A Moment in Magic Hour: A Coming-of-Age Story (Magic Hour Series Book 1)

by John Anthony

  Bored, I picked up a twig from the street and started breaking off bits of it, seeing if I could throw them to the other side of the street. I turned my head to check out the other end of the block, and Tommy and Steph caught my eye. They were at the corner, waiting to cross the busy intersection.

  Tommy stood with one hand pressed against Steph’s chest, holding her back from running into the street, even though she was old enough to know better. His head twisted back and forth as he watched the traffic. When he saw a safe break in the cars, he took Steph’s hand and they quickly walked across the street to Applebow’s Grocery.

  Which reminded me: who was the girl that Tommy saw at the grocery store? Was it someone we knew? Someone who worked there?

  “Hi, Jack.” Becky walked up behind me with Lucy.

  “Hi, guys,” I said, standing up. “What doing, Lucy?”

  She blushed and put her palms to her cheeks. “What are you doing, Jack.”

  “Out for your walk today?”

  “We’re just walking up to the store.” Becky tucked her hair behind her ear. “Aren’t we, Lucy?”

  Lucy nodded. “Why are you sitting by the haunted house, Jack?”

  “Cubby and I were just checking it out.” I turned to look at it again.

  “There’s been people in there lately,” Becky said.

  “Lots of people?”

  “No,” she said. “Just a man and a lady. But not Mrs. Tremont.”

  “Maybe they’re moving in.” I lifted a shoulder, then pointed in the direction of the end of the block. “I just saw Tommy crossing the street with Steph, so they’ll probably be at the store too.”

  Becky’s cheeks turned red and she bit the tip of her finger.

  Lucy smirked and shook her head. “Becky likes—”

  “Going to the store,” Becky said quickly. “I like walking to the store.” Her face turned an even brighter red.

  And that’s when I figured it out.

  Chapter Eight

  The bell on the door to Granddad’s store chimed as I pushed it open, and I stopped for my usual salute as I walked in the door.

  “Howdy, Shorty,” Granddad said, and walked out from behind the counter to come over to greet me.

  “Me and Cubby were just checking out the haunted house,” I said.

  “Ah, yes.” Granddad took a breath and let it out slowly. “The Tremont place. Used to be a really nice house. And under all the weeds and dirt, I expect it still is.”

  “I remember Grandma visiting Mrs. Tremont there.”

  Granddad’s eyebrows raised. “My gosh, you’ve got a good memory, Shorty. You had to be only three or four years old back then.”

  “I was five,” I said, correcting him. “That’s when the memories start sticking. Least, that’s what Tommy says.”

  “Sounds about right.” Granddad put his hands on his hips and looked down at me.

  I was lost in thought, picking at my fingernails as I thought about Grandma and Tommy. I needed to talk to Granddad, but wasn’t quite sure what I needed to say.

  “Looks to me like somebody has something on their mind.” He patted me on the back. “Why don’t you come in the back and we’ll have a little chat?”

  The back? Wow, Granddad hardly ever invited people into the back. I had only been there once before, and that was after Tommy’s dad left. Granddad had wanted to make sure I understood what was happening with Tommy and his family, about divorce and anger and confusing feelings. I guess Granddad realized I had some big stuff I was trying to figure out.

  He excused us and lifted the hinged countertop so we could walk to the hallway leading to the back.

  Granddad’s office was small, but had perfectly balanced stacks of papers in every nook and cranny. On his desk were frames with pictures of my family, my uncle’s family, and of Grandma. The picture frames were the only things in the office without a film of dust covering them.

  He went to sit down in his desk chair, and the wooden seat creaked as he lowered himself into it. Then he patted his lap, indicating for me to have a seat.

  I rested on his thigh and felt his arm wrap around me, holding me steady.

  “I understand there’s a lot of changes happening for you right now, Shorty.” He tightened his arm and squeezed me in a quick hug. “Why don’t you tell me how you’re feeling about it?”

