I read Tarzan, Hardy Boys, and Nancy Drew books, and when I wore out with comics and books and riding my bike, me and Nub wandered the woods and creeks.
I had also come to really miss Richard, who in that last week of summer I had not seen at all. It was as if he had been sucked up by a windstorm and carried off to Oz. I went by his house once, but when I knocked, no one answered.
Another thing me and Nub did with our summer days was spend time looking up at those pieces of house in the trees. In my imagination I thought at night the house came together up there, like a puzzle snapped in place by the gods. All except the metal stairway, which remained outside and wound its way to an open window, and I would climb that metal ladder and enter the house through it.
It was always dark in my daydreams, and when I clambered through the window, I would see Jewel, on the bed, bound in sheets and blankets, ropes wrapped around her, stinking of gasoline. I would sit on the windowsill and look at her. She would turn her head, and out of her mouth would come flames.
I would sit in the window frame and watch her burn.
Sometimes I daydreamed of Margret, wandering the tracks headless, that little light we had seen jumping up and down before her.
These moments moved farther and farther apart.
On one of the last days of summer, about midday, the sun so hot leaves and limbs sagged and the birds were silent with heat exhaustion, me and Nub were out beneath the trees back of the drive-in, loving the shade.
Nub had found his squirrel tormentor, or one just like it, and was soon once more up the oak tree, on a limb, telling that squirrel what he thought of him. Way he scurried up that tree, you would have thought Nub was part cat. I was sure if I could translate dog language I wouldn’t want to repeat what Nub was saying to that squirrel. What the squirrel was chattering back was probably no less flammable.
I laughed at them awhile, then found myself looking up at the rotting fragments in the trees again. Since last time I had been there, a piece or two had disintegrated and fallen to the ground, shattered into blackened slivers.
The metal staircase still hung in place, however, and I knew I had to climb it. The idea had been with me all summer, and I couldn’t let the summer end without trying it.
It was a foolish thing to consider, but it’s one of the faults of being a boy.
I climbed about halfway up and felt the stairs sway. But only sway. They seemed to be caught up good in pine boughs and vines that had twisted up the trunk of the tree closest to the stairwell.
The stairway had survived the fire in place, the rest of the house burning down around it. Vines, a tree, and time, had lifted it out of the ground and held it just above its former position like a twisty metal worm captured in a giant spiderweb.
Halfway up, the stairs wobbled and I had a vision of some rusted spot giving way. I decided to go back down. When I turned, I saw Mr. Chapman coming through the woods. He was walking, carrying a large walking stick. He saw me on the stairway, came over, looked up, put his hands on one of the rails. The stairway shook and moved much more than my weight had moved it.
“Please don’t do that, Mr. Chapman,” I said.
“That scare you?”
“Yes.”
“Seen that boy of mine?”
“No, sir.”
“You ain’t lyin’ to me, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t like being lied to.”
“I haven’t seen him.”
Chapman looked around, then looked back up at me and grinned. He shook the stairway. “Tell me the truth now, boy.”
“Don’t. I’m going to fall.”
Nub, who had been occupied with his squirrel, realized I was being threatened. He leaped from his limb, hit the ground, rolled to his feet, darted straight for Chapman.
“Hey, hey,” Chapman said.
Nub bit at Chapman’s ankle. “Stop it!” Chapman said, and he swatted at Nub, struck him with the stick, knocked him rolling.
“He thinks you’re hurting me,” I yelled, starting down. “Leave him be. I’ll get him.”
“Don’t care what he thinks.”
Nub was up again, growling. You would have thought he was a German shepherd. And maybe, in his mind, he was. Nub shot at Chapman like an arrow. The stick swung, missed. Nub caught Chapman by the ankle. Chapman let out a scream.
“Stop it,” I said. “Leave him alone.”
“I’ll kill him.”
“No you won’t.” It was Callie. She was inside the drive-in, standing on something next to the fence, her shoulders and head poking up over the top of it. She had a handful of rocks from the gravel drive.
“I’ll beat him to death,” Chapman said, and he struck at Nub, hitting him, knocking him down and out.
“Now, bury the little bastard.”
It went through my head like a shot that this was the same man we had seen in the woods crying over a dog. It wasn’t a thought I considered long. I started climbing down. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but my eyes were filled with tears and I was crazy mad.
Callie whistled a rock through the air. It hit Chapman on the shoulder. He let out a scream. “You hell-spawn. You Jezebel.”
Another rock whistled, caught him on the side of the head. He jerked a hand to the spot and yelled.
Callie started whistling one rock after another. Chapman broke and ran back a ways. I was on the ground now, and he turned, glared at me. “Don’t you never come around no more, you hear? You see that boy of mine, tell him he’s gonna take a hell of a beatin’. And one for you too.”
Callie threw another rock. Chapman thought he was out of distance of her throwing arm, but the rock hit him in the leg. Another went whistling, struck the tree next to him.
“You better quit, missy. I’ll get you too.”
That was when I saw Daddy on the outside of the fence, coming around on the side closest to Chapman. Chapman didn’t see him. He was too busy taunting me and Callie.
I went over to pick up Nub. He was still breathing. He opened his eyes and looked at me as if trying to focus. He had the same look Buster had when he was coming off his drunk.
Chapman was in the middle of a diatribe when he looked up and saw Daddy. “Now you ought to go on and leave me be. I’m just tryin’ to help these youngin’s get some manners.”
As Daddy neared Chapman, Chapman swung the walking stick. Daddy swatted at it, sucked it into him, moved slightly, and now he had the stick.
Chapman tried to run, but Daddy was on him. The stick swung, caught Chapman on the leg, knocked him down. Daddy tossed the stick away and kicked Chapman in the throat. Chapman went to the ground gagging. I heard Callie yelling at Daddy to stop.
When I looked up he had Chapman pulled to his knees and was slapping him the way he had slapped Chester, but with greater enthusiasm.
“You weasel. You do all right hitting kids and women and little dogs, don’t you, you greasy sleazeball bastard. I get through with you, you won’t know on which side of your face to pick your nose.”
“Daddy!” Callie had climbed over the fence and was running toward him. Me, I didn’t move.
I picked up Nub, held him close to me. He wiggled.
Callie had hold of Daddy’s slapping hand. Dad shoved Chapman to the ground. Chapman, bleeding from mouth, nose, and ears, said, “A Chapman don’t forget.”
“Good,” Daddy said. “Think I wanted this to slip your mind?”
“And that damn girl. Woman ain’t supposed to raise their hand to a man.”
Daddy kicked Chapman in the ribs. “Who says you’re a man.”
“Daddy,” Callie said, grabbing him. “That’s enough.”