The In-Betweener Page 7

  “Then maybe they shouldn’t broadcast their fights so the whole neighborhood can hear them,” Jimmy muttered.

  “Stay away from their house,” Mom told him.

  I mostly did stay away, though I have to admit their arguments fascinated me. A couple of times I deliberately chose a path that would take me to that side of the street, past the McKenzies’ house, where I might hear a few choice tidbits from yet another fight.

  Meanwhile, Lainie continued to worry about our missing catbird.

  “What if it never comes back? What if it’s dead?”

  “It’ll come back,” I told her.

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” Tommy said. “Let’s make a nest for her.”

  We stared at him. “Yeah, let’s do it!”

  We went to work. The little kids spread out to gather grass and thistle. Jimmy and I used our pocketknives to cut twigs that were tender and thin.

  “How will we hold it all together?” Lainie wondered.

  “That’s a cinch,” Jimmy said. He fetched a few handfuls of swamp mud, added a bit of water, and mixed it with the leaves, twigs, and thistle. This created a kind of dark, gluey mash. Working together, he and Lainie formed it into the shape of a nest. We all stood back to look at our creation.

  I was impressed. “Looks pretty good.”

  Bobby nodded. “If I was a bird, I’d live there.”

  “Me too!” Joey put in. He started running around the yard, flapping his wings.

  Jimmy climbed the tree and fitted the nest in the branches, placing it exactly where the bird had built its nest the previous year.

  “How does it look?” he asked, jumping down.

  “Perfect!” Tommy yelled.

  Jimmy’s hands were filthy, so he wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “It’s still soft. The more it dries, the stronger it’ll be. But if it rains … we’re in trouble.”

  “It’s not going to rain,” Lainie declared, looking up at the sky. “It can’t.”

  Meanwhile the McKenzies got their house painted, a nice shade of creamy yellow with brown trim. It looked terrific. I saw Mr. McKenzie in the front yard planting some bushes, whistling. That seemed like a good omen. Maybe things were getting better at their house.

  One afternoon I saw Mom standing at the living room window. She looked sad.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The McKenzies are splitting up.”

  “Really?” I was shocked.

  Solemnly Mom nodded. “I ran into Mrs. McKenzie at the supermarket. She started to cry when she told me, poor thing. She said they’re getting a divorce. They’re going to sell that lovely little house, and they just had it painted.”

  Next morning I was halfway through a bowl of Rice Krispies when Tommy came charging into the house.

  “The catbird!” he cried.

  We sprinted outside. There it was, perched on a branch in the cherry tree. I knew by the notched tail feathers that it was the catbird from last year.

  Lainie shivered with anticipation. We all watched expectantly, eager to see what would happen when the catbird discovered the beautiful nest—a bird’s idea of a dream house—we had built for it.

  At first the bird ignored it. All of a sudden it flitted over and peered inside. The bird tilted its head this way and that as if puzzled or confused.

  “It’s smiling,” Lainie whispered.

  “Birds don’t smile,” Jimmy told her.

  “Look!”

  The catbird reached forward, removed a piece of grass from the nest, and tossed it away. Then it grabbed a twig that was clotted with dried mud, and dropped it onto the ground.

  “Wh-what’s it doing?” Tommy sputtered.

  “It’s … it’s wrecking the nest!” Lainie cried.

  We watched in horror as the catbird dismantled the nest we had so carefully made for it. Mom came out to see.

  “She’s messing up the nest we made!” Tommy yelled. “She’s blowing it up!”

  “My goodness,” Mom murmured.

  Bobby looked worried. “What about the baby birds? Where will they live? If they don’t have a nest, they’ll fall out of the tree.”

  “You watch,” Jimmy told him. “I bet you ten bucks she builds her own nest, just like she did last year. I guess she doesn’t trust anybody to make it for her.”

  Mom folded her arms. “Maybe there’s a lesson in this. Birds have to build their own nests, piece by piece. Nobody can build one for them.”

