Here's the latest chapter of this story. My thanks again to Flip for his editing and editorial aid -- it's amazing how much difference that can make. My thanks also to those who have written, kindly or otherwise, to me about the story -- I hope it's of some interest to some people out there in the wide world.
The usual disclaimers apply. This is a work of fiction, so don't go looking for Uncle Eddie or somebody like that in here. It also has/will have/has had depictions of sexual activity involving underaged boys, so if that's not your cup of tea or it's illegal to read such things where you live, by all means don't read it. All rights, except the obvious license to Nifty (to whom we all owe gratitude for this site) are of Course mine alone, so please don't try to steal my work.
I'll also again provide the usual commercial break: Flip's stories here, "Val `n' Tyne" and "So Cal Summer 1969" are both well worth the read, and I always put a plug in for my previous Nifty story, "Seal Rocks," which can be found here in the Nifty HS section, with a final chapter posted in April 2011. Thanks as always.
When the World Changed Part 11.
The celebration at dinner that night was glorious. Not only had the varsity crushed Dumbarton 36 - 7, but the soccer and cross country teams had won as well. All three coaches made brief speeches to the student body during dinner, and called up for recognition team members whose performances they regarded as especially noteworthy. Bill Fieldstone and Brendan McCracken of course were prominently featured. The fight song was sung more times than Brady could count, echoing through the immense dining hall. Even the meal seemed unusually close to being edible.
The night turned cold as the rain blew away, leaving tattered clouds racing across a moonless sky. No one wanted to be in their room; it seemed the whole student body was milling about on center campus most of the evening, jackets pulled tight against the chill, talking in shifting groups, laughing, telling stories, remembering the day's events.
Brady finally strolled back into Linsley, through the front door, at about ten. Doug, who had been with him most of the night, had gone in a few minutes before to piss. He was cold, his cheeks glowing, and his heart bursting. He almost wanted to caress the door as he pushed it open.
"Having fun, Jethro?" Ian McShane, wearing a ridiculously ostentatious purple silk robe, was leaning against his room door. Brady could see behind him into the room - a nice couch, a recliner chair, framed prints of some sort on the wall. He had what looked like a glass of whiskey (or some amber liquid, anyway) in his hand. His face looked oddly puffy, as if he'd been hit.
"You should've gone out there, Ian, it's a great night." He had no desire for any kind of argument.
Ian, however, appeared to be aching for one. "You would think dumb crap like that is great. Goddam sheep fucking idiot." He spat towards Brady's feet, though he lacked the power to reach his target.
Brady flared for a moment, but suppressed his anger. "I got no quarrel with you, Ian. I dunno why you're being such a jerk. I mean look at yourself. Everybody's out having fun, and you're in here pretending to be Hugh Hefner or something. Only without the bimbos. Just cool it, OK?"
"Oh, like you know anything about girls, huh Conover? All you do is lick Garretson's balls every night."
Brady quailed inside; this struck too close to his suppressed desires. He remembered how David had described Edward revealing himself in such situations. "That's so sick, Ian, Jesus."
Ian snorted. "Did I hurt your poor little feelings, baby faggot boy? Go cry on Garretson's shoulders 'til he wants you to suck his cock."
This time Brady couldn't hold back. "Fuck you, Ian. You're a fucking loser and you know it. You got no friends, you're off the Goddam team, deep down you know you're an asshole, and you're close to getting your ass thrown out of school. Again. Did I miss something? Oh, and your brother's an even bigger asshole, and a two-bit playground bully too. I don't know what the fucking deal is with you guys, but I'm sick of it, OK? Go iron your faggy robe. Does Douggie have a matching one in red? Or is that what you guys wear when you're cornholing each other?"
Brady immediately knew he'd gone too far with that last line. Ian's eyes grew wide for a moment with a mix of fear and recognition. Color rose in his cheeks. He threw his glass at Brady. It missed, and shattered against the wall. Brady took a step toward him, but some instinct held him back as Ian stepped backwards into his room. Brady's eyes darted about. Something wasn't right. Why would he step back?
Ian just as clearly wanted a shot at him, but he remained just by his room door . "C'mon, Conover, come get it. I been wanting to teach you a lesson for three weeks now."
Brady licked his lips. He hated fighting or physical confrontations, aside from the alarm bells going off in his head over this situation. All the same, he wanted to kill the bastard right then. "I'm right here, Ian. C'mon and get me if you think you're such a tough guy."
Ian grinned mockingly. "Aw, he's too scared. I figured when it came to it you'd be too chickenshit to take me on."
Brady made a guess. "You? Or you and Douggie? C'mon out, Douggie, I wanna see what color you're wearing tonight."
Ian gave a momentary telltale sidelong glance. "What th' fuck're you talking about? Douggie's not here."
Brady smiled, both relieved and more on his guard. He'd smelled it out. "Bullshit he isn't. You guys wanna fight, come out and do it in the open for once, or are you too big a pussy for that?"
"Calling me a pussy, Conover?" Stud Douggie stepped out from behind the door to Ian's room. He had his letter jacket on, and looked both damp (from the weather outside) and angry. "Your little faggot roommate been telling you tales, Conover?"
Brady knew he'd revealed too much. He needed to cover, and fast. "He tells me you guys are first rate assholes, and you're fitting the description pretty good so far."
Stud Douggie yanked his belt out of his jeans and folded it in the middle, brandishing it like a switch. Ian started to smile. "You both are gonna get what you deserve." He advanced toward Brady, who was suddenly frozen in place. He'd forgotten how big Stud Douggie was. "You first, then Tanner."
