Mr. Proctor said September 11 would change everything, and he was right.
Everyone everywhere was freaked out all the time, waiting for the next terrible thing to happen—for the White House to blow up, or the Empire State Building to topple over, or Walt Disney World to go up in a nuclear mushroom cloud.
None of that happened, but it felt like it could happen. All of it. And other things that we had not imagined, like we had not imagined the jetliner attacks in New York, and Washington, and Somerset, PA.
The drama that unfolded over western Pennsylvania had become an instant legend: The passengers on the flight, all strangers to each other, heard on their cell phones what the hijacked planes were doing in New York and Washington. And they decided not to let it happen again. They banded together and stormed the cockpit. They overpowered the hijackers and prevented another devastating attack, and they gave their lives in the process. In tribute to them, thousands of people were now heading out to the remote farmland where the plane went down.
In homeroom, Coach Malloy actually rose to the occasion. He described the shock he’d felt as a child when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. He described the shock his parents had felt when Pearl Harbor was destroyed by Japanese bombers.
In English class, Mr. Proctor focused more on the present. He talked about “the zombie-like tone” of the September 11 aftermath:
• New Yorkers wandering around, coated from head to foot with white powder.
• Xeroxed pictures of missing people stuck up on every lamppost.
• A monstrous pile of death—smoking and wheezing—in the heart of America’s greatest city.
We finished reading A Journal of the Plague Year. I didn’t like it very much because I couldn’t understand the language. Nobody could. Fortunately, Mr. Proctor explained what was going on.
“People were dropping like flies in London,” he said. “Death walked among them. Death stood on every corner. What was killing people so indiscriminately? They had no idea, no clue that it was fleabites and airborne germs. They would remain clueless about such things for another hundred years.”
I thought, Okay. They were stupid. But what about us? Are we any smarter? Are we any less clueless about what is killing us? Out of the sky? Out of nowhere? Not really.
It had been six weeks, and we still had no idea who had attacked us, or why, or when they might attack us next.
The drug-counseling meetings got suspended after September 11. When they started again, though, I was back in my seat in the conference room, staring at Wendy, hoping to talk to her.
Catherine Lyle opened the first meeting in October by saying, “Hello, everybody. Welcome back. We’ve lost a lot of time, so I’d like to jump right to Wendy’s research report. If you recall, I asked her to look into a powerful new drug that has appeared in Blackwater. The drug is called methamphetamine. Wendy?”
Wendy had a pocket notebook, too, just like mine. She opened it, but she never looked down as she launched into her speech. “Methamphetamine, as a street drug, is called ‘meth,’ and sometimes ‘crank.’
“Depending on what sources you consult, methamphetamine was first made in Germany in 1887, or in Japan in 1893. Farmers used it to feed cattle to accelerate their growth. Methamphetamine was first used by people during World War Two.
“Japanese kamikaze pilots took methamphetamine to psych up for their suicide attacks. German pilots and tank drivers used it for the same reason, calling it ‘flier’s chocolate’ and ‘tanker’s chocolate.’ Methamphetamine helped soldiers accelerate their fighting skills. It also accelerated their deaths.”
Wendy looked at her mother. “So what is methamphetamine doing here in Blackwater, Pennsylvania, in 2001? No one knows. The answer could be that it’s a very cheap way to get high. With some training, you can make it yourself out of easy-to-find ingredients, but the process for making it is very dangerous. The ingredients are highly combustible.”
Wendy paused, apparently finished, so Arthur interjected, “I hear people are stealing Sudafed and ammonia and other stuff to make it. They can get what they need right at the Food Giant, even the propane to cook it up with.”
“Who told you that?” Lilly asked.
“Uno,” Arthur answered.
She corrected him. “He wants to be called John now.”
Arthur shrugged. “Okay. No problem.”
Lilly shook her head and added, “Wow. Meth. That sounds like the worst drug ever.”
Several kids around the room agreed with her comment, including Arthur, who said, “Amen to that.”
In conclusion, Wendy Lyle produced some gruesome photos from her notebook. The photos showed meth users—people who had lost their teeth, and their hair, and were all covered with red sores. She held up one photo that I couldn’t even look at. It was a man or a woman—I couldn’t tell—who had tried to make meth at home and had gone up in flames. Horrible. Gruesome.
Mercifully, she stashed the photos away. No one spoke for a minute; then Mrs. Lyle changed the topic. “I have been speaking to Mrs. Cantwell about this group and about some things we could be doing. I am pleased to tell you that she has granted permission for us to take our first field trip.”
Arthur muttered, “Must be to that field her husband works in.”
Mrs. Lyle consulted her notebook. But before she could speak again, Ben Gibbons raised his hand. She looked at him and smiled. “Yes?”
Ben really changed the topic. He said, “I have pica disorder, Mrs. Lyle. Have you ever heard of that one?”
Catherine Lyle looked puzzled. “I’m not sure. Would you like to tell the group about it?”
Evidently, he would. “As a little kid, I ate a lot of crayons and pencils and chalk. I still do. I eat wood—nontreated wood. I eat coal—anthracite and bituminous. I eat plain old dirt.”
Arthur told him, “That is messed up, dude.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s why it’s a disorder.”
Catherine Lyle nodded. “I have heard of it. But do you know why it’s called pica?” she asked.
“Pica means ‘magpie,’ in Latin. I guess a magpie will eat anything.”
She thought for a moment. “Well, Ben, that is very interesting. But it sounds like an eating disorder, and this group is about substance abuse.”
Ben looked nervous, like he was afraid she was going to kick him out. “It is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, this pica thing could lead to substance abuse! Who knows what else I might eat in the future? Maybe pills or something.”
“That may be true,” she assured him. “It could be what we call a ‘gateway’ to other problems.”
Ben looked relieved. “Yeah.”
“Gateways are openings that lead to drug abuse. Think about it. Nobody just wakes up one day and says, ‘I’m going to become a drug addict.’ Do they?”
“No.”
Catherine Lyle continued: “The good news for drug abusers is that, with medication and with counseling, they can quit.
“The real problems occur after they quit. That’s when they must face their triggers. Triggers are the temptations that lead drug addicts back to using. A trigger can be as large as the loss of a loved one, or as small as the loss of a football game.
“The big question is, Why do these triggers exert such power over addicts? Why do people go back to drugs when they know they are destroying their lives, as well as the lives of those around them? These triggers must be very powerful indeed.”
She looked at the group. “Who can give us an example of a powerful trigger? Okay, Ben?”
“War!”
Everyone waited for more. Arthur asked him, “War what, dude? You mean like the Civil War? World War Two? Vietnam?”
“No. Like going to war.”
Catherine intervened. “Certainly. People who go to war are under tremendous stress, as are their family members. What are some others? What are some triggers that happen in your lives?”
A senior girl, who I had never heard speak before, suddenly blurted out, “Abuse.”
“Yes. Abuse at home causes tremendous stress.”
Ben asked her, “Do you mean getting hit by your parents? Like a punishment?”
There was a pause. I didn’t think she was going to respond, but then she did. “No. I mean sexual abuse.”
Everybody froze, including Mrs. Lyle. Then she picked up the silver pen and wrote something in her notebook. After a few more seconds of silence, she said quietly, “That is a very powerful trigger, yes.” She looked at the girl. “We should talk more about it.”
Then she looked at the rest of us, “Okay. Can we name any other triggers?”
No one could, until Lilly raised one finger. “What about just… boredom?”
Mrs. Lyle seemed relieved to have a safer topic. “Yes! Boredom can be a trigger. And some people turn to drugs when they are bored. But that doesn’t work, does it? So what are some things that do work against boredom? Let’s hear some ideas.”
Nobody said anything for a few seconds. Jenny finally came up with one. “Jesus?”
“Okay. Good.”
Arthur suggested, “Football.”
“Yes. Those are two.” Catherine Lyle waited for a third, but it wasn’t coming. She finally took it upon herself to add, “Okay. What about dance? Or horseback riding? Or martial arts training, like tai chi or tae kwon do? What about learning how to play a musical instrument? Or taking up painting, or sculpture, or pottery?”
Arthur laughed ruefully. He spoke for the group. “We don’t have a lot of that stuff around here.”
Catherine Lyle didn’t understand. “What stuff?”
“Any of the things you said. We got, basically, football and bowling.”
That got a small laugh. He added, “And Jesus,” and got a bigger laugh.
But not from Catherine Lyle. She replied seriously, “Oh, I’m sure there are many things to do if you look. There certainly are things to do up by the university.”
She stopped there. I could tell by her face that she finally got it. She wasn’t “up by the university” now. She was twenty miles, and a whole world, away.
So she moved on. “Ben, as you suggested, one major trigger is a catastrophe, like a war. Or like what happened on September eleventh. Many people are still very stressed about the events of that day, especially the events that happened near here.”
She placed a blank sheet of paper on the table. “As a result, I have organized a field trip to the flight ninety-three crash site in Somerset County. If you would like to see that site—perhaps to pay your respects, perhaps to face your fears—please sign up for the trip. It will be after school on Wednesday.”
We then broke into our small groups. Wendy looked at me and smiled. “We’re going in my dad’s Suburban. That holds, like, twelve people. Do you want to come?”
“Sure.”
“How about you, Lilly?”
Lilly shook her head. “No. I have to work.”
Wendy moved on. “How about you Arthur? I know your stepfather will be going.”
“Yeah? How do you know that?”
Wendy answered simply, “My stepmom told me.”
