Crooked Read online

  “What’d he say?” the others asked after Eddie left. “What’d he say?”

  Amos looked up at the last boy who had asked the question. “He said, ‘Sometimes you don’t look like such a hero to me.’”

  The others at the table believed this lie because it didn’t sound like one. They sat back in silence. Then, sneakily, one after another, they looked at Amos in this new light.

  What Eddie had actually said was, “Your fat man paid us a visit, and I wish that he hadn’t.”

  After school, Amos stood at the door of Big Dave Pearse’s house. He knocked lightly, not quite sure whether he wanted to be heard or not. But within seconds, the door swung open and Big Dave’s face broke into a wide grin. “Amos, my man! To what do we owe this unexpected surprise?”

  “I’m not sure,” Amos said, which was the truth.

  “Okay,” Big Dave said. “Multiple choice. A, money and sex. B, girls and sex. C, cars and sex. Or D, all of the above.”

  Amos chuckled uneasily. Big Dave stepped back, waving Amos in. He followed Big Dave through a TV room (where two other jocks lazed on old sofas watching ESPN), through the kitchen (where Big Dave dipped into the fridge and pantry for two Cokes and a bag of pretzels), to a large screened porch containing lawn furniture and a Ping-Pong table (homemade, freshly painted). It was quiet here. Big Dave expertly cracked the Cokes and opened the bag of pretzels.

  “Okay,” he said. “Out with it.”

  “Well, it’s this guy,” Amos began, and proceeded to tell Big Dave everything about Eddie Tripp, including his interest in Clara. Big Dave listened attentively, interrupting only to ask for clarification. When Amos was finished, Big Dave said, “Fear and loathing. That’s what I left out of my multiple choice. Fear and loathing.”

  He took a long swig of cola, then leaned forward. “Okay, here’s the deal. The first thing is, don’t worry about this Clara girl. She’s not the problem. She’s just a symptom. When you solve the problem, everything will probably be okay with her. And believe it or not, Eddie’s not the problem. Fear is the problem.” He thought for a moment. “There’s some Indian tribe that has this theory that if you have a significant enemy, you have to dream about him, and instead of running, you have to turn to confront him, and then— presto—he vanishes. Except in your case, it isn’t a dream. You have to turn and confront the actual significant enemy.” Big Dave’s smile grew huge, as if he were spreading God’s happy news. “Amos, my man, what you’ve got to do is take the bull by the horns.”

  Amos nodded. The reason, he supposed, it seemed easy to Big Dave was because taking the bull by the horns probably was easy for Big Dave. But for Amos, it seemed all but impossible. “I’ll give it a try,” he lied.

  “Hey,” Big Dave said, laughing, “either the Tripps’ll kill you or they won’t.” His laughter tapered to a smile. “Either way, it’ll set you free.”

  Bing’s was bustling when Amos stepped in from the dusky cold and took a table in his mother’s station. His mother’s waitressing was depressing to Amos. He didn’t like watching her write down other people’s orders and hurry here and there with other people’s food, having to be patient with cranky old people and smart-mouthed college boys. But his mother always put a good face on it. Tonight, as she slid Amos’s chicken club onto the Formica tabletop, she said, “Already got two five-dollar tips tonight, dumpling!”

  Amos wished his mother would stop calling him dumpling altogether, but he especially wished she’d stop calling him dumpling when other people were around. “That’s good,” he said.

  Amos had just started his sandwich when, through a narrow line of sight between other customers, he saw Bruce’s large form working his way.

  “Hey,” Bruce said as he took a seat.

  “Hey.”

  “Where’d you go, anyhow?” Bruce said. “I waited after sixth period.”

  “I wanted to stop by Big Dave’s.”

  “Really? Big Dave’s? What for?”

  Amos shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it. He took a big bite and through food said, “So how goes the Barrineau Project?”

  “Nicely, nicely, thank you.”

  Amos kept chewing. “What does that mean?”

  Bruce turned his fork thoughtfully. “It means that A. Barrineau looks forward to her nightly chats with Trent deMille.” Bruce grinned. “These chats have become quite intimate.”