The front door of the dorm popped open behind Brady. Evan, Dunc, Alan Black, and Jack Spencer hurried in, laughing and talking amongst themselves. They pulled up when they saw the faceoff before them. Brady inhaled for what seemed the first time in hours. He wasn't alone now.
Evan characteristically stepped forward. "What's going on, Douggie?" He glanced at the belt in Douggie's hands. "Mosquitoes out tonight or something?"
"Walk away, all of you."
"I don't think so, Douggie. You got a problem with Brady, you got a problem with all of us. This is a freshman dorm, so why don't you beat it."
Stud Douggie was clearly unprepared to face a group of people, let alone guys who, though younger and smaller, were athletes and capable of putting up a real fight. "I - I can come see my brother anytime I want!"
"Fine," Jack interjected. "Go in his room and see him. Right now it looks like you're trying to pick a fight with Brady."
"He started it, he's being an asshole." Ian kept himself a precise half step behind Stud Douggie, and off to his left.
"Well, you guys would be the experts on that," Dunc noted, and the rest of the boys couldn't suppress slight smiles. Brady moved towards Evan and Jack, sensing the need to hang together.
Stud Douggie looked at them for a long second, then stepped back into Ian's room. He nearly slammed the door on Ian, who scrambled to make it inside before it closed with a resounding whack.
Brady exhaled and leaned back against the wall. Evan looked at him with a mixture of amusement and concern. "They try to jump you?"
"Looks like it, yeah. I - I came in, because . . ." He didn't want to say he was following Doug like a dog, the way he'd followed him around center campus all night. "Because, y'know, it's getting cold, and all."
"Yeah," Evan said. "Let's go up and put on a record or something."
"Good idea," Brady answered. They could hear loud voices from inside Ian's room.
He recounted the incident to David that might after lights out. "I told you they'd try to get you," he said.
"I know, that's what held me back. It all seemed too set up. I just wonder how they knew to wait for me there like that."
"They don't plan, if that's what you think," David answered. "They're too dumb for that - usually, anyway. They just react to a situation. Probably saw you coming in alone and figured it might be worth a quick try." He rolled to face away from Brady. "They'll try again, you know."
"I suppose." Brady sighed, contemplating the situation. "If they don't both get the boot first."
David laughed. "The answer for everything. We can hope, I guess. That'd be pretty far out, wouldn't it?"
The following morning was crisp, clear, blindingly bright. The trees around campus were afire with early October colors. Chapel was mercifully brief for a Sunday service, letting out a bit after 10. Lunch was a sandwich buffet, optional seating, without the need to check in. An exhilarating taste of freedom was in the air. Brady, Doug, David, Evan, Dunc, and Vic Stenkowski (of all people) ran loopily across center campus back to Linsley, laughing at nothing in particular.
As they changed out of their suits, Brady had an idea. "Let's bike over to Cullingstown. I wanna show you guys around. D'ya think Billips would let us off campus to do that?"
David grinned. "Fuck Billips. What's he gonna do, follow us if we start riding our bikes? We just gotta get back for dinner."
Within half an hour, Brady led David, Doug, Dunc, and Evan out Main Street, away from campus, and down the road toward Cullingstown. Vic begged off: "I want to work on my Elvish script," he explained, to general bemusement. Brady was excited, and found himself having to slow down to let the group (especially David) keep up. Soon he found himself pedaling past fields he'd worked during the previous spring and summer, and started telling stories about them. "Last June I was on a tractor over there," he motioned to the right where a small stream bordered a stubbly field of corn stalks, "by the creek, and this snapping turtle - he was about a foot and a half across - was sunning himself by the bank. Well, he got pissed at my driving by and bothering him I guess, and he started to charge the tractor! Scared the piss outta me."
"How'd you know it was a snapper?" Evan asked.
Brady saw Doug smile, and warmed inwardly. He knows the answer already, he realized. "Their shells are like toothed along the side, not smooth like a box turtle. And the markings are different too. And they're really mean and aggressive, like the one I met. It's easy to tell, believe me, and you don't wanna mess with them." Doug was nodding along with his description, smiling back at him.
David pulled up alongside, breathing a bit heavily. "What, they're just turtles. You walk away or something."
Brady shook his head. "They can move really fast when they want, for a little ways, anyway," he explained.
"Yeah, but you're on a damn tractor. What's it gonna do, bite off the tire?"
The other boys laughed, but Brady shook his head. "He just might have." They stared at him in shock as they coasted down the front side of a ridge, coming closer to the creek. This creek feeds into the lake in Cullingstown, he remembered. It felt good to see it again. "One time when I was little, I was out on the lake in a rowboat with my brother Hal, and he saw this snapper in the mud flats, and poked at it with the oar. The turtle bit a good four inch chunk of the oar off in one move. I've been terrified of those things ever since."
The boys laughed at the story, asking more questions. Doug chimed in from time to time. It was clear that he knew a lot about farm country and animals as well. Well, he ought to, Brady thought, his dad's a vet.
After about an hour of easy riding (easy for everyone but David, anyway), Brady saw the water tower for Cullingstown rise above the trees ahead of them and to the left, and his heart swelled. The last mile was a gentle downhill grade, and they soon came to the first scattered homes at the town's edge.
"This is pretty," David volunteered. Brady's pride was boundless.