  She gave me a meaningful look, and it dawned on me that Mom didn’t just mean the catbird. She was talking about the McKenzies too.

  That was one of the perks of being an “in-betweener”—getting a special dose of Mom’s wisdom—grown-up ideas the little kids wouldn’t understand or maybe weren’t ready for. It made me feel special when she shared those things with me.

  On the Back of the Bus

  RUBEN GONSALVES WAS the small, wiry, smoke-skinned man who worked the fields in the farms around us. Word had it that he came from the tropics, maybe Honduras or Panama, though nobody knew for sure. He was a familiar sight in our neighborhood, wearing a straw hat to keep out the sun as he rode a tractor. The man was a gifted farmer. No wonder people were eager to hire him to work their fields.

  “Run over to Ruben’s field and pick five ears of corn,” my mother often said. “I’ll pay him later.”

  Everybody called it Ruben’s field, even though he didn’t own the land. We ran over, knowing Ruben wouldn’t mind, knowing you couldn’t find any corn anywhere that was fresher or more delicious.

  Ruben never said very much, though he performed one feat that made him a legend among the neighborhood kids.

  “Eat a worm, Ruben!” we begged when we saw him working in the field.

  If you were lucky, he would obligingly pick one up—not a little one, either—strip away the dirt with one hand, pop the wriggling creature in his mouth, and start to chew.

  “Mmmm,” he’d say, smacking his lips.

  I had seen this routine several times, so I knew what to expect; still, I always stood there, dumbstruck, while Ruben munched a big old earthworm.

  Ruben worked several different jobs, including driving the school bus. His son Mark, who was my age, would usually be the only kid on the bus when it rumbled up to our stop at 7:55 in the morning.

  One fateful day I sat next to Mark in the backseat. Our bus was about half full, with another bus directly behind us. As we were driving along, Mark made some kind of gesture to the other driver. I was half asleep at that time in the morning, so I didn’t see what motion he made, whether it was friendly or rude, or possibly misunderstood. At any rate, the other driver took offense and angrily beeped his horn. Ruben had to pull our bus to the side of the road and shut off the engine.

  Moments later the other driver got out of his bus and climbed onto ours. The guy came barreling down the aisle. He grabbed Mark Gonsalves by the back of his shirt and dragged him off the bus. The other kids and I rushed to the right side of the bus to watch what would happen next. Through the windows we saw the driver yelling at Mark Gonsalves, with Ruben standing a few feet away.

  Suddenly—WHAP!—the driver slapped Mark hard across the face, causing his head to snap back. Ruben stood there, working his mouth, but said nothing.

  Then it was over. The driver stomped back to his bus. Mark climbed onto our bus and took his seat next to me. Ruben started up the engine and we lurched forward, continuing the regular route to school.

  Out of consideration for Mark, I kept my eyes forward. After a few minutes, I stole a glance at him. He wasn’t crying, though his expression held a mixture of frustration and rage. I wondered whom he was most angry at—the other driver for hitting him or his father for not trying to stop it.

  All this time my fists stayed clenched; later I would find a row of indentations where my fingernails had left marks on the palms of my hands. I knew I had just witnessed something terribly wrong, but I didn’t know what to do about it. I felt
ashamed at my own helplessness.

  This happened in 1964, before the civil rights movement really took hold in the United States. Marshfield was a white town. Ruben and Mark Gonsalves were the only people of color I knew. Many times I have thought back on what happened that day, and wondered if that driver would have dared to slap Mark Gonsalves in the face, with his father watching helplessly, but for the color of their skin.

  A Conflict of Interest

  BY SIXTH GRADE, most kids my age no longer considered it “cool” to be in Boy Scouts. Some kids in school teased me if they saw me in my uniform. I felt torn. I still loved scouting: I mean, what could be better than sleeping under the stars? Or roasting meat over an open fire beside a noisy stream?

