He’s been through a lot, Mom would say. Dr. Woodbury says it’s going to take time and that we’re gonna have to be patient.
He’s not getting any better as far as I can tell, Cliff said. You make it sound like its getting worse. Maybe it’s time to ditch that quack you two are seeing and try some good old fashioned discipline. That’s what my dad woulda done.
As I said, Cliff was an asshole.
Dr. Woodbury was right though, I would get better, and the reason I got better was just about to walk out of those woods and say hello. His name was Brandon Grant and he would be my best friend until the day he died.
6
A boy about my age appeared like magic from the edge of the woods. He made little noise until he leaped from the tall grass onto the dirt road. I jumped to my feet and slapped a hand across my mouth to stifle a scream. He looked at me and smiled while I stared back stupidly. He raised his hand, “Hi, my name is Brandon Dane Grant. What’s yours?” He wore a Chicago Bears t-shirt and cut-off denim shorts that looked like he had cut them himself with a dull pocketknife.
I waved back reluctantly. He walked across the street towards me and then froze. He glanced over his shoulder to the woods and then back at me. “You okay?” he asked. “Looks like you saw a ghost.”
I shook my head dazedly. The boy spun around to the forest and performed a wild roundhouse kick followed by a couple haymaker rights and lefts. “Cause if you did, I would kick that ghost’s ass!” Brandon said. He spun back around at me and smiled, but for some reason, I didn’t believe he was joking.
This time I smiled back. “No,” the word squeaked out of my mouth, so I tried again. “No, I didn’t see any ghosts or anything … I just didn’t expect … do you live in there?”
“In there?” Brandon pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the woods, “Yup, I live in a tree house and I was raised by monkeys. Can’t ya tell?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
He bent over laughing with his hand on his belly. “You’re a real dick,” he said, and then I was laughing. “My bike got a flat tire and it’s too damn far to walk around this thing.” He motioned back to the woods. “So I just go through it sometimes. Besides, it’s pretty cool in there. I saw a garter snake in there once, and it scared the shit outa me. It was just a little bastard, but it shot right across my foot! I had to go home and clean my shorts after that.” He laughed again and I realized I couldn’t tell if he was joking. Brandon was like that. He didn’t think about what he was going to do or say before he did it. He didn’t care what happened or what anybody thought about him. It was a remarkable trait and I’ve yet to meet another person like him.
“You’re new here, huh?” he asked.
I nodded.
“You don’t say much, do ya?”
“Not really,” I said and shrugged.
“Your mom and dad home?” he asked, looking over my shoulder at our new house.
“My mom’s home,” I said. “Dad’s dead. We left him in Colorado.”
“Whoa,” he said with wide eyes. “Bummer.”
I agreed.
“Well, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Peter.”
“Weiner?”
“No, Peter,” I said.
He cupped his hand around his ear and pointed it in my direction. “You said wiener?”
“No. I said Peter. My name’s Peter.”
He smiled wide and chuckled. “I’m just busting your balls, man. But maybe I’ll just call you Pete…cool?”
“Uh, sure,” I said. Who was I to argue?
“Cool. You wanna hang out?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m thinking we should head over to the park and see if anybody’s there. Josh and Chucky might be there—they are a couple of my buds from school, they’re both dolts, but—” he trailed off. “But if they aren’t there, screw ‘em, me and you can hang out. Like I said, those two are just basically a couple shitheads anyway.”
I had never heard a kid cuss so much and I was getting worried mom, or worse, Cliff would come outside and chew us both out, but apparently neither one of them were listening.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go.” I thought about going inside to ask mom if it was ok, but I decided against it. Screw it, as Brandon would have said.
As we reached the sidewalk, Brandon slowed and pointed his finger at my new neighbor’s dilapidated home. “Old man Stounager lives there. Pretty creepy, huh?”
