Trouble (15 page)

Henry hated her letter.

He wanted to hate Little Cambodia the way Franklin would have wanted him to hate it. Franklin wasn't there any longer to handle Trouble. Henry was responsible now—like Franklin had said. So he would hate Chay Chouan, and he would climb Katahdin and hike the Knife Edge because it would show that he had the guts to do it. Even without Franklin. And after that, he'd be ready to handle anything. By himself.

So Henry hated his mother's letter. And so did most of Blythbury-by-the-Sea.

The very next issue of the
Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle
brought the worst letters yet. It is all very well, they said, to play the forgiving Christian and to turn the other cheek. But with all respect to the grieving Smiths, this trouble had been coming on Blythbury-by-the-Sea for some time, and the community needed to understand that those who have come late to this country do not have the same regard for human life that the founders of this nation built into the very fabric and experience of American life.

Henry stopped bringing in the paper each morning. He left it on the stoop when he went to run Black Dog down to the cove. Afterward, he would pick it up and take it to the garbage can inside the carriage house.

But Trouble is not easily quieted.

This seemed especially true at Whittier, where no one—not even Coach Santori—had given Henry grief over his missed strokes during the Cape Ann Coastal Invitational. He wished that Coach would make him do laps until he dropped, or make him sprint up and down the bleachers. Something. But everyone believed Henry was filled with Outrage, and they wanted to share it.

The only one at Whittier who understood what was burning in Henry's guts was Sanborn.

"You know that Katahdin is five thousand two hundred and sixty-seven feet high, right?" he said.

Henry looked at him. "Monday we start final exams," he said, "and you're reading about how high Katahdin is?"

"It is sort of miraculous, isn't it? And what's even more miraculous is that I can read about how high Katahdin is and still do better than you on every final."

"You are a wonder, Sanborn. How is it that the United States government hasn't picked you up yet?"

"They're too ignorant. Do you think we can do it?"

"Do what?"

"Speaking of ignorant ... climb Katahdin."

"Of course I can climb Katahdin. I'm a big boy."

"I'm going with you."

"You'd never make it, Sanborn. You're not coming with me."

"I'll end up having to carry you."

"You'd never make it."

"Why don't you say that a third time, Henry, because after you say something three times out loud and tap the heels of your shoes, then it becomes true."

"You'd never make it."

Henry was surprised at both the strength and fierceness of Sanborn's initial assault, and how, despite a couple of pretty good blows to Sanborn's stomach and one strong chop to his left side, he found himself below Sanborn with his face deep in the grass and his right arm twisted behind him and Sanborn's left knee in the small of his back.

From which Sanborn released him only when Mrs. Smith came to pick them up.

"You'd never make it," whispered Henry as they drove to Sanborn's house.

"You wouldn't make it without me," whispered Sanborn.

"I guess we'll never find out, since you won't know when I'm going."

"We'll find out," said Sanborn, "since if I don't go, they'll discover your dead body somewhere in the woods after looking for it for six months."

"You'd never make it," whispered Henry again.

At which Sanborn turned to him, and there was no laughter in his face: "Why don't you try to sound a little more like your brother, Henry?"

Which was the last thing they said to each other until they drove up to Sanborn's house and Sanborn's mother came out to console Henry's mother, who did not want to be consoled by Sanborn's mother but who endured it all pretty well—even Mrs. Brigham's weepy expressions of sorrow for the loss of your dear, dear Frederick.

Until they drove away, when his mother sighed, and sighed again, and then began to wonder aloud why everyone in Blythbury-by-the-Sea thought it was their right to know every little detail about Franklin's accident and every little detail about how he died and every little detail about how they were living now and when would they all finally stop asking how she felt because it wasn't their concern, anyway, because it was a private family matter.

Then she stopped to breathe. Henry decided that he probably didn't need to say a thing.

He especially didn't need to say a thing, because he had already said too much. Sanborn had been right. He did sound like Franklin.

Henry wondered why he didn't want to tell his parents about Katahdin. Maybe it was a private matter. Maybe, if he had asked himself, he wouldn't have been able to say exactly why he wanted to climb the mountain. Not entirely, anyway. To prove himself? To get ready for Trouble? Because he had been going to climb it with Franklin? Maybe. But there was something else, too. Something more.

