Strong Coffee

We don’t see Jerry much anymore since Gregory moved him to another dorm. In some ways, I miss him, and I’m sorry I lost his money. “If I tell you the truth, will you keep it under your hat?”

“Sure. Rumors have been flying since the morning old Collie found you’d gone over the wall. Hearing your side will be interesting.”

“A nasty dude who wanted to sell me to his friend was dangling me by my ankle from a second story window and it fell out of my pocket. I got away from him, but when I went back later that night, the money was gone. So I guess he found it.”

Jerry looks at me like he wants to take a ball bat to my head. Then he laughs. “What the hell. Keep it. That’s a good story. Not worth a hundred bucks, but a good story.”

I don’t remind him it was more than a hundred bucks, or try to convince him that’s what happened. I’m just glad Gregory has tamed him so he doesn’t dare break any more of my bones.

“Next time,” he stands up, “you can tell me about how you were driving the car and wrecked it trying to miss a little old lady crossing the street.”

I fill the days with board games, reading, watching educational videos, and wondering when my surprise package will arrive. Most nights I sleep through without dreams or interruptions, and without pills. Gregory keeps me on the sidelines because of my injuries, but they don’t bother me much, and I walk around the track every morning and evening.

Even so, I’m restless. Start to call Ernie a few times, decide to wait and thank him after I know what the surprise is. Has John gone home to his farmhouse? We never learned what he did for a living, but with his secret bank account he’s probably taking time off. Camping. Fishing. Driving his Caddy without worrying about cops. Wish I was with him.

The morning of the Fourth, I’m in my room, adding finishing touches to a rocket. If the timer works the way it should, and the launch doesn’t fail, it’s supposed to explode in the air and rain down in pieces like a puzzle that can be put back together.

An announcement over the intercom reminds us of a special presentation by a guest speaker, and the hubbub in the hall draws me out into the crowd. We cross the lawn to the auditorium and file into seats reserved for us Middles. Somewhere behind us, a piece of hard candy arcs over our heads and into the Littles up front. Hits one, who swirls out of his seat like an angry cat to look for his attacker.

“Gotta be Jerry,” Eric says beside me.

“I don’t think so,” I answer, and then I’m dumbstruck.

A slender young man is ushered onto stage by a junior dorm master who introduces him as Gordon Thomas, who has just flown into town from his university, and explains that the program is a slide show on saving the environment.

His neck hair has been trimmed so he looks scholarly, but the rest is long enough to cover the shaved spot where the sterile pad protected his scalp, skinned off on the rear view mirror. He’s wearing wire-rimmed half glasses which I suspect are from a drug store rack, a long-sleeved white shirt and preppy pants like the ones he ruined washing in the rest area sink. Loafers with socks.

So this is my surprise. It’s all I can do not to yell, Yea! Ernie! But I hold it in, knowing something’s afoot and I don’t want to spoil whatever he has in mind.

Organized, methodical, confident, he points to the pictures on the screen, and his voice is clear and authoritative. It lasts about twenty minutes, the attention span of the Littles (and most Middles). When he shows the last slide— ‘The End’ —everybody starts clapping.

The junior dorm master marches from behind the curtain, and the applause freshens, mainly because, even geared for Littles, the program’s the most excitement we’ve had all week and it’s not time yet for the cook out. Nobody stands, we learned long ago to wait for permission. It’s a good thing, as the

JDM leans into the mic. “Our guest has asked for one of our Middles to give him the Grand Tour of the campus.” My hand shoots into the air, its plastic pinky guard unmistakeable,
seconds before other hands join it, some waving for attention. Ernie’s bespectacled eyes rivet on me, and he speaks to JDM, who sounds like Bob Barker when he says, “Come on down! Binnie Scott, lucky Middle.” Sounds of laughter and jeering fade behind me as I make my way to the stairs leading onstage.

JDM dismisses the audience and Ernie says with a straight face, “Hello, Binnie. I’m doing research on benevolent institutions such as East Wind, and I’d like to experience the rest of your day with you.” JDM is hovering, listening, so I answer in the same mode, “Mister Thomas, I’m honored to be your guide. Would you like to see my dorm, and the rocket I’m building for the celebration later tonight?” “Fireworks, is it?” he asks, as we head in the direction of the dorms.

“You’re leaving your slides,” I remind him, but he carelessly says, “I’ll pack them up later.”

Steve’s in the room when we get there, though after a formal introduction that strains my acting skills, he reluctantly departs for an appointment with his clarinet tutor.

I manage to close the door before we burst into laughter. “You dog! Why didn’t you just tell me you were coming for a visit?”

“This was more fun, wasn’t it? And I am doing research, for my major.”

Typical Ernie. Writing papers before he has to. I show him the rocket, and he says, “Got any airplane paint?”

We filch some from the art department, along with small brushes, and he paints the word ‘GOODBYE’ on the nose cone. I like that, so we paint ‘GOODBYE’ on most of the puzzle-joined pieces, and I hope they don’t burn too much to be read once they hit the ground. “So what’s been happening with you, Vinnie?”

“Other than skull-busting boredom?” I wipe off a smear of paint that went astray. “Found out my mom’s alive and knows where I am. Has known since Day One.”

“That’s gotta hurt. I found out Fran’s only my half sister. She’s Dad’s kid, but not Mom’s. Which explains why Mom designated the trust fund just for me.”

We’re silent for a while, painting.

There’s more. “When Francine went wild, I thought it was because of the money, but that was less than half of it. She found her birth certificate, right before she met Hoodoo. She was furious with Dad for starting the whole fiasco, with Mom because she let her think she was her real mother who just up and left her without any explanation.”

He’s not through yet. Clearing the air seems to help, so I just listen. “Dad has always been a private person, but what I didn’t know was how his guilt had made him abuse Mom. That was why she left.”

No wonder her sweet face looks sad. I want to say how sorry I am, but another silence falls and we leave it at that.

When the rocket’s covered with as many goodbye’s as we can fit on, all sizes and in red, white, and blue on the gun metal gray body, I set it in the window to dry.

“I brought transcripts from John’s hearing.” He pulls several tri-folded papers from his slacks pocket and we read each other’s responses to the judge’s questions. I’m impressed by the shrewdness of my companions, especially this part:

Judge: You admit to shooting Jordan.

John: I didn’t shoot him for killing my wife. Had no proof of that. I shot him because he broke into my house.

There’s a copy of Jordan’s confession, which Ernie assures me was not coerced. The weapon wasn’t an axe handle, the way Cuz Martin or Reporter Bob— I don’t know which— claimed that day when I heard them in the coffee shop. It was a baseball bat Margie kept beside her door in case of an intruder. Whether the crime was murder or manslaughter will be decided at Jordan’s trial. His story, which must have been hard to tell, if true, is that Margie was planning to leave him. And take her money with her.

The report from Hoodoo’s hearing explains how he’d found out from Francine about the case file and the antique car, and it was easy for him to gain access to the grounds, with her key numbers.

Ernie clears up Hoodoo’s motive for wanting to kill or at least maim her half brother. “Sufficient is never enough for people like Hoodoo, they have to go all out. Sabatoging my car was his way of getting even with me, not only for all the things he imagines I’ve done to him, but for who I am.”

I lay the papers aside. “Do you know where John is now?”

“He went to the farmhouse.”

I never did get my hands on a map, so I’m still confused about how far that might be from here. When I ask Ernie, he’s already changing the subject.

“If you had to choose, what in this room would you save in case of a fire?”

I point to a handful of books. “Those.”

“That’s all?”

“Unless you brought my camera and running shoes. HEY! What about the photos? I thought you’d mail them to me and that would be your surprise.”

He hands me an envelope of prints from his shirt pocket. There he is, leaning on John’s Caddy in the parking lot. The three of us at lunch. At the tennis courts. And there’s the old guy at the flea market who sold me the shoes. And, on the bottom, the first shot I took. Hoodoo’s fist connecting with Ernie’s jaw.

Out of the blue, I remember something else I would save, in case of fire. I haven’t touched or even seen it since Collins shoved the box to the back of my closet shelf, the night I arrived at East Wind. We were both a lot younger then. And I’m still not tall enough to get the box down without Ernie’s help.

Rabbit.

He’s about ten inches long, yellow fuzzy cloth, with beady eyes and nose, ears with wires that make them adjustable. The head and body are stuffed with something, but not the thin limp arms and legs. You’d expect a typical powderpuff bunny tail, but it’s just a bit of cloth like the rest of him. Magnets for hands and feet so he hangs on stuff. Before I can cry over leaving him alone all these years, Ernie asks,

“What else have you got in there?”

Clothes to fit a five-year-old. A Christmas tree ornament with my name on it: Scott. A hand-tooled leather billfold, kid size. Opening it, I find a black and white photo of a woman and man under the protective plastic. My throat tightens. It’s them, I want to say, but can’t. Ernie’s hand briefly touches my shoulder.

“You’ll want to get to know her, one day.”

“Yeah, probably.”

We don’t mention my dad, but if he’s alive, I’ll want to know that too. One day. Not soon. I fasten Rabbit’s magnets around my arm, stuff him in my sling, and slip the wallet into my shorts pocket. “I travel light,” I joke.

After some thought, I muse : “So I am Scott. Scott Vincent.” I won’t have to legally change my name. It’s already the way I always wanted it.

“Whoever filled out your admission form must have left out the comma separating the first and last names, and they got switched.”

“Remember when we were in the barracks at Haw Creek? I told you we were alike because we always want to do the right thing. We’re alike another way, too. We have names that work both ways.”

He smiles. “Comes in handy whenever you need an alias.”

Steve returns from his lesson and we decide to show ‘Mister Thomas’ the rest of the campus. By the time we’ve finished touring the classrooms, gym, and library, there’s a smell of lit charcoal in the air, and tables are filled with uncooked hot dogs and burgers, packages of buns, containers of mustard and ketchup, covered bowls full of cole slaw, and coolers full of ice and drinks.

During the picnic, I try not to think of the last time we did this, a month ago, and the adventures I’ve had since Margie’s lifeless body imprinted on my brain. Ernie disappears for fifteen or twenty minutes, and I hope he hasn’t taken off without saying…

Goodbye.

He hasn’t. He’s on hand for a dessert of chocolate brownies, and while most of the inmates compromise their digestion with baseball or volleyball, he pulls my Scrabble board out of a canvas bag he’s carrying around, along with my duffel. Nobody in the dorm will play me anymore, since I stopped throwing a game now and then. Ernie beats me two out of three.

Something else is in the bag. “Thought you might need them.”

I pull on a pair of summer socks and slide my feet into my running shoes. They make me want to take them for a spin around the track, but that last hot dog persuades me otherwise.

Dusk comes early because of clouds rolling in, and it’s a moonless night, so the fireworks start early in case it rains. Ernie remarks, “Shades of the festival.”

“Too bad John can’t be here.”

If he answers, I don’t hear him for the first volley. Ours aren’t extravagant, but the show usually lasts maybe thirty minutes, with pauses between sets. We’ve watched maybe half when Ernie says,

“Ready for rocket launch? I brought it.”

“Now? Sure.” I’ve planned to climb the stairs to the walkway outside the library tower, and send Goodbye sailing toward the main buildings and picnic area. We do that together.

Forgot to bring matches. Ernie hasn’t. “Boy Scout,” I tease. I light the fuse and stand back. The rocket sputters, teeters, smokes, then takes off . . . like a rocket.

We lean on the railing and watch it arc over the gym and explode above the picnic grounds. I think about the debris left from the grill-out and figure all of it, including my rocket, will be raked up in the morning by old Martin before I’m even awake.

“I have one more surprise for you, Mouse.”

Descending the stairs in the dark , I’m thinking about what else Ernie’s been plotting. He’s tossed away the empty canvas bag but is still carrying my duffel, which bulges. Probably stuffed with his slides. Does this trek across campus mean he didn’t arrive in a cab? Is a private small plane concealed somewhere beyond the garden plots, where he’s leading me between rows of beans and squash?

Before I can express doubt about whether he can safely navigate at night, we come to the farthest corner of the chain link fence, a good half mile from the fateful abandoned well, so no ghosts rise up to howl a lament. The two-lane runs past here, darkly bordered by forest on both sides. I’ve never been in this direction, and excitement builds.