We stopped and stared. “Yeah it is,” I said. It was an old two-story home painted white with black windowsills. The ancient paint hung in strips, and the bare wood underneath looked beyond repair. A single cracked sidewalk separated two patches of dead grass and ended at a small set of cement steps at the front door. The rusted screen door hung crooked from the frame, and it no longer latched. It rattled incessantly throughout the day, completing the soundtrack to my first summer in Nebraska. I had already grown accustomed to Mr. Stounager’s banging screen door in the short time I lived there, but now, watching it slam shut every few seconds, I had to struggle not to jump with each crash.
“Do you know what I heard about this guy?” Brandon asked me.
“What?” I said, my interest piqued.
“My brother told me that old man Stounager killed his wife … right up there,” he pointed to the second floor window directly above the door. “I heard they were gonna do a double suicide but the old man chickened out. They found his old lady hanging in that bedroom. Two ropes dangling from the ceiling but only one body.” He spoke that last part as dramatically as he could muster.
“Jesus,” I said with genuine wonder. “Maybe your brother is just trying to scare you.”
He shook his head. “Impossible, everybody knows I don’t get scared.”
I looked at him and smiled. “Well maybe the old man never intended to kill himself … maybe he just told his wife that so she would go first. He probably just wanted to get rid of her.”
Brandon took one more look at the upstairs window and then back at me. “Damn, Pete. That’s pretty twisted. You got some darkness in you.” He punched me in the shoulder and laughed. “Just messing with you, man.”
I chuckled with him politely and tried not to show how bad he had stung my shoulder.
“Let’s get going,” he said and began walking.
We only made a few steps when the old man, who seemed to materialize out of nowhere, began screaming at us. “You boys need to get off my goddamned sidewalk!”
I turned back, startled at the noise. I gasped when I saw the man looking back at us. He had the familiar hunch of someone with osteoporosis and yet he was still unusually tall. I’m guessing 6’5” at least and skinny as a pole. His bald head radiated pink sunspots through random strands of stringy white hair. He lurched towards us, sneakily graceful, with both hands in the pockets of his overalls. Brandon and I stumbled backwards as we retreated. My feet tangled momentarily and I almost went down but Brandon caught me and held me up.
“I know what you’re after but y’all ain’t welcome here. You both need to get up outa here before it’s too late. Ya hear me? Do ya hear me?” With that, he pulled both hands out of his pockets. Both of them were balled up into fists and at first, I thought he wanted to fight, but then he reared back with his right arm and flung it forward with a speed I would have thought impossible for the old man. Something zipped passed my head, and I flinched. His left arm snapped back but before he finished his windup, I saw something in his hand. The old man was throwing rocks at us.
“Run!” I screamed. I pulled Brandon’s arm as I retreated, yanking him towards me, hoping he understood the gravity of our situation.
“Oh shit!” Brandon said, as a rock skipped between his legs hard enough to send a shower of sparks into the dead grass.
We both turned and fled as rocks peppered the sidewalk and the grass around us. I screamed out as a burst of pain erupted in the small of my back. Once, on one of the trails behind ou
r house in Colorado, a bee stung me during a hike. I had only been four or five at the time and dad had to carry me back to the house while I cried like a little baby. This felt a little like that.
“And stay off my sidewalk!” the old man screamed.
The two of us raced to the end of the block, me holding the small of my back the whole time. Finally, I turned around to see if he was following us, but he was gone.
“You ok?” Brandon asked, watching me rub the sore spot on my back.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I think it was a small one.”
“You know all about small ones, don’t ya, Pete?” Brandon said, before punching me in the shoulder again. He ran off cackling, and I smiled despite myself.
“Hey, wait up for me!” I hollered, already beginning to run.
We made it to the park, which was just a giant patch of grass with some trees and an old swing set, which we avoided. According to Brandon, the swing set was reserved strictly for babies and pussies. So instead, Brandon introduced me to Mt. Everest, which was a ten-foot high rock sculpture built around a charcoal grill. We climbed it for hours and it only reminded me of my dad missing in the mountains of Colorado a couple times.
