We sat in the kitchen, a plastic tablecloth on the table, my mother, looking worn and tired, still wearing her apron. My dad wore his shirt and tie. His crewcut looked sweaty and he smelled of the mill. On his right shirt pocket was a plastic penholder that said parker does it right with four pens. Supper was fried baloney, leftover mashed potatoes, and canned yellow string beans. I tried to talk about what went on at the mill that day—a pile of boxes stuffed full of leather hiking boots had fallen and almost hit me — but my parents nodded and said nothing and I finally concentrated on quietly cleaning my plate. The fried baloney left a puddle of grease that flowed into the lumpy white potatoes.
My father looked over at Mom and she hung her head, and he seemed to shrug his shoulders before he said, “Monroe?”
“Yes?”
He put his knife and fork down and folded his hands, as if we were suddenly in church.
“At work today they announced a cutback.” He looked at me and then looked away, as if someone had walked past the kitchen window. “Some people are being laid off and the rest of us are having a pay cut.”
“Oh.” The baloney and potatoes were now very cold.
“Tom is still very sick, and until he — gets better, we still have to pay the bills. With the cutback — well, Monroe, we need the money you’ve saved.”
I looked at my mother, but she didn’t look up. “Oh,” I said, feeling dumb, feeling blank.
“I know you’ve got your heart set on college, but this is a family emergency—that has to come first, a family has to stick together. Jim and Henry have agreed to help —”
“With what?” I said, clenching my knife and fork tight. “They don’t save anything at all.”
“No, but they’re giving up part of their paychecks. All we ask is that you do your part.”
Then Mom spoke up. “There’s always next year,” she said. “Not all of your friends are going to college, are they? You’ll be with them next summer.”
Dad gave me a weak smile. “Besides, I never went to college, and I’m doing all right. Monroe, it’s just temporary, until things improve with Tom.”
Until he gets better or until he dies, I thought. I didn’t know what to say next, so I finished eating and went down the hallway to my bedroom and got the dark brown passbook from First Merchants of Boston Falls and brought it back and gave it to my father.
Back in my bedroom, I lay on the bed, staring up at the models of airplanes and rocket ships hanging from thin black threads attached to the ceiling. I looked at my textbooks and other books on the bookshelves I made myself. I curled up and didn’t think of much at all, and after a while I fell asleep.
There was a tapping at my window and I threw the top sheet off and went over, lifting up the window screen. I stood there in my shorts, looking at Brad on the back lawn. My glow-in-the-dark clock said it was two in the morning.
“What is it?” I whispered.
“I found it,” he whispered back, leaning forward so his head was almost through the open window. “I found the place.”
“Whose house is it?”
“Mike Willard’s.”
“Mike? The ex-Marine?”
“That’s right,” Brad said. “I’ve watched him two nights in a row. He goes into his bedroom and underneath his bed he’s got this little strongbox—before shutting off the light and going to bed he opens it up and goes through it. Monroe, he’s got tons of money in there. Wads as big as your fist.”
“You saw it?”
“Of course I did. I was in a tree in his yard. He must’ve been saving up all his life. You never saw so much money.”
The night air was warm but goose bumps traveled up and down my arms. “How do we do it?”
“Easy. He lives out on Tanner Avenue. We can get to it by cutting through the woods. His house has hedges all around. It’ll be a cinch.”
I chewed on my lip. “When?” I asked.
Brad grinned at me. I could almost smell the sense of excitement. “Tomorrow. It’s Saturday — your parents will be in Hanover and Mike goes to the Legion Hall every afternoon. We’ll do it while he’s there.”
I didn’t argue. “Fine,” I said.
The next afternoon we were in a stand of trees facing a well-mowed backyard. Tall green hedges flanked both sides of the yard, and the two-story white house with the tall gables was quiet. Beside me, Brad was hunched over, peering around a tree trunk. We heard a door slam and saw Mike Willard walk down his drive and down the street. His posture was straight as a pine, his white hair cut in a crewcut.
“Let’s give him a few minutes,” Brad said. “Make sure he didn’t forget anything.”
I nodded. My heart was pounding so hard I wondered if Brad could hear it. I knew what we were doing was wrong, I knew it wouldn’t be right to steal Mike Willard’s money, but money was all I could think of. Wads as big as my fist, Brad had said.
“Go time,” Brad said, and he set off across the yard. I followed. There were no toys or picnic tables or barbecue sets in Mike Willard’s backyard, just a fine lawn, as if he mowed it every other day. Up on the back porch I had the strange feeling we should knock or something. I was scared Mike would come back and yell, “Boys, what the hell do you want?” or that a mailman would walk up the drive and ask if Mike was home. I almost hoped a mailman would come, but Brad picked up a rock and went to the door and it was too late. He smashed a pane of glass — the sound was so loud it seemed like every police cruiser within miles would be sent around — then he reached in and unlocked the door, motioning me to follow him inside. A small voice told me to stay outside and let him go in alone, but I followed him into the kitchen, my sneakers crunching on the glass.
The kitchen smelled clean and everything was shiny and still. There weren’t even any dishes in the sink.
“God, look how clean it is,” I said.
“Tell me about it. My mom should keep our house so clean.”
The kitchen table was small and square, with only two chairs. There was one placemat out, a blue woven thing with stars and anchors, and I thought of Mike Willard coming home every night to this empty house, opening a can of spaghetti maybe and eating alone at his table. I looked at Brad and wanted to say, “Come on, let’s not do it,” because I got a bad feeling at the thought of Mike coming home and finding he’d been robbed, that someone had been in his house, but Brad looked at me hard and I followed him down the hallway.
The bedroom was small and cramped, with neatly labeled cardboard boxes piled on one side of the room and a long bureau on the other, on the other side of the bed. The labels on the boxes read china 34, IWO 45, OCC, and things like that. Brad pointed at the walls, where pictures and other items were hanging. “Look, there’s Mike there, I think. I wonder where it was taken. Guadalcanal, maybe?”
The faded black-and-white picture showed a group of young men standing in a jungle clearing, tired-looking, in uniforms and beards, holding rifles and automatic weapons. There was no name on the picture but I recognized a younger Mike Willard, hair short and ears sticking out, standing off to one side.
I heard a board creak. “Shh!” I said. “Did you hear that?”
“Yeah. This is an old house, Monroe.”
“Well, let’s get going,” I said, rubbing my palms against my jeans. They were very sweaty.
“What’s the rush?” Brad said, his eyes laughing at me from behind his glasses. “Old Mike’s down at the Legion, telling the boys how he won the big one back in ‘45. Look here.”
Below an American flag and a furled Japanese flag was a sheathed curved sword resting on two wooden pegs. Brad took it down and slid it out of its scabbard. He ran a thumb across the blade and took a few swings through the air. “I wonder if Mike bought it or got it off some dead Jap.”