by Linda Benson
“Wicked,” says Sherman, his eyes big as saucers. “Did you buy them?”
“No. My dad did. He got the extra heavy-duty assortment for our big Fourth of July party next weekend. I just decided to try a few out—a little bit early.” He chuckles. “He’ll never miss them.”
“Awesome,” says Sherman.
Whatever. Firecrackers are okay, but I like the great big cannons that light up the sky. Like bombs bursting in air.
James flicks open his lighter and holds the flame to the end of the fuse. It lights, and with practiced ease he flings it far out into the hay field.
We plug out ears. BOOM!
“You’d better be glad that grass is wet,” I say. “Or you’d set the whole stupid hay field on fire.”
“No shit,” says James, as he lights another one.
The rain beats a steady cadence against the corrugated tin roof, but we are cozy up here in our dry little corner. We laugh as James lights one firecracker after another, faster and faster, and flings them outside.
BOOM! BOOM BOOM! BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!
Sherman rolls around on top of the hay, laughing until tears run down his cheeks. “Let me try one,” he says.
“Fine,” says James, and he hands one to Sherman, who lights it and flings it far across the field.
“What about me?” I ask, feeling left out. Obviously, the grass must be plenty wet with the rain, because the firecrackers fizzle out harmlessly in the mown field.
“I’ve only got two left,” says James, grabbing the lighter back from Sherman. Holding both firecrackers in front of him, he lights the last two simultaneously.
“Come on, man, share,” I say, reaching across James for one of the remaining firecrackers.
James leans away from me and flings one the firecrackers out of the building.
“Hey, my turn,” I holler, lunging frantically for the last firecracker, already lit.
But James doesn’t let go of it, and as I fumble for it, the firecracker drops out of our hands and falls between us, down into the crevice between the neatly stacked rows of hay.
“What the—?” I say, scrambling away.
BOOOOOMM!! The firecracker goes off, not three feet below us, with a sound that practically melts our eardrums.
“Owwww.” I cover my ears in pain.
We sit up and look at each other, checking for burnt fingers or lost extremities. We all appear okay and laugh nervously. But almost immediately, we smell smoke. Glancing down, we realize the firecracker, which dropped several feet down into the stack, has caught one of the bales on fire. We can’t reach it with our hands to slap it out.
Horrified, I watch as the sparks leap beneath us, sending smoke curling up between the bales.
“Now look what you did!” James hollers.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say. “You dropped it!”
The smoke fills the crowded area above the bales and Sherman begins to cough. “What do we do now?” he says, scrambling toward the front of the barn. “Should we call somebody?”
“Hell, no,” says James. “Let’s get out of here.”
15-Olive
As the man heads out the door of the animal shelter with the puppies, I hear them whimper. He swings the box carelessly, moving toward his truck. I look at my aunt with wide eyes, pleading. But she is already moving. She jumps up from behind the desk, hustles through the front door, and dashes in front of the man, heading him off before he gets to the pickup.
“Now see here,” she says. “If you try to dump those puppies off somewhere, I’ll report you to the authorities for animal cruelty.”
“Look, lady.” He sets the box down on the ground, and rain immediately begins to pelt inside. “I ain’t dumping them. I’m giving them to you. As a present.”
He jumps into his four-wheel drive truck and peels out, leaving the box of puppies mewling in the driveway.
I run toward the tiny things and hunch over them, trying to keep them dry.
Aunt Trudy shrugs her shoulders. “See what I have to deal with?”
“What are we going to do with these little guys?” I ask. “They’re getting wet.”
She sighs, rain plastering her face. “Let’s put them inside the truck. They’ll be okay there for a little while. We can’t leave them here at the shelter—they’re too little. I’ll drop by Paula’s house. She’s one of the volunteers and I think she’s got some puppy formula. You can help me feed them when we get home.”
Together, we lift the big box onto the front seat of the pickup. Aunt Trudy tucks an old sweater inside to keep the puppies warm, and rushes back into the building to finish closing up.