  “The details of which I trust I’ll be spared,” Amos said.

  Bruce shrugged as if to say, Whatever.

  “And she doesn’t want to meet Trent deMille?” Amos said.

  “Oh, she does,” Bruce said. “But I’m afraid she’ll have to wait.”

  “Why’s that, Crook?”

  “Trent’s been grounded for falling under a four-point.”

  Amos groaned. “And what did she say to that?”

  Bruce made a waggish grin. “She said we could sneak out late at night.” He laughed and nodded at the same time. “I’m telling you, there’s a whole ’nother world out there. It’s where the Anne Barrineaus go to meet the Trent deMilles.”

  “You’re going to meet her, then?” Amos asked.

  Bruce gave him an are-you-crazy look. “Talk’s better than nothing. I mean, I go around all day just replaying conversations we had, word by word. And you know what? She’s got these standards. Like she decided to stop being friends with Roberta Quinn because she kept telling these classless jokes about Puerto Ricans.”

  Bruce kept talking, but Amos was no longer listening. He’d caught sight of Sands Mandeville coming into the restaurant with Sophie Whitaker and Gerri Erickson. As Sands began to scan the crowded restaurant, Amos slouched to the side, out of view. When he looked again, they were being led toward a booth that, Amos suddenly realized, he would have to pass on his way out. And the last thing he wanted was a tableside chat with Sands Mandeville.

  “What?” Bruce said.

  “Oh, nothing. Except I’ve just become a prisoner.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of Sands Mandeville” was one answer. “Of cowardice” was another. But then something lucky happened. Sands Mandeville rose from her booth and strolled off toward the bathrooms. This was Amos’s chance, and he knew it. “See ya, Crook,” he said, and hurried to the cash register, but another customer stepped in front of him, and this customer had a disagreement over his charge for a second coffee. Amos considered walking out without paying but was afraid it might get his mother fired.

  “Look! It’s the famous Amos!”

  It was Sophie’s voice, sliding between customers. Amos pretended not to hear.

  “Amos the famous Amos!” she called again, sharper this time, louder. It seemed to freeze one whole area of the restaurant. Amos turned and saw the falsely radiant smiles of Sophie and Gerri. Sophie waved him over.

  Amos showed them his palms and shrugged. “Can’t,” he mouthed without really speaking. “I’m late.”

  But at that moment, Amos glanced up the aisle to see Sands Mandeville, a wide smile stretched across her face, striding his way.

  “Hey, Amos,” she said in her freewheeling way. “How’re they hanging?”

  Somehow Gerri and Sophie had materialized beside Amos. He was surrounded. “Okay, I guess.”

  “You guess? Well, if you don’t know, I’m sure we don’t,” Sands said, which drew sly laughs from both Sophie and Gerri. But Sands kept her false smile steadily fixed on Amos. “Doesn’t your mom work here?” she asked in her sweetest voice.

  Sweat broke from what seemed like every pore of Amos’s body. He felt his face flooding with color. “No,” he blurted. “No, she doesn’t.”

  “She doesn’t? Somebody told me she did.” Sands pretended to be thinking. “Not Melanie Smith, but somebody. Somebody told me she was a waitress here.”

  Amos shook his head and shrugged, trying to act mystified.

  “I’ll check my sources,” Sands said demurely. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  Amos was
backing away. He gave a meek wave to Sands and the others, then turned and was almost out the door when his mother’s voice sang out. “Are you leaving, dumpling?” she called, and Amos, after the very slightest hesitation, pretended he didn’t hear and with burning cheeks walked out into the cool night air.

  Amos stopped at his front gate and stood where he’d first seen Clara Wilson standing in the snow with her dog staring at his house. It was not that long ago, but it felt like a previous lifetime, before he’d run into the Tripps, before his father had died, before his mother worked as a waitress, before his sister had suddenly grown up and Amos had grown into a coward.

  Amos set the gate behind him. He was nearly to the steps when he spotted the square edge of a paper envelope peeking from beneath the front door mat. Initially, and without reason, Amos’s hopes leaped toward the notion that it was a letter from Clara. It wasn’t. MR. AMOS was typed on the front of the envelope, but inside was a blank note card, absolutely blank, no picture, no inscription, nothing.

