Authors: Peter Hedges
He heard the boys shouting, “He’s over here!” Scotty stopped moving. He could see glimpses of their uniforms as they circled on their bikes.
The legs of one of the boys kicked at the bushes, almost
hitting Scotty’s rib cage, and he saw the legs of someone else, so he lifted a large branch and made one final push into the center of the bushes, crawling deeper in, where he made an amazing discovery—an opening, a pocket of sorts, where the earth dipped low, where the light brown topsoil was smooth and inviting, where God had carved out an almost natural chair, a recliner of sorts that seemed to be custom-made just for him.
And as the fourth graders kicked futilely at certain openings, Scotty waited in his secret spot until they gave up and rode off to their game.
He knew about waiting. He’d been waiting all year.
After dark he emerged and not until then, because he didn’t want anyone to see where he was hiding.
It was important to have a place where no one could find you.
(4)
Scotty found himself in an unfortunate situation. With Tom Conway home sick, he was on his own. For a week the two of them had been outsmarting the fourth graders, but now, not only was Scotty alone, he was out of ideas.
The bell rang and the students left for home. Scotty knew that the fourth graders were gathering outside, and he puttered at his desk and then lingered in the hallway.
Before leaving school to confront the inevitable, he went into the bathroom nearest the principal’s office. He splashed cold water on his face. He used the yellow liquid soap to wash his hands and pulled a brown paper towel from the towel dispenser. As he pushed open the hinged door on the trash can,
he realized the domed lid could come off. It took effort but he was able to pry it loose. To his surprise, he fit snugly into the trash can. And if he squatted down (the used towels made a kind of cushion), he could bring the lid back into place.
This was a good plan, for about an hour, until Mr. Fry, the night janitor, pushed his cleaning cart into the bathroom. It was then Scotty knew he would be discovered.
Mr. Fry was sweeping the toilet stalls when he saw in the mirror Scotty Ocean standing, his bottom half covered by the trash can. “Surprise,” Scotty said, hoping Mr. Fry wouldn’t yell at him.
Mr. Fry didn’t even seem startled. Without missing a beat, he said, “School’s about to close up, young man. You better get on.”
The school clock read 4:25 when Scotty emerged from the bathroom. His legs had fallen asleep (they felt all tingly). He walked slowly down the empty hall. Outside no one was around. Even the flags (American and Iowa) had been lowered from the flagpole and folded up for the day. Scotty sat under the kindergarten slide / monkey bars unit for a time just to be sure the boys were gone. It was then that he saw Jodi Jerard standing near the swing set, staring at him.
“Follow me,” she ordered, and he did.
He found himself standing with her in back of where third grade would one day be. With his back to the concrete brick wall, he watched as Jodi removed the black band and metal hoop that helped straighten her teeth. “Headgear’s a pain,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, even though he didn’t know. He still had some baby teeth.
After setting the headgear down carefully on her pink backpack, Jodi used her fingers to comb her frizzy hair. Scotty
looked up at her. He suddenly understood why the other kids called her “horse face,” for Jodi Jerard resembled a horse in all ways. Any mention of it now, though, would destroy the mood and possibly bring him physical harm. Wisely he said nothing. Jodi Jerard was, after all, the tallest fifth grader, stronger than most boys, and most notably, a year earlier as a fourth grader, she had set a school record for the softball throw on Track and Field Day.
They stood facing each other. Since Jodi stood a head taller, Scotty didn’t know where to look. If he stared straight ahead, her breasts, which looked like the pitching mounds at the Little League field, would be all he could see. He better not look down; a man should never look down. Looking up, then, he focused for a time on her forehead. He quickly glanced at her long, fleshy nose. Then he watched as she wet her lips. Finally, after looking at every inch of her face, and having nowhere left to go, he looked her in the eye. Man to man, he thought.
With their eyes locked, Scotty’s from fear, Jodi finally spoke. “I don’t like you, Scotty Ocean. Know that first thing. I’m using you, okay? For practice.”
“Okay…”
“I want to get good. So close your eyes and just stand there.” She then instructed Scotty to open his mouth. Using her tongue, she licked around his lips. “This is the French way.”
“It tickles.”
“Shut up. Just keep your mouth open.” He stretched open more; he even stuck out his tongue. Jodi put her mouth up to his, squeezed his head with her hands, and moved about frantically. Scotty felt little nips and pricks.
