“I lost track of the time. I was vomiting, and I didn’t want to do it inside. It must have been something I ate. Or one of those twenty-four-hour bugs.”
It wasn’t anything he ate and he doesn’t have a bug, but the vomiting part is true enough. It’s nerves. Unadulterated fright, to be more exact. He’s terrified about facing Andrew Halliday tomorrow. It could go right, he knows there’s a chance for it to go right, but it will be like threading a moving needle. If it goes wrong, he’ll be in trouble with his parents and in trouble with the police. College scholarships, need-based or otherwise? Forget them. He might even go to jail. So he has spent the day wandering the paths that crisscross the thirty acres of resort property, going over the coming confrontation again and again. What he will say; what Halliday will say; what he will say in return. And yes, he lost track of time.
Pete wishes he had never seen that fucking trunk.
He thinks, But I was only trying to do the right thing. Goddammit, that’s all I was trying to do!
Ellen sees the tears standing in the boy’s eyes, and notices for the first time—perhaps because he’s shaved off that silly singles-bar moustache—how thin his face has become. Really just half a step from gaunt. She drops her cell back into her purse and comes out with a packet of tissues. “Wipe your face,” she says.
A voice from the bus calls out, “Hey Saubers! D’ja get any?”
“Shut up, Jeremy,” Ellen says without turning. Then, to Pete: “I should give you a week’s detention for this little stunt, but I’m going to cut you some slack.”
Indeed she is, because a week’s detention would necessitate an oral report to NHS Assistant Principal Waters, who is also School Disciplinarian. Waters would inquire into her own actions, and want to know why she had not sounded the alarm earlier, especially if she were forced to admit that she hadn’t actually seen Pete Saubers since dinner in the restaurant the night before. He had been out of her sight and supervision for nearly a full day, and that was far too long for a school-mandated trip.
“Thank you, Ms. Bran.”
“Do you think you’re done throwing up?”
“Yes. There’s nothing left.”
“Then get on the bus and let’s go home.”
There’s more sarcastic applause as Pete comes up the steps and makes his way down the aisle. He tries to smile, as if everything is okay. All he wants is to get back to Sycamore Street and hide in his room, waiting for tomorrow so he can get this nightmare over with.
10
When Hodges gets home from the hospital, a good-looking young man in a Harvard tee-shirt is sitting on his stoop, reading a thick paperback with a bunch of fighting Greeks or Romans on the cover. Sitting beside him is an Irish setter wearing the sort of happy-go-lucky grin that seems to be the default expression of dogs raised in friendly homes. Both man and dog rise when Hodges pulls into the little lean-to that serves as his garage.
The young man meets him halfway across the lawn, one fisted hand held out. Hodges bumps knuckles with him, thus acknowledging Jerome’s blackness, then shakes his hand, thereby acknowledging his own WASPiness.
Jerome stands back, holding Hodges’s forearms and giving him a once-over. “Look at you!” he exclaims. “Skinny as ever was!”
“I walk,” Hodges says. “And I bought a treadmill for rainy days.”
“Excellent! You’ll live forever!”
“I wish,” Hodges says, and bends down. The dog extends a paw and Hodges shakes it. “How you doing, Odell?”
Odell woofs, which presumably means he’s doing fine.
“Come on in,” Hodges says. “I have Cokes. Unless you’d prefer a beer.”
“Coke’s fine. I bet Odell would appreciate some water. We walked over. Odell doesn’t walk as fast as he used to.”
“His bowl’s still under the sink.”
They go in and toast each other with icy glasses of Coca-Cola. Odell laps water, then stretches out in his accustomed place beside the TV. Hodges was an obsessive television watcher during the first months of his retirement, but now the box rarely goes on except for Scott Pelley on The CBS Evening News, or the occasional Indians game.
“How’s the pacemaker, Bill?”
“I don’t even know it’s there. Which is just the way I like it. What happened to the big country club dance you were going to in Pittsburgh with what’s-her-name?”
“That didn’t work out. As far as my parents are concerned, what’s-her-name and I discovered that we are not compatible in terms of our academic and personal interests.”
Hodges raises his eyebrows. “Sounds a tad lawyerly for a philosophy major with a minor in ancient cultures.”
Jerome sips his Coke, sprawls his long legs out, and grins. “Truth? What’s-her-name—aka Priscilla—was using me to tweak the jealous-bone of her high school boyfriend. And it worked. Told me how sorry she was to get me down there on false pretenses, hopes we can still be friends, so on and so forth. A little embarrassing, but probably all for the best.” He pauses. “She still has all her Barbies and Bratz on a shelf in her room, and I must admit that gave me pause. I guess I wouldn’t mind too much if my folks found out I was the stick she stirred her pot of love-soup with, but if you tell the Barbster, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Mum’s the word,” Hodges says. “So what now? Back to Massachusetts?”
“Nope, I’m here for the summer. Got a job down on the docks swinging containers.”
“That is not work for a Harvard man, Jerome.”
“It is for this one. I got my heavy equipment license last winter, the pay is excellent, and Harvard ain’t cheap, even with a partial scholarship.” Tyrone Feelgood Delight makes a mercifully brief guest appearance. “Dis here black boy goan tote dat barge an’ lift dat bale, Massa Hodges!” Then back to Jerome, just like that. “Who’s mowing your lawn? It looks pretty good. Not Jerome Robinson quality, but pretty good.”
“Kid from the end of the block,” Hodges says. “Is this just a courtesy call, or . . . ?”
“Barbara and her friend Tina told me one hell of a story,” Jerome says. “Tina was reluctant to spill it at first, but Barbs talked her into it. She’s good at stuff like that. Listen, you know Tina’s father was hurt in the City Center thing, right?”
“Yes.”
“If her big brother was really the one sending cash to keep the fam afloat, good for him . . . but where did it come from? I can’t figure that one out no matter how hard I try.”
“Nor can I.”
“Tina says you’re going to ask him.”
“After school tomorrow, is the plan.”
“Is Holly involved?”
“To an extent. She’s doing background.”
“Cool!” Jerome grins big. “How about I come with you tomorrow? Get the band back together, man! Play all the hits!”