Memory Boy Page 5

  From the bottom of my pack I fished out my little socket set, plus an adjustable wrench, and went to work.

  In the middle of things a wheel slipped from my hand; tacka, tacka-tacka it went across the shiny hard floor—right toward Mr. Kurz’s chair. He dropped his book, snaked down his arm, and snared the wheel before it stopped rolling. He held it up to the light close to his eyes.

  “What’s this?”

  “Ah, it’s a wheel.”

  “I can see it’s a wheel.”

  “Off my skateboard,” I said.

  He turned. His eyes squinted at the chair, where I’d spread out my tools, the bearings, the races. He raised one big white squirrel eyebrow at me. “What’s a skateboard?”

  I stared.

  Mr. Kurz continued to wait for my answer.

  “It’s, well, this little board with four wheels.”

  Mr. Kurz shrugged. “Go on,” he said.

  I tried. Strangely, it was hard to describe.

  “Draw me a picture,” Mr. Kurz said. He pointed to his bedstand, where there was paper and pencil.

  I drew and he leaned in to look. He smelled kind of like leaves or wood, but it was not a bad smell.

  “What do you use it for?” he asked.

  “A lot of kids use it for getting around,” I answered. I explained how to roll and kick, roll and kick.

  “That’s a good invention,” Mr. Kurz said, nodding at my drawing. “It doesn’t need gas or electricity. And anybody could fix one.”

  I laughed. “Well, not anybody,” I said. I explained to him that I did most of the work on my friends’ boards.

  “What’d I tell you?” Mr. Kurz said, narrowing his eyes again. “Nobody knows how to do anything anymore.”

  He fell silent. I went back to work.

  “Wrong way—you’ll strip the threads,” he said. I looked up quickly; I’d thought he was dozing.

  He reached out and held the truck steady while I cranked counterclockwise this time. The bearings came out; I showed them to him. He seemed to approve, and we worked on in silence.

  I wished I had known my grandparents. Sometimes up at Birch Bay I could feel their presence. I vaguely remember their smells from when I was very young. But that was about all.

  “When the ice broke that day, I went through up to my armpits,” Mr. Kurz said.

  I blinked. I looked up from my work.

  Mr. Kurz nodded for me to keep working.

  “You see, my mistake was trapping beaver too close to their house. From all their swimming around, the ice was thin. There’s all kinds of ways to die, and I thought I was a goner.”

  “So what’d you do?” I asked.

  “Sometimes even a little bit of preparation will save your life. In my pockets I had a couple of stabbers.”

  “Stabbers?” I asked.

  “Like ice picks, only smaller. Take a good-sized nail, sixteen penny or better, and drive it into a short stub of wood. A hand’s length of oak branch is best. Then sharpen the head end of the nail to a fine point. Bingo—you got an ice pick. You should always carry a couple in winter,” he said.

  “Right,” I said. And get permanently expelled from school.

  His eyes went dull, like a computer screen going to energy-saver mode, and he leaned back in his chair. Now I really thought he had fallen asleep.

  “The ice picks?” I said loudly.

  “Yes,” he said, blinking. “So I rolled over and hung on to the edge of the ice and thought about things. You can’t panic. Even when you’re in big trouble, you have to think about things. The water wasn’t all that deep. I could feel the bottom. But it was soft and mucky—loon shit I call it—so I couldn’t push off from it and get out that way. And I couldn’t get a grip on the ice. Then I remembered my picks. I fished them out of my pockets, took one in each hand, then used them to gouge the ice. Get a grip on it. I reached forward as far as I could, dug in with the nails. Little bit at a time, I pulled myself out—something you can’t do with just your hands because there’s nothing to grab on to.”

  “So you got out.”

  “Yes. But I was still in trouble. That day it was thirty below zero.”

  “So you had to build a fire,” I said evenly. My eyes flickered to the stack of worn paperbacks by his chair. I was sure I’d find Jack London’s name.

