The Curse of the Blue Figurine (10 page)

The rehearsal for the May procession only lasted an hour, but to Johnny it seemed like it went on forever. Finally, though, around noon the nuns decided to call it quits. Streams of talking and laughing kids poured out through the three doors in the front of the church. Johnny went running out with the rest. He paused on the sidewalk, and he squinted and winced. After an hour in the dusky gloom of the church the light made his nearsighted eyes hurt. But when the pain passed, Johnny found that—once again—he was staring at Phil Absen. There he was, out by the bicycle rack, with the prayer book under his arm. He had a very pious, prissy look on his face, and he was talking to Sister Electa. Well, this was just too much. Johnny took off on the run, and he 
didn't stop till he came to where the two of them were standing.

"Hey, Sister!" Johnny exclaimed breathlessly. "Phil stole my prayer book! That's my prayer book! Make him give it back!"

Phil stared at Johnny with wide, scared eyes. He clutched the prayer book to his chest. "It's
not
his, Sister! He's lyin'! This's
my
prayer book. My... my mom gave it to me."

"I'm not a liar, but
he
is!" Johnny yelled, pointing a trembling finger at Phil. "He's a dirty, rotten liar! Sister, make him give it back! It's mine, I swear to God it is!"

The kids who had been standing and talking outside the church now crowded around Phil and Johnny. They knew that something was up. Somebody was going to get in trouble, and they wanted to watch.

Sister Electa looked from Johnny to Phil and back to Johnny again. She seemed perplexed, but she was determined to stay in control of the situation. "John," she said with a pained look on her face, "I know you're upset, but please try to lower your voice. And it is not a good idea, at any time, to use God's name in a loose way. Now then!" Sister Electa folded her arms under the scapular of her gown. She turned to Phil. "Phillip," she said in a mild but firm voice, "John here has accused you of taking his prayer book. I know John, and I know that he doesn't usually run around making wild accusations. However, it is possible that he has made a mistake in this case. Now, are you
sure
that that prayer book is yours?"

Phil's eyes grew wider and gogglier. It was clear that he was scared out of his mind. Still, though, he clung to the book. "It is
too
mine!" he said in a loud, childish voice. "He's a liar, Sister! He's a real liar!"

Sister Electa stared pityingly at Phil. She knew him pretty well, and she knew he had problems. She was well aware that there was something wrong with Phil's mind. Most of the time she tried to treat him just like any other twelve-year-old. But right now he was acting like a kid of six, and she felt she had to handle him differently.

Sister Electa unfolded her arms. She held out a well-washed hand. "Phillip," she said gently, "could I see the prayer book?"

Reluctantly Phil offered her the prayer book. Sister Electa took it, and then she turned to Johnny. "Now, John!" she said in a brisk, businesslike way. "Are there any identifying marks in this book? Is your name written in it anywhere?"

"It sure is, Sister. My dad wrote my name on the blank page in the front. Look and see if it's there."

Sister Electa opened the book. The flyleaf was gone. It had been torn out, torn out roughly. A ragged strip of white paper still protruded from the binding.

Sister Electa was silent for a moment. Then she looked searchingly, accusingly at Phil and once again held out her hand.

"Phillip," she said in a commanding voice, "I'd like to see
everything
that's in your pockets!"

Several of the kids in the crowd snickered and laughed.

Phil went white, but he did as he was told. First he pulled out a very dirty handkerchief and gave it to the nun. The crowd roared, but Sister Electa remained stern and unamused.

"Very good, Phillip. Now the other pocket, if you please."

Phil dug his hand into the other pocket and gave Sister, Electa a handful of change. Still, however, she was not satisfied.

"Turn both your pockets all the way out," she said.

Phil did this, and a small wad of paper dropped from his left-hand pants pocket. The nun stooped and picked it up. Without a word she handed it to Johnny. With difficulty he uncrumpled the tight little wad of paper. But even before he had done this, he knew what he had: It was the missing flyleaf.

Suddenly Phil Absen started to cry. His childish face got all red and twisted up. He raised a trembling finger and pointed into the crowd. "Eddie Tompke made me do it!" he wailed. "It's his fault! He told me to do it!"

