Little Crew of Butchers

by Francine Pascal

  Between sobs, Daisy tells her that Luke isn’t a relative, just a good friend. Remembering her story to Lucy, she adds, “An old, good friend.”

  Before she can continue, Lucy speaks up, tiny hands clasped tightly together.

  “He’s gonna drown if you don’t get there really fast.”

  The gravity in the little girl’s voice registers.

  “Come on,” Daisy says. “Show me where he is.”

  “Can you take your car?” Charley asks.

  Daisy shakes her head. She doesn’t have a car. Neither does Mrs. McDonnell.

  “Then you can take my bike. Lucy and I can walk home.”

  Daisy stands, paralyzed, her own ambivalence about Luke further complicating the children’s unsatisfactory explanation of what happened to him. It was all too much, too fast—but in the face of the children’s panic, everything boiled down to: “Yes, I will.” Without bothering to put on a raincoat, Daisy rushes outside.

  “It’s the rain sewer right where you were …” Charley fumbles for the right explanation. “Where you were.”

  Daisy vanishes before he can finish, jumping on the bike and shouting back over her shoulder, “I’ll return it later! Thank you!”

  Charley and Lucy stand in the rain, watching Daisy speed off. In that moment, they have no doubt that Luke will be saved.

  They feel pretty okay. Like Luke said, brave.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Everything in Shorelane closes for the holiday, including the bars. That means John O’Neill will be home all morning. Larry keeps to his room, waiting until his mother goes into the kitchen to make breakfast. Larry won’t eat until his father finishes.

  If Mr. O’Neill had a long night, it will be a quick breakfast. A long night either in a bar or in the living room drinking Irish alone, listening to Ted Nugent, and falling asleep on the couch.

  Larry knows today will be a fast breakfast. He heard at least four repeats of “Sweet Sally” last night when he was trying to sleep.

  He waits and listens.

  His father is shouting at his mother. Larry can’t hear her responses, but even on the rare occasions when she makes one, it’s always so soft you can hardly hear it. It doesn’t make any difference anyway; Mr. O’Neill never listens to his wife.

  Larry wishes his father was dead a thousand times every day. Except sometimes, just before John O’Neill gets mean drunk, in that strange middle between sobriety and the cusp of inebriation, there is a loosening, a brief moment of affection for whoever is near. Larry has seen him grab out for his wife and hug her, though she is always too nervous to enjoy it. Larry has also seen him slide his hand under her skirt. That’s when Larry disappears, runs up to hide in his room.

  Other times Larry is the nearest. And then John O’Neill will put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and pull him close. While Larry is never unafraid of his father, he can’t help but respond to the feel of so much strong, warm body against his own.

  But the affection only lasts until the next drink takes John O’Neill back to his true self, and that’s bad, ’cause his father is a big man, tall, like Luke, and powerful. Luke would be powerful too, if he was free. And he’d be sore at Larry, like his father is always pissed off at him for something, though half the time Larry doesn’t even know what he did. Because mostly it was nothing. But with Luke, he would know.

  It is rare for the boy to have physical contact with another human being outside of a fight with one of the little kids. Even when he touches someone, it’s never affectionate. When he was little, when his father wasn’t around, his mother would hold him. As he got older, even that contact diminished—a quick touch, a hand on his back to lead him to the table or straighten his jacket. Now she almost never touches him.

  Larry knows it’s because he grew up so ugly. Fatso, creep, sweatball, all the things the kids call him, they’re all true; that’s why his mother doesn’t like him anymore.

  He’s only twelve. But he’s a twelve-year-old with a gun. That’s going to make a difference to everyone. They’ll see.

  It makes Larry smile. Nobody has any idea what he’s planning. Nobody even suspects. But by the end of the day, everybody in Shorelane will be talking. He’ll be the most important kid around.

  And when the television crews come, everyone will say dumb things like, “Oh, he was just an ordinary kid. He didn’t look like he would shoot anybody. Where did he get the gun anyway?”