  Amos went room to room, turning on lights. Nothing seemed wrong, nothing seemed disturbed. He was standing in the kitchen wondering where to look next when a bad feeling took hold of him. He walked to the rear of the house, flipped on the backyard light, and headed for the pigeon coop.

  The pigeons were acting strange, flying from one side of the coop to the other, and none were acting stranger than Hurricane. The big gray pigeon flew frantically from one side of the coop to the other, setting down in places where there was no purchase, slipping and flapping and flying again. The one pigeon that wasn’t unsettled was Ruby. Ruby lay in a dim corner of her box. Amos entered the coop and came close. The beautiful red bird lay on her side with her beak open.

  She was dead. She was without question dead.

  “No,” Amos said, low and disbelieving. “No, no, no.”

  He stood in the coop holding the bird in his hands. He held her a long time. At first she was still warm, but as he held her, she began to stiffen. Eventually he laid her back in her nest and brought a shovel from the shed. He slowly began digging a hole in the dirt in the center of the coop. She was going to lie as close to Hurricane as he could make it. He dug steadily, rhythmically in the fertile damp earth. The other pigeons had begun to settle. They resumed their soft cooing and gurgling. Amos dug the hole deep. Finally he wrapped the pigeon he’d called Ruby in an old towel and set the towel into a little wooden box, which he laid into the ground and began to cover with dirt.

  Behind him, he heard the back door open and close. Amos, turning, saw Liz standing on the back stoop. “What’re you doing?” she said.

  Amos felt like he was swimming against a terrible current. “A pigeon died. I buried her.”

  Liz peered across the yard. “An old one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not Hurricane or Ruby?”

  After a second’s hesitation, Amos decided to lie. “No.”

  Liz seemed relieved to hear this. “Need any help?”

  “No.”

  When he was done burying the bird, Amos sat on his box inside the coop, holding Hurricane in the palm of his hand, settling the bird, stroking his broad head, saying, “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Finally the bird grew still and Amos stopped talking. But he didn’t leave. He stayed there so long that another of the pigeons flew down with a quick shuffle of wings and landed on his shoulder, and then another followed, so that at last there Amos was, a boy with one pigeon in his hands and two more roosting on his shoulders while he sat, not moving, not talking, just wondering what in the world to do next.

  39

  TWO CONVERSATIONS

  When Clara called Amos Thursday night, Liz said he was out in the pigeon coop. It seemed to take so long for him to come to the phone that Clara wondered if he was coming reluctantly or maybe didn’t want to come at all, so that she was all the gladder when she finally heard his voice.

  “Hi,” he said.

  And just like that, Clara knew something was wrong, and asked what.

  “Nothing.”

  Clara took a deep breath. “Look, Amos, I know last night I was kind of creepy, but it was because I was mad, but now I’m not, not at all.” She paused. “I played hooky today. I didn’t know what I was going to do when I started out playing hooky this morning.” She waited, and then she just went ahead and said it. “But it turned out that I spent most of the day thinking about you.”

  Amos didn’t say anything.

  “I guess you haven’t been thinking about me, huh?” Clara said.

  “No, it’s not that.” He waited. So did Clara. Then he said, “I doubt you’d remember, but there was a pigeon I really liked, a red one.”

  “Ruby,” Clara said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? Did something happen to her?”

  “Yeah,” Amos said, and explained what he knew. When he was done, Clara said, “What do you think killed her?”

  “I don’t know,” Amos said. “That’s what’s so weird. I’d checked on all of them this morning before school. I held Ruby. She was fine.”

  “So you think somebody did something to her?”

  Amos didn’t answer.

  “You do, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  A bad feeling moved through Clara. “No guesses?”

  A second or two passed before Amos said, “No guesses.”

  After a long pause, Clara said, “You think Eddie, though, don’t you?”

  Silence, then, “I don’t think anything, Clara.” And then: “The truth is, I don’t think Eddie. I mean, how could Eddie possibly know that Ruby was my favorite?”

