Will, Ma, and old Sam stand around us and sing as she plays “Roll Out the Barrel” and “The Maid of Amsterdam.” When she switches over to “Whiskey in the Jar,” Mr. Halleck sings too, and after we sing that final verse about that poor old robber getting turned in to the police by his lover, he laughs as if he ain’t done it in years.
By this time the wine has got me feeling fuzzy and warm and sleepy, so I climb up next to Dad on the couch and listen to him tell Mr. Halleck about the new house in town he and Ma looked at. It’s brand new, part of a development that’s sprung up just beyond the railroad tracks. Square fence. Square yard. Young, short trees.
Mr. Halleck pours Dad some more of that sweet wine and listens. The old man looks thoughtful.
“Once you’re settled, let’s talk about Stairways,” he says. “The house may be gone, but such things can be rebuilt. You’ve still got the land. That’s the most important thing.”
Dad sips his wine, but then he rests his big-knuckled hand on me and gives me a pat.
“Not quite the most important.”
At the piano, Anna May plays a final song of the evening, and it’s one of Dad’s favorites: “Danny Boy.” All about a father watching his boy go off to war:
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow,
or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
’Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
I don’t think there’s a dry eye in the room when Anna May finishes it and the final notes softly fade. Ma dabs at her eyes with the hem of her skirt. Will weeps openly, crosses the room to Pete, and gives him a hug. Pete looks embarrassed, but he don’t push Will away. Next thing I know, I’m up and across the room and hugging them both.
“I’m proud of you, Pete,” I tell him.
“I love you, Jack,” he tells me.
Next morning, early, Dad drives Pete into town to the bus station. Before he goes, Pete gives Ma a kiss on the forehead and Butch a last scratch behind the ears. To Will, Frankie, and me, he just waves from the passenger seat and grins a final grin.
I watch them go until the Ford disappears through the metal gate at the end of the long drive, until there’s nothing but a cloud of gray dust hanging on the air over the road.
A couple days later, hot sunlight splashes down all around us. We stand in the middle of that concrete slab in the field of simmering butterfly weed and wait for Frankie’s train. Clouds are stacking up in the west behind us. Another storm.
Will waits in the truck in the lot. Since Pete left, he’s been the one to drive us around. He’s said his goodbyes and is giving me and Frankie a last few minutes together.
We spend them in quiet. It has been the most eventful summer of my life. From floods to fires, from Mr. Madliner’s murder to Caleb’s disappearance to Pete’s leaving for the Marines, I have never known a faster-changing time. And through all of it, our cousin Frankie was my best friend and constant companion. I know there’s something special in that. He was there with my brothers for our last summer together; he’s one of us last summer boys. And I want to tell him. I just don’t have the words.
But then Frankie sets down his suitcase. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jack.”
I’m grateful for that. “Shoot. Better make it quick though. I can see your train coming.”
He turns to where a streak of sunlight flashes against silvery metal on the horizon. Suddenly, more than anything, I don’t want him to go.
Frankie turns back to me. “It’s about the night of the fire.”
I flinch. Across the field, the train sounds its horn. “What about it?”
“Pete said you asked him to go get Caleb that night.”
I blink in the hot sun. “Yes.”
“Why? You spent all summer long doing little else but think of ways to keep Pete from danger. Yet you asked him to do something very dangerous. You asked him to risk his life. And for Caleb Madliner, of all people.”
I’m still. “You saying it was wrong to do that?”
Frankie shakes his head. “No. Not at all. I was just wondering why you did it.”
Below us the rails begin to rattle. The train lets loose another blast on its horn.
“Tell you the truth, I don’t know,” I begin. “No, wait, that ain’t it. I do know. But it might not make any sense.”
He looks at me. Waiting. But that train is thundering closer now. I don’t have time to think. So I do what I do best. Talk: