The Last Stand of Daronwy (16 page)

Daniel frowned. “We lose Rathian
and
the Red Stone?”

“Yeah. Let's play that the air is still smoky after the explosion, you were the most shielded so you are still able to walk, and you're trying to find the rest of us.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. “Are you—”

“Hey, boys,” Mrs. McClain interrupted from the back porch. “Jeremy, do you want to stay for supper? We're having roast beef.”

“Yes, ma'am!”

“Come call your mom and make sure it's all right, honey.”

“What do you want to do now?” said Daniel. He shuffled through the grass, picking up the wooden weapons and stained pillowcases.

“I don't know. Do you want to help me with the Pollution Club tomorrow?”

Daniel shrugged. “Maybe. I'll play you a game of chess while we wait for dinner.”

Chapter Seventeen

Cars swished past in the constant drizzle, leaving plumes of white mist in their wake. Darkening clouds snagged on the tops of pines, tearing themselves into tatters of fog that rested on Jeremy's shoulders. He shuffled his sloshing shoes through the wet grasses, dragging the black bags behind him. There were plenty of Styrofoam cups, Big Mac boxes, and red STP bottles, but there were no cans. The drizzle transformed into ponderous drops. Jeremy took shelter beneath a pine tree near the embankment of the canal. He sat on the roots in his soaked clothes, hands under his chin, trash spear by his side.

Maybe Daniel's brother was right. What did it matter if he spent his entire life cleaning up one highway? A pickup sailed past through the increasing downpour. The driver threw a shiny red Coca-Cola can out the window. It spun through the air and clattered down onto the asphalt, rolling into the grass near Jeremy. Who were these people? Why did they throw their trash out onto the highway? At least it was a can. Jeremy ran from his shelter into the downpour, speared the can, and sprinted back.

Did these people really believe that the world was their dumping ground? And why was he out here picking up the trash? Maybe Daniel was right to stay inside. The wind pushed the rain sideways in ragged curtains along the road. Thunder rumbled up above the dark clouds.
I oughta leave the trash bags here. That's what everyone else does
, Jeremy thought. He sighed. The rain blew beneath his tree, pelting him. He grabbed the bags in one hand, the spear in the other, and sprinted for home. The trash bag bumped against his legs, water splashed over his soaked shoes, and distant thunder threatened even harder rain to come. When he got home, he threw the trash away, took off his shirt, wrung it out, and put it back on before going inside.

He was greeted by a frigid blast of air conditioning, the earthen smell of okra in gumbo, and his mom's voice. “Jeremiah Trahan, you're soaked!”

“It's raining, Mom.”

“Where were you? Were you picking up trash on 408?”

“Um…” He didn't want to lie. “Not exactly?”

“Jeremiah Trahan, don't lie to me. You don't need to be out on that highway when it's raining. It's too dangerous. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She flung a hand toward his room. “Go change into some dry clothes. We're going to Confession in about an hour. Please tell me you didn't wear your good shoes out there.”

“No, ma'am.”

“Good. Oh.” She turned away from the gumbo simmering on the stove. “There's a letter for you. I put it on your bed.”

“A letter? From who?”

“Guess.” She took a sip of her Tab, smiling.

“Um… Granny?”

“No.”

Jeremy shivered. She waved him away. “Go. Go get in some dry clothes, and bring it here when you open it.”

He slogged to his room, changed into dry clothes, put his wet clothes in the hamper, and went back to his bed to look at the big envelope. The return address read, “1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC.” His heart stopped. The president had written him back. Jeremy held the letter at arm's length as though it might bite and carried it to the kitchen.

“Mom, President Reagan wrote me back.”

“I know! Go on, open it.”

Jeremy opened it carefully. There was a piece of cardboard in it, a picture of the president and the first lady, and a typewritten letter on blue White House ­stationery. He put the picture aside and held the paper at arm's length, unsure if it was real—and what it might mean if it
was
.

“What does it say?” his mom asked, stirring the gumbo.

Jeremy took a breath and started reading. “‘Dear Mr. Trahan'—they called me Mr. Trahan. Isn't that funny? They don't know I'm not a grown-up.” He looked back down at the letter. “‘Thank you very much for your letter to us concerning the Environmental Protection Agency and pollution. We share your concern and your commitment to this issue. Please know that we are doing everything we can to address your concerns. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us. Sincerely, President Ronald Reagan.'”

