Dead End in Norvelt (2 page)

I felt her roughly wiping my face while trying to get a clear look at my wound. “Oh, good grief,” she suddenly groaned, and flung her bloodied arms down to her side.

“What?” I asked desperately. “Am I too hurt to be fixed?”

“It’s just your
nose problem
!” she said, exasperated. “Your dang bloody nose!” Then she pressed the towel to my face again. “Hold it there tightly,” she instructed, “I’ll go get another one.”

She stomped back toward the house, and I sat there for a few torturous minutes with one hand pressing the towel against my nose and breathed deeply through my mouth. Even through the blood I could smell the flinty gunpowder from the bullet. Dad is going to kill me, I thought. He’ll court-martial me and sentence me to death by firing squad. Before I could fully imagine the tragic end of my life I heard an ambulance wailing up the Norvelt road. It took a turn directly into Miss Volker’s driveway and stopped. The driver jumped out and sprinted toward her house and jerked open the porch door.

That’s not good, I thought and turned cold all over. If I shot Miss Volker through the head Mom will never believe it was an accident. She’ll think I was just trying to get out of going to her house in the morning.

I lowered myself down onto the picnic bench and then onto the grass which was slippery from my blood. I trotted across the yard to our screen door. I was still bleeding so I stood outside and dripped on the doormat. Please, please, please, don’t let me have shot her, I thought over and over. I knew I had to say something to Mom, so I gathered up a little courage and as casually as possible said, “Um, there happens to be an ambulance at Miss Volker’s house.”

But Mom was a step ahead of me. “Don’t worry,” she said right back. “I just now called down there. She’s fine. You didn’t shoot her if that is what you are thinking.”

“I was,” I admitted. “I thought I shot her dead!”

“It wasn’t that,” she said, now frowning at me from the other side of the door. “The shock from hearing the rifle go off caused her to drop her hearing aid down the toilet—I guess she had it turned up too high.”

“So why’d she call an ambulance? Did she get her arm stuck going after it?”

“No. She called the plumber, but he’s also the ambulance driver so he made an emergency call. Really,” she said with some admiration, “it’s good that people around this town know how to help out in different ways.”

“Hey, Mom,” I said quietly before going to wash my face at the outside work sink, “please don’t tell Dad about the gun accident.” He was out of town but you never knew when he’d finish a construction job and suddenly show up.

“I’ll consider it,” she said without much promise. “But until he returns you are grounded—and if you do something this stupid again you’ll barely live to regret it. Understand?”

I understood. I really didn’t want Dad knowing what had happened because he would blow a fuse. On top of him not wanting me to touch his stuff he was always trying to teach me about gun safety, and I figured after this gun episode he might give up on me and I didn’t want him to.

“Here,” she said, and handed me a wad of tissues so I could roll them into pointy cones to plug up my nose holes. “And before bed I want you to take a double dose of your iron drops,” she stressed. “The doctor doesn’t want you to become anemic.”

“It’s just a nosebleed,” I said glumly.

“There may be more to it,” she replied. “Besides, given that stunt you just pulled, it’s in your best interest to do exactly what I say.”

I did exactly what she said and cleaned all my blood off and took my medicine and went to bed, but firing that rifle had me all wound up. How could that bullet have gotten into the chamber? The ammo clip was off. I thought about it as I tossed back and forth, but couldn’t come up with an answer. Plus, it was hard to fall asleep with my nose stuffed with massive wads of bloody tissue while breathing through my dry mouth. I turned on my bedside lamp and picked a book from one of the tall stacks Mom had given me. She did some charity auction work for the old elementary school over in Hecla which was closing, and in return they gave her a bunch of books including their beat-up Landmark history series, which had dozens of titles about famous explorers. I was a little too drifty in school so she thought it was a good idea that I read more books, and she knew I liked history and adventure stories.

I started reading about Francisco Pizarro’s hard-to-believe conquest of the Incas in Peru. In 1532 Pizarro and fewer than two hundred men captured Atahualpa, the Inca chief, who had an army of fifty thousand soldiers. Pizarro’s men fired off an old flintlock blunderbuss and the noise and smoke scared the Inca army and Pizarro jumped on Atahualpa and held a sword to his neck and in that very instant the entire Inca empire was defeated. Amazing!

