“Arthur Madliner came by early this morning.”
At his words, Will’s head snaps up from his newspaper and Pete’s hand stops with a biscuit halfway to his mouth. A thin strand of honey doodles shapes on Grandma Elliot’s table.
Dad takes another long, slow sip before going on. “Storm the other night knocked down that oak in his yard. He needs help clearing it.”
Us boys trade looks around the table, but Pete gives the barest shake of his head. I stuff another strip of bacon in my mouth and chew to keep myself from speaking, but the bacon does not taste so good anymore.
“So eat up,” Dad continues. “And be ready to go after breakfast.”
“Did Mr. Madliner say anything on Mrs. Madliner?” Pete asks, dabbing the spilled honey with a napkin, real casual, like he doesn’t care a whip one way or the other.
“He did not.” Dad drinks more coffee.
Will and Pete trade looks.
“Is Caleb gonna be there?” Will suddenly asks.
“It’s his house,” Dad says, sitting down and reaching for the bacon himself now. “I expect he will.”
I shudder. Caleb Madliner. The bacon turns to hot lead in my stomach.
“You treat Caleb Madliner right,” Ma says. “He’s different and difficult, but he’s got a harder life than you. And no brothers to help him live it.”
“Frankie’s got no brothers and he turned out fine,” I say, before I can think any better. “Caleb could have fifty brothers and he’d still be awful.”
Ma gives me a dark look. “Some people fight hard battles, Jack. Just be glad yours are so easy.”
At Ma’s words, I remember Mrs. Madliner wandering among the tombs last night, weeping like a lost soul. I guess I’d be awful if my mother was that way. Or if I had Arthur Madliner for a father. Now there was something to make you rotten. He was creepy to look at, like a pale aspen tree that had uprooted itself and gone wandering for better soil but couldn’t find any.
Then there’s what Pete said about him last night: He hits a lot.
Ma joins us at the table and our family eats together. If my parents know anything about last night, they don’t let on. When Dad takes the sports page from Will’s newspaper, I decide we must be in the clear. Only now I’m fretting this trip out to the Madliners’ will force us to delay our search for the fighter jet another day.
Waterfall of sunshine soaks the whole world in gold as we climb into the pickup. Butch hops up for the ride and blinks his big brown eyes sleepily as he hunkers down by me and Frankie in the bed, his thick fur warm to the touch.
Dad brings the Ford to life, and soon the big tires are crunching gravel as we roll down the dirt lane. Apple Creek flashes at us through gray sycamores, calling to us. We turn onto Hopkins Road’s smooth pavement and Dad gives the engine some gas. Warm wind makes Butch’s fur ripple, and there’s a sweet scent of honeysuckle in my nose. I imagine us stopping a while at the bushes along the road’s edge, breaking the fragile green stems and drawing out the tiny, delicious drops . . .
But Dad keeps the Ford moving.
Almost a mile later, we come up on Sam Williamson’s place: his trailer with its sagging porch and corrugated roof; his red-white-and-blue painted mailbox. Sam himself is sitting in a rocker on the porch, dressed in his same long underwear and wide-brimmed hat. He lifts a hand at us as we go by, and Dad gives the horn a tap.
Lonely Sam.
I watch his colorful mailbox drift into the distance for as long as I can, until green trees slide in between us and the little cheerful mailbox is gone. Then I feel Dad hit the brakes as he turns off Hopkins Road and onto a bumpy dirt lane that leads up a hill through dark, lonely trees.
The old white house does not stand at the top of its steep, rocky hill. It leans.
The walls are a dead, chalky white, and cracks run in the plaster along the wind-bitten north face overlooking the valley. They remind me of bone.
The trees don’t get too close; they stay back, making a wide ring around the place, and as our dusty Ford leaves their protection, Butch raises his nose for a sniff, his pointy ears standing up straight.
Black, empty windows stare at us as we climb down—like deep, cold, fishless lakes.
“I like what they’ve done with the place,” Pete says. When he slams his door, the sound is eerily loud, and it echoes off the house.
We follow Dad across the yard to the northwest corner. Coming around the side, we see that this was where the great oak tree stood. It alone had the courage to stand so close to the house, and it stands no more.