Breakheart Hill (8 page)

A
FEW YEARS AGO
L
UKE SUDDENLY TURNED TO ME
. “W
HERE
do you think it all started, Ben?” he asked. We had just finished putting away the grill after a Sunday cookout with our families, and I had no idea what he was referring to.

“What started?” I asked.

“Whatever it was that led to Breakheart Hill.”

I stared at him silently, unable to speak, surprised at how abruptly he had brought it up again, how tenaciously he had refused to let it go, as if that first doubt, the one I’d glimpsed so long ago, had opened a hole within him that nothing since had filled.

Luke shifted, motioning me toward two lawn chairs at the far side of the yard. “I think about it sometimes,”
he said as we walked along together. “About where it started.”

Suddenly I recalled the look on his face the afternoon it had happened. Even from a distance, as he’d climbed out of his truck and come toward me, I’d recognized the change that had come over him. His face was somehow more deeply lined, as if he’d aged instantly at the sight of her. But his voice, in its wounded bafflement and incomprehension, still sounded young.
“Ben, something bad … Kelli … something really bad.”

I glanced toward the line of white roses he’d planted along the fence of his backyard. “I guess everything has a beginning.” I spoke almost casually, despite the fact that I could feel something rise in me, a prisoner clamoring for release. “Even something like that,” I added, trying to relieve the building pressure.

Luke did not look at me, but I could sense the restlessness that had suddenly enveloped him. “Maybe especially something like that,” he said as if sternly reminding himself of his purpose. “A specific cause. One thing.”

It was at that moment I realized that Luke had never believed the founding tale of his own religion, that all evil flowed from one immemorial sin so that each one of us was merely one small drop in the river of souls that had flowed out of Eden, the origin of the harm we did untraceably remote. He was not seeking the comfort of such distance or the peace of its acceptance. He was stubbornly looking for the truth.

I felt a sudden grave appreciation for the frankness of his quest, and in a moment of unguarded admiration I released a clue. “Maybe it began with something innocent,” I told him.

His eyes shot over to me. “Like what?”

I recalled that first connection and improvised an answer. “Like a poem, for example. That first poem she wrote.”

Luke continued to stare at me, but said nothing.

“I mean, if she hadn’t written that first …” I began, then felt a stab of fear, the old secrecy gather around me once again, and stopped.

Luke looked at me quizzically. “What?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

I think he must have seen the dread in my face, because he glanced away, eased himself farther back into his chair and fell silent for a long time. Sitting beside him, I could feel the doubt that had never left him from that first moment he’d rushed across my yard to tell me what he’d seen at the crest of Breakheart Hill. He’d barely been able to speak, but he’d struggled hard to do it, sputtering desperately that “something bad” had happened to Kelli Troy. His eyes had concentrated on my face with a terrible fierceness as he’d labored to get it out, repeating again and again,
Something bad, Ben, something bad
. I had stared at him silently while he’d worked to tell me what he’d seen, and I know that in a single flashing instant he’d glimpsed something terrible in the dead stillness of my eyes, the grim silence with which I waited for him to get it out, something that spoke words I did not speak, but which he heard anyway, and which answered his feverish “something bad, something bad” with a cool I
know
.

“Those roses I planted last year are really going strong,” Luke said quietly after a moment.

A wave of relief swept over me, as if I’d been granted a stay of execution. “Yes, they are,” I told him. And for all the peace it might have granted him, I could not tell him more.

B
Y THE SECOND WEEK IN
O
CTOBER
I
WAS PUTTING THE
finishing touches on the first issue of the
Wildcat
. I had tried to enlist a few volunteers, but none had come forward, and so most of the work had fallen to me. I had rejected practically nothing that came to me. Because of
that, I was stuck with the same sort of articles Allison Cryer had always published, little nature essays, recipes, sports and even tidbits of school gossip, blind items usually, and almost always written by the same people who’d written them for Allison. The issue was dull, but I didn’t care. The
Wildcat
had been dull when Allison ran it, and it would continue to be dull. It was like everything else in Choctaw, as I saw it, mediocre, and doomed to eternal mediocrity.

The small room the school had set aside for the
Wildcat
was in the basement, only a few feet from the boiler, and barely larger than a closet. Inside, there were a couple of ancient wooden desks, two old typewriters, a few rulers for layout and a stack of white paper. The furnishings were so spare and run-down that it was hard for me to imagine Allison Cryer working in such a place. And yet, the signs of her long tenure and abrupt departure were also there—stacks of movie and fashion magazines, a diet book for teenagers, a broken eyeliner pencil, all of which I immediately threw out and eventually replaced with those remnants of myself that Sheriff Stone would later find in the same cramped room—a guide to medical schools in the United States, a copy of A
Lost Lady
and a picture of Kelli Troy standing in a white sleeveless dress at the crest of Breakheart Hill.

It had become my habit to work on the
Wildcat
each afternoon after school. I would go to the room in the basement, drop into the seat behind the table and begin reading some new submission or working on the layout. It was a solitary place, the kind I liked best, and there were times when I would close the door and simply let my mind drift among life’s possibilities. The closed room freed me from the usual distractions so that my imagination could flow unhindered into the amazing future.

I was probably doing exactly that the afternoon I heard a soft knock, then watched as the door swung open
slowly. She stood in a dense shadow, backlit by the harsh light of the outer corridor, but I recognized her instantly.

“Hi,” I said, then for some reason took off my glasses and began rubbing the lenses with my shirttail.