I linger over the puppies. “I’ll be back soon,” I say, petting each one. Then I dash inside to help Aunt Trudy. Taking care of stray animals is more work than I ever imagined.
“How old are they?” I ask, as Aunt Trudy finally backs the truck out of the parking lot and starts down the road toward home. I’m leaning over the box between us, and the puppies wiggle and lick my hand frantically.
“Probably only about four or five weeks,” she says. “I’m not sure I buy that man’s story about finding them dumped along the roadside.”
“Why not? You said people sometimes dump animals.”
“Well, it was just kind of too convenient. For all I know he has the mother dog, and just didn’t want to be bothered with the pups.”
“They’ll be all right, won’t they?” I ask.
“I think so.” She takes her eyes off the road for a minute, checking them out. “I doubt that they’ve eaten any solid food yet. We’ll give them formula, and start them on a little wet food. Slowly.”
“What kind of dogs are they?” The puppies are all different. One is gold, like the yellow Lab. One is spotted, one is black, and one is chocolate colored, with just a little white on his chest.
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Aunt Trudy. “Heinz fifty-seven, I guess. Might be Lab, border collie, retriever. It’s anybody’s guess at this point.”
Aunt Trudy keeps both hands on the wheel and her eyes straight ahead. The rain beats down against the truck as the road leaves the river valley and curves upward sharply, past forests and fields. We drive for a while along a ridge, even higher than the one she lives on. When the trees give way to bare ground, we look out over the broad expanse of valley below, with the river running through it.
The chocolate-colored puppy licks my hand while the rest of them snooze. I think about how lucky they are. If that man had turned up at the shelter only ten minutes later, after we had closed up, what would have happened to the puppies? I shudder. I guess timing is everything, and it was their destiny to be dropped off when Aunt Trudy was there.
And then I think about my mother again, and the bad timing that caused her destiny. The reason she ended up in jail is because some woman accidentally left her purse on top of a car in the parking lot of the Rite Aid drugstore. If we hadn’t pulled into the parking place right next to it, my mother wouldn’t have found the purse. And if my mother hadn’t found the lady’s purse with that credit card inside, she never would have used it. And if I hadn’t run out of kitty litter for my cat Rags, we wouldn’t have made that trip down to the Rite Aid drugstore in the first place, and my mother would not be in jail, and—
“Is that smoke?” I say, pointing.
“I can’t really look right now, Olive.” The windshield wipers swish back and forth. “I’ve got to watch the road here.”
“It looks like smoke.” An ominous column of black rises from a field near the river.
“It’s probably just steam. That happens after a rain sometimes,” she says. “Probably just mist rising up into the clouds.”
We round another bend and she glances toward the valley again. “Oh my goodness,” she says. “That is smoke!”
She pulls the truck over to the side of the road and stares down at the valley. Far in the distance, we can just make out a lick of orange flame, along with the huge puffs of
black smoke mingling with the rain clouds above.
“I’m trying to picture where that is,” she says. “There’s no houses on that side of the river. It looks like it’s down by those grass fields, maybe one that Swede cuts for hay.”
“Should we call somebody?” The yellow puppy whines and licks my fingers.
Aunt Trudy hands me her purse. “Find my cell phone in there, would you, Olive?” She keeps her eyes trained on the smoke. “I never use that darn thing.”
Aunt Trudy’s purse is filled with dog food coupons, old receipts, pieces of Kleenex, and even some hay. With one free hand, I dig to the bottom and finally find a battered cell phone. I push the button to turn it on, and she reaches for it.
“Darn,” she says. “Silly thing doesn’t even work up here in these hills. Can’t pick up a signal.”
“What could be making so much smoke?” I ask. “If it’s just a field?”
Aunt Trudy is busy maneuvering the truck around a couple more bends in the road, pointing the cell phone toward the window, trying to get a strong enough signal to make a call. I hold tight to the box of puppies, all awake now and whimpering.
