Excerpted from the unpublished novel: GOLIATH’S GATE

CHAPTER 11: The 4th of July

The Williams Tool Company’s annual 4th of July picnic was the biggest event of the summer. The tradition went back fifty years. It had been begun by Jason’s great grandfather, was carried on by his grandfather, and now by Miller – a day of music, dedications and speeches, games and free food. Despite some resident’s mixed emotions about Miller’s ownership of the WTC, few were willing to forego a good party and free food.

Though it was, technically, first come first serve and there were no guarantees; it became a badge of honor to secure the same spot each year. It wasn’t uncommon for heated arguments to break out if a newcomer was found occupying a table that last year had belonged to someone else. I got there early to stake out my family’s picnic table.

It had been two days since my eavesdropping episode. Jason hadn’t called and I hadn’t had the courage to call him. But even though his folks didn’t, he always came to the picnic and usually he stayed at our table. So I figured I’d see him, but I wasn’t sure how it would play out. Once the battery was found it wouldn’t take him long to figure out what happened.

Our table was next to the river under a big willow. It was one of the cooler spots on really hot days and, you could tell that this was going to be one. My mom had attached a note to the picnic basket with our name printed in big letters. I planted it in the middle of the table and headed toward the bandstand, still thinking about Jason. As far as I knew everybody, including him, thought he was the richest kid in class. I couldn’t imagine what he must be going through now. When he found the battery he would know I overheard something. Given his temper I hoped we’d still be friends.

People didn’t start arriving big time until ten or ten thirty when the band started. Speeches would begin at eleven. This year Mr. Miller was going to receive a good citizen’s award from the mayor for the renovations he had done on the town square. He’d been on the front page of the paper the night before and the same picture was plastered on trees and bulletin boards all over the fairgrounds -- a girl was putting flyers on all the seats as I came up, and he was on them too.

It was an especially big set-up this year with red, white and blue bunting swaged everywhere, and American flags sticking out from the handrails all around the bandstand. They must have had seats for five hundred people. The paper said the planners had borrowed every chair they could get from all three churches and the firehouse. Usually the speeches were loud and boring and us kids tried to avoid them at all cost, though sometimes parents made you listen, like Richie’s mom. The only reason I was tempted this year was that because Miller’s daughter Laurie would to be there. She was the prettiest girl in sixth grade and now that she’d begun to fill out… well, sitting through the speeches just didn’t seem that bad.

It was an unspoken rule that Landing residents gathered on the left side of the picnic grounds while those of us from Clayton occupied the right, a tradition that served to keep the majority of factory workers together and helped minimize disputes. As I wandered around looking for a familiar face I discovered Robert Lee, seated alone on the Landing side, reserving his family’s table.

"Hey, Ned!"

"What are you doing over here?" I asked. Now that he was a Clayton resident with his mom now running the Chinese restaurant I would have expected to see him on our side.

"It’s our old spot. And you know… my dad still works …" His words trailed off.

I nodded. His dad still worked at the factory. It was easier this way.

"So…" I said, finally.

"Yeah."

"You not grounded anymore?"

"No. But I might as well be." He added gloomily.

Robert had been grounded for months when his folks found out he’d been making flash powder bombs in his tree house with his chemistry set. As punishment his dad had made him dismantle the entire tree-house and take it down.

"Why? What’s wrong?"

"You know how my dad made me take down my tree-house?"

"Yeah."

"Well, now he wants me to put it back up!"

"He what!?"

"He wants me to build it all over again!"

"Are you serious? Why?"

"I don’t know. Now that it’s down all the bad stuff is out of it -- something like that. It’s so stupid! If he just took the gunpowder stuff and threw it out in the first place, but no, I got to take the whole stupid thing down." He shook his head in frustration. "My dad tends to go overboard. He’s been reading about some Tibetan guy named Milerepa. I wish he wouldn’t read so much."

"So you’ve got to put it all back?"

"Yeah. Better than it was, whatever that means."

I couldn’t imagine Robert’s tree house ever being any better; it had been as close to perfect as any I’d ever seen.

"What are you going to do?"

"I don’t know, maybe add another room. If the tree doesn’t break."

"No more chemistry set?"

"No, he says I can have it. I just can’t make anymore explosives."

Robert’s dad was some strange guy. I tried to imagine what Jason would be like if his dad was like Robert’s. Probably a lot different. Robert was so easy to talk to. Here I’d been avoiding him for two months and suddenly it’s like, we’re just talking away. It made me nervous to feel so comfortable. I glanced over to Clayton territory to see if anybody I knew was there, but it was still early.

I joined Robert on the table and we talked about the bomb he made that had caused all the trouble. He and Jason had gotten into a kind of bomb making competition, because Jason wouldn’t let Robert into the Blue Angels. But Robert was better at bomb making, and his last one had sounded like Hiroshima. Scared crap out of the janitor. The cops were called. But Robert got away and nobody knew who had done it. Until Jason put in an anonymous call to Robert’s dad.

