off the wall toward Dylan.
“Guys, look, I gotta get home now, or Nana’ll raise a ruckus.”
“I guess when you got no real mom and dad, you can’t afford to piss off the people that’ll have you.” Scooter grinned.
Stinger swung his pumpkin head around, and grinned at Scooter. “Good one.”
Dylan took advantage of the distraction to turn on his heels, preparing to start running. Instead, he came face to face with his brother. Dylan shrugged his books under his arm, and ran a shaking hand under his nose.
“What’s up, Dylan?” James smiled, his eyes unreadable. Dylan sensed faint disapproval.
“I’m just going home is all.” Dylan’s own voice sounded plaintive.
Scooter chortled. “We was gonna help Dillie carry his books. Who could read all that in a year?” Stinger reached out and Dylan backed away. Dylan noted the sidelong look James gave Scooter.
“Now now, we just want to see what the professor’s reading,” Stinger said slowly, as if to a child. He reached out again, a smolder in his look.
James casually stepped between Dylan and the two other boys. “You’re expected at home, Dylan.”
Scooter slipped off the wall, easing down the sidewalk in Dylan’s direction. Stinger rubbed his fist in his other hand pondering his response, and then brightened.
“Safe passage will cost you Tom Swift,” he said, holding out his hand.
“It’s not mine to give you.”
“Call it a loan,” Scooter volunteered helpfully. Scooter froze as James pressed a hand up to the brick wall, blocking his advance.
“Go on home, Dylan. I’ll be along shortly.” Dylan nodded and turned, sighing with relief. He hurried down the sidewalk toward Nash Street.
“Stinger, I think James wants to rumble again.” Something in Scooter’s liquid voice made Dylan turn and stop. James had turned on Stinger, fists clenched, but low, at his sides, and Stinger was stumbling back, hands raised, palms out.
“I just wanted to see the books. What are you in an uproar about? Jeez.”
Dylan turned back in the direction of home, and quickened his step.
8 / Note in the Newspaper
Dylan’s father stopped Mookey Geiger, the boy delivering the Daily Times one morning, and asked to have it delivered to the house. He would scan the paper over breakfast. Nana would not read the paper, but she was fascinated with the items Sam shared with her. Dylan was passing through the dining room to the front door on a crisp and vivid morning, the very air expectant. The hydrangeas burst with blue outside the window. Dylan stopped at his father’s side.
“I’m heading for the library this afternoon. Want to come along?”
Sam’s face was ashen. He was staring at a single sheet of white paper, apparently from the envelope lying on top of the newspaper. The envelope said simply, SAM.
His father was sucking thin breaths, almost like a whistle in reverse. He kept glancing out the window, and then at Dylan. After a moment, Sam made up his mind about something.
“Best you be off, or you’ll be late for home room.”
“Everything all right?” Dylan followed the man’s gaze out the front window. The street was deserted.
“I’m sure it will be. Just a bit of hard news, I’m afraid. Want me to walk you down to the school today?” Sam’s eyes looked a bit bloodshot, and he was licking at his lips as he tapped the edge of the refolded note on the envelope.
“Wait. Forgive me boy. I have some things to attend to this morning. See you after school?” Sam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Sure. Okay.”
Dylan went out the door and down the sidewalk. He was almost to the corner when he remembered his father had not answered about the library. He turned back up toward the house. Dylan saw his father trotting across the street toward Mr. Thompson’s. Instead of heading up the sidewalk to the door, his father ran across the lawn, heading to the far side of the house—the path used to access the river.
Dylan broke into a run back up Nash Street. He followed the route Sam had taken. His father’s footprints were outlined on the light dew in the yard. Dylan hesitated when he reached the corner of the house. His father clearly knew what he was about to do when Dylan left, and Sam had not seen fit to mention anything to him. His curiosity pushing him, Dylan turned the corner.
At first, he saw nothing. But he heard a man breathing hard. Stepping out around the corner of the house, Dylan looked down the hill. Sam was struggling with the end of a rope, which was looped several times around the trunk of the large elm, several feet from the ground. The rope traveled up behind the house on a diagonal. It was drawn taut, like the cord on a bow. A light breeze rolled up from the river. Buster pooped in Mr. Thompson’s yard. Buster never poops over here, Dylan thought, his nose crinkling.
Dylan trod halfway down the slope, gingerly picking his way to avoid sliding on the slick grass. He stopped, looked up again, and saw Mr. Thompson swinging slightly at the other end of the rope. Dylan froze in shock.
Sam called, “I need a…hatchet, or an ax. A big knife. Hurry boy. And tell Nana to call the police. Mr. Thompson’s had an accident.”
Dylan understood Mr. Thompson had taken his own life. The image of the rigid form swaying at the end of that rope. The panicked expression on his father’s face. When Dylan dashed breathless through Nana’s front door, excited and very afraid, Nana looked as confused as he felt.
He’d demanded that she call the police, and then had grabbed her butchering knife from the shelf beneath her butcher block. She set her jaw firmly and stepped in front of him, her hand out, uncompromising. Dylan had started to sputter something and she waved her other hand, palm up, slowly. Dylan understood. He placed the handle of the knife in Nana’s palm. She gestured at the chair.
Sitting down, he blurted, “Mr. Thompson’s had an accident. He’s hanging in a tree out back of his house. Dad said fetch a knife to cut him down and call the police.” His voice quavered, but he managed to get it all out.
In the middle of his account, Nana picked up the phone, waited a beat, and said “Melba, it’s an emergency. I need to talk to Walt or one of his men.” While she waited, Nana cupped her hand over the phone.
“Tell your dad not to touch Mr. Thompson. What’s done is done, and the police will want to—”
She paused, listened, and turned away to speak in a lower voice. She still held the knife in her free hand. Dylan sat, waiting. He lifted his hand to his mouth to wipe it. Stuck to his damp fist was a folded piece of paper. He glanced back at Nana, who was fussing with whoever she was talking to, her voice hushed.
Dylan peeled the paper from his fist and laid it back on top of the newspaper, opening it.
May 16, 1967
Sam –
Sorry