Ernie kneels about three feet out from the corner post, and shoves something under the fence. Under the fence?

“Come on, Mouse. You’re next.”

He guides me into a recently-shoveled ditch covered in painter’s plastic. “I knew you’d never be able to climb with a broken collarbone.”

“And pinky,” I remind him, though truthfully I usually forget about it. “Why are we doing this?”

‘Doing this’ is sliding under the fence, kicking out of his way as he follows me. We stand up, and I notice the distant street lamps. Wisps of fireworks smoke and an occasional illegal firecracker mark the end of the Fourth celebration.

He folds the plastic into a square convenient for carrying away.

“Look.” He turns me around, picks up the duffel, and we start walking along the grassy shoulder of the road. What does he want me to see? In the starlight, between clouds, a shape moves towards us. It’s a big, heavy car-shape, under blackout, easing over the tarmac in reverse. Stops about ten feet away. We run towards it.

Someone forgot to remove the dome bulb, because when Ernie opens the driver’s side rear door and we pile in, by its light I see John grinning, his arm over the seat. Next to him, Ernie’s mom smiles at us.

The door closes and the light dies. John changes the gears to ‘go’ mode. “Well, Scott,” she says, “are you ready for another life?”

Stunned but thrilled, I tell her, “I’ve been ready.”

As the Caddy picks up speed on the straight, dark road, I’m torn between insane tears of joy and the urge to laugh out loud. Possibilities rush at me like fireworks, colorful and noisy. “Where are we going?”

“First, to my place,” John says.

“We need to cut and bleach your hair,” Ernie tells me. He takes the drug store glasses from his pocket and fits them onto my face. No magnification.

“And we can start homeschooling right away, if you want,” Ernie’s mom adds. “Don’t want you getting bored.”

While I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever heard her name, we round a curve and John clicks on the Caddy’s lights. East Wind is history, hidden now by trees. Collins left without revealing any more about my real mother, but when the time comes, I’m sure I’ll find her. Will she be sad in the meantime, not knowing where I am?

Ernie suggests, “Why don’t you put Rabbit in the duffel with your books?”

As I do that, I remember the wallet in my pocket, and the photo in the wallet. When we’re at the farmhouse, I’ll check to see whether anybody wrote my parents’ names and maybe a date on the back.

“So how long have you guys known each other,” I ask Ernie’s mom.

“We just met,” she tells me. Their smiles tell me there’s a possible future here. I try to remember if Ern— Tommy ever said his parents are divorced or just separated. She’s been out of the house for two years, so either way she’s not likely to go back.

My racing thoughts light on an entirely different matter. “Can we have banana pancakes for breakfast?”

“Sure,” Ernie’s mom says.

“And coffee?”

John and Ernie laugh. “Just don’t let the kid make it,” John advises.

“Why not?” She glances from one to the other, curious.

Ern— Tom explains, “Oh, he can make it. If you like it strong.”

“Strong enough to float an iron wedge,” John warns her.

Ernie’s mom’s voice is calm, contented. “I like my coffee strong.”

“Me, too,” I tell them.

The two-lane stretches ahead, smoothly winding away behind us under the Caddy’s wheels. I wonder how I’ll look as a blond.

The End

When the East Wind driver comes for me, I’m more than glad to go. My duffel bag is still at Ernie’s along with my shoes and camera, so besides the tee shirt, briefs, and knee shorts I had on the night of the wreck, handed to me in a plastic hospital bag, all I leave with are the two-day-old charity items I’m wearing, courtesy of the foster family whose name I’ve already forgotten.

The driver’s a middle-aged man I’ve never seen and we say absolutely nothing for the 200 miles to the school. I make a note to myself to ask for a map and push pin the places I’ve been, if I can find them. During the trip, my mind races in circles, with pit stops in between.

Did John’s hearing go as planned? Has Ernie’s dad built a case against Jordan, enough to bring him to trial and put him away for killing Margie? Hoodoo’s leg must be healing faster than my collarbone. Where is Ernie’s mom now? Fran’s probably already in some rehab place for wayward girls. Mostly I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to say a few last words to Ernie. Tommy. Tommy Gordon, son of Thomas Gordon, Atty.

I toy with the idea of legally changing my name to Scott Vincent. I never liked ‘Vinnie’ and am more uncomfortable with it than ever. Mouse suited me better.

We arrive just before supper time and nothing seems different, except the trees are in full leaf and the grass has been cut. The driver sets me off at my dorm. On the way in, I toss the hospital bag into a trash can. O’Leary meets me in the lobby. Waiting for me, like a spider. “Vincent, I trust this escapade has made a proper impression on you. You’ll find Mister Gregory more vigilant than your former dorm master, so henceforth I want only good reports. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” I answer, suspicious at the emptiness of the lobby and the corridor beyond. The poison he injected fails to paralyze me.

Passing the dorm master’s office, I see new Gregory working at old Collie’s desk. He’s a younger version of O’Leary. Doors on my hall are open, but everyone’s either at supper or in town for some recreation. The third week in June is deceptively daylight, so I could be off about the time.

My room seems stifflingly small. A few of Steve’s things are on my side, but he’s not here. What will everyone think when I appear in the mess hall? Have they been warned about my injuries? Will I be an outcast, or a secret hero? I really don’t care. I lie down on my cot and try to relax. Impossible with the sling on my arm, so I take that off, but a lack of medication is starting to catch up with me.

Footsteps in the hallway. I sit up. From the quick shift in Steve’s face, he’s been briefed. A bit of a shock when he sees the deep bruises on mine, the sling on the floor beside my bed, the plastic shield on my right hand to protect the broken finger. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say.

He flops down in the only comfortable chair, placed between our sides of the room and meant to be shared. “You didn’t tell.”

“Did you think I would?”

“Hoped you wouldn’t. Jerry’s in D-hall right now for throwing old Collie’s teeth in the john, but he’ll be out tonight. Collie’s gone. On sabbatical, they told us.”

“So how long has the new guy been in charge?”

“Long enough to lay down the law.”

I’ve been AWOL for only 13 days, so he must be quick on the trigger. “Where is everybody?”

“Doing laps. He says we’re out of shape. But all it does is give me an appetite.” Steve leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Is it true? What we heard on tv?”

“What did you hear?”

“That you were in a wreck that totaled an antique car that belonged to a murderer. And it was his wife we saw dragged out of the old well last week.”

“Who the hell put that on the news?”

Steve looks startled at my language and sharp tone. “Some reporter named Bob Something. Said he’d been following the case for days.”

“Yeah, I guess he was. But his story’s crap.”

We stare at each other, him waiting for me to set things straight, me challenging him to ask another stupid question.

He gives up first, and comes over to high-five me. “Good to have you back, Mouse.”

I return the gesture, but then he eyes me and adds, “I guess it’s you.”

If it’s not, it soon will be. Jerry comes in, does a little victory dance that reminds me of Hoodoo, and yells, “Vinnie, my man! How’s the collarbone?”

“Hurts,” I tell him.

He offers me a half dozen pink and blue pills bound up in plastic wrap. I’m glad when the dinner buzzer sounds and everybody rushes out, since that keeps him from asking what I did with his money.

The Jell-O is red and rubbery. Jerry flings his at Eric. It bounces off Eric’s head into the aisle, and Gregory hauls Jerry out of his chair by the ear and orders him to stand in the corner. Shoves Jerry’s plate in his hand, and I think, Oboy! a huge fight is coming. I get ready to duck and cover.

They stand toe to toe for what feels like a minute but can’t be more than half, before Jerry mutters “Sorry” and carries his plate to a table near the kitchen doorway. Standing because there’s no chair, he finishes his meal. We finish, too, cowed. I was wrong. Things HAVE changed.

When Steve and I are in our room, he explains how Gregory got the upper hand so completely. “Oh they had it out the first day. Gregory beat the snot out of him.”

“Bet that one’s off the books.”

“O’Leary doesn’t know. He’s in his own little world, delirious to have Jerry under control and you safe and almost sound.”

After their first curiosity over the sling, deep bruises, and the patch on my head, the guys on our hall forget about me. I pick up my half-finished library book and block out the noisy board games and horseplay happening in other rooms, and Steve playing his clarinet.

Past curfew, I sneak to the pay phone. If there’s news I want to hear it straight. The only listing in the directory is under Thomas Gordon, but I dial it anyway, hoping a maid will take the call and put Ernie on the line. An answering machine in his dad’s office picks up, so I don’t leave a message.

Normally I would never trust any pill Jerry could get his hands on, but if these few hours at East Wind are a sample of what’s to come, I’m going to need something to dull my senses. The hospital doctor predicted that concussion cotton disappears in a week or two, and the collarbone should knit without complication in six weeks. The pinky should heal faster.

Passing a fountain, I take one of the pills. This time, I’m careful not to let the water wash it out of my mouth and down the drain.

I miss Ernie. John. Sailing down unfamiliar highways in a Caddy.

Steve’s clock dial glows in the darkness. After two a.m. He’s snoring and I can’t sleep. The pill has eased my pain and I don’t notice the cotton so much when I’m not talking. Thank God it’s summertime and there’s no homework due tomorrow.

* * * *

After breakfast, when I’ve been here more than a week and am dying of boredom, Gregory singles me out. “Vinnie, the counselor is ready to see you in his office. Nine, sharp. Don’t be late.”

Mister Jarvis has been at East Wind forever. I remember being counseled by him each time I was returned from a foster home. He’s a nice old codger but he makes me nervous just the same. Today I notice his hair’s really gray. Wrinkles. Brown spots on his hands. Getting stooped, too.

He motions me to the interrogation chair sized for Middles, and freshens a pencil on an old-fashioned sharpener bolted to the window frame. I know it’s only for show, because he records sessions in pen.

“Well, Vinnie.” He sits down, opens a folder. He always starts this way, with a long pause afterward. Then, “Do you want to tell me anything?”

“Not really.”

“You’re settling in okay?”

“Sure.” It’s not like I’ve been gone for months, like when I was being farmed out for a taste of family life.

“Well. I have some things to tell you.”

I sit up straighter. New rules? News of John? Someone wants to adopt me at this late date? That’s a laugh. But my palms sweat while I’m waiting for him to find words.

He clears his throat. Applies so much pressure to the pencil he’s still fiddling with that it breaks in half. He throws the pieces into his trash can. “I’m retiring at the end of the month.”

This doesn’t seem to require my input, so I just nod.

“I remember when you came to us. If I’d been married, I would have adopted you myself. You’ve been an exemplary student.”

‘Until now,’ I hear his thought continue.

“And if I were married, I’d still give it some thought.”

I’m thankful he’s never married. I can’t imagine living with him. Into a long silence, one question pushes at my lips and finally escapes. “If I was so adoptable, why didn’t anyone else want me?”

He gives me a sad look, and I just know he’s never going to answer that.

But he does.

“Your birth mother wanted to keep you safe here. We sent you to homes only to comply with state regulations.”

I croak, “You know her. Who she is. Where she is.”

He gives me that look again. “Yes.”

I can’t say anything. Can’t think.

“You’ll be free to find her, when you’re of age.”

I knew that already. Five years more?

“She has never forgotten you, nor given up her intention of revealing herself when she can.”

“Why can’t she?”

“It’s complicated.”

The old fart thinks he’s being kind, but I’m filled with rage. Maybe he’s only soothing his conscience for keeping quiet. He doesn’t mention my father, and that’s a bad sign. I stand up. My fists clench and it takes all my strength to keep from hitting him. “Happy retirement.” I walk out.

Complicated. What does that mean? She’s married again? Ill and unable to take care of a kid who’s almost a teenager? Too poor to send me to a good school, so I’m a ward of the state most of my life?

I wish I’d never known freedom and adventure. Wish I’d stayed here and spent the summer in the pool or on the basketball court, whenever I wasn’t in the library. Maybe without all the uproar and drama, Jarvis would have simply toddled off to his new life without feeling the need to ruin mine.

I’m in the bathroom between our room and the next, about to swallow the rest of Jerry’s pills, when someone in the hall yells, “Vinnie! Telephone!”

