Orbiting Jupiter Page 9

  I wondered if Joseph was supposed to hear it, though.

  And Mrs. Halloway, in Language Arts, was calling on him a lot—I think because she saw Joseph reading Walden. She asked him if he liked it and he said he’d already read it once and he was reading it again, and she asked if he had read her favorite Thoreau book, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, and he said, “A Week on the what?” and she took him to the library and they checked it out together.

  You know how teachers are. If they get you to take out a book they love too, they’re yours for life.

  In the third week of February, on Monday, after Joseph finished reading the letter from the librarian that was waiting for him—and it was a good one, you could tell—we went out with my father and tapped thirty-six trees. “These pails will fill pretty quick,” he said. “I don’t know what we ever did without you, Joseph.”

  He just said it like that. Just like that. But after he said it, Joseph looked at him.

  “Think we can put in another two dozen tomorrow?” my father said.

  “Someday, Jupiter would love to do this,” said Joseph.

  Now my father looked at him.

  “Yes, she will,” he finally said.

  “Really?” said Joseph.

  “Let’s go back up to the house,” said my father.

  That night, my father and mother went into their room right after supper. They were in there for a long time. I think they might have made a phone call or two.

  “Have I told you about the first time Maddie and I danced?” said Joseph.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It was great,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “It really was,” he said, and then he looked down the hall toward my parents’ room, and went out to be with Rosie—smiling.

  I'd lost count.

  THE NIGHTS STAYED cold, and the days warmed, and the sap flowed like it had never flowed before, and my father almost laughed at the number of pails we brought in, and brought in, and brought in every day. We could hardly wait to come home from school—Joseph said it was almost worth taking the school bus for, but not quite. So we half ran most of the way in the light that slanted against us, and it began to feel as if it had always been like this, like it would always be like this, until that day we came home and there was a new clean-white pickup by the barn, running with no one inside, and no one around, and Joseph slowed and stopped, and he looked at me, and he said, “Jackie, go into the Big Barn.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, okay?”

  He gave me his books, looked at the pickup again, and went inside.

  I went into the barn, put our books down on the grain bins, and went to rub Rosie’s rump—even though she’d rather have Joseph do it.

  Waited.

  Rubbed Dahlia’s rump. She doesn’t care who rubs her rump—she just keeps chewing.

  Waited.

  Went back out to the grain bins.

  And then I heard my father holler, “No!”

  And then again, “No!”

  That was all I needed.

  Here’s what I saw when I slammed into the kitchen, less than one second later.

  My mother standing behind Joseph, with her hands on his shoulders.

  Joseph crying. His face all wet.

  My father standing in front of the two of them.

  Joseph’s father standing by the door, so close I almost ran into his back.

  And in his hand—I just saw it for a second—the blue metal of a gun.

  Then Joseph’s father had his arm around my chest, and he dragged me against him, and my father took a step toward us, and Joseph’s father jerked me tight and said, “Stop,” and my father did.

  I could smell his father. The stink of sweat, the sick sweet of what he’d been drinking.

  “This changes things,” he said.

  No one spoke.

  “This changes things,” he said again. He leaned toward my father. “It sure does. All I want’s my boy.” He shook me. “Same as you.”

  “We both want what’s best for our boys,” said my father. I could tell he was trying to sound calm—but he wasn’t. “We both want what’s best. But this isn’t the way to do it.”

  “It’s my way,” said Joseph’s father.

  And then Joseph, from somewhere deep in his gut, screamed. “You sold her! You freaking sold her!”

  “I made an arrangement,” Joseph’s father said. “You weren’t going to get her. And we needed a new truck. I’m not a do-good fool—like them.” He pointed to my parents.

  Joseph screamed again. Not even words this time. He screamed at his father like something had ripped deep inside him.

  Then, suddenly, he pulled away from my mother, and if my father hadn’t grabbed him, he would have come at us.

  My father held Joseph from behind, held him as he cried and sobbed, held him as he went to the floor.

  And when Joseph sobbed into silence, his father said, “Done now, kid?”

  Joseph looked at him.

  “Get in the truck.”

  Joseph stood up. My father held his arm.

  “In the truck,” his father said again.

  My father pulled Joseph behind him.

  “You’re going to get in your truck,” my father said. “You’re going to let my boy go, and you’re going to get in your truck, and this is going to end.”

  But Joseph’s father held me even tighter. “You think you’re in charge here?” he said. He held his hand out and showed the gun, then placed it against my side.

  A cry jolted from my mother.

  I think that was when I was about to wet my pants.

  “Give me my boy and we’ll be gone.”

  My father said, “And how far do you think you’ll get? Ten miles? Fifteen? Maybe all the way to the state border, but they’ll be watching for you there. Truck like yours, they’ll find you easy.”

  “So maybe I’ll take both of them,” said Joseph’s father. “How’d you like that? I’ll take my kid and yours for insurance.”

  “No,” said Joseph. “No. Dad, I’m coming. Let’s go.”

  He came out from behind my father.

