Swallowing Stones Read online

  “Dad, I’m sorry.”

  “What in hell were you thinking? Loaning that gun to an idiot like Sadowski.”

  Ralph Healey interjected a light cough. “Well, maybe you could just show us those other two rifles for now,” he said to Tom MacKenzie. Then he turned to Michael. “Don’t worry about your Winchester. We’ll track it down.”

  by the time Michael left for the park, the tornado had already struck and moved on. The rain that followed lasted for only fifteen minutes. And then it was all over.

  The public park next to the library was where most of the kids from Briarwood Regional hung out during the summer months. Joe was already there when Michael arrived. He found him sitting on an empty pizza box beneath a gnarled old sycamore several yards from where most of the other kids were gathered. Joe held out a half-empty can of beer in greeting. Michael shook his head and stared down at the wet grass in front of him. Joe pulled the box from beneath him, tore off the top, and handed it to his friend. “Found this over there,” he said, pointing to a nearby trash can. Then he sat back on the half of the box that remained.

  Michael lowered himself onto the cardboard. He had spent the past few weeks avoiding Joe. And yet, when he’d had nowhere else to turn, this was the person he had called. He realized now that by making up the theft story, he had dragged Joe even further into the dark mire that threatened to swallow them both up.

  “What did you do with it?” Joe asked. The red bandanna he had rolled up and tied around his head was dark with sweat.

  Michael didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Hid it where nobody’s ever going to find it.”

  “Where?”

  The mosquitoes were biting furiously. Michael wished he had sprayed himself with insect repellent before he’d left the house. He shook his head. “It’s better if you don’t know.”

  “How come the cops showed up at your house?”

  “They’re checking out everyone within a four-block radius.” He slapped hard at a mosquito. The smack left a red imprint of his fingers on his arm. “The ballistics experts narrowed it down to our neighborhood.”

  Joe took a swallow of beer and stared down at the can thoughtfully. “They’ll be coming to my house, too, then.” When Michael didn’t answer, he added, “We got to get this stolen gun story straight.”

  Michael tugged at the wet grass with his hand, pulling thin blades loose from the soil. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  Joe put his hand on Michael’s shoulder and leaned into his face. “So what you’re saying is, when the cops come to my house it’s okay to tell them you made up that whole stolen gun thing so they wouldn’t find out you’re the one who fired the shot?”

  Michael stared down at Joe’s hand. He felt the weight of it. “Yeah,” he said, “go ahead. Tell them that.” And he meant it.

  Joe smacked him lightly on the side of the head. “I was yanking your chain, you moron. Lighten up.”

  Michael felt the full impact of that playful slap. Not the physical pain of it; there was none. What he felt was the desperation behind it. The desperation to keep things the way they had always been between them. And to that end, he was sure, Joe would stand by him, tell the lies Michael asked him to tell, risk whatever lay ahead for both of them. A risk, Michael knew, his friend did not have to take. And he could not help wondering, in that moment, if he would have been willing to do the same for Joe.

  “Hey, man. No matter what, you’re pretty much home free,” Joe said. “They can’t prove anything without the weapon. If they got any evidence at all, it’s circumstantial.”

  Michael stared up at the old sycamore behind Joe. The base was almost four feet in diameter and had three trunks growing from it. It reminded him of the Ghost Tree, but it wasn’t as big. He hadn’t thought about that place in years, although he and Joe used to hang out there as kids and tell each other horror stories about the Great Swamp Devil. He thought of that now, sitting across from Joe. The difference was that the horror story they shared this time was real.

  “Well?” Joe was studying him closely.

  “Well what?”

  “So what do you want me to tell the cops?” He took another long gulp of beer.

  Michael shrugged. “Same thing I did. That you borrowed the gun a few days ago, and last night somebody broke into your car and stole it.”

  “Along with my CD player,” Joe added. “No problem.”

  Joe’s eyes were unusually bright, his face flushed. Michael had the sudden disconcerting thought that his friend was actually enjoying all this.