When I reach the lobby, a tv newscaster is interviewing John on the steps of a court house with a tall man who must be Atty Gordon. Grabbing up the dangling phone, I shout, “Hello?”

“Vinnie, I got your message.”

“You couldn’t have. I didn’t leave one.” Ernie’s voice is as much a relief as seeing John in an ankle brace instead of chains.

“We have caller ID. I would have gotten back to you sooner, but I was out of town gathering evidence. Is everything okay?”

“Better than okay. Are you watching tv? I just saw John and I guess it’s your dad, leaving a court house with big smiles. Does this mean he’s been cleared?”

“Pretty much. Jordan’s in jail, and Dad has a copy of his signed confession.”

“Wow! That was quick.”

“His secretary and I did all the paperwork. The rest was just fanfare.”

There’s a silence, everything else I wanted to say has flown out of my head. Our connection is so clear he sounds like he’s in the next room. Wish he was.

“Vinnie, I have a surprise for you. It ought to be there next week. In time for July Fourth.”

“What is it?”

“It’ll be nice.”

“What color is it? Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

“All colors, and I won’t answer the last question. You’ll just have to see it.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Oh, she’s calmed down. Never better.”

I want to ask more but he signs off with, “Behave and stay out of D-hall.”

All colors, hmm. Must be prints of the pictures we took. He’s had the film developed and is mailing the photos to me. Maybe my camera, too.

“Damn! Wish I’d told him to send me my running shoes.” Then I remember it’s Ernie and he probably thought of that himself.

Glad I didn’t take those pills, I go to my room whistling the last tune Steve played on his clarinet. Ernie hasn’t abandoned me. Whatever the surprise is, it will be here for our East Wind Fourth of July celebration.

* * * * *

During a baseball game which our dorm Middles are losing, Jerry sidles up to me on the bleachers and says, “Okay, Mouse, where’s the money?”

TO BE CONTINUED!

EPISODE 20

It’s Christmas and our living room is warm and softly lit. Holiday music plays on a radio. The tree sparkles with blinking lights and tinsel. Tinsel’s my favorite, and I’m given a handful with the caution to get it all on the tree. She pops a peppermint cane into my mouth.

I put the strands on one by one instead of tossing them in clumps, so the pleasure of trimming the tree will last. Peppermint juice escapes onto my chin, but I can’t take the cane out because handling it will make the filmy tinsel stick to my fingers. She’s my mom and I want to please her.

Blinking lights zoom off the tree and swirl around me, mostly an angry red, not Rudolph or Santa or the stripe on a candy cane. The radio music turns ugly, like the winding down of a siren.

The wreck. Ernie. John. The Caddy. The bag of money, the sweat lodge, lunch on the terrace, running for an out-of-bounds tennis ball, shooting at Hoodoo.

There’s a rush of cold air and I think it’s my dad opening the front door, carrying last-minute gifts for us. Then there’s a lot of urgent conversation and rushing footsteps, pain in my head and hands, I’m in my narrow bed and it’s flying through the night.

When I crawl out of the dark pit again, the room is light, not bright. I’m in a real bed now, and the pain is muffled. My ears still feel stuffed with cotton. There’s a bandage over my eye. Not on my eye, thank God. Venturing to open both, I see Ernie asleep. His chair is pulled close enough that he’s slumped on my bed. They’ve shaved a place for the sterile pad taped to the back of his head, though uncut hair mostly covers it. His left wrist is wrapped.

My hands are covered with soft white gloves, like a burn victim. A brace on my left shoulder. What did I break? Shoulder blade? Rib? Collar bone? At this point, I’m just glad we’re in a place where we’re being taken care of. “John?” I’m unsure if he’s around the corner, or even in the hospital.

Ernie’s not asleep, because he sits up as soon as he hears me speak. He looks like he’s about to cry and my heart flip-flops. Is John dead? In jail? Is Ernie upset over the wreck of the black Caddy? Have the Suits finally found me?

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and that tells me nothing.

“You’re always sorry,” I say stupidly. “Mostly without reason.”

“I should have thrown away those damn cartridges. Should have warned you that gun was a dangerous piece of shit, just like Hoodoo.”

“What happened to him?”

“Arrested for all sorts of things, including kidnapping Francine.” He smiles.

“Is she okay?”

“He dumped her on a street corner in Taylorsville. Once she got to a shelter and called Dad, yeah, she’s fine.”

In the hallway people clatter stuff on carts, call to each other, give bursts of laughter. In the next room a tv blares the jangly music of a game show.

“He is crazy.”

“Unfortunately that’s probably true so the bastard will likely end up in a psycho ward instead of where he belongs.”

I start to draw a deep breath, but the medication has worn off. “What’d I break?”

“Collarbone. Pinky on your right hand.”

“What’s wrong with my head?” I try to raise my eyebrows, which doesn’t work too well because of the bandage.

“Not as bad as it looked last night,” he tells me. “Part of the pistol gave you a nasty gash that bled a tee shirt full and then some.”

All over your car seat, I think, before realizing the car is probably totaled. “It’s all my fault for not waking you when I saw him in the yard.”

Before either of us can move on to another topic, like where’s John or what’s going to happen now, a slender middle aged woman appears in the doorway. I recognize her from the framed photo in Ernie’s room. She’s pretty, shoulder-length light brown hair, and wearing a pink-flowered summer dress and sandals. A shoulder bag matches them, but nothing about her shouts ‘money.’

Ernie turns to follow my look, half rises, gasps, “Mom.”

She doesn’t seem to know what to say, or do. Neither does he. They start toward each other, stop, then a few steps more and they’re hugging. I figure they’ll go into the hall or to a waiting room, but no they’re coming toward me.

“Mom, this is Vinnie—”

He’s never heard my last name. I’ve always suspected the East Wind records were made up by somebody who thought I should answer to Scott. To ease his embarrassment, I bite the bullet and introduce myself. “Hello, Mrs. Gordon, I’m Vincent Scott.”

Her smile is shaky, like she doesn’t know what to say to me either. My bruises and bandages must look worse than I thought, and she’s careful not to offer to shake my injured hand. Ernie seats her in the only chair, a plastic oversize thing that makes her seem younger and more uncertain than ever. “Your dad called. A candy striper told me where to find you.”

“So you know Frannie’s home?”

“Yes. And that awful boy is in jail. I hope she’ll testify against him.”

“Dad will see to it that she does.”

“What about you, Tommy? The doctor said you have a concussion. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Hearing her call him Tommy throws me, then I remember how confused I was when the man at the body shop didn’t know who I meant by ‘Ernie.’ Seems we’re all sailing along under assumed names, one way or another.

“We both have a light concussion, but we’re fine, really. Be out tomorrow.”

And then—what? I don’t have to wonder long, because a large man strides into my room and declares, “Vincent, I see you’re on the mend. We’ll send a car when you’re done with the hearing, and you’ll be home in no time.”

It’s O’Leary. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth so tight I can’t even ask for a drink of water. He takes my silence as gratitude or something, and turns to Mrs. Gordon. She looks startled. O’Leary doesn’t notice, he talks about the weather, how happy he is that nobody was hurt (?!?) in the wreck, and how East Wind security has been beefed up so nothing like this will ever happen again.

His parting shot at me is, “Don’t worry, you won’t have to testify at the trial. It’s just a hearing and I know you’ll tell the truth. You’re a good boy.” He says to the others, “Straight A’s, don’t know what got into him.” Then he’s gone.

We all let out a huge sigh, and then laugh. Ernie’s mom is a warm, sweet person, when her tense face relaxes. Even in a situation like this, it’s not permanently lined by anger, the way my foster mothers’ faces were. Ernie briefly explains how we met at the picnic grounds and have been traveling together, but he leaves out specifics, like where I came from, or how we hooked up with John. She doesn’t show much interest anyway. She’s more concerned about Ernie’s part in what’s coming next.

“There’ll be two hearings,” Ernie explains. “One for Hoo— Frank, and one for John.” To me, he adds, “You’ll testify only at John’s, and it’s set for day after tomorrow.”

So John’s alive and able to face whatever goes on at a hearing. He’d better be. I decide to rely on my innocent look and scholastic track record, and play dumb.

Ernie’s mom opens her shoulder bag. I expect her to offer him cash, but it’s a credit card. She avoids chewing him out for letting Fran or Hoodoo steal the other one. “You have your cell?”

“Yes.”

“Everything you need?”

“Yes, Mom. Everything’s okay. We’ll be in touch.”

“See that you are.” She leans and hugs him again, holding him a long while. At the door she turns. “You know where to find me.”

He lifts his chin once to mean ‘yes,’ and she’s gone. “I like her,” I say, and he says, “Me, too.”

We’re silent for several long minutes. The hall noise hasn’t stopped, the tv has. I mention that I’m starving.

“Well, you missed breakfast, and judging by the menu they brought around, you won’t be thrilled with lunch.”

“Smuggle me in a cheeseburger.”

“If I could, I would, for both of us.”

Another dead spot. I’m sweating over O’Leary showing up, nervous about the hearing. Ernie pours ice water into a glass and bends the straw so I can drink. “You talked to your dad today?”

“Last night. He flew in from that conference this morning. Grace has been gathering evidence and once he’s digested all the facts, he’ll build a case against Jordan.”

“What if John lied?”

“When everything’s laid on the table, we’ll know.”

I don’t plan to lay everything on the table. “What about the money? The fake ID. And those strings you pulled.”

“What money?” Ernie grins, and I have my cue.

We eat lunch together in my room. Soggy veggies, tough Mystery Meat, and school Jell-O. Unlike other East Winders, I’ve never thrown mine against a wall to see if it sticks or bounces, especially when it’s lime. The taste reminds me of the margarita.

Between bites, and gulps of milk, Ernie fills me in on John. “Fractured his ankle, broke a rib, and cried like a baby when he saw the Caddy smashed like a drink can.”

“You didn’t cry?”

“Nah. I know where there’s another one. Mint condition, like she’s right off the factory floor.”

“Pink?”

We grin. “So where is he now?”

Ernie sobers. “In custody. Bond is set at fifty thousand, but I can’t pay it with my own money and I’m not going to involve Mom.”

I wonder if John’s thinking of Margie, the farmhouse, shooting Jordan, shooting Hoodoo. Frank. If Ernie’s dad is the lawyer he’s supposed to be, all of John’s actions have been justified. Except not coming forward when the story broke.

‘Hell,’ I can hear him say, ‘I was off fishing and didn’t know anybody wanted me.’

That’s what one of the Suits brought up that day in the coffee shop, so the idea’s not that far-fetched. And since we did fish, we all should be able to use the alibi with a ring of truth behind it.

Ernie says, “Want me to read to you?”

“Sure.” Then a nurse comes in and adjusts the drip and I don’t hear past the first paragraph of some story in a magazine he’s brought with him.

My dreams are not all sweet but when I wake around supper time, I can’t remember any of them, and Ernie’s gone. He’s left the magazine, and a note: Mouse, I’m in Room 328. Send someone if you need me.

A child protection agency person arrives and stays with me until I’m discharged into her care. I’m not allowed to talk to anyone connected with the hearing, and don’t have access to a phone. It’s like being in a strange foster home again for two endless nights, and then I’m on stage alone without a copy of the script or any clue which character I’m supposed to be.

* * *

At the hearing, I tell the truth, nothing but the truth. The whole truth is none of the judge’s business.

So I leave out the part about Jerry and Steve’s plan to escape our prison, the fact that Jerry gave me money, and their help in getting over the wall. I definitely leave out everything about Al, and John’s two-o’clock-in-the-morning wailing that scared the pee out of me. Hell, it could have been a ghost for all I know.

The judge is gray-haired, overweight, and a poker player. Harder to read than Ernie or even John. What will he buy?

“After seeing that woman’s body pulled up out of that well, I must’ve had a kind of breakdown. Felt like I had to get away from the place. I had bus fare from savings. East Winders always get charitable gifts at Christmas. I traded toys I didn’t want, for money.” In Boy Scout mode again, I’m encouraged when he nods, like he understands.

