The Adventures of Flash Jackson (16 page)

“Oh, yeah? That's nice.”

He shrugged. After a while he said: “Oh, yah. And my dad got a new tractor.”

“No kidding,” I said. “What kind?”

“International.”

“Wow.”

“Yah.”

We sat in silence for several minutes, taking in the spectacle of nearly one hundred fifty people growing progressively drunker. There was a lot of backslapping going on. Somewhere off in a corner of the yard a few women had raised their voices in song, that sappy one about piña coladas and getting caught in the rain.

“How much longer is dat t'ing gonna be on your lek?” Adam asked.

“Forever,” I said. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Oho,” he said teasingly. “What
do
you wanna talk about?”

I think the same memory hit us both at the same time: hay stuck in our hair, sweat trickling down our chests, hot salt in our mouths, heavy breathing. That stupid girly reflex took over me and I looked primly down at the ground, my ears red. I could feel heat coming from him and I knew he was looking at me. I was having the biggest shyness attack of my life.

“I don't know,” I said.

“You havin' a good time?” he asked. He had the softest voice: kind and warm, with a touch of his adopted father's deep rumble.

“Yeah,” I said, still not looking at him.
Damn it
, I thought.
What's happening to you?
I knew what Adam was thinking, and I know he knew what I was thinking—it was written all over my face. And as much as I hated myself for it, I knew that if he grabbed me by the hand and led me toward the barn, I would have gone.

And I do believe he was going to, but at that moment, who should appear but that little shit Frankie, breathing like he'd just run a mile.

“Hi, Haley,” he said. “Hi, Adam.”

“'Lo, Frankie,” said Adam.

“Frank,” I said sternly, but he missed it.

“Heard you were gone for a while!” Adam said.

“Yup,” said Franks. “I'm back now, though. Can't tell you where I was. It's a secret.”

“Frank!” I said.

“All righty,” said Adam breezily. “Don't tell me, then.”

“What are you up to, Franklin?” I said, gritting my teeth.

“I have to show you something,” he said.

“Right now?”

“Yes. Right now.”

“Good Lord,” I said. “Can't you bring it over here?”

“It's too big,” he said. “I can't lift it.”

Adam was a pretty tolerant guy, not the sort that would make fun of Frankie—but having Frankie around was enough to kill anyone's sex drive. I could have argued with him, even ignored him, but that would have made me look desperate. So I stood up, sighing heavily, and said, “See ya, Adam.”

“'Kay,” he said. “Bye. Bye, Frankie.” I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Absolutely no emotion showed on his face at all.

“Bye, Adam. Come on,” said Franks, pulling at my arm.

“Stop that,” I said. I was about to give him another tongue-lashing, but I remembered how guilty I'd felt after the last time. We made our way through the people until we came to a massive boulder that formed the centerpiece of Mrs. Shumacher's flower garden.

“Look,” said Frankie, pointing at the boulder.

“You brought me over here to see this?” I said. “A fucking rock?”

Frankie looked shocked. “Haley!” he said. “That's a bad word!”

“I know,” I said. “And I meant it, too.”

“You shouldn't use that kind of language.”

“Frankus,” I said, “if you don't show me what you brought me over here to show me, I'm gonna put a hurt on you like—”

“Here,”
he said, bending down and pointing. “Look
here
.”

I looked. He was pointing to the outline of a fossil in the side of the rock. I gave up—I wasn't going to get rid of him until I looked. So I made a big production of lowering myself to the ground and leaning in so I could see better. It was an imprint of a little salamander or something, some kind of lizardy-looking thing, about ninety zillion years old.

“Isn't that cool?” said Frankie. He traced it with his fingers. “Isn't that the coolest thing you've ever seen?”

“Pretty cool, Frankie,” I said. “Great. Wonderful.”