  The dampness was seeping through the cardboard. Michael stood up, remembering suddenly that Joe had lost his job. “How’d you manage to get fired?” he asked.

  Joe chugged the rest of his beer and held up the can. “I was having a little refreshment in the men’s room on my break.”

  “They caught you drinking on the job?” Michael shook his head.

  “No, man. They caught me drinking on my break.”

  Michael picked up the soggy cardboard and glanced over at the trash can. His preoccupation kept him from having to look at the snide grin on Joe’s face. “So what are you going to do now?” He began to fold the cardboard into a smaller square.

  Joe shrugged. “We still got a few weeks left before school starts,” he said. “Might as well enjoy them.”

  Michael had taken only a few steps toward the trash can when he spotted the police car by the drive-up book drop in front of the library. Doug Boyle, now in his regular uniform, was crossing the park to where a group of kids sat in a tight circle, playing cards by flashlight.

  Joe had seen him, too. He crushed the beer can with his foot and kicked it into the bushes. “I’ll call you later,” he told Michael, heading toward the sidewalk. Then he cocked his head in the direction of Doug Boyle. “Well, move it, man. You just going to stand there?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Haven’t you seen enough of the Hangman for one night?”

  12

  the next morning Joe went to the police station to file a report. Michael did not go with him because he had to be at work by nine. But Joe told him later that afternoon, as they stood in the parking lot at the community pool, that he’d taken care of everything. He had even removed the CD player from the car the night before and hidden it in an old trunk in the attic in case the police wanted to inspect his Mustang.

  “Oh, yeah, and I threw in about how they took all my CDs.” Joe leaned back against his car and folded his arms.

  Michael stood in the parking lot, still in his bathing trunks, a towel hanging around his neck like a yoke. “So now what?” He had the feeling they had left something undone. Something that would lead the police right to them.

  Joe climbed into the front seat of his car and rolled down the window. “Now all I have to do is answer the questions when the cops come to my house.”

  And the police did come. They showed up that same evening. After they left, Joe drove over to Michael’s house. He was so hyper. Michael thought he’d have to tie him down. “I’m revved, man,” Joe told him, hopping back and forth like a prizefighter. “Lying to cops has got to be one of the best natural highs in the world.”

  They were standing on the MacKenzies’ front lawn. Michael glanced back at his house. Most of the windows were wide open. “Why don’t you just shout it a little louder in case the people over on the next block didn’t hear?”

  Joe’s shoulders fell forward in an awkward slump. He stopped bouncing and stared at Michael. “Is this the face of gratitude?”

  Michael headed for the sidewalk, then took off in the direction of the Little League field, which was three blocks away. Joe ran to catch up. “Nobody heard,” he said. “And even if they did, they wouldn’t know what I was talking about.”

  Michael stuffed his hands in the pockets of his cutoffs. His body was thrust forward, as if he were about to lunge off a diving board. He kept walking, although he had no idea where he was going.

  “Man, you ar
e really getting paranoid,” Joe said, panting with the effort to keep up.

  “What did the cops ask you?” Michael said, changing the subject.

  “Probably the same stuff they asked you. They wanted to know if we had any handguns or rifles in the house.” Joe laughed. “My old man said nobody in his family had any guns. Said he wouldn’t have them in the house. He nearly went ballistic when the Hangman asked about the rifle I’d borrowed from you.” Joe held up his index finger. “Wait. Make that ‘allegedly’ borrowed.”

  “What’d you tell them?” Michael was walking even faster now.

  Joe pressed his palm on Michael’s shoulder, trying to make him slow his pace. “Just like we planned. I told them neither of us ever had a chance to try the rifle out before it got stolen. I told them the last person who fired it was probably your grandfather.”

  They had come as far as the Little League field. For a few minutes the two of them watched the game in silence. Michael wondered if Joe remembered the year they had played for the Briarwood Bobcats and had an undefeated season. Together, on the same team—as they had constantly reminded each other for years afterward—they were unbeatable.

