fed on it. There was that one lapse, true, but I was actually glad to see it. It was good to know it wasn't just a computer-game to him; he understood that he was moving real people around on his electronic chessboard. And if Pitt didn't work out, who knew? He was already better than Matt Babicki, Shirley's predecessor.
In early July - it could have been a year to the day since his father had been killed, for all I know - the kid came to me about Shed B. There was a rap on the side of my door, which I mostly leave open, and when I looked up he was standing there in a sleeveless Steelers T-shirt and old bluejeans, a cleaning rag dangling out of each rear pocket. I knew what it was about right away.
Maybe it was the rags, or maybe it was something in his eyes.
'Thought it was your day off, Ned.'
'Yeah,' he said, then shrugged. 'There were just some chores I'd been meaning to do. And . . .
well . . . when you come out for a smoke, there's something I want to ask you about.' Pretty excited, by the sound of him.
'No time like the present,' I said, getting up.
'You sure? I mean, if you're busy - '
'I'm not busy,' I said, though I was. 'Let's go.'
It was early afternoon on the sort of day that's common enough in the Short Hills Amish country during midsummer: overcast and hot, the heat magnified by a syrupy humidity that hazed the horizon and made our part of the world, which usually looks big and generous to me, appear small and faded instead, like an old snapshot that's lost most of its color. From the west came the sound of unfocused thunders. By suppertime there might be more storms - we'd been having them three days a week since the middle of June, it seemed - but now there was only the heat and the humidity, wringing the sweat from you as soon as you stepped out of the air conditioning.
Two rubber pails stood in front of the Shed B door, a bucket of suds and a bucket of rinse.
Sticking out of one was the handle of a squeegee. Curt's boy was a neat worker. Shirley and Phil Candleton were currently sitting on the smokers' bench, and they gave me a wise shared glance as we passed them and walked across the parking lot.
'I was doing the barracks windows,' Ned was explaining, 'and when I finished, I took the buckets over there to dump.' He pointed at the waste ground between Shed B and Shed C, where there were a couple of rusting plow blades, a couple of old tractor tires, and a lot of weeds. 'Then I decided what the heck, I'll give those shed windows a quick once-over before I toss the water. The ones on Shed C were filthy, but the ones on B were actually pretty clean.'
That didn't surprise me. The small windows running across the front of Shed B had been looked through by two (perhaps even three) generations of Troopers, from Jackie O'Hara to Eddie Jacubois.
I could remember guys standing at those roll-up doors like kids at some scary sideshow exhibit.
Shirley had taken her turns, as had her predecessor, Matt Babicki; come close, darlings, and see the living crocodile. Observe his teeth, how they shine.
Ned's dad had once gone inside with a rope around his waist. I'd been in there. Huddie, of course, and Tony Schoondist, the old Sergeant Commanding. Tony, whose last name no one could spell on account of the strange way it was pronounced (Shane-dinks), was four years in an 'assisted living' institution by the time Ned officially came to work at the barracks. A lot of us had been in Shed B. Not because we wanted to but because from time to time we had to. Curtis Wilcox and Tony Schoondist became scholars (Roadmaster instead of Rhodes), and it was Curt who hung the round thermometer with the big numbers you could read from outside. To see it, all you had to do was lean your brow against one of the glass panes which ran along the roll-up door at a height of about five and a half feet, then cup your hands to the sides of your face to cut the glare. That was the only cleaning those windows would have gotten before Curt's boy showed up; the occasional polishing by the foreheads of those who had come to see the living crocodile. Or, if you want to be literal, the shrouded shape of something that almost looked like a Buick 8-cylinder. It was shrouded because we threw a tarpaulin over it, like a sheet over the body of a corpse. Only every now and then the tarp would slide off. There was no reason for that to happen, but from time to time it did. That was no corpse in there.
'Look at it!' Ned said when we got there. He ran the words all together, like an enthusiastic little kid. 'What a neat old car, huh? Even better than my Dad's Bel Aire! It's a Buick, I can tell that much by the portholes and the grille. Must be from the mid-fifties, wouldn't you say?'
Actually it was a '54, according to Tony Schoondist, Curtis Wilcox, and Ennis Rafferty. Sort of a '54. When you got right down to it, it wasn't a 1954 at all. Or a Buick. Or even a car. It was something else, as we used to say in the days of my misspent youth.
Meanwhile, Ned was going on, almost babbling.
'But it's in cherry condition, you can see that from here. It was so weird, Sandy! I looked in and at first all I saw was this hump. Because the tarp was on it. I started to wash the windows .
. .' Only what he actually said was warsh the windas, because that's how we say it in this part of the world, where the Giant Eagle supermarket becomes Jaunt Iggle. '. . . and there was this sound, or two sounds, really, a wisssshh and then a thump. The tarp slid off the car while I was washing the windows! Like it wanted me to see it, or something! Now is that weird or is that weird?'
'That's pretty weird, all right,' I said. I leaned my forehead against the glass (as I had done many times before) and cupped my hands to the sides of my face, eliminating what reflection there was on this dirty day. Yes, it looked like an old Buick, all right, old but almost cherry, just as the kid had said. That distinctive fifties Buick grille, which looked to me like the mouth of a chrome crocodile. Whitewall tires. Fenderskirts in the back - yow, baby, we used to say, too cool for school. Looking into the gloom of Shed B, you probably would have called it black. It was actually midnight blue.
Buick did make a 1954 Roadmaster in midnight blue - Schoondist checked - but never one of that particular type. The paint had a kind of textured flaky look, like a kid's duded-up streetrod.
That's earthquake country in there, Curtis Wilcox said.
I jumped back. Dead a year or not, he spoke directly into my left ear. Or something did.
'What's wrong?' Ned asked. 'You look like you saw a ghost.'
