by Jack Gantos
I suddenly felt faint. The air was hissing in my ears and it was snowing just behind my eyes. I took a deep breath as I reached for her shoulder to steady myself.
She stepped away. “Don’t touch me with your bloody hand,” she cried.
I dropped down to my knees and pulled the handkerchief from my pocket. “See this blood,” I said faintly, and waved the handkerchief back and forth. “It’s my own blood and it makes me dizzy. As much as I want to get away from my house and make money, I can’t work for your dad. I’ll bleed to death and your father will toss me onto that Aztec altar and embalm me.”
She shrugged. “Look, I’m here to give you another chance at doing some fun stuff together,” she said. “You are already punished and have to dig this bomb shelter, so how much worse can they make it for you?”
“They could make me dig two bomb shelters,” I said.
“Don’t be so depressing,” she said. “I’ve got a plan. Now that you can drive, let’s borrow Miss Volker’s car and cruise into Pittsburgh and go to a Pirates game. I have money for tickets.”
“Money is not the point,” I said. “If I drive to Pittsburgh I’ll be arrested and put into jail. The cops aren’t stupid. They’ll know I’m a kid. And my parents will kill me.”
“As my dad says, ‘You have to die sometime,’ so why not while you are having fun?”
Suddenly I remembered something we could do at my house without getting into trouble and it would be fun too. “Come in my room,” I said with enthusiasm. “And I’ll show you something cool.”
“Cooler than your bloody nose rag?” she asked, and wrinkled up her face.
“Much cooler,” I said as I slowly got back onto my two feet. “Come on.”
She reluctantly followed me into the house and down the hall and into my bedroom. “Look,” I said proudly, and pointed to the back corner of my room where I had been busy. “I built a little igloo out of my books.”
“That looks more like a doghouse,” she remarked.
“It’s an igloo,” I said. “Made out of blocks of books.”
“When you were born it’s a wonder your parents didn’t reject you,” she said. “I would have.”
“Do you want to read for a while?” I asked. I was eager to keep her in the house after I had spent days digging by myself. Dad had helped haul another empty Norvelt house to West Virginia so he wasn’t around, and I always felt guilty in front of Mom so I avoided conversations with her.
“You know I hate reading,” Bunny said.
“You want to know a secret?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said halfheartedly.
“I love to sniff the insides of books,” I said in a whisper. “Because each book has its own special perfume.”
“Now you are getting even more weird,” she whispered right back, and stepped away from me.
“Let me show you,” I said. I grabbed Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, flipped it open, shoved my face into the gutter of the book, and inhaled deeply through my stuffed-up nose. When I lifted my face from the book I swooned and said dreamily, “Ahhh, that was a good one. Now you do it.”
She reluctantly grabbed Custer’s Last Stand, flipped it open, and stuck her little curled-up cashew-size nose into the gutter. She gave it a good sniff, then dropped the book and staggered against my dresser. “History,” she said, gagging a bit, “has to be the worst smell in the world. Maybe that’s why when you die and people say you are history they mean you smell as bad as a rotten old dead person.”
“History isn’t dead,” I said. “It’s everywhere you look. It’s alive.”
“Well, I’m looking at history,” she said, pointing at me. “You used to be a friend, but now you stink as a friend! I came here to give you a second chance and you make me smell the crotch of an old book.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m just trapped here. As soon as I can prove I didn’t know there was a bullet in that gun I’ll be ungrounded, and then we can do anything normal you want.”
“Okay,” she said. “But how can you prove you didn’t put a bullet in the gun?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “None.”
“Great,” she said in a huff. “Well, Mr. Genius, when you figure it out call me, but I can’t sit in your little doghouse and sniff books all summer long because then I’d know I had gone insane!”
She started to walk out of my room. “Don’t go,” I begged. “Please.”
She lowered her shoulder and stiff-armed me out of the way and stomped down the hall and out the door.
From the other end of the hall my mother called out, “Jackie, who was that?”
“A stranger,” I muttered.
I jammed my handkerchief back up my nose and went outside. Before I started digging I fed the turkeys, made sure War Chief had water, then picked up my shovel.
* * *
That evening when Dad returned from West Virginia he came into my room. “Hey, Jackie,” he called out. “Are you in here?”
“I’m in the igloo,” I said.
He walked to the back corner of my room. From where I was curled up in my igloo I could just see his work boots.
“That looks more like an outhouse,” he remarked. “Or a tomb. An igloo is round but your books are square, not curved. Do you need glasses?”
I knew what I was thinking was wrong, even evil, but for the first time in my life I wished that another old lady in Norvelt would drop dead at that moment and get me out of my room.
“I found out something interesting,” he said. “Guess who actually is buying up all the Norvelt houses and moving them to West Virginia?”
That stumped me. I couldn’t think of anyone who would do that but my own father. “Who?” I asked.
“Mr. Huffer,” he said, and hooted out loud. “He’s selling all the houses but keeping the land. Why do you think he’d do that?”
I stood up and my igloo fell apart and settled at my feet. “Maybe he’s planning to turn Norvelt into one big cemetery,” I guessed.
