Jasper Jones (42 page)

“You can’t come with me, Jeffrey.”

“Well,
shit
. Then lie back and think of England, Chuck Bucktin, because you’re about to get
fucked
, one way or another. It’s been nice knowing you, at times. I may have mentioned this before, but this time I
really
mean it: you’re an idiot.”

I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze it.

“Jeffrey, you’re the best friend I’ll ever have. You’re like a brother to me. You should know that.”

“What? Why are you suddenly queer?”

“Because I love you, little man. And this is something I have to do. Understand? And trust me, it’s going to be the most straightforward thing in the world. Everyone in this town is going to see that there’s nothing to be afraid of. And then we’ll get the spoils.”

He shakes his head in resignation and mild disgust. After a little while, he asks:

“Can I have a peach pit, if you get one?”

“Jeffrey, you can have them all. You deserve them.”

We trudge the rest of the way in silence.

At Lionel’s, they gather in an arc around the front gate. Some kids even hang back across the road, keeping their distance. It’s tense. Warwick Trent sneers at me and smiles as though his point is already proven.

“Well? Go on, dipshit,” he says, motioning his head toward the cottage. “We dint come here for nuthin.”

They expect me to prevaricate. To shiver and shake as I survey the scruffy landscape and haunted architecture. They think I’ll back away and say I can’t do it. There’s a sense of fascination and foreboding among this group. All eyes are on me, on what I’ll do. But I’ve been inside. I know the truth. And so I look Warwick Trent square in the eyes, and I unhook the latch on the gate and give it a single shove. I step over the grate. I think about turning and saying something pithy
or profound, but I don’t. I pause and straighten my back and stare straight ahead.

“He’s shitting himself,” I hear someone say. They’re probably surprised I’ve made it this far.

I stride down the driveway. Completely in the open. I take no shelter in the weeds. I don’t crouch or step lightly. I walk up like no peach thief before me. Brazen. Bold as brass. I’m making history. I hear that same voice behind me suggest that I’m going to get myself killed, and I grin to myself as the cottage opens itself up fully and I take in the peach tree and the veranda, the rusted shell of the car out past the corrugated-iron shed and the chicken coop.

I’m so far inside that I can’t hear them, or even feel their presence anymore. And even though I know I’m under no threat, it’s still an eerie and intimidating pilgrimage. I start to tread lighter as I get closer. So much so that if Lionel were to come out now, he’d have every reason to be suspicious. I wonder if he’s watching me. I hear the short clicks of crickets, little shifts in the grass. I breathe deep.

I stomp a path out of the tall grass and make it to the tall, gnarly reach of the peach tree. It smells sweet and musty. But upon looking up into its foliage, my heart sinks and dread spreads. There’s not one peach to be picked. It’s barren. The season is finished. Of course.
Shit
. Which means I am too. Maybe Warwick Trent knew. Maybe that’s why he was so smug and confident. I edge closer, peering into the higher branches, hoping to sight a cluster of late bloomers that might have held on over Christmas. But there’s no deep orange, no blush of crimson. I’m in trouble.

I’m fixed so fiercely on the tree that I don’t notice Jack Lionel’s shadow filling the open window of his living room. He bends and peers out. I’m startled to hear his voice.

“Charlie! How goes it, my boy?”

I jump back. My limbs huddle together.

“Mr. Lionel. Hello. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Call me Jack, call me Jack.” He waves his hand, smiling. “You
won’t find any good ’uns this late, I’m afraid, mate. Last of em fell about a fortnight ago, I reckon. Too many to pick this year, plus I bin ill, so I just let em fall.”

I look down. There’s a lumpy carpet of decaying peaches at my feet. It’s a windfall, but it does very little to dissolve my worry. Because hovering above them are dozens and dozens of insects. Mostly bees. I follow their flight, and see a hive under a gutter on the house. There are black ants running trails, slaters and worms burrowing into the soft flesh. March flies and blowflies and houseflies. It’s the stuff of nightmares. I go stiff and cold. This is no longer straightforward. I shudder and step back. I need to piss.

Lionel props his elbows on the window frame and moves to lean forward through the windowsill, but I stop him before he’s visible.

“No! Stay there: they’ll see you,” I hiss, holding my hand up, still looking down.

“Who?”

