When Owen went in, his parents were sitting at opposite sides of the kitchen table, the Free Press spread out in front of them. The brown plastic Philco murmured a Van Patrick interview with Birdie Tebbetts: it was the seventh-inning stretch in the Indians game. Owen’s father motioned to him to have a seat, which he did while trying to get the drift of the interview. His mother didn’t look up, except to access the flip lid on her silver ashtray. She held a Parliament between her thumb and middle finger, delicately tapping the ash free with her forefinger. His father flicked the ash from his Old Gold with his thumbnail at the butt of the cigarette and made no particular effort to see that it landed in the heavy glass ashtray by his wrist. Commenting on what he had just read, his father said, “Let’s blow ’em up before they blow us up!”
“Who’s this?” his mother said, but got no answer. Instead, she turned to Owen. “Your father and I are going to take a break from each other.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“We thought you’d want to know.”
“Sure.”
His father lifted his head to glance at Owen, then returned to the paper. Owen knew better than to say a single word, unless it was about the weather. He wanted his parents to be distracted, so that he could fit in more baseball and get any kind of haircut he liked, but he worried about things falling apart entirely. He was unable to picture what might lie beyond that. School, of course, out there like a black cloud.
His mother said, “Ma said she’d take me in.”
At this, his father raised his head from the paper. “For God’s sake, Alice, no one is ‘taking you in.’ You’re not homeless.”
“Why don’t you go someplace, and I’ll stay here? Maybe someone will take you in.”
“I’ll tell you why: I’ve got a business to run.” His business, which dispatched plumbers and electricians to emergencies, was called Don’t Get Mad, Get Egan and made the sort of living known as decent. With tradesmen on retainer, he worked from an office, a hole-in-the-wall above a florist’s shop. An answering service gave the impression that it was a bigger operation than it was.
“Ma will think you’ve failed.”
“Well, you tell Ma I haven’t failed.”
“No, you tell her, sport.”
“I’m not calling your mother to tell her that I haven’t failed. That doesn’t make sense. Owen, where have you been? You look like you’ve been in the swamp.”
“I’ve been in the swamp.”
“Would you like to add anything to that?”
“No.”
His mother stubbed out her cigarette and said, “I think you owe your father a more complete answer, young man.”
“It’s nothing more than a little old swamp,” Owen said. “Mind turning that up? It’s the top of the eighth.”
Nobody was going anywhere except back to the newspaper.
Mr. Kershaw was an agricultural chemist for the state — a white-collar position that was much respected locally — but, despite his sophisticated education and job, he was a country boy through and through, with all the practical and improvisatory skills he’d acquired growing up on a subsistence farm. He wore bib overalls on the weekends and had a passion for Native American history. He was interested in anything from the remote past. He had a closet full of Civil War muskets that had been passed down through his family and a cutlass given by a slave on the Underground Railroad to a forebear who had run a safe house on the route to Canada. This same forebear, by family legend, while pretending to help find a runaway, had pushed a Virginia slave hunter out of a rowboat and held him off with an oar until he drowned.
When baseball was rained out one Saturday, Mr. Kershaw took Owen aside. “How’s everything at your house?”
“Great,” Owen said suspiciously, assuming he was being asked about the grease fire in the kitchen.
Mr. Kershaw looked at him closely and said, “Now, Owen, after it rains I hunt arrowheads. The rain washes away the soil around them, and if you’re lucky you can see them. My boys don’t care, but maybe you’d like to come along.”
They drove a few miles to a farm that belonged to a friend of Mr. Kershaw’s. The long plowed rows in front of the farmhouse stretched to a line of trees that shielded the fields from wind off the lake. A depression, not quite plowed in, ran diagonally across the main field, from corner to corner.
“That was a creek, Owen. The Potawatomi hunted and camped along it. Their palisades were right over there, where you see the stacks of the electric plant. So you go down the left side of the old creek, and I’ll go down the right. If you have anything at all on your mind, you will never find an arrowhead.”
The two walked in close sight of each other, staring at the ground. From time to time, Mr. Kershaw stooped to examine something, while Owen strained to catch sight of an arrowhead among the stones. At length, Mr. Kershaw summoned him to look at a broken point. Owen was amazed to see how its symmetrical flakes distinguished it from an ordinary stone. When Mr. Kershaw called him over again, he had an arrowhead in his hand, perfect as a jewel. “Bird point,” Mr. Kershaw said, and Owen stared in possessive longing. Mr. Kershaw dropped it into his shirt pocket with a smile. “Don’t think and you’ll find one,” he said.
Owen resumed the search with greater intensity as they approached the row of trees, whose tops were ignited by lake light. Sticking out of a clod was a pale white object that Owen picked up and gazed at without recognition. “What’ve you got there?” Mr. Kershaw called. “Bring it here.” Owen crossed the depression and handed it to Mr. Kershaw. “Oh, you lucky boy. It’s a”—he shook dirt from it—“French trade pipe. Indians got them from the trappers such a long time ago. Want to swap for my arrowhead?”
“Which is worth more?”
Mr. Kershaw laughed. “Probably your trade pipe, but that’s a good question. So good, in fact, that I’ll give you my arrowhead. Perhaps I’ll find another.” He reached into his shirt pocket, removed the arrowhead, and dropped it, warm, into Owen’s palm, where its glittering perfection nearly overwhelmed him.
The ground had dried, and by the time Owen got back to the diamond the other boys were choosing up sides. Mike Stallings was captain of one team and Bobby Waldron captain of the other. Owen wanted to put his finds in a safe place; he ran toward his house, a hand pressed over the lumps of arrowhead and clay pipe in his shirt pocket, the late sun starting to flash from the windows of the neighborhood, a lake freighter moaning as it passed to the east.
The early football game with Flat Rock a week later was played under lights and in the mud from another afternoon rain. It was a bloody affair from the start, with poorly understood game plans and pent-up, random excitement among the players. At the end of the first quarter, Ben dashed out with his tray of water, tripped, and fell in a melee of paper cups. The stands erupted in laughter. Owen ran onto the field and squatted beside Ben to pick up the mess, stacking wet cups while Ben stood by, helpless and ashamed. The players waited, hands on hips, while Ben and Owen carried the remains back to the sidelines. The game resumed, and Owen wandered behind the bleachers, hoping that Flat Rock would kick the home team’s asses and give the handful of visitors something to cheer about. He headed over to the parking lot, thinking he might spot some Oldsmobile spinner hubcaps to steal for his collection but settled for a set of Pontiac baby moons, which he stashed in the bushes to be picked up later. The car didn’t look quite the same with its greasy wheel studs exposed, and he really wanted to stop there, but then he saw Bradley Ingram’s Thunderbird and soon had all four of its dog-dish ten-inch caps.