We talked about how the Blue Angels were doing and I filled him in as best I could. I told him that we’d finished the bomb bay door release and that his design had worked.

"How many doors?" he asked.

"What do you mean how many? One."

He frowned. "It should be two."

"Why two? It works."

"Yeah. But it’s going to fly funny. The door should be split up the middle and hinged on both sides."

"You think?"

He nodded. "I had a lot of time to think about it when I was tearing down my tree house. Have you tried flying it with the door open yet?"

We hadn’t.

He predicted trouble, especially if Jason tried it with a bigger engine.

It was a real sore point that I couldn’t get Jason to even consider letting Robert into the group. He knew everything Jason did about planes, maybe more. It just pissed me off.

Robert read my thoughts.

"Hey, some people don’t like Chinese. I don’t like Japs. And some people say they look just like me." He made a face and pretended to stick his finger down his throat.

I had to laugh.

He asked when we were getting the new engine and solenoids. I explained our financial predicament. He gave me a look that said the offer to use his engine was still open. I could see I’d got his hopes up, which I hadn’t intended.

The band began to play and I heard the cheery voice of Robert’s mom, "Hello, Ned!"
When I looked up, Mrs. Lee was coming across the lawn, with Mr. Lee beside her, carrying an ice cooler and picnic basket. Like Robert, Mr. Lee was small and had a big smile. When he shook my hand it was like shaking a rock. We talked for a while then I decided to see if my family had arrived and took my leave.

People were arriving in droves now. I headed up hill just to get around the crush and saw Jason coming down from way up where nobody went. I took a few steps toward him then waited. He was walking really slow, pretending he didn’t see me. My stomach got the willies. Finally, he looked up… Before I could greet him he said, "well, well, well… battery man," then, he stared past me.

I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I took a breath to apologize.

"Don’t," he said. He gave me a nod implying that I should follow and started diagonally back up the slope. We found a spot where we could sit and dropped to the ground. Below, the band began to play "The Tennessee Waltz," and something about the music made everything seem sad.

"You should of just knocked," he said, finally.

"I know."

"I would of told you."

"I know. I was scared."

"Of what?" He looked at me, surprised.

I shook my head. I really didn’t know.

A whiff of burning charcoal came up the hill; they were starting the barbeque fires. Jason stared out over the picnic grounds and the river. "My mom said, they’re maybe going to have to sell the house."

I didn’t say anything. The music coming up the hill was making me think of Laurie and Jr. Cotillion and how she belonged to Jason, and how I would never get to dance with her.

"So?" Jason’s voice cut through my sadness. When I looked up his face was all soft like there was nothing holding it together.

"So what?" I asked.

"I don’t know." He looked away. His lip was trembling.

"What’s the matter?"

"… shut up." He pressed his lips together and stared intently at the ground.

I started to speak.

"Just wait!"

I averted my eyes. It was the first time I’d seen him cry since when we were on the playground after our fight in third grade.

He took a breath. "I want to help my mom, you know? I don’t want to be the way I am…"

"What do you mean? What way?"

"You know, a kid…"

"But you are a kid."

"No. I mean…"

He couldn’t talk. His chest heaved and his eyes were wet but no sound came out except these pushing breaths. He glared down at the fair grounds below.

"I hate him Ned, I really do hate him." I thought he was talking about his father until he said, "You see his goddamn picture everywhere?" He shook his head bitterly. "If I could get him, just once!"

The Tennessee Waltz ended. I could see the members of the band turning the pages of their music. The fair grounds were teeming, and already half the seats facing the bandstand were filled. The band master waved his baton and the band launched into: ‘I’m Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover.’

Jason wiped his eyes and said, "Do you have any money?"

The abrupt change startled me. "A little…" I started to reach into my pocket.

"No, man. I mean, like saved up."

"Yeah…" I was on guard immediately.

"How much do you have?"

I shrugged, "I don’t know." It was sort of the truth. I knew the clay turtle bank on top of my dresser weighed a ton. I’d been putting money into it every week since first grade. But I didn’t plan on breaking it for Jason.

He changed the subject. "Did you see any of the guys yet? I thought maybe we could get together after lunch. I brought something for the club."

"Oh, yeah? What?"

"Something courtesy of my dad…" There was a hint of glib anger in his voice.

Any lingering sympathy I’d felt transformed to trepidation. Jason always made me nervous when he got like this. Irritation was the shield he wore when he wanted something. The tears had been real, and I was trying to figure out how he got so quickly from them to manipulation when we heard shouts. A crowd was gathering on the Landing side of the fair grounds. It was a fight!

We recognized Jamie White right off as we skidded down the hillside. There just weren’t that many black kids in Clayton’s Landing. The kid he was fighting looked familiar too, though I couldn’t place him. He was smaller and a lot faster than Jamie, and throwing jabs like Sugar Ray Robinson. He had a thick mop of black hair, a skinny face, and a scar on his lip that twisted up in a permanent sneer. My stomach reacted with an instant dislike.