Arthur challenged her. “But isn’t she forbidden, by a strict code of confidentiality, from talking about what a client says?”
Wendy was ready for him. “Yes, she is forbidden. Unless the client releases her from that, which your stepfather has done.”
Arthur looked doubtful. “He’s released her? He didn’t mention releasing anybody to me.”
“Well, ask him about it. He also gave her permission to discuss his fears in group.”
Arthur might have responded, but he got distracted.
We all did.
Rick Dorfman opened the door and looked inside. He spotted Catherine Lyle and walked up to her. He said in a low, miserable voice, “I guess I’m supposed to come here.”
Catherine Lyle whispered, “Are you the one Officer O’Dell told me about?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, is this a court-ordered case?”
Dorfman twitched uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”
She asked him patiently, “Did a judge, as a condition of probation, require you to join this substance-abuse group?”
Dorfman looked around at anyone within earshot, including me. He answered angrily, “Yes.”
Arthur whispered, “Not surprising. Dork-man’s a big ’roids user. Everybody knows that.”
“What?”
“ ’Roids! To bulk up for football, you know.”
Lilly asked, “What are ’roids?”
“Steroids—HGH, progesterone. They bulk you up. Without them, Dork-man’s really, like, five foot two and ninety pounds.”
I laughed, which I probably should not have done. Dorfman turned and glared at me.
Catherine Lyle told him, “Welcome to the group.”
He growled, “Just tell me what I gotta do.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
Dorfman’s mouth curled up into a menacing smile. I had seen that smile before, and I started to worry. He said, “Look, lady, why don’t you stop busting my balls and tell me what to do?”
Arthur reacted immediately. He pushed his chair back, like he might have to move fast. Rick Dorfman saw that.
Catherine Lyle remained calm. “As I told you, you are welcome here. You may join any group you like. You are welcome to take part or not, as you see fit.”
But Dorfman was already moving back toward the exit. He held out the middle finger on each hand to the group. And after suggesting that Catherine Lyle do something that was anatomically impossible, he stomped out of the room.
Arthur rose up out of his chair. He seemed on the verge of going after him, but he didn’t. Instead, he asked, “Are you okay, Mrs. Lyle?”
She seemed surprised by the question. “Why, yes, Arthur. Thank you.”
Then she turned the incident into some counseling. “Let’s take a moment to analyze what just happened here. Obscene language and physical intimidation are two elements of abuse. How do we deal with that? By turning to drugs? Or alcohol? Does that really deal with it?”
She stopped so we could shake our heads or mutter no.
“No. Because that’s not dealing with it. Is it?”
Lilly had been tapping her pencil nervously on the table. She stopped and asked, “So what about a nasty jerk like that? I get them at work sometimes. What should I do?”
“In a situation like that, you should always ask yourself, Who owns this problem? In this case, that young man clearly owns the problem, not me. He is going to have to figure out how to solve it. The problem was not mine when he walked in, and it is not mine now that he has walked out, no matter what crude thing he has said or done to try to make it mine. He still owns it.”
Lilly said, “That’s good advice. I’m gonna use that.”
Mrs. Lyle gave her a big smile, and the meeting broke up on that positive note.
When I arrived at the Food Giant, Bobby was at register one, bagging groceries for Marsha.
As always, he was bagging them quickly and efficiently. He wasn’t saying a word, either to her or to the customers. He never did, except when there was a new bag boy to train. Then he delivered a pitch that came word for word from the Food Giant training tapes. Stuff like “Tell a customer there is no tipping, and that loading bags is a courtesy. Do not mix a package of frozen food with a box of cereal. The customer will get home with a wet box, and they won’t be happy with us. Push no more than five carts at a time. Otherwise, you might damage the carts, or a customer’s vehicle, or yourself.”
This could get annoying, especially on the third or fourth recitation. I think we lost a few bag boys because of it.
As I grabbed my green slicker, it occurred to me that there had been no new bag boys for quite a while. Or new cashiers. Or new assistants behind the customer-service desk, or the meat or bakery counters. None.
Why wasn’t Dad hiring anybody? Why was he working double shifts, and adding hours for Lilly and me, without pay? (I should say that, technically, we do get paid. Dad and Mom put money into our college funds, but still…)
I had just stepped outside when I heard shouting by the back spaces. Bobby was pointing at the bottom of a man’s cart, so I ran out to see what was going on.
The man was short, stocky, and balding. And he was quite indignant, claiming, “I didn’t know anything was under there! I didn’t see anything.”
Bobby countered with, “What do you mean you didn’t see anything? It’s right there. You had to see it.”
“Somebody else left these,” the guy insisted. “I was just getting a cart to go in the store!”
He was clearly lying, and Bobby knew it. “No, you weren’t. You weren’t going in the store; you were coming out of the store.”
The guy had heard enough. “I don’t need to stand here arguing with an idiot.”
Bobby fired back, “You’re the idiot. Stealing stuff. Only an idiot steals!”
I stood close behind Bobby. The guy’s car had lettering on the back window that said LEHIGH UNIVERSITY. He had a bumper sticker that said MY CHILD MADE THE DEAN’S LIST AT POTTSTOWN ELEMENTARY. I figured that he was from eastern Pennsylvania, a long drive from here.
I examined the supplies under his cart—jugs of ammonia and rubbing alcohol, boxes of Sudafed and Actifed.
The guy threw up his hands, releasing the cart. It started to roll downhill, so I ran and grabbed it. He jumped into the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, and peeled out, driving way too fast.
Bobby watched him go, shaking his round head disapprovingly.
I wheeled the cart up to him. “That guy was upset, Bobby. You need to be more careful with people like that.”
“He needs to not steal!”
“True. But I don’t want you getting hurt out here. And I know my dad doesn’t, either.”
“I ain’t hurt.”
“I know. But you could have been. That guy could have pulled out a rifle.” Bobby’s eyes widened. I added, “Or a bow and arrow.”
“Yeah? Yeah. Don’t tell your dad. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Because he’ll call my mom. And she’ll come and take my blood pressure. And maybe make me go home.”
“Okay.”
I gathered two more carts, slammed them together, and pushed them toward the entrance. Suddenly I gripped the handles and pulled the train of carts to a screeching halt.
I couldn’t believe my eyes! There, just inside the glass, looking way too stylish for the Food Giant, were Catherine and Wendy Lyle.
I was thrilled. But then, just seconds later, I was horrified. I thought of my dad at the front in his white shirt and tie, and my sister at the register in her Food Giant smock, and myself running around in a green slicker. Could I look any dorkier?
I left the carts for Bobby.
I peeled off my slicker, lowered my head, and ducked inside. I scooted along the left edge of the store, not stopping until I was back in the storeroom, peeking out through its small square window. Peeking out like a stalker. Like a total loser.
But soon my desire to talk to Wendy won out over my shame. When I saw the Lyles turn down the cereal aisle, I hurried out and set myself up near the end cap, rearranging boxes on the shelf.
I heard Wendy announce in that perky TV voice, “Hey, it’s Tom!”
I turned and tried to look surprised. Catherine Lyle wheeled her cart the other way, but Wendy stayed behind. She sounded surprised. “You work here?”
“Yeah.”
“But… don’t they have, like, child labor laws here? Don’t you have to be a certain age to work?”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t work here officially. My dad’s the manager, so I work, you know, under the table. He puts money into my college fund.”
She didn’t seem to like that. She muttered noncommittally, “Oh.”
That was followed by a long, agonizing silence, during which my mind froze up. Wendy finally spoke. “Seems like we’re in a different context here, Tom.”
“What?”
“You and me. When we’re sitting in Mr. Proctor’s class, or in group, we can talk about books and drugs and all. But here”—her blue eyes darted up to the cereal boxes—“we’re just standing in front of the All-Bran with nothing to say.”
I picked up on that as best I could. I pointed to the shelf and asked her, “Did you know that Mueslix, All-Bran, and Fruit ’n Fibre are all made by the same company?”
She seemed mildly interested. “No. I didn’t.”
“So are bran flakes, Special K, and Product 19.”
“Really?”
“Yep. It’s all Kellogg’s. And”—I pointed to the next aisle—“did you know that Mountain Dew, Sierra Mist, and Slice are all made by Pepsi?” Then I pointed even farther afield. “And that Reese’s peanut butter cups, Cadbury eggs, and Heath bars are all made by Hershey’s?”
Her pretty face oscillated back and forth slightly, indicating no.
“It’s true. It’s like… we think we’re making choices in the supermarket, but in reality, there’s not much choice at all.”
Wendy’s blue eyes bore into mine. She told me, “That’s kinda deep.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
Her mouth twisted into a frown. “But do you really believe that?”
I stopped smiling. “Believe what?”
“That there’s not much choice?”
I didn’t understand. “For what?”
She looked toward those distant aisles. “Not much choice for your life. You know—for where you live, for what you do.”
“I sure hope there’s a choice. I don’t want to stay here.”
She looked interested again. “No? You want to move somewhere else?”
“Yeah! I’ve been sending away for college brochures, to places I think I can get into. You know, if I work hard. And they’re all in Florida.”
“Florida?”
“That’s about as far from here as you can get.”
“Yeah.” She hesitated for just a moment. “We’ve lived there.”
“Really? Where?”
“Melbourne.”
“Was that a nice place?”
“Yeah. It was nice. But I liked California even better. San Diego. That’s where my mom lives now.”
“Oh?”
