Dead End in Norvelt (17 page)

“We never knew what became of the baby nor did we forget the heartlessness of our own government,” Miss Volker said with her arms folded in a tight X across her chest. “It cut us so deeply, as we loved that little innocent boy who lived in a house devoted solely to his innocence. And now the house has been burned to the ground by a gang of Hells Angels who have turned their obscene hatred toward our town. They poured gasoline throughout the house and garage and lit them on fire and like cowards they fled in the night. It is a sad death for a house to become nothing but ashes and dust and earth, but we in Norvelt will never forget every splinter of the life it lived.”

I had tears in my eyes but Miss Volker looked revived, as if a few hot embers of the house were glowing within her. “Boy,” she said as she tried to close her hands into two bony fists and punch out at the air, “I love it when I get mad! I feel like I’m ready to take on the world—I’d like to show a few of those Hells Angels a thing or two.”

I hurried up and typed the obituary and ran it down to the
Norvelt News
. Mr. Greene took it from my hands and read it. “An obit for a house?” he questioned as he relit his pipe. “Has she lost her mind?”

“No,” I said. “She just speaks her mind.”

“Amen to that,” he remarked.

15

Mom was reading the house obituary
in the newspaper and taking the last sips of her coffee before she went to work. “This is really a sad obit,” she remarked when I entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Honestly, Miss Volker should just leave and go live with her sister in Florida.”

“But she won’t until she’s the last original Norvelt person left standing,” I explained, and pulled out the milk. “She promised Mrs. Roosevelt she’d nurse this town to the end.”

Dad overheard us on his way out the door. “Well, when she finds out about my new top secret job,” he said in a muffled voice full of intrigue, “she might change her mind. ’Cause there’ll be no town to nurse.”

“What do you mean by that?” Mom and I called out.

“You’ll see what I mean—later,” he said, teasing us as his voice trailed off. Then he was gone.

I turned back to Mom, who shrugged. “Well,” she said as she rinsed her coffee cup. “I’d hate to see these old folks move on to the next world, but for some of them it might be for the best.”

“How can dying be good for you?” I asked.

“When living is worse,” she replied matter-of-factly. Then she turned toward the door. “Clean up your room before you do your outdoor chores—and don’t forget to feed the turkeys,” she said. “They get mad when they’re hungry and they take it out on War Chief.”

I nodded. Once I finished eating I slunk back to my room to put on my work clothes, which were stiff with dirt. Then I went outside and with my new birthday shovel I got back to digging the bomb shelter. I had asked Dad what size it needed to be and he said the hole should be as large as a swimming pool. So far it was about the same size as a bathtub.

I had just thrown a shovelful of dirt out of the hole when I noticed a human shadow hovering over me. I looked up and it was Mr. Spizz. He had a camera pressed against his squinty face.

“What are you taking a picture of?” I asked.

I heard a click and he lowered the camera. “Gantos boy, take a look at that runway,” he said loudly, and pointed accusingly at it. “That airplane and runway are going to be trouble for your dad.”

I looked over at the runway. Dad had it flattened out and he had the J-3 almost ready to fly. All he had to do was connect the wings, start the engine, and take off right out the back door. I knew he would be really upset if Mr. Spizz turned the town against his plans.

“I can see by the look on your face that you don’t want to disappoint your dad, do you?” Spizz asked. “I also heard that he’s been taking flying lessons over in Kecksburg, so I’d hate to make him plow up this new runway.”

Dad had told only me about his private flying lessons. He didn’t dare tell Mom, but somehow that nosy Mr. Spizz seemed to know everything.

“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t like to disappoint my dad.”

“Then I have a way you can help him avoid trouble and keep his runway,” he barked.

The louder he spoke the more I lowered my voice. “What’s that?” I asked.

He turned his ear toward me. “Trot down to the hardware store and buy me a tin of 1080 poison—I got some vermin to kill up at the dump.” He pointed toward Fenton’s Gas Station. The dump was just beyond it and sometimes the rats came out of the murky old mine shafts and swarmed over the dump and then spread out into everyone’s house and garden. It was disgusting to find knots of them gathered hungrily on the back porch.