  Maybe they’ll arrest his father because it was his gun.

  Whatever happens, thanks to Larry O’Neill, this will be a Fourth of July no one will ever forget.

  The guy in the sewer, he knows what’s going to happen. He might have tried to stop Larry, but he’s dead, drowned. So that’s okay.

  Larry plans it out in his head, how it’s going to look.

  Lucy will definitely be first. Then that asshole Ryan from next door. After that it’s up for grabs. Anybody will do. Plenty of guys from his class will be there.

  Suddenly, Larry has a great idea—how about one of the twins? They’re always hanging around him; they’ll be real close. And the beauty of it: it doesn’t even matter which one he shoots.

  Larry hears his father going up the stairs. It’s now safe to go to the kitchen.

  Nonetheless, he goes very quietly.

  Carol O’Neill is waiting for her son. Normally, she would have made pancakes because she knows they’re Larry’s favorite and she likes to make them. But this morning’s argument with John has unnerved her. She knows she has to go up and apologize. If she doesn’t, he’ll spend all day nursing his grievances and all night drinking them into a full-blown fury. So instead of the pancakes Larry loves, it’s cold cereal.

  She is setting the bowl at Larry’s place when he comes into the kitchen.

  “You can have Total or that new cereal with the raisins if you want,” she says.

  “Total’s okay,” Larry says. “Is Dad going to the picnic?”

  Larry hopes he isn’t. It will be hard to shoot anybody in front of his dad. He’ll be embarrassed—and scared.

  “Not now, maybe later. I’ll probably stay home and keep him company.”

  The thought of keeping John O’Neill company is ludicrous, but what else can she say?

  “Can I go?” her son asks.

  It’s always better to have Larry out of the house on the weekends when John is home. No matter what Larry’s mother does, there’s always trouble. John just finds it. Or makes it.

  “Of course you can go.” She dries her hands on a dish towel. “I’m going to make the beds. Put your bowl in the sink when you’re finished, and don’t forget to put the butter away.”

  She folds the dish towel and puts it on the rack next to the sink. “If Dad decides to go to the picnic later, we’ll find you.”

  She leaves Larry alone in the kitchen. He prays his father won’t change his mind. He probably won’t. John O’Neill doesn’t like social events.

  Larry eats his cereal, finds two doughnuts from yesterday, eats them, and scoops out some peanut butter, eating it with his fingers. Finally, he wipes his hand, pats the gun in his pocket, and leaves.

  He forgets to put the butter away.

  * * *

  Next door, Ryan is getting ready to pick up Ashley for the picnic. He sees Larry leaving. He could give him a lift, but the thought of that kid sweating up the upholstery in his dad’s car turns him off. Besides, he can’t have a little creep like that around Ashley. She might think they’re friends or something.

  Ryan waits until Larry is halfway down the street before he gets in the car.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Charley and Lucy are overjoyed to see the sun. Not only does it mean Luke is probably okay, surely okay, it means the picnic is on. Next to Christmas, this is the most exciting day of the year.

  They want Daisy
to save Luke, but they don’t really want to see either of them ever again. They just want it all to be over.

  “Do you think Daisy’ll bring Luke to the picnic?” Lucy asks. “Do you think he told on us?”

  The thought almost ruins the picnic for Charley. That—and seeing Larry. But of course, Larry won’t know they told Daisy. But what if Luke really does come and he sees them? What if he sees Larry? Suddenly the picnic seems like a terrible idea.

  “I’m not going,” he says to Lucy.

  His mother overhears as she comes into the room. “Where are you not going?” she asks.

  “To the picnic.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “Yeah, my stomach …”

  “Let me take your temperature. When did this start?”

  “Me, too,” Lucy says. “My stomach hurts too.”

  It isn’t easy to fool Leddy Adler. She knows her children too well.

  “Okay,” she asks, “what’s up?”

  “Nothing,” they say at the same time.