  “And fast,” Mr. Kurz said. “Trouble was, I couldn’t walk. My pant legs had frozen hard as stovepipes. Try walking without bending your knees. I had to drag myself to shore, where there was a dead tree. One the beavers had cut.”

  How convenient. On the other hand, I knew from Birch Bay that beavers were stupid, and sometimes their trees fell not in the water but on land.

  “Lucky I had my hunting knife and some matches.”

  “Weren’t the matches wet?”

  “No. They were waxed,” he said. “Take stick matches and hold them under a dripping candle. The wax seals the heads against moisture, plus burns real nice once you strike it. Didn’t take me long before I had a roaring blaze going. Even got home before dark. I tell you, my cabin looked mighty fine....” Then Mr. Kurz’s chin tipped down and he was snoring.

  The door opened suddenly and the nurse came in. I thought for a second it was Litzke and tried to sweep my little tools into my backpack, but the nurse didn’t care. He adjusted the blanket over Mr. Kurz’s legs, then turned to leave.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  He paused.

  I lowered my voice. “What do you know about Mr. Kurz? Where he came from, that sort of thing?”

  “Not much,” the nurse said. “All I know is that his family checked him in here last year and hasn’t been back.”

  I glanced at Mr. Kurz, who breathed heavily. “He seems into wilderness and outdoor-survival stuff.”

  “For sure,” the nurse said.

  “Did he, like, live in the woods or something?”

  The nurse smiled at me. He glanced down at the adventure novels. “Your guess is as good as mine, kid.” Then he checked his wristwatch and moved on.

  A bell dinged, which also meant it was time for me to go. As I gathered up my stuff, Mr. Kurz sat up as if his battery had been recharged.

  “So, Miles,” he said. “Why make ice picks with wooden handles?” His blue eyes bored into mine.

  I blinked. I thought about it for several seconds. “I don’t know.”

  “Because if you drop them, they float,” he said. “Otherwise, you’re dead.”

  I smiled.

  He might have smiled, too, though his face was so wrinkled it was hard to tell.

  “I’m supposed to come again next week,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” Mr. Kurz said, and turned away toward his window.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BROAD DAYLIGHT

  BACK BY THE MISSISSIPPI BRIDGE my parents were dozing. I said to Sarah, “I’m going upstream a ways.”

  “Why?”

  “To look for a different campsite.”

  “What’s wrong with this one? At least it has a roof.”

  I glanced up at the gloomy concrete. “Yeah, but there’s just something about this place …”

  She shrugged and was silent. She watched me go.

  I followed the riverbank a hundred yards or so along a narrow animal path that paralleled the water. There were deer tracks in the dust, plus others I couldn’t identify. Trails. Follow the game trails. They’ll show you the way. Look around and use what the woods gives you. If you listen, it will tell you what to do....

  I thought about getting my little bottle, the one with Mr. Kurz’s name on it, and launching it here in the Mississippi. But it seemed too close to the freeway, and besides, my plan was to do it as we crossed the Mississippi near Birch Bay. It was nicer there.

  I kept moving along the trail. Gradually the brush and undergrowth became too thick. I followed the deer tracks as they angled up the bank, and suddenly broke out into a field. From its far-off center, the long rusty finger of an irrigator
pipe reached out nearly to the riverbank. This was a central-pivot rig: Stilts on wheels, set at regular intervals, held the pipe several feet off the ground, and little electrical motors on the wheels swung the irrigator slowly full circle about the field. I remembered, when I was a kid, seeing this very sprayer in action. The mists from its water shone in the sunlight and drifted across the highway in little rainbows.

  But now the pipe was drooped and rusted. Wild vines from the riverbank had crept into the field and up its stilt legs and wrapped themselves in delicate green loops around the iron struts. Still, it was impressive old technology. I examined the big drive chains that moved the wheels. The electrical cord was frayed and mouse chewed. There was nothing I could use. I was always on the lookout for spare parts, especially metal. My dream was to have my own welder someday. It was the one power tool that my parents wouldn’t allow, which only made me want it more. For graduation some kids wanted Corvettes, others wanted Cancún vacations, but I wanted a 220-amp Sears welder with hood. Oh, the stuff I could make …

  I kept moving along the edge of the field. There were several possible camping spots here, small dusty groves of trees and bushes untouched by anyone. Anywhere but that pissy cave under the freeway.

