A Plague Year (10 page)

“A hassle about what?”

“Jimmy got behind on payments on his big Ford, the F250. The bank sent Dork-man’s father out to get it.”

“Why him?”

“Dork-man’s father is repo.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s that? Man, you rich kids don’t know crap! The repo man works for the damn bank. He sneaks out to your house in the middle of the night, hooks up your truck, and hauls it away. Like Santa Claus in reverse. There’s no lower creature on earth than the repo man.”

I pointed out, “So that makes Dorfman the son of the lowest creature on earth.”

“Yeah. That’s about it. He’s like a repo man without a truck.” Arthur shook his bald head. “Did you hear he’s off the football team?”

“No. For what, drugs?”

“Nah. Coach wouldn’t know about that. Dork-man stopped showing up at practice. Then he came to the game on Friday and sat on the bench, pouting like a girl because Coach wouldn’t put him in. Then he quit.” Arthur started up the stairs. “I’m gonna miss him, though. He was the only senior who was worse than me.”

I was surprised at this sudden flash of humility. My face must have shown it, because Arthur immediately added, “We’re talking about the skill stuff here—throwing, catching, kicking. For raw power, for pure destructiveness, like the wrath of God, I’m still the best.”

“Good!” I called after him. “Glad to hear it.”

Lilly actually offered to work a longer shift so I could go on the field trip. Or was it to spend more time with John/Uno? Whatever, it was decent of her.

Everyone gathered in the high school parking lot at 3:00 p.m. Wendy, Jenny, Mikeszabo, Ben the Penguin, and I were there from the junior high side. Arthur and at least two of the stoners were there from the high school side.

Jimmy Giles was there, too. I overheard him telling Catherine Lyle quietly but firmly, “I always have to be near an exit wherever I am. Just in case I get panicked.”

She assured him, “Certainly, Mr. Giles. I understand.”

“Can I sit up front next to the door handle?”

“Yes. That would be fine.”

The Suburban was like a cross between a van and a luxury car. It had two bucket seats up front and a big console between them. Behind those seats were three rows of bench seats, each wide enough for three people.

Jimmy opened the front passenger door and claimed his place. Mrs. Lyle opened the side door, indicating that the rest of us should pile in.

Arthur went first. He stepped up and maneuvered his way to the back row, sliding over to the left window. A high school stoner followed him and took the seat by the right window. Then Jenny, Mikeszabo, and Ben climbed in and filled the next row.

I think Wendy was planning on sitting next to her stepmother. She frowned when she saw Jimmy up there. Catherine Lyle pointed her to the seat behind the driver.

I was still standing outside, not sure what to do. I climbed in, thinking I would take the empty seat next to Arthur, but Wendy surprised me. She leaned over, grabbed my sleeve, and pulled me into her row.

And that was just fine with me.

I started to strap myself into the outside seat, leaving a space between us. Wendy shook her head no and patted the seat right next to her, within actual hip and arm contact, so I slid over.

I heard the sound of Catherine Lyle closing the door behind me. Then she got in, knelt on the driver’s seat, and looked back at us. “Before we go, I just want to say that I hope you all will benefit from this field trip. I have spoken to people at the university who have driven out to the flight ninety-three crash site. They said we will be met by volunteers there. The volunteers are people who actually saw what happened. They have set up their own schedule so that there will always be someone around to tell the story to visitors.

“We need to keep in mind that the site is still a crime scene. Federal investigators have sectioned off the areas where we are and are not allowed to be.”

Catherine Lyle swiveled back, sat down, and started the Suburban. She pulled out of the parking lot and headed west for the turnpike.

Wendy looked out the window, but she spoke to me. “Okay. So here’s your chance to explain something to me.”

I was happy to do anything for her. “What?”

Wendy held up a letter. It was from a private school in Schuylkill County. She pointed to the return address and demanded to know, “How do you say this word?”

I pronounced it for her.
“Skoo-kill.”

Her nose crinkled. “How do you get that? I’m thinking
Sky’ll-kill
. Like the sky’ll kill you. Like it’s raining down death or something.”

“No. It’s
Skoo-kill.
”

“What language is it? It’s not English.”

“I don’t know. Pennsylvania Dutch?”

She pronounced that to be “weird.” She put the letter away and pulled a paperback out of her large bag.

I asked, “What are you reading?”

She held up the book for me to see. “
The Picture of Dorian Gray
, by Oscar Wilde. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“You should. It’s about a handsome young man who does horrible things. But those things don’t show up on his face like they do for most people. Instead, they show up on a portrait he has hanging in his house.”

“Cool.”

“Well, more like creepy,” she pointed out. “That’s like heroin addicts. You know? They’re the best-looking drug users by far. Heroin actually preserves the outside of their bodies. But of course they’re rotting inside. Like Dorian Gray.”

“You seem to know a lot about drugs.”

“Well, it is the family business. Now, at the other extreme, you have the meth addicts.”

“Are they the worst-looking?”

“For sure. Their teeth fall out. Their hair falls out. Their skin erupts. It’s horrible, and it all happens very quickly.”

“So if you had to date an addict, it’d be a heroin user?”

She looked at me curiously. “I sure wouldn’t date a meth user. Their sex drive is down to zero.” She smiled mysteriously. “Your sex drive isn’t down to zero, is it, Tom?”

I froze. My hands started to tremble, but I clenched my fists to cover that. “No. No, I’m above zero.”

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

“Then why haven’t you asked me out yet?”

“Uh …”

“This would be the perfect opportunity. I mean, if you’re interested.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m interested. I just don’t know how that would work,” I explained. “I mean, I don’t drive.”

