8

Next morning fex woke early, even before the birds. And in Connecticut, in late May, that’s early. The sun fought its way over the horizon; thick mist lay everywhere. When he went out, he’d better go barefoot. No sense in soaking his sneakers.

Fex put his hands behind his head and looked at the wallpaper. Overhead, Jerry slept quietly.

Fex had never been able to understand why he always woke so early on the days when he expected trouble. This day he’d have to face Mr. Palinkas, who would look at him over his glasses, rummage through his hair, and give him a hard time. Yet, when the dawn broke on an unbearably exciting day, a day on which something great was going to happen, he overslept. It didn’t make sense. Take the time their father was taking the three boys on a fishing trip. He’d overslept. Imagine that. The first time they’d ever gone off without their mother and he’d overslept so that he ate his breakfast so fast he’d felt sick throughout most of the journey. He hadn’t gotten sick; he’d just felt sick. Hard to say which was worse.

He studied the bare spots where long strips of wallpaper were missing. Jerry and he had peeled the strips off when they hadn’t had anything else to do. Sometimes it was hard work, peeling off wallpaper. The one who managed to pull off the longest unbroken strip won. There’d been discussions of new wallpaper down the years, always rejected as being too expensive.

“We’ll wait until they go to college,” Mr. O’Toole had decided. “By then they’ll be too old for the clowns anyway.”

Little did he know. They were too old for the clowns right now.

Fex lay looking at the balloon-like faces with great fat pink cheeks. Maybe they all had the mumps. He wondered if he’d ever liked that wallpaper, even when he was little. He thought probably not. Jerry said that wallpaper gave him the creeps. “All those faces watching me,” he’d complained to Fex. “Night and day they’re up there, giving me the eyeball. I’d like to push ’em through to the other side of the wall.” But he never had.

The sun finally popped out from behind the early morning clouds. Fex threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and slipped out into the day, careful not to disturb anyone. He loved being out in the morning alone. No people, no cars, no nothing. He always hoped he might see a deer. Possible but not probable in this part of the world.

It was going to be a perfect day. The air was sparkling, filled with the promise of joy. He would make it a joyous day. No matter what. It was as if he were alone in the world.

Except for Charlie. Early as it was, Charlie Soderstrom was there, squatting on his haunches by the edge of the river, muttering to himself. Fex slithered down the side of the hill, leaving snail tracks on the grass as he made his way through the heavy dew.

“Hi,” said Charlie. “I saw a fish.”

“Go get some clothes on before you freeze to death,” Fex said. Charlie’s bare stomach poked out over the elastic of his underpants. They and a sock were all he had on.

“O.K.,” he said and churned across the yard to his house. Fex liked to watch him run. He seemed to move up and down more than forward, but he got where he was going, which was what counted.

Presently Charlie returned, carrying a bunch of stuff. “Want some help?” Fex asked.

“No!” Charlie bellowed. He thrashed around inside his sweater for a while and finally figured out where he should put his head and his arms. “See, I told you I could do it myself!” he crowed triumphantly.

“Not bad. Not half bad. Now why don’t you see if your mother’s got any good grub to eat?” Fex suggested.

“O.K.,” Charlie said. Fex lay back on the grass to wait for him.

Am I powerless in the grip of an obsession, the way Angie said? he asked himself. And answered, truthfully, I don’t know. If only I lived in the olden days, he thought, as he often had. Not so much hassle. No obsessions, no pollution. Life was easier then. Reading by candlelight, no staying after school, no talk of “putting out” and “getting any.” Horses instead of cars. I bet those guys never heard of a double-dare. And if they did, they’d flatten the guys who double-dared ’em. Boy, those were the days.

You take Johnny Tremain. Or Uncas. Or Rolf in the Woods. Fex sat up and thought about spearing fish for breakfast, about catching and skinning muskrats to sell the skins. That was the way to live. Those guys had it made.

He watched as Charlie struggled toward him, carrying a large load of things he’d taken from his mother’s kitchen. Maybe I should help him, Fex thought. No. On second thought, let him do it on his own. It’s the only way he’ll learn.