He reveals that he already knows I met Hoodoo, Francine, and Ernie in the picnic area, and since the gun is what got me into this present mess, I explain how we came to have it, ending with, “Ernie was trying to keep Hoodoo—Frank—from killing anybody.”

What else can I say? I wait for him to ask a question, he just nods a ‘go-on.’

I don’t mention the blonde in the red convertible, and since Ernie had warned me that breaking and entering is a felony, I skip over our night at Haw Creek Elementary School. Instead, I concentrate on our adventures at the thrift store, the rest areas, the cafes, and the coffee shop in the town where we saw—I almost call them ‘Suits’ but catch myself—Martin and the reporter.

I admit that’s where we met John. Keeping the pink Caddy under wraps, I talk about the festival and what a great time we all had. Not wanting to paint too sweet a picture, I think twice before going into some detail about our stay at the farmhouse.

“So you were never held hostage by this—” He checks the papers on the table in front of him. “John Burand?”

“No, sir! We were out of money and needed a ride. He wanted somebody to help with the camp tent.”

“And did he tell you why he was camping?”

“We fished in a stream where he used to go with his dad.”

The judge gazes over his half-glasses at me for a long time. “And then Thomas Gordon—known to you as Ernie—invited both you and Mister Burand into his home.”

Feeling near the end of the inquisition, I breathe deep, try to relax. “Yes, sir.”

“Because Thomas Gordon’s father is an attorney, and Mister Burand believed legal counsel to be necessary.”

“I guess so.” I’m still trying to get used to hearing Ernie’s real name.

“So, to your knowledge, there was no connection between the murdered woman and Mister Burand.”

Lying on small matters is easy. Lying outright to a direct question by a man who probably knows the answer chokes me.

“I knew she was his wife.”

“He never told you about their problems, or why she left him?”

“No, sir.” No, he told Ernie.

“And after Mister Burand shot and wounded Jordan, you weren’t frightened to be in his company?”

“That was self-defense.”

“Were you there?”

“No, but our camp was five minutes away by foot and we heard the guns firing just the way John explained it.”

“So when you shot at Frank Logan at the Gordon residence, you believed he had done something to the car.”

“He had. He loosened the wheel so it would come off and maybe kill somebody.”

The judge sits back, twiddles his pen with three fingers, watches me. I try to pull a poker face, too, though with only a giant gauze patch instead of the bulky bandage, my eyebrows have a life of their own. They rise in a silent question. Are we done here?

“That’s all. Thank you.” He leans forward and writes on his legal pad.

Slowly I stand up. “Sir. Will I be sent back to East Wind?”

His eyelids flick up at me, his hand pauses over the notes. “I’m afraid so.” He sounds genuinely sorry. I swallow my disappointment.

TO BE CONTINUED!

The driver turns the car slightly, so we’re not seeing it head-on. Stops. Like some fashion model, angling to show off her dress. I wish I’d brought my camera, but I left it on the hall table after we’d all snapped shots of each other at lunch.

John explodes — into laughter. A quick startled look at him, then I see the Caddy in all its glory ten feet away. It’s not the same car. Ernie laughs, too, but his glee is short-lived. John lunges for him, and Ernie takes off running.

The driver gets out and Ernie jumps in. He locks the doors and John beats on the window, then slaps the hood. “You better hide, you little shit. I’ll get you for this.”

Men standing around don’t seem to know whether to cheer or haul John away. I break the tension. “So where’s the pink one?”

Head honcho answers without taking his eyes off John, who’s by now kicking the tires and threatening to rip off the driver’s door. He and Ernie are still laughing. “It’s in a safe place.”

“That’s what Ernie said.”

“Who?”

His question confuses me, but I don’t follow up since in spite of John pounding on the windshield, Ernie’s creeping the car toward the open bay. He brakes and unlocks the doors long enough for me to dive into the back seat. John moves to block our path. Ernie honks the horn, cranks down the window, yells, “Get in old man!”

When we’re on the road again, there’s total silence except for air whooshing through the windows. The route back is more direct, through a busy part of town, then past a big hospital, a park, and a school. We enter a gated community not much different from East Wind, and three blocks later we’re at Ernie’s front gate.

While the electronics open it, Ernie says, “I couldn’t resist.”

“Joker. Just you wait.”

We drive through, and Ernie stops his Caddy on the brick parking area outside the glass patio doors. Above, his old-fashioned curtains flutter like white banners.

“So, where is she?” There’s no anger in John’s voice. There is an edge.

“Locked in one of the storage units.” Ernie gives him a key attached to a small plastic disc with a number on it. “Until you need her.”

John ponders. “How does a kid like you learn how to do so much?”

Ernie goes around, opens John’s door. “Necessity.”

The missing puzzle piece. I’m positive it has to do with the determination to earn his dad’s approval. Maybe his gold has always been tarnished, and Francine was the final straw, beyond fixing. He will go with us, at least until the fall, when classes begin.

On the way into the house, John says, mildly, “I guess finding a Caddy like this in a few days by phone is easy for a rich boy wanting to pull a prank.”

“Didn’t buy her just to fool you,” Ernie tells him. “Two years ago, I rescued her out of a cornfield. Having money helped with the restoration though.”

John looks at him with fresh respect. “You do have good taste.”

“Thanks.” He turns to me and asks, “So, Vinnie, want to work up an appetite?”

“Tennis? Sure.” I hated tennis as a P.E. class, but this might be my only chance to play on a private court. He takes the stairs two at a time and clatters down with a couple of racquets and a can under his arm. He should be in whites, but he’s not. A headband corrals his hair, and he shoves another onto my head. Over my eyes. I adjust it, following him along the hallway and down to the fence. I pick one of the racquets. John picks a shady bench and lights up a fresh cigarette.

I know I can’t win against Ernie, but give it my best shot. We race about, letting off steam, entertaining ourselves as well as John, who laughs at our antics, and I’m hungry long before dinner is to be served in the dining room. He doesn’t throw the game, and I’m grateful. I take more pictures of us down at the courts.

“Dinner and a movie,” John muses, his thoughts far away in his past.

“Yeah, pick one while the kid and I clean up.”

He lets me go first, while he makes some calls on the cell phone he’s brought from the boat, and afterward I try on knee shorts and another crisp shirt from his closet. This could become a habit. When he’s done with his second shower of the day, I have to ask, “How come you don’t use the air conditioning?”

“Irresponsible use of refrigerants will be the death of the planet. Besides, I don’t like being cold either.”

“Then we better steer John away from Canada.”

“I’ve just been doing that.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad’s on the case. He’s pretty sure he can clear John of any charges.”

Panic rises from the pit of my stomach. “And your dad is—who?”

“You’ve never heard of him, but he’s got pull. Thomas Gordon, Atty.”

Seconds pass before I can think straight and remember that ‘Atty’ is short for ‘attorney.’ I’ve seen it written, but never heard anyone say it. Never expect to again. So it wasn’t a fancy lunch that had him sweating. It was the prospect of calling on his father for help. “You told him everything?”

“Not everything. I put him on Jordan’s trail, and it’s leading straight to a murder conviction.” He combs his hair and then takes a whack at mine. “Don’t mention it, it’s not a done deal yet.”

This warning sticks with me through a dinner fit for a shark lawyer’s son and his friends. John comments, “Now this is a man’s meal.” He digs into the steak. Gravy, dinner rolls, vegetables, and a red wine that Ernie withholds from me, saying, “You know what happened last time, Mouse.”

“Yeah, after half a bottle,” I counter. Settle for springwater, with the promise of coffee with dessert.

Dessert is coconut cake. I swear I see tears in John’s eyes when the maid sets his in front of him. I take a bite of mine and understand what ‘bliss’ means. Freshly grated coconut, layers juicy with real coconut milk, foamy white icing.

A dim memory struggles out of the past. A hammer striking something hollow. Peeled pieces in my hand, crunching under five-year-old teeth. There’s a trimmed tree, lights blinking. I almost see my mother’s face, then it’s gone.

“My mom used to make cakes like this,” John says. I don’t say anything.

“Save room for popcorn with the movie,” Ernie tells us.

Too late. At least, I think that until we head for the entertainment center. A familiar aroma wafts through the door when a server opens it. His cart is stocked with carbonated drinks. There’s an actual theatre popcorn machine, and the hot cardboard box in my hand reminds me of Saturday afternoons spent in the Hackett cinema. When I became a Middle, no dorm master was willing to field trip us anymore, so it’s been awhile.

John’s choice is Talladega Nights. Ernie wants Dead Poets Society. He shows me Chariots of Fire, and I’m impressed that he knows me so well. We watch them in order (John sleeps through Ernie’s), and six hours later we stagger out, bleary and stuffed with food and film. Ready for sleep, a late wake-up call, breakfast under the pergola.

Alone in Ernie’s room, I try to recapture my mom’s face, her voice, her laughter. But all I’m left with is the taste of sugary coconut cake and salty tears. Even so, I decide this is the best night of my life. John’s case is as good as won, Ernie’s on better terms with his dad, and the promise of escaping with friends to a new life of adventure lulls me into dreamland.

For a long while I toss and turn, planning how to disguise my appearance and what I’ll do about school, and imagining where we’ll all end up living. But I’ve fallen asleep because something jars me awake. Tense, I listen to silence.

Was I dreaming? If I was, the dream wasn’t pleasant and the sound I think I heard scares me. It was the ring of a tire iron on bricks.

Rolling off the bed, I run to the open windows and look out. The security light shows me the black Caddy, and damned if the hood isn’t raised. I open my mouth to call something rude to Ernie, but the person tinkering with the car must sense he’s been spotted and straightens up. Hoodoo!

Drawing back so he doesn’t see me, I figure by the time I alert John or Ernie, he’ll finish whatever he’s doing and be out of the neighborhood. His gun is still in the bedroll, there on Ernie’s big leather chair, and the cartridges are still in Ernie’s shirt pocket, there on the floor. I pull on Ernie’s knee shorts and fill the magazine. My hands are shaking but I’ve seen this stuff in movies and a loaded gun puts me in charge. Creep down the stairs. Open the glass door and step onto the bricks. He’s easing the hood shut so it doesn’t make any noise, and can’t see me in the shadow of the patio roof. “Hold it right there, Hoodoo.”

Startled, he races to the picnic area and starts climbing the pergola, toward the top of the brick wall.

I don’t intend to let him invade Ernie’s home and get away with it, so I run forward, aiming for his legs and praying to hit one of them. I squeeze the trigger. The world explodes. Something smacks my face hard near one eye, something else delivers a stunning blow to the back of my head. Did Hoodoo have another gun? If I’m shot through and through, there must be an afterlife because I’m still conscious. Numb and dizzy. A tingling in my hands warns me moments before shocking pain shoots through them. The eye is wet with what must be blood and I’m afraid to open it, the other shows me Hoodoo scrambling over the vine-covered woodwork.

Another shot, behind me. Hoodoo screeches and grabs his leg and rolls off the roof. John’s on him like a tv cop, holding him down, shouting for help. Then Ernie’s pressing a wadded cloth against my head and yelling, “Call 911! Call the police!”

“I’m okay.” But I don’t think he hears me, because people come out of the house, and a middle-aged man ties Hoodoo’s hands and ankles with a piece of electrical wire. The maid’s on a cell phone, trying to make the 911 operator to listen instead of asking stupid questions.

John’s kneeling beside us. He says, “Where are the keys?” Ernie says, “On my dresser.” John orders, “Get him in the car.”

Ernie doesn’t argue. He scoops me off the ground, and the man who tied up Hoodoo opens the door for him. John’s in almost as soon as we are, and we’re backing down the driveway toward the front gate. Ernie holds me on his lap, pressing the cloth so hard against my head I’m afraid my brain is showing. My head doesn’t hurt yet, there’s a truckload of cotton between my ears.

We race through the winding blocks of dark silent homes, flashes of street lights like strobes in my good eye. I close it, and can hear faraway sirens through the cotton. “Cops or ambulance?” John doesn’t have to stop at the community gate, it’s already open for emergency vehicles, whenever they arrive. Ernie answers, “Both.” We pick up speed. A lot of speed. John says, “We’ll be at the hospital while they’re still looking at house numbers.”

