The Shadow Year (22 page)

The men met in our backyard on Saturday as the sun was going down. My father said Jim and I could sit out with them for a while if we kept quiet. Mr. Mason, my father, Mr. Farley, Dan Curdmeyer, and Mr. Conrad sat in lawn chairs back by the forsythia bushes, which had begun to sprout yellow buds. There was a warm breeze, and it was more night than day. Mr. Conrad had brought a six-pack and a flashlight. Curdmeyer had brought two of each. Mr. Farley was the last to arrive, with a bottle of whiskey and a stack of Dixie cups.

I sat next to my father's chair on the ground and Jim sat in his own chair. Mr. Conrad offered my father a beer. “Thanks,” said my father, and he laughed. Mr. Farley started pouring cups of whiskey and passing them around. Almost everyone was smoking; Curdmeyer had a pipe. When all the men had a little paper cup, Mr. Mason held his up and said, “To the night watch.”

They took a sip, and then Dan Curdmeyer said, “Where's Hayes? It was his daughter, wasn't it?”

“I don't know,” said Mr. Mason, shaking his head. “My wife made me set this up.”

They all chuckled, low, almost embarrassed.

“I had my kids rig trip wires in all the backyards except this one. Two sticks with fishing line and a can with stones in it. If
we hear them, we're supposed to run and catch the Peeping Tom,” said Mason.

I pictured Henry and the horrible dumplings, rattling soda cans.

“Run? After a few more of these,” said Farley, “
crawl
will be more like it.”

“Drinks outside,” said my father. “Not a bad plan.”

“If we hear someone, will you guys go after them?” asked Mason.

“Sure,” said Mr. Conrad, “I'll kick their ass.” A second later he broke into a grin.

“We'll see how it goes,” said my father, and after that the talk turned to the weather and money. The drinks flowed. Cigarettes flared and were stamped out. A curse word was thrown in every now and then. The men's laughter was distant, as if they were laughing at something they remembered more than what had just been said. Full night arrived, and it got a little cooler.

Mr. Farley talked about a new machine-gun system that was being made at Grumman, where he worked. “A thousand rounds a second,” he said.

“How big are the shells?” my father asked.

Farley held out two trembling fingers about five inches apart. He smiled as if it were the most amazing news. When Farley was finished going on about the miraculous design, Mr. Conrad took a matchbox out of his pocket, set his drink down, and picked up the flashlight he'd brought.

“What have you got there, Jake?” asked Curdmeyer, who was already slumped back in his chair.

Conrad slid open the matchbox and shone the flashlight on it. He held the box out to my father, who put his drink on the ground. The small square dropped onto his palm. I stood up so I could see better. Lying on cotton inside the little box was the tiny brown figure of a naked woman.

My father laughed. “Which ear did that come out of?” he asked.

“One goes straight through to the other,” Conrad said.

Farley laughed.

My father passed it on to Curdmeyer, who looked and said, “How did you shape it?”

“Paper clip, my thumbnail, a straight pin…”

“This was a pretty big ball of
earwax
,” said Farley when it was passed to him.

“I've always had a lot of wax,” said Mr. Conrad, and shyly nodded his head.

“You made this from your earwax?” asked Mason when it was his turn to view Conrad's creation. He grimaced like it was a turd. “That's bizarre.”

“He's got a whole chess set made from it,” said Curdmeyer.

Mr. Mason shook his head and handed the matchbox back to its owner. After that they talked about the army, and I lay down on the ground where I'd been sitting.

“At Aberdeen, in basic, there was this lieutenant,” said my father. “I was just thinking about him the other day. He was a little skinny Jewish guy with glasses. The sleeves of his uniform came down almost past his fingers. His pants were too big. Everybody laughed at him behind his back and wondered how he'd made rank. Then one day they had us standing in trenches, tossing live grenades. You pulled the pin, waited, and then you had to throw it up over the top of the trench. So one of the guys lobs it, and it hits the lip of the trench and falls back inside. Everybody froze and just stared at the grenade, except for that lieutenant. I'm talking like in less than a second he leaps into the trench, grabs the grenade, and tosses it over the top. Amazing. It exploded in midair, and some of the shrapnel fell into the trench, but no one was hit. From that day on, no one ever gave a shit about how his uniform looked.” He punctuated his story with a drag on his cigarette.