Main Street looked as if little if anything had changed. This surprised Brady a little. After all that had happened, to him anyway, he felt like it should look different. But it seemed exactly as it always had. Yet, at the same time, it felt different. Small details were jarring: when did the drug store put up that poster; that's a new awning over the window at the barber shop. He was looking at it from a distance now. It wasn't home - not really, not any more. It was now a place he visited, occasionally, making a conscious effort to do so. A place he was from, but not of. That realization saddened him somehow, as if some part of his life had ended and he hadn't even realized it. He scanned the few people he saw on the street, searching for a familiar face. But the only ones were those of the guys who'd ridden with him. His new friends, from a very different world. It felt odd - not depressing, really, but strange.
Brady pulled up in front of Jocko's, with the others dismounting alongside him. This ought to be interesting, he thought. "OK, the guy who runs this place is kind of a jerk, so be cool."
"What's his story?" Doug asked. "Is he a jerk to you or something?" The idea that Mr. Jocko might be less than friendly toward Brady seemed to offend him.
Brady grinned, feeling warm inside. "He's just a jerk to most of the kids, it seems. We're all damn dirty juvenile delinquents and stuff like that, who listen to garbage music and need haircuts. You know the type."
Dunc giggled. "He sounds like my dad."
Jocko's was a narrow soda fountain shop, with a long counter on the left and a shelf with comic books (Brady's childhood hangout) on the right. As they walked inside, Brady took a quick peek to see what was out. He greatly disliked the "new" Batman stuff, since they remade it to comport with the TV show (which he truly loathed), but at least Superman and the various Marvel heroes appeared still to be true to themselves. The counter extended about thirty feet, and gave way to a small wider seating area in back, behind which was the door to the Jockopoulous' kitchen (the family lived in the building's upper floor).
Mr. Jocko's two sisters were behind the counter. Brady never could quite tell them apart. Trent and Hal had always referred to them interchangeably as Hatchet Face One and Hatchet Face Two, and the moniker fit both: tightly bobby-pinned steel grey hair, narrow glasses framing sharp squinty eyes, thin lips above just-too strong chins that created a slight underbite, giving a constant disapproving cast to their faces. Mr. Jocko was nowhere to be seen, which relieved Brady. The Hatchet Faces were no fun, but easier to deal with than Mr. Jocko. At least they didn't actively insult people - mostly.
The boys piled onto counter stools. Hatchet Face One glowered at Brady. "Haven't seen you for a while. You been sick again?" There was no trace of real interest, or concern, in her voice.
"No, ma'am, just off at school. Um, these are some of my classmates." He gestured at the rest, who smiled politely and nodded.
Hatchet Face Two moved next to her sister, surveying the group, arms folded. "Well, what do you want?"
"Could I get a cherry Coke, please?" Brady asked. The rest put in orders as well.
Hatchet Face One took a Coke glass and squirted two shots of Coke syrup into it. Brady always found the process fascinating: He'd had bad tonsils as a young boy, and before his mother could afford to have them removed, he'd suffered from horrible sore throats. The only thing that allowed him to swallow was to drink down a thimbleful of the Coke syrup before a meal - it coated his throat or something. Hatchet Face One now added a squirt of cherry syrup, some ice, and filled the glass with soda water, stirring as she did so. She placed the glass in front of Brady with evident disdain. "Twenty cents."
Brady dug for the change. "It's gone up."
"Because damn Johnson's a communist, that's why. He's ruining this country. You kids have no idea." Brady remembered that Negroes weren't welcome in Jocko's, either, and his mother's sense of outrage flared inside him. Maybe we shouldn't go here, he thought. We could go to Burtis' around the corner. But the other boys were getting their sodas now, too, so it seemed too late.
He looked coldly at Hatchet Face One. "Thanks," he said, with a level of insincerity that matched hers.
Once they had their sodas (Dunc got a milkshake instead), they began talking amongst themselves. They pointedly ignored the Hatchet Faces, to Brady's amusement. They soon were laughing over some inconsequential thing, the way teenagers often do.
"Keep it down, you damn kids!!!" Mr. Jocko strode in from the kitchen, his cheeks characteristically reddish already. "Driving off my customers with your damn racket!" He was a round bald man with jowly cheeks and a large squashed nose, dressed as always entirely in white, with a long apron over his clothing. His eyes were small, beady, and openly cruel. And there were, of course, no other customers in the shop at that moment to be run off.
He stormed behind and along the length of the counter, eying each of them coldly. He paused at Brady. "You got any of my comics under that jacket?"
"No, sir, I don't." Mr. Jocko almost always accused Brady of stealing comic books, an insult he'd become used to enduring. But in front of his new friends, the embarrassment stung anew. He saw Doug regarding Mr. Jocko with a mixture of incredulity and anger. Brady waved him off as he started to object.
Mr. Jocko saw the gesture, and turned toward Doug. "So what about you? I ain't seen you before."
Doug returned his stare evenly - something that surprised and almost alarmed Brady. Kids in town didn't do that to Mr. Jocko. "My name's Douglas, sir. I'm a student over at Wilson School, in Summerton. We just biked down here for the afternoon, with our friend Mr. Conover. I'm glad to meet you." His voice was authoritative, mature, but tinged with a very adult condescension.
Mr. Jocko for a moment also seemed to be taken aback by such a response. He glanced along the line of kids sitting at his counter. "All of you too?" he asked. They nodded. "Even you?" he asked Brady accusingly.
Brady felt emboldened by Doug's display of backbone. "Yup. Thought you knew already." Doug referring to him as "Mr. Conover" almost cracked him up.