  By suppertime we had our tents up not far from the irrigator pipe. The Princess blended in perfectly behind the stilt wheels and pipes. Our tracks were already covered by wind-blown ash; any that remained, I brushed away with a branch full of dried leaves.

  My mother fixed us a major pouch dinner (add boiling water and seal) of chicken and rice. There was camper’s cheesecake for dessert. Then we headed to our tents before it got dark. My parents had to share one, and Sarah and I had a smaller dome. She and I hated this arrangement, but what could we do? “Do you mind, like, leaving while I get my pajamas on?” she asked.

  I let out an exasperated breath. First, who changes into pajamas when you’re camping? And second, it wasn’t like I wanted to see anything. I took a hike.

  Down by the river I poked along the shore and looked for stuff and tossed an occasional rock into the water. I planned to stay clear until Sarah was asleep so we wouldn’t have to speak to each other. I pitched a stone as far as I could. It went out of sight in the gloomy air; there was silence, then it plooked down.

  “What was that?” a voice said.

  I froze, then shrank back into the bushes.

  “What was what?” a second voice answered. One of them coughed.

  “Like a splash or something.” The voices of two men came from up by the freeway bridge. Maybe even underneath it.

  “Freakin’ fish. This is a river.” More coughing.

  There was silence. I could hear their boots on rocks. Something glass shattered against the concrete. A stick scraped stone. “Looks like maybe they stopped here, but they musta kept going.”

  “Too bad,” said the other man.

  “They had money on them, I just know it.”

  “Money, schmoney. I liked that young chick.” Cough.

  “With the weird hair and all those earrings? Are you kidding?”

  “They say those kind are wilder.”

  The two laughed. One of them coughed again.

  “How old do you think she was?” said the first voice.

  “Old enough.”

  Both men guffawed. More deep coughing.

  There was a pause. “Gimme one of those.”

  Another pause, a brief popping sound, then the smell of cigarette smoke.

  “Hey, better luck next time,” one of them said, and the sound of their boots and coughing receded up the bank. From the freeway came the rattle of a tractor engine; then it, too, receded. I peeked out from the bushes. The dark cab of the tractor shrank out of sight beyond the freeway embankment.

  So much for friendly country folks. I let out a long breath. I sat for a while until the shaky feeling went away. Then I made my way back to the campsite. My parents’ tent was quiet. When I slipped inside ours, Sarah was breathing steadily and evenly. In the darkness I could see the pale shape of her favorite stuffed animal, a battered white rabbit named Knuckles, tucked against her black T-shirt. I lay there in my sleeping bag with my eyes open for a long time. I kept imagining I could smell cigarette smoke.

  In the morning I woke up with a start. Sarah lay there with her mouth open making little snoring sounds. The sides of the tent breathed back and forth, too, in the breeze. Silence.

  I poked out my head to check the wind. River fog had scrubbed the air, leaving it dust free and fresh; I sucked in a deep breath. A small hawk, perched on the irrigator pipe, flapped away at my movement—and a striped gopher, equally startled, sat up on its haunches, then dove into its hole.

  “Sorry, guy,” I murmured to the hawk. I got up and looked around, checked for tracks. A deer had passed down the trail in the night. In the dust its small hoofprints were like little hearts strung on an invisible thread. I eased down the river. Across, on the far bank, an eagle was perched in a dead tree. I saw it only by its sudden motion—a flash of white and brown—as it flapped away. It had seen me first. If you want to learn the woods, learn to wait. Find yourself a log or a stump and sit there all day, sunrise to sunset. Be quiet and watch. The whole forest will come past your spot. One day, without moving, is all it takes. But it will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. I peered through the bushes toward the freeway bridge, but it was still and empty.

  When I returned, my parents were up and around at their tent site. Nat already had the camp stove fired up.