Mr. Farley spoke like a sleepwalker. “Our unit was part of the invasion of Normandy. North coast of France. What they called ‘the hedgerow.' The Nazis were dug in up high, and there was swamp to one side of us. They had a whole panzer division up there. We made this push that later came to be known as the Breakout at Saint-Lo.

“I can't even begin to describe the slaughter. Not a day goes by without me remembering it.” He went quiet, and I thought for a second he'd fallen asleep.

“What happened?” asked Conrad.

Mr. Farley woke from his reverie and said, “The terrain was crazy, and we'd gotten to a point where we had to get word back to the main force. The road was blocked, and they needed a runner to go overland with a message. The colonel picked this skinny kid, he couldn't have been more than seventeen. I still remember his name—Wellington. He was useless as a soldier, but he was fast as hell. They gave him the message and sent him on his way. He ran back across the battlefield we'd just fought through. The message got to where it was going, but Wellington never returned to the unit. Later we found him in a field hospital. Apparently he'd had to run over the dead. It was the only way. Had to step on them as he went, but he got the message through.”

“Was he wounded?” asked Mason.

Farley shook his head. “As soon as he delivered the message, he lost his sight. Struck stone blind from what he'd seen.”

In the silence that followed, I must have dozed off, because when I came to, Jim had gone inside and the subject had turned to the Yankees. I never cared about baseball, but I knew some of the names. Mr. Farley was talking about a new player, Thurman Munson. He said, “I think he's going to be good. He's got that real determination.”

“Yeah,” said my father, half asleep.

“I agree,” said Curdmeyer, puffing on his pipe.

Mason was silent, but Jake Conrad said, “He doesn't look like him, but he reminds me of that old screwball pitcher the Yankees had.”

“From when?” asked Farley.

“Maybe early fifties,” said Conrad.

“Are you talking about the Riddler?” Farley said.

“Yeah,” said Conrad and laughed.

“Riddley was his name,” said Curdmeyer. “He jumped out a hotel window in Cleveland. He was determined, all right. They said he was hooked on pills.”

“Scott Riddley,” my father said, leaning over to tap my back. “You better go in to bed,” he said.

“In a minute,” I said, and he didn't insist. The ground had gotten cold, but I was so sleepy that even the mention of Riddley couldn't excite me. “Tell Jim,” I reminded myself.

I woke some time later to silence. In the house, the dining-room and kitchen lights had been turned off. Out in the yard, Mr. Farley's chair was empty, and the rest of the men were asleep. Conrad clutched his Dixie cup. Mr. Mason sat straight and was almost snoring. I lay listening to the night, and I think I had a feeling about it like the one Mrs. Grimm told us that people have about church. It started me shivering. I got to my feet and turned toward the house, picturing my bed. Just past the cherry tree, I heard something—a clinking sound from a few backyards over. Maybe the Masons' place?

Was it Ray or Mr. White? I stood there trying to decide whether or not to call my father. Before I could figure it out, Mr. Conrad's big ears had scooped up the sound and he was standing. He went around the circle nudging each of the men and putting his finger to his lips. I returned to them and joined the tight circle they formed.

“Your backyard,” Conrad whispered, pointing to Mason. Mason looked toward his house, worried, and adjusted his glasses.

Curdmeyer said, “Two stay here, and two guys go down the block, get around behind him, and flush him this way.”

“I'll go,” said my father. He turned to me, and I thought he was going to send me in, but instead he said, “Go sit on the front steps, and if you see anyone but us, scream. If he comes after you, run in the house and lock the door.”

It was decided that Jake Conrad would go with my father. I followed them as they left the backyard and then split off to take up my position on the front steps. If it was Ray, I knew I'd somehow have to warn him or help him get away. I wished Jim were with me. There was a little ball of energy lodged between my throat and stomach. I couldn't just sit on the steps but instead stood out by the street, looking nervously up and down the block.

