Timmy frowned. Since when did the Smeltzers have the money for a dirt bike?
“Was he angry at you guys for waking him up, or just angry in general?”
“Both,” Doug said. "He called me a fag, because I don't play baseball and stuff.
Said that's why my dad left."
“I'm sorry, man. You know that's not true.”
“I know,” Doug said softly, “but it still hurts sometimes. Just cause I don't play sports, that's no reason to say mean things like that.”
Barry squeezed his friend's shoulder. “I feel bad. He was probably just really tired.”
“He was acting weird.” Timmy refused to let Barry make excuses for his father's behavior.
"Said we weren't allowed to play here anymore, and you weren't allowed here, either, after sundown."
"That's true,“ Barry confirmed. ”Some new rule about trespassing. Guess these teenagers were the last straw. Nobody is allowed in here after dark. He called the church board this morning, right before he went back to bed. Sounds like they were in agreement.
He got permission to get some signs made up and everything."
Doug dismounted. “What about during the day?”
“Well,” Barry said, finished with the raking, "he told me we weren't allowed to play around here anymore, especially not after dark. The way it sounded, he didn't want me here at all, except to work. No bike riding. No skateboarding."
“That sucks,” Timmy spat. “What's the big deal?”
Barry shrugged.
Timmy felt his summer slipping away, and it angered him.
“Where are we supposed to hang out instead?”
“The dump?” Doug suggested. “Or over in Bowman's Woods? I bet Mr. Bowman wouldn't care. Or Mr. Jones's pond?”
“No way.” Timmy slid off his bike and flicked a bug off the front mag wheel. "Only thing we can do at the pond is fish. We can't swim in it with all those snapping turtles and water snakes.“ He shuddered at the mere thought of snakes, then continued. ”And too many other people go through Bowman 's Woods-- hunters, hikers, older kids. Besides, it's too far to go every day. The Dugout is right here. We're just going to abandon it?"
“We could build a new one. A better fort.” Doug segued into the introduction from The Six Million Dollar Man.
“We can rebuild it. We can make it better than it was before. Better. Stronger. Fas --”
“Shut up,” Barry said, rolling his eyes. “Retard.”
Doug pouted. “Then how about a tree house?”
Timmy scoffed. "A tree house? Get real, man. Those are for pussies. It's too easy for other kids to raid. You guys want Ronny, Jason, and Steve stealing our stuff when we're not around?"
Ronny Nace, Jason Glatfelter, and Steve Laughman, each a year older and a grade higher than the boys, were the town bullies-- and their sworn enemies. They lived beyond the Jones farm, along Route 116, but often road their bikes up the hill and into Timmy, Doug, and Barry 's territory. Presently, an uneasy truce existed between the two trios, but all of them knew that before the summer was over, because of slights real or imagined, a new war would break out. The last time, it had been because Ronny and Jason had thrown rocks at Doug and called him fat boy when he rode by their homes on his way to the Colonial Valley Flea Market.
The time before that, it had started because Barry shot Steve in the butt with his BB gun.
Although none of the boys would have admitted it out loud, they looked forward to the yearly wars. The familiarity was comforting.
Barry wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. "Look. If we're inside the Dugout, then my dad can't see us, anyway. He'll never even know that we're over here. I don't see the point in moving. And besides, when we sneak out at night, it ain't like nobody knows. We can play over here then."
All three of them were experts at sneaking out, crawling through their bedroom windows after their parents had gone to sleep and getting into midnight mischief; or at least Barry and Timmy were. Doug often used the front door rather than the window, since his mother never seemed to care if he was home or not.
Agreeing that Barry was right, they turned toward more pressing matters. Timmy decided to keep quiet about the fact that his grandfather was aware of the Dugout 's existence. He wasn't sure how the guys would react.
“Is that the map?” Barry asked, pointing at the tube in Doug's hands. "You done with it?
Grinning proudly, Doug nodded.
“Let's see it.”
Doug glanced around furtively, as if expecting Barry's father, or perhaps one of their archenemies, to be lurking behind a tombstone.
“Let's take it to the Dugout first. Safer there.”