“Why can’t you go down there yourself?” I asked. “On your tricycle.”

“I hurt my leg,” he groused, and pulled up his pants leg. The side of his calf from his ankle to his knee was darkly bruised and swollen. “When I went after those Hells Angels one of them was lagging behind, and he drove by and kicked me in the leg and I crashed my trike—which reminds me. While you’re at the store, get me a tube repair kit for my tire. Boy, if I’d’ve had that baseball bat in my hand I would have knocked that Nazi helmet off his head.”

I thought it was probably pretty good that he didn’t have the bat. The Hells Angel would have taken it and knocked his head into the next county.

“And then at the fire the other night,” he continued, “when I was trying to rescue some ceramic pots, I tripped and hurt it again.”

“Well, I’m grounded,” I explained in a whisper, and shrugged my shoulders. “Can’t leave the property.”

“What’d you say?” he shouted, and screwed his finger into his ear then popped it out and stared at the waxy amber tip. “Now, are you going to help me? Or do you want me to make sure your dad is
grounded
too, if you know what I mean?” His awful voice made what he was saying even more of a threat.

“What about the gutter ticket?” I asked with my voice raised so he could easily hear me.

“I’ll make that fly away too,” he said reluctantly, grimacing a bit because of the pain in his leg.

I had planned to offer him my two-dollar bill as a partial payment on the ticket, but now I could spend it on myself. “It’s a deal,” I said, and pulled myself out of the hole. When I stood up I stuck out my hand and he slapped five dollars into it. I gave him the shovel. “Lean on this,” I suggested. “I’ll be right back.”

“And not a word to your
girlfriend
,” he said in a gruff way. “Or else.”

*   *   *

I took off running through the backyard paths and behind hedges. When I passed Miss Volker’s house I ducked way down as I ran because I didn’t want her to ask what I was up to and then get it out of me that I was doing a favor for Mr. Spizz, which would trigger a tirade I didn’t have time to endure. I was quick and when I got close to the hardware store I made a mad dash for the front door and scooted inside, because if Mom saw me from the open pants-factory windows across the street she’d ground me for another year. I caught my breath then quickly got the tube patch kit from the shelf and went up to the cash register. I didn’t know the man behind the counter, because the hardware store had been bought and the new owner hired people outside of Norvelt.

“Can I help you?” he asked as he cleaned his fingernails with a small red pocketknife.

“Yes,” I replied, and looked at the tiny spirals of dirt rolling along the stained blade of the knife. I gulped for breath. “May I have a can of 1080?” I put the tube kit and crumpled five-dollar bill on the counter.

“You’ll need a note from your parents before I can sell poison to you,” he said plainly. “That stuff is deadly.”

“It’s for Mr. Spizz,” I explained. “He works for the Public Good. He hurt his leg and I’m helping him out ’cause he has to kill all the rats.” I pointed like a scarecrow toward the dump.

“I guess that’s okay,” he allowed. “I know old Spizz. But you still have to sign this sheet saying you bought some—it’s a new law.”

I would have signed anything. I just wanted to slink out of there as quickly as I could before anyone entered the store who knew Mom or Dad and might mention they saw me there.

As I read down the list of names on the sheet I saw that Mr. Huffer was the last man to sign it. The thought of rats living in his coffins knotted my stomach as I signed my name. When I looked up from the paper the man was staring directly into my face as if he recognized me from a post office Wanted poster.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he said slowly, and pointed at it with the blade of his skinny little knife. “On the left side.”

Just then a drop of blood slid down my lip and plopped onto the soft paper where a moment before I had written my name. I stared down at the red spot of blood as it spread through the paper fibers. I didn’t like how that looked.

I wiped my nose on my forearm and saw a ruddy streak from my wrist to my elbow. “Thanks,” I said, sniffing loudly. And then nervously added, “I have Hemingway’s liver disease.”

He looked at me like I was already insane.