  Michael rested his hands on the metal rail at the top of the chain-link fence and looked on as a boy hit a ground ball to center field, then took off into the wind, spraying dust from the heels of his sneakers. For one anguished moment Michael wanted to be that boy. He would have given anything to trade places with him. That boy had nothing more on his mind than whether or not he would make it to first base.

  Joe threw his weight against the fence, rattling the metal links. “I’m telling you, it went fine.”

  “They got him,” Michael said, still staring out at the field.

  “What?”

  “The kid. They nailed him sliding into first.”

  michael had not been to Amy’s house since he had broken up with Darcy. So when he did show up, five nights later, he was surprised to find Amy sitting on the front steps, her face blotchy and tearstained. When she saw him coming, she stood up so quickly that she almost lost her balance, then stumbled inside, closing the door behind her. Michael froze at the end of the driveway, unsure what to do next.

  He stared up at the sky. Overhead the bats performed their nightly maneuvers, filling their bellies with mosquitoes while negotiating sharp turns and somehow never colliding with each other. Humans, he thought, would probably never learn the art of avoiding collision. Somehow, when people came together, there was always wreckage of some kind left behind. People were messy that way.

  It crossed his mind that maybe Amy had found out about his role in the Ward accident, but he knew better. His gut told him her behavior had something to do with Darcy and her friends. He felt this as surely as he had felt Darcy’s bite on his hand, although it had been a few days since they had broken up and only the sickly yellow of a faded bruise still tainted his skin.

  Michael took a cautious step toward the house. Then another. He couldn’t just turn and walk away, leaving more wreckage in his wake. When Amy didn’t answer the door, he wedged himself between the junipers in front of the house and called to her through the open window. The sharp needles from the evergreens left tiny red welts on his skin. But he would not leave until he found out what had happened. He shouted that he would sit on her front stairs for the entire night if he had to.

  When the door finally opened, it was Pappy who stood in front of him.

  “My granddaughter doesn’t want to see you.” Pappy’s voice sounded raspier than usual. His milky blue eyes seemed far away. Having dutifully delivered the message, he started to close the door.

  “What did I do?” Michael asked. “Did she tell you?”

  Pappy shook his head. “She’s not talking.” He tipped forward on the balls of his feet, his forehead almost touching the screen, and whispered, “But you hurt her bad, son. Whatever it was you did.”

  “Tell her I’m not leaving till I see her.” Michael knew he sounded desperate, but he didn’t care.

  Pappy turned around and mumbled something. Then he walked away, leaving the door open. Michael was tempted to step inside, but he knew he wasn’t welcome, so he stayed put. He could hear the soft rumblings of their voices coming from the living room. Then Amy was there, standing on the other side of the screen door. Her face was not as splotchy as earlier. She pressed the fingertips of one hand against the screen. She did not invite him in.

  Michael was aware that more than a screen door stood between them. He wanted nothing more than to be inside, sitting beside her on the overstuffed couch. Suddenly the thought of losing this tiny sanctuary was just too much to swallow. He had to make at least one thing right in his life. He placed his hand against the screen so that his fingers touched hers. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said.

  Amy jerked her hand away, the reflex action of someone who has just burned her fingers on a hot stove. “Go home, Michael,” she said. Her voice sounded hoarse.

  “Amy, whatever it is, let’s talk about it.”

  She had taken a step back, and her hand was on the edge of the door. He could tell she was getting ready to shut him out. “Amy,” he said, “does this have anything to do with Darcy?”

  The tears that welled up in her eyes told him that it did. “Look,” he said, “I can explain.”

  But Amy only shook her head. “I can’t talk about this now. Please go home.” And when she shut the door, it was not with a slam but with the heavy clunk of something ending.

  a few days later Michael learned from Steven Chang, who had learned from his girlfriend, Allison—because this was how they all stumbled upon some of the more painful truths in their lives, truths mouthed like verbal chain letters—that Darcy and her friends had been to Amy’s house right before Michael showed up.