“There,” she says, braking to a stop at a turnout. “I’ve got three bars. That should be enough.” She dials 9-1-1 on the phone and as it rings, she answers me. “The only thing I can think of is Swede’s got a barn down there by the river where he stores hay. Maybe that’s what’s making all the smoke. I just can’t imagine how, with this rain, but—Hello!” she barks into the cell phone. “I’m calling to report a fire!”
16-David
We scurry like rats down the side of the hay stack. As we do, the flames leap and curl up onto the top and the fire sucks and crackles its way in all directions toward the edges of the barn.
“The raft!” yells Sherman. “C’mon!”
We dash back across the field toward the bank were we stashed the raft, toss it quickly into the water, and barge in.
“Paddle! Paddle!” yells James.
They each grab an oar and I lean over the side of the raft and use my hands to pull hard downstream toward the highway bridge. My heart is beating so fast I can barely breathe. I steal one glance backward and I see a column of black smoke drift up into the afternoon rain clouds, as orange flames lap hungrily against the sides of the barn.
“Holy crap,” says James.
“What?” asks Sherman.
“I left the BB gun up there,” he says. “In the barn.”
I shudder. My navy blue sweatshirt, the one with hay stuck all over it, got tossed in a corner and left behind, also. But that’s not the only thing. As I reach my hands into the dark water, paddling for all I’m worth, I catch a glance at my bare fingers. I pull my hand out of the water in horror. Grant’s championship ring is gone.
As cold water drips down my wrists and into my lap, I inspect my wrinkled fingers, as if wishing the ring back onto them. But it’s definitely gone. Gone. My stomach turns over. My brother’s in Afghanistan, risking his life. I can’t lose his ring.
“Paddle, dude!” yells James. “What are you doing, daydreaming?”
“Shut up,” I say out loud, and I mouth something worse under my breath.
My arms ache from the effort of paddling, of trying to get downstream as far away from the fire as we can.
“What are we gonna do?” Sherman sits upright for a minute and looks around. He sounds panicked. “Shouldn’t we report it or something?”
“That’s stupid,” says James. “How are they going to know how the fire started? I say we just keep our mouths shut.”
I don’t say a word about the missing sweatshirt. Hopefully it will burn up in the fire. But the ring worries me. And not just the fact that it was Grant’s. That’s bad enough. But what if it fell off in the barn?
It could have slipped off somewhere else, though. It might be at the mucky bottom anywhere along the river. I am sopping wet, first from the rain, and now from sweat pouring off my body from leaning over and paddling. I have no idea what time it is. For some reason, I think about how the day started.
Way early, I rode my bike to the top of Upper Ridge Road where that girl, Olive, is staying. We threw a stick for the yellow dog and she showed me the foster dogs and the horses out back. Then she waved at me when I left. I mean, I think she waved at me. Didn’t she? That already seems like such a long time ago. I can’t believe my whole life just turned into such a Big. Fat. Mess.
How much longer before we get to the river bridge? I only hope my mom will actually be there waiting for us.
“What’s that?” says Sherman.
We stop paddling for a moment. The rain lets up a little. A siren sounds in the distance, the noise closing in on us. My gut clenches and I think I’m going to throw up. Cops? If I get in trouble for this, I’m pretty sure I’ll never get into the Air Force Academy.
“Slow up,” says James. “I think we’re almost to the bridge.” The siren is close now, and we try to hold the raft behind some thick bushes at the river’s edge. We should be hidden here. James and Sherman shove both oars down into the mucky bottom and I grab at the willows with my bare hands. But as I reach, I accidentally grab onto stinging nettle that burns my palms.
I hold on as hard as I can, but the pain seeps down through my skin. It feels almost like punishment for dropping that stupid firecracker. But it wasn’t really my fault, was it? I mean, it just sort of happened.
The current is strong at this bend in the river and it rips the stinging bushes right through my hands. “Ow, ow, ow,” I hear myself say. James and Sherman try to steady the raft, but the current sucks the oars right up out of the mud and the raft careens downstream.
