Swallowing Stones (4 page)

Josh’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. “You’re kidding, right? Everybody in town knows about it. That’s all anybody talked about around here yesterday.”

Michael had managed to successfully avoid almost everybody the day before. After he had left the DMV, having refused Joe’s offer to drive him home, he had hopped a local bus with no intention of going anywhere in particular. He had just wanted to get away. For a brief while, he had thought about
taking the bus to Newark, then catching another bus out of the state. But that had seemed like a dumb idea. It would have only pointed the finger right at him.

Instead he had ended up two towns away, hung out at a mall until after dinner, and finally bought the PVC pipe before heading home. All his father had said, when Michael came through the living room after burying the rifle, was, “Out celebrating with Joe, huh? Big day, getting your license.”

Michael had not expected to find his father still up. It was past midnight, and he had thought everyone was in bed. He wondered if his father had heard him in the basement getting the rifle from the gun cabinet. Managing a strained smile, he mumbled, “Yeah,” then headed for the stairs.

“Well, come on,” his father said. “Lets hear about it.”

Michael stopped halfway up the stairs. His hand reached for the banister. “What’s to hear? It was a driver’s test, Dad.”

His father pulled the car keys from his pants pocket. “Want to take her around the block a few times?”

What could he say?
Sorry, Dad, I didn’t pass the test because I just found out I might have killed a man. So you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take you up on your offer
. Michael pretended to stifle a yawn and told his father he was pretty beat. “Besides,” he said, “I’ve been driving all day.” Then he had headed up to his room.

Josh leaned across the newspaper; his face was only inches from Michael’s. “Who do you think did it? Somebody from around here?”

“Who knows?” Michael glanced up at the clock. It was past eight-thirty. He had to be on duty at the pool by nine. “I’m gonna be late,” he said, heading for the back door.

“Hey,” Josh shouted after him. “What about that gun
Grandpa gave you?” His laugh came out in little snorts. “Done any shooting lately?”

Michael was already halfway down the walk and pretended not to hear. He knew Josh was still trying to get to him.

When he got to the end of the walk he stopped, realizing suddenly that the last place he felt like going was to work. He thought about calling in sick, then immediately abandoned the idea. The only reason Simon Goldfarb had given him two days off in the first place was because Mr. Goldfarb was a close friend of his dad’s. Never in a million years would Mr. Goldfarb have allowed any other lifeguard to take off the Fourth of July, the busiest day of the summer, let alone the day after so that he could go for his driver’s test. The two days off had been his birthday present to Michael.

He slowed his pace, stalling for time. Maybe he just wouldn’t show up for work. It wasn’t as if he were the only lifeguard; there were five others. But then, where would he go? Reluctantly he continued in the direction of the Briarwood Community Pool.

From the moment Michael walked through the front gate, he was surrounded by friends who wanted to talk about his party. So far they had rated it the best party of the summer, an honor Michael chose not to take seriously, considering school had been out for only two weeks. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to forget the stupid party.

It was ninety-two degrees outside, and the pool was mobbed. As he climbed onto the lifeguard stand Michael wondered how he was going to keep an eye on all the people in his section. Packed together like bowling pins, they bobbed about, diving underwater, jumping on each other’s shoulders, cannonballing off the side of the pool, splashing wet chaos everywhere.

Michael adjusted his sunglasses and smeared thick white ointment on his nose and lips. Two sophomore girls from his high school wandered up to his stand and stood below, talking about some party they had been to the night before. They hovered inches from his feet, wringing out their wet hair and laughing. He was used to this. Girls of all ages constantly hung around the male lifeguards’ stands, even though there were signs all over the place saying not to distract the guards from their duty. Ordinarily he would have eaten this up, but today he just wanted them to go away, take their adolescent giggling and their long wet hair and their suntanned bodies someplace else.