With Barry perched atop Timmy's handlebars, they rode over to the fort, and stowed their bikes in the tall weeds, obscuring them from view. They made sure no one was in sight, and then pulled up the trapdoor quickly climbing down the ladder and disappearing into the hole. Once they were settled, Timmy pulled the trapdoor shut, plunging them into darkness. Barry clicked on the flashlight and shined the beam around until Timmy struck a match and lit the rusty kerosene lamp they'd salvaged from the dump. The soft glow filled the underground space, flickering off the moldering centerfolds of naked women and posters torn from the pages of Fangoria and Heavy Metal hanging from the tan-colored wood paneling, which had been rescued from the dump and pinned to the soil with twelve-penny nails, clothesline, and generous amounts of duct tape. (The most important thing that Timmy 's father had ever taught him was that duct tape could be used for anything-- from battlefield triage to plumbing to hanging pictures.) Doug moved a stack of comic books, Hustler, and Cracked magazines off the card table and pulled the cap off the plastic tube, while Timmy and Barry fished cans of Pepsi out of an old Styrofoam cooler. With something bordering on reverence, Doug took out the map, unrolled it, and spread it across the table.
“Wow,” Timmy exclaimed after a moment's pause.
Barry whistled in appreciation.
“You guys like it?”
“Totally.” Barry's attention was glued to the map.
“You did good, man.” Timmy clapped Doug on the back. “It's amazing.”
Spread out before them was a scale depiction of their world, their domain. Doug had captured everything in loving detail: their homes and the roads between them, the surrounding forests, the cemetery, the homes of their enemies, and the location of the Dugout. The area devoted to Bowman's Woods was filled with hand-drawn trees, each one meticulously rendered. The graveyard had hundreds of tiny tombstones. Catcher's driveway had an illustration of a growling dog along with the words, Here There Be Monsters.
“How long did this take you?” Barry asked. “You must have worked on it, like, forever.”
Smiling, Doug shrugged. “It was easy. I did a lot at night, after my mom had gone to sleep or was watching TV. I stayed up late. It was fun. Used a whole box of colored pencils.”
Timmy's eyes shone. “This is so cool. We can mark off stuff as we discover it. And you even left room around the edges.”
“Yeah. I figured when we explore those places, we can add it to the map.”
Timmy's index finger traced the roads. “Cool. You even added Ronny, Jason, and Steve's forts.”
“The one's we know about, at least.”
“We can use this to plan our strategy before we raid them. Make sure we have escape routes and stuff like that.”
“That's what I figured,” Doug agreed. “We can hang it up, and you can mark stuff on it, just like a real general would.”
Timmy smiled. “General Graco. I like the sound of that.”
“How come you get to be the general?” Barry flicked Timmy's ear with his thumb and index finger. “I didn't vote for you.”
“You don't vote for generals,” Doug said.
“Yeah, well, I outrank you, even if Timmy's the general.”
“No way.”
Timmy turned their attention back to the map. “Hey, we could even--”
“Listen,” Barry whispered, interrupting. “You guys hear that?”
“What?” Doug asked.
They tilted their heads upward, straining to listen.
“Timmmmmyyyyyyy!”
The voice was faint, but drawing closer. It was his mother.
“Timmy? Where are you?”
“Oh, man,” Timmy moaned, “if she finds out about this place, she'll never let me play here again.”
Barry rolled up the map. “Why not?”
“Because she'll freak out and worry that it will collapse on us or something.”
“What do you think she wants?” Barry stuffed the map back in its protective tube.
“It ain't lunch time.”
“Probably wants me to help my dad. Let's just stay down here till she's gone.”
“Timmmmyyyy? Timmy, answer me!”
Barry slapped his forehead. “Oh shit. The bikes are up there, man. If she sees them, she'll know we're around here somewhere.”
“So? We're underground. She can't find us.”
“Yeah, but if she's looking in this spot, she might notice the stovepipe, and figure it out.”
“Shit. You're right.” Timmy thought of his grandfather. The stovepipe had given the fort's location away to him as well.
Quickly, they blew out the lantern and clambered up the ladder again, scrambling for the bikes. Timmy's mother stood about fifty yards away on the cemetery's lower road. Her back was turned to them as they approached. She called out again, hands cupped around her mouth.
Timmy pedaled towards her before acknowledging her cries.
“I'm here, Mom.”
Elizabeth Graco spun around, and Timmy was surprised to see that she was crying.
Black mascara ran down her cheeks. Her eyes were red and puffy. Her expression was frantic and worried.
“Timmy, where were you? We've been looking all over!”
