The Last Martin (3 page)

“Hey, Martin, who’s the other crazy?”

I wince and ignore Will Chambers’ voice.
He doesn’t know my dad.
We reach the glass doors.
He doesn’t know anything.

The soldier and I march into the office. We get prompt service.

“Martin?” Ms. Corbitt, the secretary, lowers the rims of her glasses to peek at my escort. “And you are …”

“Gavin Boyle. I’d like to speak to Principal Creaker.”

Ms. Corbitt rises and motions to a chair. “He’s out doing dismissal, but you may certainly wait for him there.”

I turn and slump into molded plastic. Dad stands beside me, my own personal sentry.

It’s not long before Creaker hobbles into the office. The man is old. Noah old. Knotted, bony fingers. Nose and ear hair that need combing. It’s a miracle he’s not resting in some ark beneath the ground. I catch my breath, think of Great-Grandpa Martin walking upright, and feel a chill.

“Come in, Mr. Boyle. Martin.”

Dad smiles for the first time today, reaches down, and hauls me up by the arm.

We enter the principal’s office, and Creaker collapses into his chair with a groan. “This feels good.” He gestures toward Dad. “You know, there’s a fairly good chance I fought in that battle.”

Dad’s out of smiles, and Creaker purses his lips and sighs. “You were gone, Gavin. She came straight on in and said she was keeping the boy home.” He shakes his head. “It’s her right.”

“I’ve spoken to her already.” Dad runs his hand through his hair. “What reason did she give?”

Creaker digs in his drawer and pulls out a thick file labeled
Martin Boyle.
“She put it in a note.” He hands a crisp sheet to Dad, who mumbles aloud.

To whom it may concern:

Seeing as Martin Boyle has experienced

emotional strain and physical duress due to

PTSD …

Dad opens his palm. “What’s that?”

I lean over and whisper, “Pothole Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

Dad looks at me and chuckles. “Ah yes.” He clears his throat, continues,

PTSD, and his father is once again absent for consultation …

Dad glances toward the principal. “No phones in 1820, you see.”

“Ah yes.” Creaker grins.

“Okay,” Dad skims. “Where was I? Oh, here.”

Sincerely,

Elaina Boyle

It’s quiet.

“Well,” Dad says, and slowly sets the paper on the desk. “We can’t make up those days. But you can be certain that Martin will be in school tomorrow.”

The principal rises and creaks toward a file cabinet. “No, he won’t.” I blink hard.

“We have a staff in-service. There’s no school on Friday.” He grabs a thick manila envelope. “But I’ve gathered work from all Martin’s teachers. I’ve no doubt that come Monday, he won’t be far behind.”

Ten minutes later we pull into our driveway, and the soldier rubs his forehead. “This isn’t your fault, Martin.” He looks toward the house. “Much of it’s mine.”

I shrug, open my door, and pause. “I was thinking. Since I missed so much schoolwork, it’d probably be best if I skipped the graveyard ceremony this year to make it up.”

“No.” Dad squeezes my shoulder. “I don’t care about what’s in the principal’s envelope. I’m more worried about you. So tomorrow, we’ll be spring-cleaning around here, and Saturday,
we’re
heading up north.”

5:00 a.m. Friday morning. I sneak into the study, nestle into Dad’s chair, and stretch my fingers. Before the day starts and the world gets crazy, my mind is still and clear. There’s no better time to work on
The White Knight.

The knight remembered his last visit to the citadel. Strange, there had been no sentry. The silence hung heavy, and he shielded his eyes and gazed toward the turret. No trumpeter announced his arrival; no cheers greeted the son home from battle. The place that should be his comfort felt foreign.

All he wanted was his father’s approval, but the king was not there —

Lani throws open the doors. “Ditch the story. Barn Owl alert.”

“Spring-cleaning!” Mom’s voice echoes through the home.

I run my epic upstairs, dash back down. The others are assembled in the family room.

“Kids,” Dad stares from Lani to me and back again. “You know your tasks. We have one day this year — I want the work completed before tomorrow’s trip.” His gaze falls on me. “Begin.”

