Reaching the opposite side, Bradley Wallace dropped to the ground, and took off like a shot, running along the upper edge as fast as its precarious nature allowed, simultaneously slanting downward towards the bottom of the Gully, which provided better, more stable running ground.
His breath was already coming in short gasps by the time he did reach the bottom, and he wished he had bigger lungs. Whales’ lungs would be perfect; he could run forever, then.
But as it was, he wasn’t terribly athletic and the others were gaining fast. He could almost feel their hot, fetid breath on his neck like that of a pack of wild dogs.
Legs pumping furiously, PF Flyers living up to their name, the frantic boy scanned the Gully ahead, ever mindful of tripping over rocks or gnarly old weeds, as he pelted onward. Looming dead ahead, like a cast-off old shoe someone had tossed there indiscriminately, was the old warehouse, looking shadowy and ominous in the waning, pinkish-orange sunlight. He knew that warehouse better than anyone, and he knew exactly the place to hide once inside. But first he had to get there.
“C’mon, you guys!” he heard Wagner shout from somewhere not far behind. Then, obviously directed at him, “We’re gonna beat the crap outta you, faggot!”
This time Bradley Wallace realized they were gaining on him, and fast. Breath rasping, lungs at the bursting point, he pumped on through sheer strength of will. His legs had turned to Jell-O long ago. The warehouse loomed closer. Almost there!
At last, the dented, dingy grey metal walls rose up before him, and he quickly darted around the corner, flinging himself at the slit between two metal panels, above which a faded, mud-spattered, gum-encrusted sign just barely displayed the words “No Trespassing,” and squeezing into the musty interior. Eerie, pinkish-orange sunset light filtered in through the shattered windows along the walls near the ceiling, but Bradley Wallace didn’t need it to find his way around. He could navigate this structure in the dark, if need be.
Dodging debris and broken equipment, the boy raced to the opposite corner, where a rusting old machine sat, lonely and forlorn, as though waiting patiently for someone from another time to come and reactivate its aged mechanism.
Bradley Wallace had been told by someone (he couldn’t remember who anymore) that the machine used to be called The Masher, but he wasn’t curious enough to climb inside and find out how it acquired that particular nickname.
He dashed around behind the Masher, where a large, wooden crossbeam had dropped from the ceiling - or perhaps it had just been dumped there (people had used the old building as a dumping ground for years before it had been officially condemned). He slipped under the beam and pressed himself flat to the ground. They’d never find him here. No way.
Panting heavily and fearing he must sound like a wild boar in heat, Bradley Wallace fought to control his erratic breathing. Damn! If only he had those whale-sized lungs! He listened, but only heard silence for a few moments, an impending silence. Then, distant and muffled, came Wagner’s strident voice, “He must be inside. Now we’ve got him.”
Something caught his eye, and Bradley Wallace tuned Wagner out as he inched forward across the dirt floor. A hole he’d never seen before lay open and gaping a few feet in front of his face, a big hole, at least two feet in diameter. A glowing light emanated from within. The boy’s heart, already pounding wildly from the exertion of running, was now gripped by an intense cold, and the cautionary feeling that he’d stumbled onto something perhaps best left alone. But his insatiable curiosity got the better of his caution. He had to know what was inside that hole.
Inching further along, Bradley Wallace’s face finally reached the rim of the hole, and he carefully peered downward. A blinding glare forced him to conceal his eyes.
What the . . . ? Peeking out from under his hand, the boy strained to make out any details. But the blazing light too effectively obscured its source. He crawled forward just a bit more, hoping for a better view.
Without warning, the hole’s rim gave way and the ground around him seemed to heave. Bradley Wallace pitched downward.
He scrabbled at the dirt for a handhold, something to grip to stop his downward plunge, but only succeeded in filling his mouth with dirt and pebbles. He continued falling, the earth caving in around him, the glare blinding his dirt-filled eyes. As he fell, the beam shifted its ponderous weight and crashed heavily to the ground, covering the hole and sealing the boy within. But Bradley Wallace was only dimly aware of this, however, as he suddenly struck bottom hard, cracking his head loudly against what felt like concrete. Stars filled his vision, and he blacked out.