Mr. Jocko frowned at him. "I don't listen to crap involving you damn kids," he snorted. "You're all goin' to hell anyways."
"Thank you for your concern, sir," Evan said. Mr. Jocko stared at him in shock. A long second passed before Dunc and David started giggling, and then they were all laughing openly. Mr. Jocko stared, very red faced, and visibly aching to think of some clever response.
The door opened, and a couple of boys strode in. Brady recognized Tommy Winkler, a kid about two years older, who was known as what passed in a small town like Cullingstown as a delinquent - greased back brownish hair, short jacket and dark jeans, a Marlboro constantly present - and Tony Feehan, his one friend and companion. The third remained hidden from his view for a moment, so that when he came into view Brady had no time to prepare a reaction. It was Kenny Heuer. His face was markedly pimply, his light brown hair was grossly slicked back on his head, and he wore a short dark blue jacket that looked as if it had been rolled around the floor of a garage. The friendly open faced boy he'd known only a few weeks earlier was gone. Kenny now looked sullen, cynical. Callous. Kenny glanced at the line of boys sitting at the counter scornfully, not initially noticing Brady. When he did, his face whitened for an instant. Their eyes met, and Brady felt color rising in his cheeks.
Tommy and Tony were already past Brady and his friends, heading for a table in back. Kenny hesitated. "Hi Brady, what's happenin' ?" he finally asked in an even tone.
"Not much, Kenny, how about you?" Brady's friends turned to regard Kenny. Brady felt embarrassed at his appearance. He's a Goddam greaser. Look at him, Jesus.
Kenny shrugged, a gesture with extravagant and practiced disdain for the entire world. "Not much, just hangin' out, bein' cool. You back from school?" He managed to give that last word an odd demeaning inflection, even as he seemed to toss the question out casually.
"No, j - just biked down for the afternoon. With some friends, and stuff."
"These your friends?" Kenny asked. The derision was more evident now.
"Uh, yeah, my - my roommate, and some friends." He suddenly has no desire to make any formal introductions. He glanced over to see David regarding Kenny with an appraising gaze. He'd told David about Kenny, of course - he'd told him about Doug, why hold back on a triviality like that. Doug was also regarding Kenny coolly. Brady wished Doug was a million miles away from Kenny at that moment.
Kenny paused another second, then walked cockily past Brady to join Winkler and Feehan in back, without another word. The two of them whispered something to Kenny, and he let out a loud guffaw. The Wilson boys at the counter finished their drinks in uncomfortable silence and left, with Mr. Jocko eyeing them all stonily the whole time.
Outside, Brady apologized. "Don't worry about it, Bray," Doug said, smiling broadly at him. "I got the same sort of thing from kids I knew back home after they found out I was going away to school. I think it'll be weird for all of us, going home and all, after this." Doug's smile banished Brady's embarrassment instantly. "And it was kinda fun to goof on the old guy, too."
Brady led the group down Main Street, past huge maple trees filled with fiery leaves, pointing out stores as they pedaled by, and turned at the intersection where his house stood. The main house was a massive vertical three story structure, over a hundred years old, with swooping roof lines and gables in every direction. In back a small two story addition housed what had been the servant's quarters, but was now a separate home that Brady's family rented. Brady had never before been conscious of how shabby it all looked - the different shingling and roof structure marking the addition as an obviously later appendage to the main building, the faded paint. Part of him wanted to pedal right past and not show it to anybody.
His mother's car was parked on the curbless roadside just past the house. As he neared it, Grouch saw (or smelled) him and began letting out a joyous racket, straining at his chain in the side yard. Brady grinned, and cast aside his doubts, springing from his bike as it fell to the ground behind him, and running to the dog. They tackled each other and rolled in the dirt together, Brady's embraces made almost impossible by Grouch's squirming and whimpery licking.
The other boys approached quietly. Doug was grinning widely, Evan and Dunc seemed comfortable enough. David, however, was nervous. "My parents only have cats," he confided to Evan. "I mean Jeez, that dog's like a house!"
"It's fine," Brady said, standing and brushing himself off. Grouch was jumping on him, trying to bring him back to ground level. "He's really friendly, especially when I introduce you. C'mere." David took a tentative step forward, toward Brady, who now held Grouch by the scruff of his neck. "Grouch, this is my friend David. You be nice to him, OK?" David held out a small pale hand, carefully, as if he half believed it was about to be bitten off. Grouch sniffed it a moment, then began licking it enthusiastically, his tail audibly whacking Brady in the legs.
David relaxed and started giggling. "That tickles."
"Wait'll he gets your face," Brady responded. And indeed Brady's face was a mess, with dirt clinging to the damp areas where Grouch had licked him.
Evan and Dunc quickly made friends with Grouch too, but Doug already seemed to be the dog's newly discovered soul mate. He dove inside Grouch's doghouse, with Grouch following, tail wagging furiously. Within seconds the sounds of Doug's laughter, merged with Grouch's grunts and whimpers, filled the air. Grouch burst from the doghouse, his tongue lolling out, and leaped again at Brady, as Doug emerged, hair askew and face dirty and streaked. "He likes visitors!" he said as he clambered to his feet. Brady laughed at the sight of him.
"Brady?" His mother stood by the back door in an old dress with an apron on, her hands clasped in front of her. She was visibly shocked.
"Hi Mom!!!" Brady shouted, running to her opened arms. Her hands were soft in his hair. She smelled a bit, disturbingly, like the Roma port she favored at night.