Then she came right out and told me: “My dad left my mom for Catherine, back when Catherine was a grad student. My mom’s remarried now, to a naval officer, and she travels all over the world.” She assured me, “So it’s all cool.”
Catherine Lyle reappeared at the front of the aisle. She turned her cart toward us. Again she avoided eye contact with me, but not with Wendy. She waved for Wendy to join her at the register.
Wendy said, “I guess we’re through shopping. I’ll see you in second period tomorrow.”
“Yeah. In our old context.”
“Right. Good word. Use it three times and you’ll own it.”
“I know.” I thought, She must read the same PSAT workbook I do!
I watched her walk away. She had that model walk, too.
A minute later, Dad stopped at the end cap and stared at me curiously. He said, “You’re due for a break, aren’t you, Tom?”
I checked my watch. “Yeah, I am. Can I get the keys to the van?”
Dad fished in his pockets. “Sure.”
I took the keys and walked out, way out, to Dad’s parking space. I was hoping to study some vocabulary and I thought the van would be the safest place, but I was wrong. I had just opened the book when Reg appeared at the window, lit cigarette in hand. He asked me, “Uncle Tom, did you rat me out with your dad?”
“What are you talking about?”
“About that Chiquita banana thing?”
“No.”
“No? Then it must’ve been Uno. He’s the type. He’s lacking in the testicular department. You know?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
Reg flicked an ash away. “What are you doing out here?”
I showed him the book cover. “Learning new words.”
“For school?”
“For a test.”
“For one of my dad’s tests? I got the answers to those if you ever need ’em. They’re the same tests every year.”
“No. For the PSAT. I’ll take it next spring.”
He took a deep drag. “Uh-huh. What’s that?”
“It’s a test that colleges use to give out scholarships.”
“So this is about money?”
“I guess so. Yeah.”
“I hear that. It’s all about money. Or the lack thereof.” He pointed his free hand at the book. “What are the words? Let’s see if I know any.”
I resigned myself to a vocabulary lesson with Reg. “Okay. Obviate.”
“What’s that mean?”
“ ‘To anticipate and prevent.’ ”
“Give me an example.”
I looked at the store in the distance. “Like if you think someone is going to shoplift, and you have an employee follow them around, you obviate the need for a cop.”
“Because you anticipated what might happen. You thought it through.”
“Right.”
“I hear that. Give me another one.”
“Obdurate. It means ‘hardened in feelings.’ ”
“Like you’re a hard-ass.”
“I guess so.”
“Got it. Give me one more.”
“Obsequious.”
“Never heard that one.”
“Me, either.” I read the definition. “It means ‘fawningly attentive.’ ”
“What-ingly attentive?”
“I guess, like you’re falling all over somebody, praising them.”
“Like you’re kissing their ass.”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
Reg flicked his cigarette away. “Okay. Good. I’m gonna use those words.”
“Use them three times and you’ll own them.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s what they say.”
We both watched Lilly and Uno walk out of the store arm in arm, heading toward us. They stopped at Uno’s Jeep, six spaces away.
Reg called out, “Hey, Uno! Use that three times and you’ll own it, bro!”
Uno scrunched his face and called back, “What?”
Reg just laughed evilly.
Lilly snarled at him.
I wondered what Lilly was doing walking that way with Uno. Last year, I might have blackmailed her about this, threatening to tell Mom. But not anymore. What Lilly does now is her business. Especially after work. Especially with Uno.
Mr. Proctor said it: Everything is changing.
As I approached my homeroom today, I spotted the hulking figure of Rick Dorfman standing by the door. I slowed down, assuming he was going in or out, but he just stood there, so I continued on.
That was a mistake.
He was waiting for me. As soon as he spotted me, he started clenching his fists. When I got within arm’s length, he reached out, grabbed the back of my neck, and force-walked me inside.
Coach Malloy wasn’t in there. The few kids who were quickly backed away.
Dorfman twisted me around until my face was directly in front of his. His eyes were ablaze with anger. With hatred. I was instantly terrified.
He spat out some words, spraying saliva in my face. “I been thinking about you, Coleman. You little nerd, you joke, you nobody! You think you can laugh at me?”
I remember feeling surprised that he knew my name. Otherwise, though, I lapsed into craven-coward mode. I shook, and I stammered, “N-n-no. I wouldn’t. You don’t understand.”
He switched his grip to the front of my neck, grabbing me with both hands and squeezing, like he really might kill me.
Suddenly someone screamed at him. A girl’s voice. That caused him to loosen his grip.
It was Jenny Weaver.
She looked every bit as angry as Dorfman. “Get your hands off him! And get out of here. You don’t belong in here!”
Dorfman released his grip, but he didn’t leave. He just took a step back.
Unafraid, Jenny screamed at him again. “Get back to the high school side, or I’ll call Officer O’Dell!”
Dorfman’s face muscles twitched, like he had a spasm.
Suddenly the mad-dog glare went out of his eyes, like a light switching off. He lowered his head and bulled his way out the door, knocking Ben Gibbons three feet back into the hallway.
Jenny took my elbow and walked me to my seat like she was helping an old man at a nursing home. She asked, “Are you okay, Tom?”
I reached up to my throat and tried to swallow. I couldn’t answer.
She asked, “Do you want a glass of water?”
I shook my head no. I couldn’t even look at her. I sat there in total humiliation, as red as a tomato, and on the verge of crying. I felt like everyone was staring at me.
I looked up at the TV. I imagined Wendy Lyle was staring at me through the screen as she delivered the morning announcements: “Tom Coleman today proved that he is a sniveling coward and a total wuss. Please join me in laughing at Tom about his ultimate humiliation. Now let’s all rise to say the Pledge of Allegiance.”
I didn’t regain my normal breathing until halfway through first period.
And Coach Malloy didn’t notice a thing.
I guess Wendy didn’t notice anything, either, when she entered Mr. Proctor’s room, although I still had a big red welt on my neck. She started right in, as if nothing was wrong. “I was talking to Mrs. Cantwell about the academics here. I’ve been trying to convince my dad that Haven’s not so bad. He calls it ‘a school for coal miners.’ ”
I choked out, “Oh?”
“She started telling me about her top students. Guess who’s the number one student, academically, of all the incoming freshmen.”
I shrugged.
“Tom Coleman.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “That’s you, right? The kid who works at the supermarket?”
Trying to be funny, I flipped open my notebook. “Let me check.”
She laughed. “Does everybody know this but me? Does everybody know you’re number one?”
I shrugged again. “I didn’t even know.”
“Well, congratulations! You stay number one, Tom Coleman!”
I said, “I’ll try.” And suddenly I felt a lot better.
Mr. Proctor started class by pulling out a poster, unrolling it, and taping it to the whiteboard (Coach Malloy–style). It was a movie poster with screaming teenagers on it. It was black and white except for the slime-green title: Night of the Living Dead.
Mr. Proctor pointed to the board and explained, “This is the original poster for Night of the Living Dead, a cult horror movie that was filmed right here in western Pennsylvania.
“George Romero, a college student from Pittsburgh, was shooting commercials and bits for a kids’ show called Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood. But he had something else in mind. Something very dark, and noncommercial, and non-kid-friendly—Night of the Living Dead.
“This movie is not set in Transylvania, with some foreign-sounding Count Dracula as the monster. No. It’s set in a town like yours, with regular people as the monsters. Regular people who had been your neighbors and your friends and your family just a week ago, but who are all bloodthirsty zombies now.
“We will watch this movie over the next two class periods. Then I want you to write an essay comparing and contrasting A Journal of the Plague Year to Night of the Living Dead.”
He popped a video into the slot beneath the TV screen. Blaring, evil zombie music filled the room. It was cool stuff, but I thought, No way is this part of the county curriculum. Mr. Proctor’s going to get in trouble.
Near the end of class, Mr. Proctor stopped the video to point out, “Karen, the cute little girl in the movie, is already infected with the zombie plague, but no one knows it. She’ll wind up devouring her own mother and father. That seems pretty bizarre, right? And unbelievable. But let me tell you, I think I’ve seen zombies walking around at the college.” Then he added darkly, “Meth zombies.”
Arthur raised his hand immediately. “Yeah. I’ve seen meth zombies around, too, Mr. Proctor. Around my house. We definitely have them in Caldera.”
Hands shot up all around the room. Other kids started to say similar things—that they had seen meth zombies around Blackwater. As I listened to their stories, I realized that I had seen one, too. I raised my hand, and Mr. Proctor pointed to me. I contributed this:
“One night last summer, just after closing time, I was doing a roundup in the parking lot. A guy was sitting next to a cart, just staring at me. His eyes were black, his mouth was hanging open, and he had all these rotten teeth.
“It was like I was looking into the eyes of a corpse. I went in and told my dad about the guy, but by the time we walked back out, he was gone. My dad said, ‘He was probably drunk. Just sleeping it off.’ But I’ve seen drunks before, and this was something else.”
Mr. Proctor nodded. He continued to listen to our stories intently. People were still telling them when the bell rang, and he had to say, “Okay. That’s enough for now. I’ll see you all tomorrow for part two of the movie.”
Arthur walked out behind me.
He started talking, like to himself. “So, let me make sure I’ve got this right. Dork-man went after Mrs. Lyle in the counseling group, and then he went after young Tom before school today. My God! He’s attacking the women and children!”
That was mildly offensive. I asked, “Who told you that he attacked me?”
“Jenny Weaver. Why? Isn’t it true?”
“Yeah. It’s true.”
