Memory Boy (10 page)

The bigger man chuckled.

“It's dead,” Nat said, turning to him.

“You asked if there was a phone,” he said, “not if it works.”

“Danny, don't,” the biker's wife said softly. She had a surprisingly nice voice.

There was silence again. All of us looked at each other; nobody spoke. By now the children, including two more for a total of five, peeked out from behind the adults.

“I'm sorry, but if you don't agree to leave, we'll have to get the sheriff,” my mother said. She looked to my father, whose brown eyes blinked rapidly, as if he was cranking through all possible solutions.

The woman holding the baby spoke up. “The sheriff is my brother,” she said. She said it softly and evenly.

My mother stared.

“He said it was all right for us to stay here. We're from Chicago, and we couldn't stay there, not in the city, not with the children, so we came here,” she continued in a rush. “You don't know how bad things were—”

“That's enough,” her husband said. He glanced toward his children.

“Things is different nowadays,” Danny added. “The rules have changed.”

“And who are you?” my mother asked, turning to the biker. Her city voice was returning, which worried me.

“Me and Sheila, we're the real squatters,” big Danny said. He had teeth missing on top. “We were here first, and then Rick and Ruth came along with their three kids and we took them in.”

“You took them in,” my mother said, her voice rising.

“That's right,” the big man said easily. “A nice big place like this, just sitting empty—hell, there was room for two families.”

My mother narrowed her eyes in her I'm-counting-to-ten mode.

“I'll tell you what,” she said to the people in our cabin. “I don't care if the sheriff is your uncle, your brother, or the Pope. I suggest you start packing.”

“Easy, Nat,” my father said.

“Daddy, do we have to leave again?” one of the children whimpered.

“Shhh!” Ruth said.

The “guests” looked at each other. The big man's gaze flickered to the children. The place was absolutely silent except a couple of sharp
baa-baa
's out back.

“Tell you what,” my father said. He smiled. “We're going to head outside and bring our vehicle up into the yard, start unpacking ourselves a bit. There's no rush here—as long as we all understand what needs to be done.”

The biker wife, Sheila, cocked her head oddly as my father spoke. “Newell, Newell,” she said. “Hey—you're not Artie Newell of the Shawnee Kingston band?”

My father did a quick hambone slap on his leg. “That's me.”

“I'll be damned,” Sheila said. She turned to Danny. “You know the Shawnee Kingston Jazz Band.”

“Yeah. So?” Danny said.

There was silence.

“See you in a bit, then,” my father said. He looked at us and jerked his head toward the door.

We walked down the steps—our wooden steps—and back up the driveway. It was like we were zombies. Sarah blurted, “They just can't take our cabin. People can't do that!”

“Of course not, dear,” my mother said. “Actually, they'll probably be gone by tonight.”

My father and I exchanged glances.

I lowered the mast on the
Princess
, which took a few minutes, and then we pedaled her down the long, winding driveway. When we rolled into the yard, all the children's faces popped up at the windows. They gaped at the
Princess
like she was a giant toy.

“Let's give them some time,” my father said, purposefully not looking at the cabin.

We slowly unloaded much of the
Princess
, making sure to talk normally. To act as if we belonged here.

But there was no movement from the cabin. No luggage appeared on the porch. After almost a half hour my father shrugged. “Well, plan B,” he said. He headed toward the cabin.

We followed.

At the screen door my father paused to knock.

“Why are we knocking on our own—” my mother began.

“Please,” my father said. “Let's try this my way, all right?”

My mother stared at him but was silent.

We stepped inside. The squatters were all sitting at the table—our table—ready to eat supper. A large kettle of soup steamed off a meaty smell, and there was a big basket of what looked to be homemade bread. And a jar of pickles. And a big glass jug of milk. They all looked up at us from the table.

“Well then,” my father began.

No one said anything. For once I was really glad not to be an adult.

The biker's wife, Sheila, looked at Sarah and me; I had been staring at the food.

“You children hungry?” she asked.

I swallowed.

“No, they're most certainly not,” my mother said. “We have food of our own.”

My father gave her a glare like I'd never seen. Then he nodded at Sheila. “Maybe that's what we need. Sit down at the table and talk this out.”

It was the weirdest dinner I've ever been at. Sarah ended up sitting by Danny. She kept edging away from him. But there was plenty of great food, including venison stew. Even Sarah, who loves animals, ate some of it. The bread, thick and wheaty and still warm, was fabulous. My mother refused to touch a bite. I felt terrible eating in front of her, but I couldn't stop. Nobody said anything. We just ate. I had honey on my bread, and a glass of milk to wash everything down. At the first taste of the milk, however, I wanted to spew. It was thick and creamy—like no milk I'd ever tasted.

“Goat's milk.” Big Danny chuckled hoarsely. “It'll put hair on your chest, kid.”

My throat clenched and closed up, but I forced myself to down the rest like I'd been drinking goat's milk all my life. Gaah!

Slowly people stopped sneaking looks at each other and started to talk.

“People were killed right next door to us in Chicago,” Ruth said. “We heard the screams. The gunshots.”

“And we lived in a good suburb,” her husband added.

“So I finally got in touch with my brother, the sheriff, and he said come here, but make it soon. Somehow he'd try to find a place for us.”

“Our place,” my mother remarked.

My father nudged her with his elbow.

“There are vacant homes and cabins like this one all around the lakes here,” Ruth said to her.

