A Plague Year

“One night last summer, just after closing time, I was doing a roundup in the parking lot. A guy was sitting next to a cart, just staring at me. His eyes were black, his mouth was hanging open, and he had all these rotten teeth.

“It was like I was looking into the eyes of a corpse. I went in and told my dad about the guy, but by the time we walked back out, he was gone. My dad said, ‘He was probably drunk. Just sleeping it off.’ But I’ve seen drunks before, and this was something else.”

Mr. Proctor nodded. He continued to listen to our stories intently. People were still telling them when the bell rang, and he had to say, “Okay. That’s enough for now. I’ll see you all tomorrow for part two of the movie.”

Arthur walked out behind me.

He started talking, like to himself. “So, let me make sure I’ve got this right. Dork-man went after Mrs. Lyle in the counseling group, and then he went after young Tom before school today. My God! He’s attacking the women and children!”

That was mildly offensive. I asked, “Who told you that he attacked me?”

“Jenny Weaver. Why? Isn’t it true?”

“Yeah. It’s true.”

“So who saved your sorry ass this time?”

“I guess it was Jenny.”

“No way! She didn’t mention that part.” Arthur doubled over with laughter. He finally managed to say with real respect, “Those Weavers, man. They are awesome. When I was little, they came up to Caldera every Thanksgiving with food, and they came up every Christmas with presents. For the poor people, you know?

“Some people would get pissed off about that, like it was an insult. Like Who asked you to give me stuff? But my mom never did. She took what they offered and was glad to get it. The Christmas presents were always crap—like Dollar Store stuff. But still, it was something to open.”

He stopped at the senior high stairs. “But back to Dork-man. What was it about?”

“I don’t even know. I think he’s just basically insane.”

“Yeah. Could be. Could be genetic. Jimmy Giles had a hassle with Dork-man’s old man a couple of years ago. The old man was insane.”

“A hassle about what?”

“Jimmy got behind on payments on his big Ford, the F250. The bank sent Dork-man’s father out to get it.”

“Why him?”

“Dork-man’s father is repo.”

“What’s that?”

“What’s that? Man, you rich kids don’t know crap! The repo man works for the damn bank. He sneaks out to your house in the middle of the night, hooks up your truck, and hauls it away. Like Santa Claus in reverse. There’s no lower creature on earth than the repo man.”

I pointed out, “So that makes Dorfman the son of the lowest creature on earth.”

“Yeah. That’s about it. He’s like a repo man without a truck.” Arthur shook his bald head. “Did you hear he’s off the football team?”

“No. For what, drugs?”

“Nah. Coach wouldn’t know about that. Dork-man stopped showing up at practice. Then he came to the game on Friday and sat on the bench, pouting like a girl because Coach wouldn’t put him in. Then he quit.” Arthur started up the stairs. “I’m gonna miss him, though. He was the only senior who was worse than me.”

I was surprised at this sudden flash of humility. My face must have shown it, because Arthur immediately added, “We’re talking about the skill stuff here—throwing, catching, kicking. For raw power, for pure destructiveness, like the wrath of God, I’m still the best.”

“Good!” I called after him. “Glad to hear it.”

Lilly actually offered to work a longer shift so I could go on the field trip. Or was it to spend more time with John/Uno? Whatever, it was decent of her.

Everyone gathered in the high school parking lot at 3:00 p.m. Wendy, Jenny, Mikeszabo, Ben the Penguin, and I were there from the junior high side. Arthur and at least two of the stoners were there from the high school side.

Jimmy Giles was there, too. I overheard him telling Catherine Lyle quietly but firmly, “I always have to be near an exit wherever I am. Just in case I get panicked.”

She assured him, “Certainly, Mr. Giles. I understand.”

“Can I sit up front next to the door handle?”

“Yes. That would be fine.”

The Suburban was like a cross between a van and a luxury car. It had two bucket seats up front and a big console between them. Behind those seats were three rows of bench seats, each wide enough for three people.

Jimmy opened the front passenger door and claimed his place. Mrs. Lyle opened the side door, indicating that the rest of us should pile in.

Arthur went first. He stepped up and maneuvered his way to the back row, sliding over to the left window. A high school stoner followed him and took the seat by the right window. Then Jenny, Mikeszabo, and Ben climbed in and filled the next row.

I think Wendy was planning on sitting next to her stepmother. She frowned when she saw Jimmy up there. Catherine Lyle pointed her to the seat behind the driver.

I was still standing outside, not sure what to do. I climbed in, thinking I would take the empty seat next to Arthur, but Wendy surprised me. She leaned over, grabbed my sleeve, and pulled me into her row.

And that was just fine with me.

I started to strap myself into the outside seat, leaving a space between us. Wendy shook her head no and patted the seat right next to her, within actual hip and arm contact, so I slid over.

I heard the sound of Catherine Lyle closing the door behind me. Then she got in, knelt on the driver’s seat, and looked back at us. “Before we go, I just want to say that I hope you all will benefit from this field trip. I have spoken to people at the university who have driven out to the flight ninety-three crash site. They said we will be met by volunteers there. The volunteers are people who actually saw what happened. They have set up their own schedule so that there will always be someone around to tell the story to visitors.

“We need to keep in mind that the site is still a crime scene. Federal investigators have sectioned off the areas where we are and are not allowed to be.”

Catherine Lyle swiveled back, sat down, and started the Suburban. She pulled out of the parking lot and headed west for the turnpike.

Wendy looked out the window, but she spoke to me. “Okay. So here’s your chance to explain something to me.”

I was happy to do anything for her. “What?”

Wendy held up a letter. It was from a private school in Schuylkill County. She pointed to the return address and demanded to know, “How do you say this word?”

I pronounced it for her. “Skoo-kill.”

Her nose crinkled. “How do you get that? I’m thinking Sky’ll-kill. Like the sky’ll kill you. Like it’s raining down death or something.”

“No. It’s Skoo-kill.”

“What language is it? It’s not English.”

“I don’t know. Pennsylvania Dutch?”

She pronounced that to be “weird.” She put the letter away and pulled a paperback out of her large bag.

I asked, “What are you reading?”

She held up the book for me to see. “The Picture of Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde. Have you read it?”

“No.”