It wasn't snowing, so I figured I'd do a few more papers. My next customer was over on Crossridge. If you went by car, you had to drive back down Gilby hill, then go a block over to Crossridge, then drive all the way up to the top of the other hill. But if you went on foot or bike, you could cut through a sidewalk that one of my customers has in his yard, connecting Gilby and Crossridge, so I went through there and left the paper.
And I suddenly felt frozen-scared 'cause flurries began to fall. I'd been looking at the dark sky from time to time. There wasn't a moon, but the stars had been bright, twinkling real pretty. I looked up fast now, and I couldn't see the stars. All I saw were these thick black clouds. I swear even in the dark I could see 'em. They were twisting and heaving like something was inside rolling and straining to bust loose. The flurries got bigger. I should've remembered from school. Thirty-two: that's the perfect temperature for getting snow. My legs felt limp. I wasn't walking right from being scared. I tried to run, but I lost my balance and almost fell. The snow came fast now. I couldn't see the clouds because of it. It was falling so thick I couldn't even see the houses across the street. A wind started, and then it got worse and screechy. My cheeks hurt like something was burning them, but it wasn't heat. It was cold. The air had been sweet and warm, but now it was freezing, and the wind stung, and the snow felt like tiny bits of ice-cold broken glass.
I swung around looking for Dad, but I couldn't see the houses next to me. The snow kept pelting my face, and the wind bit so I kept blinking and tears filled my eyes. I wiped them with my mitts. That only made them blurry. Snow froze to my cheeks and hair. I moaned, wishing I'd worn my ski mask. The shriek of the wind was worse. I tried to yell for my Dad, but the gusting snow pushed the words back into my mouth. Then I couldn't see the sidewalk. I couldn't see my mitts in front of my face. All I saw was a wall of moving white. As cold as I felt, deep in my bones, my stomach burned. The more it felt hot, the more I shook. I yelled once more for my Dad and in a panic stumbled to find him.
I didn't know I was off the sidewalk till I hit Mr. Carrington's fence. It's sharp and pointy, like metal spears. When I banged against it, one of the points jabbed my chest. I felt it gouge me even through the padding of my coat. It pushed all the air out of me. I fell back into a drift where I felt like I was in quicksand, going deeper, scrambling to stand, but my heavy sack of papers held me down, and the snow kept piling on me. It went down my neck, like a cold hand on my back. It stung so hard I jumped up screaming, but the wind shrieked louder, and all I saw was the swirling snow around me in the dark.
I ran, but I must've got turned around 'cause nothing was where it should've been. Invisible bushes slashed my face. I smacked against a tree, and I guess that's how my nose got broken, but I didn't feel it, I was too scared. I just kept running, yelling for my Dad, and when I didn't bump into anything, I guessed I was in the street, but I know now it was the vacant lot next to Mr. Carrington. Somebody's digging a foundation for a new house, and it was like the ground disappeared. I was suddenly falling, it seemed like forever, and I landed so hard I bit my lip right through. You ought to see the stitches. My Dad says sometimes when something terrible happens to you, you don't feel it on account of what he calls shock. He says your body has a limit to what it can stand, and then it shuts out the pain. That must've been what happened 'cause my chest and my nose and my lip got numb, and all I wanted was to find my Dad and get back home. I wanted my Mom.
I crawled from the hole, and somehow I knew there was someone close. With my eyes full of tears, I could barely see the snow, but then this dark shape rushed at me, and I knew it was my Dad, except it wasn't. In the comics, when someone gets hit on the head, they always show stars. And that's what I saw, stars, bright in the snow, and I knew I'd been hit, but I didn't feel it. My Dad says shock can do that, too. Something can happen to you that would normally slam you flat, but if you're scared, you somehow get the strength not to fall.