Mom peered over his shoulder. “Isn't that special? Look at the picture.”

Jeremy waved the paper in the air. “But, Mom, he didn't say
anything
about pollution. I asked him to make the EPA work on cleaning up stuff. And he didn't say he was going to do that.”

The corner of his mother's lip turned down slightly. “Well, not exactly, but he did say that he is concerned about it. He'll do the right thing. That's why he got elected president.”

Jeremy thought about Daniel, about Paul, about the truck driver who threw the can on the highway. No one really believed in fighting pollution, not even the president. He sighed. “I still wish he had said he'd do it.”

“Are you ready to go to church?”

Jeremy trudged back to his room, shut the door, and lay down on his bed. He looked up at the window, watching the rain pelt it. Somewhere out there, somewhere in the heart of Twin Hills, was a doorway to a place without pollution, a place where there was still adventure, where he could do something great like the hobbits in
The Fellowship of the Ring
. Here, no one cared about things that mattered, and he could do nothing about it. He could clean up Highway 408, but what about all the others? What about the marshes and bayous that ran thick with industrial sludge? What about the air that smelled like rotten eggs on alternate Thursdays? Thunder rattled the windowpane; the rain drilled into his window, boring through his hope.

Jeremy stepped onto the Astroturf-carpeted porch that smelled faintly of pipe tobacco. He held
The Fellowship of the Ring
in his hands and rang the doorbell. Mr. Leblanc answered the door, a pipe in his mouth.

“Hello, Jeremy.”

“Hi, Mr. Leblanc. I brought your book back.”

“Thanks. Come on in and I'll get you the next one in the series. What did you think of it?”

“I liked it a lot. Especially the part where they go into Moria, but I was really sad that Gandalf died.”

Mr. Leblanc smiled, handing him
The Two Towers
. “Read this, you'll like it. It picks up right where the
Fellowship
leaves off.”

“Thanks, Mr. Leblanc.” The house was quiet. An old guitar leaned against a window, next to a stand with sheet music. “Is Mira around? Can she come play?”

“No, she and Kelly will be in Dallas until after July Fourth.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks for the book. I'll start it today.”

“Enjoy.”

Jeremy showed himself out. He went back to his house and into the backyard, where he'd tied an old hammock between the beams on the permanently unfinished patio. He marveled at Aragorn's ability to track the Uruk-hai. He read about Sam and Frodo all alone on the edge of the Dead Marshes. At length, he put the book down, stretching. The trees glittered a blinding green, reflecting a sultry summer sun. Jeremy retrieved the BB rifle from the closet in the study. He called out to his mom that he was going for a walk in the woods.

Jeremy found an old can under a bush in the bike trails. Stepping off thirty paces, he turned and fired, hitting the can. He tried five more paces, turned, fired, and missed. He aimed carefully, squeezing the trigger with great care. The can flew into the air, spinning. He walked back to the can to place it upright and heard raucous laughter from the direction of the pond. Tilting his head, he could hear four or five voices, but could not distinguish who they were or what was said.

He started for the pond, stepping over the forgotten can. A firestorm of shame flared in his mind, so fierce he grabbed his temple. He stomped the can flat and slid it into the back pocket of his shorts. The unintelligible cry faded. More laughter wafted from the trail ahead. Jeremy pumped the air gun fifteen times and stalked toward it.

It was a gathering of most of the neighborhood boys—Loren, Sy, Lee, and Roland, plus a couple others. They stood in a loose circle, laughing and gesturing at something on the ground. The laughter sounded raw, spiteful. Jeremy crept through the brush at the edge of the trail, careful to make no noise. He craned his neck, inching just a little closer, and caught his foot on a vine. He thrashed in the leaves, remaining upright, but catching their attention.

Loren ordered, “Jeremy, bring that gun here.”

Jeremy sulked toward the older boy, cheeks flushing. “Whatcha'll doing?”

“Gimme your gun, little man.”

Jeremy offered his gun, eyes darting from face to face around the circle.

“All right, now y'all watch this,” said Loren.

