He stopped at the Chinese restaurant on the way home, partly because he did not feel like cooking anything after his run-in with the reporter and partly because at the Chinese restaurant he never got the sensation. The workers there didn’t care who he was, interacting with him the same as they interacted with anyone else. They didn’t stare at him just a little too long, and though he didn’t understand Chinese, when they spoke to each other it didn’t seem that he was the subject matter.
He tended to frequent the Chinese place whenever a new story about Davy Malcor surfaced, opting to go there rather than the grocery store or other restaurants, keeping a low profile until things died down again. For that reason Chinese food always made him think of Davy, of that night. Of mistakes that were made. To him Chinese food tasted like regret.
Once home, he poured a rum and Coke and fired up his computer. While he waited for it to connect with the internet, he plated his food and sat down with his feast. He’d treated himself to an egg roll, splurged on the fried rice instead of the white rice they automatically included, anything to make himself feel better, to think about something other than the accusing look of that reporter in the parking lot. Unbidden, unexpected, it was all happening again and he would have to ride it out this time just like all the others.
After he’d eaten, he picked up the phone and dialed a number he hadn’t had cause to use in a long time yet kept on speed dial. Harvey didn’t answer with a hello. Instead he said, “I’m already on it.”
“I was teaching this afternoon. Didn’t see the news, didn’t know until I left the school. I got to my car and that Allagash woman was waiting for me wanting a statement.”
“I hope you told her to go pound sand,” Harvey said. This was a favorite phrase of Harvey’s, though Gordon didn’t totally understand what it meant. As a sculptor, he sort of did pound sand, shaping and molding and, yes, even pounding, until the medium yielded to his vision, until it stopped being clay or cement or metal and became what it was meant to be all along.
“I did,” he said.
“Good. Not that you need reminding, but no speaking to the press. I’ve already sent a friendly reminder to the sheriff, told him I’m ready to take action the first time I don’t feel good about how you’re being portrayed. He said he’s going to talk to the Public Information Officer, remind her about the rules. I can’t restrict the press, but I can sure as hell scare the police into running interference with them as much as possible. With any luck we’ll keep ’em at bay and it’ll die down quickly. If they don’t find anything else in that field, then that jacket’ll join the other evidence they’ve got and that’ll be the end of it.”
“That would be nice,” Gordon said. “Maybe I could keep my job.”
Harvey scoffed. “I don’t know why you took that teaching gig in the first place. It’s not like you need the money, buddy.”
“They asked,” he said, remembering how touched he’d been to be wanted, to be trusted. “And now I just hate to desert the students. I’m actually helping some of them.” He shrugged, though Harvey couldn’t see it. “At least it feels like I am.”
“Well, if they tried to let you go over this, I’d be the first to remind them it’d be foolish to let go of a popular, qualified teacher who has never been charged with any crime, much less convicted.”
Gordon couldn’t help but smile at Harvey’s bravado. Talking to his lawyer always made him feel better, even if it cost him roughly five dollars a minute to receive his particular brand of comfort. He should have hired a lawyer the moment they questioned him back in 1985. He might’ve saved himself from some of what he still dealt with.
“I’ll let you know if it comes to that,” Gordon said.
“Ok.” Gordon heard the sound of Harvey taking a drag from his ever-present cigar. He could almost smell the pungent aroma that hung around Harvey like a fog.
“Hang in there, buddy,” Harvey said. “I’m gonna go see what Eileen made us for supper.”
“Hope it’s something good,” Gordon said, for lack of anything else to say.
“One can always dream,” Harvey said and then was gone.
Gordon turned to hang up the phone and thought he saw movement in his backyard. He moved closer to the window, squinting in the direction of the outbuilding he used as his studio in the far-right corner of his property. He blinked and wondered if he could trust his own eyes. It was probably just his imagination, his senses on high alert over the news, the paranoia showing up right on schedule.
Over the years he’d been yelled at in public, verbally threatened with bodily harm, and, once, punched in the stomach by a woman who claimed he’d looked at her kid funny. Anything, he’d come to understand, was possible.
He watched as a figure in the gathering dusk walked the perimeter of the studio, then walked around it a second time. Gordon’s pulse raced as whoever it was came to a stop in front of the studio door, then reached out to tug on it. Luckily Gordon had locked it this time, though he often forgot.
Undeterred, the person tugged on the door again. Gordon reached for the phone, keeping his eyes on the figure. He wondered if it would serve him better to call 911 directly or to call Harvey and let him call 911 for him. Based on past experience, the Wynotte police didn’t really count Gordon as someone worth protecting or defending.