People were yelling, "come on Jamie," and "get him Shale," as we pushed through the crowd. Suddenly he abandoned his dance and rushed Jamie head on. It reminded me of the run Jason had taken at me years earlier, and that kicked off where I knew him from. Back in Third Grade these kids from the Landing had come over looking for a fight. One had been really scary and only Jackie Leidig had the guts to take him on. The kid had fought dirty, picked up a rock and broke Jackie’s nose. This was him, three grades later.

He was on the uphill side when he made his move, and it gave him the momentum to take Jamie down. They hit the ground hard, and the white kid was all over Jamie, punching and screaming at him. He got his knee on Jamie’s right hand and began punching him in the face. Again and again he hit, the punches coming so fast that Jamie couldn’t grab his hand. Finally a really hard one got through. Jamie bellowed, heaved his stomach up, grabbed the kid by the shirt neck, and yanked him over his head. The kid smashed down on the ground and struggled to pull off Jamie’s hand. But Jamie didn’t let go. He twisted around and hit the kid in the jaw so hard you heard a crunch.

"Stop it! Stop it right now!"

Two guys rushed in from the sidelines, wearing ties and sport jackets. Right away I recognized them as Miller’s two son’s, Sam and Zachary. Being in high school and a lot bigger than either Jamie or the kid they had no trouble separating them. Jamie seemed glad. But the white kid, once he recovered from Jamie’s blow, was steamed.

"Let fuckin’ go of me, you ass hole!"

Sam shook him hard, and said, "watch your language!"

"Screw you! You think I’m gonna let some damn nigger take my spot…!"

Jamie lurched in Zach’s arms. "It’s not your spot!"

"Leave it!" snapped Zach, yanking Jamie back.

"It’s been our spot every year since I was a kid!" Jamie said, as much to Zach as to his opponent.

"Yeah, well, you’re a Clayton nigger now!" the kid fired back,

"Damnit!" Sam, shook the kid again and slapped him hard in the back of the head.

"Ow!" the kid howled, grabbing his jaw.

Two cops pushed through the crowd. "All right, break it up!"

"This ass hole hit me!" the kid cried, struggling in Sam’s grip.

"We can take it from here," the cop said, walking up.

Gratefully, Zach and Sam released their prisoners and dusted themselves off. Zach gave a quick rundown of the fight, thanked the cops, and they were leaving through the crowd when the kid yelled after Sam:

"You goddamn Jew!"

Sam froze.

"All right that’s enough!" The cop snapped, grabbing the kid by the ear.

"Ow! Leggo, Leggo!" the kid howled while the cop dragged him off through the crowd down the hill toward a squad car. As the kid’s indignant cries grew fainter, the band stopped, and the crowd around us grew silent. A couple of on lookers told the cop holding Jamie that it was the white kid that had started things. The cop didn’t seem too happy about this, but finally let Jamie go with a warning not to provoke fights, and set off after his partner.

We heard a feedback squeal. Someone began introducing the Mayor and the crowd began to peel away. The speeches had begun.

"Man, that kid is tough!" Jason said, impressed. "Did you hear what he said to Sam Miller? He’s not afraid of shit!"

I said, "remember in third grade when those kids came over from the Landing and that one kid broke Jackie Leidig’s nose with a rock"

"Yeah."

"That was him." I nodded down the hill.

"Shit! You’re right!" He remembered.

I disliked everything about this kid, his pinched face that came at you chin first, his voice, and the nasty ease with which he displayed anger and dispensed racial slurs.

"He hasn’t changed much," I said.

"He sure can fight."

I muttered, "Yeah." The ceremonies had begun and I wanted to go over and see where Laurie was sitting. I nudged him. "Come on…"

"No wait." Jason said, watching the cops and the kid. "They’re going to let him go."

"So what? He’s an ass hole."

"He wasn’t afraid of Sam Miller."

I searched the front row for Laurie. He grabbed my sleeve.

"See! They’re letting him go. Come on!"

I looked down the hill. The lights on the police car winked out and it pulled slowly away.

"Jason, why do you want to see him?" I moaned.

"Because I do!"

The kid was holding a tissue to his nose when we arrived. The whole side of his face was swollen. For all I knew, Jamie could have broken his jaw.

"That was some fight," Jason said.

His head shot around and he squinted at us through narrow eyes then pressed gingerly against his upper teeth and winced.

"When I see him again I’m going to cut his balls off." He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and flicked it open.

My stomach fell past my knees.

"Hey, you better not let the cops see that," Jason said.

"Fuck the cops!" He swung the knife defiantly through the air then went up to one of the brown notice boards that dotted the fairgrounds and with a few furious strokes cut a picture of Miller to ribbons.

"There you go," said Jason, obviously pleased.

He came back closing his switchblade. He was thinner and shorter than Jason but deceptively big across the shoulders. And there was a meanness you couldn’t disregard. I’d seen it in the fight and I saw it again as he pocketed the switchblade and poked gingerly at his face with the dirty handkerchief. His crooked smile returned, and he spoke softly. "I’m gonna kill that nigger boy some day, you mark my words." He held out his hand to Jason and introduced himself. "Shale Royal. My dad knows your dad."

