teachers don't yell at me like they used to. Mrs. Harley knows about the Dixville Massacre. She tried to make me and my brother go see a shrink friend of hers but I told her, 'There's no way in hell me and Thad is going to see a damn shrink.' Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot we shouldn't swear."
"Go on."
"That's it. Well, that and there ain't no more Scoutin'. No one wants to start a new troop. Me and Thad ain't even official Scouts anymore. After the massacre, the Colebrook selectboard told the Daniel Webster Scout Council to take me and Thad off the roster--like we died up there or something." He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. "I might as well have, I'll probably have to start as a Wolf again," Butch whined. "I'll never be an Eagle at this rate." He looked up at Helen with questioning eyes. "Moms can be Akelas. Down at Lancaster there's one. And I saw one at the regional Pinewood Derby last year."
"Sorry, I can't help you. I've got problems of my own. Besides, I'm not a mom anymore." It hurt to say it--the fulfillment she had had as a mother, the beaming pride of having a good boy as a son. Helen recalled the time Uncle Max surprised Barry with a puppy. Only four years old at the time, Barry had groomed the pup, fed it; he put the animal in a box next to his bed that night. The two had become inseparable. Barry named it Tater; the puppy loved pushing potatoes across the floor with its nose. Though Helen had been perturbed at Max for springing the present on them, she soon realized the value of Barry having a companion. Tater walked Barry to the end of the lane each morning to catch the bus--and greeted her son as he got off the bus after school. Every day it was a race to see who would get to the house first. Tater always won.
"Ma'am," Butch whispered to Helen. "You okay, Ma'am? Ma'am?"
"Yes. Yes." After returning from her daze, Helen forgot what they had been talking about. "How you doing, Thad?" Thad looked out the window and didn't respond.
"He's doing fine but he don't talk," Butch spoke for him.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you mean, he doesn't, or can't, or what?"
"He just doesn't want to."
"Does he talk to you?"
"No, but I understand what he means. See, ever since the massacre he's got the ghost."
"He's got the ghost, huh." Helen had been around Butch enough to know he had a propensity to spin tall tales, turning the ordinary into something grander. But Thad, he had been a reserved boy before the tragedy. This is probably why teachers want to get Thad psychological help, she concluded.
Helen tried to get Thad's attention, "So Thad, will you talk to me?" He remained fixed on an object out the window. "Just say hi or something." He wouldn't respond. Helen put her hand on his; she realized she wasn't the only one suffering. After Barry's death, Thad needed a friend. The despondent dog upstairs needed a boy. "I'll get Tater."
Colebrook, New Hampshire (November 7)
Helen and her ex-husband Bradley sat and reminisced about the good times. The woodstove flickered through the screening. Helen couldn't recall him ever being so considerate. Tonight he listened; she had a lot pent up inside to talk about. Bradley shared the emptiness she felt from Barry's death. His appearance at her door confirmed his grief as a father.
Helen was grasping at any string of happiness. He had taken her out to dinner. Later, they sipped drinks at home. The passion escalated. She knew she might have regrets, but tonight she didn't care.
Tater pranced at the door, then scratched it. Helen pulled away from Bradley's embrace. "I've got to let her out before she scratches the door any worse. The problem with having this mute dog is that
"Go on."
"That's it. Well, that and there ain't no more Scoutin'. No one wants to start a new troop. Me and Thad ain't even official Scouts anymore. After the massacre, the Colebrook selectboard told the Daniel Webster Scout Council to take me and Thad off the roster--like we died up there or something." He rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. "I might as well have, I'll probably have to start as a Wolf again," Butch whined. "I'll never be an Eagle at this rate." He looked up at Helen with questioning eyes. "Moms can be Akelas. Down at Lancaster there's one. And I saw one at the regional Pinewood Derby last year."
"Sorry, I can't help you. I've got problems of my own. Besides, I'm not a mom anymore." It hurt to say it--the fulfillment she had had as a mother, the beaming pride of having a good boy as a son. Helen recalled the time Uncle Max surprised Barry with a puppy. Only four years old at the time, Barry had groomed the pup, fed it; he put the animal in a box next to his bed that night. The two had become inseparable. Barry named it Tater; the puppy loved pushing potatoes across the floor with its nose. Though Helen had been perturbed at Max for springing the present on them, she soon realized the value of Barry having a companion. Tater walked Barry to the end of the lane each morning to catch the bus--and greeted her son as he got off the bus after school. Every day it was a race to see who would get to the house first. Tater always won.
"Ma'am," Butch whispered to Helen. "You okay, Ma'am? Ma'am?"
"Yes. Yes." After returning from her daze, Helen forgot what they had been talking about. "How you doing, Thad?" Thad looked out the window and didn't respond.
"He's doing fine but he don't talk," Butch spoke for him.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you mean, he doesn't, or can't, or what?"
"He just doesn't want to."
"Does he talk to you?"
"No, but I understand what he means. See, ever since the massacre he's got the ghost."
"He's got the ghost, huh." Helen had been around Butch enough to know he had a propensity to spin tall tales, turning the ordinary into something grander. But Thad, he had been a reserved boy before the tragedy. This is probably why teachers want to get Thad psychological help, she concluded.
Helen tried to get Thad's attention, "So Thad, will you talk to me?" He remained fixed on an object out the window. "Just say hi or something." He wouldn't respond. Helen put her hand on his; she realized she wasn't the only one suffering. After Barry's death, Thad needed a friend. The despondent dog upstairs needed a boy. "I'll get Tater."
Colebrook, New Hampshire (November 7)
Helen and her ex-husband Bradley sat and reminisced about the good times. The woodstove flickered through the screening. Helen couldn't recall him ever being so considerate. Tonight he listened; she had a lot pent up inside to talk about. Bradley shared the emptiness she felt from Barry's death. His appearance at her door confirmed his grief as a father.
Helen was grasping at any string of happiness. He had taken her out to dinner. Later, they sipped drinks at home. The passion escalated. She knew she might have regrets, but tonight she didn't care.
Tater pranced at the door, then scratched it. Helen pulled away from Bradley's embrace. "I've got to let her out before she scratches the door any worse. The problem with having this mute dog is that
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