Squeezing through the narrow slit, Wagner tore his pants and cursed loudly, his anger having reached its boiling point. He would not be made a fool of, especially by the likes of Murphy! Raley and Smith followed, sniggering at their leader’s mishap. A quick, silent glare from Wagner shut them up cold, however.
The three boys spread out and searched the quickly darkening warehouse. But they found nothing. Murphy had seemingly disappeared. Dirty and tired, the gang stopped to rest by the fallen beam, oblivious to the hole beneath it. Wagner stewed in his festering anger.
“Where did he go?” he demanded of no one in particular. “He has to be here, I tell you, he has to be!” He slammed his fist down hard on the beam, causing it to drop another few inches, just missing his foot.
“That was close, John,” Raley stammered, eyeing the beam fearfully. “You couldda lost your foot or somethin’.”
Smith’s frog face was also traced with worry. “What if he really did curse us, John?”
Wagner glared at him so fiercely that Smith dropped his gaze to the floor. “You got crap for brains, you know that, Smith?”
Raley piped up, a bit timidly, “He did disappear on us, John. And what about all that confession stuff, and bein’ destroyed? I always knew he was weird, but I think this time he really freaked out.”
Genuinely stumped, but determined not to reveal his own doubts and apprehensions, Wagner reached for a rock near his foot and flung it hard against the corrugated metal wall. The dull ping echoed slightly. Without another word, Wagner turned and strode confidently to the slit. “He can’t hide at school. We’ll get the little bastard, one way or another.” Then he ducked through the slit without looking back.
Smith and Raley exchanged cursory glances and, though neither would openly admit it (that wasn’t cool, after all), both were definitely jittery and neither wanted to stay around this place after dark. No way. What if Murphy really had cursed them or something? What if . . . ?
The beam shifted position again with a dull thud, startling the nervous boys.
No longer worried about being cool, as one they dashed for the slit, exited into the sultry sunset, and raced off after their fearless leader. The light was fading fast, and long, deep shadows crept up on the warehouse like the threatening tentacles of a man-eating plant. Breaking the silence came the distant who, who, whooing of Bradley Wallace’s elusive owl.
The boy stirred. A dull throbbing pounded at the back of his head and his body felt twisted up like a pretzel. Spitting dirt from his mouth, Bradley Wallace carefully cracked open his eyes.
The light pierced his pupils like knives, and he snapped his eyelids shut, easing them open slowly, giving them time to adjust. His mind was so muddled. What happened? He glanced up at the beam covering the aperture, and then he remembered. The ground had collapsed! He shifted his position, striving to unloose his twisted limbs. Oooh! Man, his head hurt! It felt like there was a rock group playing inside - using real rocks!
Suddenly he recalled why he was there in the first place, and listened intently for any sounds of movement from above. Hearing nothing, he decided Wagner and gang had given up and gone home. How long had he been here, anyway? Shaking the cobwebby feeling from his still-befuddled brain, Bradley Wallace suddenly sucked in a startled breath. A rhythmic, throbbing sensation crept slowly up his back, like the magic fingers of the motel bed he’d slept in years ago on
the family’s first and only trip to Disneyland. Back when the family did things together.
The space in which the boy had fallen was not large, but Bradley Wallace did manage to squirm awkwardly around to confront the source of those mysterious vibrations. Eyes wide with curiosity, he peered closely at an object half-buried in the dirt. Its color was that of dirty chalk, and its shape (from what was visible) seemed to be ellipsoidal. It sure didn’t look like any meteorite, thought Bradley Wallace as he examined the glassy smooth surface. Hesitantly, the boy reached out and placed a hand on the vibrating “thing.” He pulled away at once. The thing was warm to the touch, almost hot. Reaching out again, he lightly rubbed his dirty hand along the surface. It looked smooth, he noted, and yet felt rough and bumpy, sort of like a pomegranate or an avocado. The warmth seeped into his hand and spread upward along the length of his arm. It felt so soothing, so comforting he never wanted the sensation to end.
