Remember the Time

T
he front porch of the Victorian house provides the only relief from the afternoon sun. The threat of a thunderstorm will only make the heat worse, and the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia hunkers down to wait out the summer of 1977. Likewise, the three teenagers who sit sprawled on the porch in various states of heat prostration
.

“Can it get any hotter?” Kate asks, her voice taking on just the slightest hint of a whine
.

“Don’t say that.” Paul watches a fly take a desultory stroll across his forearm
.

“Bet it’s hotter than this in Arizona,” Mike comments
.

“But it’s a dry heat,” Paul and Kate say in unison. Paul looks down at Kate and they grin at each other
.

No one on that porch doubts Paul Armstrong will be in Phoenix next summer. He is the golden boy of Staunton High School’s baseball team. Making it to the majors isn’t a pipe dream for Paul. His self-confidence will make it happen
.

Kate groans as she raises her head from Paul’s lap
.

“Where’re you going, Ms. Moran?” Paul asks, his fingers closing around her wrist
.

“Get more tea.”

“Ya gotta kiss me first.”

“It’s too hot,” she moans, but they all know she doesn’t mean it
.

Both boys watch Kate’s walk to the front door. Her cutoffs are short and her legs are long. Mike silently sings the praises of summer. The screen door slaps closed behind her and, for a few seconds, the relentless drone of the cicadas is silenced
.

Mike feels a rivulet of sweat trickle down the nape of his neck. He looks over at his best friend. “How’d you get so lucky?” he asks
.

Paul slouches lower in the porch swing, setting off a gentle rocking motion. “It’s that Armstrong charm.”

Mike snorts and shifts in the wicker armchair
.

“Hey, we both had an equal shot at her.” Paul’s voice holds the hint of a shrug. “She picked me.”

Mike remembers it differently, but says, “Yeah. I guess she’s not as smart as she looks.”

“I heard that, Michael Fitzgerald,” Kate states, pushing open the screen door
.

“Heard what?” Mike asks innocently
.

Kate perches on the porch railing and rolls the cool glass across her forehead
.

“You know I love you both. Just different.”

“Please don’t give me that ‘I love you like a brother’ routine. It wounds me,” Mike says in what he hopes passes for mock pain
.

The glass at her lips, Kate rolls her eyes at him then closes them and tilts her head back to take a long drink
.

Her thick auburn hair is pulled back in a high ponytail, but a few heat-damp strands cling to her neck. Mike wants to lift them, blow on her hot skin. He wants to put his mouth there and taste her. The thought brings on the beginning of an erection and he guiltily glances at Paul
.

When Mike sees those amused hazel eyes looking back at him he knows he’s been caught
.

T
he initial assault on his body knocked the wind out of him. Gasping for air, he was swept along in the tumult of the newly born river in the Arizona desert. Rocks pummeled him. One particularly jagged stone hit his leg with such force that it slashed his jeans and cut open his thigh. He could feel the warm blood swirling around him, contrasting sharply with the cold water. A small manzanita tree swept past him, caught his left arm, and pulled it back. He could hear the snap as a bone broke. The pain made him scream, and then there was nothing but numbness.

The thoughts that flashed through his mind were quicksilver and, in some ways, senseless.
There goes the season
. Followed by,
Kate’s gonna be so pissed when she sees me
. And then,
I’m gonna have to buy Stu a new Jeep
.

A lethargy had come over him and the idea of sleep floated around his mind like a pleasant daydream. But there was something he needed to do. What was it? God, he couldn’t think anymore.

Paul could hear something over the thunderous crashing of the water around him. It must’ve been Mitch.
Mitch is gonna be late. I’ll have to explain it all to his wife
 … Opening his eyes, Paul caught sight of the Jeep and
remembered the most important thing. The thing he’d forgotten.

It took all the concentration he had left for him to reach out his right hand and grasp the side mirror. His legs—his whole body—were whipped backward by the oncoming water, and he screamed again when something hit his lacerated leg with the force of a twenty-pound hammer.

There it was! He could see his wallet wedged between the dashboard and the windscreen. If he could just reach his wallet, open it up, look at that photograph—he’d be able to find the strength to get through this. The decision he’d made earlier was too important to be sidetracked by a few cuts and bruises, or a broken arm.

He was only thirty-four years old. He was healthy and strong. Dying was not on his agenda. Not for a very long time. All his intensity—all the life he had left—went into pulling himself up to the open window.

But he never heard Mitchell’s terrified shout. He never saw the boulder that crashed through the flimsy canvas roof of the Jeep, shattering the windshield, and his skull. He never got to hold the photograph hidden in the recesses of his wallet.

The search for Paul Armstrong and Mitchell Browder began at one
P.M
., immediately after the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department received the call from Kate Armstrong. Kate made the call immediately after Browder’s wife phoned from the airport, complaining that her husband had failed to pick her up, and “I’m standing here with a cranky four-year-old and every damn toy she’s got and five suitcases.”

The search ended at 2:48
P.M
. because Paul Armstrong and Mitchell Browder were just where they said they’d be.