“What happened to you guys yesterday?” The voice floated up to him from below. He didn’t have to look to know it belonged to Darcy Kelly. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her leaning against the back of the stand, arms folded. She did not look up. Her wet dark red hair hung about her shoulders like water snakes. When Michael didn’t say anything, Darcy continued her monologue, seemingly to no one in particular.

“A person waits all afternoon because she’s supposed to be the first to ride with her boyfriend after he gets his license. Only he never shows.” She wandered around to the front of the stand, arms still folded. The two sophomores, sensing trouble, quickly made their way over to the other side of the pool. “So, what do you make of that?” Darcy asked, shading her eyes with her hand as she glared up at him.

Michael noticed that she was wearing the one-piece bathing suit with the bright orange flowers all over it. His favorite. He swallowed hard. He did not know what to say. The truth was, he hadn’t thought about Darcy at all since yesterday morning. He had completely forgotten he’d promised her a ride in Joe’s car.

“Hel-
lo-o-o
,” she called, as if she were shouting down a wind tunnel. “Anybody home up there?”

Michael shifted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable spot, which under the circumstances was impossible. Finally he managed to mumble, “I’m sorry. I forgot, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Darcy snapped her fingers. “Just like that?”

Because he didn’t want to have to explain anything more, he said, “Darcy, later, okay? You know the rules around here. Do you want me to lose my job?”

“Your job?” she said, letting her smile slide into a half sneer. “Well, maybe there’s more at stake here than your job.” Then, as if realizing she had pushed things too far, she took a step back. “Okay, later.” She turned to go, stopped, started again, then over her shoulder said casually, “Call me tonight. We’ll talk.”

Michael watched the gentle sway of her hips as she crossed over to where a group of her friends sat playing cards and drinking bottles of Snapple beneath a tree. Talk? What could they possibly have to talk about? Couldn’t she see he wasn’t the same person she’d been going out with for the past six months?

He knew he wasn’t being fair to Darcy. He owed her something. But that something was an explanation, which was one thing he quite simply couldn’t give her.

He felt the sudden bite of icy water on his feet and looked down to see two little girls, arms resting on the edge of the pool as their bodies bobbed back and forth in the water. He figured they were about ten. They giggled, then sent another splash of water in his direction. “Help, save me,” one of them said, pushing herself away from the edge and pretending to go under. Her friend laughed hysterically, then did the same.

In the past he would have given them a warning, lectured them on the dangers of crying wolf, and made them stay out of the pool for the next half hour. But today he could only stare blankly at the girls. And the water they splashed on his skin seemed to sting like fire, because he was suddenly reminded of something that had happened to another girl about the same age several years before the community pool was built. Back then everyone went swimming in a nearby lake. Michael had been there that day. He remembered the lifeguards diving frantically beneath the water’s surface, remembered one of them carrying out the limp body of the girl and laying her in the sand. They had worked on her for what seemed like hours, using cardiopulmonary resuscitation, using everything they had ever learned. But the child had died.

Later one of the girl’s friends told the police they had been diving for stones, picking them up with their teeth, and bringing them to the surface. Hard-won trophies for their daring. When her friend didn’t come up from her third dive, the child had run to the lifeguards for help. But it was already too late. A small stone had lodged in the girl’s windpipe, choking her to death. Michael remembered thinking at the time that if she had only swallowed the stone, maybe she would have lived, but she had probably panicked and inhaled it.

That was the thing about finding a stone in your throat when it was too late to spit it out. If you panicked and tried to take a deep breath, it would cut off your air and you’d die. You had to make yourself swallow it. The stone would probably tear your gut apart, but you’d survive. You’d have a future.

And he still had his future. That was the important thing, wasn’t it? He had done what he needed to do to survive.

The unrelenting bogus cries from the two little girls below tore at him. What made these people think he could save
them? Who was he to save anybody? The huge sad eyes from the morning paper floated before him, and he squeezed his own eyes shut in defense.