Then, almost as a whisper, he heard, or thought he heard, his name called out. Startled, he jerked his hand back, and sucked in a nervous breath.
Had he really heard his name? Naw. He couldn’t have. There’s no one else here, after all. It must’ve been the wind or something. Suddenly fearful, but ever curious, the boy leaned closer and gingerly placed his ear against the surface of the thing. His features scrunched up with confusion. What the . . .? Something inside was moving, shifting position restlessly. Then again, almost indistinct, like the faintest rustling of leaves in a light breeze, Bradley Wallace heard - or was it felt - his name called out. That did it!
Pulling back, he scrambled to a kneeling position. Fear pumping new strength into his system, the boy pressed up against the heavy beam with all his might. Muscles straining, heart pounding with desperation, Bradley Wallace felt the ponderous weight of the beam shift a few feet, enough for him to squeeze through. Darkness poured through the gap from above, a marked contrast from the brightly lit enclosure, and the cold night air chilled him.
Bradley Wallace gripped the rafter and used it to pull himself from the hole, kicking more dirt down as he scrabbled up and finally lay panting on the solid warehouse floor. Oh God, he realized, it’s night already! He’d get killed for being late. Casting a final, fearful glance at the glowing object, the boy clambered to his feet and dashed for the slit, pushing his way outside into the dark, shadowy Gully. His eyes hurriedly scanned the area, just in case Wagner was still lurking about the premises waiting to attack. Satisfied that he was alone, the boy raced on up toward the incline to the street, away from the warehouse and the mysterious “thing” within.
As expected, Bradley Wallace got bawled out by his parents upon arriving home. He was filthy and late, an intolerable combination as far as his parents were concerned. In addition to which, it was his birthday and his mother had prepared his favorite dinner - lamb chops. His father glowered sternly at him, demanded to know where the boy had been, and only blithely accepted his son’s explanation that he’d been hiking in the hills and simply lost track of time.
After sending Bradley Wallace to the bathroom to clean up, the family sat down to dinner.
Katie, Bradley Wallace’s sister, who was fifteen and thought she knew everything, did most of the talking. But then, she usually did. Why did girls always have to talk so much? Katie was shorter than him, freckle-faced, with straight brown hair that hung limply down her back very nearly to her waist and which she determined never to cut. She and her mother had had many dandy knock-down-drag-outs on that subject, and Bradley Wallace enjoyed watching her get picked on for a change. His mother was weird when it came to hair.
In between mouthfuls of petit pois peas (another favorite food of Bradley Wallace), Katie deigned to explain how, at thirteen, Bradley Wallace was no longer a child, but a teenager, and, as such, had to act more grown up.
“Like you, you mean?” the boy scoffed, irritated by her pompous tone.
She turned up her nose and sneered. “I just mean it’s time you stop acting like such a little kid, watching all those stupid TV shows and reading comic books. Teenagers don’t do things like that.”
“She has a point, Bradey,” his mother chimed in, never missing the slightest opportunity to needle him about his “unusual proclivities,” an expression he’d overheard his parents use one night a while back. He didn’t bother to look up “proclivities” in the dictionary. If they used it in regards to him, it must be bad.
Bradley Wallace’s father had been reasonably silent after chastising his son for being late. He was real good in the not-talking department. Jack Murphy wasn’t a big man physically, but he had definite presence, and personality, too, when he chose to show it. He had a sharp mind and wit, and was more often than not the life of any party, especially after having a few drinks; actually, almost always after a few drinks. Somehow he never seemed comfortable with himself, and only loosened up through alcohol. Bradley Wallace always thought it strange that his father still wore his hair in a crew cut, but figured maybe it went back to his father’s army days (he’d served during the tail-end of World War II). Jack’s features were naturally ruddy, giving him the constant appearance of being angry. Tonight he seemed more ill-at-ease than usual, Bradley Wallace noted. Of course, he always seemed ill-at-ease when talking to his son, and the feeling was mutual.
“So, son, how does it feel to be thirteen?” his father asked politely.