Flashing lights pass us, two sets, screaming toward Ernie’s house. I’d like to be there, to see if the cops and EMS fight over who takes Hoodoo. The big efficient looking hospital buildings are maybe a dozen or fifteen blocks away, and figure I’ll probably live to tell this tale after all. Until the whole car starts to shake and there’s a clatter of metal on metal. John mutters, “Uh, oh.”

What has Hoodoo done? I forgot to tell them he was messing under the hood.

I don’t have time to say anything before there’s a giant WHUMP and I hope we haven’t hit a dog, or worse, a person crossing the four-lane on foot. “Oh God!” John cries as the Caddy takes a screeching nosedive and the rear end rises into the air. “Hold on-!”

“What hap—” Ernie begins, but we’re in a full somersault and he’s shielding my head with his arms when we fly off the back seat and crash against the dashboard. Slow motion, just like I’ve always read about. But we were going at least eighty, so when the Caddy smashes upside down on the tarmac, the doors spring open. Without seat belts, we’re all thrown onto the grassy median.

It’s strangely quiet. The sirens fade into the distance. Then one of them makes a U-turn and screams back on our side of the highway. I want it to be the EMS, rescuing us, but it isn’t. Badges and guns flash in the headlights and an authoritative voice strides toward us. “What the hell? Is anybody hurt?”

John’s alive because he answers, “The kid’s been shot. Get him to the hospital.”

There’s another unfamiliar voice, a cop, closer to me. “This one isn’t moving.”

I wave my bleeding left hand but I’m on the dark side of the car, and suddenly whether he sees me doesn’t matter. A huge pain in my chest and shoulder blots out all thoughts except the fear that my back is broken.

“He’s breathing,” the first badge says, and I hear them slapping someone’s face and asking stupid questions. It isn’t my face, so they probably think Ernie’s the one shot. It’s a relief to know my companions aren’t dead. Before I can make the officers aware of me, all the lights go out.

TO BE CONTNUED!

Ernie’s hand rests lightly on the staircase railing. A glacial age passes before he says, “Go on up. You can’t miss it.” He adds, “I think John might prefer a fierce game of pool.”

“You got that right.” John grins. “I’ll beat your— socks off.”

Ernie leads him down to the game room, their footfalls almost silent on the carpeted steps. I touch the railing where Ernie’s hand lay, and am puzzled by the dampness of a sweating palm. Anticipation to discover whatever he’s nervous about makes me run up the two short flights connected by a landing.

I can’t miss it because it takes up half the second story. Walls stretch away in a long rectangle at my left to a row of open windows. Morning sun. Old-fashioned sheer curtains billow in little breezes.

At this end, across from the entry, is a bathroom. Usual stuff. One set of unused towels on the rack. On the counter, a few used toiletries meant for a male. After relieving myself, I return to those windows. The roofed terrace and tables seem far below, and leafy woods block my view of anything beyond the brick wall.

There’s a leather swivel chair, worn to a comfortable shape and softness. Resting my head, I survey the desks and low bookcases on either side, book shelves and framed art and posters scattered above. Enough storage space for a dozen collections, starting with picture books and toy soldiers and moving through years of board games, school art projects and photo albums, videotapes and CDs and DVDs, novels and electronics, native artifacts and computer paraphernalia, textbooks and a telescope.

His bed is antique and huge, right next to the bathroom, and the matching six-drawer dresser is piled on top with small boxes and pottery. The only mirror is in the bathroom. The only clothes visible are jackets and caps on a coat tree. No strays under the bed, no dirties tossed in a corner. No old snack wrappers or cartons—not even in the trash basket. Is he this neat, or is there some paid maid? Mother is gone, so it’s not her.

Shutting my eyes, I imagine him coming in from school. He tosses down his books, grabs a baseball and glove, rushes to play with friends. Sits at that desk, his study lamp angled just right, doing his homework. Writing term papers. Listening to music, reading for enjoyment.

I imagine him younger, nine maybe. Fran’s only seven, pestering him to play dolls. He refuses. Later, when she’s nine, she brings her book (what was the title? He told me. Dependable Fran) and being eleven, he flees, leaving her crying.

How would I have treated a younger sister? Probably the same. Girls in the foster homes were usually biting two-year-olds. I stayed out of their way. Older ones, but younger than me, carried around dolls not books, and were beneath my notice.

What I do notice is a framed photo among small trophies and a group of achievement medals pinned to a velvet-covered stand. Leaning close, I recognize Ernie beside a woman who must be his mom. They look alike, and happy. I don’t see any pictures of his father or sister. Feeling sneaky, I skim through the top photo album.

The house, the school, school friends. Cub Scout troop. Boy Scouts. Youth group. Even teachers. Arty shots of objects arranged like still life paintings. Trees, squirrels, an occasional dog. The same dog, a mutt. He had a dog. Maybe.

But no dad. No Fran. There are blank spaces where things have been taken out.

I remember my camera and unfinished film cartridge. Without a flash, the shots have to be made outside. I’ve skimmed the other two albums—more of the same—when I hear laughter downstairs, and then a single pair of footsteps coming up.

He’s flushed and sweaty, the smile still on his face.

“Who won?”

“Who do you think?”

“You let the old man win?”

“Of course. It’s only polite.”

He strips off shoes, pants, shirt—the same grungy outfit he’s worn since the campground bathhouse—and heads into the shower. I realize what’s been bothering me. Where’s the sauna? Jacuzzi? Oversize bath tub with rotating jets? Why doesn’t he use the air conditioning? I know his class of people live that way. Which piece of Ernie’s puzzle doesn’t fit?

Picking up his clothes from the floor, I’m startled when a handful of cartridges fall out of the shirt pocket. I wonder when he unloaded Hoodoo’s gun, and suspect it was long before I pulled the thing on John and said like a dork, “Blink.”

I shove the bullets back into the pocket and glance around for something to be doing when he finishes. Not meddling in desk drawers. Not lounging on the bed, wrinkling the bedspread. Ah. A two-inch-thick school project notebook. Criminal Justice, pages and pages of neat notes with dates, and research papers based on case files. My heart flips a few times. Crazy thoughts bang around in my brain.

He’s an undercover FBI agent, older than he looks, gathering evidence on John. Or, he’s working for East Wind and any minute now O’Leary will walk in and slap cuffs on me. The house is really headquarters for a detective agency, not his home at all, and this room is his office. Then sanity returns. I once wrote a school project on string theory, go figure.

One of the cases is Frank Logan, AKA ‘Hoodoo.’ And I thought Jerry was a wacko.

Ernie comes out of the bathroom in a towel and raids the dresser for clean briefs, socks, and tee shirt. “You have time for a shower, if you want. Lunch won’t be ready for another forty minutes.”

While I’m making myself presentable, I can hear another shower on the other side of this wall and figure John’s rousing game of pool has left him in a mellow mood. Not enough to sing, but relaxed enough to get naked in a strange rich man’s home.

Ernie gives me a button-down-collar shirt from the back of his closet, and a pair of jeans somebody has ironed. He’s comfortable in his preppy mode, loafers on his feet, wet hair slicked behind his ears. I wonder if John was willing to put on Ernie’s father’s clothes.

When we meet him at the glass patio doors, I see that he was. Knit shirt and pleat-front pants. We’re a real trio, sauntering to the terrace for a meal served under the vine-roofed picnic area.

There’s actually a maid with cloth napkins, silverware, pitchers of lemonade and iced tea, and dishes with silver dome covers. When she’s out of earshot, Ernie says, “It’s not what I wanted, but it’s what they had.”

John looks at the array of food, then at me. Now I understand why Ernie’s nervous. John’s voice my mind’s ear slams the coffee I’d made: ‘Tastes like the stuff fancy places serve in a thimble.’

We chow down on the best stuff I’ve ever eaten in my life. Except for a mixed green salad, I don’t know what half of it is, disguised in toppings and sauces, and the portions are small but satisfying. At last the dessert is recognizable. John and I both cry, “Junket!” And he adds, “Haven’t had that in years. My mom used to make it every Friday night.”

Ernie shrinks into an invisible shell, clearly dreading his guest’s first taste.

Eyes on his dish, John admits, “This is better.” And Ernie breathes again.

I haven’t had this, ever. East Wind cooks don’t make theirs from scratch. It’s strawberry, and I’m considering asking for seconds when the maid brings a fancy coffee pot and cups, along with a chocolate fudge cake with whipped cream, and something between the layers tastes like rum raisin ice cream. The coffee’s strong, but mellow.

John cleans his plate without a word. Until the maid returns and says, “Chef would like to know what drinks you’ll be wanting.”

Drinks? I’m floating now. John holds his tongue until Ernie tells her, “I think lime margaritas would suit everyone,” and she’s gone inside. Then he spits out one: “Chef!?”

Ernie shrugs. “I don’t sign his paycheck. Don’t blame me.”

A young man in a white shirt and black trousers brings another cart and clears the table. The maid returns and places cloth doilies, a larger one in the middle for the big pitcher. Sets frosted glasses, bowls on stems. Must hold two pints.

Lime is one of my favorite flavors, so the drink goes down way too fast. Though I’m already woozy, and hanging out with these two is bound to be bad for my liver, I fill the glass again. I wonder what Ernie’s Criminal Justice instructor would have to say about giving alcohol to a minor. Funny, when the blonde was involved, he was mean to her, yet he’s never objected to my drinking John’s beer and he’s okay with whatever is in a margarita.

Free, I think. Under the vine-covered structure Ernie calls a pergola, it’s quiet and shady. The angle of the sun arches over, and he says, “Anybody for tennis? Or will it be a nap?”

John seems to want to say a few things, but presses his lips together. I know he’s thinking about the Caddy, not sure what to do about it. Or even what he wants to do about it. “Nap,” he says. “Then you guys can entertain me with a tennis match. It ought to be worth watching.”

We leave the dessert dishes, assorted glasses and cups, coffee pot and empty pitcher for the maid. At the bottom of the stairs, Ernie tells me, “I’ll be down the hall there if you need me.”

He walks the length of the corridor and enters a room at the end. Something tells me, it’s his mom’s room, and he wants to be alone.

Behind me, John leans close, says, “So what’s your story?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you two aren’t brothers. He told me all about this Hoodoo character his sister ran off with, but not a damn word about you.”

“I hitched a ride with them a few days ago, and kinda like life on the road.” I try to stare him down, but when the corners of his mouth twitch in a losing battle with a grin, I look across the emerald lawn to the scrolly gate and think about Jerry’s losing battle with the grass at East Wind.

John reads my mind. “I ran away once.” He sobers. “Twice.”

“Bet the first time was a lot more fun.”

“Yeah.” He taps a cigarette out of the pack. Thumbs open a matchbook. Pauses. “Vinnie, people this rich don’t get that way honestly.”

I’m stymied. To me, John’s no longer poor, but there’s a neat explanation for the source of his money. “I don’t care. Ernie’s not responsible for what his folks do.”

I suspect that he feels he is. The Golden Boy. I bet he’s got all twelve report cards in a drawer, straight A’s. Awards, medals, probably newspaper articles. Big trust fund which caused all the anger. When Ernie’s less nervous, when the three of us are toasting our toes on some beach, I’ll dig the whole story out of him.

I spend the nap time lying on his bed, reading one of his books, The Mills of God, by William H. Armstrong. Mostly I’m outraged, and hope the ending justifies all this torture. It does.

When we assemble again, Ernie says, “Tennis will have to wait. She’s ready.” By ’she’ he means the Caddy and I watch John for his reaction. His face is like a stone. Sunglasses and captain’s hat in place, Ernie jingles the keys. “You guys coming?”

We return to the boat, cruise to the docks, drive the ‘loaner’ car to the Starshine to pick up our stuff. After the mansion experience, the seediness of the motel hits me in the face like a fist. Stale pizza and chocolate milk cartons in the trashcan. Ratty carpet, streaked mirror, cardboard landscapes in plastic frames that remind me of the Morningbird. But I was happy here, for those few hours.

Ernie brings the extra rolls of toilet paper from the bathroom, and our eyes meet. “Free,” I say, and he smiles. “Come on, Mouse, let’s make John sweat.”

