out there?”
We scrambled to the fence. The beam of his flashlight caught us.
“Stop,” he said. “I got a gun.”
We didn’t stop. We’d gone through this before. Yes, he had a gun. We’d seen it; a WWII standard Army issue revolver. But it was just old Mr. Hench. He wasn’t going to shoot at a bunch of kids.
We scrambled through the fence.
“Goddamn it!”
We heard the strain in his voice. We stopped and turned. He stood on the other side of the apple trees, the beam of his flashlight pointed to the ground. He was doubled over, his breathing harsh and asthmatic. The smell of whiskey drifted toward us.
I know we should’ve left him alone. I know we should’ve hopped on our bikes and rode away into the night. But something about Mr. Hench brought out the worst in us that night. His vulnerability was a fuse to our anger.
Jack threw first. The core of his apple hit Hench in the knee. Paul reached through the barbed wire fence and grabbed a soft brown apple from the ground. His throw was perfect. The apple hit Hench in the forehead.
Hench lifted a hand in front of his face. “Stop it! Stop it, now!”
Spencer and I found our own rotten apples to throw.
Hench turned away as one after the other, the apples hit their mark. “You’re hurting me!” Hench fell to his knees. Crawled toward his screen door. “Please stop. Please.”
We kept throwing, whooping when they exploded across his back, laughing when they broke upon his skull.
He dragged himself to the screen door and fell inside, the door slamming shut behind him.
We kept throwing. At the windows, the door, at the rusty old pick-up sitting in the long dirt driveway. We threw until our arms ached. Until the laughter, the adrenaline left us and all that remained was the feel of the moon, bright and sharp in our eyes.
As the days passed, the legend of the Apple Tree Man grew. He became a skeletal old thing that lived in the canopies of apple trees, a skinny old pervert waiting in the cold autumn nights for children to pass below. He’d reach out a long bony hand, grab you around the throat with fingers strong as steel, and lift you up into the tree. He’d rip your heart out. Eat it as you watched. Throw your carcass to the ground as his laughter carried through the night in the blustery autumnal winds.
When we whispered to each other these tales of the Apple Tree Man late at night, we’d laugh. But there were nights when the moon threw perplexing shadows, nights when the wind rustled dry leaves, that we couldn’t help but look nervously over our shoulders, jump at the sound of creaking branches, the scamper of feet across tall dead grass, the thunk of an apple falling to the ground. We kept close together. Our eyes grew sore trying to penetrate the cloak of night.
Another October was nearly gone. We never planned on going to Hench’s farm, but so often at night, we found ourselves there.
This night was no different. The moon projected a silver sheen across the grass and trees, already budding with a light frost. Our breath rose visibly from our mouths.
We crawled through the barbed-wire fence, whispering, stepping among the rotten apples.
Spencer started it. Picked one off the ground and flung it at me.
It hit me in the chest. I retaliated. Scooped a small, hard one from the grass and threw. He ducked and it disappeared in the darkness. Paul and Jack joined in, grabbing ammo from the ground and chucking it at one another. The apples were cold and stung, but we laughed when we were struck. It was a joyous sting.
Suddenly, Paul yelped. “Hey!”
“Gotcha!”
We looked up. It was Hench. We hadn’t heard or seen him sneak across the frosted grass, and now he had one hand clamped on top of Paul’s head, and in the other hand he held his revolver, its muzzle digging into Paul’s temple.
Hench’s hand shook as he cocked back the hammer. The sound it made — that click like a knuckle popping — caused us all to freeze, caused the world to turn into something dream-like and unreal.
Tears ran down Hench’s cheeks. His eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. He shook his head back and forth, his breath escaping in choppy bursts.
We stood among the trees panting.
His voice was ragged. Torn. “You think this whole world’s yours to do what you want with?”
He pulled Paul closer to him. Squeezed the top of his head, fingers digging into his short red hair, twisting it. “Stop squirming.”
Paul’s eyes strained toward the revolver.
“Answer me!”
Jack said, “Leave him alone!” His words were like pebbles swallowed up by a deep well.
Paul shut his eyes. His face quivered. Snot bubbled out of his nose.
“Answer me or I’ll shoot you, I swear, you goddamn punk.”
Paul held his breath, his facial muscles tight, cheeks bright red, forehead salted with sweat. He stood as still as possible until his breath burst out and he sucked in enough air for all of us.
Jack’s hands clenched and unclenched, but he wouldn’t move from his spot by the fence.
Spencer tried to hide behind a branch the thickness of his finger. I was frozen in place. I felt that if I moved, Hench’s finger might slip on the trigger and Paul’s head would explode like a rotten apple.
Hench’s eyes widened. His lips trembled into a grin. He leaned down until his mouth was on Paul’s ear. “Come on, boy. Time’s a-wastin’.”
“N-n-”
“Speak up. This whole world your playground?”
Paul tried getting the word out, that one simple two-letter word, but he couldn’t quite manage, just the N sound followed by a spray of spit that coated his chin.
Hench dug his fingernails into his scalp. “I can’t hear you.”
“N — n — n.”
“N — n — n?” Hench mocked.
“Leave him alone,” Jack said.
Hench rubbed the revolver’s nozzle in a small circle on Paul’s skin. “One last chance. Answer the question. I’m counting to three, then I’m pulling the trigger.”
Paul’s mouth moved again, but this time I heard nothing.
“One — two—”
The gun fired.
My heart stopped. I fell to my knees. God, no—
I heard Hench laughing as the echo of the gun faded. I looked up.
Paul’s head was still there. No gaping hole, no blood. Hench had moved the barrel away from Paul’s skull before pulling the trigger.
The front of Paul’s jeans grew dark.
Hench wrinkled up his nose and dropped Paul to the ground. “You shit yourself! You goddamn shit yourself! You really think I was gonna shoot you? You think I’m gonna go to jail for a little shit like you?”
He backed away, his gun still smoking. “I’m calling the police. I know where you live. Understand me? I know where you live.”
We grabbed hold of Paul and dragged him quickly toward the fence. We lifted him up and over, ignoring the stick of metal barbs piercing our arms and legs. We dragged him over the rough ground to our bikes. He screamed for us to stop. He stood up wincing, holding his ear.
“I shit myself?”
None of us said anything. We got on our bikes and pedaled home in silence.