  “Did you hear anything last night?” I asked casually.

  “What time?” Nat replied.

  “Not long after you went to bed.”

  “Maybe,” she said, squinting to remember. “It was like an engine sound? Yes. I think so.”

  I was silent.

  “Why? What was it?”

  “Nothing. No problem,” I said.

  My mother looked about. “Well, it looks like good weather,” she said. “The sooner we get on the road, the sooner we can get to Birch Bay.”

  “Suits me,” my father said, and yawned loudly. “The breeze is decent. I can work with it.”

  I glanced toward the freeway. “I’m not sure about traveling in daylight.”

  “Hey, we’re out of the big bad city,” my father replied. There was a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

  “Yeah, well,” I said, then let it slide. I didn’t want to scare them. And besides, the day did look great: The sun was going to shine, and the wind was already picking up from the west.

  “It feels like we’re so close,” my mother said. “Tonight we could sleep in the cabin.”

  “Light a fire in the old fireplace, take a dip in the lake,” my father said.

  They looked at me. What could I say? I shrugged.

  “Okay. I guess.”

  “Go wake up Sarah,” my mother said happily.

  I walked back to the tent and with pleasure gave Sarah’s sleeping bag a yank. She woke up with funny hair and crabby; I laughed at her. Someday I might tell her how I saved her from the bad guys. But she probably wouldn’t believe me.

  By eight A.M. we were on the road to the Brainerd lakes area. Another forty or so highway miles, a few winding dirt roads, and then Birch Bay. My job, as always, would be to enter the cabin first. I had to chase out whatever varmints—usually a mouse, once a pair of gray squirrels, another time a little owl—had taken up residence. A place goes empty—a den, a nest, a hole in the ground—and other critters move in. That’s how nature works. Shooing them out of the cabin was an easy job, plus I got a lot of mileage from it. The rest of my family was scared of anything small that crawled, chewed, buzzed, or flapped its wings. After we arrived and I did my varmint duty, I planned to relax and be worthless—like a sixteen-year-old is supposed to be.

  The breeze held fairly steady. Even Sarah took a turn on the boom sail. The sun brightened from orange to white-yellow as it rose higher, and the road was clear and open. My mother switch
ed on her Palm Pal to radio. I was hoping for some music, but no such luck:

  … indicators point to a second summer of record-low crop yields in the United States corn belt and the wheat-growing regions of Russia. This is coupled with the fact that world food supplies—mainly wheat and corn—throughout history have never held more than two years’ stock in reserve. The result? Widespread hoarding of essential food supplies, including water.

  “This is news?” I muttered. Even as the analyst droned on, the Ali Princess drew even with a long field where a farmer’s tractor kicked up a swirl of dust. He was cultivating row crops of some kind—probably potatoes, but it was hard to tell. The plants were runty and limp.

  … clearly an overreaction, brought on, some would say, by the news media. After all, world staples such as bananas and soybeans still grow fine in warmer regions, particularly near the equator.

  “I haven’t seen a banana, let alone California lettuce, for over a year,” my mother said.

  We all looked at the farmer’s field. At the dusty, shrimpy plants.

  … problem is not necessarily food supplies but distribution. As transportation costs soar, how do we get strawberries to Cincinnati, oranges to Minneapolis, apples to Winnipeg?

  “Will you turn that thing off?” I said suddenly.

  My mother blinked and turned.

  “We don’t need to hear that stuff!” I said. I tried to stick with the facts. Food stores were still fairly well stocked, though mainly with canned stuff, which was not a good sign. I also was pretty sure that a third year without a good crop, and Dara Jamison might be right: Pets, watch out. “All the news does is make people depressed. Who needs that?”

  “Easy, brother Miles,” Sarah teased. She knew that I hated the news. Those endlessly talking heads, their droning voices using too many words.

  “Okay, you have a point there,” my mother said. “How about some music?” She tuned to another radio station—classic rock, of course.

  “Do we have to listen to that?” Sarah said instantly.

  “Easy, sister Sarah.”