I saw my father and Conrad on our side of the street, at the very edge of the glow from the lamp in front of the Hayeses' house. When they stepped off the asphalt and headed across the Masons' front lawn, I lost them to the shadows. Then I waited, trying to quiet my breathing so I could hear better. My heart started going, and I couldn't stand still. I walked across the driveway between the cars and stood at the edge of the Conrads' yard. I thought I heard the sound of change jingle in my father's pocket, but I wasn't sure.

Five seconds later I heard Conrad yell, “Whoa!”

I felt the running in the ground before I saw him. Ray came out of the dark across the Conrads' lawn. Behind him I heard my father say, “Over here!”

“Put your hand out,” Ray whispered from the dark.

Just as I did, he went by, leaping over the back of Pop's car in one bound. A second later I realized that there was a folded piece of paper between my fingers. I slipped it into my pocket and watched as my father and Conrad ran past me up the street. I turned and looked up the block, and somehow Curdmeyer and Mason were there just past the Dundens'. Ray made a
quick turn into the Dundens' backyard, and Mason, who'd seen what was happening and started running, was right on his heels. I ran to catch up to the action, my father and Conrad already moving across the Dundens' lawn toward their backyard.

Curdmeyer and I got there at the same time. Mason and Conrad and my father were standing in front of the Dundens' shed. As we got closer, Mason put his finger to his lips and pointed. My father leaned over to Curdmeyer and whispered, “He's in there.”

The men quietly formed a semicircle around the shed door. Conrad lifted his flashlight but didn't turn it on. Mason motioned for me to open the door. I looked over to my father, and he nodded. My hand was trembling. I grabbed the latch and pulled on it. Conrad hit the flashlight, and I ducked away, not wanting to face what was about to happen.

When I looked again, Mason was standing in the shed with the flashlight, pointing it into one corner after another.

Conrad lit a cigarette. “Houdini,” he said.

“I could swear he came in here,” said Mason. “I heard the door open and close.”

“Okay,” said my father, “we lost him, but let's look around the streets a little.”

“Did anyone get a look at him?” said Curdmeyer.

“Yeah,” said my father. “He's just a kid.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“I saw his face,” said Mason. “But I've never seen him before.”

“You know who he looked like?” said Curdmeyer. “That kid who used to live up the block.” He pointed.

“You mean the people who moved before we came in?” said Mason.

“Halloways,” said my father. “They've been gone for a while.”

“But it
can't
be him,” said Conrad.

My father flashed a worried glance in my direction.

“That's right, I forgot,” said Curdmeyer.

When we got back out into the street, they decided to break up and walk the block for a little while. I went with my father, and we headed around the corner toward the school. Who knew how late it was? The ordeal at the Dundens' shed had drained me. My father didn't say anything. We got to the school, went through the gates and off onto the field toward Sewer Pipe Hill.

Suddenly he stopped in the middle of the field and cocked his head back. “Look at the stars,” he said.

I looked. There were more than I'd ever seen before.

He pointed toward the north. “Do you see the bright one there?” he asked.

I nodded, although I wasn't sure which one he meant.

“The light from that star could have taken a thousand years to reach us. If we could dissect that light and study it, we could see a thousand years into the past. Time travel,” he said.

I thought of someone on a planet going around that star, sending me a message. “Likewise,” he said, “someone out there is seeing a thousand years ago from here.”

“Ten centuries,” I said.

“Right. Times tables. Good.” He clapped once and said, “Let's go home.”

We met Conrad and Mason on Conrad's lawn. My father told them we hadn't seen anyone. They said Curdmeyer had already gone to bed. “Did you guys see anyone?” asked my father. Conrad shook his head, and Mason said, “Just some old guy walking over on Feems Road.”

“What'd he look like?” asked my father.

“He was too old. Besides, he was wearing an overcoat and hat. I'd be surprised if the guy could run.”

“It's kind of late for a walk,” said my father.

“No shit,” said Conrad. “I'm going in.”

“I've had enough,” said Mason.