“This salamander was around before people,” he said. “It existed when the world was still a dream. When we didn't even exist yet, Haley. We were all still dreams back then, because the world hadn't thought us up yet.” He looked at me, a streak of dirt smeared across his forehead. “We all existed in the world's mind, which means we existed in this
salamander's
mind,” he said, “and then he died, and now here we are. He's like our grandfather or something.”

“This salamander is our grandfather?”

“Well, not
exactly
our grandfather, but more like our spiritual—”

“Okay, Frankie,” I said. “Whatever you say.”

At that moment there was a whoop from a group of men that were starting up some new game, and simultaneously I felt a rush of air on the back of my neck. It was caused by Adam, who'd leaped over us on his way to join them. I watched him go, hair tossing as he ran.

“He shouldn't jump over people like that,” said Frankie. “Not without telling them first. We could have gotten hurt.”

“Adam wouldn't hurt us,” I said. I watched him huddle up with a bunch of town boys and then break and form a defensive line. They were playing shirts and skins, and as luck would have it Adam was on skins. He stripped off his shirt and tucked it in his belt, and I let myself have a good long look before I forced myself to turn my eyes away. “He wouldn't hurt anybody,” I said.

“Oh, man!” said Frankie, smacking his forehead.

“What?”

“I forgot I had to get my dad some potato chips,” said Frankie. “I gotta go.” He stood up and brushed himself off.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Help me up.”

“I can't. My dad
loves
potato chips. So do I.”

“Help me up, damn you,” I said. But Frankie was gone. So there I was sitting by myself next to a rock, in the dirt, in the middle of Mrs. Shumacher's flower garden. Like an idiot.

“Haley?”

I turned. It was Mrs. Shumacher, wearing an ankle-length dress, her massive bosom sticking out about half a mile in front of her.

“Haley? Did you fall down?” she asked.

Here's the weird thing—she said this in German. If someone had asked me how to say that phrase in German, I couldn't have done it; in fact, I couldn't even have repeated it back. But I understood her perfectly, I guess from listening to my grandmother and my mother talk to each other all my life. It's strange what the mind remembers sometimes.

“No,” I said in English. “I was just looking at this salamander here.”

She reached down and held out her hand. I grabbed it and she hoisted me up, effortlessly, though if I was going to tell the truth I'd have to say that I was no petite little thing. The Shumacher women were stronger than most ordinary men, I guess because they were Shumachers. Before I knew it I was on my feet, and Mrs. Shumacher bent down and picked a carnation from her flower bed.

“Put that behind your ear,” she said. “That's your flower, you know. The carnation. You look good with it.”

“My flower is the sunflower,” I said. But I stuck it behind my ear. “Thanks, Mrs. Shumacher,” I told her.

I found myself an unoccupied lawn chair and did my best to ignore the football players. It was a short, injury-prone game, most of the contestants being already half-full of beer, and within half an
hour at least four of them were sidelined. I deliberately did not look to see if Adam was all right. Then who did I see standing on the edge of the playing field but my old childhood friend, Roberta Ellsworth.

Good Lord
, I thought.
What is old Robertums doing here?
I'd never seen her at a Shumacher do before. I kind of scrunched down in my seat so she wouldn't spot me—the last thing I wanted at that very moment was to have to put up with her honking and rasping in my ear.

But as it turned out, I didn't have to worry. The game was called on account of drunkenness, and what did old Roberta do but make a beeline for Adam himself, before he even had a chance to put his shirt on.

I don't believe it
, I said to myself.

The two of them stood there talking for several minutes, during which I wished all kinds of things to come out of the sky and crash into Roberta's head: pianos and anvils and anything else I could think of. Then, as I watched in disbelief, Roberta turned and ran, just took off—and what did Adam do but take off after her, laughing his head off, and before I knew it the two of them had disappeared behind the barn, a wolf chasing a very willing deer, and I knew from personal experience there was a side door that allowed you to get in and out of the barn without everyone else at the party seeing you.

That's men for you
, I thought bitterly.
They
are
wolves—sniffing at every pair of legs that walks by, and drooling all over the ankles.