Shale. It was the name Mr. Williams had mentioned in the car when we were coming back from the New Year’s party at the Country Club.

Jason shook hands. "Jason Williams." He nodded toward me, "This is Ned Richardson."

He had a weird grip. He didn’t take your hand at all, but held his rigid like he was expecting you to try and squeeze it too hard. It was another thing about him I didn’t like. But clearly Jason had decided we were going to be spending some time together, so I smiled and tried to pretend I liked him.

We made our way back up through the blankets and picnic tables, listening to the drone of the speeches, when the smell of barbeque drifted to our nostrils.

"Oh, boy," said Jason.

"Shit, I hope I can eat," muttered Shale, wincing as he tried to clench is teeth.

Even though they didn’t start serving until the speeches were over, the lines always started early. The closer we came to the food area the hungrier we got.

The food was prepared over a 50 foot run of halved oil drums filled with glowing charcoal. Volunteers from the factory did the cooking. People brought their own plates and silverware and stood in different lines depending on whether they wanted, chicken, steak, hamburgers and hot dogs, or roast pork. Nearby, other tables were heaped high with all kinds of salads, baked beans, macaroni and cheese and a zillion different casseroles supplied by the factory’s picnic committee. You could pick your favorite starch from a mountain of bread and buns and baked potatoes, and there were huge vats of iced coffee and tea and fifty gallon drums filled with ice and soft drinks. Smart folks brought their own condiments because that table got crowded and disgusting real fast.

We headed back to our respective blankets promising to meet each other on the hotdog and hamburger line. My mom, dad and sister had arrived when I got to our table and since they were skipping the speeches too, we grabbed our plates and utensils, trooped back over to the barbeque.
The next three hours were devoted to gorging ourselves, hanging out, talking with friends, and trying to stay out of the sun because it was really hot. Jason hung out with Shale for a while then came over and joined my family. By that time he’d touched base with the rest of the Blue Angles. The plan was to meet on the upper hillside at three o’clock.

Mick and Richie were the last to arrive.

Richie lagging behind came panting up, red faced and unhappy. When he caught his breath he demanded, "What do we have to meet up here for?"

"’Cause nobody ever comes up here," Jason said.

"Gee, I wonder why," he said, dryly. "Hey, did you guys see the fight?"

We talked about the fight for a while, then Jason told how we had met Shale afterwards and announced that he would be coming up to join us later.

"Why?" I demanded. I couldn’t believe it.

"To meet the guys." He nodded to the group. " Plus I want to reward him for telling Sam Miller where to get off."

"Reward him? How?" Tom asked.

"You’ll see."

"What do you mean?" I asked guardedly.

"It’s for later. A surprise." He grinned, avoiding my eyes.

That made me uneasy. Jason’s surprises were often double edged.

"I called this meeting of the Blue Angels," he said, "because we’ve got a problem."

He let it hang. Tom moved closer. Richie and Mick leaned in.

"My dad won’t give me the money for the new engine or the solenoids."

Tom, Mick, and Richie groaned. Because of the way Jason had talked all spring, we took it for granted that he’d be getting the money from his dad. I would have groaned too if I didn’t know what I knew. Again, Jason let it hang. He looked wistfully out over the picnickers while a breeze coming up the hill nudged his dirty blond hair. It was very dramatic. He was really good at this.

Finally, Mick asked, "so what are we going to do?"

"I don’t know." He shook his head as though deeply puzzled. "It’s a lot of money."

We all nodded.

"We’ve worked so hard to get this far… I just… I can’t stop now. It doesn’t seem right."

We shook our heads. I wondered how long it was going to take him to get to the pitch.

"I’m going to try and get a job. But, I don’t know…" He seemed confused about how to accomplish this.

"You could sell The Record," Tom said.

The Clayton Record was a weekly newspaper that came out every Saturday. You’d show up at their office Saturday morning, buy copies for a nickel, and spend the day selling them for a dime. If you had leftovers you could turn them in for a refund. Tom and Mick had been doing this since forth grade.
Jason frowned. "Do you make much money?"

Tom was enthusiastic, "Yeah! A couple or three bucks a day."

Tom’s mom was divorced and worked as a waitress, and I don’t even know if he got an allowance, so he had to work if he wanted to buy candy and stuff.

Jason pretended to be thinking, then shook his head despondently. "It’ll take me a year."

It grew very quiet. They were beginning to catch on.

"You guys have been part of this from the beginning," he said. "You were there for the Trixter’s first flight. You were there when we tested the bombs. You were there when we flew her over the factory, and Tom found that opening in the trees and Mick pulled her out of the drink."

Richy nodded. Tom and Mick beamed. You could almost hear the drums in the background.