The same as it did when I was twelve, the boy thought. Why do parents ask such dumb questions? But he merely replied, “Fine, I guess.” His voice cracked slightly, like a sick bird attempting to warble, and Katie burst into laughter. Bradley Wallace flushed with embarrassment, and knew his ears must be turning bright red. Damn that Katie!
“Don’t worry about it,” his father reassured him. “Every boy’s voice changes at your age. That’s normal.”
Bradley Wallace nodded, afraid to say more for fear of further derision from his sister. But he didn’t fail to notice the emphasis Jack Murphy placed on the word “normal,” obviously implying that the boy’s voice change was one of the few normal things about him. But, of course, he pretended not to notice, and managed to get through the entire meal without his voice changing octaves again.
After dinner came the birthday cake, again his favorite - devil’s food - and the usual chorus of “Happy Birthday” which everyone sang in his or her own key, of course.
Admonished by his mother to make a wish “quickly, before the candles drip all over the cake,” Bradley Wallace secretly wished he could be a normal boy and thus more acceptable to his parents, and then blew out all the candles with a single breath. Once Katie had washed the dishes (she and Bradley Wallace alternated weeks), it was time for the presents.
He got the usual assortment of clothes - a couple of alligator knit shirts, a pair of blue jeans (which he hated and which his mother knew he hated, but which “all the other kids were wearing and which were easy to clean, so he could just get used to them”), and a new pair of swim trunks for summer. He also received a wrist watch so he could tell time better and not be late anymore (Katie never let him forget the fact that he didn’t learn to tell time till he was ten years old, but how could he have learned when no one had bothered to teach him?), a new super ball (a rubberized ball that bounced wildly in any and all directions, and man, could those things go high - everyone at school had one), and the book Fifty Saints for Boys (the Murphys were Catholic, except Jack, who was atheist but tried to hide it “for the sake of the kids.”) Bradley Wallace was aware of this, as he was of most things his parents thought he wasn’t, but Katie wasn’t quite so astute.
Bradley Wallace tore the wrapping from his final present and threw the paper aside. “Bradey, you could be a bit neater, you know,” his mother chided. But her words went right past the boy, who was staring down at the gift in his hands, speechless. A football. A football! He hated football. And they both knew he hated football.
“I know the other kids give you a rough time when you play because you’
re not as good as they are,” his father explained uneasily, striving to be as diplomatic as possible, “so I thought, well, maybe if you had your own football, we could practice more and you’d get better. How ‘bout it?”
“Sure,” was all the stupefied Bradley Wallace could muster in reply. Why wouldn’t his father get a clue and give up?
“We just want you to fit in with the other kids, Honey,” Marge put in softly. “We worry that you don’t have many friends.”
Actually, he didn’t really have any friends, but he wasn’t going to debate the issue. “He’s too weird for everyone else,” chirped Katie, delighted at the chance to badger her little brother.
“That’s enough, Katie,” Jack commanded sternly. But Bradley Wallace could detect the note of agreement in his voice, and a complimentary look on his face. He agreed with Katie.
Bradley Wallace stood up slowly, surrounded by shredded wrapping paper and mangled ribbon. He tried to look enthusiastic as he said, “Thank you, for everything.”
“You’re welcome, Bradey,” his mother replied, hugging him and planting an affectionate kiss on his cheek. “Happy Birthday.”
The boy halfheartedly smiled, and shook hands with his father. Jack had long ago given up hugging his son, so long ago, in fact, that Bradley Wallace couldn’t remember the last time. Jack also wished him a happy birthday.
“Well,” Bradley Wallace broke the awkward silence that had descended on the room like a stifling fogbank, “I’d better get this stuff back to my room.”
Anxious to quit the room as soon as possible, the boy knelt down and scooped up his presents, hanging the clothes over his arms, cradling the book under one elbow and the football under the other. Hunched over like Quasimodo to keep from dropping everything, Bradley Wallace scurried from the family room, past the kitchen, and down the white-tiled hallway toward the relative safety of his room.
A Boy and His Dragon Page 3
