Buried Treasure. Jack B. Downs

one or the other with an oily rag and some tool in hand. Or they might be in one front yard or another, gazing with bemusement at a lawnmower in need of attention.

      The dad he remembered had been much taller, and more talkative. Of course, the other dad had a way of never getting around to the end of a sentence where the period is put. That dad would blurt, rather than speak, sometimes with wild eyes darting in company with the words. But Dylan also remembered a stretch of time before he finally left, when his father would lapse into silence, and the funeral-home pall would descend on the house. People who did not know him well would wait on him, expecting him to finish a thought. Often they just waited.

      Now, Dylan found himself waiting. Would he get along with this other version of his father?

      ***

      Stinger Owens lived on the south side of Crane Ridge. Sam had said once that in just about every town he’d been in, the south side was the bad side, and he wondered why this was so. Dylan had thought of Stinger then. Not that the south side of Crane Ridge was particularly dangerous. But Stinger was. The boy was large, and lumbered rather than walked, but somehow he could move across the school hall with blurring speed to slap an unsuspecting student. He was two years ahead of Dylan, so he was in the junior high.

      Stinger’s beefy right hand had a heavy ring on it. When he slapped the back of your head, it hurt worst where the ring connected with your skull. The first time Dylan realized that James and Stinger were acquainted was this past summer on a hot afternoon, when Dylan was coming back from the library the long way, rounding the corner by Wilson’s Drug Emporium. Stinger had his back to him as Dylan passed, talking to one of his pals, Scooter Morris.

      “—Can’t take a joke is all. We’ll fix him good when—”

      Scooter’s eyes widened when he saw Dylan.

      “Hey, little man! What brings you down to this part of town?”

      Dylan slowed, out of range of Stinger.

      “Just come from the library. Heading home.”

      Dylan watched Stinger’s eyes. Something about the way Stinger furrowed his brow made Dylan’s skin crawl. His sloped white forehead bulged with a fatty thickness, and when it wrinkled, Dylan wondered what seismic effort it required to sort through the range of responses for the appropriate one.

      Stinger’s forehead relaxed. He stepped toward Dylan. “Let’s see what the bookworm picked up at the library store.”

      Dylan wondered if Stinger thought a library was like a store because he had never set foot in one. The calm on Stinger’s face worried him. He eased along the sidewalk, keeping between Stinger and the open street. He glanced down at the pile of books in his arm, dismissively. “Just some stuff on planes, and a Tom Swift book. You like Tom Swift?”

      Stinger paused in his shuffle to consider the question. Dylan wondered if anyone had ever asked Stinger about his literary preferences.

      Stinger cocked his head and studied Dylan. “What’s it about?”

      Dylan gulped. “I can’t say I know. I just got it. But I read the first couple pages—” Dylan tried to remember what he’d read, but couldn’t.

      “Why don’t you let us help you carry some of them?” Scooter eased 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