“That’s a possibility,” he said, and winked at me. “But he won’t have to work too hard at it. The place is already half-dead.”
“I’ll ask Bunny,” I suggested.
In a minute I called her on the phone. The moment she heard my voice she hung up.
19
I called her on July 17th and she hung up.
I called her on the 18th and it sounded like she threw the phone across the room.
I called her on the 19th and she was softening. “You know what I’m doing?” she yelled.
“No,” I replied.
“Dropping the phone in the human innards bucket!”
I heard something like a splash and a gurgle. I hung up and went directly to the bathroom. My nose was right on time. I looked in the mirror and the first drop was just sliding down over my upper lip.
I called her on the 20th. I was wearing her down. She held up a pair of dentures and made them chatter while she made spooky ghost sounds in the background. Then she hung up.
I called her on the 21st.
“Okay,” she said, sounding a little exasperated. “Do you know who put the bullet in your rifle?”
“I’m working on it,” I said. “And do you know why your dad is buying and moving all the Norvelt houses to West Virginia?”
There was silence, but I could hear her brain operating. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s the deal. My dad said to keep it a secret, but I’ll tell you. Only you have to sneak out of your house tonight and go on Girl Scout fire patrol with me. It’s my night to keep an eye on the empty houses so the Hells Angels don’t burn them down.”
“Can’t you just tell me over the phone?” I asked.
“Nope! Show some backbone and sneak out,” she said.
Then I made a decision that almost got me killed forever. “I will sneak out,” I quietly replied. “Just tell me where to meet and what time.”
“On the other side of the school,” she said. “We’ll start with s
ection D at ten o’clock.”
“Ten?” I repeated.
“Be there or be-ware!” she said, and slammed the phone down.
I went back into my rebuilt igloo and gave the evening a lot of thought. Then I did a little planning and preparation and when it was nine-thirty I jumped into action. I walked into my mom’s room and kissed her good night.
“Sleep tight,” she said.
“You too,” I replied, hoping she would. Then I walked back down the hall, past my bedroom to the basement door, which I had left partway open because of the noisy latch. I slipped sideways through the doorway and picked up the flashlight I had left on the top step. I turned it on and carefully went down the basement steps. I passed the washing machine and furnace and entered the old coal bin which was no longer used. There was a coal chute, like a sliding board, that went up to a metal hatch like a bigger version of a mail slot where the coal had been delivered. I scampered up the chute. I opened the latch and swung the hatch open. It didn’t creak because I had earlier oiled the hinges. I turned my flashlight off and wiggled my way out and gently lowered the hatch behind me. I jammed the flashlight into my back pocket and walked quietly behind the garage, where I had a bag with my Grim Reaper costume. I put on the black robe and kept the mask pushed back on top of my head for now.
I stepped out from behind the garage and saw my mother’s light was already off. If my dad came home late he would never check on me. I picked up my pace and headed for the school.
Bunny was already there and was smoking a cigarette. “Well, look who decided to be a man for a change,” she remarked when she saw me. She held out the pack of smokes. “Want one?”
“No wonder your growth is stunted,” I said, and pushed her hand away.
“I can still kick your tail so watch your mouth,” she started up.
“Let’s just get going,” I said. “And put out the cigarette. We’re not here to start fires.”
She threw it down and ground it out with her shoe. “Okay,” she said. “Since you showed up, here is the deal with my dad. He buys up all the empty Norvelt houses and is selling them to Eleanor, West Virginia, because that is a bigger town and more people die there and business is better there. He figures he is going to have to shut down here and we’ll move there.”
“Well, that makes sense,” I said. “But moving the houses is driving Miss Volker nuts. She loves this town and can’t stand to see it die off.”
“Believe me,” Bunny said wisely, “I’ve seen a lot of people looking at things that have died off—and they get over it. So she’ll get over it too.”
“What about the land?” I asked. “Are you going to build a huge cemetery?
“No. My dad wants to build a big development called Hufferville,” she said.
“Are you pulling my leg?” I asked.
Just then Bunny grabbed my shoulder and we stopped walking. “Listen,” she said.
“It’s a car,” I said. “Not a motorcycle.”
“They’ve been sneaking up on the town in cars,” she said. “There have been a half-dozen small fires that haven’t been reported because Dad doesn’t want to scare people.”
The car was slowly heading our way. We ducked down behind a hedge until it passed and then the brake lights came on. A Hells Angel got out of the passenger side and popped the trunk open.
“What do we do next?” I whispered.
She didn’t answer. Instead she showed me the silver whistle she had on a string around her neck. “The secret signal,” she whispered back.
The Hells Angel grabbed a can of gasoline and walked over to the porch of the house and began to slosh gas onto the boards and railing.
I looked at Bunny but she didn’t move. I elbowed her. She reached into her pocket and pulled out two fist-size rocks. She gave me one. I nodded. Then she stood up and yelled, “Hey!”
The guy stopped and turned toward us and she threw her rock. It hit the house. He dropped his gas can and I heard his metal lighter flip open.
