Dreamland Lake (3 page)

But unburied cadavers aren’t what you’d call a dime a dozen in Dunthorpe, so the school was still in a mild uproar by the time I got back.

On Friday, Arlene DeSappio passed me a note in Language Arts that said, “What’s it like to look at the Awful Face of Death?” I drew crossbones and a skull with one big tooth on the back of her note and passed it over to her, and she said, “Oh, wow!” and gave out with a little scream and a giggle.

Which was unfortunate, considering it was Language Arts. The teacher for this was one Miss Mabel Klimer. She believed strongly in Written Expression but she hated note-passing. A point spaced-out Arlene never could grasp. Also, Miss Klimer never had liked Flip from the first day, and I don’t know why.

She didn’t have much of an opinion of me, one way or the other. But on Dead Man Week with everybody making a big deal out of Flip and me, she more or less associated us with the cause of the excitement. And she hated any kind of an interruption. What she thought of Arlene DeSappio is another matter. But Arlene’s scream and giggle was Miss Klimer’s last straw. She stalked over to the board and started to erase the Quotation for the Day. It was:

But then, she took another look at this, decided it still applied, and left it. And right next to it, she wrote in large printing:

She turned around to the class as if she’d just made a major point and stared right at Flip, who hadn’t been doing anything. Then, she let her look drift over in my direction. The idea was pretty much lost on everybody anyway, since no one ever connected Miss Klimer’s Daily Quotations with real life.

So, generally speaking, we were a big deal with everybody but the teachers that week. Even the coach gave a little locker-room speech in P. E. about how goof-offs who cut basketball practice even at the end of the season are liable to get into big trouble, develop dirty habits, and grow up ignorant about team spirit.

But it wasn’t how the public reacted that counted with me at the time. Like Miss Klimer always said,
FAME IS FLEETING
. What mattered was that in a funny way it really made friends out of me and Flip. It wasn’t a friendship that lasted long. And it had a bad ending. But it came on strong then. Always before, we’d just been two kids who hung around together as much as possible. Showing off for each other’s benefit and pretending to be as grown-up as we could. And that’s all there was to it.

The showing off and pretending didn’t let up much, but finding the dead man changed things.
Even before we took a notion to turn the whole thing into a big, faked-up mystery fantasy, things began to change. It was a pretty sickening experience, especially for me. But something came out of it. Before I’d finished heaving up in the creek, Flip took charge. He walked me home. I was scared and embarrassed, and probably a little mad that Flip hadn’t started throwing up too.

But he never said anything. He took hold of me by the arm with one hand and walked my bike with the other. We had to circle Dreamland Lake and go up a hill past the tennis courts and down a long sloping part of the park to where Oakthorpe Avenue dead-ends. He left me at my back door and put my bike away in the garage.

I was still staggering around and maybe crying a little, but he just said, “Go on in the house and tell your mom. I’ll see you later.”

Then the next day, back at school, he never told anybody about me being sick. He had a good chance to, since I wasn’t there. And not only that. He could have gone around telling how he discovered the body first, which he had. But no, he always said that
we
found it. It was a little thing, but it made a big difference to me at the time.

The next week we took over Wally Myers’ paper route officially. Wally figured he’d outgrown it since he was about ready for high school. He’d been subcontracting the Sunday delivery and weekly collections to us all year anyway; so, we were groomed for the job and ready to take it on as a partnership by ourselves. Besides, carrying a paper route spelled the end of basketball practice.

With all this going on, it took me a few days to
remember another point. I asked Flip about it when we were delivering papers one day. “How’d you get your bike home that day?”

He knew right away what I was talking about. “After I walked you home, I went back and got it,” Flip said, sending a paper straight up onto Mrs. Riordan’s porch roof and then sending another one up in the general area of her front door.

“You went back there?” We’d left our bikes outside the woods, but still I thought it took guts to walk back that close to the dead man—with nobody around and evening coming on.

“Sure,” Flip said, kind of cocky, like he was talking to one of our temporary fans. “Why not? I didn’t want it swiped.” Then, as though he just remembered it was me he was talking to, he said, “I grabbed it and tore-ass out of there without looking back. I was home before you got your back door open.”

Then he gave out with a kind of a snort and a grin. And for the first time, we could relax about the whole thing.

At that age, you’re glad for any excitement that comes your way. Before Flip and I had our adventure, I always liked trying to fit myself into any TV plot that showed a little action. I remember this show I saw once that left a big impression on me.

Two sadistic big kids kidnapped this younger one and hid him in a cave. It was just for kind of a sick joke—not for ransom or anything like that. Anyway, this young kid was being held underground, chained to a stake, with nothing but a little pan of water and a dish of cat food—something grotesque like that.
And the big sadists were just planning to leave him there a few days.

But typical of TV, there was a mining company nearby that started doing some dynamite blasting for a highway. So, the kidnapped kid was either going to be blown up or buried permanently. Or both. Anyway, he was saved by the highway patrol, or the Texas Rangers, or some Long Arm of the Law who dug him out at the last minute.

Shows like that always knocked me out. Like how I’d feel if I was in this kid’s situation. Now Flip, watching the same show, would either call it crap or think up some foolproof method of escape for the buried kid. Even though my mind never worked that way, I was always right in there anyway, putting myself in the middle of the drama.

But the dead man was about more than I could handle. There’s nothing like reality to ruin your taste for TV. By Friday night, I was starting to dream about him. Bordering on thirteen is a bad age for nightmares. Too old to yell for your parents and too young to get up and have a cigarette for your nerves.