“Kids from school,” I whisper loudly. “They’re watching me. I can’t explain now. But I can’t let them see that I know you. Jack, I need to take some of these peaches. Is that orright?”

“Be my guest, son,” Jack laughs from inside. “You want a satchel, or a paper bag? Or I got a bucket in the laundry. What are you kids up to? Making a pig trap, are youse? They love my peaches, those bastards. Come right up to the house. You hear em rummagin about of a night, drives me spare.”

“No. No bags. Thank you, though.”

“Suit yerself. But take what you like, mate. They’re all yours.”

I look down. My breath is short. There’s a teeming metropolis of insects down there. It’s worse than An Lu’s garden, but I don’t have Jeffrey here to retrieve the ball. My skin tightens. I feel as though I’m already covered in them. Like they’re crawling all over my body, scratching and slithering. I clasp my hands together and grind my palms.

“There’s a lot of bees,” I say.

Jack Lionel lights a cigarette and shake his head.

“Ah, pay em no mind. They’re next to harmless anyway. Look at em. They’re half pissed. All over the shop.”

“Really?”

“Yair, look at em. Near useless. The fruit’s gone rotten and fermented in the heat. So them bees are lickered up to the eyebrows. They won’t bother you, mate. Nuthin to be worried about.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as eggs is eggs.”

I stare at the ground. He may be right. They do look sluggish. Dissolute and clumsy. Maybe they really are drunk. Either way, I have no choice. I’ve got to get brave.

I realize too that I’ve been standing here too long. This hasn’t gone the way I’d imagined. This scene lacks the arrogant ease, the casual swagger that I’d hoped for. And I worry that they’re lined up back there, ready to accuse me of being a coward anyway, with an armful of shitty-looking rotten peaches. They’ll wonder why I paused for so long after seeing no signs of danger. Or maybe they’ll suspect me of knowing something they didn’t. Maybe they’ll think Lionel wasn’t even home, and that I knew all along.

I glance up and beyond him, into his dim living room, right up on the wall, and I think I know what to do. I see a way to immortalize this. I seek out his eye.

“Listen, Jack. I need a little favor. How’d you like me to come round and cook you Sunday dinner?”

He lights up.

***

It’s destined to become the stuff of legend, and only Jack Lionel and I will ever know the truth. No doubt the tale will grow taller and fatter with age. The events will grow grander and broader and more daring; the story will go its own way, and with it my name. It’ll harden into common myth. But what no spectator that day will ever know, or anyone who will later lend their ear to an account, is that it requires more
courage for me to tentatively bend and snatch up that rotten fruit from amid that sea of bees. My hands tremble. I can barely work my fingers. But I get them, all five of them, into the crook of my arm, hot and soft and mushy, and it feels incredible, like something has clicked into place, like how you feel when you can finally ride a bike or you trust yourself to swim in the deepest part of the river. I hold them against my thrumming chest. I get brave.

And I turn to leave, to stride victoriously back to the gate and the waiting crowd. But suddenly Jack Lionel bursts through his screen door, hollering to high heaven and waving that big empty rifle like the madman they all believe him to be. I can hear the consternation from the group on the road. Erupting in a single chorus. And I can hear Jeffrey Lu above them all, shrill and panicked, telling me to look out. I turn. I drop my peaches. And I run at Jack Lionel, meeting him on the edge of his veranda, swift and sure, and snatch his rifle with one heroic swipe. It’s heavier than I imagined. I throw it aside and I push him in the chest and he grins and winks at me as he staggers back and falls, like I’d shot him in the heart on the set of a Western. It’s good theater. And I stand over him, pointing, gesturing furtively as he crawls back, but all I really say is:
Thanks, Jack. I’ll see you on Sunday
. And he chuckles and pretends to roll in agony and he farewells me with a single nod.

I gather up the fruit, which now has a pelt of dust, and I hurry down the drive. I try to act tough, breathing heavily with my shoulders squared, as though I’d really just been in a scrap and emerged victorious. Jeffrey Lu meets me halfway. He’d run in as soon as he’d seen Lionel, but stopped dead after he’d seen me smite him with that single shove. He can’t stand still.

“Holy
shit
! Holy shit!
Chuck
! Holy shit! You killed him!” His eyes are wild. His voice squeaks.

“I didn’t kill him, dickhead,” I announce calmly. “I just pushed him over. He’ll be okay.”

