Trouble (11 page)

But they did.

Henry hid the next
Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle,
since he read the "Letters to the Editor" first and he didn't think his parents needed to.

Because the letters were right. Chay Chouan had crashed into his brother. Franklin's left arm was gone. He might not ever open his eyes again. And Chay Chouan was going to have his driver's license suspended? His
driver's license
?

Henry did what he could to not think about it. He rowed so hard in crew practice that Coach Santori said that if everyone only worked as hard as Smith here, then maybe they'd make it to State. As it was, Coach Santori wondered if they'd even make a respectable showing at Regionals—if they even got that far, because no one was working as hard as Smith, and they should all do what he was doing if they wanted to represent Whittier with anything approaching pride. And if they didn't want to represent Whittier with anything approaching pride, then they should get out of his shells before he took them out of his shells, and they had better move to someplace else—like Little Cambodia in Merton—because they wouldn't want to stay here and find out what he was going to do to them.

Which speech, of course, made everyone—especially Brandon Sheringham—hate Henry's guts for the rest of the afternoon and probably accounted for his shampoo falling off the shelf and emptying into the shower drains and his missing red-and-white boxers—which he discovered with an identifying note hanging beneath the red-and-white Whittier Academy flag when his mother dropped him off the next morning and he went to see what everyone was looking at.

Meanwhile, Blythbury-by-the-Sea seethed. The unfairness of it. The injustice. The judge must,
must
be going after the immigrant vote. Probably he was looking toward a political career. If these people wanted to come to America, why wouldn't they agree to abide by American laws? When was this country going to wake up? Everyone in Blythbury-by-the-Sea believed that something should be done. Something had to be done.

Everyone except Sanborn.

"There wasn't anything else your parents could have done," he said while they waited together after Debate—still on the future of nuclear power.

"Wasn't it just a few days ago that I beat you up?" said Henry.

"You must have been dreaming that, little man. Chay Chouan has no police record. He tried to help. He bandaged Franklin's arm. And he went to find the policeman."

"And he's Cambodian. And no one is supposed to say anything mean about Cambodians, because America is big enough for everyone and we should try to understand people who are different from ourselves. Do you want me to keep going, Sanborn, or should I just go ahead and throw up now?"

Sanborn shook his head. "I think you did just throw up," he said.

"And since when did we become everyone's business?"

Sanborn shrugged. "People like to see other people in trouble, as long as it isn't their own."

Silence.

"I really can take you, you know," said Henry.

"I think I could probably pin you in under a minute," said Sanborn.

"Maybe, Sanborn. Maybe you could pin me in under a minute—if I had triple pneumonia and five broken bones and a really, really runny nose."

But Sanborn was pretty close when Henry's mother drove up to bring them home.

The last week of April and then the first week of May came in soon afterward. There were sweet showers, and the forsythia burst into yellow blossoms, and the purple and white lilacs began to swell, and the tender daffodils bobbed back and forth in the warm breath of the wind. The gardens along the back side of the house came out with their solid greens and shy yellows and blues—as they did every year, to show that some things do not change.

And still Blythbury-by-the-Sea seethed, and there were more letters in the
Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle
that Henry had to hide.

And Henry grew more and more eager to climb Katahdin.

He did not tell his parents about his plans. He didn't tell anyone except Sanborn, who looked at him with his eyebrow crooked as they jogged laps during PE under the baleful eye of Coach Santori. The new May sun was warm on their bare backs.

"You're going to climb Katahdin alone?"

Henry nodded.

"How are you going to get there?"

"I don't know. Thumb, I guess."

"And you're going to climb it alone?"

Henry smacked him on the arm. "Gee, Sanborn, you catch on real quick."

Sanborn smacked him back. "Gee, Henry, it's been nice knowing you. People die when they climb mountains alone."

"Like in Tibet, they do."

"You know that Katahdin has a ridge called the Knife Edge?"

"Yes, Sanborn. Are you my mother?"