  I looked around his office at all the papers, the framed diplomas and certificates on the walls, and the tons of medical books on the shelves. Everything felt dull and shadowy. The blinds on the window weren’t open all the way, so you could see dust in the shafts of sunlight creeping through the slats. It was all so different from the bright, clean store and pharmacy out front.

  “I’m scared to leave my friends, mostly.” The dust was irritating my eyes, so I wiped at them with the heels of my hands. At least, I thought it was the dust. “Tommy and Cubby.”

  “Of course. You’ve known them since you were born. They’re like your brothers.”

  I thought about that. “Not really.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Granddad said. “Not really. But the parts that are, those are the best parts.”

  I turned my head to look at him. “What do you mean, the best parts?”

  Granddad lifted me off his knee and stood up, then gave his back a stretch. “I mean you get the fun parts of having brothers, but without the bad parts.”

  He walked across to a water cooler in the corner, pushed the button, and held a paper cup under the spout. “Like fighting over toys or having to share comic books. And you never have to get hand-me-down clothes; they’re always yours and only yours.” He drank from the cup and crumpled it in his hand. “And you always get your own room.”

  Granddad made a good point.

  “Let that simmer in your head a bit,” he said. “Eventually, the meaning will pop out when you need it to.”

  I nodded and walked over to the water cooler too, then grabbed a paper cup.

  “Can I ask you something?” I pushed the button and filled the cup.

  “Of course, Shorty,” Granddad said. “Anything you want.”

  I sipped some water, thinking about my question. “When do boys start liking girls? Not for friends, but different like.”

  “Oh.” Granddad walked back over to his chair and sat down. “About your age, I expect.”

  “How’s it happen?”

  “How?” He chuckled. “It just happens, Shorty. There’s nothing you have to do.”

  “So I could all of a sudden like a girl different?”

  “Sure. But I don’t think it happens quite like you’re thinking.” He shifted in his chair and crossed his leg. “You’ll start seeing small things a little different than you did before. And slowly, new feelings will develop.”

  I refilled my cup, walked over to Granddad, and leaned on his desk. “So it’s not something that’ll happen all of a sudden one day?”

  Granddad’s shoulders shook. “No, no. That’s not how it works at all. At least, not in the beginning.” He rubbed his chin and looked over at the picture of Grandma on the desk. “As you get into your older teens, you’ll like them more quickly. See different things.”

  I took a sip. “Do you miss Grandma?”

  “Every day,” he said without even thinking about it. “I think we all do.”

  I looked into the paper cup at the cool water and took another drink. The pictures on his desk caught my eye, and I noticed again how they weren’t dusty like everything else.

  “You clean the pictures a lot.” I took Grandma’s picture in my hand and looked into her eyes, liking how she was looking back at me.

  Granddad smiled. “Those are the things in this room I need the most. I dust them off every day, and say good morning to all of you.”

  How can pictures be more important than all the books and stuff?

  “Nothing else in here would matter without the people in those picture frames.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “And that’s another th
ing you can let simmer for a little while.”

  I leaned forward and rested my head on his chest, and he put his arms around me.

  Mrs. Tremont’s house popped back into my head, and I thought about how her house had gotten all dusty and dirty after she didn’t live there anymore. And how, maybe, if there was someone who needed it and loved it, like Granddad did those pictures, then maybe it could be dusted off and look pretty again.

  Maybe.

  Chapter Nine

  August 1977

  The alley didn’t have any traffic, except for the occasional car leaving to run errands, so when we hung out there, we weren’t disturbed very often. Plus, it had the added benefit of being safer than riding bikes in the street.

  We never knew what evil things would be hiding behind each garage door or overgrown shrub in the alley, but we let our imaginations run wild. Armed with stick swords and shields made from shiny metal trash-can lids, we were always ready for battle. Evil knights and the most disgusting of snot-filled, stinky monsters were no match for us.

  It was our alley and we were there to protect it.