He decided he'd better stop thinking about the mountain and get studying for finals week, which began that next Monday with his American History class and then rushed into Language Arts, then Government, then into Pre-Algebra—so getting worse and worse as the week went on until Friday, when he'd have Life Science and then PE—where the whole class had to run a 6:25 mile, something Sanborn couldn't do if his most dreaded nightmare was careening after him. He dreamed of someday being at Longfellow Prep, where classes were already done by the end of May. If Franklin were alive, he'd be giving Henry all sorts of grief, because he'd already be packed and ready to head up to Katahdin, and couldn't his little brother hurry up and finish his little classes so they could get going?

But Franklin was in the low swelling of the ground, and there was no one to give him grief. At least, not that grief.

On Monday afternoon, while Henry was rowing crew practice, he figured out one cause of World War I that he had missed on the American History final, but he calculated that he'd probably get an A- anyway—especially since he did a bang-up job on Lewis and Clark, those Great American Heroes.

Later, toward midnight on Monday, two bricks crashed simultaneously through the two first-story bedroom windows of the Chouan house in Merton.

On Tuesday, Henry wrote an essay evaluating the role of revenge in Chaucer's "Miller's Tale." He thought his analysis was unusually perceptive, because he used the word
bildungsroman,
figuring that the German would impress Mrs. Delderfield—even if it didn't really have much to do with "The Miller's Tale."

On Tuesday night, someone broke into the Chouan garage, tore off all the chrome from their pickup, and left it twisted and mangled on the front lawn.

On Wednesday morning, Henry heard before his Government final exam about the bricks and the chrome. Then he couldn't remember the process by which a federal bill becomes a law, or how Congress goes about overriding a veto, or whether governors had any role in drawing up the shape of congressional districts in their states. Since there were only ten questions on the exam and he had to make up three answers completely out of thin air, he figured that he hadn't done as well as he might have.

On Wednesday night, nothing happened at the Chouan house in Merton.

On Thursday, Henry, humiliated by his Government exam, found new depths of humiliation when he couldn't remember if he had to do the operations inside the parentheses first, or if the outside operations had to be performed on the interior numbers first, or if he should just go ahead and multiply through the parentheses, after all. Never in the history of Whittier Academy had there been so many erasures on a single sheet of paper. By the time it was over, Henry was amazed that his whole Pre-Algebra test hadn't dissolved into one big hole.

On Thursday night, nothing happened at the Chouan house in Merton. Henry checked the
Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle
the next morning to be sure.

On Friday, Henry decided that there would be no more humiliation. He answered Life Science questions as if he had made up the whole science himself, and he thought the way he differentiated one phylum from another and then explained the operations of photosynthesis should make his teacher cry, it was so beautiful.

Afterward, he ran a 5:32 mile in PE. No surprise there, except that he had hoped to come in a little lower. Say, in under four minutes.

But there was one surprise that afternoon. Sanborn came in at 6:23.

"Two ... seconds to ... spare," he said to Henry after he crossed the finish line—and after he was able to breathe again.

"Sanborn, that's amazing!" yelled Henry. "Amazing. That's, like, five times faster than you've ever run it before. How did you do that?"

Henry had to wait a little bit for his answer. Sanborn was still trying to suck in air.

"Practice ... and ... discipline, ... my ... boy," he said. "Practice ... and ... discipline."

"I guess so," said Henry.

"I want to be ... in shape ... when we climb ... Katahdin."

"I'm climbing Katahdin alone," said Henry.

"Why ... don't you keep ... on saying that, ... Henry, ... and then I'll grind ... your sweaty ... face ... into the ... track."

Henry decided that he wouldn't say it anymore.

But he
was
going to climb Katahdin alone.

Friday afternoon, Coach Santori called Henry aside after crew practice. Apparently, he thought he'd waited long enough for Henry to deal with his Outrage. Regionals were coming up, Coach Santori said. He wasn't sure that Henry's recent loss wouldn't be a distraction, he said. He was replacing Henry for Regionals, and probably for State, he said. But Henry would be welcome to come and dress for the meets anyway, he said. Go take a shower.