Josh and Chucky never showed up but we didn’t mind. When we tired of climbing Mt. Everest, Brandon took me to the Sweet Retreat, the ice cream joint my mom would work part time at in a few years, and treated me to an ice cream cone. The Sweet Retreat was a small town version of a Dairy Queen; it offered no indoor seating, only a handful of picnic tables with large red and white faded sunshades, and aside from ice cream, the wares offered were mainly of the deep-fat-fried variety. In other words, it was a kid’s dream. I vowed to try everything on the menu by the end of the summer.
“Where we going?” I asked when we finished our ice cream. We jogged across Second Street and dipped into the alley behind the gas station. Brandon, still licking the ice cream from his fingers, motioned to the overpass that led into town.
“The bridge?” I asked, “What for?”
“It’s cool. You’ll see,” he said with a grin that made the old me nervous, but the new me tingled with excitement. Yes, at this point, I was ready to concede the possibility of a new me, albeit a young, fragile version that still needed constant nurturing and protection from the monsters of my old life.
“Alright, let’s go.”
He smiled. “Race ya,” he said and took off running down the alley.
“Hey!” I yelled and chased after him, laughing the whole way.
The large concrete overpass stretched out a quarter mile and spanned four lanes of railroad tracks. Large concrete pillars held up the south side of the bridge and allowed passage for the trains while the north side portion used a manmade hill for its support. A towering row of grain bins with the world’s largest American flag painted on its side, loomed up behind it. The bridge was only two lanes, but there was room to walk over it if you stuck close to either side. Brandon and I did this.
“Is it safe?” I asked.
“Sure it is. I do it all the time.”
We walked up the left side between the white line and the concrete pillar. Brandon hung close to the pillar so he could veer over the edge, while I centered myself between the two, trying to simultaneously avoid falling over the side and getting run over by the car I was certain was about to come screaming over the crest of the bridge.
On the ground, it was a warm summer day, the air dry but stagnant. As we reached the top of the bridge, a surprisingly stiff breeze sent a chill across my sweaty body. It felt grand.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Brandon asked. A smile touched his lips as he stared east down the length of the railroad tracks.
I had to admit it was. Chaplin Hills lay out behind us, and it looked remarkably small. I looked for my new house but couldn’t find it. I could see, however, the twelve-acre woods that sat next to it, and it did look small. No more than four city blocks, I guessed. I could walk from one corner to the other in fifteen minutes, but I wouldn’t be doing that. I was naïve, but even at that age, I understood that false bravery was easy in broad day light with a new friend at my side.
“Here it comes,” Brandon said.
I was staring at the woods, completely lost in thought and his words barely registering in my mind.
“What?” I asked, slowly returning from my thoughts.
He pointed down the length of railroad tracks. “A train.”
Behind us, a pickup truck passed in the far lane and honked its horn. I jumped at the sound, while Brandon turned and flipped them the bird. “Eat it, shitheads!” he screamed at the truck’s taillights as it sped off. His words were angry but he still wore a smile across his face.
“Check it out, man, it’s coming!” His eyes were wide with excitement. “Hold on, like this.” He grabbed the cement barrier and stared east toward the train as it bore down on us. I stood next to him and did as he said. I leaned over the edge and looked down at the tracks below us and thought I could see them shaking. The train’s horn exploded, and I almost cried out. It was shockingly loud. Brandon howled like a wolf in response, and I thought I could hear him laughing, but the train’s engine, along with its horn, had become a tornado of noise and I could no longer be sure of anything.
The bridge shook under my feet as the train flew towards us. I knew it was stupid but as the train approached, I grew certain it was too tall, and it would explode directly into the bridge where I stood. I tried to let go of the rail and run, but my legs wouldn’t move. The black train bore down on us, and suddenly, I found myself hiding behind my father, stealing peaks around his waist at the giant grizzly as it chewed up the distance between us like a starving prehistoric beast. I closed my eyes as chaos erupted around me.