I almost did, though. Everything got blurry and began to spin, and this is the strange part. I got hit so hard I dropped my sack of papers. The sack fell open, and as clear as day I saw my papers in a drift, the black ink with white all around it. Then the papers were splattered with red. You know that old joke? What's black and white and read all over? A newspaper. Only this is spelled different. The red was the blood from my head. I turned to run, and that's when the shadow grabbed my arm.
I kept turning, and even in the shriek of the wind, I heard the crack as clear as if my Dad had taken a piece of kindling and snapped it across his knee for the fireplace, but the snap was from my arm, and I felt it twist at the elbow, pointing toward my shoulder. The next thing I was on my back, and the snow stopped gusting long enough for me to gape up at old Mr. Blanchard kneeling beside me, raising the claw end of a hammer.
I moved my head as he brought it down, so the claws glanced past my scalp, tearing away some hair. I kicked, and this time the hammer whacked my collar bone. I screamed. The claws of the hammer plunged toward the spot between my eyes.
And another hand shot from the storm, grabbing Mr. Blanchard's arm. Before I passed out, I saw my Dad yank the hammer away from him and jerk him to his feet. My Dad shouted stuff at him I'd never heard before. I mean terrible words I don't want to remember and I won't repeat. Then my Dad was shaking Mr. Blanchard, and Mr. Blanchard's head was flopping back and forth, and the next thing I knew, I was here in the hospital with the bandages around my head and my nose and mouth swollen and my arm in this cast.
My Dad tried to explain it to me. I think I understand, but I'm not sure. Mr. Blanchard's wife died three months ago. I thought she was still alive, but I was wrong. He and his wife, they never had any children, and my Dad says he felt so alone without her he wanted somebody around the house to take care of, like a son, so the first boy he took home was from Granite Falls that time two months ago when he went to visit his wife's sister. Then he wanted another son and another, so he took home those two boys from here, making sure it was snowing so he could hide his tracks, but then he wanted all the sons he could get. It makes me sick to think about it, how after he realized the boys were dead he took them out to his garage and stacked them under a sheet of canvas in the corner, "like cord wood" a reporter said. It's been cold enough that the bodies got hard and frozen. Otherwise they would've smelled like that other house I told you about. I wonder now if all the times I saw Mr. Blanchard crying it was because of his wife being dead or because he realized he was doing wrong but he couldn't stop himself. A part of me feels sorry for him, but another part keeps thinking about those missing boys and how scared they must've been when Mr. Blanchard came at them in the storm, and what he looked like when he knelt beside me, raising that hammer. I have a feeling I'll remember that till I grow up. Earlier I said the nurses wake me early here the same as if my Mom was getting me up to do my route. I guess I lied. The nurses didn't wake me. I woke myself, screaming, remembering the claws of the hammer and the blood on my papers. The nurses ran in, and someone's been sitting with me ever since. My Mom or my Dad is always here, and they say my collar bone is broken too, but what hurts worst is my arm.
The Gazette sent Sharon over, though I know she'd have come on her own. She's writing down what I say, but I'm not sure why 'cause she's also got a tape recorder turned on. You ought to see her smiling when I talk about her. She says she's going to put my story in the paper, and her boss is going to pay me for it. I can sure use the money 'cause the doctor says I won't be delivering papers for quite a while. I guess even after everything that's happened I'll go back to my route. After all, we know why those boys disappeared, and there can't be that many crazy people like Mr. Blanchard, though my Dad says he's beginning to wonder. He just read about a girl carrier in Ashville that had somebody try to pull her into a car. What's going on that even kids who deliver papers can't feel safe? My Dad says pretty soon nobody'll want to leave their houses.
Well, never mind. I told Sharon I've been talking for quite a while. I'
m getting sleepy, and I don't believe the paper will print all this, but she says my story's what they call an exclusive, and maybe some other papers will pick it up. My Mom says she hopes I won't start acting temperamental, whatever that means, now that I'm famous, but I don't feel famous. I feel sore. I hope my customers enjoy reading what I said, though, 'cause I like them, and I hope they remember what they promised about giving me a tip on account of there's a new video game I want to buy. My Dad came in and heard this last part. He said it again. I must've been born a businessman and I'll probably grow up to vote Republican. I still don't know what a Republican is, but I've been thinking. Maybe if I go around to a few houses and show them the bandages around my head and the cast on my arm, they'll subscribe to the paper. There's a new contest on. The kid who finds the most new customers gets a year's free pass to the movies. Now if only they'll throw in the popcorn.