  But more and more I was drawn to other things. They had a series of school dances on Friday nights, which often fell on the same night as a Boy Scout camping trip. One night we camped in a torrential rainstorm; the rain was so loud against our tent I couldn’t sleep. It was cozy and dry in the tent, but I kept picturing my classmates at the dance and wishing I could be with them.

  A few weeks later we went on a two-day campout in the Catskill Mountains. The trip got off to a good start. The first afternoon we set up our tents and prepared to cook our evening meal. Patrol leaders sent out younger Scouts to forage for firewood. Soon you could smell and see the cheery sight of a half dozen campfires burning all around the campsite. Then a loud sound ripped through the air.

  RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  What a commotion! It sounded like somebody firing a machine gun. I ran in the direction of the noise with Mr. Briggs following close behind.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Ricky Topham, the patrol leader, was all shook up. “Somebody threw a string of firecrackers into our fire!”

  “What?!”

  “Any idea who did it?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Talk to your patrol,” Mr. Briggs instructed Ricky. He turned to his other patrol leaders: Andy, Steve, and me. “Keep your eyes peeled, all of you.”

  “Who would do something that dangerous?” Steve wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Briggs murmured. “But I’m ninety-nine percent sure it was someone in our troop.”

  The incident with the exploding firecrackers made everyone jumpy; it took a long while before the group finally calmed down. We climbed into our sleeping bags and slept through the night.

  The next day we had a five-mile hike planned so we got up early.

  “You don’t need to make a big fire for breakfast,” Mr. Briggs reminded us. “A small fire is easier to put out.”

  I had just assigned two kids in my patrol to help me make breakfast when—RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT- TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

  Another uproar. More firecrackers!

  “What’s going on?”

  “What the—”

  “Quiet!” It was rare for Mr. Briggs to raise his voice; everyone fell silent.

  “Fall in over here!” he ordered. “Make a line!”

  “But … we’re just about to have breakfast,” one kid said.

  “Breakfast can wait!” Mr. Briggs snapped.

  We all lined up. Under different circumstances, it would have been comical to see this ragtag line of kids, half dressed, standing at attention in the early morning light.

  “Patrol leaders!” Mr. Briggs cried.

  Andy, Steve, Ricky, and I all stepped forward. Mr. Briggs gathered us in a circle.

  “You know these kids better than I do,” he said quietly. “I want you to go up and down the line and find out who you think did this. It must stop.”

  We walked up and down the line, studying the boys’ faces. Gary Fishman, Timmy Ross, Tombo Hunt, my brother Jimmy. Finally I found myself standing in front of my brother Tommy.

  There it was—a telltale twitch in one corner of his mouth.

  My eyes narrowed. My expression grew hard. Panic sprouted in his eyes.

  Because he knew that I knew that he had done it.

  His eyes met mine. Please, Ralphie, they pleaded. Don’t turn me in. Please please please.

  Usually I found it easy to choose between right and wrong. But this time it felt more complicated. Throwing firecrackers into the fire wasn’t just some silly prank. Somebody could have gotten seriously hurt. As patrol leader, I knew that it was my responsibility (that word again) to find out who had done it. Mr. Briggs was counting on me to do exactly that. And I knew he would mete out swift punishment. Mom and Dad would get a phone call to come pick up Tommy immediately. Who knew, Mr. Briggs might even kick him out of the troop.

  What should I do?

  “Patrol leaders!” Mr. Briggs snapped, motioning us back to him. “Well? Any idea who did it?”

  “No,” Andy mumbled.

  Steve and Ricky shook their heads.

  “C’mon, guys,” Mr. Briggs said impatiently. “Give me something. Ralph?”

  I swallowed. Until that moment, I honestly didn’t know what I would say.

  “I don’t know,” I managed.

  He looked at me closely. “No idea?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Briggs turned to the line of Scouts. “All right, listen up! I don’t know who did this, but it’s going to STOP NOW. Understand? If there is one more firecracker incident, I will cancel the rest of the campout and we’ll all go home. Is that crystal clear?”

  Kids nodded.