Something squeezed my shoulder and I thought I heard Brandon’s voice underneath the cacophony of noise. I opened my eyes and looked at my new friend. He gave my shoulder another reassuring squeeze and spoke. I read his lips.
You’re gonna be okay.
For that day at least, he was right. I was okay. I saw the train’s engineer just as he disappeared underneath us. He was smiling. Below us, the train roared and the bridge rumbled. I tried to look at each individual car as it passed but they moved so fast they all blended together. I opened my mouth to scream—not because I was scared, although I was—but because I wanted to hear my own voice mixed with everything around me. As the train’s engine disappeared behind us, I noticed Brandon screaming with me. He jumped up and down as he howled at the train. We looked at each other and began laughing. We were still laughing as the train cleared the bridge and disappeared behind us.
7
When I got home, mom was pissed. She grounded me for two weeks for not asking her if I could leave. “I didn’t know where you were,” she cried. “You could have been …” She trailed off and looked to Cliff, who sat on the end of the couch. He stared back at mom looking like he wished he was somewhere, hell anywhere else, than on our couch.
“I’m sorry, mom. I met a friend,” I told her. Even at my age, I knew this could sway the argument. I understood my neurotic behavior was a burden on her, and even more, I knew she worried about me. A new friend, my first real friend, was definitely a breakthrough, and it was a card I was willing to play.
Mom stopped pacing the living room and even Cliff perked up. “What?” she asked.
“His name is Brandon. He lives on the other side of the woods.” I wore a smile on my face that still felt a little awkward.
Mom looked at me with a face that somehow looked both happy and sad. “That’s great, honey.”
“Yeah, we had fun. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you I was leaving. It won’t happen again.”
It did happen again a few times but things got better and they got better for all of us.
“Good,” mom said and sighed. “I wanna meet him, though … and his family.”
“Okay,” I said. My mind raced as an opportunity suddenly presented itself. “I’ll see if he can com
e over in two-weeks, after I’m ungrounded.” I lowered my eyes and stared at the tips of my shoes. I lobbed the ball and waited for mom to return it.
I doubt I outwitted her, but I think she understood the breakthrough was more important than some arbitrary punishment.
“No, no,” mom conceded. “You can bring him over. I want to meet him, but don’t you ever leave the yard without telling me, ok?”
“Sure, mom. Thanks.”
That was that. My two-week grounding lasted about two minutes. Mom met Brandon the next day, and I think she wanted to cry she was so happy for me. Most kids act differently around grownups, but Brandon only knew one way. It was refreshing to hear a kid so open and honest with adults, but it could be a little overwhelming as well. I noticed mom could only deal with Brandon in short bursts. In fact, I think most of his friends felt the same way and that’s probably why we got along so well. We were both a bit ... off. Perhaps we needed each other.
I excused myself shortly after dinner and went to bed. It was obvious, by the third glass of whiskey for Cliff, that he was staying over, and I had no interest in hanging out with him. Besides, I was tired. It had been a long day.
8
The door to my bedroom opened slightly. The sound was almost nonexistent but I could sense the darkness around me diminish as if the glow from a faraway streetlamp had crept through my bedroom window. I was so tired, and my first instinct was to roll over and check my alarm clock for the time, but I froze. A smell wafted over me, and I closed my eyes, trying desperately to sink into the blackness and fall back asleep. In that moment, I wanted whatever was going to happen to happen while I was sleeping.
That was a pipe dream, and I knew it. I would not asleep anytime soon. I knew Mr. Bleaker had followed me from Colorado. There was no running from him, not in Nebraska and not in my lifetime.
“It’s me, Pete,” Mr. Bleaker said. I wanted to scream, and I had meant to but it never managed to make it out of my restricted throat. Footsteps shuffled across my floor, and it cleared its throat. Another smell came at me, and this one I noticed at once—whiskey.
The Complete Bleaker Trilogy Box-set Page 2