"And you know that you're not even allowed up there most of the year?"

"You know, I'm really glad I told you about this. I've got this new surge of confidence."

"I'm going with you."

"You've never climbed a mountain, Sanborn."

"So?"

"You've never even camped out overnight."

"I repeat: So?"

"And you couldn't even stay up with me around this track if I was half trying."

"Okay. So can you press your own weight?"

"Yes."

Sanborn didn't answer.

"Can you press your own weight?" asked Henry.

"With you on top of it."

"Liar."

"Fool."

"Big butt."

"Skinny runt."

And that was the way the rest of the laps went, until the last one, when Henry did sprint ahead and did come in way before Sanborn and didn't begin with the intention of locking Sanborn out of the locker room but did it anyway, so that Sanborn had to go way around the school and in through the front doors and fuss with Dr. Sheringham about not having a pass and coming into Whittier without a shirt on.

Henry dressed before Sanborn could find him, figuring that nuclear power's dangers would give him a chance to cool down from any desire to murder his best friend.

That afternoon at home, Henry and Black Dog went into Franklin's room. Black Dog had never been in there before, so she set to sniffing around. Henry opened Franklin's closet and found his backpack. He took out Franklin's compass, his propane stove, and a length of rope. In the front flap of the backpack he found the maps of Katahdin's trails, and he opened one to look at the Knife Edge—which did look steep as all get-out. He wondered if he would need to have Black Dog tied close to him when he crossed it. Then he took out the tube saw, and the steel hatchet, and the match canister, and even a couple of flares that Franklin had kept for a long time—just in case—and which his mother would have hollered about if she knew he had kept them in the house. Henry took it all back to his room and stored it in his own new pack, which he slid carefully under his bed when he was finished.

He would wait for the right time to go. And he wouldn't tell Sanborn about it anymore.

After supper, he went down again to the cove. The Blythbury-by-the-Sea Historical Society had finished digging all around the ship, and her entire backbone was being held up by wood and steel supports and cables. They had found three more swords (which they had also taken away), more than a few cannonballs, shards of broken bottles, and more round barrel hoops, mostly melted out of form. There had been four muskets (they had taken these, too), and more broken brown pottery that anyone could ever hope to piece together—which had not stopped the Blythbury-by-the-Sea Historical Society from resolving to try.

Black Dog sniffed around at all the new smells they had left behind. Henry checked to see that the stain of his blood was still along the ship's rib.

It was. He could see it plainly in the long light of the lengthening day.

And that was when he smelled the smoke.

It came from the west. It wasn't strong, but even so, it sent the seagulls scattering and shouting into the air, and Black Dog turned and lifted her snout toward it. They watched as far away smoke columned upward, and after the sky darkened, Henry could make out a dim glow diffusing against the clouds. He thought he could hear sirens.

Henry and Black Dog watched the opening story on the late local news that night. It reported that one of the old boarding houses had been burned to the ground, representing a huge historical loss to the town. The only business destroyed was Merton Masonry and Stonework, which occupied the boarding house's first floor. It was owned by Mr. Chouan of Merton, whose son had been involved in the recent hit-and-run incident in Blythbury-by-the-Sea. No one had been injured. The police had not ruled out the possibility of arson.

Black Dog, who was curled up in front of the television, her nose in her tail, never moved at the news. But the palm of Henry's hand began to throb.

B
Y THE NEXT MORNING,
arson had been confirmed.

No one in Blythbury-by-the-Sea got that news sooner than Henry, who got it around seven from two Merton policemen who came over to ask a few questions. They were large, really huge men whose presence filled the kitchen. When Black Dog put her ears down and lowered her head to be scratched—which the bigger of the two policemen did—Henry couldn't help but feel that she was being a traitor.

Maybe Henry's mother felt this, too. She didn't offer the policemen any of the coffee percolating happily on the counter.

They sat down at the kitchen table. The less big policeman wiped away some muffin crumbs left over from breakfast. "That coffee sure smells good," he said.