  This time it was Clara’s turn to be quiet. Because she knew how Eddie might know. Only she couldn’t say so to Amos.

  It was just one more case of the truth being worse than the lies.

  Third period Friday, Clara found Eddie out behind metal shop with two other boys, who vanished when Eddie gave them a get-lost look. “It’s funny you’re here,” he said, turning back to Clara. “I was just thinking about you.”

  Clara brushed past this. She knew what she meant to say, and she meant to say it without any preparation. “Amos MacKenzie’s favorite pigeon died yesterday,” she said, and watched Eddie’s face, but it registered nothing. His smile didn’t change one iota. “Didn’t even know the hero had pigeons,” he said.

  “Yeah, you did, Eddie. I told you about them. That day we went for a drive.”

  “How could that be,” Eddie said, grinning, “when that drive didn’t even exist?” His grin was set. “Isn’t that what you told me? ‘This never happened.’”

  “C’mon, Eddie. I don’t care what you tell me as long as it’s the truth.” To this, she added a lie that she thought might make it easier for him to confess. “I mean, I don’t really care if you did do it. It was only a pigeon. But I just want to know.”

  Eddie’s grin slowly dissolved. He looked serious. He looked directly into her eyes, just as he had that day in the halls before he smoothed his fingertip along her nose. “No,” he said, “I didn’t kill the hero’s stupid pigeon.”

  She believed him. And the fact that she believed him changed things. There was a silence. From somewhere within the shop came the rhythmic clink clink clink of hammer to metal. It coincided roughly with Clara’s heartbeat.

  “I got some roses on Monday,” she said.

  “Oh, yeah, those,” Eddie said. He ducked his head and rubbed his neck. “Well, those are another thing. When it comes to those, I don’t have what they in presidential circles call deniability.”

  “The note said ‘sorry.’ Sorry for what?”

  Again Eddie grew serious. He leaned close enough that Clara could smell the sweetness of the mint he was chewing. “For that little ride on Sunday that you never took,” he said.

  “I also found a note taped to my upstairs window,” Clara said.

  Eddie’s face broke into a broad grin. “That was what I’d call fun.”

  Clara’s
heart was pounding. Eddie was no longer grinning. He was staring. His eyes seemed to go right through her. She wished he would do something, but she didn’t know what.

  “You doing anything tonight?” he said.

  “No,” she said, forgetting her arranged meeting with Amos, but then, remembering something else, she said, “But I can’t do anything tonight.”

  “How about tomorrow night, then?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not that I have plans. It’s my dad. He’s gone on business till Tuesday.”

  A mistake. Clara felt at once it was a mistake to have said her father was gone, and as if to confirm this fear, a sudden flicker of recognition registered in Eddie’s eyes. “So my aunt’s staying with me,” Clara said quickly. “My aunt Marie.”

  She felt her face flush with this lie, and she watched Eddie’s serious expression relax into an odd, satisfied grin. “Sure,” he said. “I understand.”

  40

  A BLUES BROTHER’S BROTHER

  Just before midnight, Amos had fallen into a deep dreamless sleep, and he had awakened before dawn Friday morning with a strange sense of focus. Take the bull by the horns. Turn and face the enemy. It’s what his mother had done with their financial problems. It’s what real people did. Amos turned on the light and dressed in his father’s boxer shorts and V-necked undershirt. Then, while his mother was in the shower, he put on one of his father’s shirts, which fit, and one of his father’s thin dark ties. He decided to try a suit on for size, a dark somber suit. It fit with a loose baggy look that Amos liked, and he felt comfortable in it. He put on his black high-top basketball shoes. Then, while his mother was still in the bathroom and before his sister had even gotten out of bed, Amos stole out of the house.

  In the cold bright sunlight, Amos walked and breathed deep. He already had his direction in mind, his destination, his course of action. He turned north on Walnut, avoiding Genesee, and walked uphill toward the expensive homes of Bandy Ridge. He leaned forward, into the grade, and kept up his pace until he turned into the long cobblestoned driveway of the house he’d decided to visit. Standing before the wide white door, Amos didn’t pause before ringing the bell.