Before he could decide, the figure looked toward the house and Gordon saw that it wasn’t a short adult. It was just a boy. He laughed at himself, getting all worked up over a kid. This case sure did set him on edge. Emboldened and a little embarrassed about his fear, he strode to the back door and opened it, calling out, “Hey, get away from there.”
The kid stood frozen in place, blinking at him from behind glasses too large for his face. In spite of the nip in the early spring air, he wore shorts that revealed scabbed knees, and his hair looked like it was overdue for a cut by several weeks.
“I-I,” the kid stammered, “I was just exploring.”
Gordon took a step toward the boy yet maintained a distance. He knew better than to approach a child.
“Yeah, well, this is private property. You’re not allowed to explore here.”
The kid took a step toward Gordon. If he’d been in this situation as a child, he would’ve already turned tail and run. But this kid seemed unfazed. He pointed at the studio behind him.
“What’s that place?”
Gordon frowned, recalling another kid, another time. He wanted to tell the kid it was none of his business and to scram, but better to be cordial and exit the situation gracefully. Somewhere, this kid had parents. Parents who could stir things up with the slightest provocation, which was the last thing Gordon needed, especially on the heels of today’s news.
“It’s my studio.”
“What’s a studio?” the kid asked.
“It’s a place where I make things.”
“What kind of things?” the kid pressed.
Gordon sighed. Inside his stomach, he could feel the rice he’d eaten expanding. “Art things.”
The kid’s eyes widened almost comically. “You’re an artist?”
The way he said it, he might as well have asked if Gordon was an astronaut or a race car driver or something equally amazing to kids. He couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride as he answered, “Yes.”
“Wow!” the kid said. “I’m an artist too. My mom says I’m really good.”
Gordon gave him a small smile. “I’m sure you are.”
“Can I see your . . .” the kid looked down at the ground, then back up. “What’s it called again?”
“Studio,” Gordon said.
The kid nodded like Gordon had gotten the right answer. “Yeah, studio,” he agreed. “Can I see inside your studio sometime?”
Gordon was not one to shoot down the dreams of youth, but he also wasn’t about to let a male child of a certain age inside his private residence.
“Well, now’s not a good time.” He pointed at his house. “I was about to eat dinner.” A small lie, but a good excuse to end the conversation.
“Oh,” the kid said, looking dejected. “Ok.” His glasses slid down his nose and he pushed them back up. “Maybe some other time?”
“Yeah,” Gordon said. “Maybe.” Even as he spoke he was thinking, Not in this lifetime.
“Ok, great!” the boy said. He pointed at the wooded land that separated Gordon’s house from the house next door. He’d bought the place because of the privacy it afforded him, the chance to live away from prying eyes.
“I live next door, just through those woods. My mom and I moved in last week.”
Gordon nodded, even as a sinking feeling filled him. He’d seen the moving truck but had never considered a child’s things might be inside it. The kid pointed at himself.
“My name’s Stuart. Like Stuart Little, except I hate when people say that. What’s yours?”
“Gordon,” Gordon said. Then an idea came to him, a surefire way to make sure the kid never came around again. “Gordon Swift,” he said, accentuating his last name. “Go home and tell your mom you met me, ok? Tell her you met your new next-door neighbor, Gordon Swift, the artist. Make sure you tell her my whole name.”
“Ok!” Stuart said. “I’ll tell her you have a studio in your backyard!” He waved furiously before taking off toward the woods.
“And what’s my name?” Gordon called after him.
“Gordon Swift! I’ll remember!” Stuart hollered just before he disappeared into the woods.
“I’m counting on it,” Gordon said to himself. He returned inside and began gathering the detritus from his dinner. He almost threw away the takeout bag but remembered to retrieve his fortune cookie.
When he was that kid’s age, he’d thought fortunes were fated, godlike in their ability to dictate a person’s life. He’d been ceremonial in selecting just the right cookie, the one bearing the fortune meant just for him. His parents teased him about it, his father reading his fortune aloud in his deepest announcer voice as his mother giggled. He liked thinking about those times, not just because it was nice to recall happier times, but also because he liked remembering that version of himself, the one who believed a simple piece of paper could affect his destiny.
He opened the plastic and broke the cookie, fishing out the slip of white paper tucked inside. He held the paper under the overhead light in his kitchen and read, An acquaintance of the past will affect you in the near future. He groaned aloud, reminded of Monica Allagash and her efforts to smear him at every opportunity. With the discovery of Davy Malcor’s jacket, there was no doubt more people from his past would resurface, would affect him in the near future. As in, tomorrow.