“Fucking hell, Chuck! He just came right at you! With a fucking
gun
! That was incredible. Holy shit! Holy
shit
! You should be dead! I don’t believe it! I do
not
!”

We walk side by side. And I am met at first with silence and awe. But then they close in. There are exclamations of wonder and shock. Someone independently verifies that I have won the bet, but the story is bigger than that now. I’d been attacked by the man they loved to fear, and they’d seen him in the flesh for the first time. Better yet, they’d seen him just as angry and murderous as they’d been led to believe. They’d had the myth confirmed. It was true. And I’d beat him down. Without a moment of hesitation. I slew the dragon. I was the hero.

The huddle presses closer. Younger kids touch the peaches racked in my arm as though they are round bars of bullion. The rest of them are like a press pack, hounding me for information. What does he look like up close? Does he have a long scar down his face? A tattoo of a skull on his arm?

In truth, it isn’t nearly as satisfying as I thought it would be. I finally have a peach, but my victory feels a little hollow. Still, there is real fulfillment in seeing Warwick Trent hang back with his arms folded. He doesn’t say a single word. I’ve beaten him.

And the peaches do feel good. I’m proud to be clutching them, because I know what it took, and it felt as though a weight had shifted as soon as I had them in my hands. I decide to save one pit just for myself, just one single stone to keep for this whole horrid summer. And maybe one for Eliza. Then I’ll give the rest to Jeffrey.

The crowd presses for a little while longer before my moment is interrupted by a kid on the edge who suddenly points back toward town and says, simply:

“Look.”

We all fall silent and lift our eyes. There is trouble.

A pillar of smoke, dense and dark. A volcano is erupting. It is distant, but not too distant. It looks to be perilously close to the town center. And there is a moment where we all quietly take it in, that
single column, climbing and writhing straight up. There isn’t a breath of wind. And we pay it due regard. This is a dark spirit with substance. Everyone in Corrigan knows there is something real here, that this is something to truly be afraid of, that this kind of smoke holds fire at its heart.

I squint and try to work out exactly where it is, wondering what could have gone up so quickly. Then I drop the fruit from my arms and I run.

***

I’ve got a stitch. A jagged piece of iron digging into my side. I try not to picture my muscles tearing away from the bone with every jolt of my feet. I’m hurting, but I keep running anyway, with all the panicked energy of foreboding, close enough now to smell the smoke in the air, close enough to hear the peal of sirens. I hope I’m wrong. Oh God. Oh Jesus Christ, I hope I’m wrong. I’m out of breath, I’m spent, but I will myself further. Past the river, the bridge, the station; through town; past the Miners’ Hall, my worry bubbling closer and closer to the surface. My shirt sticks to my chest, and sweat rolls and drips off my jaw. My breathing is raspy and thin. I can’t go much further.

I jolt heavily down the slope of the oval, and in the distance I see people moving toward the fire; judging by its location, my suspicions are all but confirmed and my legs almost buckle then and there. But I have to press on. Across the grass, onto the street. My steps are messy now, my arms flailing like they’ve got no bones. I can hear voices and commotion. I’m on her street now. The peppermint trees cast their umbrella arms. And it’s chaos. It’s madness. I bolt up the path. I see an ambulance and my throat goes thick. A single fire truck is angled across Eliza’s front lawn. Neighbors spray the street with their garden hoses. A chain of folks are passing tin buckets of water to the scene. Less helpful onlookers are being pushed back. And I sprint to meet them, writhing my way to the fore. And there, right in front of me, the Wishart house is crackling furiously from the inside. It’s a single box of flames. Ribbons of red and orange lick at broken windows. But
they seem to have it contained. It’s stifling and hard to breathe. I can’t believe it. I am yelled at by a bearded man dressed in khaki, but I stand my ground, scanning the crowd. It’s a wall of heat. I have to squint through the smoke to see. But there she is!
There
! Fucking hell, oh God, there she is, and I almost collapse because she’s all right. I’m dragged back by somebody who clumps past me toward the blaze. He says something stern over his shoulder, but I don’t hear. Eliza stands with her back straight, alongside her mother, who is weeping into a handkerchief. I watch as Mrs. Wishart darts brief glances up at her house, then crumples, turning her face away. Eliza looks on dispassionately, as though it’s someone else’s home.