  “Let’s go, Dad. Leave him here. Let’s leave them all here and go.”

  His father’s arm around me relaxed a little.

  Joseph came up to us slowly. “Let’s go,” he said, almost whispered.

  I felt the gun move away from my side.

  Joseph took my arm and pulled me away from his father. “Dad, let’s go.” He put his hand on my back and nudged me toward my father.

  And Joseph, Joseph took his father’s arm—“C’mon”—and they went through the door, and outside. “Let’s go.”

  The door closed.

  My father ran to the phone, my mother to me.

  I watched through the window as Joseph and his father got in the pickup. The door slammed and the pickup whipped around and away. Not before Joseph looked back one more time, and he saw me, and then he was gone.

  They weren’t ten seconds out of the yard before my father had the police on the phone.

  HERE’S WHAT WE figured happened next.

  Joseph’s father was probably driving a whole lot faster than he could handle.

  Mr. Canton was driving out of school and he was about to turn right by old First Congregational when he saw the white pickup coming toward him.

  He braked, and skidded on the ice into the middle of the road.

  Joseph’s father hit him square. He jammed Mr. Canton’s car over the embankment and into some trees—which kept it from rolling completely.

  Then he turned in front of old First Congregational.

  Through the Bridge Out sign.

  Onto the Alliance bridge.

  They didn’t even make it halfway.

  The rotted timbers collapsed and the pickup fell between the girders and then it went through the ice and was gone.

  By the time Mr. Canton got out of his car and ran to the
bridge, he couldn’t see a thing in the black water.

  Neither could the police later.

  No one could see a thing.

  THEY DIDN’T GET the pickup out of the river for two days.

  My father wouldn’t let me go—but he went.

  He said Mr. Canton opened the frozen door on Joseph’s side.

  But it was my father who carried Joseph out of the truck.

  That’s all he would tell me.

  THE FUNERAL SERVICE for Joseph was three days later.

  Mr. D’Ulney was there. Mr. Canton. Mrs. Halloway. Coach Swieteck, who cried the whole time.

  My mother and father.

  The librarian, who sat in the back.

  Pastor Greenleaf from the Baptist church outside Lewiston.

  Mrs. Stroud.

  Ernie Hupfer, John Wall, Danny Nations. No ear buds.

  That was all.

  We met in a side chapel of new First Con­gregational, because there were so few of us. We didn’t sing, but Mrs. Ballou played the organ quietly through about everything. Reverend Ballou asked if anyone had anything they’d like to say, and my father looked at me. But I didn’t want to say anything in front of people. I might . . . you know.

  So Reverend Ballou read some verses and talked about them and he said something about angels and he stopped for a little bit and then he said, really quiet, “Where the hell were they?” and then we prayed a long time. Afterward we went out to the cemetery on Lower Gore, where the Hurd grandparents and great-grandparents and great-great-grandparents are buried. Mr. Canton and Mr. D’Ulney, and my father and I, we held the ropes that lowered Joseph into our family, beside the high white pines. Then Reverend Ballou prayed again, and he said that Joseph had put himself in danger to save others, and then he said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

  And that’s when I started crying. Crying like a kindergarten kid in front of everyone. Crying because Joseph wasn’t just my friend.

  I had his back.

  And he had mine.

  That’s what greater love is.

  nine

  WE waited more than a year, and then, on what would have been Joseph’s sixteenth birthday, when the apple trees were blooming and the bees doing their dances, Mrs. Stroud drove into our yard.

  In the back seat was Jupiter.

  As soon as the door was opened and Mrs. Stroud got her unstrapped, Jupiter was out and sort of waddling around, looking at everything, touching everything, smelling everything, as if she had a whole lot of time to make up for and she wasn’t going to waste a second. Black eyes, black hair, a little less than middle for height, a little less than middle for weight, sort of middle for everything else.

  She was smiling.

  “Here she is,” said Mrs. Stroud.

  Jupiter stared at my parents—her parents too, now.

  My father knelt down, and Jupiter put out her hand and pulled his nose, and laughed. Then my mother knelt down, and Jupiter put out her hand and stroked her cheek.

  “Jupiter, this is your new brother,” said Mrs. Stroud. “His name is Jack.”

  I knelt down, and Jupiter put out both her hands and pulled my ears.

  “Jackie,” said Jupiter.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Jackie.”

  “Jackie,” Jupiter said again.

  I stood and I took her hand and we waddled together, around the car, then around the yard. We went into the Big Barn and I showed her the cows—she was a little afraid, but she’d be okay—and then out to the Near Field where Quintus Sertorius was grazing and looking like he didn’t want to do anything else, but he perked his velvet ears when he heard Jupiter squeal. Then we came out to the yard again and Jupiter smiled and laughed and she waddled around my parents. And then she stopped, and she held up her hands, and she said “Jackie.”

  I knelt down and Jupiter got on my back. She closed her little arms around my neck. I stood and hefted her up.

  She laid her head against me.

  “Jackie.” She yawned. “Jackie.”

  “Jupiter,” I whispered back. “Jupiter. I promise I’ll always know where you are.”