He spins and marches downstairs to do battle with the basement. Mom and Lani squeeze into rubber gloves and protective masks to disinfect the house, and I push out the back door, walk to the shed, and grab the green paint. It’s my job to paint the garden.

Germ-infested dirt makes a real garden out of the question. But there is the boxcar, the one parked on the abandoned track that splits our backyard in two. It’s
the freakiest part of living here, with its gaping mouth, damp, black interior, and graffiti-covered sides.

On spring-cleaning day, the train car gets a fresh coat of forest green. Once dry, I’ll paint the flowers and lastly some tomato plants. I’d once painted a springtime pumpkin, but being out of season, it didn’t sit too well.

“Where you been all week?” Charley runs up from behind. He always walks over on spring-cleaning day to watch my tomato art.

I don’t look at him. “This boxcar gets bigger every year.”

“I just read this book, forgot the title, but this mouthy kid had to paint a whole fence and I didn’t see him complaining.”

“See that graffiti?” I point with my brush. “Takes talent.”

“It also says PYUKE. I can see why your mom wants it painted.”

“Well then.” I drop my brush into the green paint bucket. “Since you brought up
Tom Sawyer,
did mouthy Tom paint that fence? Nope. He didn’t. His friends did.” My toe nudges the can. “So go ahead.” I puff out steam. “And don’t tell me you read that book. You don’t read anything.”

Charley picks up the brush and soon the P and the E are covered in green. “There. YUK.” He looks down.
“Okay, Julia read
The White Knight
in English class. She’s talking to me all the time since …”

I glare at my betrayer.

He runs his hand through his hair. “… since my story, er, your story …” Charley glances around. “I need to know what happens next.” He peeks at me and raises both hands. “Last favor. Last one ever. She’s been waiting on me and all week I’ve been waiting on you and if I don’t come up with the next installment of
The White Knight
soon, she’ll know.”

“That you’re an idiot.”

He shrugs. “Basically.”

I pick up the brush and paint furiously.

“Talk to me here. You don’t even need to write it down.” He sticks his arm in front of my face. “I’ll pretend I sprained my wrist and tell her the next part.”

“No!”

“Help your friend out,” a voice echoes from inside the boxcar. “It’ll make you feel worse.”

We jump back, and the owner of the voice pokes his head out and stares at me. “Give Charley some assistance.”

Charley grabs my arm. “You keep a kid in there?”

“Oh yeah, like I knew.” I swallow hard.
This kid’s been hiding in my backyard!
I cock my head to get a better look
at his. “How long have you been … I mean, what are you … who …”

The head disappears, and a second later, an entire body leaps into view. Limber like a leprechaun, the boy lands lightly and dangles his legs out over the edge.

I’d put him about my age, I think, but there’s nothing distinctive about him. Except for grime. There’s plenty of that on his tanned face. Plenty more on callused hands. It’s the kind of grime that likes clothes as much as skin, and it covers baggy tan railroad trousers and a plaid, button-down shirt, half untucked.

The kid’s strong — tall and wiry, my grandpa would have said — it’s clear from the way he moves. I guarantee he’d whip me in a race, a fight, or any competition involving germ count.

“My name’s Poole, and I’ve been here long enough to know you well. And your sister. There’s the Barn Owl and the Sergeant and, of course, your friend Charley.” He leans back and spreads his arms. “I know everyone on my line. I know them all.” The boy leans forward, the grin vanishes, and he stares into me. “But I especially know you, Martin.”

His gaze reaches someplace I don’t want it to go, but I can’t break free. Not sure I want to. His eyes blaze like Dad’s do when Mom gets too loopy. I didn’t think anybody else could look that intense.

I try to run, but my legs stick, my mouth dries, and my mind blanks. I peek at my buddy, who wears a face
I’ve never seen on him before. Forget dumb Charley. My
poor friend is confused times ten, with a hint of terror rounding out the look.

Get help!

