Me & Jack (12 page)

chapter 25

T
he fort was wrecked. Someone or something had bashed in the walls and knocked down the posts. The branches lay broken, sticking in the hole like kindling. The trapdoor was cracked in half.

Ray's shoulders slumped. “Geez,” he murmured.

I felt sick as I looked at the destruction. “It was such a good fort,” I said.

“Yeah,” Ray said. He began to pull branches from the heap. Then he stopped. “I don't think we can fix it.” He was right; it was obliterated. I tied up Jack and dragged myself to the ruins.

“Maybe we could just use the hole,” I said, “like, for campfires and stuff.”

Ray considered the idea. “Yeah, that would be good.”

But not nearly as good as having a fort. Ray and I had worked hard on this one. We'd nailed a plank up high for squirrels to run across, and even that had been destroyed.

Anger burned in my heart. “I don't think an animal did this.”

Ray examined the debris and tapped a branch against his leg. “I don't think so either.”

Neither of us said anything after that. It was hard work, stooping over the hole and heaving the logs out. Prickers were in the brambles we'd scattered over the roof; I grabbed a pile of branches and got stuck by one.

“Ow!” I said and dropped the pile. Blood trickled from little pinpoints on my hands.

“You okay?” Ray asked.

“Just some prickers,” I said and wiped my hands on my shorts. As I bent down to pick up the pile again, I saw a flat, odd-looking piece in the brambles. I shook it loose from the other twigs and branches and held it in my hands—a leather strap etched with the figure of a horse. Drops of my own blood stained it.

“Prater!” I snarled. My lips tightened and I squeezed my hands into fists.

Ray stopped. “What?”

I slapped the wristband into his hand.

He straightened up, giving a curt laugh. “Alan,” he said. “I can't believe he wrecked our fort.”

“I can! He's a mean, stupid idiot!” I picked up a stick and hurled it through the woods. “I know he's your cousin, but—”

“He shouldn't get away with this.” Ray looked mad.

Something unleashed inside of me. I stomped over to Ray and snatched the wristband from him. “He's not going to.” I went over and untied Jack.

Ray followed me. “What are you going to do?”

Energy pumped through me. My heart was hard as a rock. “He wrecked our fort—I'm going to wreck his.”

“No,” Ray said. “That won't solve anything.”

“Yes, it will. We'll be even.” Prater would know what it felt like. Stupid wristband. But when I looked at it, really looked at it, I thought it was cool. If I had one of Jack, I'd wear it, too. The wristband wasn't stupid—Prater was. I wanted to go over there with a shovel and fling horse manure all over his stupid dressed-up little tree house.

“Let's go talk to him.” Ray crossed his arms. “See what he has to say.”

Talk? That's not what I had in mind. But I could sure think of a few choice things to say.

chapter 26

A
s Ray, Jack, and I made our way up Prater's driveway, I heard the muffled report of a rifle—target shooting. We leaned our bikes against a corral post, and I held Jack's leash tightly as we climbed the hill to Prater's tree house.

Just as he'd described before, the tree house sat on a platform in the split of the tree trunks. A log staircase led up to a small cabin with a shingled roof and a wide-planked door, which stood open.

Jack and I jogged up the steps behind Ray to the doorway. I'd seen forts and tree houses before but never anything like this. A braided rug covered most of the floor. Two rocking chairs sat together in the far corner, like they were just waiting for people to sit down and talk. Pictures of Prater and Shadow filled the walls. There was even a little table. It looked more like a place for CeeCee to have tea with her dolls than a place for boys to hang out.

Prater sat on a bench holding a rifle, the barrel resting through the window, another gun on the floor. His face was pink and sweaty—no doubt from running all the way home after trashing our fort. He'd obviously heard us tromping up the stairs because he didn't act surprised to see us, and he didn't say hello, not even to Ray. Then he saw Jack. His knuckles whitened as he clutched the gun, then he turned so red I thought his head would explode. “What do
you
want?” he snarled.

“Alan—,” Ray started.

“You wrecked our fort!” I blurted.

“Your
fort
?” he sneered. “Your dog probably got loose and smashed it. Or maybe the wind knocked it down.”

My voice dripped with contempt. “The wind?”

Prater shrugged. He laid down the gun, stood, and his mouth twisted into an ugly smirk. “Could've been a bear.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, thrusting myself forward. I shook the wristband in his face. “Do bears wear these?” He tried to grab it, but I whipped it behind my back. “You liar! You wrecked our fort.”

“Give me that wristband,” he growled.

“Not till you admit you wrecked our fort.”

“You better give that back to me.”

“Or what?” I was suddenly reminded of when he snatched my letter from the dog club.