"Oh, doll baby," she whispered into his ear. Brady caught his emotions and just smiled at her. "What a day. Look who else came down."
Brady looked toward the house. Hal was leaning against the door, grinning at him. He was now shorter than Brady, built a bit more solidly, his hair very blonde and cut short. He wore a hideous pair of plaid slacks (Hal had an unfortunate fondness for plaid clothing) and a blue dress shirt open at the neck. Brady let out a whoop and threw himself into his brother's arms.
"Hey kiddo, how are ya?" Hal almost shouted as he hugged Brady back. He smelled of Old Spice.
Brady pulled back and excitedly introduced the other boys to Hal. He found himself flushing a bit when he got to Doug, and stammered over his name. Doug smiled slightly at him; David caught his eye for a moment and shook his head.
Hal, it turned out, had hitched it from school the previous afternoon, and their mom was having Ruby cover the store the next day to drive him back up. "I got sick of it there, needed a break," he explained with a shrug. "So I decided to visit the old bird here -" he grinned at their mother, who was at the sink preparing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for everybody "- and maybe get over and surprise you later. But you beat me to it."
"Yeah, we sort of got stir crazy too, and I wanted to show the guys around town and stuff."
"Not a lot to see for you guys, I guess," Hal said with an easy grin.
"It's nice," David spoke up. "It's kind of like stepping into an Andy Griffith episode."
"Only without the idiot rednecks," Dunc added in a joking tone.
"Well, we got Opie here," Hal said, grabbing Brady into a headlock. Brady usually just took it from his brothers, but he was bigger now, so he grabbed Hal by the waist and lifted him into the air.
Hal started laughing. "You do realize that I still have your neck, right? Dropping me right now really wouldn't be such a good idea."
"Lemme go then," Brady said, his voice muffled by Hal's shirt.
"Both of you, come on," their mother said tolerantly. She handed out the sandwiches, which Brady tore into greedily. He loved his mother's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
"So tell me about school!" Hal said, patting Brady's arm, as they all sat down to eat. Brady needed little additional prompting. He launched into an excited and disjointed description of as many things as he could think of, events and subjects tumbling chaotically over each other, that lasted for a good fifteen minutes. Evan and Doug made several additional comments, especially regarding football and their games, all of which complimented Brady for his role on the team and his various exploits (Brady hadn't even realized before that they were regarded as exploits by anyone, much less by Doug). Dunc, and even more so David, remained largely quiet. Hal listened calmly, a slight smile playing about his face, through it all. His mother seemed to have become a sandwich assembly line - they kept coming and coming, and the boys took every one eagerly.
Brady finally ran out of breath. "So," he asked, looking at his mother, "any new word from Trent?"
His mother smiled and reached into a small basket on top of the refrigerator. She pulled out a thin envelope, made of wispy thin bluish air mail paper, and handed it to Brady. He opened it and read intently.
Trent was now working more at headquarters with the Ninth Infantry, in Tay Ninh proper, for a General Abrams, who he liked immensely. He had been commanding a platoon during his first months over there, something his mother worried about constantly. This news visibly eased her mind; she pointed that part of the letter out to Brady several times. "So he's not out in the jungle any more," she kept saying. He noted again (they already knew the date by heart) that he was scheduled to fly back from the airbase by Saigon on January 31 - "bright and early," as his letter noted - and would be home by the second of February. He went on to describe his "mamma-san," as the officers referred to the older Vietnamese women they hired for some small amount to keep their clothes cleaned and shoes shined, and how she clucked over him constantly and admired his pictures of the family. His mother seemed cheered by that. "She sort of watches over him," she said, her voice a bit rough. He sounded happy, almost carefree.
Brady looked at Hal when he finished reading. He was smiling too, but with a darkness in his eyes. Brady knew that Trent and Hal, being less than three years apart, had their own correspondence, and that Trent was more forthright in his letters to Hal than he was in those he sent to their mother. Before Brady could form a question, he saw Hal shake his head imperceptibly. They'd talk later.
"Well, I hope he gets a chance to write me," Brady said as he folded the letter back up. The flimsy paper seemed to want to stick to his fingertips. "I know he's busy, but he's writing you guys and Jeannie and everybody."
"You saw how he asked about you, didn't you?" he mother said. "He's very proud of you, you know."
Brady blushed. He didn't want or need to hear that in front of his friends.
The boys soon left briefly so Brady could show them around the rest of town - which, to be honest, wasn't much, so the tour was a short one. The new high school was almost finished, the one Brady would never attend. The football field was empty, with a few bits of scattered programs and other trash. Apparently Cullingstown had gotten creamed by somebody the previous day. Being there made Brady feel a bit guilty. Behind the home bleachers, a wire fence cordoned off a large cow pasture. Several Guernseys were idly chewing their cud near the fence, vacantly looking in their direction. David thought that was hilarious. "So the cows root for the team too?"
"I used to feed 'em during Hal's games when I was little," Brady admitted. "You bring a salt lick, they move like the damn wind."
"As opposed to breaking it," Dunc groaned as the breeze shifted to bring them the full force of the pasture's bovine aromas.
By the time they got back to Brady's house, the sun was beginning to sink, and the air had turned even more biting. Hal volunteered to get a pickup truck from a friend and drive them, bikes and all, back to campus. They gratefully accepted (especially, David, who was visibly relieved not to have to pedal his way back to Summerton).