When Jodi Jerard slowed her mouth assault, she collapsed on the grass, propped herself up on her elbows, tossed back her
hair, and turned to Scotty. You’re supposed to smile after kissing, Scotty thought. He grinned as best he could.
Jodi froze for a moment. Around Scotty’s mouth, on both the bottom and top lips, were numerous tiny red dots. Scotty had been cut repeatedly from her braces. Blood began to dribble out. It dripped down his chin.
And Scotty thought, This must be the feel of kissing.
Jodi offered her sleeve to stop the bleeding. Scotty preferred to use his own shirt. He untucked it and held it to his lips, long enough, he hoped, for the blood to clot.
“You won’t tell anyone, will you?”
Scotty looked at her.
“I’ll kick you, Scotty Ocean, if you tell
anybody
. I’ll kick you where it counts.”
Scotty swore he’d never tell.
***
At dinner, while his sisters told funny stories to amuse the Judge, Scotty sat with a napkin held close to his face, afraid to chew, convinced his lips would split open.
Before dinner Claire had covered the cuts with a tan/beige makeup. While Claire worked, Maggie proceeded to pummel Scotty with questions about how it happened. Scotty said nothing and looked to Claire for help. She told Maggie to hush. After Maggie got called downstairs to set the table, Scotty breathed out a sigh. Claire smiled. Scotty tried to smile but it hurt so he stopped.
“Ow, huh?” said Claire.
Scotty nodded. He appreciated her not asking questions.
It was during dinner, Maggie later claimed, that she figured it out. For she knew of three other boys, older boys, fifth
graders, who wandered the halls of Clover Hills Elementary with scabby lips. And she knew Jodi Jerard had been the cause.
***
That weekend Joan met her children for a brunch at Baker’s Cafeteria in the Sherwood Forest Shopping Center. When she hugged Scotty, she noticed the tiny scabs that framed his lips. “Sweetie,” Joan said, squatting down to Scotty’s level. “What happened to you?”
Scotty shrugged. It still hurt to smile.
“Let’s eat,” Maggie said. “I’m starved.”
“Now I know you kids have been worried,” Joan said. “But don’t. I’m back on track.”
“We’re glad, Mom,” Claire said.
While they went through the buffet line, Scotty studied his mother. She wore no handcuffs, no prison clothes, and she had no police escort. She seemed fine.
He excused himself to go use the bathroom, and when he came back, he saw Maggie whispering to Joan. He knew she was telling her everything. He sat down in his seat. Joan turned to him. She reached to touch his lips. “Oh, sweetie,” she said.
Scotty said faintly, “What?”
“Honey,” Joan said, suppressing a smile, “you’ve been kissing the wrong people.”
(5)
“Baseball season, Ocean,” Andrew Crow said, holding a Wiffle ball bat. “Do you know what that means?”
Scotty shrugged.
Andrew Crow swung the yellow plastic bat connecting with the Wiffle ball, which sailed over Scotty’s head. He brought the Wiffle ball back to Andrew, who immediately swung again sending the ball flying across the Crows’ backyard.
“It’s time to run the bases.”
Scotty said, “Yes,” for Andrew must be right.
“Remember the bases?”
An out-of-breath Scotty returned with the Wiffle ball, his shoulders heaving. He thought he remembered.
Andrew Crow held the yellow bat with his right hand and took the Wiffle ball in his left. “You need girls to play real baseball.” Smack, the Wiffle ball bounced behind Scotty, who almost tripped as he ran after it. “Ocean, you know what? I almost wish you were a girl.”
An exhausted Scotty, winded and about to fall over, needed two hands to hand it back.
“Thirsty?” said Andrew.
Scotty nodded. He was thirsty.
***
In the Crow house, Andrew put his mouth up to the kitchen sink water faucet. He gulped and gulped, and Scotty watched how his Adam’s apple went up and down with each swallow. Andrew pulled away, sucked in a deep breath, and then drank more. Then he wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve. He didn’t offer Scotty any water. Then he opened the basement door, and before disappearing, said, “Come on.”
Descending the carpeted stairs Scotty thought this was how astronauts must feel. Andrew had gone ahead. Because he was second, Scotty decided to be Buzz Aldrin, and he took the last stairs backward, hopping down a step at a time, the balls of his
feet touching, then his heels, each step moving closer to the orangeish and goldish and yellow-specked shag carpet of Andrew Crow’s basement—and when both feet had finally landed, it felt to Scotty that this was as good as the moon.