He shoved me hard on the shoulder. I stumbled backward, almost falling over the bench. Jack rushed at Prater, snapping, snarling, and gnashing his teeth. Prater tried to step away, but Jack checked his every movement. Fear flashed in Prater's eyes. A thrill swept through my body; I'd never seen Jack like this before. My heart swelled with pride that he was protecting me, even though it was scary at the same time.

“Jack,” I murmured. “It's all right.” But Jack did not give up his position. Prater was pressed against the wall of the tree house. I crouched beside Jack and smoothed his fur. “C'mon, boy, it's okay.” I drew him closer to me.

Prater peeled himself off the wall. “That dog almost bit me! I should call the police on him.”

“Come on, Alan,” Ray said. “You started it.”

“So what?” Prater said indignantly. “He could've attacked me and
you
don't even care!”

“Oh, my God.” Ray stared at him.

For a second, Prater looked hurt. Then he remembered himself and glared at me. “Get out of my tree house.”

“What about our fort?” I said. “We all know you did it.”

“I DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR STUPID FORT. Give me my wristband!” He lunged at me, windmilling his arms.

Jack leaped and barked. His lips pulled back to reveal sharp, white teeth. A scissor bite. “You better watch it,” I said, reining Jack in and moving toward the doorway. I turned and whipped the wristband across the room.

“No,” Prater yelled, “
you
better watch it—you and your stupid dog.” He bent down, but instead of grabbing the wristband, he grabbed a gun, raised it to his shoulder, and aimed it at Jack.

The hairs on my arm stood up and I froze. I felt blood whoosh through me. Prater held the gun steady, head tilted, one eye shut, the other eye focused with hate. I couldn't breathe. I did not blink.

“Put that down!” Ray yelled. “What's the matter with you?”

Prater shifted his fingers and gripped the gun firmly. “I want them out of here.” He cocked the hammer.

My heart dropped. Blood drained from my face. I sensed Ray at my side and Jack by my legs, but all I could see was the end of that barrel. I stepped in front of Jack.

“I'm getting your dad!” Ray took one step toward the door and stopped.

Prater held the gun steady. I swallowed.

Jack growled a low warning. Outside, two birds called back and forth to each other, and a breeze rustled through the leaves. Prater opened both eyes and lifted his head. He lowered the gun to his side. “It's just a BB gun,” he sneered, “and it's not even loaded.”

My heart beat light and fast, and my lungs pumped quickly as though I'd been running. Heat crept into my face. “You're an idiot,” I said to Prater in a low voice.

“You're a wuss.”

I wanted to hit him.

“Come on, Jack.” My legs felt shaky as I climbed down the stairs. Jack sensed my lack of balance and slowed down. My eyes stung, but I wasn't going to let Prater think I was crying.

“Josh, wait,” Ray said, leaning out of the doorway.

I shook my head without turning around. All I wanted to do was get out of there, but I walked to show Prater I wasn't afraid of him. I wasn't a wuss.

“Joshua!” Ray called from the tree house. I looked up to him. He had one foot on the steps and one foot in the tree house. He stared at me and Jack for a second, then he pressed his lips together and turned to Prater. “Sometimes you
are
an idiot,” he said. He bounded down the steps and caught up to us. “Come on, let's go.”

Prater rushed to the doorway. “Hey, Ray!”

Ray kept walking.

“You're not my cousin anymore,” Prater spat.

“Who cares!” Ray shouted without turning around.

We mounted our bikes and flew down the driveway with Jack sprinting alongside. Just before we hit the first curve, I looked behind us. Prater stood leaning against the bottom of the tree house steps; he had the BB gun trained on us. I mashed down on the pedals.

chapter 27

L
ater that night, I sat alone in front of the TV without watching. I was still mad about this afternoon. Prater and his stupid wristband. I should never have given it back to him after what he did. The phone rang in the other room, and I heard Dad pick it up. After a few seconds, he raised his voice and sounded angry. I wished people would leave him alone about the air force. My thoughts drifted back to Prater and his guns. He probably pictured himself as a gunslinger—or a
cowboy
with his horses.

I heard Dad put the phone down hard. He came into the living room and he didn't look happy.

“Joshua.” He snapped off the television and sat on the chair next to the couch. Leaning forward, he pressed his right fist into his other hand. “I just got off the phone with Bruce Prater.”

My back shot up ramrod straight.

“He says you threatened his son—”

“
What?
”

“You sicced the dog on Alan.”

“No way! He's lying! He pulled a
gun
on me!” My whole body tightened. I rushed into the story about the fort and finding the wristband and going over there to confront Prater. “He pushed me, so Jack growled at him, that's what happened.”

