Among the people now walking toward our house are Anna May and her father, Pastor Fenton. A bunch of straw hats follow them, bobbing like ships on a sea. Ma’s church friends.
The Glattfelders.
Hank Wistar, from the hardware store.
Ned Hudspeth from the barbershop.
And still more people. People I do not recognize. Strangers.
Anna May finds us at the grill. Another sundress. Bow in her hair. She takes Will’s hand.
“Townies reporting for duty,” she tells him, softly.
“All these people are coming to the hearing?” I ask her. “There’s so many.”
Burgers sizzle on the grill.
“I think that’s the idea,” Pete says as he flips another.
The people stand on the porch eating the burgers we’ve cooked and drinking the beer we bought a few days before. There are so many that some have moved into the yard, to clump in the shade of our tree. Butch wanders among them, sniffing for food. He gets lucky once or twice.
I do not remember ever seeing so many at our house all at one time. How many more could come, I don’t know for sure.
Then we hear them. Rising above the talk from the people on the porch and Sam’s raspy laughing and the clinking of Ma’s glassware: a low rumble, like thunder beyond the hill.
Butch barks and bounds across the yard to where Ma is already walking down the lane, alone, toward the wall of shining metal that melts out of the trees and begins spilling up the road toward her.
Crash Callahan and his motorcycle riders have come.
We wrecked their bikes.
Sam fired his rifle at them.
Now, they’ve come for revenge. And right when we were least expecting it, and at just the worst time.
I realize I am running then, running after Ma, running at those riders, following my brothers. Frankie alongside me. All of us going down together. Last charge of the Elliot boys. We’ll fight till there’s no breath left in us, and who knows, we might take one or two with us.
Hard to see them now through all that dust, but their sound is everywhere around me. I see Butch ahead, a fuzzy shape in the swirling dust, but I can no longer hear him over the engines.
Lane’s never seemed so long. I’ve been running for ages. All my life, it seems.
I’ll kill Crash first.
Makes sense, taking out the leader. I know Pete and Will are thinking the same thing. They’ve pulled ahead of me, angling right for old Crash, who’s out in front and who seems to be slowing himself down, coming to a stop.
The roar of motorbikes dies in a sudden avalanche of silence.
Ma stands like a statue. Tall. Proud. A cyclone of settling dust swirls around her.
Crash Callahan climbs off his glistening steel beast. He comes toward her, arms swinging easy at his sides. He wears a toothy grin along with his denim jacket and blue jeans. Long blond hair streams like fire off his scalp, held back from his sunburned face by a greasy red bandana.
“Why good afternoon, Mrs. Elliot,” Crash says. “I do hope we ain’t too late.”
Chapter 20
THE WORM SQUISHERS
At two minutes past two in the afternoon, we leave Stairways—my family in front, riding with Sam; then Pastor Fenton and everyone from church and from town; and surrounding us all, like escorts for a convoy at sea, Crash Callahan’s motorcycle men.
Twisting in my seat, I look behind us and find the line of cars stretches as far as I can see.
Will fiddles with the radio until he finds music. Bob Dylan, singing about his landlord.
Pete leans toward Ma in the front seat. “How’d you get Crash to come along?”
Ma looks out her window at one of the riders. “Crash and his men like to fish, hunt, ride, and drink. If the valley is flooded, they’ll have no place to do any of those things.” Ma pauses. “And your father promised they could do all of that on our land anytime they want. So long as we own it.”
I can tell by her words that Ma ain’t too pleased.
“Dad told them that?” Will asks. “When?”
“Three days ago,” Sam says. “We tracked the Hoodlums down at a pool hall in Adams County.”
Still watching the rider outside her window, Ma says, “I understand it was . . . tense at first.”
“It was,” Sam agrees.
“Sam, you went too?” I ask in disbelief. “But those riders hate you! And you hate them! They wrecked Myrtle’s mailbox, and we ruined their motorbikes!”
Sam grunts. “Hate is a strong word, son. I don’t much care for those young fellers. And I will never forget their offense to Myrtle’s mailbox. They needed their asses kicked for that. But there’s a value to them, as people, I guess.”