Denny turned to head out but Billy grabbed his arm. “What is it, Denny? You saw the caves; you heard my dad’s story. What is it?” he pleaded.
“I don’t know, Billy, but nobody but us believes there’s anything going on in this town other than Paul… the Butcher is back. We’re on our own until we can figure out something better. Do you want to stay here with your dad for a while? You’re safe here. If they wanted to… you know… do anything worse to him they would have done it.”
“No, I’m going with you. I can’t let Dad down. He risked everything to stand up for Paul seventeen years ago. I can’t let that be for nothing. Let’s go.”
Denny took one last look at Joe, and then they headed out together.
(61)
Greymore sat alone in his Boston hotel room, willing more memories to return. He knew part of what had happened, but he needed the rest. Needed it fast. The key memory was missing and his instincts told him time was running out.
Tina Cummings had tracked him down by phone and let him know about Joe’s attack. He was sick, knowing it was payback for the incident at the baseball game. He also knew that if he hadn’t spent the evening hiding in the woods before rowing back to his house at midnight, he would have been there for Joe at the hospital. He had walked right by Joe’s house early that morning on his way to the bus station, oblivious of what had happened to his friend. He wanted to return to Haven immediately but he would be violating the parameters of his release. He was required to complete this post-release training. It was another blow he would have to endure. God, would it ever end? If only he had been there with Joe, to stand by his side and fight. It would have paid back an old debt, he thought. As hard as he tried, memories of 1961 would not come, but an older memory of Joe did.
His parents had moved here from the city when the doctors convinced them there was nothing else that could be done for him. Haven was very much the same back then as it was when it all went bad in ’61. His parents had gotten in “on the ground floor” of what was going to be the next resort area. The small cottage was inexpensive, especially considering it was waterfront. The plan was to continue building modern luxury houses, extending Hillview Street deeper into the woods.
Development never started on the project. The decision not to rebuild the military base contributed to the bankruptcy of several Haven businesses and the resort project was dead. For Paul and his parents, it was just as well. The small house on the lake was heaven for them. His father, John, had saved wisely and made some decent profits on investments, and retiring to Haven in the summer of ’55 was pure bliss.
John spent the long days on the lake with Paul, teaching him everything about the wildlife. Fishing, canoeing, hiking, the days were perfect. Paul would occasionally have a feeling that he was being watched, but shook it off as paranoia. Reality came to visit after Labor Day, time for Paul to start school. It was as bad as could be expected. Kids back then were no more accepting of anyone different than they are today. Paul was harassed, ridiculed and picked on daily. Again he felt like someone was watching him; this time he didn’t write it off, just assumed it was another of the bullies waiting their turn. The teachers did their best to protect him, but even they were not entirely comfortable with his looks.
His parents were constantly at school, begging or threatening the staff to protect their son. They were considering taking him out and teaching him privately. He was miserable. He longed for the summer days spent on the lake. Then everything changed. He was sitting eating his lunch in the schoolyard, alone of course, while everyone else ate in groups or had already finished and were starting games of catch or just general roughhousing. He didn’t even have to look up when the shadows moved across the table. It would be the same as every other day. Name-calling, stealing his food, maybe a little shoving. His stomach tightened. There were four of them, what was he supposed to do?
“Hey Greymore, save anything good for me today?” It was Jarrod Johnson. The kid outweighed his own IQ. He was tougher than the rest of the class by virtue of having had the experience of seventh grade twice already. Maybe third time was a charm, but not for ole Jarrod this day. “Come on, freak, give me something to eat.”
Without even thinking about it, without considering the results even for a second, Paul shot out of his seat and delivered a fierce blow to Jarrod’s nose. The sound was at once gratifying and revolting. For a terrifying minute, Paul thought the punch had no effect. Jarrod had staggered back a step, but that was it. He wiped a hand across his nose and it came back dry. He then wiped his eyes, which looked like they were starting to tear, then the floodgates opened. A deluge of blood from both nostrils. Jarrod tried to speak, but the flow of blood and his hands over his face trying to slow it down made his words unintelligible.
In the split second that that all happened, the other three made their move. Eric Foley and Gary DeNatale moved in on Paul quickly, trying to get a hold of his arms. Frankie O’Malley, perhaps the only one of the fab four with a lick of sense, took a couple of steps back, looked again at the swelling mess that used to be Jarrod’s nose, and simply shook his head and walked away. Paul had for a fleeting moment thought standing up to Jarrod was enough, for an even shorter moment felt a bit invincible after doing one-punch damage to Jarrod. Then the adrenaline rush faded and the fear returned. By the time he realized what was happening, Gary had his arms pinned behind his back and Eric was punching him in the stomach. He squirmed and flailed but couldn’t break free. Eric, now beginning to get carried away, feeling a primal bloodlust, began aiming for Paul’s face. Paul was moving enough so that most of the shots glanced off the top of his head or hit his shoulders. Eric grabbed Paul by the shoulder, trying to hold him still enough to get a clean shot. Paul did the only thing he could, he slammed his head forward as hard as he could, waiting to hear the same sound his punch had delivered when his head crushed Eric’s nose. Instead, he got a head full of sparks. The blow had landed on Eric’s forehead: Eric’s head was harder. This enraged Eric and he began to punch wildly, some now connecting with Paul’s face. Not because they were better punches but because he was throwing so many, so fast, the odds were in his favor. Paul’s eyes were blurring with tears and blood.
Then the punches stopped. Through his half-closed eyes, he saw Eric with an arm across his throat, his own arm disappearing behind him at a bad angle. Suddenly Eric was spun around, and Paul could see another boy in a blur of movement hit Eric with rapid-fire jabs that snapped his head back with each blow. The grip on Paul’s arms loosened, and he made his move. He slipped out of Gary’s grip and threw an elbow straight back. This time his aim, or his luck, was better as he heard the air forced out of Gary’s lungs. Eric’s head was still snapping back and forth under the flurry of punches from the other kid when Paul turned to face Gary, who was now struggling to get air, any air, back into his lungs. The weeks of torment had built to a crescendo and Paul used this moment to get retribution, at the expense of Gary’s face.
It all happened in a matter of five minutes, from the shadows appearing on Paul’s lunch until teachers were pulling Paul and his rescuer off of Gary and Eric. But the result was devastating, and to Paul, beautiful. Somehow, right. Jarrod’s attempts to stop the blood had failed miserably. From his face to his elbows he was covered in red. Eric’s face was a jigsaw puzzle of cuts and bruises. Gary’s face was one big bruise already, and both of his eyes were almost shut. Paul’s own head was split from his failed head-butt, and he had a few cuts from some of the early punches. The other kid—Paul finally placed him as Joe Cummings—was the only one unscathed. Except for his bruised knuckles. Unless you count Frankie O’Malley, who was taking it all in from across the yard, an amused look on his face. As Mr. Robertson, Paul’s history teacher, dragged Joe back away from Eric, he felt Paul’s stare, turned and gave a crooked smile and a wink. Paul couldn’t help but to smile back.