  Hitting pretty near the bull’s-eye, she asks, “Is it that awful O’Neill kid? I’m talking to your father about him. We’re going to have a word with his dad.” She goes to the foot of the steps to call her husband, who’s already on his way downstairs dressed in jeans and a T-shirt for the picnic.

  Ned Adler is slim and more boyish than his early forties age would indicate and red-haired like both his children. When Leddy tells him why the children don’t want to go to the picnic, her voice is almost shaking with anger.

  “We have to do something about that kid, Ned.” She turns to Charley. “Charley, I told you not to play with him. He’s too old to be hanging around with ten-year-olds anyway.”

  “What is it, Charley?” Ned asks. “Is he pushing you around again?”

  Of course, both children shake their heads vehemently. Their father, unconvinced, turns to Lucy. Lucy is the kind of child who rarely makes excuses. She tells the straight truth and whatever happens, happens.

  “Lucy, is it—what’s his name? The O’Neill kid?”

  The little girl hesitates, looking at Charley. “Yeah … yeah, we don’t like him.”

  “Okay, but you can’t let him keep you away from things you want to do. And, Charley, you can’t be afraid all the time. Tell you what: you find that kid and tell him that if he bothers you or your sister again, your father is going to take it up with his father.”

  “Larry’s really afraid of his dad,” Charley says.

  “With good reason. His father is a goddamn bully too. But don’t worry, I’m not really going to say anything to John O’Neill. I think the threat will be enough to stop Larry.”

  “I’m for actually talking to his father,” Leddy says. “I’ve had enough of that kid.”

  “I can’t do that, Leddy. The kid may be a bully, but he’s not dangerous. John O’Neill, now he can be one out-of-control guy. I remember him from school. Even then he had a bad temper, especially when he drank, and he drinks plenty now. I’d be scared to say something, not for myself, but for his kid.”

  Reluctantly, Leddy agrees.

  “Charley,” Ned says. “You have to do this on your own or you’ll never get rid of him. I can give you the weapon, but you have to use it. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Lucy says, answering for her brother. “We’ll do it.”

  “Not you!” Leddy says. “You keep away from that boy.”

  Lucy nods, but she doesn’t mean it. She’ll stick with Charley.

  She knows he needs her help.

  * * *

  At the Duncan house, the twins have been up and ready since eight. Their mother insisted that the pouring rain meant there wouldn’t be a picnic, but when it begins to clear around ten, they start nagging, and around ten thirty she finally says they can go.

  They are in a hurry to find Larry before Charley arrives. They don’t want to share their best friend with anybody.

  At no time during the morning do they talk about the man in the sewer. If they think about Luke at all, neither mentions it. Anticipation of the Fourth of July festivities has taken over all their thoughts.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  It takes less than ten minutes for Daisy to arrive at the parking lot above the beach. In that time, the sun has come out blazing, the shrubs and sand absorbing all trace of the storm in minutes. Only Daisy, with her dripping hair and soaking clothes, provides evidence of the downpour that took place.

  Daisy rides through the little lakes of rainwater to the edge of the dunes. There, she abandons the bike and hurries to the top of the sand hill. Scrambling over the plastic fence, now flattened by the heavy rain, she slides on the back of her heels down the steep slope. Wasting no time looking around, she heads for the sewer.

  It’s empty.

  Except for a large beam rammed up against the wall, she sees nothing unusual there. At her feet a thin rivulet of water runs from somewhere back in the darkness, winding its way toward the mouth of the sewer, heading in the direction of the bay but never making it out onto the beach.

  “Luke! Luke!” Daisy calls out.

  Only her echo answers.

  Why did she believe those kids? Of course he isn’t here. What an idiot she was to fall for a trick like that. They must have been laughing themselves sick at the way she took off on the bike. Serves them right if she doesn’t return it.

  Yet something isn’t right. Daisy doesn’t know Lucy that well, but she’s sure this wouldn’t be her kind of trick. Larry maybe, but not Lucy. She and Charley seemed genuinely upset too.