I grabbed the bag off the counter and quickly turned toward the door. Once I was outside there was more blood. I thought maybe my nose was bleeding because of all the running I did. But I had a feeling it was more than that. The blood drop on my name was a bad omen. Maybe it was because I had broken the rules and left the yard and I was worried about it. Or maybe it was because I didn’t really trust making deals with Mr. Spizz. Then again, maybe it was the way the hardware store man made me sign my name on the paper like I was up to no good. Or that seeing Mr. Huffer’s name gave me creepy thoughts. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that I was bleeding on one side and I didn’t want Miss Volker to try and fix me again. Her hands were getting worse and worse.

I trotted back up the path and found Spizz sitting awkwardly on the picnic table bench. He was rubbing his sore leg and grimacing. When I stopped in front of him I was pinching my nostril shut with one finger and whistle-breathing through my other nostril. I gave him the bag.

“You should get yourself a tricycle like I have,” he suggested. “It’s a great way to get around without wearing yourself out.”

I didn’t want to say anything that might offend him, like “Tricycles are for kindergartners—grow up!” So I just said, “I’ll ask Santa for one.”

He reached out and patted me on the head. “I hope you’re on the good list,” he roared, then let out a booming
ho-ho-ho
Santa laugh.

I didn’t think I was on the good list.

Then he painfully stood up and winced when he put weight on the bad leg. “I should move to Florida,” he said, grunting with every word. “And if that Miss Volker knew what was good for her she’d move there too.”

“But she’s determined to be the last original Norvelter standing,” I said.

“Don’t remind me,” he said impatiently. “I know all about her stubborn promise to Mrs. Roosevelt.”

“Yep,” I confirmed. “She’s dedicated.”

“Well, some of those old ladies might live past a hundred,” he said.

“I thought you said you’d live to be a hundred and three,” I reminded him.

“That’s just bluster,” he replied, and squeezed his eyes together when he moved his leg. “For now I better limp up to the dump before those rats multiply and take over the town. What would Mrs. Roosevelt think of that?”

I pointed toward the runway. “Thanks,” I said, “for not causing trouble.”

“One good turn deserves another,” he replied, and began to hobble away. Then he turned and stopped. “Really,” he said. “Don’t mention to anyone I was ever up here or they’d know I saw the runway and it would cause me some trouble. And if I’m in trouble,” he said, pausing and pointing toward the runway for effect, “then you’re in trouble.”

I turned my back and the moment I unpinched my nose the blood gushed out like a busted pipe and spattered all down my jeans and over my sneakers. It made me nervous. I just knew something bad was headed my way.

*   *   *

As soon as Mom came home from work she dropped her purse like dropping anchor and marched down the hallway.

“You disappoint me!” she hollered before she even reached my doorway. It was one of the worst things she could have said, and then she stomped into my room. I could tell by the stern look on her face that she did not come to kiss me. “Hand over your get-out-of-jail-free card,” she ordered, and held out her hand. “I saw you running out of the hardware store from the factory window.”

I didn’t dare argue with her because then I might have to tell her everything about Spizz and the ticket and the 1080, so I just looked her in the eye and said, “I’m sorry. I had to get out of the house and run around a bit. It was stupid of me.”

“That was stupid, but at least you aren’t a liar,” she said. “But you did violate my trust. And if I can’t trust you then it makes me realize that you can’t trust yourself to make good decisions. Remember, a person first lies to himself before he lies to others. Think about that.” Then she turned and stomped out the door.

I knew she was more disappointed with me than angry, and that really hurt most of all. But I just couldn’t tell her the whole truth about the ticket and Mr. Spizz and his threat to have Dad’s runway closed down. One lie always leads to another. At the moment that historic truth seemed like a
historic
curse.

16

“We’re in business!”
Miss Volker hollered over the phone before I heard the receiver drop and bounce across her floor like a fish flopping around. “Dang useless hands,” she growled in the background. “Get down here!”

I made it down there pretty quickly. “What’s up?” I asked, and put the beeping receiver back onto the cradle.

“We lost another one today,” she said excitedly. “Confirmed. An original Norvelt homesteader.”

“Who?” I asked. She seemed so delighted I was sure she was going to say it was Mr. Spizz. But I was wrong.