Pizarro then held Atahualpa hostage for a ransom of gold so the Incas brought Pizarro piles of golden life-size people and animals and plants—all sculpted from solid gold as if the Incas had the Midas touch while they strolled through their fantastic cities and farms and jungles and everything they even gently brushed up against turned into pure gold. But no one will ever again see that life-size golden world because once the conquistadors got their greedy hands on the gold they melted it down. They turned all those beautiful golden sculptures into boring Spanish coins and shipped boatloads of them back to the king and queen of Spain, who loved the gold but wanted even more.

Pizarro then raided all the temples and palaces and melted down the gold he found and sent that back. Still, it wasn’t enough for the king and queen. Pizarro even dug up the dead when it was discovered that they were buried with gold. He had their jewelry melted down and sent back to Spain. But it still wasn’t enough. So Pizarro’s men forced the Inca people to work harder in the gold mines. They melted the gold ore and sent that back to Spain, and when there was no more gold Pizarro broke his promise and strangled the Inca king. He turned the Inca people into slaves and they died by the thousands from harsh work and disease.

Finally, one of Pizarro’s own men sneaked up and stabbed him to death because he thought Pizarro was cheating him out of his share of gold for helping to conquer the Incas. Gold had driven the conquistadors crazy and they ended up killing themselves and all of those poor Incas. It was a really tragic story. I just wished I had been with Atahualpa and his army when the conquistadors fired off that blunderbuss. I could have told Atahualpa that I had fired off a rifle too and that it was scary, but not to panic. Then we could have ordered the Inca army to capture the gold-crazed conquistadors and saved the Inca civilization, and history would have been different. If only …

2

I must have fallen asleep
because I was dreaming of Pizarro’s crazed men melting down the golden statues of people into a big pot like when you melt a plastic army man over a burner on the stove when your mother isn’t looking. That’s when my alarm clock went off. It was five in the morning. I knew I had set it for six, but after I fell asleep Mom must have reset it. I was just going to roll over and go back to sleep when she tapped my shoulder and whispered, “Jack, are you awake?”

“I’m dreaming of gold,” I moaned. “Lots of gold.”

“Stop dreaming,” she ordered, and pinched my toe. “And hurry up. Miss Volker has probably made your breakfast already. She’s been up for hours.”

“I thought I was grounded,” I said nasally, and plucked out my bloodied nose plugs.

“I’m just loaning you to her for a while,” she explained. “When you finish with her come straight back home. Understand?”

I understood.

When she left I pulled on the same sweaty clothes I had peeled off the night before. I didn’t care that there were bloodstains spattered down the front of my shirt because every shirt I owned was decorated with bloodstains. I glanced at my hair in the mirror. My brown curls stood up on my head like a field planted with question marks. There was no reason to brush it. The question marks would just stand up into exclamation points and then wilt back over into question marks. Besides, I was a boy. It is okay to be a boy slob because moms think they still have time to cure you of your bad habits before you grow up and become an annoying adult slob for someone else.

“Change that nasty shirt,” Mom ordered when she spotted the crusty bib of dried blood across my chest.

I looked down at my shirt. “Hey, how come this blood is brown?” I asked. “Last night it was red.”

“It is too early in the morning to mess with me,” she replied. “Just change the shirt and get moving. I’m going back to bed.”

I didn’t change the shirt. Only a few spots of blood had soaked through, so I just turned it inside out as I walked down the narrow hall, past my small room, through the airless living room, and out the front door and down the three porch steps. All the Norvelt houses were built to look the same. It was like I was stepping out of one of those little green houses in a Monopoly game.

