A Plague Year

Jenny, Mike, and Ben piled into the SUV, and the Weavers took off. As they backed out, Arthur and I got a clearer view of the Geo Metro.

Something was wrong. It was slumping to one side, like a man leaning on a crutch.

“Damn!” Arthur spat out. “Flat tire. We don’t need that now.”

“Can I help?” I asked him.

“You ever changed a tire before?”

“No.”

“Then how can you help?”

I was going to press the issue, but I heard the sound of people emerging from the auditorium, heading toward us. It was the Lyles—Dr., Mrs., and Wendy—and the college guys.

I could hear Joel teasing Wendy. “That was the worst play in history, like in ancient Greek history, like in three thousand years of history.”

Wendy said flatly, “Shut up. You were sleeping.”

“Only in the first half. We got it up for the second half.”

“Yeah. I bet you did.”

As they got closer to the Suburban, Wendy noticed me. She raised a gloved hand to silence Joel. She called over, “You did a nice job tonight, Tom. You were the best actor out there.”

Joel disagreed. “Next to you,” he said.

She ignored him.

I replied humbly, “Well, maybe the others shouldn’t have rehearsed, either.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

I didn’t say anything else, and neither did she.

Dr. Lyle then joined the boys in mocking our production of The Roses of Eyam. They all started repeating lines of dialogue and guffawing, amusing themselves.

As I listened to them carry on, I thought, What the hell do they know? Mr. Proctor had chosen the play for its message, and they had missed it completely.

Dumbasses.

Catherine Lyle turned away. Did she think she still had to ignore me? Was this confidentiality again? Or was she just plain ignoring me?

I looked back at Arthur. He had changed the tire very quickly, very expertly, like a NASCAR pit-crew guy. He was now hefting the old tire into the trunk and spinning it around slowly, looking for the puncture.

Wendy stepped closer and spoke to me. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

I said, “Yeah? To where?”

“Florida. My dad is going back to his old position at FIT.”

“Yeah? Is that a college?”

Her lip curled. “Yes, it’s a college. What do you think it is?”

I curled my lip right back at her. “I don’t know. It sounds like a gym, maybe, or a ladies’ spa.”

To my surprise, Dr. Lyle stopped goofing around with the frat boys, stepped forward, and snapped at me, “For your information, young man, the Florida Institute of Technology has one of the top Psy.D. programs in the nation.”

I nodded. “Oh? Psy.D.? Is that some new kind of workout? Like yoga, maybe?”

Spit flew from his lips. “It’s a doctor of psychology degree!”

Just as I was pondering a reply, Arthur came shuffling up next to me. He was bent slightly and slurring his words, like he was still playing the Bedlam. “A doctor? There’s a doctor here? Can you fix a crooked back? Are you that kind of doctor?”

Dr. Lyle rolled his eyes. He pointed to the Suburban and told his group, “All right, that’s enough. Let’s go.”

“I was taught, at Haven High, that doctors cure things like that.”

Dr. Lyle muttered, “I’ll bet you were.” He pointed at the school doors. With contempt in his voice, he told his wife, “I said this school was a mistake. Wendy never learned a thing here.”

I couldn’t let that go. I asked him, “No? She didn’t learn about supply and demand?” I raised my voice and addressed his group. “Well, here it is, then, in a nutshell: If demand is high, like if frat boys and old professors with ponytails demand to have illegal drugs, then supply will be high, too.”

Dr. Lyle and his boys froze in place.

I went on: “If demand is low, or if demand disappears, then supply disappears. And there is no more drug problem.” I asked them, “Everybody understand?”

No one replied. No one even moved.

Arthur stepped in front of me and pointed at Joel. “Hey, Joe? It’s snowing, and I got ice building up on my windshield. You don’t have an ice pick on you, do you?”

Joel’s eyes shifted toward the Suburban.

Arthur waited a moment and then continued. “No? You don’t?” Arthur looked at the Suburban, too. “Because I could swear somebody put an ice pick in my tire. I thought it might have been you.”

Joel stepped behind the other two guys.

Arthur turned his attention to Catherine. “Excuse me, Mrs. Lyle? Did you get a chance to speak to the doctor about that”—he lowered his voice—“that sensitive matter?”

She seemed genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“If you recall, I suggested that some of Wendy’s companions, these boys right here, in fact, were seen in a very unsavory neighborhood. And I should know, since it’s my neighborhood. And they were perhaps involved in some illegal activity?”

Catherine Lyle swallowed hard. Clearly, she had not spoken to her husband about it.

Arthur continued: “Because, if I am not mistaken, there is once again a strange smell coming from these boys.” He whacked me in the chest with the back of his hand. “Tom? Did you notice a strange smell?”

I had not, but I said, “Yeah. I did.”

Arthur held up his head and sniffed the air like a ten-point buck. He walked back toward the Geo Metro. He pulled a tire iron out of his trunk, turned, and retraced his steps toward us.

The Lyles all exchanged frightened looks, but they were not Arthur’s target. Not his direct target, anyway. Arthur crossed over to the red Suburban. He cranked back his right arm and delivered a mighty blow to the back window. The wide pane of glass shattered, splitting into long horizontal lines. But the glass did not fall.

Arthur then pulled back and struck again at the center of the window, and again, and again, pounding away until he had opened up a hole about two feet in diameter. He poked his head in, then pulled it out quickly. “This is it, Mrs. Lyle! The source of the smell. It’s coming from inside this very vehicle.”

Everyone in the Lyles’ group remained frozen except Wendy. She held out her hands to them all, demanding to know, “Aren’t we going to do something about this? We need to call the police. We need to have this psycho village-idiot jerk arrested!”

I told her, “Your family doesn’t call the police.”

“What?”

“Isn’t that right, Dr. Lyle? No talking to the police? Oh, wait. Wait!” I slapped my own head, as Arthur likes to do. “You did talk to the police, though—to Officer O’Dell. You talked to him last week. You ratted out Mr. Proctor to save yourself, right? So you probably don’t want to talk to them again so soon, not with your vehicle having a suspicious smell and all.”

I walked over to the Suburban and stood next to Arthur. I leaned my head into the hole he had just made. There was no question about it; Joel and his boys had smoked weed here during the play.

I was pulling my head back out, carefully, when I noticed a toolbox. Some pieces of the windshield had fallen down onto an open metal toolbox, but I could still see what was sitting right on top—a wood-handled ice pick. I reached in, brushed the glass shards away, and pulled it out.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. But before he could do anything, I did it for him. I gripped the wooden handle tightly and stepped around to the left side of the Suburban. I pulled the ice pick back and plunged it, hard, into the left rear tire. I heard a quick hissing sound; then I smelled stale air rushing past my nostrils.