“Were,” said Danny. “They're all full now.”

“It's funny how many people in the Midwest have two homes,” Rick continued, “one in the city and then a lake cabin.”

“Daddy, how can you live in two homes at the same time?” one of the kids asked.

There was silence again.

“We're not criminals,” Ruth said. There was a kind of pleading in her voice. “We're just trying to survive. Like everybody else. And here was this nice, empty cabin—”

“I wouldn't say ‘empty,'” Danny said. A laugh rumbled in his big belly.

Ruth colored slightly. “They—Danny and Sheila and their two kids—were already living here.”

“Let's say visiting here,” my mother qualified.

“The sheriff said that if we took them in,” Sheila said, “he wouldn't charge us with breaking and entering. It was a deal that worked for everybody. And as Danny said, all of us get along, the kids especially, so we're just working together and trying to get through these times.”

“Well, I'm afraid you're going to have to get through these times somewhere else,” my mother said.

“Do we have to leave?” the four-year-old girl pleaded.

Both my mother and Danny began to speak, but Ruth quickly interrupted them both. “Your family must have a home?” she said to us.

“We do, in Minneapolis,” my father said. “But it's the same story—people are getting a little crazy. It feels dangerous.”

“Anybody killed in your neighborhood?” Rick asked.

“Well, no, but—”

“Then it's not like where we came from,” Ruth said firmly.

There was silence.

“Do we have to leave?” the little girl whined again.

“No,” Danny growled, “none of
us
are leaving.”

We camped that evening in our own yard. Ruth and Sheila were helpful, making sure we had water from the pump—an outdoor hand pump, which was new—and that the goats were tied so they wouldn't bother us. I kept trying to hate these people. I certainly hated Danny the biker. But Ruth and Sheila—hating them was more difficult. Even the five kids weren't that bad. They kept creeping closer to the
Princess
, so finally I let them climb on her. They took the seats and bounced up and down and pretended they were pedaling and made wild kid noises. Even the goats were kind of nice. They had nice brown eyes and weird droopy ears, and they wanted to nibble everything. One named Emily kept nuzzling and bumping Sarah, and leaning into her fingers when she scratched behind her ears. From the porch Sheila said, “Emily likes you.” My sister blinked and looked up suddenly—at our cabin, at all the strangers—as if she had forgotten where she was. Then she burst into tears and disappeared into our tent. The little kids looked around as if they'd done something wrong.

Later, in the tent, Sarah read a vampire novel by candlelight. She held the book very close to her face. I lay there and listened to night sounds. The waves lapping on the beach. The nuzzling, bumping sounds of the goats. A
whoo-whoo
of a faraway owl. Sarah's pages rustling as they turned. And, from the other tent, my parents' voices. As they got louder, I sat up in my bag to hear them better. Sarah looked up too.

“So what do you suggest we do?” my father said. “Get a gun and shoot them all?”

“I wish,” Sarah muttered.

There was silence; then I heard the muffled sounds of my mother crying. Sarah and I stared at each other. I don't know that we'd ever heard our mother cry.

“I'm sorry,” my father mumbled.

“It's okay,” she said, her voice unsteady. “It's just that I feel so bad for their children. But we've got our own to worry about—”

“Shhhh,” my father said gently. “Shhhh …”

After a while my mother's Palm Pal came on. The tiny crackle of news reports fell just below good hearing, which was all right by me. Once my mother said, “Greenbriar Lane. My God. We may have left just in time.”

Sarah and I looked at each other.

“Do you know what, Miles?”

“What?”

“That creep Danny? Under the table he put his hand on my leg.”

I was silent. “I'm sorry,” I said finally. I felt stupid. Like I should do something nice for her. Sarah blew out the candle and zipped herself into her bag. After a while she rolled closer, so our backs touched just a little. I moved too, so they were firm against each other. It felt good that way, like when we were kids. And warmer, too.

In the dark she whispered, “What are we gonna do now, Miles? If they don't leave, what's going to happen to us?”

“Hey, they'll leave. And if they don't, we'll figure something out,” I said. I used my father's everything-will-be-cool voice.

“Promise?”

“Poke a stick up my nose, where it stops, nobody knows.” It was a stupid saying from when we were kids.

Sarah managed a tiny laugh, then fell asleep almost instantly. I, too, begin to relax. I was just drifting off—the lake sounds were like a lullaby—when I smelled cigarette smoke. I sat up with a jerk. A soft, steady squeaking sound came from the porch. I peeked out of the tent flap. Danny sat in the shadows on the porch, rocking and smoking. The red eye of his cigarette grew and shrank.

Grew and shrank.

It was like this was war and he had the night watch.

BACK IN NINTH GRADE, AFTER
the oral-history interviews were finished, I didn't go back to see Mr. Kurz. My memory book, however, was a masterpiece. I constructed fantastic stories of Mr. Kurz as a war hero, a ruthless Nazi-killing machine. After World War II he became a big-game hunter and traveled the world. Along the way he made friends with such people as Ernest Hemingway and John Wayne. Later in life he became a conservationist, giving away all his money to groups focused on saving the animals and protecting the environment. He was a kindly, happy man who loved his government, dogs, and children.

A couple of days after I turned in the memory book, Litzke had me stay after class. “What is this?” he said, holding up the memory book.

“It's the oral-history assignment.”

“Whose oral history?” he said. He fanned through the pages as if they had a bad smell.