"We’re so close. So close. All we need is one more Aristocraft RC unit and the big Beckland engine and we can put a bomb anywhere in Clayton’s Landing that we want. To do it we need $97.00. I’ve never asked anything of you guys before. It’s always been my money and I was glad for it. But now I’m strapped. So I’m asking… for all of us… for the Trixter, for the Blue Angels, can you help out in any way? Anything? A few bucks from your savings that you could put toward buying what we need? It’s up to you guys. I’m going to get a job no matter what, but it’s going to be a long time if I’m the only one contributing. It’s up to you guys."

Humbled, Jason looked down at his feet, moved one sneaker back and forth. Slick.

Finally, Richie said, "I’ve got a little."

"Yeah." I said grudgingly. I’d been putting money in that Turtle for a long time and I had a long list of things I planned to buy that had nothing to do with the Trixter. I knew Mick had some savings but he wasn’t offering. Tom, on the other hand, probably didn’t have any.

"I’ve got an idea," Mick said. "Why don’t we all sell the Record this summer and donate the money to the Blue Angels. I bet with all of us we could make ten maybe fifteen bucks a week."

Jason nodded, as though considering the proposition. My guess was that the idea of work didn’t appeal to him as much as he might like us to believe.

"I could contribute some," Tom said, reluctantly.

"I’m in," said Richie.

"Yeah. Why not?" I said.

"Me too," Mick muttered.

Jason turned to Tom. "Is it hard to sell papers?"

There it was.

"No! Heck no! It’s easy. You know lots of people. Your dad knows lots of people. You just set up some regular customers and you’ve got it made."

Jason nodded. Tom made it sound like a snap. I knew there was a lot more to it. I also knew Jason’s private thoughts about selling the Record. I was finding it all quite enjoyable.

"OK," Jason said, at last. "We’ve got a plan. We’ll get this bomber working yet!"

The others punched their fists in the air in a show of solidarity and said "Yeah!" "You bet!" "All right!" Me? I didn’t say a word. I was staring down the hill.

Jason followed my eyes, gave a shout and waved. "Hey!"

Shale waved back.

Jason smiled with satisfaction, "Right on time."

After introducing Shale, Jason took us farther up the hill to an old stump then knelt and reached inside the roots. Out came a bottle of Scotch Whiskey, about a quarter full.

Mick froze.

Richie who always had kind of a pink face turned white.

Tom’s eyes went wide. "No shit!"

Jason said, "Have a seat, men."

Mick and Richie exchanged anxious looks and checked with me. I shrugged my eyebrows to let them know I was as surprised as they were.

Jason held up the bottle like he was making a toast. "First drink goes to the man who took down Jamie White and stood up to Sam Miller." He passed it over to Shale, who examined it professionally, and nodded his approval.

Shale unscrewed the top and lifted the bottle gingerly to his lips. You could tell his jaw was still hurting by the way he tipped it up. As the booze hit the inside of his mouth he winced violently, shook his head up and down for a second, forced a swallow, cried, "Oh, shit!" then blew out fast little breaths until the pain subsided. His crooked grin returned and he handed the bottle back to Jason.

"Good stuff."

Inside, I was squirming. In my family, to be caught drinking after all the stuff I’d been told was a corporal punishment offense, and, by his face, I could tell it was the same in Mick’s.

Richie was actually shaking.

Holding the bottle, by its neck, Jason addressed us.

"I don’t know how long it’s going to take, but somehow we’ll get the money. Trixter will fly. And some day, with your help, we’ll bring that asshole Miller down a peg."

Lifting the bottle high in the air, he said, "to the Blue Angels!" Then he took a swig and handed me the bottle.

My mouth went dry. I had no choice. I raised it up, said, "to the Blue Angels," took as little into my mouth as I could without looking like I was faking it, and swallowed. Shit it was awful! What was so great about pouring fire down your throat? Fighting off a cough, I swallowed and swallowed until it was safe to breathe. Then, I passed the bottle to Tom.

Tom had no idea what he was getting into. He couldn’t wait, said, "to the Blue Angels!" and upended it like John Wayne. He got about half a swallow down, made a horrible gasp and sprayed the rest all over the hillside, coughing and coughing.

Shale deftly rescued the bottle saying, "It’s booze man, not milk."

"Oh, shit, oh shit," Tom said, when he was finally able to speak.

Jason put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. "You OK?"

Tom grinned like a fool. He loved it when he got attention from Jason.

Shale offered him the bottle again and said, "little sips, little sips."

Tom shook his head like he was going to refuse, then suddenly took it. The second sip went down a lot easier. He handed the bottle to Mick.

Mick took a tiny sip, then said, "Oh, crap, ‘to the Blue Angles’… I forgot."

Richie said, "to the Blue Angels," and faked it completely.

Jason was the first to sit down. The rest of us followed. I began to worry that they were going to pass it around again, when Tom said, "Oh, hey, hey, hey, I’ve got a joke…" Then everybody started to relax.