“So who saved your sorry ass this time?”
“I guess it was Jenny.”
“No way! She didn’t mention that part.” Arthur doubled over with laughter. He finally managed to say with real respect, “Those Weavers, man. They are awesome. When I was little, they came up to Caldera every Thanksgiving with food, and they came up every Christmas with presents. For the poor people, you know?
“Some people would get pissed off about that, like it was an insult. Like Who asked you to give me stuff? But my mom never did. She took what they offered and was glad to get it. The Christmas presents were always crap—like Dollar Store stuff. But still, it was something to open.”
He stopped at the senior high stairs. “But back to Dork-man. What was it about?”
“I don’t even know. I think he’s just basically insane.”
“Yeah. Could be. Could be genetic. Jimmy Giles had a hassle with Dork-man’s old man a couple of years ago. The old man was insane.”
“A hassle about what?”
“Jimmy got behind on payments on his big Ford, the F250. The bank sent Dork-man’s father out to get it.”
“Why him?”
“Dork-man’s father is repo.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s that? Man, you rich kids don’t know crap! The repo man works for the damn bank. He sneaks out to your house in the middle of the night, hooks up your truck, and hauls it away. Like Santa Claus in reverse. There’s no lower creature on earth than the repo man.”
I pointed out, “So that makes Dorfman the son of the lowest creature on earth.”
“Yeah. That’s about it. He’s like a repo man without a truck.” Arthur shook his bald head. “Did you hear he’s off the football team?”
“No. For what, drugs?”
“Nah. Coach wouldn’t know about that. Dork-man stopped showing up at practice. Then he came to the game on Friday and sat on the bench, pouting like a girl because Coach wouldn’t put him in. Then he quit.” Arthur started up the stairs. “I’m gonna miss him, though. He was the only senior who was worse than me.”
I was surprised at this sudden flash of humility. My face must have shown it, because Arthur immediately added, “We’re talking about the skill stuff here—throwing, catching, kicking. For raw power, for pure destructiveness, like the wrath of God, I’m still the best.”
“Good!” I called after him. “Glad to hear it.”
Lilly actually offered to work a longer shift so I could go on the field trip. Or was it to spend more time with John/Uno? Whatever, it was decent of her.
Everyone gathered in the high school parking lot at 3:00 p.m. Wendy, Jenny, Mikeszabo, Ben the Penguin, and I were there from the junior high side. Arthur and at least two of the stoners were there from the high school side.
Jimmy Giles was there, too. I overheard him telling Catherine Lyle quietly but firmly, “I always have to be near an exit wherever I am. Just in case I get panicked.”
She assured him, “Certainly, Mr. Giles. I understand.”
“Can I sit up front next to the door handle?”
“Yes. That would be fine.”
The Suburban was like a cross between a van and a luxury car. It had two bucket seats up front and a big console between them. Behind those seats were three rows of bench seats, each wide enough for three people.
Jimmy opened the front passenger door and claimed his place. Mrs. Lyle opened the side door, indicating that the rest of us should pile in.
Arthur went first. He stepped up and maneuvered his way to the back row, sliding over to the left window. A high school stoner followed him and took the seat by the right window. Then Jenny, Mikeszabo, and Ben climbed in and filled the next row.
I think Wendy was planning on sitting next to her stepmother. She frowned when she saw Jimmy up there. Catherine Lyle pointed her to the seat behind the driver.
I was still standing outside, not sure what to do. I climbed in, thinking I would take the empty seat next to Arthur, but Wendy surprised me. She leaned over, grabbed my sleeve, and pulled me into her row.
And that was just fine with me.
I started to strap myself into the outside seat, leaving a space between us. Wendy shook her head no and patted the seat right next to her, within actual hip and arm contact, so I slid over.
I heard the sound of Catherine Lyle closing the door behind me. Then she got in, knelt on the driver’s seat, and looked back at us. “Before we go, I just want to say that I hope you all will benefit from this field trip. I have spoken to people at the university who have driven out to the flight ninety-three crash site. They said we will be met by volunteers there. The volunteers are people who actually saw what happened. They have set up their own schedule so that there will always be someone around to tell the story to visitors.
“We need to keep in mind that the site is still a crime scene. Federal investigators have sectioned off the areas where we are and are not allowed to be.”
Catherine Lyle swiveled back, sat down, and started the Suburban. She pulled out of the parking lot and headed west for the turnpike.
Wendy looked out the window, but she spoke to me. “Okay. So here’s your chance to explain something to me.”
I was happy to do anything for her. “What?”
Wendy held up a letter. It was from a private school in Schuylkill County. She pointed to the return address and demanded to know, “How do you say this word?”
I pronounced it for her. “Skoo-kill.”
Her nose crinkled. “How do you get that? I’m thinking Sky’ll-kill. Like the sky’ll kill you. Like it’s raining down death or something.”
“No. It’s Skoo-kill.”
“What language is it? It’s not English.”
“I don’t know. Pennsylvania Dutch?”
She pronounced that to be “weird.” She put the letter away and pulled a paperback out of her large bag.
I asked, “What are you reading?”
She held up the book for me to see. “The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. Have you read it?”
“No.”
“You should. It’s about a handsome young man who does horrible things. But those things don’t show up on his face like they do for most people. Instead, they show up on a portrait he has hanging in his house.”
“Cool.”
“Well, more like creepy,” she pointed out. “That’s like heroin addicts. You know? They’re the best-looking drug users by far. Heroin actually preserves the outside of their bodies. But of course they’re rotting inside. Like Dorian Gray.”
“You seem to know a lot about drugs.”
“Well, it is the family business. Now, at the other extreme, you have the meth addicts.”
“Are they the worst-looking?”
“For sure. Their teeth fall out. Their hair falls out. Their skin erupts. It’s horrible, and it all happens very quickly.”
“So if you had to date an addict, it’d be a heroin user?”
She looked at me curiously. “I sure wouldn’t date a meth user. Their sex drive is down to zero.” She smiled mysteriously. “Your sex drive isn’t down to zero, is it, Tom?”
I froze. My hands started to tremble, but I clenched my fists to cover that. “No. No, I’m above zero.”
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why haven’t you asked me out yet?”
“Uh …”
“This would be the perfect opportunity. I mean, if you’re interested.”
“Uh, yeah, I’m interested. I just don’t know how that would work,” I explained. “I mean, I don’t drive.”
“Oh. Well… what about meeting somewhere? Like a mall? We could meet at the food court. You could buy me a smoothie.”
“Uh, we don’t really have a mall around here.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“Okay, then.” She thought for a moment. “I’ll have to invite you to my house. We’re having a Halloween party on Friday night. My dad is really into Halloween. We always have a big, wild party.”
“I’d still have a problem getting there.”
Wendy was starting to lose patience. “Come on. You must know someone who drives.” She turned herself all the way around, like her stepmother had done, and pointed to Arthur. “How about him? Your cousin. Does he drive?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he live near you?”
“Sort of. He lives in Caldera.”
Wendy blinked. I could tell she didn’t know what that meant. I asked, “Have you heard about Caldera?”
“No.”
I looked back at Arthur and then up at Jimmy. “It’s famous around here.”
“Yeah? Why?”
I lowered my voice. “Well, because it’s on fire. Seriously.”
She looked interested.
“Caldera used to be a strip mine,” I explained. “Then it became a landfill dump. But instead of compressing the trash, they burned it. Big mistake. The trash was sitting on top of a vein of anthracite coal, which caught fire and started to burn. For years.
“People started noticing that their basements were feeling hotter, and smelling like sulfur. Just about everybody cleared out of there. The U.S. government condemned the houses and sent in the Army Corps of Engineers. They put most of the fire out, we think. It still flares up sometimes.”
Wendy pointed surreptitiously to Jimmy. “But those guys still live there?”
“Yup.”
Wendy shook her head at the weirdness of that fact. She muttered, “People make such strange choices.” Then she didn’t say anything else. After a minute, she opened her book and started to read. I passed the time thinking up interesting things to say when we started talking again. But she just kept on reading.
We finally exited the turnpike and began to drive down old country roads. We passed a scrapyard with more wrecked cars than I’d ever seen in my life. There must have been a thousand of them.
We turned left and bumped along a narrow gravel road. As soon as we crested the hill, I saw a brown car ahead—an older sedan, sitting on a muddy lot. A woman got out of the car, opened an umbrella, and walked over to us. She introduced herself. “Good afternoon. I am a local volunteer for the crash site.”
A light rain started to fall as she launched into a prepared speech.
“United flight ninety-three came in from the north. The workers over there in the scrapyard were the last ones to see it. It flew in just forty feet over their heads, upside down, with its jet engines screaming. The plane held seven crew members and thirty-seven passengers, including four hijackers. Most of you know by now what happened.
“The four hijackers had seized control of United ninety-three approximately thirty minutes after takeoff. The passengers and crew were able to make secret calls from the plane. They learned from their loved ones that other planes were being used as bombs in a coordinated assault against our country. So they decided to take the plane back. They charged the cockpit and overwhelmed the hijackers. They lost their lives when the plane crashed, right over there. But their brave actions prevented another devastating attack, probably against the United States Capitol. Both houses of Congress were in session in the Capitol that morning. Our entire representative democracy was gathered there.
“And think about this: Do you know how those passengers decided what to do? They took a vote! Like in a democracy. And the vote was to take the plane back and stop whatever evil plan was unfolding.”
The woman seemed genuinely moved by the story, even though she must have told it a hundred times.