This middle story about the dark side of success gives us a different occupation: sports, specifically playing football. The main character of the previous story was a boy. Here, we have a teenager. The third story will be told by an adult. The plot was inspired by a newspaper account of an Iowa high-school football team that had a controversial ritual before each game. Odd how the stars of high school seldom remain stars in later life. Do they peak too early? Or is something extra needed to go all the way?
Mumbo Jumbo
« ^ »
That's what they called it: Mumbo Jumbo. You wouldn't think they could have kept it a secret all those years. But Coach Hayes made them promise, and he wasn't someone you crossed, so there weren't even any rumors. I didn't know the thing existed until my junior year in high school when I tried out for the football team.
I promised myself I'd be honest. Trying out wasn't my idea. It was Joey's. Sure, I liked to throw a football around as much as any other guy. But showing up for practice after classes every day?
"And don't forget the pain, Joey. You know what I'm talking about? Coach Hayes makes the team run two miles double-time before each practice. That's not counting all the jumping jacks and pushups and situps and God knows how many other ups he makes them do. For starters. Before they get down to the rough stuff. Agony, Joey. That's what I'm talking about. You're sure you know what you want to get us in for?"
We were having cherry Cokes and fries down at the Chicken Nest near the school. A lot of good times. Of course, the Nest's torn down now. Seven years ago, the city made it a parking lot. But I remember Joey bracking through a straw at the bottom of his Coke, squinting at me across the table. "Joining the team would be something to do," he said. "If we make it, of course."
"Oh, that's no problem. We'd make it all right."
"I'm not so sure."
"Come on." I ate a fry with ketchup on it. "We're big guys, and we're in shape."
"We're overweight. And Danny, we're not in shape. This morning I had to pull in my gut to button my jeans. Anyway, that's not the point. I told you, playing with the team would be something to do. We can't just hang around here or down in your rec room all the time."
"What's wrong with playing records and — "
"Nothing. But it's not enough."
I stopped eating fries and frowned at him. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't you get the feeling we're not going anywhere?"
I shook my head, confused. I'd never heard Joey talk that way before.
"Left out," he said. "All the extra stuff they do at school. The student council, the way they're always included in what's going on."
"That stuck up Bill Stedman. Ever since he got elected president last year, he walks around like he owns the goddamned school."
"And the plays the drama club puts on, and the debating team, and — "
"All that's candy ass. What's with you? You want to be an actor now?"
"I don't know what I want to be." Joey rubbed his forehead. "But I want to be something. Those guys on the football team. They look like…"
"What?"
"Like they enjoy being good at what they do. They look damned proud. You can tell they're glad to belong."
"But all that pain."
His eyes had been bright. They seemed to be looking at something far away. Then all at once they came back to normal. He gave me that sly grin of his. "But there's a payoff. Those football players date the sexiest girls in school. All those muscles give the cheerleaders the hots."
I grinned right back. "Why didn't you say so? Now I get it. Why hang around here when there's a chance to date Rebecca Henderson?"
"Or her girlfriend, huh?"
We started laughing so hard that the waitress told us to shut up or leave, and that's how we came to try out for the football team, and how I learned about Mumbo Jumbo.
***
These days I've got a beer gut, and I puff if I walk up a couple flights of stairs, and my doctor says my cholesterol count's too high. Cholesterol. Back then you should have seen us, though. Granted, what Joey had said was right. We were overweight and soft. But we soon changed all that. The conversation I just described took place the week before school started, and Joey had us lifting weights and running laps even before Coach Hayes announced the dates for try-outs. When we showed up on the football field behind the gym that first Saturday of the school term, asking to join the team, Coach Hayes took his cap off, scratched his head, and wondered if we were kidding.