Tom was always telling these really raunchy jokes that he got from his brother. I mean, sixth grade dirty jokes can be truly disgusting. This one had to do with a guy who wanted to get laid but didn’t have much cash. He kept knocking on doors of cheaper and cheaper whores, each with less and less desirable specialties, never having enough money until finally, scraping the bottom of the barrel, he comes to the last door and finds this old, ugly, decrepit whore with a glass eye who says she’ll do it. I won’t go into the details because they’re so disgusting, but the punch line is the old whore wishing him well and saying: "I’ll keep an eye out for you."

I don’t think anybody but maybe Shale thought it was funny, but we groaned, pounded on the ground and roared with laughter. Then, somehow, the bottle went round again, and Shale told one that was even more disgusting. Everybody was cracking up and trying to be cool, when Mick, who despite his practically nonexistent sips was getting tipsy, said, "wouldn’t it be cool if we had Trixter rigged to drop a water balloon on Miller when he was giving the speech?"

Then, Richie added, ";No, not water, skunk smell!";

Then, Jason said, "No, no, no, horse piss!"

We really laughed at that. Horse piss seemed just the thing to bring Miller down a peg.

Shale said, "You can’t really do that?"

The talk stopped.

I caught Jason’s eye and shook my head. I didn’t want this new kid knowing our secrets.

"Oh, come on, tell him," Tom said.

"Tell me what?"

I fixed Jason with a stare.

He frowned. "Come on, Ned, he hates Miller too." Turning to Shale, he said, "yeah, we can."

"We’ve already made the bomb bay doors," Mick said.

"Jason’s working on the bombs," Tom added.

The expression of cynical mistrust which had been an almost permanent since Shale’s arrival vanished. Jason lowered his voice and with twinkling eyes said, "you remember the big explosion up at the high school a few months ago?"

For once, Shale looked truly astonished. "Bullshit…"

"No bullshit."

This wasn’t exactly true. It was Robert who had made that bomb, not Jason, but Jason was on a roll and he never let a little exaggeration get in the way of a good story.

"Now, just imagine if we drop one of those into the factory cafeteria at lunch…"

Before it was empty the bottle made its way around five or six more times. Part of the reason it took so long was that only Tom, Jason and Shale were actually drinking. The rest of us had become facile at taking quick, fake sips. By the time Shale drained the last of the bottle, we had a new target for the Trixter, one that was a lot safer than the factory. The Miller galla.

According to Richie, who had actually been there with his mom, there were far fewer trees around Miller’s estate, plus the idea of dropping horse piss on a bunch of rich people in fancy clothes just had more panache.

Jason liked the idea a lot. "We should go over and check the place out," he said.

"Now?" Richie asked.

"Why not?"

He was acting drunk and being sort of grand and Tom and Shale were nodding like those little dolls people have in their cars.

I thought it was a crazy idea. "They’re just starting the gala."

"Right. And we’re invited," Jason said. It was true. At New Year’s Miller had invited me and Jason’s whole family to the gala, in hopes, I suppose, of burying the hatchet that Jason’s dad was always swinging.

"We can’t go up there drunk," I said.

"Why not?"

"We’ll get caught!"

"We’re not that drunk."

"You’re bombed!"

"So?"

"They’ll throw us out."

"Then we’ll sneak in."

Shale said, "hey Neddie, if you don’t want to come, don’t come."

Jason giggled, "Yeah, Neddie…"

Tom giggled too and I wanted to punch him. He was always jealous of me and Jason. I felt mortified.

Tom got to his feet, almost fell over, then collected himself, and said, "Let’s go."

Jason rose unsteadily. He took the empty bottle by its neck, threw it as far as he could up the hill. Then he turned and faced us.

"I say we go to Miller’s and scope out a launch site. Everybody’s going to be there, so a few extra kids won’t make anybody suspicious. And even if they notice…" He leaned toward me, "… we’ve -- been -- invited. So. Who’s going?"

We all went.

The Miller estate was clear across town and a three mile walk up the river road. Since nobody except me, Shale and Jason had bikes we all walked.

It was a really hot, no shade on the road, and no breeze and by the time we got there Jason, Tom, and Shale were wiped. We decided to catch our breath down by the river and collapsed on the bank. Lying there in the quiet listening to the river, the aftermath of the alcohol and recent exertion overcame us. First Jason and Shale began to snore, then Tom.

Mick and Richie were talking softly when I opened my eyes. Something seemed different.

"What time is it?" I asked.

Richie looked at his watch. "A quarter of six."

"Shit!" I sat up abruptly. We’d been there over an hour.

"Everybody was asleep," Mick said.

Jason groaned and rolled into a sitting position. He pressed the heels of his palms into his temples, said, "God I’m thirsty," then crawled down to the river and stuck his face in and drank. Then he stuck his head completely under.

"Whooo!" he said loudly when he came up for air.

That woke up Shale.

Ten minutes later we stood, woozily, in front of the big gate to the Miller Estate. Though I’d driven by it a zillion times, I’d never seen it from this angle. It was pretty spectacular. The gate was open, its two massive sections pulled back and secured to posts on either side of the drive. A black, wrought iron archway towered above our heads. Centered at the top was a gold colored crest that bore the flowery initials A.M.