A harmless red-ear slider turtle lay on the ground at their feet, its arms and legs and head pulled back into its shell. A threatening hiss emanated from inside it. Loren bent down, pushed the barrel into one of the front foot holes, and fired. The turtle rocked with the impact. It pushed its other leg out and tried to drag itself away as thick red blood trickled onto the dirt from the opening in the shell.

Jeremy wanted to demand his gun back, but he couldn't. They were all laughing. They'd make fun of him for being a sissy. They would turn against him. He couldn't outrun them all, and they had his gun. Fear riveted his hands to his sides, his feet to the bloodstained dirt.

“Loren, shoot its butt!”

Loren poked the gun at the rear opening of the shell. He fired. Blood leaked out of three holes now. With its remaining right forepaw, the turtle clawed toward the pond. As it neared the edge of the circle, one of the boys kicked it back to the middle. Blood spattered the dirt like drops of sanguine paint. Loren prodded one of the holes he'd already shot with a stick. The turtle hissed in desperate bursts, trying to drag itself away.

Jeremy's guts twisted into a knot. A booming voice in his mind demanded that he do something, but what? If he wrestled the gun back, he'd still have to shoot the turtle. If he stole the turtle, they would make fun of him. And whichever he did, they'd chase him down. Loren and Lee poked sticks into the bleeding openings of the shell. Jeremy opened his mouth, the word “stop” on his lips, but only a choking sound fell off his dry tongue. They paid him no attention, laughing at Loren and Lee.

Loren pumped the BB gun. The turtle rushed for the water on bloody stumps of feet. Its head strained forward with the effort. Jeremy's fingernails cut into his palms as Lee arced his stick overhead and swung it toward the head of the animal. “Turtle golf!” The stick cracked against the shell, spinning the turtle toward the pond. Jeremy tried to take a step back, as if he could excuse himself.

Do something
, said his mind, but his body refused to move.

Loren pointed the gun barrel right in front of the turtle, taunting it. “Come here, little guy, come on. Come kiss my gun. Kiss it. You know you want to.”

The turtle appeared to obey. With an agonizing, desperate desire, it dragged its dying body toward the water behind Loren. He fired. The BB split the animal's head. Crimson and yellow guts splattered the boys' legs. The turtle lay still. Blood dried into the thirsty sand as the boys erupted into laughter. Loren tossed the rifle to Jeremy. “Thanks, dude.”

The gun bounced off his chest and clattered to the ground. Jeremy scowled, glancing from Loren to the turtle to the gun. His heart hammered in his chest, his throat burning with a rage of words that could not escape.

“You want to go back to the pond?” Lee kicked the turtle's body toward the pond. The remnants of the head lolled here and there as the shell tumbled toward the water, leaving a warm sticky trail of innards. Jeremy averted his eyes, bending to pick up his gun.

“Hey Lee, since it was Jeremy's gun, he should throw it in.”

Jeremy froze. He looked up into a devilish smile on Lee's face. “Yeah, if he isn't too much of a wuss.”

“No… no, I don't want to.”

“Why not? You afraid it'll bite you?” Loren made a snapping motion with his hands.

“He's just too much of a sissy. He doesn't want to get his hands dirty,” Lee laughed.

“Throw it! Throw it!” said Roland.

Sy met Jeremy's eyes, but said nothing.

Loren swooped forward, wrenching the gun from Jeremy's clammy fingers. He held the rifle by the barrel. “If you don't throw this turtle in, I'm gonna hit you with your own gun.”

The boys laughed at that.

“You don't think I will?” Loren stepped close, swinging the stock of the gun down in a violent arc. Jeremy tried to scramble back on stiff legs and fell into the dirt, hands crossed over his head.

“Do it,” Loren said, ending his swing an inch from Jeremy's skull.

Keeping one eye on Loren, he crawled back to the turtle. It smelled of coppery manure and mud. He held it at arms length and tried not to breathe, as though death were contagious. Blood trickled onto his hands. Swallowing the nausea and locking his elbows, Jeremy hefted the shell into the pond. It splashed in. He tried to look normal as he wiped his shaking hands on his shorts. Loren dashed forward, swinging the gun at him like a baseball bat. Jeremy flinched, falling mere inches from the water.