a week shift work at the paper mill, the same place most of the men in town found employment. Mr. Messinger, who owned the newsstand where Timmy and his two best friends, Doug Keiser and Barry Smeltzer, bought their weekly fix of comic books, had once told them that if the paper mill went out of business, the entire town would dry up and blow away. All of the other businesses in town, the dry cleaners, the bars, Genova ' s Pizza, the grocery store, the post office, the hardware store, Old Forge Service Station, and even the churches, lived and died on how well the mill was doing. If it had a bad quarter, the town itself had a bad quarter. The union had gone on strike last year, and when management hadn ' t budged, the walkout had stretched on for ten months. Timmy remembered riding his bike through town and seeing his father walking the picket line. He ' d seemed tired and beaten; shuffling along like the zombies in a movie Timmy had watched late one night on Channel 43, Dawn of the Dead. Timmy remembered his father complaining about scabs, and how he' d thought it funny at the time, until they explained to him what scabs actually were. Timmy still wasn't sure he understood it all. The scabs had families, too, and needed to work to support them.
When the strike was finally over, the Gracos' savings, like the savings of so many others, had dwindled down to nothing. As a result, for the past year his father had been working the extended shift, eagerly taking all the time and a half he could get (while still working seven days a week) in an effort to earn back the money they ' d lost. His father was only home a few hours a day, and then he was either sleeping, working outside in the garden, mowing the lawn, or taking care of their chickens and other livestock. (Randy Graco played at being a parttime farmer and beekeeper.) As a result, Timmy didn ' t see much of him. His mother, Elizabeth, was usually busy with housework, playing Bridge with her friends, or participating with the Spring Grove Ladies Auxiliary. As a result, he spent more time with his grandfathe r than his parents. Despite Dane Graco' s flagging health and how quickly he grew tired, his grandfather took him fishing along Codorus Creek, for walks in nearby Bowman 's woods, and played Pitfall, Asteroids, and other video games on the Atari video game console. Occasionally, when he was feeling up to it, Dane would drive the two of them into town and treat for two slices of pepperoni pizza at Genova's, where they' d feed quarter after quarter into the Galaga, Paperboy, and Mappy arcade machines until his grandfather ran out of changeusually after ten dollars or so. Once, when his father was in a particularly good mood and had a rare day off, the four of them had driven to Baltimore to watch the Orioles play the Yankees. He and his grandfather had jeered the opposing team until his mother had made them both hush. On the way home, the two of them had fallen asleep in the back of his parent's Aries K car. When Timmy looked back on these moments, he smiled. He hoped that he never forgot them, the way he' d forgotten his grandmother. Forgetfulness seemed to be something that came with adulthood. Sometimes, when Timmy asked his parents about certain things from when they were growing up, they'd say that they couldn 't remember. He'd noticed that other adults did this, tooexcept for his grandfather. Timmy wanted to be just like him, and never forget. Not remembering his grandmother was bad enough. He couldn 't imagine forgetting the times spent with his grandfather, too. Timmy knew how lucky he was. Yes, his father was stressedout over his job, and that made him grumpy. And yes, his mother probably conceded to his father a little too much, especially when it came to decisions that affected Timmy decisions with which she often disagreed. But Timmy knew they loved him, just as his grandfather loved him. Things could be worse. At least his parents were still there, and at least they paid attention to him. His friend Doug Keiser ' s father had run off three years ago, vanishing from the Whistle Stop bar one night with a waitress in tow, as well as the family car and the contents of their checking and savings accounts. Doug 's mother had started drinking after that, and these days, that's all she seemed to do. She didn't work, just collected welfare checksand newspapers. And magazines. Soda cans. Junk mail. Coupons. Empty bottles. Like a pack rat, she stacked them up in ever increasing piles all over the house. The towering, precarious walls of debris formed pathways through the living room, dining room, and hallway. Except for Doug 's bedroom, their entire home smelled like booze and mildew, and she kept the windows and shades closed all day, preferring the darkness. If Doug' s mother still loved her son, she had a funny way of showing it. She barely registered his presence most days, unless it was to holler at him for something. Doug was able to come and go as he pleased, simply because his mother didn 't notice he was missing. Worse, she paid more attention to Timmy and Barrytoo much attention. Sometimes, the way she touched them, or the way she smiled, or the things she said Timmy knew it was wrong. Fingers lingering on their arms just a little too long or licking her lips when she talked to them, arching her back to push her sagging breasts out. It was like the beginning to one of those letters in the Penthouse magazines they sometimes read. Probably their imagination. They knew that. And Doug certainly hadn 't noticed (or if he had, he' d never mentioned it). But still, sometimes it seemed like Carol Keiser was hitting on them. And that was just weird, because Carol Keiser was a grownup. Any time Timmy got mad at his parents, all he had to do to put things in perspective was think of Doug' s mother. That made things better, made him grateful for what he had. And if that didn 't work, there was always Barry's mom and dad to consider. But none of the boys talked about what went on inside Barry' s house. Especially Barry. Timmy and Doug both knew, or could guess. If Timmy thought about it too long, he wanted to cry. But the facts themselves remained unspoken between them, just like Doug 's mom's odd behavior when drunk.