Friday night, two bricks went through the picture window of the Chouan house. The Merton police were waiting. After a short chase, they arrested two members of the Longfellow Prep rugby team for vandalism and trespassing, and that, according to the
Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle,
was only the beginning of potential charges.

When Henry read the news while standing on the stoop, the wound on his palm began to throb.

When Louisa—who was finally coming down for some meals—looked through the thick glass of the door and saw Henry standing on the stoop, she came outside and took the paper and read the news herself. Then she ran back upstairs. She wouldn't open her door until Henry sent Black Dog upstairs, who pawed a couple of times, and whined, and then went inside when the door opened just enough.

Henry lay in bed that night, completely alone.

So he was awake after midnight when his father's slow slippered feet slid along the Oriental runner and down the steps toward the kitchen. He threw on a shirt and followed. He found him in the downstairs hall by the flintlocks, lit by a small lamp.

"You're up late," his father said.

"So are you."

His father nodded. He pointed to two of the flintlocks in the collection. "Those were in the wreck. I took them back from the historical society—we should have something, at least. They need some work. But they've been exposed too long. They'll probably never fire again."

"That's okay," said Henry.

His father considered them. He ran his hand along their stocks and trailed his fingers across their worn and pitted barrels. "I never thought Trouble would come to this house," he said quietly. "Not really. Not to us." He paused. "I should have oiled these stocks better before I mounted them."

"We can do it another time."

"I suppose." His father took his hand down and slipped it into the pocket of his robe. His mouth worked for a bit before he spoke again. "Henry," he said. "Henry, do you think Franklin would have grown into a good man?"

Henry was so startled, he took a step back.

"I know," said his father. "How can anybody ask that? But lately, it's the only question I seem to be able to ask. Not: Why was Franklin taken from us? Not: What should happen to Chay Chouan? But: Would Franklin have grown into a good man? And I'm not sure I have the courage to hear a true answer."

"Dad."

"So I wander these halls at night, looking at old flintlocks, wondering, trying to understand, trying to figure out if all the time I thought Trouble could never come in, it was already inside, and I knew it, and I didn't want to know it. And then, Henry, then I wonder if Franklin being taken from us wasn't somehow ... if Franklin was going to grow up ... Oh, Henry."

He held out his arms. Henry filled them.

The flintlocks mounted on the wall in the downstairs hall of the Smith house glowed in the dimmed light. They had been in more than a few battles—at least four at Trenton, one at Lexington, two at the North Bridge, one fired as late as Antietam. But none had ever been in a battle as fierce as the one being fought that night, deep in a father and a brother whose hearts lay broken open—a battle whose outcome could never be fully decided.

***

He let his father believe that he had learned to be cold inside. With him, this was not hard. He did not show that he missed his dog. He did not speak of her to anyone. And he did not flinch when his father turned only to his brother.

But tears wept deep at night, alone, are not cold.

D
URING THE FIRST WEEKS OF
J
UNE,
Henry couldn't help wondering why the staff of the historical society was so concerned about the ship down in Salvage Cove. Front-page articles in the
Blythbury-by-the-Sea Chronicle
—with headlines in bold print—made it seem as if heaven and earth depended upon unraveling the terrific mysteries of a three-century-old wreck. Today!

Probably, the articles speculated, she had been a merchant trading ship traveling up and down the coast of New England. But, as Dr. Cavendish asked, if she had only been a trading vessel, why were so many cutlasses found? (And taken away, Henry thought.) And why so many muskets found? (And taken away.) And the cannon, which seemed much too large for a merchant ship. (Those, too.) The rings along the hull and the chains attached to them were another problem. They might, Dr. Cavendish said, suggest that this had been a slave ship, but this seemed unlikely. So what purpose did the chains and rings serve? And how had she burned? Henry wasn't surprised to see that Dr. Cavendish agreed with the bigger policeman: She was burned after she had been driven up on the shore. But who had burned her? If the crew had run her up on shore, why had they burned her? And why was there no record of her loss? And why were the cutlasses and cannon never salvaged? Or the chains, for that matter?