Silence for a minute. The bigger policeman coughed lightly. Then he opened a notebook and turned to Henry. "Yesterday, did you come home right after school?" he asked.

"After crew practice."

"And what time was that?"

"Around four thirty," said Henry's mother.

"And, ma'am, were you here when he arrived home?"

"I drove him home."

The policeman turned back to Henry. "And your school is"—he checked his notes—"John GreenleafWhittier Academy."

"Yes," said Henry. He tapped his knee so that Black Dog would come over to him, which she did—good dog.

"Here in Blythbury?"

"Yes."

"Pretty snooty," the less big policeman commented.

Henry's mother stiffened.

"Did you know anyone in the Chouan family, Henry?"

"Not personally."

"I'm guessing that you're pretty angry at that family."

Henry didn't answer.

"Are you angry enough to burn down a business they own?"

"I didn't burn down any business," said Henry.

"Henry has already told you where he was yesterday afternoon," said his mother.

The bigger policeman looked hard at Henry. "Do you know anyone who might want to burn down the Chouans' business because they were angry enough?"

"Maybe everyone in Blythbury-by-the-Sea."

"Anyone in particular?"

"No."

"Any guesses?"

"No."

"Huh," said the bigger policeman. He scratched the back of his head, sort of the way Black Dog did. "Henry," he said, "this is serious business. I mean, really serious business. If somebody had been in that building, then the charge would be murder—and who knows if whoever did this won't do something like it again. So I'm asking you again, Henry, do you know anyone who might have burned down the Chouans' business?"

"No," said Henry.

"Have you ever heard someone threaten to—"

"How many times does Henry need to answer the same question?" his mother snapped.

"I'm hoping to hear something that's helpful, ma'am. Maybe something that could save a life," the bigger policeman explained. He was being officially polite.

Henry's mother stood up and Black Dog went under the kitchen table. "We're done here," she said. "Henry has to get ready for school."

Neither policeman moved. They heard Black Dog's nails clicking on the quarried-stone kitchen floor as she circled and circled, tramping down whatever it was she was tramping down before she could collapse.

"We could take the kid in for questioning," said the less bigger policeman.

"If you had a warrant. And Henry won't be saying anything to anyone without our lawyer present."

"Well, Mrs. Smith, technically we don't need a warrant to ..."

The bigger policeman stood—and when he stood, he stood a whole lot higher than Henry's mother. "Why so uncooperative, Mrs. Smith? We're investigating an arson case and you're—"

"And I'm about to drop my son off at school and then head to the hospital, where my other son is lying in an induced coma to control the swelling in his brain, while you want to harass Henry after he's already told you what he knows about an arson case involving a family that almost killed my boy. Who's being uncooperative?"

"Then maybe we should speak to your daughter." The bigger policeman looked down at his notes again. "Louisa Smith."

Henry's mother shook her head. "I don't think so. No."

"Why not?"

"Because the justice system has been so kind to us."

"Mrs. Smith, you really don't think that these two cases are unrelated."

Henry saw his mother stiffen even more. She leaned over and put her hands on the kitchen table. They were trembling. "I hope that they're not," she said quietly.

"Mrs. Smith—"

"But if they are, we had nothing to do with it. And I don't like you coming into my house thinking you could have your case all nice and solved if you could prove that this was a case of revenge, because the family who has to live with a maimed son for the rest of their lives are angry because the one who did it to him got off with a slapped wrist. I don't like that at all, and I wish you would leave now."

The bigger policeman closed his notebook. He looked at Henry and his mother and smiled. "I understand," he said. "But these are questions that have got to get answered. We could have done it here. Maybe now it'll be under a court order. But I want you to know, Mrs. Smith, I do understand." He nodded to the less bigger policeman, who rose. They all stood together—even Black Dog, who jumped up to have her head scratched again.

"Come here, Black Dog," said Henry's mother. She reached down, grabbed Black Dog's collar, and held her close to her side.