“So people started coming out here to say thank you any way they could—by laying a wreath, or saying a prayer, or just bearing witness.”
The woman pointed to the exact spot where the plane had crashed. It was raining pretty hard now. We could barely make out a field in the distance.
Suddenly Jimmy growled, “I can’t see it. I can’t see anything!”
He yanked his door open and tumbled out. He bent into the rain and started walking toward the crash site. Our hostess’s umbrella was now flapping in the wind, and she was getting soaked. She told Catherine Lyle, “He’s not allowed to go out there! No one is.”
Catherine turned on the wipers. We all watched Jimmy push on to the edge of the field. Catherine asked, “Should I go after him?”
Before the woman could answer, though, Jimmy stopped.
He fell to the ground, on his knees, in the driving rain. He leaned forward slowly, until his outstretched palms and then his face were pressed against the ground. I believe he was praying.
The woman said, “As long as he doesn’t go any farther, I guess it’s all right. If he does, though, I’ll have to call the police.” She turned her umbrella so that it covered her head, and she worked her way back to the car.
Jimmy did not go any farther. After about five minutes, he got up, clapped some of the mud off his hands and knees, and returned to the van. He opened the door, letting a cold squall of rain blow in. He flopped back onto his seat, soaking wet. His face and the front of his jacket were streaked with mud.
Catherine asked us, “Does anybody have a towel?”
I thought, Why would anybody have a towel?
She called, “Is there one in the back, Arthur?”
Arthur twisted himself so he could see. “No. There’s no towel back here. There’s a toolbox, and some kind of lantern-flashlight thing.”
She asked, “Mr. Giles, do you want me to stop somewhere and get you a towel?”
Jimmy shook his head no very slowly, like he was in a trance.
Catherine Lyle said, “I’ll turn the heat on high.” She turned it on full blast. Then she executed a sloppy K-turn and we started back along the gravel road, leaving the volunteer behind us in her car.
After a few miles of country roads, we were back on the highway. Catherine asked, “How are you feeling, Mr. Giles?”
He didn’t answer. I saw Catherine exchange a fearful look with Wendy in the rearview mirror as we drove on in silence.
Jimmy finally did speak, his voice low and haunted. “Those people on the plane were doomed from the start. All of them.”
I thought about those passengers trapped in that plane with, literally, no way out.
He added, “We’re just like them. We’re doomed, too. We’re trapped, too. All of us.”
Arthur called up to him, “Amen, Jimmy. You take her easy now.”
Other kids muttered encouraging words, too.
The Lyles, stepmother and stepdaughter, looked at each other again. Did they think Jimmy was crazy? Maybe.
But I can tell you, the rest of us did not.
Dad left early today to help Reg unload a shipment of pumpkins. Mom made breakfast, like she always does. It was Quaker instant oatmeal for Lilly, and Life cereal for me (both products of the Pepsi food conglomerate).
I had my PSAT prep book next to me, opened to the vocabulary section. I read the words softly to myself: “Laconic, ‘terse in speech’; languid, ‘sluggish from fatigue or weakness.’ ”
Mom sat down at the table with us. Her eyes were shining; she was eager to talk. “So, Lilly, you’re graduating this year. What are your plans?”
Lilly just shrugged, which is never a good move with Mom. “I asked you a question, and I would like an answer, please.”
Lilly spoke through a mouthful of oatmeal. “I don’t know.”
“You must have thought about it.” Lilly chewed silently. Mom tried, “Well, what would you like to be doing one year from today?”
Lilly’s mouth was empty when she replied wearily, “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me what I should be doing one year from today? That’ll save us all some time.”
Mom turned to me with a martyred look. Then she turned back to Lilly and said, “Well, I hope you will be continuing your education. That’s what your college fund is for.”
“No way! I am through with school, forever. I have done my time.”
Mom said, “Okay. You have worked hard to graduate from high school. But what do you want next in life? A job?”
Lilly answered (laconically), “Sure.”
“So you’ll need a skill.”
“I have a skill. I’m a Food Giant cashier. Why not just pay me to do that?”
“We do pay you,” Mom protested. “We pay into your fund.”
“Or maybe Kroger would pay me. And not into a fund.”
“They wouldn’t pay you much, believe me. You have to have a real skill to make real money.” Mom got to the point. “Mrs. Nalbone’s daughter Kellie took a course to be a dental hygienist. Now she’s got a good job, in Dr. Wojahowitz’s office.”
This did not have the desired effect on Lilly. She screwed up her face in a look of horror. “A dental hygienist! You mean she puts her hands in other people’s mouths? Oh my God. That is so disgusting.”
Mom quickly added, “There are other courses, too. You could be a nurse’s aide.”
“That’s even worse!”
I said, “Yeah. What do you stick your hands into in that job?”
Mom was losing her composure. “Lilly! Please. You need a way to support yourself.”
Lilly smiled. “I’ll just do what you did. I’ll be a housewife, a traditional housewife.”
Mom shook her head emphatically. “No. You’re too young for that. Too young to get married. Too young to be serious about a boy. You’re barely eighteen. You shouldn’t even be thinking about marriage. You should be dating lots of different boys.”
Lilly laughed. “Oh, right. And where would I be finding these boys? At school? Uh, no. At work?” She held up her index finger. “Let me see: There’s Mitchell, in the meat department, but I think Del has her eye on him.”
I closed my book and smiled.
Mom said, “Mitchell is too old for you.”
I added, “Anyway, Reg says Mitchell is only interested in his own meat.”
Lilly rolled her eyes. “Yeah, Reg the Veg. Now, there’s a real catch.”
Mom frowned deeply.
“And then there’s Bobby.”
“Lilly! We don’t make fun of Bobby.”
“I’m not making fun of him. I just don’t want to leave him out.”
Mom got to the point. “I don’t think there’s anyone at the Food Giant for you.”
“How about John?”
“Who?”
“John, the assistant manager?”
“He’s too old for you.”
“He’s twenty-two.”
“And you’re barely eighteen.”
“I am legally an adult. It would be legal for me to date him.”
“What? He asked you on a date?”
“He did, in fact. Yesterday.”
“When he was supposed to be working?”
“He was working. He was setting up the Halloween display, and I said that I always loved Halloween, and he said he did, too. Then he asked me to go to a Halloween party.”
“A party? Where? At a bar somewhere? You’re not old enough to go to a bar.”
“At the Hungarian church.”
“At a church?”
“In the basement. He volunteers with the youth group there. He’s chaperoning the party, and he asked me to come.”
“He’s Hungarian?”
“No!”
Mom looked trapped. “Your father is always hiring new people. Young people. You can find a boy closer to your own age.”
“Like who?”
“Well… what about that Vincent boy? He seemed nice.”
“Dad fired Vincent,” I informed her.
“Fired him?”
“Yeah. A month ago.”
“For what?”
“Stealing.”
“He stole money?”
“No. Cleaning supplies and cold capsules.” Mom looked confused, so I went on. “People are stealing those things to make meth.”
That didn’t help. She looked even more perplexed. “What is that, Tom? A drug?”
“Yes. A very addictive drug that you can make yourself, at home, using those supplies. We learned about it in our counseling group.”
“You’re not supposed to be learning how to make drugs in that group! You’re supposed to be learning how to say no when people offer you drugs.”
Lilly formed her mouth into a small O. “I said no when you offered me drugs.”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
“The Adderall?”
“Lilly! That was from Dr. Bielski, not me. He said you needed it because you were sluggish!”
Lilly turned to me. “What does that word mean?”
“Sluggish means you act like a slug. Like a slow, soft worm. It’s like languid. That’s one of my words today.”
“Great. I’m like a worm.”
Mom corrected me. “It means ‘depressed,’ Lilly. The doctor prescribed that medicine because you were acting depressed.”
She agreed. “Yes! I am depressed. I am depressed because I hate school. I have always hated school. But soon I will be through with school, and I will no longer be depressed.”
Mom looked up at the wall clock. Her eyes were no longer shining. She exhaled loudly. “Okay. Put your bowls in the sink.” She looked at Lilly. “It’s time to go to the place that makes you so depressed.” She looked at me. “And the place that teaches you to make drugs.”
Mom’s breakfast talk had not gone as she’d planned.
Wendy sat next to me today in Mr. Proctor’s class. She picked up right where she had left off, talking trash about Pennsylvania, and Blackwater, and Haven. She said, “Even the people with homes around here look like they’re homeless. Does everybody dress right out of the tool department at Sears?”
I looked down, embarrassed, at my own generic, nondescript clothes. “Well, we don’t have much choice.”
“People always have a choice. The women choose to wear men’s clothes here—baggy jeans and work shirts.” She raised her eyebrows to make a point. “Here’s what I think: It all stems from the weather. If the weather is depressing somewhere, then the people who live there get depressed, especially in the fall and winter. It’s called seasonal affective disorder.
“Depressed people don’t care what they look like, or what their houses look like, or what their cars look like. It all filters down. This place needs serious medication.”
“It needs drugs?”
“Yep. On a massive scale—lithium, Valium, Prozac. Like a crop duster needs to zoom over Blackwater and spray it with antidepressants.”
I laughed. “Sounds like it’s worth a try.”
“Definitely. This is not normal. You should see how people live in Florida.”
“Yeah? I’d like to.”
“It’s always warm there, so you have to wear shorts, and T-shirts, and swimsuits. You have to show your body. There’s no hiding it. You can’t get by being all flabby and pasty and unhealthy-looking. California is like that, too. You can’t be hiding under Sears all-weather farm clothes.”