Andrew had pulled at the appropriate strings, and the room throbbed with light. Three Chinese lanterns that hung equal distance from each other glowed bright reds, yellows, and greens.
Andrew had so much: his own television set, a hi-fi stereo with individual speakers, even an Audio lite, a speakerlike box that flashed bright color combinations to the beat of music. He had a Ping-Pong table, a bumper pool table with a wall mount for pool cues, and a player piano that you operated with your feet.
Shelves lined the walls with stacks of board games—Clue, Monopoly, Sorry, Stratego, Battleship, Green Ghost. Another closet had Dynamite Shack, Don’t Break the Ice, Don’t Spill the Beans, Skittle Bowl, Operation, Twister, Chinese checkers, Concentration—every game!
“Except for where my mom does laundry,” Andrew said, “the basement is all mine.”
The laundry room took up one small corner of the basement. It wasn’t carpeted; nor was a room in the opposite corner where, lit by a naked bulb that turned on with a hard tug of a dangling string, Scotty saw three impressive sights.
The first was Andrew’s tool chest, everything clean and in order, with man-sized tools hanging on a wall of unpainted Peg-Board. The shape of each tool had been outlined in black.
In the center of the room a rectangular piece of plywood (the size of the Judge’s bed) rested on sawhorses. On top of the board, an HO train track had been laid. Scotty saw the steam locomotive train with coal car, boxcars, an auto carrier
with six miniature automobiles, the remote-control log-dump car with log receiver, a flatcar with three sections of culvert pipe, and an eight-wheel caboose, painted bright red like a bloody nose. He saw a crossing gate, which was to drop as the train approached a lighted freight station with miniature workers.
Around the train, a miniature town was in the process of being constructed. A mountain had been carved out of Styrofoam, and a tunnel ran through its center. Houses with telephone poles, hand-painted street signs, trees, bushes, and cars had been put out in careful arrangements.
“We’re building our own city,” Andrew Crow said. “My dad works on it with me.”
Scotty wanted to run home and tell the Judge. He wanted to show his father the city that the Crows were making. “Evidence,” he wanted to shout. But the Judge would ask, “Evidence of what?” and Scotty would be stumped. This city seemed like evidence to Scotty, some sort of proof that everybody—the Bradys, the Cartwrights, everybody—had it better than the Oceans. But the Crows were close, next door close; all Scotty needed to do was move one house over and all this would be his.
Andrew didn’t turn on the train for Scotty. Instead he moved to the corner of the room and gestured for Scotty to look his way. It was then that Scotty saw Andrew’s personal gym. A punching bag was bolted to the wall with an adjustable mount. It was set at Andrew’s eye level. He reached out, hit it with his fist, and it bounced back and forth. Scotty would have to stand on a stool to be able to punch it. But there was no stool, and Andrew only seemed interested in his own punching.
“It’s a matter of timing,” Andrew announced. He hit the
bag with the back of one hand, then the other, creating a steady rhythm of the bag going forward then backward, like the boxers Scotty had seen training on TV. “A matter of timing,” he repeated, and Scotty thought that Andrew was probably right, not realizing that having the resources and the teacher might also help, and being the right height.
“My dad wants me to be able to defend myself.”
That seemed like a good thing, defending oneself.
In the far corner Scotty saw a most impressive sight. A blue metal weight-lifting bench with a black cushion backrest. A barbell, two dumbbells, and stacks of different-size circular weights.
“One hundred ten pounds worth of weights in all.”
Scotty approached slowly.
“The big ones are ten pounds.” Scotty looked at the circular weights. “Filled with sand.” Embossed on the sides, 10
LBS
. had been stamped in the vinyl weights. Scotty traced the numbers with his finger.
“I can do squats, bench press, curls, clean and jerk.” Andrew bent down and pulled the barbell up to his pelvis. With a single thrust, he lifted it higher, shifting his wrists so the barbell was shoulder height, just below his chin. Breathing quickly through his nose, he prepared for the final lift. He inched his right foot forward, and as he struggled to get the barbell above his head, he grunted like the weight lifters on
Wide World of Sports
. His face turned more red than pink, and the veins in his neck jutted out, his mouth contorted, as if the muscles in his lips were doing their part to help.