“You really get a kick out of teasing him, don’t you?”

Ernie locks the motel room. “Stay with him while I turn in the key.”

John’s already sitting in the car. I open the door. “Where’s your key.” John tosses it to me, I yell “Hey!” and toss it to Ernie. “Every dollar counts.”

Ernie drives us along a new route, so twisty I’m sure he’s doing it to tantalize John. Saturday, not much work traffic but people running to and fro just the same. We pass through every kind of area from trendy shops to unbelievable shacks with small children playing in the yards.

Finally we arrive at what looks like a car dealership, body shop, storage building, parking garage complex. Ernie doesn’t let the ‘closed’ signs on the doors stop him. He drives around to the back and cuts the motor. “Knock three times,” he jokes, and we all get out.

He’s not joking. A man in coveralls answers his coded summons by raising a metal door and letting us into a facility with at least ten bays. It’s cleaner than I expected, though the smell of hot oil, fresh paint, and stuff I can’t name fills the air.

John’s eyes gleam at the sight of vintage and foreign cars on racks or lined up to be driven away. For the moment, he’s distracted from the purpose of our trip. Then another man in a suit leaves an office, shakes Ernie’s hand, says, “They’re bringing her now.”

When we see the Caddy roll into view, my spit dries up so I couldn’t speak if I tried. Black, just like Ernie promised. He’s watching John like an eagle zeroing in on a rabbit. His eyes gleam, too, and he’s tensed to fight—or run.

John’s stony face melts in anguish and I expect to hear heart-rending wailing rip from his throat as he grabs Ernie and cracks his head against the concrete floor before any of the men here can stop him. He’s trembling all over, his gaze riveted on the Caddy coming slowly towards us.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Ernie strides in circles on the tarmac in his underwear and screeches, “Damn! I should have known!”

His fists clench like he wants to hit something. Or someone. Guilt over not telling him last night keeps me out of range, uncertain what to do to stop his unraveling.

I think of a few things I could say but they’re all pointless. John’s reason for taking off at this stage in the game is anybody’s guess. I’m guessing it has to do with Ernie insisting on disguising the Caddy, though Margie’s photo on the news last night sure upset him. And with his new identity and the money in a secret account, what’s to keep him here?

Ernie’s going on and on about trust and honor and his own stupidity, when the car hoves around the building and slides to a smooth stop in the parking space. John gives us a look that says he’s aware of the situation and is amused.

“Breakfast is served,” he says with what he probably thinks is a British accent.

I help with the warm paper bags and we decide to eat in his room for a change. He’s brought ham and egg muffins, two each, and three large coffees. Silent, Ernie uncaps his and blows to cool it.

“You guys always hang around empty parking lots at six in the morning, naked?”

We concentrate on the food. John grins, closed and one-sided. Ernie stuffs his last bite in, wipes his fingers on the paper napkins. Gulps the rest of his coffee. Stands up. “Give me the key.”

John fakes a hurt look, like a kid refusing spinach. “No.”

I burst out laughing. But Ernie’s serious. He waits, palm up.

“You have a key,” John tells him.

“Damn right.” Ernie strides out and in half a minute he’s got his pants and shoes on and is heading to the car.

“Aren’t you going to stop him?” I know exactly what he’s going to do. John either doesn’t know, or doesn’t care anymore. He wads up his sandwich paper and lobs it into the waste basket. Drinks his coffee.

I’m disappointed that Ernie drives off without me, but I cover it up by clearing away the rest of the trash. I want to turn on the tv but figure John’s in no mood to see his wedding splashed all over the criminal news again.

“They said ‘questioning’ — So maybe if you go back and answer all their questions, you could stop running.”

He studies me, as if he’s tracing my actions since we met. “You finally believe I’m innocent.”

“Yes.” And Ernie, who at first was completely neutral, apparently has doubts or he wouldn’t be orchestrating John’s escape. Where along the way did we switch?

John gives me coins and I bring cartons of orange juice from the machines. It tastes pretty bad, but drinking it is something to do. After that, he goes outside to pace and smoke. I go to my room and put on the cut-offs and new shoes.

How to get rid of the old sneaks? The chance of anybody actually following us here and swabbing my DNA off them is zero, but I’d rather incinerate the evidence instead of leaving it in a waste basket.

“You watch too much tv,” I mutter. Nobody’s on our trail.

In an hour Ernie drives up in some strange car that he explains is a ‘loaner.’ He watches John’s face, which tells me nothing. “Come on, old man, let’s go for a drive.”

“With you? In that? No thanks.”

He doesn’t ask what Ernie did with his Caddy. We both knew his intentions, and figure he’s set them in motion. There’s resignation in John’s manner when he says, “You know how I felt about that car.”

“She’s in a safe place.” Ernie leans from the waist like he wants to put his hand on John’s shoulder. Instead, he props on his own kneecaps, his face in striking range, waiting for John to make a move.

A quick frown. John glances around the room, picks up the door key and
sticks it in his pocket. “Let’s ride, then.”

In our hats and sunglasses, and a car like thousands of others, we should be able to go anywhere and do anything we want. I sense that Ernie has planned a surprise, so I just watch the passing scenery without comment. It’s more or less what we came in on even though we’re traveling in the same direction, until about twenty blocks later we hit a ritzy area of upscale stores and restaurants. Along side streets are huge old trees, landscaped lawns, houses way grander than any I’ve seen except on tv or in magazines.

Soon we’re passing a big lake, dotted with tiny tree-topped islands and bordered by a distant, wildlife-friendly other shore. Golf courses on the inland side, fancier restaurants, tiki bars, bait shops, and summer cottages. Docks and boats, and people in shorts and loud shirts swarming everywhere.

Ernie parks in a lot a few yards from the boat slips. Points. “That’s ours.” We follow him over gravel and packed sand and a weathered boardwalk to a cabin cruiser fit for a movie producer or lawyer.

Joking, I ask, “Does this boat go to the Cayman Islands?” He can afford to rent or even own such a thing. Then I remember that his trust fund is untouchable for two more months. Did he add his name on John’s account at the bank? I can’t see that happening. Not with John at his elbow.

“Just across the lake,” he answers. When we’re on board, he makes us put on life jackets, then adjusts knobs and reads guages, shows us where the snacks are, and turns on a CD player. The New Age music suits me, though John rolls his eyes a bit. I help myself to a package of chocolate chip cookies and a bottle of spring water.

There’s no fishing gear. There is a cell phone, and Ernie makes several calls that we can’t hear because of the engine.

The day is full of sunshine and wind, and even with choppy water that makes me hold on to the railing, I’m joyful and don’t get seasick.

Twenty minutes later we’ve left the marina and most of the islands behind. Private landings, glimpses of mansions on the hillsides above. “How big is this lake?”

“Never measured it.” He steers slightly to our right. One small island lies ahead. Woods come right down to the water’s edge. As we move in closer, I watch the swell pound away at the bank, and realize the land is shaped like a loaf of bread, narrow, but maybe a mile long. At the
far point, Ernie navigates with caution to the only place suitable for a landing.

He cuts the engine and we sit in silence.

Slowly I become aware of song birds in the underbrush. A hawk sails overhead. John opens the fridge, turns away in disgust. We drift in close enough for Ernie to leap onto land and tie to an iron stake. “You guys coming?”

John eyes the lake and the wooded island. “I’m good here.”

I get into position but the distance looks too risky. From a stable platform, yes; but the boat’s not stable and the water churns against the bank. If I fall in, I won’t drown but my running shoes will.

“Come on,” Ernie encourages, and I jump. Grabbing at shrubs and kicking loose rocks and dirt, I scramble up to where he waits. The moment I’m on level ground, he takes off on a trail just wide enough for my feet, never mind the rest of me whipped by leafy limbs. The sunglasses darken everything but they protect my eyes.

I don’t ask where we’re headed. It’s a secret, special place, and I’m glad John chose to stay behind. He can’t leave in the boat as Ernie has the key. This is more fun than the hikes Collins used to take us Middles on, across old pastures to the creek behind East Wind. Used to, since he stopped doing that the year Jerry nearly drowned Steve under the waterfall. Even after Jerry joined the Almost-Outs, Collins refused to hike anymore.

There are no waterfalls here, only boulders, moss, pines, old hardwoods that remind me of history lessons about the landings at Plymouth and Jamestown. I think of snakes and bears, but the way Ernie’s plunging ahead, he’s not worried. We must be close to the middle of the island when he slows to a halt. I look beyond him and at first see only more of the same.

Expecting the foundation of a burned cabin, at least, I finally spot a lump of brown canvas. A circle of melon-sized stones—a fire pit—clues me in. The brown lump is a one-man tent, fallen to wind, rain, and time. “Haven’t been here for a while,” Ernie says. He steps to it almost on tiptoes. Hunkers and pulls at the rotten material.

Hunkering beside him, I barely hear the words, “I was too young to stay out here by myself.” He pokes at the sodden lump with a stick. Snakes still on my mind, I scoot back, but nothing slithers out except a hairy-legged spider. He tosses the stick away and continues tiptoeing forward a few yards to a domed shelter built of saplings and covered with pine branches.

“This was going to be a sweat lodge.” He gives a short unhappy laugh. “I sweated, all right, building it.”

Brown needles still cling, though when he pulls at a limb, they shower an entrance so low he has to crawl inside. He reaches, draws me in with him. Too small for its purpose, the ‘lodge’ has plenty of ventilation because many of the poles have been displaced by the antics of squirrels or other animal. Crouched in the dim place, he finds the strength to admit, “Leaving is harder than I thought it would be.”

Does he mean, Canada? Or university? Does he even know . . . .

“It worked for John. I thought it would work for me, too. But it hasn’t.” He starts tearing the lodge apart from the inside, shoving off poles and branches until we’re able to stand up, a circle of decaying wood surrounding us. He gazes at the forest, sniffing its aromas like a wild creature alert for danger. “I don’t want to take this with me.”

He kicks the pieces, destroying the shape, and I help him. I don’t have the courage to probe into his reasons for returning to a place that made him miserable.

We find John asleep on one of the drop-down beds, an empty water bottle on the floor. “This’ll wake him up,” Ernie laughs. He starts the engine and revs it to a mellow roar. John swings his legs off the bed and sits up, groggy. “Is it lunch time yet?”

The clock surprises me. Ten forty-five. We were on the island for over an hour. Zooming around the point, we head back the way we came. In about ten minutes we come to a shallow inlet. I’m surprised again when we travel along it for maybe a half a mile.

Ernie cuts the engine and expertly steers us into a covered boat slip. If it was noon, I’d think he was keeping a lunch appointment with well-to-do friends. Okay, eleven could mean brunch. With his tennis pals. Or his university roommate, come September.

I wish I had dressed better for this occasion, but at least my shoes aren’t full of holes. John’s in the pants and shirt from his father’s dresser. No wonder Ernie calls him ‘old man.’ Too bad. In his jeans and black tee shirt, he could pass for an actor.

We walk up a winding, root-studded dirt path. Trees block a view of neighbors, if there are any. On a level space, a well-kept tennis court. Field houses made of stone. Steps leading up to a high brick wall. Next to a solid metal door, an entrance box accepts whatever code Ernie punches in.

When the door snaps shut behind us, I’m awed. John is too, judging by his silent inspection of a three-story brick house in a rich-and-famous setting. It’s bigger than the East Wind library, nowhere near as old. Three-car garage, closed. Fresh-cut lawn, blooming shrubs, rustic benches under shade trees. Green and yellow aromas blend with cool shade and bright sun. And this is the servants’ entrance.

“Your boat. Your home.” I don’t doubt it, but prod, to hear him say it.

“For now.” Ernie leads us past a side yard where three round tables are placed under a vine-covered wooden arbor, on a smooth brick patio that fills the space between the house and the high wall. Tables close enough for public conversations, far enough apart for private ones. Is this where Fran and Hoodoo hung out, before they ran away?

The front of the house is like the back, multiplied a few times. Beds of spring flowers on either side of a brick walkway. Benches under giant trees. No flamingos or gnomes, no tire swing, no dead lawnmower. Wide lawns slope to the brick wall and an iron gate with scrollwork that looks like grape leaves and clusters. A sidewalk on the other side, a street, but no houses to ruin the view.