I asked her, “How many places have you lived?”
“Three: California, Florida, and—ta-da!—Blackwater, Pennsylvania.”
“I guess I don’t have to ask which is the worst.”
“Let’s see. Blackwater would come in at number one in that category, yes. And, curiously, at numbers two and three, as well. It’s that bad.”
All this time, I had figured that Mr. Proctor was deep in thought. He was standing by the whiteboard, but, as it turned out, he was listening to us. He took a step forward and said directly to me, “Blackwater, Pennsylvania, is the center of the world. It is the most important place in the world.”
Wendy’s face screwed up into a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me expression. She said, “Come on, Mr. P. Even the name is awful. It sounds like black death. Black Death, Pennsylvania.”
“But that doesn’t make it black death. You make it what it is.”
I think Wendy wanted to rebut that point, but Mr. Proctor didn’t let her. He told the whole class, “Okay! Let’s start. I need everybody’s attention up here.”
He wrote today’s vocabulary word and sentence on the whiteboard: au pair—an exchange student with household duties. The au pair pared a pear for the pair of pères.
Wendy conceded, “That’s awesome, Mr. P.”
We all wrote it down and worked in our vocabulary books for ten minutes.
Then Mr. Proctor passed out another book. It wasn’t a novel, though. It was a play titled The Roses of Eyam, by Don Taylor. He held the book high and told us, “This is a play about the bubonic plague. The roses in the title refer to the rose-shaped blotches that appeared on a plague victim’s skin. These blotches, and a sudden sneezing fit, signaled the beginning of the end. You may have heard of this before without realizing it.”
He flipped up both index fingers, as if he were conducting music, and recited, “ ‘Ring a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies. A-tishoo, a-tishoo, all fall down.’
“And they did all fall down. In some towns, every man, woman, and child fell down. Dead. Every one.”
He continued: “Eyam rhymes with dream. Or scream. It is the name of a village in England.”
He looked at Wendy as he went on. “You may not like our village of Blackwater too much. You may think it is the worst place in the world, and you can’t wait to get out of here. But before you go, consider the villagers of Eyam. They really were in the worst place in the world because, in the year 1666, death arrived in their village.
“The bubonic plague. The Black Death. When they realized what was happening, the villagers’ first instinct was to run for their lives and take their chances out on the road. But their second instinct, their higher instinct, was to stay where they were; to keep the plague confined to their village for the greater good of mankind.
“More than half the villagers died because of that decision, died horribly. It is likely that many of them would have lived had they run for it. But it is also likely that some of them already had the plague. And they would have spread it, unchecked, throughout the countryside. They would have set off a chain of events that killed thousands.
“So this is a play about choice, and responsibility, and being connected to mankind as a whole.” He looked at me. “And maybe it’s about blooming where you are planted; about playing the hand you are dealt; about getting lemons and making lemonade. All those things.”
He pointed out the window. “Are there better places than Blackwater? Maybe. Are there worse places? Yes, most definitely.”
At the end of class, Wendy ripped a page out of her planner. She wrote down her address and phone number and handed it to me. “Here. Don’t lose this. I’ll talk to your driver right now.”
She sidestepped in front of Arthur before he could exit. She said, “Arthur? May I call you that?”
“That’s my name.”
“Sorry for the late notice, Arthur. I am inviting you to a Halloween party at my house. Tonight.”
Arthur shrugged, but he answered, “Okay.”
“Can you make it?”
“I guess.”
“Good. Can you drive Tom?”
Arthur looked at me. “Sure.”
“Good.” Wendy turned to include me. “You will both need to wear costumes.”
Arthur replied, “I don’t have a costume.”
I said, “I don’t have one, either.”
Wendy thought for a moment. “You two could go as a team, you know? The brain guy and the muscle guy. The brain guy rides on the muscle guy’s shoulders—like Master Blaster in The Road Warrior.”
Arthur’s lip curled up. “What’s that?”
“It’s a cult movie,” she said. “Or like Freak the Mighty.”
I explained, in case Arthur didn’t know, “That’s a book. A little kid rides on a big kid’s shoulders.” Then I added, “Or like Banjo Kazooie.”
It was Wendy’s turn to look puzzled. “What’s that?”
“Video game. It’s the same idea. Smart bird rides on dumb bear’s shoulders.”
“Yeah.”
Arthur looked offended. “I ain’t doin’ that. I’m smart and strong. I don’t need Thomas here for my brain. And I sure ain’t lettin’ him ride on my shoulders.”
Wendy smiled. “Fine. Those were just suggestions. A lot of the college guys are coming as zombies. All you have to do is wear something that makes you look like you just crawled out of the grave. Most guys around here dress like that anyway.”
I told Mom a version of the truth: that some of the kids from the counseling group had been invited to Mrs. Lyle’s for a Halloween party. I didn’t mention that it was at Blackwater University. Lilly, after some serious pleading, backed me up. Or at least she didn’t rat me out.
So, at 7:00 p.m., I was standing outside on Sunbury Street in the dark, wearing my grossest climb-out-of-the-grave zombie clothes.
I expected Arthur to pick me up in Jimmy’s truck, but he pulled up in a three-door midnight-blue hatchback. I opened the passenger-side door. “What’s this?”
“This,” he explained with pride, “is a 1997 Geo Metro.”
“You just got it?”
“Just picked it up. I ain’t even been home yet.”
“Cool.”
“It’s a genuine Chevrolet, cuz, even if it is made by Suzuki.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but I did. “How did you ever pay for this?”
He answered as if it should be obvious, “With my money.”
“Your money? But you don’t have a job.”
“I have something better than a job. I have an income.”
A dark thought crossed my mind: Does he mean an illegal income, like selling drugs? But I was totally off base there.
“From the Social Security Administration,” he explained. “I get a check every month. It started on the day my father died, and it will end on the day I turn eighteen.”
I was relieved. I asked him, “When do you turn eighteen?”
“February second. That’s two/two. And check it out: Next year, it will be two/two/two. Deuces wild, man! That’s what I’m gonna have tattooed on my arm.”
We rode in silence for a few moments through the chilly October night. As we rose up into the foothills, I asked him, “Would you mind turning the heat on?”
“Heat? Why do you need the heat on?”
“Let’s see.… To survive?”
“But you’re indoors.”
“I’m inside a tin can. A freezing tin can.”
“Well, this just ain’t your night, cuz. The heat don’t work. So I guess you’re not gonna survive.”
I resigned myself to a long, cold ride.
Our first stop was Arthur’s house. This was my first trip to the condemned trailer where he lives with his mother and stepfather and stepbrother, Cody.
We turned off the highway and continued up a dirt road for about fifty yards. Arthur made a right turn, and we inched up a gravel hill. I saw a pair of trailers in the headlights. I stared at them closely, taking in all I could.
Aunt Robin’s trailer was in front. It was made of white metal held together with some rusty screws. I’d say it was forty feet across and twenty feet deep—not a bad size. It had a painted brown door in the center, flanked by two windows covered with thick plastic sheeting.
The steps beneath the front door were improvised. They were made from two wooden pallets—like the kind Food Giant orders come in, but sawed off to fit.
A bright porch light illuminated a strange collection of items spread across the ground, Cody’s baby toys and some other things. As we pulled closer, I could see orange plastic ducks and matching plastic rings, probably from a bath set. There were body parts from two or three Transformers, as well as Nerf balls, Wiffle balls, and a plastic bat.
I was shocked, though, by a few of the nontoy items.
These items had obviously been made from a stolen shopping cart—probably from the Food Giant. There was a low, square movers’ dolly made out of four metal wheels and the slats from a wooden pallet. There was a half-full firewood basket, which had once been the main section of a shopping cart. It was missing its hinged, movable side. That’s because that piece of metal was now the grill for a hibachi, sitting there on top of a ring of concrete blocks.
Bobby Smalls would have been horrified. But I had to admit it was all pretty clever.
I couldn’t see Warren’s trailer very well. It sat another thirty yards behind Aunt Robin’s and on a higher elevation. It looked narrower by perhaps ten feet across. As far as I could tell, it had no debris around it.
We parked near the right corner of the first trailer and got out. Just as Arthur reached the front door, someone pulled it open from the inside. Arthur backed up to let Warren step out, followed by Jimmy.
They both smiled at me and said, “Hey, Tom,” almost in unison.
Warren was holding an item I recognized from the Food Giant—a fifty-count box of Ziploc freezer bags. He pointed to the driveway and smiled hugely. “Whoa! Check out the new ride!”
Arthur grinned. “Yeah.”
Warren asked Jimmy, “Is that the one you told me about, bubba? From Primrose?”
Jimmy nodded.
“Sweet.” Warren winked at me, but he spoke to Arthur. “Now I don’t have to drive you to football games? And sit there and watch you lose?”
“Nope. I guess not.”
Warren then looked from Arthur to me. “So what are you two gentlemen up to tonight? You goin’ joyriding?”
Arthur replied, “We’re heading up to the college.”
“The college? What for?”
Arthur smiled. “Tom’s got a girlfriend there.”
Warren poked my ribs with the box. “Is that right, Tom? You’re dating a college girl?”
I protested, “She’s not my girlfriend. And she doesn’t go to the college. She just lives there with her family.”
Arthur corrected himself. “I should say we are going to a party at the college, a Halloween party, invited by a friend of Tom’s, who just happens to be a girl.”
