Pete floated downstairs in his stocking feet. The living room was right there at the bottom, but they didn’t see him; they were face-to-face and busy acting in a dipshit play no one would ever pay to see. His father hulking on his crutches, his eyes red and his cheeks scruffy with beard, his mother holding her purse in front of her breasts like a shield and biting her lips. It was awful, and the worst part? He loved them.
His father had neglected to mention the Emergency Fund, started a month after the City Center Massacre by the town’s one remaining newspaper, in cooperation with the three local TV stations. Brian Williams had even done a story about it on NBC Nightly News – how this tough little city took care of its own when disaster struck, all those caring hearts, all those helping hands, all that blah-blah-blah, and now a word from our sponsor. The Emergency Fund made everybody feel good for like six days. What the media didn’t talk about was how little the fund had actually raised, even with the charity walks, and the charity bike rides, and a concert by an American Idol runner-up. The Emergency Fund was thin because times were hard for everyone. And, of course, what was raised had to be divided among so many. The Saubers family got a check for twelve hundred dollars, then one for five hundred, then one for two. Last month’s check, marked FINAL INSTALLMENT, came to fifty dollars.
Big whoop.
Pete slipped into the kitchen, grabbed his boots and jacket, and went out. The first thing he noticed was that there wasn’t any ice on the back stoop; his father had been totally lying about that. The day was too warm for ice, at least in the sun. Spring was still six weeks away, but the current thaw had gone on for almost a week, and the only snow left in the backyard was a few crusty patches under the trees. Pete crossed to the fence and let himself out through the gate.
One advantage to living in the Tree Streets of the North Side was the undeveloped land behind Sycamore. It was easily as big as a city block, five tangled acres of undergrowth and scrubby trees running downhill to a frozen stream. Pete’s dad said the land had been that way for a long time and was apt to stay that way even longer, due to some endless legal wrangle over who owned it and what could be built on it. ‘In the end, no one wins these things but the lawyers,’ he told Pete. ‘Remember that.’
In Pete’s opinion, kids who wanted a little mental health vacation from their parents also won.
A path ran through the winter-barren trees on a meandering diagonal, eventually coming out at the Birch Street Rec, a longtime Northfield youth center whose days were now numbered. Big kids hung out on and around the path in warm weather – smoking cigarettes, smoking dope, drinking beer, probably laying their girlfriends – but not at this time of year. No big kids equaled no hassle.
Sometimes Pete took his sister along the path if his mother and father were seriously into it, as was more and more often the case. When they arrived at the Rec, they’d shoot baskets or watch videos or play checkers. He didn’t know where he could take her once the Rec closed. There was noplace else except for Zoney’s, the convenience store. On his own, he mostly just went as far as the creek, splooshing stones into it if it was flowing, bouncing them off the ice when it was frozen. Seeing if he could make a hole and enjoying the quiet.
The arkie-barkies were bad enough, but his worst fear was that his dad – now always a little high on the Oxy pills – might someday actually take a swing at his mother. That would almost certainly tear the thin-stretched cloth of the marriage. And if it didn’t? If she put up with being hit? That would be even worse.
Never happen, Pete told himself. Dad never would.
But if he did?
Ice still covered the stream this afternoon, but it looked rotten, and there were big yellow patches in it, as if some giant had stopped to take a leak. Pete wouldn’t dare walk on it. He wouldn’t drown or anything if the ice gave way, the water was only ankle deep, but he had no wish to get home and have to explain why his pants and socks were wet. He sat on a fallen log, tossed a few stones (the small ones bounced and rolled, the big ones went through the yellow patches), then just looked at the sky for awhile. Big fluffy clouds floated along up there, the kind that looked more like spring than winter, moving from west to east. There was one that looked like an old woman with a hump on her back (or maybe it was a packsack); there was a rabbit; there was a dragon; there was one that looked like a—
A soft, crumbling thump on his left distracted him. He turned and saw an overhanging piece of the embankment, loosened by a week’s worth of melting snow, had given way, exposing the roots of a tree that was already leaning precariously. The space created by the fall looked like a cave, and unless he was mistaken – he supposed it might be just a shadow – there was something in there.