Dad stared at me. “And then he pointed the BB gun at Jack.”

My mouth half-open, I nodded quickly.

Lines appeared on Dad's forehead. “Why didn't you tell me this earlier?”

I blinked rapidly. I couldn't believe Prater told his dad. I hadn't told
my
dad because I didn't want more trouble with Prater. “Well, it wasn't loaded or anything.”

“For all you knew, it
was
loaded. That kid has no right threatening you like that.” He rose from the chair.

“What are you going to do?” My voice pitched higher than normal.

“I'm going to call his father and let him know what really happened.”

“No!” When he looked at me, I said, “Don't—it'll just make things worse between Prater and me.” I stared at him until his posture relaxed and I knew he'd changed his mind.

“I don't like letting this go,” he said. “Even a BB gun can hurt someone. Is there anything else I should know? Is that all that happened?”

“Yes, sir.”

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Did you know Alan was mauled by a dog when he was little?”

I nodded.

“That dog almost killed him. Bruce said Alan was in bad shape for a while.” He shook his head. “He also said he might file a report, but I think I talked him out of it.”

My eyes bulged in their sockets. “Jack didn't do anything! Prater was the one. He pushed me. He's had it in for us ever since we moved here. Jack was protecting me.”

“Yes, but—”

“Isn't that why we got him? To protect me?” I shouted.

Dad's jaw tensed. He shifted in the chair. “It's not really working out the way I thought it would.” Before I could protest, Dad held up a hand to stop me. “Look, we've had a lot of trouble with Jack. If anything else happens …” He shook his head.

“What?” I said, fear flowing in my blood. “If anything else happens, what?”

Dad looked at me with a sad expression.

“No!” I roared. “We're not giving Jack away.”

“Joshua—”

“No!” I yelled as I bounded up the stairs. Jack galloped behind me.

I slammed the door and fell onto the bed. Jack hopped up and licked my cheek. Everything was closing in on me. The only safe place was with Jack. I lay there, my thoughts racing, until I heard a car roll up our driveway. My heart struck a hard beat. Prater's dad couldn't have called someone already.

I jumped to the window and saw a guy getting out of his car. The tightness in my chest eased up. It was just Mark.

“Don't worry, boy,” I said as I turned from the window to Jack. “I won't let anything happen to you.”

chapter 28

I
t's weird how cemeteries are actually nice places, if you don't count the gravestones. The smell of fresh-cut grass breezed over the grounds. Huge trees cast pools of shade over the sloping lawns. I shivered against the morning chill, but already the sun touched my arms, a promise of the heat to come.

I stood next to my dad in the cemetery. He wore his crisp dress uniform. Army, air force, and marine veterans—young guys and old-timers—mixed in with a crush of people from town. I spotted Mark in his dress blues. He looked different somehow. It wasn't just the uniform; he carried himself differently. While the rest of the people his age bent their heads to talk or slouched with their hands in their pockets, Mark faced forward, eyes level, hands at his sides, his back ramrod straight. I fixed up my posture.

So many people turned out for David Kowalski's burial that the crowd curved around the open grave, a dark hole with boards and lashes laid over it. Dad and I somehow ended up sort of facing the family. I tried not to, but my eyes kept returning to them. Is that how Dad and I had looked? Skin sagging off our faces, eyes dim, unseeing? The lady I pegged as the mother sat shrunken into herself. I looked away from her.

As a bugler played “Amazing Grace,” army soldiers marched to the hearse and hefted out the coffin. Mrs. Kowalski's shoulders started to shake. She pressed a tissue to her mouth. A man, her husband, laid his hand on her arm.

They had played “Amazing Grace” at Mom's funeral, too. She picked it out herself. Picked out her own dress to be buried in. Told Dad what prayers she wanted for the service. Everyone said she looked like she was sleeping, but I didn't think so. That body in her coffin didn't look like her; it looked like a statue of her.

I flexed the muscles in my jaw and faced David Kowalski's casket.

When the preacher got done talking, the army pallbearers stepped up and folded the flag. They had white gloves on, and the last guy to hold the flag pulled it to his chest like he was hugging it.

Mrs. Kowalski groaned and shook her head as he walked up to her with it. “No, no, no …” Her husband wrapped his arm around her. Together, they took the folded flag from the soldier. She clutched it now in her lap, rocking. The girls behind me let out little sobs.

Dad and Mark and the other veterans held their salute.

Off to the side, I heard, “Ready!” and the cocking of guns. Seven army soldiers held their rifles. “Aim!” A silence. “Fire!”