“Crap,” says Sherman as the water pulls our raft from its hiding place. The siren grows louder and louder. We are busted for sure. The raft slips quickly around the last turn, totally out of control, just as a red and white fire truck, horns blaring, blasts over the bridge.
“Why’d you let go of the bushes?” James yells right at me. “Now look. We’re gonna be in trouble for sure.”
“You’re the one that started this whole thing, James,” I shout back. “Who brought the firecrackers in the first place?”
“Shhh,” whispers Sherman, his fingers to his lips. “We’re almost to the road, and there’s a car up there on the bridge.”
“Probably my mom,” I say, with relief. She’s been acting so weird the last few months, I wasn’t even sure she’d be here.
The raft gains momentum as it drifts toward the bridge, and I recognize our big SUV. It is my mother. I watch as she sidles the vehicle into the turnout just past the bridge. I’m suddenly very glad to see her. And she’s actually on time.
“Pull up!” I holler. “Pull up!”
James and Sherman manage to paddle toward the bank and we pull the raft out just past the bridge. My mother still wears her pink jogging outfit, and she walks hesitantly out to the edge of the bank above the river.
“David,” she says. “I saw the fire truck and was worried sick. Did you see that smoke?” She points back upriver, across the willows and the huge hay field.
I look over at James and Sherman before I answer. They’re both shaking their heads. “No, we don’t know anything about smoke,” I say.
“We were just…” Sherman stumbles.
“We were out on the river the whole time,” announces James. “Having a blast.” He laughs, a little too loudly. “Weren’t we, guys? Having a blast?”
“Yeah,” says Sherman. “A blast.” He chuckles nervously.
We drag the raft up the steep bank. I gaze back toward the field and can clearly see the black column of smoke coming from the vicinity of the barn.
“That thing is sopping wet,” says my mom as James and Sherman begin to push it into the back of the SUV. “I didn’t realize I’d be hauling the raft. I hope it doesn’t wreck the carpet back there.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Do you have a towel or something?”
Sherman an
d I try to wipe the raft off with an old rag from the back of the car.
“Hurry up,” hisses James. “We gotta get out of here.” He picks up one end of the wet raft and begins to shove.
“Maybe if we let some air out of it,” whispers Sherman, “it’ll fit inside better.”
“No, that’ll take too long,” says James, looking around nervously. “Oh, great. Here comes someone else.”
A rusty Ford pickup slows down and moves toward us across the bridge. Aunt Trudy is driving, and in the passenger seat, pointing straight at the fire, is a freckle-faced girl called Olive.
17-Olive
“Boy! That fire truck got here quick,” says Aunt Trudy, as she maneuvers the pickup over a narrow bridge crossing the river. The siren sounds close, even though we can’t see the fire truck.
The plume of black smoke is just ahead and to the left, behind some trees along the riverbank. “Can we go over there?” I ask.
“No, a person doesn’t want to be following fire trucks. Although whatever was burning might be pretty much gone now. The smoke doesn’t seem quite so thick.”
“I don’t remember ever coming this way before, across the river.”
“Paula lives out on the highway,” says Aunt Trudy. “Pretty sure she’s not only got extra formula, but also a big dog crate we can borrow. Then we’ll head right up home and get these puppies fed. They’re gonna have that box all messy and…”
“What are those kids doing?” I ask. A silver SUV is parked just off the edge of the road, and I notice three boys, two of them bare-chested. They’re totally drenched, like they’ve been swimming.
“I don’t know. Rafters, probably. Popular thing to do around here. But not on a day like today. They must be out of their minds.”
The steady rain has softened to a drizzle, but it’s still yucky outside. Aunt Trudy slows the truck as she draws near. One of the boys is big and stocky, one shorter, and the third one is tall and lean. His T-shirt is stuck to his body and he’s wearing faded blkue board shorts with surfboards on them. My heart does a little loop-de-loop when I recognize him. David.