  Plus, the one thing the alley had that the rest of the neighborhood didn’t was rhubarb. Tons of it. Behind almost every garage, bunches of the stuff grew wild. All we needed was a sandwich baggie of sugar from our moms, and we could eat our way from one end of the alley to the other.

  We’d wash the dirt away by borrowing someone’s water spigot behind their garage, then dip the crunchy stalks in the sugar before snapping off a bit with our teeth. The sweet bitterness exploded, running down the corners of our mouths, hanging in large sticky, sweet drops on our chins.

  Afterward, we’d wash our faces and cup our hands under the faucet so we could drink some of the cool water. You could taste the deep, metallic earth in each swallow.

  Mr. Stillson’s big red fence always seemed to attract us, which we were sure drove him to the crazy house. We parked ourselves on the thin strip of grass that poked from under the fence, letting our bikes rest in the dirt, and munched on rhubarb for a good part of the afternoon.

  I had no idea why we always ended up there. Several other spots had more grass, and some had big rocks we could sit on, but we always ended up sitting on the narrow strip of sod right behind Stillson’s fence.

  It was probably because he didn’t want us to. Tommy said the fence was supposed to keep us away, but it acted more like a billboard that called our names.

  A pocket transistor radio hung by a piece of twine from the edge of the fence. Its knob was broken, so it was always stuck on one station. Fleetwood Mac sang their new song about going your own way, and it was the perfect soundtrack to a summer afternoon.

  Cubby sat with a cap gun, aiming and shooting at imaginary targets on the garage wall across the alley. He squinted one eye as he looked down the barrel and fired the little toy gun. The sulfur smell from the caps stung our noses, and he took a swig off his soda bottle before firing off another round.

  Bang!

  “Shhh.” Cubby put his finger to his lips. “I think I hear the monster again.”

  The monster was what some of the younger neighborhood kids called the barges on the Mississippi River. We could hear them crashing into each other sometimes, mostly at night, with deep thuds echoing up from the bluffs a couple of blocks over by Cherokee Park. The nighttime foghorns were a low tone that crept through the trees.

  Someone a long time ago joked that the sounds were moans from a monster in the river, trying to beat and claw his way through the riverboats and up the cliffs. The older kids knew better now, but there used to be a time we’d all lie in bed at night and hug the blankets a little tighter when we heard those sounds. Cubby knew better now too, but he still referred to the sounds as the monster.

  “So,” Tommy said, “what do you think?” He jerked his thumb toward Mr. Stillson’s fence.

  Cubby and I immediately knew what he was referring to.

  Climbing Old Man Stillson’s apple tree was something we usually planned and thought about for weeks before we did it. There were risks, including our parents punishing us, getting swatted with Stillson’s rake, or falling and breaking an arm. Death was also a risk, if you asked Cubby.

  “Nobody’s gonna die, Cub,” I said, reassuring him before he brought it up.

  “You never know, Jack,” Tommy said, a teasing glint in his eye. “Apple-tree wood is pretty weak. Ask Mr. Shaw.”

  Drops of sweat dotted Cubby’s forehead. He gulped and took another swig from his soda bottle. I knew he was getting ready to ask me if he should run up to Mr. Shaw’s and ask, but I shook my head and punched Tommy in the shoulder. He just laughed.

  “Come on, guys. It’s almost the end of summer.” Tommy raised both his arms, making him look like one of those preachers on Sunday morning TV. “It’s tradition.”

  All we’d usually do was jump the fence, climb up the little tree as quick as we could, then shake a branch to see how many apples would fall. The one who got the most to drop would win.

  But Mr. Stillson didn’t like it. Not one little bit.

  Tommy peeked through a gap in the fence. “Lots of chairs set up outside. Looks like they’re gonna have a party or something.” He turned his head and winked at me. “But we got time.”

  “You sure, Tommy?” A trickle of sweat ran down the back of my neck. Something didn’t feel right this time.