Boom!
I flinched big-time. Seven military-issue rifles firing at the same time … it was a sound that commanded my whole body to attention. As a group, they fired two more times—a twenty-one-gun salute. Then a bugler played “Taps.” I could see houses across from the cemetery. Could they hear the bugler? Did they sit in their kitchen listening to those lonely notes and wonder
Who's being buried today?
I would not want to live in any of those houses.

When it was all over, people went up to the family; some got in their cars. Mark shook hands with the father and said a few words to the mother; then he came over and joined us.

“You shaved!” I said. He'd gotten a haircut, too.

He gave me a sharp nod. Military mode, I recognized it immediately.

Dad asked, “How are you holding up?”

Mark looked straight at him. “He was two years ahead of me in school. I can't—” He clenched his jaw, swallowed.

I watched Dad watch Mark, and I saw him make a decision. “You wouldn't mind taking Joshua home for me, would you?”

“No, sir.”

“But, Dad!” My response came automatically. I didn't know why. It wasn't like I wanted to stay at the graveyard or talk to the family, and Jack was probably busting to get outside anyway. It made me feel better to think of Jack. “Okay, never mind.”

As Mark and I climbed into his Mustang, I saw Dad shake Mr. Kowalski's hand and grip his shoulder. Then we took off.

“Cool car,” I said, rolling down the window.

“Thanks, I got it before.”
Before Vietnam
.

I stuck out my hand and let the wind push it up and down.

“Man, that was heavy.” Mark had his sunglasses on, but his voice gave him away.

“Were you guys friends?” That's the hardest thing, if it's someone you know, someone you care about. I didn't know David Kowalski.

Mark shook his head. “Didn't know him that well.” His chest rose with a big sigh. “But some of my friends—” He swallowed noisily a couple of times before going on. “Guys I met over there, they bought it. They died. My sergeant was only twenty-one.…”

“My mom was thirty-two.”

He glanced at me, then looked back at the road. “Man, I'm sorry. I just—I don't know—how do you get over it?”

I felt that familiar sting at the back of my eyes. “You don't get over it,” I said slowly. Mom was still alive in movies I kept in my head. I thought about her every day. “You never get over it. You just …” I didn't know how to explain it, so I used Dad's words. “You learn to live with knowing they're gone.”

We rode ahead, both of us lost in our own thoughts. The valley was farm after farm with black-and-white cows and old barns. We passed by rows of corn and straw-colored patches of land. The wind carried the sweet field scent into the car along with the heat.

“You want a Coke or something?” Mark asked. “I'm dying of thirst.”

“Me, too.”

As Mark paid for our drinks at a drugstore, a guy and a girl got in line behind us.

“Hey, G.I. Joe!” The guy snorted. The girl giggled, covering her mouth.

Mark pocketed his change and handed me my drink.

“Did you have fun in Vietnam?” the guy said. “Did you kill any babies?”

I looked at him with horror, then at Mark. Mark's eyes hardened, but the only thing he said was, “Come on, Joshua.”

My mouth dropped as he pushed open the door and walked out. I couldn't believe he wasn't going to do anything. Just as I was about to follow him, I heard the guy inside snort.

“Big tough guy,” he said. The girl punched his arm and told him to stop, but she laughed.

I gritted my teeth and stood back in the doorway. My neck and face burned with anger. “Shut up,” I said.

The guy tilted his head like maybe he didn't hear me right.

“Shut up!” I said again.

The girl raised a hand to her mouth.

The guy put his stuff down on the counter and sauntered over. My eyes narrowed. I squared my shoulders. He stood almost as tall as Dad but looked about Mark's age. When he planted himself in front of me, he said, “Your buddy's a killer—you know that, right?”

I stared at him hard.

Behind me, the bells jingled and the door opened. The guy startled.

“Joshua.” It was Mark.

The lady at the counter backed up. “I don't want any trouble in here,” she said, but it was Mark she looked at.

“There's no trouble here, ma'am,” Mark said, then he directed himself to the guy. Their eyes locked for a moment.

The guy didn't say anything. Mark gave one sharp nod, then turned to leave. As he pushed through the door, the guy's body relaxed.

I pierced him with my eyes. “Big tough guy,” I said.

When we got into the Mustang, Mark wedged his Coke bottle against the cigarette lighter and flipped off the cap. He tilted the bottle up and drained about half of it before starting the car.

I popped mine off, too, but I held it at my side. “Why didn't you say anything to him?” I asked. “Why didn't you do something?”

He cranked the wheel and took us out of the parking lot, onto the freeway. Wind whipped through the car as he accelerated. Staring straight ahead, he answered, “I won't disgrace the uniform.”