Sounds of a big gathering and the strains of some fancy violin music drifted down to us.

"I don’t know," said Richie.

"Me either,’ said Mick.

Our pre-nap enthusiasm had vanished.

"We’ve been invited!" Jason tried to sound excited.

"What is this ‘invited’ shit?" Shale demanded. Up till now he’d ignored Jason’s references to our invitation.

"Me and Ned were both personally invited by Miller himself." Jason said it with a grin.

"Bullshit."

"It’s the truth," I said.

"I bet we get thrown out," Mick said.

I thought we probably would, too. Anybody who smelled our breath would know we weren’t with our parents.

"We don’t have to just walk up," I said. "We could sneak in and spy."

That received a generally positive response and we started up the drive.

The road curving up was lined with shrubs with grassy walkway on either side. The sound of the party grew louder. A car coming down the drive sent us dashing to take cover. After that we kept the protective barrier between us and the road. We crested a rise and, for the first time, could see the Mansion.

It wasn’t like a castle, which I had heard, but it was pretty darn big. Three floors high, with huge windows in the front, and a wide stone staircase leading up from a manicured garden to the main entrance. On the left was a swimming pool and behind it what looked to be tennis courts. The garden swept around to the right of the house where bleachers and a big tent with the sides rolled up had been erected. A platform had been built to the right of the main entrance and there four musicians wearing tuxedos playing classical music. It was pretty impressive. People were everywhere, some playing tennis, others taking advantage of the swimming pool, while still others, formally dressed as all would be when evening fell, explored the grounds, listened to the music, or clustered around the bar at the south end of the big tent. Through all of this, an endless line of waiters and waitresses circulated with silver platters of delicious things to eat.

We watched in awestruck silence.

Finally, Jason said, "I wish we could get closer."

Richie, ever anxious, said, "I don’t know…"

Tom pointed to the bleachers. "I wonder if we could get around under those."

It was a thought. They didn’t provide much protection now, but filled with people they would offer pretty good cover. That would put us right under the asses of all the town bigwigs. It seemed an appropriate goal. Getting there, however, posed a problem. Going round to the right was impossible. It was grassy, treeless open space pretty much all the way down to the road. The only safe way was to go left, all the way around the house. A very long trek. We backed down the hill ‘til we were out of sight, then swung left, creeping slowly, just below the crest until we reached the cover of the woods. Here, pine trees grew behind a screen of brush and the going became quicker. We passed the swimming pool, and the tennis courts, and were nearing the rear of the house when a thicket of brambles forced us to detour deeper into the woods. It took a while to negotiate and when we finally found what we thought was a passage, and were making tracks toward the house, the briars closed in again. Ahead was a rise, apparently clear of the unpleasant stickers, but to get there we had to go through a particularly nasty patch. I went first. After pulling the first long stem away, I stomped where it came out of the ground and began making a passage. It was really slow going. We picked our way through as carefully as we could, passing the briar stems back to the next guy, cursing as spines cut our flesh and threatened to rip our clothes apart. Finally, after much complaining, we broke through and mounted the rise.

About a hundred yards in front of us, barely discernable over a mass of brush and saplings, was the top of a stone wall. Beyond it we could see the back of the mansion, and three balconies overlooked whatever was behind the wall.

Exhausted, Jason, Tom and Shale plopped down on the ground. Mick who had twisted his ankle joined them, followed by Richie who was bleeding from his neck and forehead and sucking a stuck finger. I was the only one relatively unscathed.

"Can you go see what’s around the house?"Jason asked me in a quiet voice.
The briars weren’t as bad going down the front of the rise. Once I broke through I was able to move unimpeded, and quickly disappeared into the trees. I felt cleaner than I had all day. Shale’s presence had changed the feeling of our group, and it was a real relief to get away. I was glad that he and Tom and Jason were sick. Drinking made you stupid. Even with the tiny amount of booze I had consumed I felt strangely dissociated.

As I crept forward in the heat, the sound of humming insects and the scent of pine needles baking in the sun, put me in another world. I reached a clearing. The wall was in front of me, breeched by a metal gate. I heard the deep strains of a cello. It came so softly, and was so integrated into the hot afternoon, that it took me a while to realize that it was real. Creeping up to the wall I moved cautiously toward the gate. It was black, wrought iron, curved to match an opening in the wall, supported on the right by three heavy hinges, and locked shut by a padlock through matching iron rings. The garden that lay beyond it was lush beyond anything I’d ever seen before, with flowers and flowering bushes crowding white stone pathways that meandered in a seemingly unplanned fashion to every pretty corner.

The music was issuing from two French doors which opened onto the central balcony. I realized then that I was looking at Laurie’s bedroom, and that she making the magic. It seemed impossible that a girl my age could command such power from a musical instrument. I studied the gate. Padlocked as it was no one could get in or out. But the wall was climbable. A sixth grade Romeo could enter, if he dared.