It was better that way. Some things were better left unsaid. Doug and Timmy pretended they didn't see the bruises and cuts.
'And now back to… Thundarr the Barbarian!'
The music swelled. With the commercials finally over, they turned their attention back to the screen.
'Haven't seen this one before,' his grandfather grunted.
'I have. It's a rerun. The Rat People live down under the ground.'
'Kind of like that underground clubhouse you boys built up there in the cemetery?' Timmy was too startled to reply. Nobody, especially grownups, was supposed to know about the Dugout. It belonged to him, Barry, and Doug. They' d spent most of last summer building it; digging a hole deep enough to stand in and wide enough to give them all elbow room, covering the hole with thick wooden planks, designing the trap door, putting in an old stovepipe so that they 'd have air, and then covering the planks up with canvas they'd swiped from the Bowman' s barn and laying sod over the planks and canvas so that it was hidden from view.
Someone walking by wouldn 't have known it was there. They' d worked on it every day, from early in the morning until sundown. The boys were proud of their engineering marvel, agreed that it was the finest clubhouse ever built, and had spent their weekends last fall and this spring sitting inside it, reading comic books and back issues of Hustler and Gallery that Barry had stolen from his dad. Nobody else was supposed to know it existed.
His grandfather winked. 'Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. I won't tell anybody.'
'But how did you know about it?'
'Been taking my evening walk around the graveyard, cause that' s what the doctor said to do, and mostly to give your mom and dad a little time to themselves while you 're doing homework. Few weeks back, I saw a covered stovepipe sticking out of the ground, right between the cemetery and Luke Jones' s pasture. Wondered to myself, what was that doing there? When I walked up to it, I noticed the ground seemed kind of springy under my feet. You can hear those planks thud, even with the sod on top of them. So I poked around some more and found that leather strap sticking out of the dirt. Pulled on it, and low and behold, there 's a secret hideout down under the ground.'
'Man,' Timmy whispered. 'We thought nobody knew about it.'
'They don't. Just me. Far as I know. And like I said, I won't tell. Left you boys a present. Didn't you wonder where the card table came from?'
He had, now that his grandfather mentioned it. Timmy had assumed that Barry or Doug rescued it from the town dump, another of their favorite hangouts. Unbeknownst to Timmy, they ' d assumed the same thing about him. None of them had mentioned it, accepting the new addition with the disregard common to all twelveyearold boys.
'Thanks, Grandpa! That's awesome.'
'Don't mention it. Though, if you don' t mind, I might stop in from time to time and take a peek at those dirty magazines you boys keep in that box. The ladies never looked like that back in my day.'
They both laughed at this, and when Timmy' s mom came into the living room and asked them what was so funny, they laughed harder.
She walked away shaking her head.
'Listen,' his grandfather said. 'Don't be too hard on your old man, He means well.' Timmy frowned. 'I know. But weeding the garden sucks.'
'It does, indeed. But I used to make him do the same thing when he was your age. He's just trying to do what he thinks is right.