I nodded my approval. “There you go.”
Warren asked Jimmy, “Remember the time we went up there, bubba? With Ralph? And the Cowley brothers?”
“I do indeed.”
“That was some night.”
“Amen to that.”
I asked them, “Did you go there for a party?”
Warren replied, “Not hardly, young Tom. We went there for a fight.”
Arthur, who rarely looked surprised at anything, looked shocked. “A fight? Why don’t I know about this?”
Warren pointed at Jimmy. “Because bubba here never told you? So I’ll tell you now. Here’s what happened: Jim’s buddy Ralph got beat up by two college boys. Beat up for no reason except that he was a townie.
“He was working at the Strike Zone, and these two frat boys showed up drunk. They were acting stupid, acting like they were better than everybody. Laughing at everybody. You know the drill.”
Arthur nodded. “I do.”
“So Ralph told them to leave. A few minutes later, he went out to make sure they were gone, and they jumped him. Beat him up real bad. So the next night, him, Jimmy, me, and some other guys went up there to take care of business.”
“To the college?”
“Yeah.”
Arthur asked, “How did you find them? There’s gotta be a thousand people up there.”
“It wasn’t that hard,” Warren explained. “They got those college bars on the main road, heading up to that big gold dome. We figured two drunken frat boys would be there drinking, and so they were! Ralph spotted their car after about five minutes. Then we all waited until they came out.”
Warren smiled, remembering. “I believe it was a Ford Mustang. A bright red one. Jimmy took a tire iron to the front and back windows. We gave them college boys as good as Ralph got and then some. Then the bar owner came out, yelling that he had just called the cops.
“So we left them on the sidewalk, bleeding and crying for their mommies. We jumped into the back of Jimmy’s truck and peeled out of there.”
Jimmy added somberly, “Somebody coulda got my tag number. I kept waitin’ for the cops all the next day. Waitin’ to get arrested.”
Warren told him, “Don’t matter if you got arrested or not. We did what we had to do.”
Jimmy agreed, “Yeah.”
“They hit us, so we hit them back.”
“Amen.”
Arthur nodded angrily. “Yeah, I hear that.”
Warren raised up his Ziploc box in a friendly wave. “Well, enough townie history. You guys have a good time up there. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t play with matches. All that stuff.” He started up the incline to his trailer, calling, “Anybody needs me, I’ll be at the Drunken Monkey.”
I followed Arthur and Jimmy through the door. Arthur veered left toward his bedroom. He pointed to the right and said, “Go sit in there. I need to find me some zombie rags.”
I said, “Okay,” and walked into the living room. It was surprisingly large—with a long cloth-covered couch along the right wall, a big TV straight ahead, and a pair of recliner chairs to the left.
Aunt Robin was sitting on the floor in front of the chairs. She is a small, feisty lady with long black hair and multiple ear piercings. She was playing with Cody—a cute, squirmy boy about two years old.
She looked up at me, “Why, Tom Coleman! As I live and breathe!”
I waved awkwardly. “Hi, Aunt Robin. Hi, Cody.”
“Did I just hear you’re going to a party?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“No drinking or drugs!”
“No, ma’am.”
I had seen Aunt Robin often over the years—at the Food Giant and at other public places—but I had never been in her living room before. Nobody ever said it out loud, but we all knew that Mom and Aunt Robin did not get along. Going way back. We had never spent a holiday together, or any other day, for that matter.
Jimmy walked in from the kitchen holding a jar of Gerber’s baby food and a spoon. He grinned at me, but he spoke to Aunt Robin. “Here I am, out bustin’ my butt at work all day, and I got to come home and work here, too?”
Aunt Robin got instantly riled, like this was an ongoing argument. “Don’t you start that, Jimmy Giles! Especially in front of company!”
She shot an offended look at me. “Don’t think I haven’t been working, Tom. I just finished a job driving a school bus.” She pointed a red nail at me. “The trouble is, you need a second job if you drive a school bus, because the pay is so low. But you can’t get a second job because you always have to be on call for the school bus job.”
Jimmy interjected, “But having one job was better than having none, wasn’t it?”
She answered angrily, “No. Not that job. It was terrible. You never knew what they were gonna throw at you. Especially if you were new, like me. You might have to drive the gangbangers, or the teenage girls with the babies, or the just plain old troublemakers up to the county school. With no security on board. Just you.
“Or you might have to drive the retarded bus.” She assured me, “I got nothing against those kids, Tom. They’re just fine. But some of them need helpers with them, and they don’t have helpers.”
She stopped talking.
I felt like I should say something, so I commented, “Bobby Smalls has Down’s syndrome. He’s the bag boy at the Food Giant.”
“Yeah. I know who you mean. But he’s a smart one, right?”
“Yeah. He’s real smart.”
“Well, I’m not talking about him, Tom. I’m talking about these poor kids who still wear diapers. And they’re big kids! I just couldn’t handle driving them every day. Maybe that makes me a bad person, but it was just too sad for me.”
Arthur came out of his bedroom. He was dressed pretty much the same as before, in his camo pants and boots, but he had ripped up an old white shirt and pulled it on over his hoodie. And he had smeared black stuff under his eyes, like football players do for glare.
He said, “Let’s roll, cuz,” and exited quickly, without a word to Aunt Robin, Jimmy, or Cody.
I muttered, “I’ll see everybody later,” and followed him out.
But we could not roll.
A car had pulled in and parked behind Arthur’s Geo Metro. A white Saab convertible.
Arthur was really annoyed, but he didn’t say anything. We just stared at the car uncomfortably until we heard voices from above. Two tall college-age guys emerged from Warren’s trailer. Despite the dim light, I could see that one of them had a Baggie in his hand. Of marijuana? Probably. They were all laughing about something. Then they exchanged some goodbye stuff, like “Later, bro,” “Be cool,” and so on.
Warren stepped back inside and closed the door. I don’t think he even saw us.
But the college boys did.
They kept walking toward us, but the one with the Baggie stuffed it into the pocket of his Blackwater U jacket. They got into the Saab, backed out, and roared away down the road.
I opened my mouth to speak, but Arthur cut me off. “You didn’t see that. You didn’t hear that. You know nothing.”
I agreed, “Okay.”
Arthur opened the driver’s-side door. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
We both got inside. I assured him, “I don’t even know what you’re saying, because I didn’t see or hear anything.”
He mumbled, “Good. What Warren does is his business. Always has been.”
“Okay.” Arthur dropped the Geo Metro in gear, and we began a tense drive up to the party.
I guess you could say that Blackwater University is the most famous thing around here, but I had never heard a good word spoken about it in my life. The university people look down on us, and we hate them for it. That’s the way it is, and always has been.
We drove for about twenty minutes, mostly through farms and woodlands, until the highway narrowed. Then we turned onto a two-lane road leading to the main gate. College-kid businesses lined both sides of the road—used-book stores, coffeehouses, trade-or-sell music stores, and several bars. (I wondered where, exactly, Warren and Jimmy had found those guys and beaten them up.)
We entered the campus and veered right, following a perimeter road around academic buildings, dormitories, and a wide quadrangle dotted with statues. I recognized that Venus-without-any-arms statue. She had been the victim of a frat boy prank, though, and was now wearing a pink bra. (I wondered if frat boys did that in Florida, too.)
The perimeter road took us behind the student center, where we veered right again and, technically, left the campus. We were now in a tree-lined area that held the fraternity and sorority houses and the homes of the university professors.
Arthur had not spoken all the way up, and he did not sound happy when he finally did. “What’s the address of this place?”
I told him, and we slowed down to look at numbers. But that turned out to be unnecessary. It was obvious where the big Halloween party was taking place.
The Lyles’ house was a large redbrick structure with a white porch running around the front and sides. College kids in costumes were hanging out on the porch and on the lawn, and they were moving in and out of the open front door.
We found a parking spot a block and a half away and started walking back through a crowd of partyers. Some were in real costumes—I saw a Spanish matador and a couple of Disney princesses—but most people had improvised like we had, and the prevailing costume was indeed zombie.
The first person I recognized was Catherine Lyle. She was standing, costumeless, on the front porch (which was, of course, her front porch). She was speaking to a young man about the plastic beer cup in his hand. The young man reluctantly poured the beer over the porch railing and onto the dirt below.
When Arthur and I mounted the stairs, Catherine Lyle looked up and met my eyes. But then her counselor ethics kicked in, I guess, and she looked away. Her frown deepened, though, as she realized that two more underage kids, very underage kids, were entering her house.
Some kind of rock music was playing as we walked into the wide foyer. To the left was a living room filled with people on couches and chairs. They were all smoking and drinking.
To the right was a dining room. There were snacks and sodas on one table, and a CD player, some CDs, and two kegs of beer on another.
I heard a familiar voice call out from the back of the foyer. “Hey! You made it!” Wendy Lyle was standing there (leaning, really) against a wall. She was wrapped in purple cloth. Like a genie, I guess.
A short guy with curly hair had his arms pressed against the wall over her head, like he had her trapped. He was wearing an eye patch and a purple sash with a plastic dagger stuck in it.
Wendy slipped out from under his arms and walked toward us just as Catherine Lyle walked back inside. Catherine stopped her long enough to say, “There is to be no underage drinking, Wendy. That goes for you and any of your friends.” She then continued down a hallway to what I figured was the kitchen.