They were sitting on the yard, taking turns playing with Grouch, when Kenny showed up. He'd washed his hair or something (maybe he just combed out some of the crap), and looked more like the boy Brady remembered, but without the air of breezy self confidence. He seemed hesitant even to approach then. Brady wondered at that for a moment, before realizing that he was shy in the presence of the other Wilson boys. Brady felt a sudden flash of sympathy: He'd feel the same way if he were in Kenny's shoes. Hell, he had felt that way barely a month ago.
"So, uh, Brady, I, um, I wanted to, you know, stop, and say hi. And all."
"Hello, Kenny!" his mother cooed (she liked him immensely). "I've missed seeing you so much! Can I make you a sandwich, dear?"
Kenny grinned awkwardly. "Sure, Mrs. C. Thanks." He looked at Dunc and stuck his hand out. "I'm Kenny. I - I knew Brady."
"I'm not dead yet Kenny, you still know me," Brady chuckled. As the boys introduced themselves, Brady watched Kenny and wondered: Does he know me any more, do I know him now? The memory of their jerkoff sessions back in the woods flooded over him. Kenny was shaking Doug's hand now, and the sight of them together made him tingle. Luckily (or perhaps not), Doug and Evan seemed determined to pry as much information about Brady out of Kenny as they could, and they were quickly engrossed in conversation. While this distracted him from his erotic reveries, Brady was a bit nervous about their inquiries, though he knew rationally that the last thing Kenny would do was to reveal their shared secret. David, who knew all about it, kept glancing at Brady, almost unable to contain his laughter.
By the time Hal returned with Joey Lapides' truck, Kenny had provided them with some useful information, mostly revolving around Brady's love in first and second grades of making Superman capes out of pillowcases and sprinting around downtown Cullingstown, at times dodging perilously in and out of traffic (such as it was) on Main Street. Hal enthusiastically confirmed these stories, fond as he was of affectionately teasing his little brother. All the boys, and Brady's mother as well, got a long good laugh out of it, especially when his mother noted that his cape making had forced her to buy extra pillowcases almost monthly for about a year. Thankfully for Brady, it was time to get back to campus, preventing his mother from pulling out photographs of himself in such an ourfit.
As the boys helped Hal load the bikes into the truckbed (at least some of them would have to ride in the bed along with the bikes on the return trip), Kenny pulled Brady aside. "So, you holdin' up OK and all?"
"Yeah. Overall. It's been kind of weird at times, and a little scary. But, yeah. Overall."
Kenny glanced at the Wilson boys. "You, um, you doing anything with them? You know, like, um, . . ."
"No," Brady answered quickly, flushing. "No, nothing like that, Jesus. I mean," he added even more quickly, "it's not like I'm, like, ashamed, of, you know, what we did. Or anything. I, uh, I just -"
"Cool it. I know." He smiled a little. "That's just between us, right? Something only we do."
Brady smiled back, embarrassed. "Yeah. Just between us."
"Good." Kenny looked him up and down. "You ain't turned into a total douchebag yet. That's good."
Brady grinned. "No, not total. Not yet."
Kenny looked again at the other boys. "They seem cool, too. I'm surprised."
"They are cool, Kenny. Very. You should bike over some weekend before it gets too cold and all."
Kenny smiled and looked at his feet. "Nah, I don' belong at a place like that. You - you do. With your brains and being like a jock and all. I'm just a schmuck farm kid."
"So am I," Brady said with a grin.
Kenny snorted. "Bullshit, Brady. You know that as well as I do. You're different; you'll always be different."
Brady did know it. He wondered if Kenny realized just how different.
Evan and Dunc were psyched up to ride in the back of the pickup. Doug offered David the chance to ride in the cab with Brady and Hal. "I've ridden in the back of a pickup before," he explained, "so I'll know how to sit to stay safe and stuff."
David glanced at Brady. "No way, this is my one chance to be a hillbilly. I'm doin' the truckbed, and if I get thrown out and die I'll die happy." He grinned at Brady and winked so Doug couldn't see it.
The pickup cab reeked of cigarettes. It had a high bench seat covered in sticky imitation leather. As Hal cranked the engine, Brady embraced his mother. "We have an open weekend in two weeks, and I'll be home for the whole time. Friday morning 'til Monday afternoon."
"I know," she said, doing her best to keep her voice even. "And if any of your friends want to spend it here they're welcome. We can always make space somewhere." She smiled and stroked his cheek. "You've grown up, doll baby. It's so amazing." She kissed him on his cheek hard. "Now go, you don't want to be late." He could tell her composure wasn't holding steady. He kissed her cheek back, ran to Grouch for a last hug (and face lick), and climbed into the cab next to Hal.
Doug, after shaking Brady's mother's hand politely and saying goodbye, slid in next to him, their legs and shoulders pressed against each other. Brady couldn't suppress a soft smile. He looked behind him as they pulled away, the boys in the truckbed shouting goodbyes to his mother and Kenny, and saw David looking in at him through the back window, grinning.
Brady kept his hands precisely in the center of his lap as they drove, though his entire right side, from knee to shoulder, remained pressed lightly against Doug. On some bumps and curves, they jostled even closer for tantalizing moments. He tried to control his breathing. "So what do you want for your birthday?" Hal was asking.
Brady, concentrating both on the feeling of Doug's body next to his, and on the need not to show that he was concentrating on the feeling of Doug's body next to his, failed to answer. Doug elbowed him a little, bringing him back to the moment. "H - huh?" he spluttered.
