One

Edgar Dewitt found a hole through the Earth two weeks after his fourteenth birthday. It was late summer then, and the sun was blistering with no clouds in the sky and no rain in the forecast.

On his first day in Mount Lanier, Edgar and his family walked downtown, window shopping in the strange mountainside village. It was nothing like back home in Bon Secour, Alabama.

“It’s so . . .” mused Edgar’s dad, straining for the right word.

“Grizzly Adams,” blurted his mom, snorting, then abruptly quieting herself lest someone nearby hear her disparage their town.

It was true, though. Even the McDonald’s was basically a log cabin. Edgar stared at the big golden “M” towering in front and wondered if they used moose meat.

Behind the McDonald’s sat a string of mountains. Edgar stared at them as they walked. He studied them top to bottom same as he’d done the whole ride up from Denver. They were angular against the Western sky, and in the dusk seemed like black, jagged fangs. They were magnificent. Majestic. He had never seen a mountain before, not outside of a textbook, anyway.

“Let’s get milkshakes,” said his mother.

She grabbed him by the back of the neck and began to veer him toward the ice cream parlor. The parlor, also something out of an old western, was dead for a Saturday afternoon.

The antique bell on the door of the parlor announced their arrival.

“How do ya do?” asked the shopkeeper, a large man with silvery hair. He studied the Dewitts as they corralled around the display.

“Y’all have good malts here?” asked Edgar’s father, completely lost in the selection of ice creams. Edgar’s dad was a non-reformed chocaholic. The old shopkeeper nodded sternly.

Edgar heard the distinct sounds of an arcade through the parlor walls.

“Mom,” he whispered. “Can I go next door really quick?”

“But . . . what about the milkshakes?”

“Just order me something.”

“OK,” she said, sending him rushing for the door. “But don’t be gone long!”

Once outside, Edgar stepped toward the adjacent shop. The place was called Al Capone’s, a weird name for sure, but then again, everything in this town was weird.

He slipped his hands into his pockets to feel around for money. There were a lot of games through the window that he recognized, a lot of the same ones they had back in Alabama, but no Nitro Streak.

“Nice jeans,” muttered a voice just down the way.

“Huh?” said Edgar, turning. Somehow he hadn’t seen a group of kids about his age huddling at the front door of the arcade. Edgar nodded nervously and blew off the remark, then turned back to the window. He was suddenly self-conscious as they giggled and murmured about him. Hot blood rushed to his cheeks. Nerves danced in his gut.

“Nice jeans,” repeated the voice, this time a little louder.

“I heard you the first time,” said Edgar.

“Nice jeans!” the voice hollered.

Edgar looked over and squinted, straining to see past the glare of the streetlight. Emerging from the group was a rail thin kid, whose hollowed-out eyes were shaded from two bony, protruding cheekbones. He glared at Edgar. Edgar shrugged back.

“I really,” the angry kid continued, “really like the way you roll them up at the bottom. It looks super cool.” He pointed at Edgar’s jean rolls as the crowd of kids at the arcade door exploded into hysterics.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Edgar, shrugging again. The boy continued to glare at Edgar with clear, aqua blue eyes. Edgar looked beyond him. He surveyed the kid’s group. There were a lot of them, maybe eight. A few guys, a few girls, one of whom stood at the back of the pack and peered at Edgar with a set of gorgeous brown eyes.

She was not laughing like the others.

For a moment, he was so captivated by her that he was almost unable to look away, suddenly forgetting the bully who stood before him. The girl’s waist-length hair was mocha in color, and her lip gloss sparkled in the light like gold flakes in the Arkansas River.

“I just wanted to tell you about your jeans,” continued the bully. Edgar snapped out of it and focused his gaze on the kid again. The guy’s fists were clenching and unclenching, painting the picture of a total psycho. “The rolls, I mean. That’s real, real niiice.” He blurted the last part through half laughter, half very bad southern accent—apparently mocking Edgar’s Alabamian drawl.

“Got it,” said Edgar, shrugging for a third time, “if you say so.” He turned and went back to fake-staring through the window of the arcade. “Thanks for letting me know,” he added.

“You’re welcome, pussy bitch,” said the boy.

“Edgar?” Ever so fortunately, Edgar’s mother stuck her head out of the ice cream parlor at just the right time, except all the kids giggled when she called his name.

All except for the mocha-haired girl.

“Coming,” he answered, and as he walked up the stairs to join her, he tried to hold his head high.

“Coming, Mommy!” sang the thin boy behind him, just loud enough for everyone to hear. At that, everyone giggled once more.

Everyone but the mocha-haired girl.

__________

“Sure is,” said the shopkeeper, apparently in deep conversation with Edgar’s dad. It was typical. Edgar’s father was a terribly sociable person.

“The longest drought ever?” asked Mr. Dewitt.

“You bet,” nodded the man. Edgar walked up to the counter and joined them. “It’s killing the crops,” the man added, “depleting the water supply. The worst drought we’ve ever seen. Everyone’s miserable here if you haven’t noticed. Been forever since a good rain.”

“Hmm,” said Edgar’s father, looking down, noticing Edgar. “Hey man!” he smiled. “How’s the arcade?”

“Sucky,” he muttered.

“Fantastic!” said his father, winking at the shopkeeper. “All the more time to study, then.”

Edgar’s mom reached over and tousled Edgar’s hair. She gazed down at him warmly. “I haven’t ordered for you yet.”

“Can I get a mocha shake?” he asked the shopkeeper, unable to get the girl out of his mind. As the shopkeeper made his shake, he bent and unrolled his jeans, and as he did, he thought of his friends back home, the older boys who’d taken him under his wing and shown him how to do everything: to roll cords, to pull in a massive tuna without breaking the line, and how to roll his jeans the way they did, in tightly bound folds, as was the style over there.

Unrolling them now, each unraveling felt like a betrayal. It was an assault to the very warm memories he held for all of them. Tears came to his eyes. He blinked them away.

He was in for a rough time here in Mount Lanier, it seemed.

“You know,” said Edgar’s father, addressing the shopkeeper, “I thought it was supposed to rain all the time here in Washington. Isn’t it one of the rainiest places in America?”

“Climate change,” frowned the man.

“Yeah?”

“Sure. How else does a drought happen so late in September, here in Washington, of all places? Same thing’s been going on everywhere—hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts. You noticed that? Why, I’ll bet you know a little something about hurricanes, too. Didn’t you say you all were from Alabama?”

“Yes and yes,” said Edgar’s dad, frowning. “We’ve seen enough storms for a lifetime.” He glanced at Edgar and then his wife. She took a big, thoughtful sip of her green mint shake.

“Like I said,” continued the shopkeeper, still wiping. “I’ll take a hurricane by now if the rain doesn’t come soon. We’ve got big trouble a-brewing. They’ll extend the wildfire season an extra month if we don’t get rain soon, and that’s the last thing we need around here. Another wildfire.”

Once Edgar and his parents had collected their plastic spoons and straws and said their goodbyes to the shopkeeper, they exited the shop. Edgar’s heart raced as he prepared to face the mean kids again, but, fortunately, they were gone. He breathed a deep sigh of relief and calmed his thudding heart, following his parents up the road toward their new home on the north side of the town. As they strolled through the dry, late-summer air, he kicked the last of his jean rolls straight and looked over his shoulder to glimpse the dark, stark, jagged Cascades to the west. They sure were something.