Wendy was not like herself. Not like herself in class anyway, or in the counseling group. She was smiling at everything. She told me, over the rock music, “One thing I will say about the town of Blackwater [she pronounced it BACKwahr], one good thing, is that they are really into Halloween. We were driving around, and we saw all of these… haunted houses. You know? Like people had gone all out to turn their houses into these… haunted houses.”
I nodded. “Yeah. There are always a lot of those around.”
“I guess because it already is a dark, old, scary place, people just go with it, you know? They make it even darker and scarier. You know?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
She stopped talking. I tried to come up with something to say. The best I could do was to point to the walls. “This is a nice house. It’s all brick?”
Wendy wrinkled her nose. “I guess. Aren’t most houses brick?”
“No.”
“No? What’s your house made of?”
“Wood.”
I had forgotten momentarily about Arthur. He was right behind me, and he suddenly spoke up. “I live in a trailer.”
Wendy started to laugh hysterically. “My God! Do you hear that? Do you get it? We’re the three little pigs! I’m brick, you’re wood, and you’re… I don’t know. What are trailers made of?”
Arthur didn’t answer. He walked into the dining room and stared at the snacks table.
Wendy laughed for a little while longer. She muttered, “Straw. That’s it. They’re made of straw.”
I asked her, “What’s with the purple? Are you a genie?”
“It’s not purple! It’s indigo. It’s because I am an indigo.”
I must have looked confused. Wendy added, “That’s the color of my aura.”
That didn’t help me. She asked, “Have you ever had your aura read?”
“No. I don’t know what that is.”
“Every living thing gives off energy in an aura,” she explained. “Like the aurora borealis. And every aura has a color.” She tugged at my sleeve. “You could be an indigo and not know it. Tell me: Do you seem to have more empathy than those around you?”
I remembered my PSAT vocabulary. “Like can I put myself in someone else’s shoes?”
“Exactly.”
“Yeah.”
“And are you more creative than those around you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. That’s not too hard around here.”
“Yeah. Right.”
The conversation deflated after that. Wendy started looking around, maybe to find someone better to talk to. “So, where did you get your aura read?” I asked.
“Cassadaga. In Florida. My dad took me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s all spiritualists. It’s a very spiritual place. You should check it out when you’re down there.”
“Yeah. Maybe I will.”
“I know you will.”
“How do you know that?”
Arthur rejoined us. He had a handful of Chex mix.
“Because I’m an indigo,” Wendy said.
Arthur asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s the color of my aura.”
Arthur tried to pronounce it, like it was a foreign word. “In-DEE-grow?”
“Indigo—like indigo on the light spectrum,” I explained. “ROY G BIV.”
Arthur asked, somewhat dumbly, “Roy Biv? Who’s that?”
“Nobody. It’s a mnemonic device.”
Arthur rubbed at his eye, smearing one black line of makeup. “Huh?”
“A memory trick. ROY G BIV. Each letter stands for a color on the spectrum.”
“Relax, cuz. I know what it is. I’m just bustin’ them on you. I know all that stuff.”
“Oh.”
“I was good in science.” He asked Wendy, “Indigo? So that means you’re… what? Like a grape?”
Wendy didn’t respond to that. She checked around furtively. Then she whispered to both of us, “Who wants a drink? We have beer. We have rum punch!”
Arthur made a dismissive gesture with his hand. He answered curtly, “Not me,” and walked outside.
I shook my head. “No. I’d better not, either.”
Wendy shrugged. She stepped into the dining room and grabbed two pieces of candy corn. “I love these. Love them, love them, love them.”
She took me by the arm and led me back to that spot against the wall, the spot where the pirate had been. He wasn’t there now.
She told me, “Open your mouth.”
“Huh?”
“Just do it.”
I complied.
She placed a piece of candy corn on the tip of her tongue. Then, out of nowhere, she leaned into me, like for a kiss. She slid her tongue and the candy inside my mouth. I took it off with my lips, letting them run down the length of her tongue.
It was incredibly exciting.
Wendy reloaded her tongue with another piece, and we did it again.
Then she looked at me expectantly. All I could manage to whisper was, “What was that?”
She whispered back, “It was… what it was. Did you like it?”
“Yeah.”
She backed away, smacking her lips together loudly. “Let’s get some more. For eating, though.”
“Okay.”
“No more taking advantage of me because I am drunk.”
I laughed. “Okay.”
She led me back into the dining room. Two guys were standing by the CD player. One was dressed in zombie attire. The other had on a long black robe and a white skull mask, a death’s-head mask. The death’s-head was saying, “Play something Midwest, man. I’m sick of this L.A. pop crap.”
The other guy pointed to a stack of CDs. “Tell me what you want to hear, bro.”
Wendy dragged me right up to him. She called out, a little too loudly, “Hey, Mr. P.!”
The death’s-head mask turned around. It had big holes, so you could see the eyes and mouth inside. It was Mr. Proctor all right. Definitely. And he did not look pleased to see us. He managed to say, “Hey. What are you guys doing here?”
Wendy replied, “I live here! This is my house!”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” We stared at each other for a few seconds. Then he turned left and started toward the front door. “Sorry. I really don’t think I should be partying with you guys.”
I watched him go.
Just as he disappeared, I felt a hard tug at my arm. I turned and saw the pirate guy with the eye patch. He looked me up and down, but he spoke to Wendy. “Now, what’s he dressed up like? A townie? Is he your little townie friend? A little townie who has to go home now?”
Wendy said, “Shut up!” But she didn’t sound angry.
“Bye now, little townie friend.” The guy turned his back on me. He told her, “You come over here and shut me up.” Then he took Wendy by the wrist and walked her back to that same place against the wall. Then he leaned over her, just like before.
I started to panic. I wondered: Should I go rescue her?
Then I stopped wondering.
Wendy opened her mouth to him, revealing another piece of candy corn. She stuck out her tongue and held it there, dangling it in the air, just as she had done with me. The pirate guy knew what to do next. He covered her tongue with his whole mouth.
And there they were, the two of them, making out against the wall. Right in front of me, like I wasn’t even there.
I felt the blood rising in my neck, and face, and ears, like when Rick Dorfman was choking me.
I stared for a few more seconds; then I tore myself away. I pushed through a crowd at the front door, looking for Arthur, hoping to get out of there as fast as I could. But I didn’t see him.
So I found an open spot against the railing and stood there with my head hanging down. I was furious and ashamed and humiliated all at the same time. I gripped the railing and stared at the ground, hoping nobody would see me or, worse, say anything to me. I was a total loser, just a total coward loser.
After a few minutes, I sensed somebody grab hold of the railing next to me. Grab it clumsily, bumping me to the side.
I saw a girl’s arm to my left, and the purple folds of a costume. It was Wendy. She may or may not have known that it was me standing next to her. She leaned over the railing and hurled very loudly, projecting a solid three-foot-long stream of vomit onto the dirt below.
My stomach turned at the smell, and the sight, of the pieces of candy corn. There they were, risen from the grave of her stomach. Undigested. Making me sick.
From behind me, I heard someone say, “Nice shot.”
It was Arthur. “You ready to get out of here?” he asked. “Or did you want to, maybe, kiss her again?”
Before I could answer, I heard the sound of a large, boisterous group coming out of the house. Wendy suddenly snapped to attention. She hurried down the steps and took off into the night.
A man in a pirate costume called out, “Wait! Is that my daughter? Does my costume embarrass her that much? Come on, Wendy—I did leave off the codpiece!”
The group of mini-pirates around him started to laugh, and I realized this was Dr. Lyle. He had on a long blue velvet coat, a puffy white shirt, and a golden vest. He had on a feathered blue hat, too.
Dr. Lyle’s bloodshot eyes suddenly turned toward Arthur. He squinted and then demanded to know, in a loud voice, “Now, what are you supposed to be? Let me guess: a homeless man with a sleeping disorder?”
The pirate boys laughed.
Arthur did not reply, so Dr. Lyle tried again. “No? Perhaps a coal miner who has tried, unsuccessfully, to wash his face?”
The boys laughed again.
Arthur cleared his throat. He answered, “Yeah, that’s it. I’m a coal miner. You got a problem with that?”
Dr. Lyle leaned back, popping his red eyes open. “Certainly not. That is a great career for the new millennium. Coal miner. Yes, there will be a great demand for nonrenewable fossil fuel and those who can dig it up, I am sure.” He looked at his boys. “Did you know that clean coal is an oxymoron? A self-contradiction?”
The boys replied with variations of no, so he continued.
“Like wise fool. Like military intelligence.”
The boys laughed appreciatively. One of them snorted, and told him (obsequiously), “That is hilarious, Doctor.”
I looked at Arthur. He was enraged. What would he do? I took a step down the stairs, hoping he would follow me, but he did not. Instead, he spoke up in his dumb voice. “Well, coal minin’ isn’t as fancy as doctorin’, I guess.” He held up a finger, like he had a thought. “Oh! I hurt my finger today, Doctor. Do you think you could look at it?”
Everybody froze. Dr. Lyle’s nostrils flared out, as if he had detected an odor. He finally replied coldly, “No. I’m not that kind of doctor.”
“Oh? What kind are you?”
Dr. Lyle answered abruptly, “Perhaps you should go home now.”
Arthur joined me on the step. “Yeah. Yeah, perhaps. Perhaps to all that.” He took off quickly toward our parking space, and I followed.
Dr. Lyle said one more thing to his boys, but I could not hear it. They all started laughing, so I concluded it was about Arthur.
Or about townies.
Or about coal miners.