"He asked you what you wanted for your birthday," Doug told him. "I didn't realize your birthday was coming up, when is it?"
"It - um, it's the first. Of November." "Cool. Didn't quite make Halloween, huh?"
Hal chimed in. "His brother Trent and I always thought he should have been born on Halloween, he's such a freak." Brady and he shared a laugh at that, the sort of inside joke family members have with each other.
"So you'll be fifteen already, that's cool," Doug said contemplatively. "I won't get there until April."
Brady chuckled, glancing sideways at Hal. "No, I'll only be fourteen this year."
Doug turned in the seat to face him. "You're only thirteen now?? What'd you do, skip a grade or something? I mean Jesus, you're big for a kid that young!"
Hal spoke up. "Our mom had to go to work full time after our dad died," he explained, "and that meant Brady needed to be somewhere during the day. She convinced the school to let him enroll a year early. The cutoff was Halloween, so they only had to bend their rule by one day. It made things easier."
Doug grinned. "So you're like the class baby. In a Superman cape. This is gonna be good."
"You tell anybody that stuff and I'll kick your ass."
"Yes, junior." Doug poked his ribs, and they started trying to tickle each other, laughing loudly. In the truckbed, Dunc was singing a raucous version of "Apples Peaches Pumpkin Pie", cracking Evan and David up: "Ready or not, here I come, / Gee that used to be such fun . . . ."
They arrived back in plenty of time to get dressed for dinner. As Evan and Dunc unloaded the bikes, Hal and Brady spoke quietly to one side. "So is Trent really OK?"
Hal looked away for a moment. "Yeah, he's OK now. He had a rough time for a bit. He got reassigned from his platoon to doing intelligence and recon work, mostly by helicopter" He hesitated, visibly weighing what more to tell Brady. "They, uh, they got shot down one time."
Brady's stomach turned. "B -but he's OK?"
Hal nodded. "Yeah. It was hairy, I guess, but he got out OK, and now he's doing more HQ work, not going out nearly as much. Don't tell Mom, all right? And, um, he got malaria, too, but he's better now."
"Oh Christ."
Hal pulled him into an embrace. "Don't worry, he's going to be OK. He loves you to death, little brother, remember that. He is incredibly proud of you. He's gonna be home soon and we can all breathe again,"
"I hope so."
Hal pulled back and looked at him fiercely. "Don't hope it. Know it. You have to absolutely believe it, OK? He's going to make it back." His fingers dug into Brady's shoulders.
"I know." Brady was tearing up a bit, and he hated to do that in front either of his brothers. How many times had they gotten on him when he was little about crying, or talking with his hands, or talking too loudly? It had taken him years to learn to suppress it all so completely. He was grown up now, he couldn't do those things. He had to be like stone. He blinked twice. "Hell, he's too mean for any gook to kill." He felt bad using the term "gook," but he knew it would have the intended effect with Hal. It made him sound tough. Manly, like he was supposed to be. He just wished he didn't instinctively stumble a bit over the word when he said it, as if something inside him didn't want him to utter such a slur.
Hal grinned at him. "Boy, you got that right." He looked over to where the boys were standing by the gate of the now empty pickup. "You guys all done? Great to meet you. And you have my full permission to give my little brother as much shit as possible, at all times. OK?"
They all laughed, and Hal hugged Brady one more time. "Be good - I'll come home again for Thanksgiving and we'll be able to really talk." He climbed back into the truck. "Your buddy Doug? He's a good kid, you stick with him. I can tell you guys are close already."
Brady had no response. He blushed, swallowed hard, and watched as Hal put the truck into gear and pulled down the path behind Linsley toward the campus exit.
David, Dunc, and Evan had gone inside already, walking the bikes with them. Doug lagged behind. "Your brother's really cool, Bray."
Brady smiled softly. "Thanks. I know, he is. Sometimes . . ." He hesitated, took a breath. "Sometimes, I wish I could be like him."
"What d'you mean?"
"Well, he's always been like confident, and he knows what to say and how to act. Trent's like that, too. I - sometimes I feel, like, lost. A lot, actually. Most of the time I don't know what to do, or what to say, and I feel like an idiot . . . not like Hal."
Doug threw his arm around Brady's neck. "You're fine," he said with a reassuring smile. "You're my best friend, and you're fine, OK?" Brady felt himself glowing. "You're so, like, pent up, Bray. You take everything so seriously, and you never talk about stuff. Like your brother in the war, you never say a thing and I know it's eating at you. I see you hurry down from dinner every Tuesday to watch the news." Tuesday was the day, every week, when Walter Cronkite announced the weekly American death toll in Viet Nam. Brady felt morbidly compelled to watch. "You need to let go of stuff and be yourself. When you are - when you let yourself do that - you're like the best, OK?"
Brady's stomach knotted. How do I let myself go? How can I be myself? How can I tell you everything, anything? He looked at Doug's sparkling brown eyes, lost in them, but also just plain lost. His mouth opened, but he could say nothing. He couldn't let it come out and ruin everything. He tried to turn his expression into a rueful smile, and tore his gaze away to look down at his feet. Doug's arm was warm and soft against the back of his neck; it gave him goosebumps despite his desperate attempts no control himself. Was every day, every moment, going to be like this? "You pick fucked up friends, Garretson," he managed to whisper.
Doug laughed and gave him a shove. "Like hell! That's what I mean, man, so damn serious. C'mon, let's go get cleaned up." They slid their bikes into the rack alongside the building, and Doug bounded up the side staircase, taking the steps two and three at a time. "See you after dinner!" he called out.