Six brick columns rise from a porch. Two stone steps, a floor of some dark gray material that Ernie says is slate. Expensive-looking cushioned iron furniture—no plastic table and chairs to blow away in a summer storm. Double door with etched-glass panels and enough brass to make a tuba.

Inside, even though there’s no marble, real or fake, I’m not disappointed. Two-story entry, central hallway, dining room to the left, entertainment center to the right. Dark stairs lead up to bedrooms; a long hallway to the right, to more bedrooms.

“Wait here,” Ernie says, heading to the back, where there’ll be a kitchen and a wing for the live-in staff. I’m okay with that. Waiting here gives me a chance to peek into the carpeted room outfitted with a theater-size movie screen, sound system, and shelves of tapes and DVDs. Sofas, tables with lamps, cabinets with who-knows-what behind locked doors.

The dining table seats a dozen, a silver service on a heavy lace tablecloth. China cabinets, buffets, a chandelier. An old-fashioned fireplace with gas logs, crystal candlesticks on the mantel, a huge mirror to reflect expensive dinners with friends, relatives, business partners.

It’s what I’ve dreamed of, my incentive whenever school assignments got dull. I just thought I wanted to live in John’s farmhouse.

Ernie emerges from the gloomy interior. “Everyone knows you’re here, so make yourselves at home. Movie? Tennis? Early lunch on the terrace?”

“I want to see your room.” The words leap from my mouth before I can consider the effect they’ll have on him.

TO BE CONTINUED!

“Is that somewhere near the Canary Islands?” I’m sure it isn’t. Where it IS, though, could be the way it sounds: tropical.

Sky so blue it hurts your eyes, surf so clear you can see the bottom for a mile out. Coral reefs with fish tank fish in the wild and seaweed waving in spears of sunlight. Palms swaying in sea breezes and clean white sand under bare feet. Coconut everything, drinks, desserts, coating shrimp like the dish I once had at a Red Lobster for my birthday. Paradise.

Or, it could be one of those bits of rocky land off the coast of Maine or Nova Scotia. I wish now I’d paid more attention in geography class.

Ernie laughs. John says, “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m heading to Canada.”

Not so you’d notice. We’ve been going west for what feels like three days. Might run across Hoodoo and Fran again after all. I never doubted he’d end up in California, though Ernie’s taunt about being in a horror movie probably wasn’t far off base.

“It’s not where we’re heading, exactly. Only, the money is.”

John’s head snaps around and he gives Ernie an astonished look. “You’re kidding.”

“It’ll be safer there than it is in a bag.”

Ernie drives the Caddy into a bank parking lot. The place is swarming. John’s breathless with disbelief. “Oh, my God.” He scoots down in the seat and pulls the ball cap visor as low as he can.

“We have to do this,” Ernie tells him. “It’s Friday and waiting till Monday could be a mistake.”

“Going in would be a mistake, and what the hell do you mean by parking in the open?”

Ernie gets out. “Come on, John. We’re three hundred miles from—” He stops.
We know what he means. Home. The place where everything bad happened, and where we can never go again.

“Do I stay with the car?”

“No, Mouse, you come with us.”

I grab my S. E. Hinton book to read in the lobby. Ernie opens the trunk and places the paper bag full of money in John’s care. On the way inside, I hear Ernie say, “You have a friend at the credit union. I have one at the bank. He’ll fix you up with a new life.”

John recoils with surprise and almost walks into the edge of the glass door. Instead of lining up with about fifty other people doing banking on their lunch hour, Ernie signs in on a sheet like he’s made an appointment.

I weigh myself on an old fashioned scale and I’ve lost four pounds. Suddenly I’m starving and try to take my mind off food by picking a fake leather chair where I can begin reading.

Half a book later, the lunch bunch is gone and I’m alone. The Caddy’s alone too. Like an old maid on a basketball court.

Voices approach along the carpeted hall. My buddies, with a pleasant-looking man in a rumpled shirt and wide tie. They stop in front of an office, he shakes John’s hand, calls him ‘Mister Baker.’ Ernie shakes the man’s hand, thanks him. He goes into the office and they come toward me.

Ernie gives John the car key. “I need to make a couple of calls. Move around to the back if you want to.”

He wants to, asap. From where he parks, away from the street, I can see Ernie at a pay phone. I wish I’d stayed with him, maybe find out who he’s talking to, but somehow I didn’t quite trust John not to leave us.

Friday. The day I was supposed to call Jerry and Steve and tell them I’d found a job in Dentonville and earned enough money to book a motel room for them. I wonder whether they ever really expected me to do that, or it was all just a prank to get me in trouble with old Collins and his boss O’Leary. In less than a week, I’ve lived more in the real world than in my whole life before.

Which could be more interesting, sharing John’s new life, or digging into Ernie’s old one? If we stay together, I can do both.

“We’ll be here a few days,” Ernie tells us when he comes back. He’s picked up a map in the bank, and adds, “Better let me drive.”

Sun’s bright, sky’s clear, leaves are almost to their full summer growth already. Instead of touring the town, which appears to be larger than the ones we’ve been in so far, Ernie takes us through a maze of residential streets and finally out on a curving by-pass.

We hit a stretch of empty shopping centers, a closed car dealership, little places still open but dying. A traffic light stops us.

In the next block, a small run-down motel makes my heart flutter. Ernie flicks on the turn signal. My mouth goes dry. At least it’s one level, no fire escape, and the sign’s readable. ‘Starshine.’ Bulbs around the name form a star, and I make a mental note to see how many of them come on after dark.

We drive around to the back and Ernie parks up close to the building. He and John look at each other. “I’ll go,” Ernie volunteers. “Nobody’s looking for me.”

Definitely the best thing going for us. But the way he says those words hurts me. All those people in his family, and he’s as alone as we are. I want to tell him, having the orphan police after you is no picnic, but he’s rounding the corner of the motel to the office. John says softly, “Not yet, anyway.”

“Ernie’s smart.” The only thing he hasn’t excelled at is running a carpet sweeper. I clamp my lips shut against listing out loud, not in any order, what he can do.

Find shelter, avoid detection, pick locks, soothe skinned skin, repair a lawn mower, convince grown men he’s a tough teen, grill a mean burger. Catch and cook fish, remember to pack dental floss, pretend not to notice embarrassing moments. Joke around like a regular guy instead of a rich brat. Navigate from memory or a map. He can stand up to people, drive a heavy old car in impossible places, pull strings to create a new life for the three of us. Oh, and make coffee.

He couldn’t do the one thing he set out to accomplish, though. Persuade Francine to wise up and go home. I wonder what kind of hold Hoodoo has on her, that Ernie can’t break.

Seeing him returning, we get out of the Caddy. He hands John a room receipt and a key. “We’re here, you’re there.” The rooms are next to each other, opening on this parking lot.

John reads what he’s written in the blanks, and laughs.

“When you’re settled in, Mister Baker, come on over for lunch.” Ernie carries in the bag of veggies. I take the bedroll and my duffel. Ernie goes back for his new guitar.

“Can you play that thing?” I leap onto the nearest bed and test the mattress and pillow. Thick and thin, the way I like them. The sheets and even the blanket smell clean, a relief.

“Later,” he tells me. He checks the bathroom and brings in the toilet paper from the campground. There’s no phone book, and we find the tv remote under my bed. There is an ice bucket which has seen better days. “No liner, no cups. Better get some drinks. Machines are in the covered walkway.” He gestures.

I pass John’s open door. He’s standing at the foot of his bed, staring into his suitcase. Missing that bag of money. Wondering what he’s gotten himself into. I grin. Welcome to the club.

Our lunch of tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots is an almost-salad. Cut up with Ernie’s knife, it’s finger food. No lettuce, dressing, peppers, or onions. John clicks on the tv and I’m amazed. Not only does it work, it has about three hundred channels and they all come in clear. He quickly switches away from a commercial advertising a local steak house. News, he shuts off.

I fill in my hollow spaces with junk food from the candy machine. Open my book to where I left off. Ernie gathers up our lunch trash, and John goes back to his room for a nap.

“He’s in bad shape,” I venture. “Lost his spunk.”

Ernie stretches out on his bed. When you’re on the run, you sleep every chance you get. “Haven’t we all.”

I haven’t. I’m happier than I’ve been in… Ever.

It’s still early—well, daylight—when John knocks. He’s carrying a phone book and announces, “I’m going to call out for pizza. Place your orders.”

“Pepperoni,” I shout. Ernie votes for a veggie. Figures. John wants sausage. Three mediums should be enough to share and gorge half the night.

He comes back and says they won’t deliver a pitcher of beer, so we bring more soft drinks from the machine. While we wait for the food, John gives the tv another try. The news sounds funny, since all of the anchors and weathermen are unfamiliar.

“You know any of these people?” I ask Ernie, meaning, ‘Are they the ones on tv at your home?’ but the pizzas arrive so he avoids answering.

John mutes the sound so we can eat in peace, and we trade slices so everybody is satisfied with the selection. It’s my idea of perfect pizza—thin crust, medium cheese, and plenty of tomato sauce. While we’re stuffing our faces and guzzling soda, we glimpse a silent kaleidoscope of crying mothers and cop cars racing about, groups of citizens at some meeting, others carrying signs and demonstrating, kids and animals being rescued. Stock market report, ads for tire stores.

Then a Special Bulletin. Our chewing stops. We watch John’s wedding photo flash to the front. Margie, alive. Happy. It zooms to a fraction of the screen and hovers over the head of some bald guy whose mouth moves, saying things John doesn’t want to hear.

“Find out where they’re looking,” Ernie suggests quietly.

John presses the button and the announcer trails off with, “…wanted for questioning. If you have any information, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.” The bald guy repeats the number twice, and someone else at the station starts waving his arm over a weather map.

“He’s reporting from Dentonville,” Ernie says. “Not to worry.”

John doesn’t say anything. He leaves the last few slices of his pizza, drains the drink can, takes a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket. Outside, he paces, smoke trailing him.

Ernie perches on the edge of the single plastic chair and starts tuning his guitar. He looks like he knows what he’s doing. It’s unamplified, and he has a simple pick, not the kind you fit over your fingers, but the kind you lose the first time you turn around.

Ernie’s tune is pretty. John must not think so, because he yells, “Good night,” and disappears into the evening gloom.

“Margie’s favorite,” I remark.

“Fran’s.”

“You can’t stand her.”

“I like the song.”

“What is it?”

“Moon River.”

I sit on my bed, kick off my new shoes. He’s playing softly, but hears me when I go on. “That’s why you didn’t mess with the blonde in the red car. She made you think of Fran.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t look up. “Yep.”

Flipping channels, I come across a bunch of nearly naked women dancing around in a basement. Ernie motions me to give up the remote and shuts off the whole thing. I snap on the bedside lamp and finish my book. The ending’s tragic and I toss it away.

The weatherman predicted hotter temperatures tomorrow. Using Ernie’s knife, I rip off the legs of my thrift shop jeans at the knee. Turn my East Wind tee shirt so the logo’s on the inside. Remember the wig and dress, and try to think of some prank to pull on Ernie. One that doesn’t end up with my foot in my mouth.

After we’re settled in, everything’s dark except for a faint glow outside from a distant street light way down past the end of the building. Cool air circulates between the tiny bathroom window and the front door. A patter of rain reminds me of Haw Creek, except tonight I’m not drunk and my scabby knees and elbows and chin have peeled and healed.

It’s a lot like camping in the tent, but more comfortable, and I should be sleeping, but too much food and caffeine, memories and questions, keep me awake. Ernie’s snoring gently. He might be alone except for us, but that’s not interfering with his rest. I remember one of the drink machines has juice, coffee, and chocolate milk. Feeling in my jeans pocket, I come up with enough change.

A step over the threshold, I’m startled by the shape of someone sitting in the Caddy and I duck back, then lean to peer through the cascade of water on the windshield. Whoever is behind the wheel doesn’t move. For a long while, nothing. Only the rain, Ernie’s snoring, and an occasional gust of night wind.