  “Finish your breakfast,” Mr. Briggs barked. “We’ll start the hike in thirty minutes, and I expect everybody to be ready.”

  The line broke and kids headed back to their campsites. I could feel Tommy’s eyes on me, so I motioned for him to follow. We ducked behind a line of scrub pine trees.

  “Thanks for not busting me,” he whispered. It was pathetic to see the relief on his face.

  “I should have, you know,” I hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said earnestly. “I’m sorry.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “You’re sorry? That’s all you can say?”

  “I don’t know…” He looked genuinely perplexed.

  I grabbed his arm, hard. “Do you have any more firecrackers?”

  He hesitated, which told me that he did.

  “You bring me whatever you’ve got left,” I ordered. “If you don’t bring those firecrackers in five minutes, I swear I’ll turn you in. I don’t care if you’re my brother.”

  “I promise,” he said.

  “Don’t promise. Just do it.”

  I was furious with him, not just for his behavior but for putting me in a position where I had to go against what I knew was right. Tommy was guilty, but I couldn’t throw my brother to the wolves. I just couldn’t. He was my blood, and I felt a primal urge to protect him … even from the consequences of his own actions.

  Moving

  AT DINNER ONE night, Dad theatrically cleared his throat.

  “We’re moving to Winnetka, Illinois,” he announced. “It’s near Chicago.”

  Stunned silence.

  “Your father got a promotion,” Mom added cheerfully. That was her role—trying to put a positive spin on not-so-wonderful news. “We’ll be able to afford a bigger house with one more bathroom.”

  “I’m happy to hear that,” Lainie said, though she didn’t look happy. None of us did.

  “Chicago?” I muttered. “Does that mean I have to start rooting for the White Sox? Because that’s NEVER going to happen.”

  Dad smiled. “Not if you don’t want to. Anyway, I think I may have found a nice house.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’ve already been house-hunting?”

  “I have.”

  “Does it have a swimming pool?” Tommy asked.

  “No swimming pool,” Dad said, “but it’s a terrific place.”

  “Are there woods in the back, like here?” Jimmy wanted to know.

  Dad nodded. “Th
ere are definitely trees in the yard.”

  Jimmy snorted, like he couldn’t be bought off that easily.

  “Trees in the yard isn’t the same as a forest,” Jimmy pointed out. “Not even close.”

  “When are we gonna move?” Tommy asked.

  “July fifteenth,” Dad told him.

  Moving. It didn’t seem real. The word felt like something nasty I’d eaten but couldn’t digest, so it just sat there, rock-heavy, in the pit of my stomach. I figured telling my friends might help the news sink in, so that’s what I decided to do.

  We met in my backyard, in the clearing, between two of the gigantic tripods Jimmy had designed. The tripods had been constructed using long pine logs lashed together using special knots only he knew how to tie. We’d built those tripods under his direction over a year ago, and they were still holding up. I realized they would be here longer than I would.

  “When?” Andy demanded.

  “July fifteenth.” I’d already looked at a calendar—in the exact middle of the summer.

  For a long moment nobody said anything.

  “Dad says we’ll come back to visit next summer,” I added.

  Freddy cracked his knuckles. “Everybody says that, but it never happens. When you move, you’re gone—period.”

  Steve glared at him. “That’s a little harsh.”

  Freddy shrugged his big shoulders. “Yeah, well.”

  I stared at him. It was harsh, but I suspected it was probably true.

  * * *

  Over the next few weeks Mom got boxes and started packing our stuff. The real estate agent showed people our house. Still, the news didn’t sink in. I continued living day after day, feeling as if I’d be in Marshfield forever, even though my brain kept trying to remind me, This will end soon. Soon you’ll be gone, and this place will be nothing but memories.

  One night I had trouble falling asleep. Listening to the Red Sox game on my transistor radio didn’t help. I kept thinking about my Marshfield friends. Was Freddy right? After we moved to Chicago would I ever see them again?

  Dad came into the room and sat down on the edge of my bed. “You know how you guys do funsies and keepsies when you play marbles?”