Peter was starting to see why June thought of Boyle as her younger brother. He was so much younger than his years, and he wanted June’s approval so badly. There was definitely something a little off about him, but nothing Peter could really put his finger on. Maybe the guy was just stoned.
“We’d really appreciate it,” said Peter. “June needs all the help she can get.”
June stuck out her tongue, and Boyle’s pants barked like a dog.
He extracted his phone from a front pocket and glanced at the screen. “Whoa. I forgot, I’m supposed to be someplace. Hey, you guys want to go party? We’re gonna get fucked up and watch kung fu movies.”
“Not tonight,” said Peter. “But I’ll walk you out.”
“Yeah, great, yeah.” Boyle put on his jacket and opened the door.
Peter followed him out. The rain had stopped for the moment and Peter felt the static fade and his shoulders ease. The cool night air smelled dense and green with spring growth. A car drove by, the sound of its tires on the still-wet pavement like painter’s tape peeling off the roll.
Boyle opened the door to his beat-up BMW and climbed inside. The interior of the car smelled like an Afghan hookah parlor. Yet the man’s house had a beautiful and expensive six-color paint job.
“It would really help to figure out who hacked June’s old laptop,” said Peter. “Can you take a look in the morning?”
Boyle gave Peter a sloppy grin and cranked the ignition. The big engine idled with a ragged purr, as if one of the spark plugs was misfiring. “I’ll be out pretty late, bro. Might even crash at my friend’s place.” He waved idly at the house. “Leave it inside the back door. Spare key behind a loose board.”
“Thanks, I’ll find it.” Apparently Peter had graduated to some kind of friendship status. Or else the chemicals in Boyle’s bloodstream had really kicked in.
“No worries, dude.” Boyle reached into the glove box and pulled out a pair of yellow lollipops. “You want one of these?”
Peter shook his head. “No thanks.”
“That’s cool.” Boyle tore the wrappers from both suckers and jammed them into his mouth in a single practiced movement. He made a mock salute, revved the engine, and backed out to the street at high speed.
Peter heard the blast of a horn and screeching tires, but no crash. He shook his head. Leo Boyle was living proof that it was better to be lucky than good.
He walked to the minivan and opened the rear hatch. He still had a few chores to do.
? ? ?
AFTER COLLECTING the small tarp, bungee cords, and flashlight he’d bought at the lumberyard, Peter pushed through the wet backyard tangle of spiky juniper and glossy-leafed rhododendrons to the sheltered space by the neighbor’s garage. The medical boot was getting wet, but he could always toss it in June’s dryer.
With the light clipped to the brim of his baseball hat, he hung the tarp between the tall evergreen trees, high enough so he could stand without brushing his head, but angled so the collected rainfall would drain to one side. His leg was sore again, and raising his arms above his head made his ribs hurt. Suck it up, Marine.
He hauled a pair of two-by-sixes through the bushes, cut each one to length with a short hand saw, and nailed the pieces together into a rectangular frame with a few swats of his shiny new framing hammer. His ribs complained some more, but it didn’t hurt to breathe, so he figured he was okay.
As he hauled the cedar planks from the van, June stepped outside and followed him through the brush, coatless, her feet bare on the wet fallen leaves. She watched silently, shivering, as he tacked down the decking with just a few nails, making a neat platform seven feet long and five feet wide. It rocked when he stood on it, so he shimmed one corner with a stone.
He used the claw end of the framing hammer to split his scrap into thinner pieces. He found more stones in a heap at the back of the neighbor’s yard and borrowed them for a fire ring. He took pages of the local free weekly, the Stranger, crumpled them up, then arranged the kindling on top. He pilfered an armload of firewood from the dry middle of the neighbor’s mossy, untended woodpile. June still hadn’t said a word.
The rain started up again as he worked, a soft hush on the plastic tarp. He lit the fire and made a final trip to the van, returning with the new sleeping pad and bag he’d bought at REI that afternoon, tucking them in a dry spot under the eaves of the neighbor’s garage, and two short fabric camping chairs, which he unfolded on the little deck.
He set the light on the platform and turned to June.
“I know you weren’t crazy about that last hotel,” he said. He couldn’t read her face in the dark. “I doubt this one’s any better. No bathroom. No spa. No room service. But it does have a fireplace.”