“Hi.”

I returned the glasses to my eyes. “Are you looking for somebody?” I asked.

“You,” Kelli said.

“Me?”

“Miss Carver said you’d be down here. That’s why I came down. To bring you this.” She drew a piece of folded paper from the pocket of her skirt. “It’s a poem. Do you publish poems in the
Wildcat
?”

“I publish just about anything in it,” I told her with a small, sour laugh.

She looked at me sternly, as if in disapproval. “You mean, whether it’s any good or not?”

I gave her a worldly shrug. “Well, I don’t have a lot to choose from,” I explained. “You know, just typical high school stuff. Choctaw High. Rah. Rah. Rah.”

My answer did not appear to satisfy her, but she said nothing else. Instead, she simply handed me the paper.

“It’s just a few lines. If you don’t like it, you can tell me.”

She had crowned me with an unexpected authority, and I remember briefly reveling in it. “Okay,” I said. “But no matter what, it’s probably better than most of the stuff I get in.” I glanced toward the paper. “You want me to read it now?”

“No,” Kelli answered decisively. “Later.”

“Okay.”

She lingered a moment longer, perhaps reluctant to leave her poem behind. “Well, I have to get to the bus,” she said finally. She stepped away from the door, out into the full light of the corridor and stood facing me. “I guess you’ll let me know.”

“Tomorrow,” I told her, my hand involuntarily
jerking up, as if reaching for her as she fled away, “I’ll read it tonight and talk to you tomorrow.”

She nodded briskly, turned and headed down the corridor.

I rose immediately, stepped into the hallway and looked after her.

She was already several yards away by then, her figure disappearing up the stairs at the far end of the hallway.

I returned to my desk, unfolded the paper she’d given me and read what she’d written, my eyes following the lines in a room that still gave off the sense of Allison Cryer’s tenure there, and with it, all that through countless generations had felt safe and warm.

The poem was as she had described it, only a few lines, but as I read it again, and then a third time, I felt its sense of dread as if it had been whispered into my ear rather than written out and handed to me on a small sheet of plain white paper. There was something mysterious in its message, something hinted at but otherwise concealed, and thinking literally—which was the only way I could think in those days—I wanted to know about the “rain-dark alleyway” she’d written of, and which I immediately pictured in all its grim urban detail. Something had happened to Kelli Troy, I felt sure, something she had narrowly survived, and which had given her a sense of
vulnerability that was darker and more mysterious than the common fears of other people. More than anything, her poem had made her seem less remote, and in that way approachable.

And so I approached her the very next day. She was standing with Sheila Cameron, who was the undisputed leader of the Turtle Grove crowd, that group of teenage girls who lived in Turtle Grove, Choctaw’s only wealthy section.

“Hi, Ben,” Sheila said as I walked up to them. Her voice was more of a chirp, bright and friendly, and her face was as open as her manner. She was not the vain monster she might have been, considering her looks and her father’s money and the fact that she was dating a “college man.” Her face seemed fixed in a cheerful smile. It is not at all the face I now occasionally glimpse ahead of me in a grocery line, hidden behind dark glasses, its brittle features frozen in a mask of profound dismay.

“Hi, Sheila,” I said, then looked at Kelli. “Can I talk to you a minute?” I asked her, indicating that I wanted to speak to her in private.

We walked a few feet down the hall and stopped.

“I read your poem,” I told her immediately. “I liked it a lot.”

Kelli smiled quietly, her dark eyes still. “I wrote a few things at my old school,” she said.

It seemed a perfect opportunity to declare my singularity. “You came from Baltimore, right? I heard you say that in class.”

“Yes.”

“That must have been great, living up there. I mean, compared to Choctaw, which is so small.” I shrugged. “Boring, too. I can’t wait to get out.”

She regarded me silently for a moment, adding nothing until she finally straightened herself slightly and said, “Well, I better get to class.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I said. “But, listen, if you ever have something else, something you’ve written, I’d really like to see it.”

“Okay,” Kelli said. And with that, she was gone.

After school, as I made my way outside, Luke came up beside me and gave me a friendly punch on the arm. “I heard you were having a little heart-to-heart with Kelli Troy,” he said playfully.

I looked at him sternly. “Sheila Cameron has a big mouth.”

“So what were you talking to Kelli about?” Luke asked.

“Just something she wrote for the
Wildcat
,” I answered, speeding up slightly, as if I could get away from him that way.

We continued on, past the long line of yellow buses that stretched the length of the school’s driveway. At the end of the driveway, Luke dropped away. “I told Betty Ann I’d meet her outside the gym,” he said.

My father had turned the ’57 Chevy over to me the week before. It sat in a patch of shade at the far end of the lot. Eddie Smathers had parked his bright red Ford Fairlane next to it, and I could see Eddie and a few other boys as they idled not far away, smoking cigarettes and kicking lazily at the gravel earth.

One of them was Lyle Gates, and as I walked past, heading directly for my car, he glanced at me and waved.

“Ben, right?” he asked.

I stopped and turned toward him. “Yeah.”

“Ben Wade,” Gates said with a short, self-congratulatory laugh. “I never forget a name. You and Luke Duchamp were at Cuffy’s a few weeks back.” A cigarette dangled easily from the corner of his mouth. “So, you been gettin’ any?” he asked.

I didn’t answer, which was an answer in itself.

Lyle grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about it. You’ll get
married one day, and then you’ll be getting way too much. More than you want. Wearing it out.”