“Oh. Well … what about meeting somewhere? Like a mall? We could meet at the food court. You could buy me a smoothie.”

“Uh, we don’t really have a mall around here.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“Okay, then.” She thought for a moment. “I’ll have to invite you to my house. We’re having a Halloween party on Friday night. My dad is really into Halloween. We always have a big, wild party.”

“I’d still have a problem getting there.”

Wendy was starting to lose patience. “Come on. You must know someone who drives.” She turned herself all the way around, like her stepmother had done, and pointed to Arthur. “How about him? Your cousin. Does he drive?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he live near you?”

“Sort of. He lives in Caldera.”

Wendy blinked. I could tell she didn’t know what that meant. I asked, “Have you heard about Caldera?”

“No.”

I looked back at Arthur and then up at Jimmy. “It’s famous around here.”

“Yeah? Why?”

I lowered my voice. “Well, because it’s on fire. Seriously.”

She looked interested.

“Caldera used to be a strip mine,” I explained. “Then it became
a landfill dump. But instead of compressing the trash, they burned it. Big mistake. The trash was sitting on top of a vein of anthracite coal, which caught fire and started to burn. For years.

“People started noticing that their basements were feeling hotter, and smelling like sulfur. Just about everybody cleared out of there. The U.S. government condemned the houses and sent in the Army Corps of Engineers. They put most of the fire out, we think. It still flares up sometimes.”

Wendy pointed surreptitiously to Jimmy. “But those guys still live there?”

“Yup.”

Wendy shook her head at the weirdness of that fact. She muttered, “People make such strange choices.” Then she didn’t say anything else. After a minute, she opened her book and started to read. I passed the time thinking up interesting things to say when we started talking again. But she just kept on reading.

We finally exited the turnpike and began to drive down old country roads. We passed a scrapyard with more wrecked cars than I’d ever seen in my life. There must have been a thousand of them.

We turned left and bumped along a narrow gravel road. As soon as we crested the hill, I saw a brown car ahead—an older sedan, sitting on a muddy lot. A woman got out of the car, opened an umbrella, and walked over to us. She introduced herself. “Good afternoon. I am a local volunteer for the crash site.”

A light rain started to fall as she launched into a prepared speech.

“United flight ninety-three came in from the north. The workers over there in the scrapyard were the last ones to see it. It flew in just forty feet over their heads, upside down, with its jet engines screaming. The plane held seven crew members and
thirty-seven passengers, including four hijackers. Most of you know by now what happened.

“The four hijackers had seized control of United ninety-three approximately thirty minutes after takeoff. The passengers and crew were able to make secret calls from the plane. They learned from their loved ones that other planes were being used as bombs in a coordinated assault against our country. So they decided to take the plane back. They charged the cockpit and overwhelmed the hijackers. They lost their lives when the plane crashed, right over there. But their brave actions prevented another devastating attack, probably against the United States Capitol. Both houses of Congress were in session in the Capitol that morning. Our entire representative democracy was gathered there.

“And think about this: Do you know how those passengers decided what to do? They took a vote! Like in a democracy. And the vote was to take the plane back and stop whatever evil plan was unfolding.”

The woman seemed genuinely moved by the story, even though she must have told it a hundred times.

“So people started coming out here to say thank you any way they could—by laying a wreath, or saying a prayer, or just bearing witness.”

The woman pointed to the exact spot where the plane had crashed. It was raining pretty hard now. We could barely make out a field in the distance.

Suddenly Jimmy growled, “I can’t see it. I can’t see anything!”

He yanked his door open and tumbled out. He bent into the rain and started walking toward the crash site. Our hostess’s umbrella was now flapping in the wind, and she was getting soaked. She told Catherine Lyle, “He’s not allowed to go out there! No one is.”

Catherine turned on the wipers. We all watched Jimmy push on to the edge of the field. Catherine asked, “Should I go after him?”

Before the woman could answer, though, Jimmy stopped.

He fell to the ground, on his knees, in the driving rain. He leaned forward slowly, until his outstretched palms and then his face were pressed against the ground. I believe he was praying.

The woman said, “As long as he doesn’t go any farther, I guess it’s all right. If he does, though, I’ll have to call the police.” She turned her umbrella so that it covered her head, and she worked her way back to the car.

Jimmy did not go any farther. After about five minutes, he got up, clapped some of the mud off his hands and knees, and returned to the van. He opened the door, letting a cold squall of rain blow in. He flopped back onto his seat, soaking wet. His face and the front of his jacket were streaked with mud.

Catherine asked us, “Does anybody have a towel?”

I thought,
Why would anybody have a towel?

She called, “Is there one in the back, Arthur?”

Arthur twisted himself so he could see. “No. There’s no towel back here. There’s a toolbox, and some kind of lantern-flashlight thing.”

She asked, “Mr. Giles, do you want me to stop somewhere and get you a towel?”

Jimmy shook his head no very slowly, like he was in a trance.

Catherine Lyle said, “I’ll turn the heat on high.” She turned it on full blast. Then she executed a sloppy K-turn and we started back along the gravel road, leaving the volunteer behind us in her car.

After a few miles of country roads, we were back on the highway. Catherine asked, “How are you feeling, Mr. Giles?”

He didn’t answer. I saw Catherine exchange a fearful look with Wendy in the rearview mirror as we drove on in silence.

Jimmy finally did speak, his voice low and haunted. “Those people on the plane were doomed from the start. All of them.”

I thought about those passengers trapped in that plane with, literally, no way out.

He added, “We’re just like them. We’re doomed, too. We’re trapped, too. All of us.”

Arthur called up to him, “Amen, Jimmy. You take her easy now.”

Other kids muttered encouraging words, too.