Dad gives a tap on the horn as we come rolling slowly up to him, leans out his window, and says in a soft voice, “Sam, you all right?”
“They took Myrtle’s mailbox.”
The massive head jerks to a dark hole at the road’s edge. A few clumps of dirt sit by it, fingers of green grass peeking out of them, waving in the breeze.
Dad puts a hand on his shoulder. At his touch, old Sam turns and we see his tomato-red cheeks and steel-wool beard are streaked with tears.
“They tore Myrtle’s mailbox right outta the ground,” he cries. He sways, and Dad’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “I been down with the hay fever. I didn’t hear them coming . . . I ain’t good for much when the hay fever gets me.”
Dad is silent.
“A man’s got his dignity,” Sam says. He looks skyward. “I’m sorry I let ’em take it, Myrtle. You know how I am when the hay fever gets me.”
“Better climb up here, Sam,” says Dad. “We’ll drive down a ways and take a look.”
A quarter mile down Hopkins Road we find what’s left of Myrtle’s mailbox. The four-by-four post is scraped up and splintered but otherwise fine. Somehow grass still clings to its earth-darkened point. But at the other end, a heap of brightly painted metal blossoms like the petals of a red, white, and blue flower: the mailbox crushed and twisted beyond repair.
Sam stoops and takes it in his arms, standing there a minute. When he climbs back up on the logs, fresh tears leak from the corners of his eyes. He lays the mailbox over his knees.
Then, on a breeze that smells like honeysuckle, we hear the distant thunder of engines.
“They’re coming back!” Will cries out.
Sam’s fingers tighten around the mailbox, the knuckles bone white.
Dad looks at him. “Sam, seems them boys on the bikes are coming back.”
Sam nods grimly.
“They done you wrong,” Dad tells him. “And I think we can help you fix them for it. Only one condition: no shooting.”
Sam sits still on his log. “How you figure to fix them?”
“I’ll tell you when you promise on Myrtle’s grave that twenty-two will not have any part of it.”
Sam chews his dip and thinks. He spits—a jet of brown juice that arcs over the truck into the road.
“On Myrtle’s grave.”
In the cab, Dad allows himself a slow smile.
“Just hold on,” he says.
He brings the Ford to life once more and turns us around, giving the truck as much gas as he safely can with such a heavy load in the bed. We’re almost back to Sam’s trailer when Dad suddenly brakes again, bringing us to a stop. Twisting in his seat, he says to Pete, “Quick now, drop the tailgate.”
At Pete’s touch, the tailgate drops down with a clang.
“Now,” Dad says, “start rolling them logs out the back.”
That puzzles me. We spent half the blame day loading them logs into the truck. But with fresh light in his watery eyes, Sam rises, his road-mapped face crinkling into the fresh creases of a crooked smile as he shuffles to the back of the truck and kicks one enormous log over the tailgate.
Thud.
Dad gives the Ford a little gas, turning the wheel ever so gently as Sam kicks another log over.
Thud.
Thud. Thud.
Frankie taps my shoulder and motions toward the tailgate. Together we climb over and roll out a log. Pete joins us. Next thing I know, Will comes through the cab window to help.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Dad drives the truck in a gentle S shape, slow and easy all the way back to Sam’s, with us rolling logs out the back the whole way.
With every log, Sam gets cheerier and cheerier.
“Ooh-wee,” he breathes to himself. “Ooh-wee, the Hoodlums are in for a surprise!”
When at last we reach the place where Myrtle’s mailbox stood, the truck bed is empty. Giant, fat pieces of Mr. Madliner’s oak tree lie scattered all across Hopkins Road.
From up the road, that motorbike roar is getting louder.
It’s a good view of the road from Sam’s front porch. Dad and us boys crouch behind the railing, but Sam sits in his rocking chair, Myrtle’s mailbox on his lap, rocking himself with one foot. True to his word, Sam has leaned the .22 against the side of the trailer.
It ain’t long before we hear those familiar raw and leathery voices on the wind.
“Somebody got Butch?” Dad asks.
“I got him,” Frankie says.
“Hold him tight, son,” says Dad, “because here they come.”
Up the road, another yellow cloud is rising above the trees. The metal growling grows louder. Another minute, and that wave of glimmering steel comes rolling over the horizon, looking so even and so perfect that I’m breathless at the sight of it.