His spirits sank. He was in trouble now. It appeared that his grandfather had been unsuccessful in convincing his father to let Timmy have the day off.
“I--I was just...”
“Come home, now. Your father's on his way to the Hanover Hospital.”
Timmy's pulse accelerated. “The hospital? What happened? Is he okay?”
“It's your grandfather.” She took a deep breath. “He ... he had a heart attack.”
“Grandpa?”
Sobbing, his mother nodded.
“What's wrong with Grandpa?”
“The paramedics think it was a heart attack,” she repeated.
“Is he going to be okay?”
She began sobbing again.
“Mom? Is he all right?”
“No ... He's gone, Timmy. He passed away.”
Dane Graco had suffered a massive heart attack just after Timmy and Doug left the house. He was dead before the paramedics arrived. Timmy's mother had found him slumped over on the couch when she came into the living room to tell Timmy to go help his father in the garden.
Although the next morning was Sunday, the Graco's didn't go to church, the first time since winter of the previous year when they'd all had the flu. Elizabeth went to church every Sunday because she believed. Her belief was sincere. Randy went out of deferment to his wife. His belief was one of convenience. Timmy went because he wasn't offered a choice. He didn't know what he believed yet.
For the next few days, they moped around the too-quiet house. It seemed empty without Dane Graco's lively presence. Randy and Timmy were too stunned to do more than stare at the walls. Both cried off and on and Elizabeth did her best to console them, trying to stay strong for her husband and son. It wasn't enough. Randy took a few days off work from the paper mill, contacted his father 's friends and distant relatives; he made the funeral preparations and tried to keep busy. It wasn't enough. Timmy stayed in his bedroom a lot, consoling himself with comic books, trying to escape his grief by escaping into stories of men in brightly colored costumes so that he wouldn't have to think about his own reality. It wasn't enough.
The funeral was held the following Tuesday at the Golgotha Lutheran Church. The weather was chilly for summer. The sky was gray and overcast, and a cold light drizzle fell all morning long. It suited Timmy's mood. When he walked inside the church for the viewing, Timmy heard muted voices.
He followed his parents through the vestibule doors and into the church itself, and stopped in the doorway. He was stunned by the turnout, and for a few moments, the crowd's size took his mind off the fact that his grandfather was lying in a casket at the front of the church. Everybody was there. Barry and his parents. Clark Smeltzer appeared sober and sincere, and offered his condolences to the Gracos, shaking Timmy 's hand as if nothing had happened between them the Saturday before. Timmy noticed that in addition to his new gold watch, Barry's father was also sporting an antique-looking solid gold tie clip. Doug and his mother, Carol, who wore a skirt several inches too short and dark sunglasses to hide what were no doubt even darker circles beneath her eyes, were there, as were Bill and Kathryn Wahl, the elderly couple who lived next door to the Smeltzers. There were several distant relatives of his grandfather whom Timmy had either never met or barely recalled. He hadn't even known his grandfather had cousins until now-- his grandfather had never mentioned them. Others in attendance included Luke Jones, who owned the farm bordering the cemetery and the Dugout, and some fellow Freemasons from his grandfather's lodge. Dane had achieved the rank of a fourth-degree mark master in life. There were friends of his grandfather's from within the community, church members, and the LeHorn family, who attended the Brethren church in Seven Valleys. Mr. LeHorn's father had been a good friend of Dane Graco's. Even Mr. Messinger, who ran the newsstand in town and sold the boys their comic books and cards, was on hand, looking both solemn and uncomfortable in his suit and tie.
Reverend Moore was there, too, along with his wife, Sylvia, and their youngest daughter, Katie. She looked pretty. She always did in Timmy's eyes. Her flowing brown hair was hanging down over the back of her long black dress; not what she normally wore to school, or even to church. Katie was one year younger than the boys, and though she didn't hang out with them, Timmy had started to notice her more and more often, and found himself thinking about her when she wasn't around. Surprisingly, he also found himself attending more and more youth group functions lately, just so he could spend time with her. Timmy didn 't see Karen, the Moore's older daughter (whom he, Doug, and Barry had spied on from the bushes with Doug's binoculars last summer while she was sunbathing topless). The Moores seemed sad --not just solemn, but genuinely depressed, as if affected by something more than just one of their parishioner's death.
Katie caught his stare, smiled, and quickly looked away. Her cheeks turned red. Timmy blushed and felt his ears begin to burn.