When he finally opened them again, he realized he was staring right at Amy Ruggerio, although she wasn’t aware of it. She had set her beach towel on the lawn on the other side of the pool, directly across from him. She was alone, as usual, and seemed preoccupied with putting a coat of polish on her fingernails. A soft cascade of dark brown hair hung in loose ripples along the sides of her face as she bent over her hand.

He realized that almost every time he saw Amy, she was smearing stuff on her face or spraying junk in her hair. She actually
made
herself look like a slut. He couldn’t understand why. She was pretty enough. Not beautiful or anything. But she had a nice face. What he would call likable. Why was she always hiding it under a lot of goop?

As if she suddenly sensed his presence, Amy looked up, saw him across the pool, and waved. His instinct was to ignore her. He was wearing sunglasses. She wouldn’t be able to tell if he saw her or not. But to his amazement he felt his hand, as if it had a mind all its own, jerk upward in an awkward gesture of acknowledgment.

m
ichael did not go right home after work. Instead he headed for the public library. For a while he sat on the stone steps watching a woman peel old posters from the window of the Taggart Travel Agency. It was far easier to sit there watching someone else than to do what he had come for, which was to read every article in every newspaper that even so much as mentioned the Ward case. Though part of him resisted—the part that kept him sitting on the front steps of the library—he told himself he had to keep on top of the case, one step ahead of the police. He had to know what they knew. It was a simple matter of survival. But he wasn’t fooling himself. He knew he had come to the library to find out all he could about Jenna and her family. Not that he expected the newspapers to give a lot of personal information about them. But he didn’t know anyone who knew the Wards, and he had no other way of finding out how they were doing.

He glanced down at his watch. Five-thirty. It was Thursday evening. The library would be open until eight. The woman was no longer in the window across the street. Not much else was going on. Nothing that he could use as an excuse. So he finally went inside, found the local newspaper from the previous
day, and began to read. The headline on the front page loomed up at him: “Mystery Surrounds Briarwood Killing.” The article made his blood run cold with its matter-of-factness. He read how Charlie Ward had been repairing his roof on the Fourth of July when a bullet dropped from the sky, piercing the back of his skull. He read how no one had any idea who killed the man, probably not even the killer himself. He read how ballistics tests were being conducted with the hope of identifying the weapon. Then the article went on to mention that Charlie Ward had been in top management at AT&T, that his wife was an account executive for some big advertising firm, and that he had a fifteen-year-old daughter. It was all so impersonal. But Michael kept on reading. And he did not stop until he had read every account in all of the papers for the past two days.

m
ichael’s mother was just taking a chicken casserole from the microwave when he walked through the back door. Michael stared at her for a minute as if he couldn’t quite understand what she was doing there.

Karen MacKenzie wiped a thin film of perspiration from her upper lip. “Good timing,” she said, setting the covered dish on the table.

Since it was already a few minutes past seven, Michael had figured that everyone else would have already eaten dinner. In fact, he had been counting on it.

“Oh, Darcy called. She left a message on the answering machine, something about Steven Chang’s party.” She stood on tiptoe to reach the plates in the cabinet. “Maybe you should call her before we sit down to dinner,” she said over her shoulder. “This things too hot to eat right now, anyway.”

Michael had forgotten about the party. He wondered why
Darcy hadn’t mentioned it at the pool that afternoon, why she had waited until she got home to call him, knowing that probably no one would be there. He continued to stare at his mother as she set the plates on the table. Her lightly freckled face and neck were covered with large red splotches. Her face always became blotchy in extreme heat. She shoved her short, damp hair away from her forehead with her arm. “What?”

Michael hadn’t realized he’d been staring at her. He couldn’t seem to think clearly. “Nothing,” he said finally. “I guess I sort of forgot about the party.”

“Well, then, you’d better go call.” She looked sadly at the steaming casserole. “What was I thinking? It’s too hot out to eat something like this.”

Michael lifted the cordless phone from the kitchen wall and wandered into the living room.

From his favorite recliner—strategically parked in front of the TV—Tom MacKenzie shouted, “What is
The Exterminator
?”