Brady climbed the stairs slowly, one at a time. He felt burdened, and impossibly old.
David was standing outside their room door, arms folded, looking angry. Brady glanced at him quizzically as he started down the hall. "Want to see the damage?" David asked, in a snappish voice.
Brady rushed to him. Their door had been forced open - kicked in, from the look of it - and their room thrown over. Clothes were out of drawers and off hangers, papers were strewn about, their mattresses were off their bedframes. Brady stared at the mess for several seconds before what had happened sank in. He turned to David, his eyes wide. David put a finger to his lips and gestured for him to calm down. Ryan Cureton and Bart Luce were hurrying down the hall, with Billips close behind. Bart looked worried, while Ryan seemed terrified.
"All right, what the hell is going on?" Billips demanded. At least he's dressed this time, Brady thought sardonically. "What the hell is this? What did you do to your room, Tanner?"
"I didn't do anything to my room, sir." He again inflected the word "sir" to make it drip with barely restrained contempt. "And Brady didn't do anything to our room either, sir. We were out this afternoon on our bikes. If you like, you can go upstairs and ask Garretson, or Hennessey, or Creed, and they'll confirm that. Or you can call Conover's mother and brother, since we met them. This happened while we were gone, sir. Someone did this. The Prefects inspected our room this morning and it was fine then. Didn't you, Bart?"
"Yessir, we did, they had it all clean this morning. We inspected the whole hall like usual, right Ryan?' Cureton seemed unable to speak. He looked like he wanted very badly to leave the building. David stared at him hard.
"Wait, you were off campus? Did you have permission to go off campus?"
David turned a withering gaze on Billips. "Sunday afternoons are free time, sir. Anyone not on probation is free to do whatever they like, sir. What we did, or where we may have gone, isn't the point here, sir. This is the point!" He pulled the room door hard, and watched as it bounced off the doorjamb and creaked back open.
Billips looked at David for a long moment. "OK," he finally said. "So somebody broke into your room and ransacked it. Is anything missing?"
Brady felt panic rise in him. David seemed unfazed. "I don't know yet, sir. I just got back and discovered it. I thought I should let you - and the Prefects know, before I did anything else." He gave Cureton another angry glance.
Billips looked at Luce and Cureton a moment. "You guys didn't hear anything? Notice anything?" Both shook their heads. "Did anyone else on the hall see anything?"
"I think pretty much everybody's been outside all afternoon, sir,' Luce noted. "It's been a nice day and all."
"Well, check with every boy to see. I'll see if the janitors or the grounds crew or somebody can fix your door tonight, Tanner."
"Thank you, sir."
Billips started back to his apartment at the far end of the hall. He stopped and turned back. "Tanner, you're not in any beef with anybody again, are you?"
Brady saw the color rise on the back of David's neck. "No, sir, why would anyone be angry with me?"
Billips regarded David for a second, snorted, and strode to his door.
Bart Luce was upset. "David, I should have heard this. I can't believe I didn't. I'm really sorry, I hope they didn't take anything. These fucking townies, I can't believe they'd actually bust into a room and stuff!"
David patted his arm gently. "Thanks, Bart," he said. "I know this freaks you out." He put a strange emphasis on the word, "you," and looked nastily at Cureton.
"Wh - what, what're you looking at me like that for, anyway? I didn't do this!"
David's face was impassive. "Course you didn't. It's a weird random accident, isn't it, Ryan? Only explanation. C'mon Brady, let's see if we can pick up a little bit."
Brady followed David into the room and bent over absently to pick up one of his notebooks. David pushed the door to as closed a position as it could manage. "Did they get it?" Brady whispered.
David glanced at him with a smile, though he was still clearly furious. "I'm not that dumb. After last night? I gave the envelope to Jerry Goldman before we left."
Brady blinked a few times, trying to digest it all. "So - so Jerry knows too?"
"He hasn't seen it. He knows in, well, general terms, OK? I try to keep him out of it as much as I can, for his sake." He shoved his mattress back into its proper position and began making his bed. "I'll get it back from him later. I think it's safe here now, for a while anyway. I mean they looked and came up empty, right?"
Brady shook his head. "I can't believe they'd pull something like this. How'd they know?"
` David snorted. "They probably saw us ride off. And I bet Cureton covered for them. Remember I told you he was terrified of Douggie? He's like spying for him, I think. He was the one who had us turn off the lights the night we talked about it, remember? God knows how long he was outside listening."
Brady stared at the floor. "Would he do that?"
"He's gutless enough, yeah. In case you haven't noticed. Luce is OK, but Cureton is such a pussy it's pathetic."
They spent most of the time before dinner picking up their room in silence. Brady was in no mood to eat. As the time to dress and head over to Geiger approached, some of the boys on the hall stopped by, concerned and asking questions. Vic Stenkowski was especially apologetic. "I mean geez, I was right next door, I should've heard something. I - I had my headphones on, I like to listen to Donavan when I'm doing the Elvish stuff - ,you know, for atmosphere and everything. I feel like such shit, guys."
David shrugged them all off. Brady had no idea what to say.
` Doug met them on the main stairwell down to the first floor. "Jesus, I just heard, that's really creepy. Did you guys lose anything?"
David glanced around. Ian McShane's room door was open, though he was nowhere in sight. "Nope," he said in an unnaturally loud voice. "We didn't lose a damn thing. I still have everything." He looked smugly at Brady.