  Maybe Larry scared them into doing it.

  Of course.

  Daisy sits down on the beam, her world shattered once again.

  Luke drowned. He lied, and then he drowned. That’s it. She has to accept it. But for a moment, back at the house, she thought her heart would burst with joy. That blinding flash of happiness made her feel incandescent. From that brief instant until now, in the time it took her to realize the truth, Luke was alive. She would see him again. She wanted so much to see him again.

  It’s cool and peaceful in the sewer, but that’s no comfort to Daisy. The pain in her chest cuts her breath into short gasps; she’s overheated, almost too dizzy to stand. After a few minutes, knowing it’s not going to get better, she decides to go home.

  Outside, the sight of sunlight tripping on the water and the soft cool breeze gives Daisy back her breath. With the tide out, the beach is as wide as it can be, stretching more than a hundred feet into the distance. Daisy can see sailboats racing in circles far out on the bay. Other than the call of seagulls, it’s quiet. Everyone in Shorelane is at the picnic.

  Daisy’s eyes, sweeping aimlessly along the shore, stop on what looks like a pile of clothes. It’s far out, at the edge where sand meets water. She watches for a moment, decides maybe it’s just some rocks, and turns to go.

  After a few steps, she turns back and starts walking toward the sea.

  Then she starts running.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Luke’s foot is trapped, twisted and squeezed into the small opening of the pipe. No matter how hard he fights, the suction holding him is too great, and there is nothing to grab onto to give him leverage. Water swirls around him like heavy air, thick but strangely breathable, black with tiny particles of white dust too dense to see through. When Luke holds his hand to his face, he can make out the dim outline of his fingers. Beyond that, nothing.

  Even though he isn’t choking on the water, he feels an enormous urgency to break through the surface into the air. But his foot is stuck fast.

  Something cold touches his head, then clamps on and begins to pull him. His foot snaps free of the pipe and he moves upward at a great speed, so great that he feels the whoosh of air spinning his stomach over and over. Finally, it slows, the air becoming lighter in weight and color
as he nears what feels like the surface.

  Now the touch on his head is softer, the cold only cool and the feel more like a caress. With great effort, Luke reaches out to return the gentle touch moving lightly across his forehead. Luke opens his eyes and sees Daisy, lovely Daisy, leaning over him, so close that her hair tickles his face.

  He closes his eyes again to enjoy more of the dream, but the inside of his eyelids is empty of Daisy. Only the brightness of the sun, trying to peek in at the corners, is visible.

  A shadow softens the sun and Luke opens his eyes again. There she is. What a beautiful dream. The sweet face with sunlight haloing her hair.

  “Luke.”

  He can even hear her soft whispery voice.

  “Luke. Are you all right?”

  He opens his eyes and a blinding pain shoots through his head with such ferocity that he squeezes his eyes shut to close it out.

  The touch is on his forehead again. This time he can feel fingers; his dream Daisy is running her soft hand over his face.

  “Luke, can you speak? Talk to me.”

  In his dream, he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Pain rips through his jaw; he grimaces.

  “It’s all right,” Daisy says. “You’ve been hurt, but it’s okay. It’s stopped bleeding.”

  There is something so sensible and ordinary about her words and such a reality to the sound of her voice that Luke’s dreamlike state is shaken. Logic intrudes: dare he hope that it isn’t a dream? That somehow, miraculously, he has been saved? That he’s alive?

  Of course he’s alive. Dead people don’t dream.

  He opens his eyes and sees that it is Daisy, flesh-and-blood Daisy. He could weep, he’s so overjoyed. He couldn’t be any happier if he loved her.

  Daisy smiles, and though there is still concern in her face, the smile is joyful. “You didn’t drown.”

  Luke tries to smile back but it hurts too much. Tears fill his eyes and begin to trickle down his cheeks. Daisy wipes them away.