Spotting Timmy when he entered with his parents Barry and Doug walked over to him, and the three boys moved to the rear corner of the church. They made small talk, each uncomfortable with mentioning why they were there. Curious, Timmy asked them about Karen Moore 's whereabouts.
“You didn't hear?” Barry sounded surprised.
“No. What?”
“She skipped town with Pat Kemp. Nobody's seen them since Friday night. Took off together in his Nova. People are saying maybe they eloped.”
“No way. Seriously?”
Doug nodded. “Reverend Moore called the cops and everything.”
Timmy was mildly surprised, but not shocked. Pat Kemp was about the coolest older kid they knew, and Karen had a wild reputation as the stereotypical preacher 's daughter. He could easily see the two of them running off together.
“Where did they go?” he asked.
“Nobody knows for sure,” Doug whispered. “California, maybe?”
Timmy wondered if his friend was basing that on something he'd heard, or on his own wish fulfillment regarding his father.
Somebody sobbed loudly near the front of the church. The boys fell quiet.
“Sorry about your grandpa, man,” Barry finally said, staring at the floor.
Doug nodded. “Me, too. He was cool.”
Timmy mumbled his thanks, and then glanced around the church for his parents. They were near the front, shaking hands with mourners. His father was dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. As he watched, the crowd parted, and Timmy got his first real glimpse of his grandfather's casket. He bit his lip, drawing blood, and his hands clenched into fists. The thing inside the coffin didn't look like the man he remembered. That man had been full of life, even in old age. He'd been funny, always smiling or telling jokes. The pale, waxy figure lying in the coffin wasn't smiling. It looked like a department store mannequin. Even his grandfather 's hair was combed differently. His Freemason's ring adorned his hand, the stone glinting under the lights. He was dressed in a suit. When had his grandfather ever worn a suit? Never, at least as far as Timmy could remember. He wore slacks and buttoned shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Even when he went to church, his grandfather had preferred sweaters to suits.
Doug sensed his friend's discomfort. “You gonna go up there? Your dad looks really upset.”
“I don't want to. Guess I should, though.”
His mother caught his eye and smiled sadly. Her expression alone beckoned him, a unique form of telepathy shared only by parents and their children. Reluctantly obeying the command, Timmy stood up.
“I'll see you guys later.”
He shuffled forward, weaving his way through the adults. They offered condolences as he passed by them, along with condescending pats on the head, as if he were six years old rather than twelve. Timmy did his best to be polite to them, but inside, he barely acknowledged their presence. His attention was fixed on the figure in the coffin, the thing that was supposed to be his grandfather.
Barry and Doug watched him go. Barry tugged at his tie. His collar felt like it was choking him, and even with the air conditioning turned on, the church was still hot inside.
Doug leaned over and whispered in Barry's ear.
“This sucks. I feel bad for him, but I don't know what to say.”
"Me neither. I've helped my old man with dozens of these. It's always weird, and you feel bad for the people, but there's not really anything to say. 'Sorry'just doesn't seem to cover it. Especially this time."
“Why now more than the others?”
“Because Timmy's our friend. And because his grandpa was pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” Doug agreed. “He was. I liked him.”
“Sometimes,” Barry said, “I think he was the only cool grown-up I knew.”
When they looked up again, the crowd of adults had swallowed Timmy whole.
Timmy had walked the red-carpeted church aisle hundreds of times. He'd walked it for communion and on Youth Sunday when it was his turn to take the offering and when the youth group put on the annual Christmas pageant. Last year, he 'd been Joseph and Katie had played the part of Mary and all of the adults had remarked how cute they looked together. Timmy had thought he might die of embarrassment, and die all over again when Katie squeezed his hand while they took their bow as the parishioners applauded. He knew the aisle like he knew the cemetery outside, but the aisle had never seemed longer or more crowded than it did at that moment. The heat was cloying, made worse by the crowd, and his suit felt like it was stuck to his skin. The air was a mixture of cologne and perfume and candle smoke. He pushed his way through and emerged at the front.
He stood in front of the coffin, looked down at his grandfather's corpse, and did his best not to cry. It was even worse up close.