  It was a sticky Saturday afternoon, and the pool, as always on weekends, was crowded. Steven and Allison were there with a group of friends, but Darcy had not come to the pool since the night she had broken up with Michael. As he was punching quarters into the soda machine during his break, Michael saw Steven coming toward him.

  “Allison told me what happened,” he said.

  A can of root beer thumped into the tray. Michael popped open the metal tab. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

  “I mean about you and Darcy breaking up.”

  Michael merely nodded and took a sip of the soda. “It happens,” he said, because he did not want to talk about Darcy.

  Steven dropped a few coins into the machine and lifted a can of soda from the tray. “It was rotten what they did, though.”

  Michael stood perfectly still. He was afraid that if he said the wrong thing, he might never learn the truth. He stared into Steven’s dark eyes. Steven’s lips parted slowly.

  “Oh, man, you didn’t know, did you?” He flung his hands outward, sending a stream of ginger ale onto the pavement. “I thought you knew.” He turned to go. “Allison’s going to kill me.”

  Michael grabbed Steven by the arm. “Tell me,” he said, tightening his grip, “what they did.”

  “Mike,” Steven pleaded, “drop it, okay?”

  Michael kept his hand clamped on Steven’s arm. “This has to do with Amy, doesn’t it?”

  Steven turned to look at Allison and their friends, sitting on the other side of the pool. “I can’t figure it out,” he said. “You had Darcy. What were you doing messing around with Amy Ruggerio?”

  Michael spun Steven around so fast, he almost fell over. “There is nothing going on between me and Amy. Nothing. She’s a friend.” He dropped his hand from Steven’s arm. “I can’t believe this.”

  “I guess Darcy thought she was something else,” Steven said.

  “Are you going to tell me what she did, or should I go ask Allison?”

  Steven shook his head. “Hey, man, don’t get pissed at me. I wasn’t in on any of this.”

  Michael emptied his can of soda and tossed it in the recycling bin by the machine. “I’m waiting,” he
said.

  Steven took a deep breath. “They told Amy they’d found out you and the other guys on the track team had this bet going. They said you’d bragged about how you could screw around with her mind enough so that she’d do anything for you, including sleep with every guy on the team if you asked her to. They told her each person on the team put up twenty bucks saying you couldn’t do it.”

  Michael stared at his friend in disbelief. “They told Amy this?”

  Steven nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Man, are you dense,” Steven said. “Why do you think? To get even.”

  “Get even for what? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Darcy thinks you did. She thinks you were getting some on the side from Amy the whole time you were going out with her.”

  Michael felt an anger so intense it frightened him. His hands clamped into fists. “I’ve got to get back,” he told Steven, because there was nothing else left to say.

  But as he swung around, his shoulder bumped against a girl who was approaching the soda machine, almost knocking her over. Michael grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. “Sorry,” he mumbled, not really paying attention.

  “It’s okay,” she told him.

  Another girl stood nearby, giggling. She was extremely tall and thin with dark curly hair. Michael stared at her for a moment, trying to grasp what was happening. He had seen this girl before. She was a friend of Jenna Ward. And he knew, without even turning around to look, that the person he had almost knocked off balance was Jenna herself.

  jenna

  13

  it had been the driest summer on record, so when the heavy rains came in mid-August, everyone said it was a blessing. People were tired of rationing water. It rained for four days straight, a pelting, pounding rain that swelled the streams and rivers, flooding backyards and carrying away lawn furniture in the dead of night. Meteorologists shrugged. They couldn’t explain it either.

  Jenna lay in bed, stretching lazily, still not ready to get up, and stared up at the water stain in the corner of her room. She hated the very sight of it. It had been caused by the same leak her father had been patching the day he died. She had painted over it twice, but the stain continued to bleed through the white paint. Sometimes its blurred rust-colored outline actually seemed to be creeping slowly toward her from the corner of the room. And each morning she swore the stain had grown by at least an inch or two, although she knew this was impossible.