“Hey!” I yelled, and threw my rock. I had no idea where it went, but in an instant the entire porch burst into flames as if I had thrown a grenade. Bunny was blowing her whistle and the Hells Angel with his wild hair and bushy beard could see me in the firelight.
He pointed at me. “Kid,” he growled, “I’m gonna kill you!”
That was the moment I realized my mask was pushed up on my head and he could see my face, and I could see that he was running in my direction.
“Run for your life!” Bunny cried out, and she took off.
I ran in another direction. I don’t think the Hells Angel followed because I could hear their car take off and peel rubber as it hit the main road.
I slowed down for a moment and that was when I could hear Bunny’s whistle start up again, and then other whistles followed. The Girl Scouts had a system set up, but I didn’t have time to admire it because I knew that the fire department would be called and that fire whistle would go off and wake the entire town and I knew Mom would hop up and the first thing she would do is dash into my room and check on me to make sure my room wasn’t on fire.
I ran as hard as I could with the costume bunched up under one arm. My mask went flying off my face but I didn’t stop. Just when I got past Miss Volker’s house I heard the loud fire whistle. I knew Mom wouldn’t find me in my room. I couldn’t get there fast enough. There was only one thing I could do. I ran to the back of our garage and opened the little door. I ripped the costume over my head and threw it to one side, then I quickly opened the souvenir chest and grabbed the binoculars and ran back out the little door and around the garage and up the steps to our back door and in a flash I was in the kitchen. Mom was just flicking on the light.
“Where were you?” she asked, and I could see the concern on her face because she had been in my room.
“Here,” I said, avoiding the question as I held out the binoculars. “Quick. Which house is on fire?”
She held the binoculars to her eyes, and as she stood at the kitchen sink and scanned the town I slipped down the hall to my room and kicked off my shoes and threw the flashlight on the bed and wiped the sweat off my face with my pillow.
When I returned to the kitchen she was on the phone with Mr. Spizz. The fire had been put out by neighbors almost as quickly as it was started. The house was scorched, but not burned.
By the time she got off the phone I was in the bathroom.
“Good night,” she said.
“Sleep tight,” I said through the closed door.
20
After that night I just stayed around the house like a good angel. Mom did ask me how I got out of my bedroom so fast to get the binoculars. I gave her that innocent look and just said, “Boy, you must have been in a sound sleep. The fire whistle was going on for a long time before you woke.” That seemed to satisfy her and, like any lie, the fewer details you give the better it is.
But it wasn’t Mom who I thought was going to kill me. I was just hauling a wheelbarrow full of dirt around the side of the house when a huge man roared up the driveway on a motorcycle. He had a long beard combed down the middle and pulled back over his shoulders and tied together in a knot behind his neck. He looked just like the Hells Angel who said he was going to kill me. I’m dead, I thought when he got off his chopper and reached into one of the black leather saddlebags and pulled out a hammer and spike and swaggered in my direction.
I figured he would pick me up, press me against a tree trunk, and drive the spike through my forehead and leave me hanging there while he burned our house down. All I had to fight back with was a pick and shovel, and I was so tired I could hardly lift either of them to defend myself. My only regret was that I hadn’t written down my obituary, but I figured Miss Volker would do a good one. I had read her This Day In History column and July 28 was when Henry VIII had Thomas Cromwell executed, and Robespierre was guillotined, and a U.S. Army bomber accidentally flew into the seventy-ninth floor of the Empire State Building an
d killed fourteen people. It was already a good day for death, and I was about to go down in history.
“Hey, kid,” he called out, and waved his hammer at me as if he were Thor and about to crush my little head with one massive blow. “Where is War Chief?”
“What?” I yelled back, and got ready to run away.
“Your pony,” he said as he stomped toward me. “I’m the farrier who is here to fix your pony.”
“I thought you were a Hells Angel,” I said.
“I used to be,” he replied. “But fighting all the time and being really drunk and nasty got boring. So now I just take care of animals.”
“Over there,” I yelled back with some relief, and pointed to where War Chief was trying to catch flies in his mouth.
He turned around and grabbed more tools from his saddlebags. Mom was down working at the pants factory, so I just hung around with the farrier. He took off War Chief’s old worn-down horseshoes. “Boy, this sure is overdue,” he said as he began to carefully clip the hooves and peel away the old layers. He filed them down and shaped them. Then he gently went from hoof to hoof and cleaned the frog. After that he nailed new shoes onto War Chief. Finally he went back to his motorcycle and returned with a bunch of carrots. As he rubbed War Chief’s nose and fed him he turned to me and asked, “Is your mom here to pay me?”
This was my chance to escape. “She told me that she was trading me for your work, so you can take me with you,” I said in my polite voice. “I’m more valuable than money.”
He glanced at me and grinned. “I’m sure you are,” he replied. “But it’s a lot cheaper to keep money in my pocket than to feed a kid. I’ll hold out for the cash.”
“I’m sure she’ll pay you,” I said. “She works really hard and is the most honest person I know—more honest than me.”
“She told me on the phone that if she wasn’t here to go to the pants factory,” he said, “so I’ll go down there.”
And then I desperately blurted out, “Do you want to see the igloo I made out of books?”