 

That about tore it for me. I started looking for Mother to tell her I was ready to go home. There were still hours of the party left, but I was damned if I was going to sit there like a bump on a log any longer. But before I could find her I saw Elizabeth, talking to another lady about her age and looking happier than she ever had, since I met her anyway. She waved to me and I headed over to say hello.

“Haley!” she said. “You'll never guess who I bumped into!”

“Hi, Elizabeth,” I said. “Who?”

“This is Letty Horgan!” she said. “You remember, the girl I was telling you about?”

“I haven't been a girl for more than fifty years, Lizzy,” said Letty. “Hello, Haley. It's nice to meet you.”

“That's a lovely carnation, dear,” said Elizabeth. “Sit down, will you?”

“Don't mind if I do,” I said.

“We were just talking about the old days,” said Elizabeth. “And how very much has changed since then.”

I noticed that Elizabeth had by now lost most of her English accent. It must have been because she was talking to someone from the old days, because even though she still used words differently than we did, her way of pronouncing them had gone back to being almost completely American.

“Lizzy hasn't celebrated the Fourth of July since the nineteen-forties,” said Letty. “Not really, anyway. Can you believe that?”

“Hard to imagine,” I said.

“Indeed,” said Elizabeth. “We observed it formally as a holiday at the Agency, but we certainly never had any picnics.”

“And we were talking about the swimming creek,” said Letty. “Lizzy tells me that's a favorite haunt of yours, too.”

“Sure is,” I said.

“We were thinking we might take a wee stroll down that way,” said Elizabeth. “It's not too far, is it?”

I was startled. It would be dark in another hour or so, and the creek was a good half mile off. A lot of the way was over soggy ground, too, which would make it hard going on my crutches. But it suddenly seemed like the greatest idea in the world. I didn't really want to go home—I just didn't want to be at the party anymore. Not with those two groping each other in the barn not fifty feet away.
Jeez
, but I was ticked.

“You serious?” I said. “You mean right now?”

“Surely,” said Letty. “I feel mighty spry tonight. Must be seeing my old girlfriend like this. I think I can make it. What do you say, Lizzy?”

“I'm game,” she said, “if Haley is. We ought to have a young person with us, just in case. Two old ladies wandering around the country at dusk—imagine our cheek!” She giggled then, just flat out giggled. I couldn't believe my ears.

 

I've read that certain holidays, such as Christmas, actually occur on former pagan holidays—as if there are certain days of the year people are just meant to party, never mind what they call it. I kind of feel that way about the Fourth, too, even though that's ridiculous. The Fourth of July is clearly not a pagan holiday, it's an American one. Yet it seems like the perfect day to have a summer celebration. It definitely struck a chord in those of us from the Greater Mannville Metropolitan Area, and not just out of patriotism either—things happened on the Fourth that would never happen at any other time of year. There was a kind of looseness in people that wasn't ordinarily there. Maybe it was just the summer heat, or Mr. Shumacher's beer—I don't know. But heading down to the creek at that hour with two old ladies seemed strange and natural at the same time. Without a word to anyone, the three of us just picked up and started walking.

The creek was in a piece of the woods that had never been touched by tractor or chainsaw or plow. There was no point in clearing it, since the land was too uneven for farming, and there weren't any houses for quite a distance—it was about as far from the Shumacher's as it was from mine, and if you drew a line between all three places it would form a perfect triangle. An
equilateral
triangle, that is. The creek was sheltered by ancient stands of birch and pine, at least the part of it where you could swim. The rest of it meandered through fields and pastures and right through the town of Mannville itself, where it was shunted into a concrete gully to prevent flooding, and then it fed into Lake Erie. In town they called it Walnut Creek, but this far out it didn't even have a name. It just was. The banks were nice and grassy and the water probably ten feet at the deepest. There was even a little
waterfall at the head of it, which had worn away the creek bed little by little over the centuries until it made a nice pool there, just the right depth for diving.