  “Just chill, man. It’s all cool.” He said it in a way that made me feel like nothing bad could possibly happen.

  Cubby frowned, his gaze darting up and down the alley as if he was just waiting for us to get busted.

  “I’ll go first, then you, Jack.” Tommy turned to look at Cubby. “Then you, Cub. You can do this.”

  Cubby blinked hard, then gulped down the rest of his pop like it was made of courage.

  Tommy crept to the corner of the garage, held the top of the fence, and pulled himself up. He was over in no time.

  Cubby and I rushed to press our faces against the fence to watch Tommy through the slats. He hunched over, staying low to the ground, and quickly made his way to the base of the tree.

  In one quick move, he reached up and grabbed the lowest branch, ran up the trunk with his feet, and came to a rest in the crotch of the tree. From there, it was a quick climb to some of the higher branches.

  The thick leaves hid him from sight. A moment later, a section of the tree shook and apples hit the ground with light thuds.

  Tommy was down in a matter of seconds, and quickly back over the fence. “I counted seven.”

  Cubby bobbed his head in agreement.

  “All right, Jack, you’re up.”

  I nodded and made my way to the corner of the garage, just as Tommy had, and up and over the fence. Hunched over, I crept across the yard, then jumped up and grabbed the lowest branch. After swinging myself up, I sat in the crotch of the tree, scanning the branches above and around me for a good target. I found a branch with a bunch of apples near the furthest part of the limb I was sitting on, and I went for it.

  Then the party started.

  The back door of the house swung open, and people flooded outside and poured into the little backyard. Mr. Stillson slapped his friends on the back, laughing and having a good old time. The chairs were facing away from the tree, placed just close enough to enjoy the shade. That was the only thing going in my favor.

  Behind him was Mrs. Stillson, pushing a wheelchair holding the oldest person I had ever seen in my young life. And she parked the chair directly underneath the tree.

  I was trapped.

  I looked back to the alley and saw Cubby and Tommy booking back toward our houses. Tommy turned, and I could see him laughing his butt off and pointing at me.

  I sat in that tree for what felt like the entire afternoon, but it couldn’t have been more than an hour.

  That was when it happened. The old lady’s head tilted back, and she locked eyes with me.

  I shook my head. It’ll be okay, I thought. She
hasn’t said a word this whole party. She’s not going to start now. Maybe she can’t even talk.

  But I was wrong.

  Like a scene out of a horror movie, she raised her hand and let out a scream like a banshee. Or was she laughing? Her crooked finger raised toward me as if trying to snatch me from the tree.

  Startled, I slipped and fell, banging my way down each branch, toppling head over heels with each blow until I landed on the grass.

  The wind was knocked out of me. I swear, I could practically see little Tweety birds circling the air above my head. Gasping, I lifted my head to see Old Man Stillson rushing toward the garage to get his rake, his face as red as his fence.

  At the fence, I saw Cubby had returned. One eye peered through the slat, nearly bulging out of his head. Knowing him, the only thought probably running through his head was Jack’s dead. I could see it in his eyes.

  I jumped to my feet and made a beeline for that fence, running faster than I ever had. I’d cleared the fence and was halfway home by the time Stillson burst through the back gate, shaking his rake at me.

  Cubby ran behind me, and when he caught up, huffed out, “I thought you were—”

  “Dead?” I laughed. “Nope. And I won. I got twelve apples.” I cupped my hands around my mouth to broadcast that message in the direction of Tommy’s house. “You hear that, spazoid? I got twelve.”

  We ducked behind a garage to catch our breath, since we knew from past experience that Mr. Stillson wouldn’t chase us more than a couple garages down.

  “Wanna hit up the apple spot, Cub?” I held up two green apples I’d grabbed before jumping the fence.

  He smiled and nodded. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

  Chapter Ten

  Cubby and I walked down to the stone wall across from the church on Cherokee Street. We sat on top of the wall, dangling our legs while we ate green apples.

  It was our apple spot.