“You stay right there.” I point back over my shoulder. “I need to get into that house.” I back away from the kid — the one who popped out of my backyard boxcar. “Don’t. Move. A muscle. When my mom sees you —”

“No problem, Marty. Enjoy tomorrow. Heck, enjoy today while you’re at it.” Poole nods, leaps out into my yard, and stretches. “What a beautiful day!”

“You moved!” I race inside, slam the door behind me, and breathe deeply.

“I was just going to call you in.” Mom strides up and picks a fleck of green off my cheek. “Aren’t you well? Too much fresh air, no doubt.”

“Right now. Outside. Grimy kid … Just look outside. At the garden. What are they doing?”

“They?” Mom peeks out the window. “There’s nobody there … wait.” She presses her nose to the glass. “I declare, why is Charley doing your work?”

“Doing my work?”

Mom purses her lips and shakes her head. “It certainly isn’t his.”

“You’re sure it’s Charley?” I back toward the stairs, stumble over an end table, and regain balance. I don’t want to look.

“Who else would it be?”

“Right.” I pound up the steps, run to my window, and peek out. I don’t see a soul. Because there wouldn’t be anyone else. There’s only a creepy boxcar playing creepy tricks on a creeped-out mind.

Dad’s right. Maybe one too many fantasy books.

D
RESS QUICKLY.” DAD RAISES MY SHADE. “WE LEAVE in fifteen minutes.”

I glance at the window and watch beads of rain race down the pane. I can’t push the day away. It has come.

I dress slowly, step into the hall, feel its chill, and pause. “Farewell bedroom, my cozy, comfortable friend.”

Downstairs, Mom has packed. Three bulging suitcases rest near the door.

She stares, arms folded, and squints at the largest.

Dad rolls his eyes, glances at me, and points toward the smallest piece.

I crack my knuckles, double-fist the handle, and yank. Both shoulders pop. “That hurt. That really hurt.” I wince and rub, peek at Dad and tug again. “This thing’s heavy —”

“Psst!” Mom raises a finger, regains her frown, and continues her mutter. “Gauze. Knee braces. Aspirin.
Your breakfast is on the table, Martin. Face masks. Rubber gloves …”

I back away. I’m not hungry.

Dad’s hand lands heavy on my disjointed shoulder. “The day we’ve been waiting for, eh, son?” He gestures toward the door with his head. “I’ll take care of her bags, but you left two paintbrushes in the backyard yesterday. Quick go pick them up and we’re off.”

Technically, it was Grimy and Charley that used ‘em last, but …
I reach for the door.

“… alcohol scrubs, wet wipes, put on your rain jacket and boots, tweezers, inhalers …”

I grab my duck-yellow rain slicker and wet-boots and slip outside. It’s a hard, straight-down rain and puddles, like tiny lakes, cover half of the yard.

Okay, brushes, where are you — oh no.

One rests in the mouth of the boxcar.

I bite my lip and whisper, “I do not want to see Grimy Boy who knows me and knows my family. Did I give him permission to borrow Dad’s stern face? No, I did not.”

“Poole?” I clear morning from my throat and creep ahead. My boots slow to a stop in the middle of the yard. “You aren’t in there, are you?” Nothing.

“That’s good, because you make me nervous and you don’t pay us rent and you probably don’t go to school
or change underwear or take showers which makes you a walking germball.” I swipe wet from my forehead. “And all those are very, very good reasons for you to live elsewhere.”

I tiptoe forward, wincing with each loud squish of my boots. Rain drums off the top of the train, the echo pounding out its gaping mouth. I stop an arm’s length away.

Droplets fall from my trembling hand, and I stretch for the brush bristles. I grasp them, squeeze them, watch the slick paintbrush squirm free and land at my feet with a splash.

“Quiet already!” I hiss at my fingers. “For once, will you please cooperate?”

A second paintbrush whistles out from the darkness of the boxcar and narrowly misses my head.

“Ah!” I gasp, grab the brush at my feet, and race toward the house. My foot slips on ghost brush number two, and my butt lands hard in muck. I scramble to vertical. My heartbeat pounds in my eardrums, and I burst through the front door, a brush clenched in each smeary brown fist.