"Hey."

The whisper sent a spasm up my spine.

"Sorry." Jason put his hand gently on my shoulder and chuckled.

The music rose in volume. His fingers closed around a crosspiece on the gate, and a tiny smile crept across his face.

"It’s Laurie," I whispered. In my mind’s eye I could see her, mouth open just a little as she concentrated, her red hair swaying to the motion of her bow. And if she looked up and saw us, I knew that her eyes would be fixed on Jason, and not me.

The music stopped. Voices. We slipped back behind the wall.

"Are you ready, honey?" It was Mr. Miller’s voice.

"It’s time sweetheart, let me tie your bow." Mrs. Miller.

Laurie said something, but her voice was so soft it was only notes.

"Don’t be silly, they’re going to love you!"

"And you look so pretty!"

"We have to hurry,"Jason said as we helped the others down off the rise.

"Why, where are we going?" Richie asked, nervously.

"Around the house, under the bleachers."

"… By Seymore Butts" Tom added.

We hurried through the brush to the corner of the house. The side that had been hidden from us was in the process of being landscaped. Here and there were piles of paving stones, ribbons on sticks laid out the paths. One eight foot section in the near corner had been completed.

"Stay close to the house,"Jason said. "If we keep down below the windows nobody will see."

"Let’s go," I said.

If anybody was watching they would have seen this absurd procession of kids scampering along the side of the house bent over like a parade of apes. When we reached the corner we were facing the side wall of the tent. Tucked between it and the side of the house were the bleachers, and they were pretty well filled. All we could see were backs and feet. It was an open invitation.

Jason stole quietly underneath and beckoned. I followed, then Tom, Mick, Shale, and finally Richie who stumbled knee first onto a piece of gravel then, rolled over on his side with his face all scrunched up trying not to holler. We watched anxiously while he held the damaged spot and rocked back and forth waiting for the pain to subside. When it did, his face was all red from the strain of keeping quiet and the sore on his neck had started to bleed again. We all heaved a communal sigh and turned our attention to the view between the audience’s knees.

It turned out we had pretty good seats. We could see the musician’s platform, where a single chair with a music stand in front of it remained. Mr. Miller had just arrived at the podium which had been moved out from beside the house.

"Welcome, one and all. It is my pleasure to share this summer day with you. My den is in the back of the house next to my daughter’s bedroom, and when I’m at my desk I can hear her practicing. It wasn’t always as pleasurable as it is now." The crowd chuckled. " But for a year or so, listening to her play has been one of the highlights of my day. Aside from being a lovely and remarkable young woman, she is a truly gifted musician, and I hope you all feel a tiny part of the pleasure I do when listening to her play."He turned to the front door. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proud to give you, my daughter, Laurie Miller playing Bach’s G major suite for solo cello."

Laurie came out to polite applause. She wore an all white dress with short sleeves and would have looked very grown up except for the fact that she was blushing furiously and wore a blue hair ribbon. With a piece of sheet music clutched between her fingers, and her eyes fixed upon the ground, she walked to the single chair and sat. Her brother, Sam, followed carrying her cello. She smiled up at him as he set the cello before her and placed her music on the stand. It was in that instant, when she let go of the music to take the cello that a breeze zipped around the corner like a mischievous sprite, and sent it flying off down the steps.

Everybody laughed as Sam ran down and retrieved it. There was a moment’s silence, while Laurie clipped the music to her stand and took up her bow. It was then, with the heat beneath the bleachers settling in around us, that I heard the unmistakable sound of someone cutting the cheese. It hit a second later, one of the strong, pungent kind, that knock your head back and make you gasp for air, and Tom was the culprit. It wafted first to me, then Jason, then Mick, then Richie. One by one we furiously fanned the air.

Shale was farthest from ground zero, and though he had guessed what was coming he had no idea what Tom was capable of. Stiffening, he whispered, "Holy crap…" and Tom, who, up to this point, had been struggling to keep a straight face, covered his mouth with both hands, doubled over, and let fly with what can only be described as a pants ripper, audible not only to us but to half the people in the bleachers.

The thought of them in their tuxes and gowns all trying to figure out who had the ill breeding to fire off in public pushed us beyond the breaking point, and when the a woman directly above Tom said, "Oh… dear!" we were lost.

We howled.

Somebody said, "Who’s down there?" And soon people in the bleachers began to look between their feet.

There was nothing for it but to cut and run.

Out from under the bleachers we flew, swinging wide around the tent where curious waiters glanced up to see six cackling boys dashing down hill toward the parking lot. It was Jason, me, Shale, Tom, Mick and Richie, in that order with Richie, as usual, lagging about twenty feet behind.

We reached the driveway. Jason, Shale, and I pealed off to get our bikes as the rest sprinted toward town. We caught up about a hundred feet down the road and paused to catch our breath.
Jason looked at Tom and said, "you can’t take him anywhere."

We cracked up again.