Julie once told me it was morbid, me spending so much time in a graveyard.”

  “I don’t think it’s morbid. Now if you were coming here to dig up corpses and perform voodoo rituals, it might be morbid, but I don’t know of a better place to just come and think. I mean, nobody that lives here is likely to bother you much.”

  I smiled at her, a smile full of gratitude. She really seemed to get it.

  Paige stretched out on her back, staring up at the sky. Her curls fanned around her face like rays beaming off the sun. She tilted her head and took in the statue above her. “There’s something weird about that angel.”

  Beatrice stood with her head bowed and eyes closed, as if deep in prayer (although why an angel needed to pray when she was living with God already, I didn’t know), only her hands weren’t clasped before her. One arm was held stiff at her side while the other was raised, the palm facing down. I had often pondered the meaning of this posture.

  “I’ve always thought maybe she was saying ‘You have to be this tall to get into heaven,’” I said with a laugh meant to indicate I knew just how silly I was being and wasn’t serious.

  To my relief, Paige laughed along with me. “Well, I don’t think we’re tall enough yet.”

  “No, guess we better not die for a while.”

  “Either that or get our hands on some long pants and a pair of stilts.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Paige sat up, took the chain of dandelion stems she’d made and tossed it to me. “There, don’t never say I didn’t give you nothing. It’s a necklace.”

  I tried to put it on but it was much too small and just rested on the crown of my head.

  “Okay, so maybe I made you a crown,” she said with a giggle.

  “What does that make me, the King of the Graveyard?”

  “Now that I’m sure your mom’s friend would think is morbid. Although at least the crown isn’t made from bones.”

  We laughed for a while, then she made a crown for herself, and we proclaimed ourselves King and Queen of Oakland Cemetery. Paige tried to teach me how to string together the stems, but it was hopeless. My fingers were not nimble or clever enough. We were going to place my mangled attempt atop the angel’s head, but she was too tall for us. Showing incredible aim, Paige was able to toss the sloppy wreath over Beatrice’s raised hand where it hung there like an oversized bracelet.

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “Well, I have Brody to thank for that. We play this game where we throw wadded up paper at the trashcan from across the room. I had to get good to beat him.”

  “Do you have any other brothers and sisters besides him?”

  “Nope, just me and Brody. How about you?”

  “I got a kid brother named Ray.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Seven.”

  “You play with him much.”

  I groaned. “As little as possible. He’s a real pest.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, it’s just that…I don’t know, Brody always makes time to play with me, and he’s sixteen.”

  “Well, maybe you’re not as big a pest as Ray is,” I said with a smile.

  Which she returned. “Maybe not.”

  She glanced toward two nearby mausoleums and pointed. “Does that work?”

  I followed her finger and saw she was indicating a water spigot that sprouted out of the ground like some kind of copper weed. “I think so. They got ’em all over the place. Why?”

  “Because I’m thirsting to death.”

  She sprinted over to the water spigot, and I followed. She turned the handle and water came gushing out in a torrent. She cupped her hands under the spray, but I reached out to stop her. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Look at where we are.”

  Paige glanced around. “A graveyard. So what?”

  “So…there are dead people in the ground, that’s what. You’re gonna drink water that comes up from the ground of a graveyard?”

  Paige giggled. “You know the water doesn’t come directly from the ground, right? It’s carried through pipes from the city water supply, the same as the water that comes to your house.”

  I felt a blush creeping into my cheeks, and I was sure my face was blazing red. I knew Paige was right, but it still just felt…wrong somehow. “Yeah, but…I mean, the same pipes that take water to your kitchen sink take it to your commode, and you don’t drink out of there, do you?”

  “Only when I’m thirsty for lemonade,” she said, then brought her cupped hands overflowing with water to her lips, slurping noisily.

  “Eww, that’s gross,” I said, but I was laughing. I didn’t know girls made crude jokes like that. I was impressed.

  She cupped her hands under the spigot again then held them out toward me, water dribbling to the ground like a lazy waterfall. “Want some?”

  I hesitated for a few seconds then leaned over and drank from her hands. The water was cold and surprisingly sweet. I gulped it down.

  After turning off the spigot and wiping her hands on the back of her shorts, Paige started wandering further into the cemetery. “You got any family buried here?”

  I shook my head. “My grandpa Guthrie died before I was born, but he’s buried somewhere in Anderson.”

  “All my grandparents are alive, but my dad’s folks are back in Columbia and my mother’s up in Virginia where she’s from. I’ve only met them once. They have a little money but have kinda disowned my mom for marrying beneath her.”

  “Beneath her?”

  “That’s what they say. Because my dad didn’t have no money.”

  I shrugged. “Guess you can’t help who you fall in love with.”

  “Nope, it’s like—Whoa, look at that.”

  We’d come to the midway point of the cemetery, the place where the land suddenly dropped away in a steep hill, even steeper than the one at my house. It wasn’t a perfectly vertical drop, but standing where we were, it looked close enough.

  “I bet you can really haul ass down this hill on a bike,” she said.

  “Yeah, but getting back up it is a real pain.”

  “Looks perfect for sledding when it snows. You got a sled?”

  I shook my head, not wanting to admit that Ray and I had been sledding down this hill before, but on a round metal trashcan lid.

  Paige turned to me with a certain smile I was already starting to recognize. I was coming to think of it as her “let’s do something a little crazy” smile. “Wanna go down the hill with our feet held off the pedals?”

  “What if we need to slow down?”

  “No slowing down ’til we reach the bottom.”

  “We might get hurt.”

  “Well, I’m going. You can go with me or you can just stand up here and watch.�
�

  Paige ran back for her bike, and against my better judgment I was right behind her.

  ***

  It was almost one when we got back to Jefferies Street.

  “My Mom was gonna heat up the spaghetti we had for supper last night for lunch,” Paige said. “You want some?”

  I glanced back toward my own house. “I’m not sure if I should.”

  “My mom won’t mind, really. And the sooner we can get rid of these leftovers, the sooner she’ll stop making us eat them. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

  I thought it over for a moment. Spaghetti did sound pretty good, even if it was a day old; all that was waiting for me at my house was another bologna sandwich. And it wasn’t as if Julie would miss me; she probably didn’t even realize I wasn’t in my room or the backyard.

  “Well, if you’re sure it’s okay.”

  We left our bikes in her front yard, and I followed her through the door. Their living room wasn’t any larger than ours, but it gave the impression of more space because there was so little furniture. A sagging sofa with a faded floral pattern, a matching armchair, and a scuffed wooden coffee table. The TV was a small black-and-white with a wire hanger for an antenna, sitting on top of a chest of drawers with two of the four drawers missing. Paige noticed me looking at it and gave an embarrassed shrug. “We could only afford one moving truck,” she said, “so we could only bring so much.”

  I gave a shrug of my own, meant to convey that it was no big deal. After all, her house was no worse than my own. She smiled at me, and I thought I detected gratitude in that smile. She led me through a small dining room that they seemed to be using as a bedroom and then into the kitchen.

  Their kitchen was much larger than ours, the linoleum tile forming a checkerboard pattern of black and white. The refrigerator hummed and rattled in the corner, and the sink was deep enough to look like a miniature bathtub. The stove looked a lot like ours, the range coated with grease and one knob missing, a pair of pliers lying nearby. In the corner by the sink was a dented washing machine. A table with padded benches on either side instead of chairs was pushed against the far wall. Sitting at the table was a sturdy woman—not fat exactly, but what my mom would have called “big boned”—with a cigarette clamped between her lips and a half-eaten plate of spaghetti in front of her as she flipped through the TV Guide.