"No, we mean it," Joey said. "We really want to join."
"But you guys know my rules. You can't be on the team unless your scholastic average is B."
"Then we'll study harder. We'll raise our grades."
"Or waste my time, not to mention the team's. Your record speaks for itself. I've got no patience with guys who don't commit themselves."
"We'll try. We promise," Joey said. "Please. It's important to us."
"But look at the flab on you two. Sure, you're tall enough."
"Six foot," Joey said. "Danny's a quarter inch taller."
"But how are you going to keep up with the other guys? Look at Welsh over there. He's been working out all summer."
I glanced at Welsh, who was running through the holes in a double row of tires laid out on the field. He made it easily. Me, I'd have been groaning on my way to the hospital.
"You'll give up as soon as thing's get tough," Coach Hayes said. "Why pretend different?"
"All we're asking for is a chance," Joey said. Coach Hayes rubbed a big, tanned, calloused hand across his mouth. "A chance? Okay, I'll give you one. The same chance the other boys have. Show me you can keep up with the training. Get in shape, and earn decent grades. We'll see."
"That's all we want. Coach, thanks."
"One hundred percent. Remember, I won't accept less. If you guys get on the team and then stop trying, you'll wish you hadn't asked to join."
"One hundred percent."
"And Danny, what about you? You haven't said anything." I nodded, wondering what the hell I was doing there. "Yeah, right, one hundred percent."
***
It was more like two hundred percent — of torture. The weightlifting and sprints Joey and I had been doing were a joke compared to what Coach Hayes soon made us do. Even the guys who'd stayed in shape all summer had trouble keeping up with the routines. That two-mile double-time warmup nearly killed me. And the calisthenics — I threw up when I got home and smelled the meat loaf my Mom had cooked.
The next morning, Sunday, my knees felt so stiff I hobbled when I crawled out of bed. I groaned to Joey on the phone, "This isn't going to work. I'm telling you I can't make the try out today. I feel like shit."
"Danny," my mother said from the kitchen. "Watch your language."
"You think you feel worse than me?" Joey asked. "All night I dreamed I was doing situps. My stomach's got rocks in it."
"Then let's not go."
"We're going. We promised. I won't break my word."
"But what's the point? Even a date with Rebecca Henderson isn't worth the agony we'll be going through
."
"Rebecca Henderson? Who cares? The team," he said. "I want to make the team."
"But I thought — "
"I said that just to get you interested. Listen, Danny, we've got a chance to belong to something special, to be good at something, better than anybody else. I'm tired of being a fuckup."
On the phone in the background, I heard Joey's mother tell him to watch his language.
"But my back feels — "
"We've been friends a long time, right?"
"Since we started grade school."
"And we've done everything together, right? We went to the movies together, and we went swimming together, and we — "
"I get the idea. But — "
"So I'm asking you, let's do this together, too. I don't want to lose your friendship, Danny. I don't want to do this by myself."
Inside I felt warm, knowing what he was trying to tell me. Sure, it was sappy, but I guess I loved him like a brother.
"Okay," I said. "If it means that much to you."
"It means that much."
***
When we showed up that afternoon behind the gym, Coach Hayes blinked. "Wonders never cease."
"We told you we're serious," Joey said.
"And sore?"
"You bet."
"Legs feel like they've been run over by a truck?"
"A steamroller."
Coach Hayes grinned. "Well, at least you're honest. Even the pros admit they hurt. The trick is to do the job no matter how much it hurts."
I silently cursed.
"We won't let you down," Joey said.
"We'll see. Danny, you sure don't say much. Everybody, let's get started. Double-time around the track. After that, I've got a few new exercises for you."
Inwardly I groaned.
After the first mile, I nearly threw up again.
Black Evening Page 15