Timmy closed his eyes, trying in vain to get rid of the image. The thing in the casket even smelled different. His grandfather had always smelled like Old Spice aftershave. This still figure had no smell. He opened his eyes again and glanced at the corpse's hands, folded neatly across its chest. His grandfather's skin had always felt rough and warm his hands deeply callused from years of hard labor. He wondered how they'd feel now. Shuddering, Timmy took a deep breath and held it. His ears rang, a high-pitched, constant tone, and his mouth felt dry. His heart thudded in his chest. He let the air out of his lungs with a sigh.
His mother put her arm around him and kissed his head. She smelled of lilac soap and hairspray.
“You okay, sweetie?”
He nodded.
“They did a real good job. It looks like Grandpa's just sleeping, doesn't it?”
Timmy wanted to scream at her. No, it did not look like Grandpa was sleeping. It looked nothing like that at all. In fact, it didn't even look like Grandpa.
At twelve, Timmy was well aware of the fallacies adults sometimes used. “Do as I say, not as I do” was a big one. Many times, he'd overheard Mr. Smeltzer promising Barry that he'd tan his hide should he ever catch Barry and his friends drinking or smoking cigarettes, yet Clark Smeltzer started and ended each day drunk as a skunk and smoked two and a half packs before nightfall.
“It's for your own good” was another. When he was younger, Timmy used to believe that he had an invisible accomplice named U'rown Goode who only his parents could see. Timmy had once shot a dove with his BB gun, and his father had grounded him and confiscated the weapon as a result (shooting doves without a license was illegal in the state of Pennsylvania).
Two days later, his father had left to go deer hunting in Potter County. He'd returned home bragging about how he'd shot three deer, one over the legal limit, and had given the third to a friend.
Why was Timmy grounded for shooting the dove without a license while his father had basically done the same thing? It was for U'rown Goode. Had his invisible friend actually fired the fatal shot?
Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny were adult fallacies, as well.
Grown-ups encouraged their kids to believe in them, only to yank the wool from their eyes and chuckle over the joke when they got older, killing whatever belief in magic the child still clung to. Killing their innocence. Sometimes, Timmy wondered if maybe God was just another fallacy, too. After all, his parents insisted that He was real, just like Santa Claus. Both of them lived at the top of the world and kept track of everybody, judging the populace on whether or not they 'd been good or bad. The only Santa Timmy had ever seen was at the North Hanover Mall, and that guy was a phony. The only God he'd ever seen was the one that hung from the cross at the front of the church. He'd never seen God, but was expected to believe in Him just the same. As he got older, would they tell him that God didn't really exist either, and that it really didn't matter if he wrote scary stories during church service? Part of him expected just this. Of course, he never said it out loud, not even to Doug or Barry, because if God was real, then thinking something like that was a sure way to get on His bad side. Timmy was more afraid of God than anything else in life, with the possible exception of snakes and Catcher. You could shoot a snake or a neighborhood bully or a mean dog with a BB gun.
But not God ...
And now, there was a new fallacy. “It looks like Grandpa's just sleeping.” The biggest fallacy of them all, because Grampa wasn't sleeping, he was dead. He was never going to wake up again. There would be no more walks or games or Saturday morning cartoons or long talks about things that mattered to Timmy, things his grandfather seemed interested in, too, because they were important to his grandson. His grandfather was dead, so why couldn 't his mother just say it out loud? Why did she treat Timmy like he was a little kid?
Next, would she tell him, “Guess what, it turns out Santa Claus is real after all”?
Of course she wouldn't, because it wasn't true. Santa Claus wasn't real, U'rown Goode was actually Timmy's own good, and...
Grandpa wasn't coming back again.
Timmy opened his eyes. Tears rolled down his face. He balled his fists at his sides and wept, and his mother and father held him between them, crying as well.
He cast one last glance at his grandfather's body, and then looked no more. He didn't have to. The image was burned into his retinas.
Grandpa wasn't sleeping.
After the viewing, there was a short break before the funeral service. Timmy's parents and some of the distant family members stayed at the casket, saying their final good-byes before the lid was closed. Timmy elected not to join them, and slipped away through the crowd. The other adults went outside to smoke, or mingled between the pews, talking softly. Timmy, Doug, and Barry wandered aimlessly around the church, ending up downstairs in one of the Sunday school rooms. Barry sat on top of the table, his legs hanging over the side. Timmy stood in the corner. Doug had found a Hot Wheels car, left behind by a younger child, and was running it aimlessly back and forth over the tabletop.