Besides, if I’d had a cigarette, its smell would have brought my mom out of a deep sleep and straight into my room. Then we’d have had a real-life nightmare on our hands.

The dream started out clear as anything with Flip and me walking around the edge of Dreamland Lake. Just like it happened, except the path into the woods was all lit up with weird green lights, flashing and throbbing. We’d get nearer and nearer to the tunnel of branches. And I’d be in two places. Walking along with Flip, but standing way back at the same time,
watching both of us—trying to yell out,
DON
’
T GO IN THE WOODS. DON
’
T LOOK
.

But then the scene would shift, and I’d be in bed in my room alone, knowing I’d been having a nightmare but thinking it was over. And I’d realize that something was wrong. The room was too dark.

There was something at the window, cutting down on the moonlight. And without looking at the window—without chancing it—I’d know somebody was outside hanging onto the side of the house staring in. I didn’t have to look to see the moon shining on the top of the smooth skull or catch a glimmer from off the gold tooth. I knew
HE
was there, staring in. Then he’d put his hand against the window.

Except, it wasn’t a hand. It was just a bunch of bones. And they’d start pushing against the window pane. Except, it wasn’t glass. It was like plastic—like one of those dry-cleaning bags. And the dead man’s hand was pushing against the window, which was beginning to give. And I realized he could break the window and nobody would hear because it wasn’t glass so it wouldn’t shatter. And I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move because I was pretending to be asleep; except, I wasn’t. I was dead or as good as dead.

Then somebody is standing right next to my bed, and I figure
THIS IS IT
. Except, the dead man is still outside the window, taking his time about getting in. And this somebody standing next to my bed is whispering something into my ear. And I’m trying to hear because maybe this is somebody who can save me. So I strain my ears trying to hear. And this terrifying whisper comes back: “I am Estella Winkler Bates. And I could help you, if I wanted to.”

Then I’d really wake up. But I was in the same
room as the nightmare so I couldn’t be sure it was over. I’d lie there sweating and wanting to go to the bathroom, but not going because bed seemed a little safer. Then I’d calm down and drift off to sleep. And there’d be a rerun of the same dream again. I must have gone over it two or three times in one night—like Ebenezer Scrooge on Christmas Eve.

So on Saturday morning, I was so tired that even getting out of bed was a big deal. But I did. And first thing, I went over and touched the window to see if it was real glass—just in case
SOMEBODY
had switched it on me and put in a pane of silent plastic.

Waiting for Saturday night was almost worse than The Dream itself. I better explain the deal Flip and I worked out about Sunday morning delivery. On Saturday, the
Dunthorpe Evening Commercial
was always thin—down to twelve pages. But on Sundays, the
Commercial
combines with the
Morning Call
in a big, fat supplement—with a four-color comic paper, and a Society Section, and the
Family Weekly
magazine. And it had to go out before dawn.

Since you had to be at the drop-off by four on Sunday morning, Flip and I made a deal about alternating Sundays. That way, we didn’t both have to get up and deliver the Sunday edition every week. It was typical of my luck that the Sunday after the dead man was my turn.

Usually, I’d turn in early and set the alarm for three-thirty. But that Saturday night, I knew the minute I’d turn off the lights and slip into bed, it’d be
OLD BONES AT THE WINDOW
all over again. So I horsed around the room while my mom yelled up every once in awhile to stop prowling and get some sleep. The third time, she yelled, “Your father is starting up the stairs.”

I doubted it, since he’s not the family disciplinarian. I flipped off the light anyway and made a dive for the bed. But I definitely decided not to sleep. It’d be more restful just to lie there and think than to have old Estella Winkler Bates hissing in my ear. And that must have done the trick because the next sound I heard was the alarm going off.

I was dressed and nearly down to the corner before I realized I was out alone before daylight. It never had bothered me before, even though I wasn’t ever in love with carrying forty pounds’ worth of Sunday paper around in the clammy cold. But that morning, I was looking behind every bush and tree. At first, it felt creepy when I thought I was the only person awake in Dunthorpe. Then I was hoping I really was the only person awake in Dunthorpe. The street lights were still on, and the trees made jerky dancing shadows on the sidewalk. And I started jogging—partly to keep warm.

They’d already dropped off the bundle in front of Walgreen’s Drugstore. I was just ready to drag it back into the doorway to roll the papers when I realized I’d forgotten to bring my wire cutters. So I lost ten minutes, fiddling with the wire that binds the pile so tight it usually cuts the top paper in half. And trying to get the wire untwisted with hands I couldn’t keep steady, I drew blood a couple of times and wiped it off on my windbreaker because I didn’t give a damn.

The Sunday delivery’s a grind—not even counting that you have to get up in the middle of the night. The bike’s useless because the load’s too heavy. And there’s an unbreakable rule against throwing the paper up on the porches because it might disturb the subscribers’ sleep. So you had to carry the papers around
in a canvas bag, and you had to walk up every set of porch stairs, and you had to lay the paper right down in front of the door.

One of the customers, Old Man Sanderson, was always up already, waiting for the paper. He stood right inside the front door and watched you every step of the way, to make sure you brought it up to the door and didn’t throw it, which wouldn’t have mattered anyway since he was already awake. But if you did throw it, he turned right around and called the paper, and they issued you a “complaint referral.” So you might as well walk up and lay it at the old devil’s feet because that’s what he wanted, and he didn’t get his kicks any other way.