nodded, weighing his brother’s words.
“What is that smell?” James sniffed at the wafting oily odor.
“Nana said be prepared for peanut butter and banana sandwiches for supper again. Dad’s decided he wants to be the grill king of Nash Street.” Dylan grinned.
The first time Sam had used the grill he’d purchased at Wilson’s, he’d set it up on the cardboard box that the grill had come in. Just as Sam was adding cheese to the flaming black lumps on the grill the box below had burst into flames. In a second, the grill was enveloped in a pyre, sizzling for a moment, and then tottering over with a harsh clang as its platform disintegrated in fluffing black cardboard chunks.
Nana, Dylan, and James had looked on from the porch, working hard not to laugh. Helpfully, Nana had said, “I just bet that’s why they make those grills black in the first place. That sort of thing probably happens a lot.”
Sam had given his mother a look that was part amusement, part frustration. He had let the fire burn itself out on the driveway at the side of the house. Afterward, he’d wiped and cleaned the grill, and set it back up again. That night, they had dined on peanut butter and banana sandwiches, along with potato salad and corn Nana had already prepared.
“Dad and I are not going to be bosom friends,” James said, with a soft smile. “He thinks it might be better if I confine myself to the house until... I don’t know. Until hell freezes over, I guess. The real deal is he’d rather I was in jail. The last thing he wants is me around—the second to last thing,” James amended.
“He told you that?”
“Not so much as he told the Chief that when Munro released me. I expected him to rake me bad, but dad didn’t say much at all. I could tell he was pretty mad though.”
“Dad said you—” Dylan stopped at the look James shot him. “You didn’t break into Wilson’s, did you?” Dylan tried to hold his brother’s gaze, as if he already believed whatever James said. But he couldn’t quite do it.
“I was out in the middle of the night, and the hardware store gets broke into. Two plus two makes...” James tucked his knee under his chin and picked at the dust motes on the window screen. “And the only person who can say where I was wasn’t supposed to be out either. I’m supposed to rat her out to save my hide?”
Dylan sat without breathing. It was clear now. There had been talk of James and Anne all through the school year. Anne was, after all, the daughter of Mr. Sampson, the Geography teacher. Dylan sometimes wondered why he never saw his brother with Anne. Now he suspected he knew.
“Not a word of this to anybody. Me being in trouble is one thing. But she... just keep your mouth shut.” James stared hard at Dylan, and then softened. “Picking up that screwdriver from the sidewalk in front of the store turns out to be not one of my finest ideas. Who knew?”
“You found it?” Dylan blurted.
“It was just lying by the mailbox. They say it was the one that—” James turned back to Dylan. “But I guess you already heard that part.”
“Dad told me some. He didn’t say he didn’t believe you.”
“Well, there’s a heartwarming endorsement,” James said with a hollow chuckle.
“I think dad is...” Dylan searched for a word. “…trying.”
“Trying to what?” James snorted. “Leave it. I know what you’re saying. I think he doesn’t know what to do with me, and I think I have a way to solve his problem.”
Dylan lifted his eyes to his brother, searching James’s face for more. The memory of Mr. Thompson’s silent solution was still fresh. James noticed his younger brother’s look.
“I’m not going to do something stupid. I mean, I’m not going to hurt myself, or anybody else. I just think it might be best if I start fresh. You’re getting along okay with dad. That’s not in the cards for him and me. Maybe I remember more things than you do. I don’t know. But...” his voice trailed off.
15 / Pre-dawn Flight
James tiptoed into the rectory and silently lifted the key to Father Mullenix’s Plymouth. A few minutes later, in the utter stillness he turned the ignition, his eyes glued on the second floor of the house. He held his breath, waiting for the lights to blaze on, and all hell to break loose.
The car started up, and purred quiet. James creaked it in reverse down the sloping driveway. He knew the car ran a little rough, but at least the brakes didn’t squeal. The car sagged out onto the street and James eased the column gear into first, let the clutch out slow, and flipped on the headlight beams as he glanced back once more to the darkened, brooding rectory.
He glided down the street toward the rendezvous, every sense alive. Would Anne be waiting in the shadows at the corner? Would anyone be out at this deep hour to witness their flight? He pondered what he would say if he had to return the car in an hour, when the sun began to claw its way up from the near Atlantic. No plausible story came to mind. He tried to calculate the mythical point of no return. In his soul, he knew Anne would be there, unless something had gone terribly wrong. When she eased into the Plymouth, and closed the door, that was probably the point. From there, they could race to the edge of town and point their way toward Cambridge, unless Chief Munro was in hot pursuit.
James shook his head at his own imaginings, as if he were shaking droplets off after a swim. Don’t get cold feet on me now. Ten minutes to liftoff and counting. And don’t start talking to yourself, under any conditions.
Spotting Anne standing back in the shadows two blocks from her house, he eased the car to the curb and clambered out to unlock the trunk.
They drove in silence out of their hometown. She slid over next to him and they linked hands. James often had to retrieve his hand to shift on the quiet lanes of the Delmarva Peninsula on the back approach to Cambridge. The relentless flat land stretched as far as the eye could see, a bounty of staple crops that fed the livelihoods of these taciturn, God-fearing people, along with the other major source of income, the crab traps stacked high alongside one-story cottages.
The sun dappled the road and strobed the interior of the car as the orange globe peaked up from the east, through thin forests of juniper pine. They drove north, toward the legendary gateway to the mainland, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. North to head south. And the unknown.
16 / Trips to Cambridge
Dylan awoke to the phone ringing. In the dream that ended so abruptly, Dylan had been poised on the riverbank, tugging hard at his fishing rod. The rod was arced like a giant hook, bent nearly in two, and the line darted like a strange water bug, slicing the surface like the unwavering sword of his hero, Aramis.
Dylan is pivoting and side-stepping, eyes locked on the churning water and his enemy, the great cat known as Ironsides, when the alarm rings, the alarm- the phone? Aramis the Musketeer blinks, twice, and the bright sun becomes soft morning, and muffled voices condense into clear words, and then sentence fragments.
“—Of course he’s here. Where else would he—” Nana’s voice, strident, with a touch of doubt. “I can check, but you just hold on a minute. Saaaaam! Sam, can you come quickly?”
Something about Nana’s voice propelled Dylan out of bed and to the stair railing