Johnny whirled and looked where Phil was pointing. Sure enough, there on the edge of the crowd stood Eddie, broken arm and all. There was a cynical, crooked grin on his face.

Sister Electa glowered skeptically at Phil. "Young man," she said severely, "don't try to blame things on other people when they're your own fault! Now, I'm going to give this prayer book back to John Dixon, and I'm also going to ask you to tell him that you're sorry 
you took it. And I'm afraid that you're going to have to stay after school today and have a little talk with me. Stealing is a somewhat more serious matter than you seem to think it is. Now, tell John that you're sorry you took his prayer book."

Still sniffling, Phil turned to Johnny. He stared at Johnny's shoes and blew his nose before he spoke. "I'm sorry I took it," he said in a dull, defeated monotone, "but like I said, Eddie—"

"Please!"
exclaimed Sister Electa, cutting Phil off. "Please stop trying to blame others for what you did! Now, Phillip, go into the school and wash your face and pull yourself together. As for the rest of you," she added, turning to the crowd of kids who were still eagerly watching, "please find something else to do with your time. Go eat your lunches. You've only got half an hour till classes begin again. Go on, all of you! Make yourselves scarce!" Sister Electa made shooing motions with her hands.

The crowd broke up. Johnny thanked Sister Electa hurriedly and turned away. He should have felt triumphant, but he didn't. Something was bothering him. Phil had said that Eddie made him steal the prayer book. Sister Electa did not believe Phil, but Johnny did. Eddie liked to boss around weak, helpless kids, and Phil was about as weak and helpless as they come. Even with a broken arm Eddie could be pretty terrifying. He had probably threatened to do all sorts of nasty things to Phil unless he followed orders.

As Johnny was still standing there, thinking, he suddenly felt somebody's hand patting him on the back. He turned. It was Eddie.

"Boy, old Absen-minded can really tell 'em, can't he?" Eddie chortled. "Glad you got your prayer book back. They oughta toss that kid in the booby hatch! What a liar!"

Still chortling, Eddie walked away. Johnny watched him go. That settled it. Eddie would never have done what he had just done unless he was the guilty one. Johnny felt angry, but he also felt helpless and depressed. How long was he going to have to put up with Eddie? Would Eddie follow him around all through eighth grade, playing dirty tricks on him and making his life miserable?

Johnny did not have any answers to these questions. So he went back to the school building, clumped down the stairs to the basement lunchroom, and ate the sandwich and banana that he had brought with him. The rest of the school day passed in its usual way. Social studies and arithmetic for the last two hours of the day, the final prayer and the ringing of the bell for dismissal. And then all the kids swarmed down the worn, creaky stairs and out the front door into the sunlight. As usual Johnny was one of the last to leave. And when he finally did walk out the door, briefcase in hand, he didn't feel like going home. Not right away, anyway. So he decided to go down and walk by the river.

The Merrimack River, one of the widest and longest 
rivers in New England, flowed through the middle of Duston Heights. Along its banks stood abandoned factories, long red brick buildings with tall brick smokestacks rising above them. Many years ago these factories had made cloth, but now they were closed, and their narrow windows were broken. Johnny liked the old factories. They were almost like haunted houses. As he walked along the grass-grown sidewalks of Water Street he peered up at the buildings that towered over him. High up, set in the brick walls, were little red terra-cotta decorations, leering monster faces or the solemn bearded masks of—Johnny imagined—Greek gods. Or you might see a stone plaque that said LEVERETT BROTHERS EST. 1882. And here and there in the empty spaces between the buildings you might see an old rusted piece of machinery or a wooden clock face that had once been in a cupola somewhere.

After he had walked for two or three blocks, Johnny came to a place where a weedy courtyard opened out between two buildings. At the far end of the courtyard was a low half-ruined brick wall. Set neatly in a row on top of the wall were some old glass bottles. And standing there, slinging rocks at the bottles with his good arm, was Eddie Tompke.