  “Jackie,” she said again.

  And I carried her into the house.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Arctic Tern

  Plate CCL

  JOE PEPITONE once gave me his New York Yankees baseball cap.

  I’m not lying.

  He gave it to me. To me, Doug Swieteck. To me.

  Joe Pepitone and Horace Clarke came all the way out on the Island to Camillo Junior High and I threw with them. Me and Danny Hupfer and Holling Hoodhood, who were good guys. We all threw with Joe Pepitone and Horace Clarke, and we batted too. They sang to us while we swung away: “He’s a batta, he’s a batta-batta-batta, he’s a batta . . .” That was their song.

  And afterward, Horace Clarke gave Danny his cap, and Joe Pepitone gave Holling his jacket (probably because he felt sorry for him on account of his dumb name), and then Joe Pepitone handed me his cap. He reached out and took it off his head and handed it to me. Just like that. It was signed on the inside, so anyone could tell that it was really his. Joe Pepitone’s.

  It was the only thing I ever owned that hadn’t belonged to some other Swieteck before me.

  I hid it for four and a half months. Then my stupid brother found out about it. He came in at night when I was asleep and whipped my arm up behind my back so high I couldn’t even scream it hurt so bad and he told me to decide if I wanted a broken arm or if I wanted to give him Joe Pepitone’s baseball cap. I decided on the broken arm. Then he stuck his knee in the center of my spine and asked if I wanted a broken back along with the broken arm, and so I told him Joe Pepitone’s cap was in the basement behind the oil furnace.

  It wasn’t, but he went downstairs anyway. That’s what a chump he is.

  So I threw on a T-shirt and shorts and Joe Pepitone’s cap—which was under my pillow the whole time, the jerk—and got outside. Except he caught me. Dragged me behind the garage. Took Joe Pepitone’s baseball cap. Pummeled me in places where the bruises wouldn’t show.

  A strategy that my . . . is none of your business.

  I think he kept the cap for ten hours—just long enough for me to see him with it at school. Then he traded it to Link Vitelli for cigarettes, and Link Vitelli kept it for a day—just long enough for me to see him with it at school. Then Link traded it to Glenn Dillard for a comb. A comb! And Glenn Dillard kept it for a day—just long enough for me to see him with it at school. Then Glenn lost it while driving his brother’s Mustang without a license and with the top down, the jerk. It blew off somewhere on Jerusalem Avenue. I looked for it for a week.

  I guess now it’s in a gutter, getting rained on or something. Probably anyone who walks by looks down and thinks it’s a piece of junk.

  They’re right. That’s all it is. Now.

  But once, it was the only thing I ever owned that hadn’t belonged to some other Swieteck before me.

  I know. That means a big fat zero to anyone else.

  I tried to talk to my father about it. But it was a wrong day. Most days are wrong days. Most days he comes home red-faced with his eyes half closed and with that deadly silence that lets you know he’d have a whole lot to say if he ever let himself get started and no one better get him started because there’s no telling when he’ll stop and if he ever did get started then pretty Mr. Culross at freaking Culross Lumber better not be the one to get him started because he’d punch pretty Mr. Culross’s freaking lights out and he didn’t care if he did lose his job over it because it’s a lousy job anyway.

  That was my father not letting himself get started.

  But I had a plan.

  All I had to do was get my father to take me to Yankee Stadium. That’s all. If I could just see Joe Pepitone one more time. If I could just tell him what happened to my baseball cap. He’d look at me, and he’d laugh and rough up my hair, and then he’d take off
his cap and he’d put it on my head. “Here, Doug,” Joe Pepitone would say. Like that. “Here, Doug. You look a whole lot better in it than I do.” That’s what Joe Pepitone would say. Because that’s the kind of guy he is.

  That was the plan. And all I had to do was get my father to listen.

  But I picked a wrong day. Because there aren’t any right days.

  And my father said, “Are you crazy? Are you freaking crazy? I work forty-five hours a week to put food on the table for you, and you want me to take you to Yankee Stadium because you lost some lousy baseball cap?”

  “It’s not just some lousy—”

  That’s all I got out. My father’s hands are quick. That’s the kind of guy he is.

  Who knows how much my father got out the day he finally let himself get started saying what he wanted to say to pretty Mr. Culross and didn’t even try to stop himself from saying it. But whatever he said, he came home with a pretty good shiner, because pretty Mr. Culross turned out to have hands even quicker than my father’s.

  And pretty Mr. Culross had one other advantage: he could fire my father if he wanted to.

  So my father came home with his lunch pail in his hand and a bandage on his face and the last check he would ever see from Culross Lumber, Inc., and he looked at my mother and said, “Don’t you say a thing,” and he looked at me and said, “Still worried about a lousy baseball cap?” and he went upstairs and started making phone calls.

  Mom kept us in the kitchen.

  He came down when we were finishing supper, and Mom jumped up from the table and brought over the plate she’d been keeping warm in the oven. She set it down in front of him.

  “It’s not all dried out, is it?” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” Mom said.