"An accident," Dale repeated after a minute. "Is he dead?" Dale knew intuitively, certainly, that Harlen was dead.
Dale's dad blinked. "Dead? No, kiddo, Jim's not dead. But he was hurt pretty badly. He was still unconscious in the Oak Hill hospital today when Mrs. Grumbacher talked to his mom."
"What happened?" said Dale. His voice sounded dry, raspy.
Their dad rubbed his cheek. "They're not sure. It looks like Jim was climbing around the school ..."
"Old Central!" breathed Dale.
"Yes, climbing around on the school across the street and he fell. Mrs. Moon found him this morning. She was looking for newspapers and cans in the dumpster they have over by the school . . . well, Jim had fallen in there either the night before or early that morning and was unconscious."
Dale licked his lips. "How bad hurt is he?"
Their father seemed to debate the answer for a second. He patted both boys' legs under their covers. "Mrs. Grumbacher says that Miss Jensen says he'll be all right. He's still unconscious-she says that he hit his head and there was a fairly serious concussion ..."
"What's a concussion?" asked Lawrence, eyes wide.
"It's like bruising your brain or splitting your skull," whispered Dale. "Now be quiet and let Dad talk."
Their dad smiled slightly. "He's not quite in a coma, but he is still unconscious. The doctors say that that's normal with a serious head injury. I guess he's also got some broken ribs and a multiple fracture of one of his arms . . . Mrs. G. didn't say which one. Evidently Jim fell quite a ways and hit the rim of the dumpster. If there hadn't been some soft junk in there to break his fall ... well ..."
Lawrence piped up. "He woulda been like Mike's kitten that got squashed flat on the Hard Road last summer, huh, Dad?"
Dale punched his brother on the arm. Before his dad could snap at him, he said, "Can we go over to Oak Hill to visit him, Dad?"
Their father took his glasses out of his pocket. "Sure. I don't see why not. Of course, it'll be a few days at least. Jim has to regain consciousness and they have to make sure he'll be OK. If he were to get worse or not come to, they might have to transfer him to a hospital in Peoria ..." He stood and patted Lawrence's leg a last time. "But we'll go to see him this week if he's feeling better. You guys don't read too long, OK?" He walked to the door.
"Dad?" said Lawrence. "How come Harlen's mom didn't know he was gone last night? How come nobody looked for him until this morning?"
Their dad's face showed anger for just a second. Not anger at Lawrence. "I don't know, kiddo. Maybe his mom thought he was home sleeping. Or maybe Jim went out and climbed onto the school this morning."
"Uh-uh," said Dale. "Harlen sleeps the latest of any kid I know. It was last night. I'd bet on it." Dale thought of the Free Show, of the lightning and first drops of rain that had sent everyone to cars or huddling under trees for several minutes while Rod Taylor fought the Morlocks, and of the second feature that got rained out. He and Lawrence had walked back with one of Mike's sisters and her dumb boyfriend.
What was Harlen doing climbing on Old Central?
"Dad,'' said Dale, "do you know where Harlen was climbing? Which part of the school?"
Their dad frowned. "Well, he fell into the dumpster that's near the parking lot, so I guess it was on the corner on this side. That's where your classroom was this year, wasn't it?"
"Yeah," said Dale. He was imagining the route Harlen would have climbed ... the drainpipe probably, maybe the stone ridges on the comer, definitely the ledge outside the classroom. Cripes, that's way up there. Why the hell would Harlen be way up there?
His dad seemed to speak Dale's thoughts aloud. "Do either of you know why Jim might 've tried to climb into his old room over there?"
Lawrence shook his head. He was hugging the ragged panda bear that he called "Teddy. "Dale shook his head and said, "Uh-uh, Dad. It doesn't make any sense."
Their dad nodded. "I'll be traveling tomorrow night and Tuesday, but I'll call to check on you guys . . . and to see how your friend's doing . . . and we'll go visit Jim later in the week if you want to."
Both boys nodded.
Later, Dale tried to read, but the adventures of Tarzan in the lost city suddenly seemed pretty silly. When he finally got up to turn out the light, Lawrence extended his hand across the gap between their beds. Lawrence usually wanted to hold hands while falling asleep-it was the one risk he took with something grabbing him-but most times, Dale told him no. Tonight he held his little brother's hand.
The curtains on both windows were open. Leaf-shadow painted silhouettes on the screens. Dale could hear crickets and the rustle of leaves. He couldn't quite see Old Central from this angle, but he saw the pale glow of the single pole light near the north entrance.
Dale closed his eyes, but as soon as he tried to drift off to sleep he imagined Harlen lying there in that dumpster amidst the broken boards and other junk. He imagined Van Syke and Roon and the others gathered around the dumpster in the dark, looking down at the unconscious kid and smiling at each other with their rat's teeth and spidery eyes.
Dale snapped awake. Lawrence was asleep, still clutching Teddy and snoring softly. A thin line of moisture wet the pillow under his mouth.
Dale lay there silently, barely breathing. He did not let go of Lawrence's hand.
NINE
Duane McBride awoke before dawn on Monday morning and thought for a confused second that he had to get his chores done and meet the school bus at the end of the lane. Then he remembered that it was Monday-the first Monday of summer vacation-and that he'd never have to go to Old Central again. A weight lifted from his shoulders, and he went upstairs whistling.
There was a note from the Old Man: he'd left early to meet some friends for breakfast at the Parkside Cafe, but he would be home by early afternoon.
Duane did the morning chores. Finding the eggs in the henhouse reminded him of when he was a tiny little kid and terrified of the militant hens, but it was a good memory because it was one of the few he had of his mother-even if the memory was of little more than a polka-dotted apron and a warm voice.
After breakfast of two of the eggs, five strips of bacon, toast, hash browns, and a chocolate donut, Duane was ready to go outside again-the pump on the water tank in the back pasture needed cleaning and a new pulley-when the phone rang. It was Dale Stewart. Duane listened silently to the news about Jim Harlen. After Dale waited a second for a response that did not come, he went on to tell Duane that Mike O'Rourke wanted a meeting of everybody in his chickenhouse at ten o'clock that morning.
"Why not in my chickenhouse?" was Duane's response.
"Your chickenhouse has chickens in it. Besides, we'd all have to ride our bikes way out to your house."
"I don't have a bike," said Duane. "I'll have to walk all the way in. What about meeting in your secret hideout in the culvert?"
"The Cave?" said Dale. Duane could hear the hesitancy in the other eleven-year-old's voice. Duane didn't especially want to go back to the culvert today either.
"OK," he said. "I'll be there at ten o'clock." After Duane hung up, he sat in the kitchen for a moment, thinking of the chores he'd have to double up on that afternoon. Finally he shrugged, found a candy bar to give him energy on the trip, and went outside. Witt met him in the yard, tail wagging, and this time Duane didn't have it in his heart to leave the old dog behind. There was a high cloud cover that day that cut down on the heat a bit-it was in the low eighties-and he thought Witt might like the exercise.
Duane went back in the house, stuffed his pants pockets with dog biscuits, grabbed a second candy bar for lunch, and the two set off down the lane. Duane never thought about it, but from a distance the two made odd companions-Duane with his ambling, loose-jointed semiwaddle; Wittgenstein limping along arthritically, setting his paws carefully like a barefoot quadruped on hot gravel, and peering myopically at things he could smell but not quite see.