Johnny froze. For a moment he just stood there watching. Eddie hadn't seen him yet. He was busy slinging away, throwing sidearm and then overhand, imitating the motions of a big-league baseball pitcher. His aim was pretty good. Pieces of broken glass lay at 
the base of the wall. Johnny wondered what he ought to do. Should he just slink on past, go about his business? Normally that was what he would have done. But Johnny was feeling strange. A force was rising up inside him, something irresistible. It was this force that made him do what he did next.

"Hey, Eddie!" he yelled suddenly. "You made Phil steal my prayer book, didn't you? You rotten flatheaded creep, I hope you fall down a manhole and break your other arm! You hear what I said, you rotten creep? You hear me?" Johnny gasped and turned pale. He hadn't meant to yell like that. It had all just come pouring out of him, almost as if somebody else was using his body and his vocal chords. Now what was going to happen?

Eddie turned around slowly. His mouth was set in a tense scowl, and his eyes were like two gray stones. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously calm.

"Come over here and say that, John baby."

Johnny was terrified. He wanted to run, but his feet wouldn't move. Even with a broken arm Eddie could make mincemeat out of him. The muscles in both his arms were like ropes, and his chest was like a cement wall. He would break his glasses and give him two black eyes and a split lip. He would beat Johnny to a pulp.

"I... I..." Johnny began, but he couldn't get the words out. Rooted to the spot with fear, he watched as Eddie began walking slowly toward him. And then something strange and totally unexpected happened. Johnny felt a sharp pain in his ring finger, and it seemed 
to him that the yellow stone flashed. And then a strong wind began to blow. It sprang up out of nowhere and blew past Johnny. The bushes that grew in the courtyard flailed madly to and fro. Bits of paper sailed up into the air, and a cloud of yellowish dust flew at Eddie. Coughing and sputtering, Eddie staggered backward. The wind blew harder and threw him, stumbling and reeling, against the brick wall. Bottles flew this way and that, and when Eddie stuck out a hand to steady himself, it came down on a piece of broken glass.

Eddie howled and jerked his hand toward his mouth. He sucked at the bleeding cut. Then silence fell. The wind died as suddenly as it had sprung up, and the yellow dust settled. Eddie looked at Johnny, and Johnny looked at Eddie. And which of them was more frightened it would have been hard to say.

It was a bright, sunshiny Saturday in May, and the professor was up on the square Italian cupola that jutted above the roof of his house. He was wearing overalls, his mouth was full of nails, and he had a hammer in his hand. The cupola had windows all around and a tiled roof with a silly wooden finial sprouting from it. All around the cupola rickety scaffolding had been built, and attached to the cupola roof was a fantastic framework of wooden slats, braces, joists, and whatnot. Someday, when it was finished, this framework would support an elaborate radio aerial. The professor was a wild Red Sox fan. He loved to listen to the Sox on the radio while he corrected his students' papers. The problem was this: WITS in Boston was the only station that carried the 
baseball games, and its signal was pretty faint by the time it reached Duston Heights. But the professor was confident that his superduper whizbang aerial would solve the problem. He had been reading up on aerials in
Mechanix Illustrated
and other handyman magazines, and in his study was a blueprint that he had drawn up, all by himself. Now if he could only get the job done, everything would be fine.

But as he worked the professor frowned and muttered to himself. He was worried. Not about his work but about Johnny. It was May 10, ten days after Johnny's run-in with Eddie Tompke. And in all that time the professor had not seen Johnny to talk with, not once. Normally Johnny came over three or four times a week for chess and conversation and chocolate cake. But not now. At first the professor had felt hurt. Then he had told himself that he was an old fool, that Johnny had— no doubt—found some young friend who was fun to be with. But then he began to watch for Johnny out of the front windows of his house. And what he saw alarmed him. Johnny was never with anyone. He always walked alone, head down, briefcase in hand. And he looked awful. His face was very pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked as if he had not slept for a week.

And so the professor was concerned. He wanted to know what was wrong. So far he had resisted the urge to butt in on the Dixons' family affairs. He couldn't imagine that Gramma and Grampa were mistreating 
Johnny. That did not seem possible. But then, what
was
going on?