The dark grass was wet with morning dew and a little squeaky under my sneakers. It was tall enough for me to cut. I might be a slob but I kept the yard looking tidy because Dad allowed me to drive our big garden tractor with a mower attachment on the back. I’d love to drive a car, and just thinking of that word,
drive
, made me look toward the drive-in on the hill and wonder if the bullet I fired had passed cleanly over Norvelt and punctured the screen. From where I paused, the screen was a solid black square and I’d never know if I had hit that tiny Japanese soldier and put a hole in the screen unless I got up close to it, which I promised myself I would do before the summer was over.

Above the screen the western sky was still dark and the stars looked like holes from missed shots. It was a good thing John Glenn had orbited the earth back in February. If he’d still been up there last night I might have shot his Friendship 7 space capsule out of the air and started a world war. That would be just my luck. My uncle who had painted the pony claimed he had seen a UFO come down over that very same hill before the drive-in was built. He was in the newspaper and said he had “touched” the UFO and that it was “covered in a strange Martian language that looked like chicken feet.” My dad called my uncle a nut, but it wasn’t so nutty when the army sent troops and a big truck to take the mysterious UFO away and afterward military police went door-to-door to all the little towns around here, warning people not to talk about “the
fallen
object” with any strangers as they might be Russian spies.

Because my mind wanders in the morning my feet are always a few steps ahead of me and suddenly I found myself on Miss Volker’s back porch. There was a large heart-shaped box of chocolates covered in red foil leaning against her door. I bent down and picked up the box. A small note card was tucked under the decorative red lace ribbon. I knew I shouldn’t read it, but I couldn’t help myself. I loved to know other people’s personal business. Mom called me a
gossip lover
. But I called it
whisper history
, so as quickly as I could I pulled out the card and flipped it over. It was from Mr. Spizz. The handwriting was all chunky printing that leaned forward just like words blasting out of his mouth. It read,
I’m still ready, willing and waiting. Your swain since 1912 with the patience of Job. —Edwin Spizz.

He
was
patient—1912 was fifty years ago. Waiting for what, I wondered. I didn’t know what a “swain” was. I put the card back into the envelope and slipped it under the ribbon. Mr. Spizz was with my uncle the night they found the UFO. Dad called him the town busybody. Mr. Spizz was an original Norvelter and worked for the Norvelt Association for the Public Good. He thought he was a big deal around town, but he was kind of sinister and lived and worked out of a tiny office in the moldy basement of the Community Center.

I rapped on Miss Volker’s door with my knuckles. “Miss Volker!” I called out loudly because her hearing aid might still be waterlogged from the toilet. “It’s Jack Gantos. I’m here to help you.”

“Come in!” she cawed like a pirate parrot.

I pushed the door to and stuck my head inside. “Hello?”

“In the kitchen,” she squawked.

I followed the smell of bacon and entered the kitchen where I was surprised to see her leaning over the gas stove with her hands inside a wide, tall pot and her face all screwed up in agony. I could tell by the leaf-size flames under the pot that it had to be scalding hot, and right away I was wondering if she was melting herself down. Mom had always said she was worth her weight in gold to our little town. But before I could start a conversation about Inca gold she said, “Sit and eat,” and nodded her stiff bush of bluish cotton-candy hair toward a chair at the kitchen table where a plate had been set with bacon, eggs, and toast.

“I found these chocolates on the porch,” I said, and offered her the box.

“Put them on the table!” she ordered without removing her hands from the pot.

“There is a card too,” I pointed out.

“You can just throw that in the
trash
!” she snapped.

“Trash?” I asked. “Don’t you want to know who it’s from?”

“It’s from the same hopeless case as always!” she said. “Now
trash it
!”

I tossed the card in the trash like she said. I put the chocolates on the table and when I sat down she began to talk as if someone were sticking her with sharp pins. “Thank you for coming!” she cried out, and did a spastic tippy-toe dance. “Today,” she squeaked, “we are about to embark on a great experiment!” Then she took a deep breath, shifted her hips around, and grimaced.

“What kind of experiment?” I asked fearfully, and stared at the pot where I was sure her hands were melting.

“Oh, gosh,” she said in a strained voice, and jerked her head back and stamped her thick old-lady shoe heels on the kitchen linoleum. “This is really, really scalding hot but let’s still keep talking and pretend like nothing at all is wrong.”