John gets out, locks the car. Goes into his room. I breathe a long sigh. No Suit, planting a bomb. No cop looking for clues. No danger.

The walkway is cold and damp under my bare feet. The window to John’s room is open, curtains closed, the light over his door is out, just like ours. I hurry to the brightly lit machines and pay for a couple containers of chocolate milk. While drinking the first one, I count bulbs in this side of the motel sign. Two of the starfish arms look chopped off, blending into the night sky behind them. Seedy or not, I love it.

Inside again, I slip the chain lock into place. Open our window. Drink the second milk in the dark. Get into bed without brushing my teeth, and smile on the way to sleep.

* * * * *

The tv news wakes me. Sound’s turned so low I can barely hear it. Dressed, Ernie sits on the foot of his bed, watching the same clip about John re-play. I keep quiet, waiting to see what he’ll do. He watches firemen put out a house fire, and shots of a car wrapped around a telephone pole. Does he expect to see Francine? She wasn’t on either of my milk cartons from last night.

“What’s for breakfast?” I ask, to distract him from such thoughts, if he’s thinking them.

He shuts off the tv. “Leftover pizza.”

“John sleeping in?”

“It’s early. Just after seven.”

The machines dispense coffee, but I want mine in a mug, not paper or plastic. “Where’s the phone book?”

“Nearest breakfast is ten blocks away.”

“You really know this area, don’t you.” And me, I think.

“Yeah.”

I wait for him to tell me more, but he picks up the guitar and plays a sad melody I don’t recognize. “What’s that?”

“My own composition.”

“Does it have a name?”

His eyes dart a warning into mine, so I guess he calls it ‘Francine.’ With only two years separating them in age, they must have bonded in a way I never did with any of the foster kids who lived in the places I stayed. If I have brothers or sisters, I’m not aware of them. I’d be the oldest, probably. Someday, maybe I’ll go on a talk show and make a crying appeal and be reunited with people I once knew but have nothing in common with anymore.

Yeah. Sure.

“Where’d you go last night?” His question from left field surprises me.

“To the machines. And to count the star bulbs in the sign.”

“Big night out, huh?” He grins. Lays aside the guitar.

“John was sitting in the Caddy. Maybe deciding to let you paint her after all.”

Ernie leaps to his feet. The color’s drained from his face, and that scares me. He jerks the knob but the chain holds. “What’s the matter?” I hover behind him, reaching to close the door and free the chain.

“He’s got another key!”

Before he can run outside, I pull back the curtain. The parking lot is empty.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Did I hear that right?

Those glowing images Ernie put in my head—

traveling with Fran and Hoodoo in the first place, pleading at the abandoned gas station when she blew him off and didn’t choose him even after Hoodoo slugged him, his faded memories triggered by a little white sandal in the Haw Creek infirmary, the way his voice cracked when he told me about her following him around wanting him to read to her, his face when he saw her photo on the Missing Child poster

—ended abruptly with his words, “I can’t stand her.”

I don’t know what to say, so I finish brushing my teeth and reach for the comb. He doesn’t say anything either, but when he gives it to me, I feel tense vibes coming off him like radiation and I step away to keep from being burned.

He finds extra toilet paper in an overhead cabinet in the corner, and stuffs three rolls on top of the other items in my duffel bag. Ever the practical guy.

On the path, him marching ahead, me bringing up the rear, I wonder when it will be safe to speak. Then he says, “None of it was Mom’s fault, but she’s the one taking the brunt.”

No, I think. You are.

“You don’t live with her? You stayed with Fran and your dad?”

“When he was granted custody—unfairly, because he’s a prime manipulator—all she got was visitation. I see her on my birthday.”

“In two months.”

“Yeah,” Ernie says without emotion. He’s stuck in the past, but I think of the future.

Eighteen, the magic number. Ernie will officially be a man, and in 4 years and three months I’ll be walking out of East Wind forever. Then it dawns on me: I’m out now. Question is, for how long. I want to go into town, but the chance that my mug actually is on a wanted poster—and some citizen might recognize me—is greater than whether a grownup like John will be remembered from his childhood.

“AHH!”

“What?” Ernie turns, puzzled and maybe put on guard by my exclamation.

“John wanted to be a kid again at the festival before leaving the country.”

Ernie teasingly messes up my hair. “You just figure that out?”

We tramp through the last few yards of underbrush and into the familiar clearing. So the plan is to flee. Excited, I’m swept into the whole fugitive thing again, but with a deeper understanding of the guys I’m fleeing with.

John’s giving up his home place and the probability that he can clear his name. Ernie’s giving up university and a better relationship with his mother.

All I’m giving up is some doubtful friendships and an excellent education. Being a minor, I’m facing a worse place than East Wind if I’m taken into custody with these two. Or East Wind at its worst if I’m returned, which is unlikely after they let me escape.

What will we do in another country? How do they intend to handle the border red tape? My companions are inventive and capable, and my confidence soars along with eagerness to experience whatever’s ahead.

John’s gone into town already—or swiped it from a camper—because he’s reading a newspaper. He looks up, watches us spread the wet things. His hair’s wet, too, so he’s been swimming in the river one last time. Alone. Dangerous. There are deep pools and the water’s swift in the
middle.

“I need running shoes,” I say. “And if Ernie’s going to disguise himself as a poet, he should have a pair of brown leather sandals.”

They look at me with surprise and amusement. “Easy enough,” John tells us.

“Actually, I had sandals,” Ernie says. “They’re in the SUV.”

We don’t go there. Instead we wash the coffee pot and cups at the edge of a backwater. But mentioning the SUV prompts me to wonder where Hoodoo and Fran are. Is Jordan out of the hospital yet? And is Bob the Reporter still with Martin the Cuz, or is he pursuing the story of the
runaway scandal at East Wind?

Ernie breaks the comfortable silence with, “John, we should pack up. There’s details that need to be taken care of.”

“Yeah, we will. First, look at this.”

‘This’ is below-the-fold news in a small town daily, so when I do see my face in shades of gray it doesn’t bother me the way I’d expected. It’s an old school photo, but clear enough that I won’t be buying my shoes in Glen Alpine.

“Pity you can’t grow a mustache,” Ernie jokes. He reads the article aloud and there’s not much there. I imagine kids my age being stopped by cops all across the country.

Then I notice the name attached to the report. Robert. Good ‘ol Bob. If he didn’t know me in the farmhouse, he will the next time he sees me. My eyes meet Ernie’s. “Yep. Time to hit the road.”

Focused on touching base with his past, John never asked who the visitors were that sent him flying yesterday morning, so we fill him in about the Suits, Bob and Martin. He heaves a sigh. “That’s not good. I was counting on Ernie driving, but now he’s a target too.”

“Let’s buy the kid some decent shoes. We can discuss other stuff later.”

“Not in this town,” I remind him.”It’s my picture in the paper.”

“Three sitting ducks,” Ernie observes. “Time for drastic measures.”

John starts packing up the cooking gear, cooler, and empty beer cans. Ernie and I roll up our blankets and de-flate the mattresses. We un-pitch the tent and force it into its storage bag. In half an hour, only dry ashes can tell anyone we’ve been there. No stray cigarette butts, no footprints, and as soon as Ernie moves the Caddy to rocky ground, no tire tracks. John’s methodical and thorough. Just like Ernie. I vow to watch and learn, and be just like them.

We get in the Caddy. Instead of asking ‘Where to?’ Ernie announces, “I know a couple of guys who can help.”

He guides the car back the way we came and when the Interstate lies before us he heads in the same direction we were going before. Away from Glen Alpine, away from everywhere I’ve ever been and toward the unknown.

Fifteen minutes of countryside later, John says, “What can they help with?”

“First things first,” Ernie tells him.

I’m surprised Ernie’s taking charge like this. Dumbfounded that John’s letting him. Maybe the denial, anger, guilt, and whatever the other stages of grief are, have worked their way out of his system and he’s too numb to object. I’m too happy to worry about it.

After two boring hours of radio, silence, more radio, silence, and a patchwork of fields, signs for towns I never heard of, woods, fields, and more signs, we finally pass one that’s a relief to us all: ‘Rest Area 3 miles.’

Not caring to remember the other rest areas I’ve had the ill-luck to visit, I run into the building before anyone can stop me with any cautions. Rested, I meet them strolling along, grinning. John gives me money and I buy some cola and a pack of peanuts. While they’re inside, I dawdle on a bench, sharing with a squirrel, and wonder what they’re saying to each other. If the last hundred miles is any guage, it’s not much.

Oops. They come out together, arguing.

John pokes Ernie’s shoulder with a forefinger, hard enough to hurt. “Forget it! It ain’t gonna happen.”

Ernie buys himself a drink and a pack of cheese crackers. Sits on the bench beside me.

John goes to the Caddy, parked as near behind some bushes as Ernie could put it, but not on the sidewalk or grass where it might draw the attention of an overeager attendant. I expect him to get in the driver’s seat, but he doesn’t.

“Still won’t let you paint her?”

“Have I said that she sticks out like an old maid on a basketball court?”

“Probably. But as long as we’ve left the Suits behind, what does it matter? They’re the only ones who can connect you to me or John.”

“At the moment, that’s true. Things have a way of changing.”

“He’ll come around. When he has to.”

“Maybe. First, a couple of other stops.”

“You know where you are, then.”

“Yep.”

I look around me with more interest. If Ernie’s in home territory, is he going to say Goodbye to his dad, or find his mom, or drive by his house and I’ll see where he lives. What’s around me right now is just a shady pit stop on the Interstate, though, and maybe we’re miles from his destination.

Neither of them says a word when we return to the car, and Ernie keeps heading—west. The sun’s still behind when we exit at a dusty collection of shacks and rows of tables stretching for maybe half a mile in what apparently used to be a pasture on the other side of an access road from the four-lane.

Ernie parks in an almost-illegal space, way down on the end of a line of cars on the grass, under some trees. “Not pines,” John tells him. “Took me an hour this morning washing the goo of campground pines off her.”

It’s a flea market and I have high hopes for finding a camera.

We find plenty of other stuff, too, mostly useless, but Ernie picks up a new cowboy hat and a belt with a gaudy silver buckle and a really classy pair of boots made of soft leather. “Black market,” he says, but buys them anyway. With a small wad of John’s money. John’s wearing oversized silver sunglasses and a ball cap, and loads up a paper bag with fruit and vegetables we can eat without cooking.

I’m looking for running shoes when I spot a whole table full of cameras, and buy one that my cartridge works in for only five bucks. I test it by ratcheting the film and taking a couple shots of the old guy who sold it to me.

It’s refreshing to have money and things to look forward to besides swimming every day in the East Wind pool, and listening to Steve tootle on his clarinet and Jerry bitch about his chores. The only thing I really miss is the library. Finding a book stall, I fill a plastic bag with paperbacks. One of them is an S.E. Hinton I’ve never read. Life is complete.

Well, no. No shoes yet, though there are plenty to choose from. They’re all either too big, too small, or too heavy for summer wear. I’m about to sink a couple dollars into new tennies when Ernie calls me over.

“Here’s what you need.” He hands me a pair, navy and white, lightweight and streamlined. I try them on and agree. Money exchanges hands. “I could use another tee shirt. I was wearing this one when I went over the wall.”

“This would be better.” Ernie holds up a frilly pink dress and a curly black wig. “They’ll never think to look for a girl.” He laughs as he tries to set the wig on my head. I dodge and we scuffle. He drapes the dress over my face. I try to fight it off without ripping it. You rip,
you pay.

We’re laughing like crazy when John hurries up to us, not exactly scared, but tense. “Couple of cops.” He nods and we both look.

Shaved heads, khaki creased enough to cut you, polished and loaded down with stuff on their belts. Walkie-talkie, cell phone, pager, handcuffs. Guns.

They’re talking to the old guy who sold me the camera. Hugging my bag of purchases, I sprint around a canvas booth, John right behind me with our groceries.

Jogging along a dirt driveway behind the line of vendors, we’re probably drawing more attention than if we’d sauntered away like Ernie’s doing, carrying his running shoes, my worn-out sneaks, and a guitar he’s picked up somewhere. Guitar? And I thought he was disguised as Richard Petty