He tossed the slip of paper into the takeout bag, then crushed the whole thing with both hands before burying it deep in the bin, so far down he couldn’t see it anymore.
October 12, 1985
6:30 p.m.
As soon as he reaches the field, TJ ditches his bike and, without waiting for his brother, takes off toward the woods that border the farm, veering away from the kids who’ve gathered, already forming teams and calling out the games they want to play—Mother may I and red rover, king of the hill and freeze tag.
Davy stops his bike and watches his brother run away from him without so much as a backward glance. He is uncertain what to do now. He thought they were both going to play the games—together. But that was stupid. Sometimes he forgets that TJ is different now. They might still be brothers, but they don’t know each other anymore.
Above him, the sky changes from blue to navy as darkness overtakes the light. Soon, Davy knows, the navy will change to black. Once that happens, the kids will turn to shadows without faces; it will be hard to know who is who. In spite of his jacket, Davy shivers a little and goes in search of TJ to see if he thought to bring a flashlight.
Davy wishes he hadn’t come. He wishes TJ had never brought up this stupid idea. He wishes his parents hadn’t gone to the party. He wants to be back at home as a family, the way it used to be.
As he walks, his shoe kicks up something sticking out of the dirt and he stops to see what it is. In the waning light, he sees a round object on the ground. For a moment he thinks he sees a glimmer of something. It might be gold. His heart speeds up at the hope of it. There’s not enough light to be sure, but he thinks he may have just found a piece of fool’s gold.
A long time ago, he and TJ used to hunt for the stuff, believing it was real gold that would make them rich. They would scheme about what to buy with their wealth: their own amusement park, a trip around the world, a Ferrari like the one in Magnum, P.I. Davy doesn’t believe in that stuff anymore. He knows fool’s gold is just fool’s gold.
Still, he bends over and picks up the rock, rubbing it against his jeans to clean off the bits of dirt clinging to it, and continues his search for TJ. He will ask TJ for a flashlight so he can see if what he’s found really is fool’s gold. Maybe, he thinks, TJ will help him. Maybe for a minute they will be the brothers they once were. The thought propels his steps.
He finds TJ with a group of boys his age behind a copse of trees just a few steps into the woods that border the field, tucked away from where the younger kids are beginning the games. TJ and his friends are all hunkered over a garbage bag, peering into it. Davy can’t tell what they’re looking at, but as soon as one of them spots him, he calls out, “Hey, kid, you’re not supposed to be over here!”
The group of boys freezes, all heads turning in his direction like they share one neck. Spotting him, TJ jumps up.
“Davy, get out of here!” He turns to the boy next to him, who, Davy sees, is TJ’s best friend, Phillip. “Fucking pest,” TJ says to Phillip, who laughs.
Davy decides to ignore Phillip, who is sort of a pest himself. He holds up the rock like a ticket that will gain him admission.
“Do you have a flashlight?” he asks no one in particular. He waves the rock a little. “I want to see if this is fool’s gold.” He tries to catch TJ’s eye, to see if he remembers. But TJ avoids the attempt, focusing instead on his friends and the black, lumpy trash bag on the ground.
Another boy, taller and stronger, grabs the bag, closing it with his fist as he eyes Davy.
“You should go play with your little friends now,” he says.
Davy feels the multiple pairs of eyes boring into him. He takes a step backward, knowing he should leave, yet desperately wishing TJ would defend him. He glances over his shoulder, back in the direction of where the kids are playing.
He says one word—“But”—then quickly closes his mouth, understanding it is useless. TJ is here to do something he isn’t supposed to do, something he doesn’t want Davy to see. This is why he wanted to come so badly, why he hadn’t wanted Davy to come too, why he was so angry at Davy before they left, yelling at him about the jacket.
Davy looks down at the jacket, at the pattern on the cuffs. It’s not the exact same as Marty McFly’s but it’s close enough. It is the best present he’s ever gotten. Just the sight of it makes him feel better, makes him think about how clever and brave Marty is, gives him hope that tonight maybe he can be brave and clever too. Just like Marty.
He clenches the rock in his palm, feels a sharp edge pressing back. Tears blur his eyes and he blinks them away. He will not let TJ see him get upset.
Instead he hurls the rock toward the cluster of TJ and his friends, feeling his anger soar along with it, a brief, furious flight. The rock lands with a thud in front of TJ, and for a moment, the two brothers look at each other but say nothing.
“Scram, McFly,” one of the boys says, and they all laugh as Davy turns and walks away, the laughter fading a little more with each step he takes away from them.