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one
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Where children are, there is a golden age.
Friedrich Von Hardenberg Bluthenstaub
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The scouts were in full uniform They always wore their hats, scarves, merit badges, sashes, and all the other flashy accoutrements the Boy Scouts of America used to smother themselves in adolescent enigmatic glory. For Gage, it was all about hot-dogging girls. It was at the Dollar Pawn in Fort Worth over the summer when Gage had his epiphany concerning fraud. Instead of earning the badges, sashes, and medallions, he realized he could buy them. As a matter of fact, the pawn shop was loaded with all kinds of Boy Scout recognition memorabilia. The above and beyond of all awards given in scouting was one Gage found in a glass case by itself -- the Silver Beaver.
Once acquired, Gage wore the Silver Beaver with consuming pride. But wearing the Beaver in public was problematic. Gage could not wear it around anyone who knew what it represented; it being the highest honor given to a scout. It was usually given to elderly, retiring gentlemen, who, after many years of service to the Boy Scouts, treasured being awarded the Silver Beaver as the zenith of lifelong accomplishment. It was an honor seldom given: a laurel bestowed in as rarified a circumstance as the Order of Lenin for the Russian hero; the Legion d’honneur for the French patriot; or even the Congressional Medal of Honor for the American soldier.
Should the question be put to any legitimate recipient of the Silver Beaver, “would you take in trade your Silver Beaver for any of the aforementioned honors?” The answer in most cases would be a resounding, “NO.”
In fact, the only real thing Gage could be proud of was how he had managed to save the fifty-five dollars it took to pay for the Silver Beaver at Dollar Pawn. It was sold to Gage as an investment in silver. Mr. Dollar, which was his real name, had no clue of the fraud Gage intended to perpetrate on his admiring preteen female entourage, and one, not so admiring, Elizabeth. He told the schoolgirls the Beaver had been awarded to him for saving several lives of small children endangered by a run away Fort Worth school bus. It had happened over the summer when he was visiting his uncle Bill. He told Elizabeth the last thing he thought of as the bus bore down on him--was her.
Afterwards, thinking about it, it seemed she was skeptical of his story.
He recalled she rolled her eyes and mumbled what he thought was, “give me a break!”
“That can’t be good,” Gage surmised.
Martin, Gage’s friend and Elizabeth’s brother, said Elizabeth had been born in Jeff City, Missouri during the time her mother and father were there to attend the funeral of a grandparent. Martin also said since she was born in Missouri, and because Missouri was the “Show Me” state, Elizabeth had to be shown everything before she believed it. Gage wondered how he could stage a picture of a school bus almost running him over.
The Boy Scout code of: Trustworthy; Loyal; Helpful; Friendly; Courteous; Kind; Obedient; Cheerful; Thrifty; Brave; Clean; and Reverent, was a code close to Gage’s heart, but he couldn’t help but think of not so virtuous shortcuts to being recognized for the virtues the code encompassed -- particularly the virtue of Bravery. Gage was yearning to be a hero.
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two
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Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest--
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done the rest,
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
Robert Louis Stevenson the captain in Treasure Island
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The scouts met every Monday night at seven, and almost every other Friday afternoon they gathered on the cafeteria steps to go camping. The men who planned and led these character building weekend excursions were
practiced alcoholics. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Jones became scout leaders following in the tradition of an older generation of World War Two, hard drinking veterans, who had been their esteemed scout leaders in their formative years at the old Fort Smith Catholic School, at a time when Saint Catherine’s was largely a boarding school for incorrigible boys. Lessons taught in the 1970s were not lost on Louis Jackson and Jack Jones.
The scout leaders of Troop 14 would pack Saint Catherine of Siena’s only school bus, as well as Mr. Jackson’s Suburban, and Mr. Jones’ Land Rover, with boys and gear. Off they went at high speeds into the waning end of a late September Friday, stopping only once, and that being at the liquor store under the pretext of a “pit stop.” The men and boys soon piled back into the various vehicles. The beer was stowed into several ice chests. The pit stop was over; the caravan disappeared as fast as it had appeared. As the sun set, they rolled along seldom traveled state highways and back roads to places visited once in a while by campers and hikers: places like the Waterfall at Booger Hollow; the Robber’s Hideout at Lee’s Creek -- above Van Buren; or even to places that had no real name. Tonight they were going to a new place. It was one and three tenths mile below the Swimming Hole at Clear Creek -- below Rudy. It had no name.
It was very strange weather for the end of September. A damp, warm wind was blowing from the south. There had been dry westerly winds and a fire alert for weeks, no rain to speak of for months. The scout leaders knew this, but planned to build a campfire, nonetheless. They had heard this new campsite had a rocky riverbed fifty yards wide on both sides of Clear Creek. It was safe enough to build a fire as long as there was little or no wind. Mr. Jackson had heard on the radio there might be a soaking rain, but it was not likely to happen until late, late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Because it hadn’t rained in months in spite of several predictions of rain, Mr. Jackson found it hard to believe in a weather service forecast.
“It might be a bit dicey, but what the hell, a little water never hurt anybody,” he thought as he finished off his second can of Miller Lite.
It would seem riding at high speeds with hard drinking men on narrow two-lane meandering back roads, or on graveled, shoulderless winding mountain roads, roads hugging precipitous drops often fifty, sixty, seventy feet straight down, with disaster looming only inches from the right front tire, would be frightening for children. Yet, the scouts weren’t frightened because they were adventure hungry and had no sense of danger until danger was upon them; after the first six-pack, the men worried about nothing: the bills; late fees; and their nagging wives drifted away becoming a blur seen through a haze. Soon, the men would sit next to a fire roaring through a stack of logs taller than even Mr. Jackson. No one sat too close to this fire. It was a fire to be admired from a distance, not one you could push around with a stick. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Jones enjoyed the fire build for them by their Scouts. The men would drink, fart, and burp while telling stories of their encounters with danger and their brushes with near-death. They had a surprising number of these -- brushes.
Gage, Nickolas, and Martin rode with Mr. Jackson. They liked riding with him. He was a Marine recruiter. They thought he was cool. Cool is what boys called irresponsible adults. He would let them do anything they wanted as long as they didn’t “run home and tell mamma.” But because these three boys all lived in the dorm at Saint Catherine’s and mothers were far, far, away, there wasn’t much chance of moms’ finding out small sins, except for Martin, whose mother worked at the school, but Martin never told his mother things that would only worry her.
“One of you boys hand me another beer,” Mr. Jackson demanded. “Don’t let it drip all over the place. Wipe it dry and put it in this bag, Nick.”
Mr. Jackson passed a small brown paper bag back to the back seat where Nick was wiping the wet beer can on his t-shirt. He had taken his scout shirt off so not to wrinkle it.
“Can I have a swig, Bro?” Nick asked.
“How old are you, Nick?”
“I’m twelve.”
“You’re not a pussy, are you, boy?”
“Hell no!”
“Well open it and have two swigs before you pass it up here.”
Nick took two deep draws on the beer as the other boys watched in envy. The beer was cold, but not good. He winched after each swallow. He wished he hadn’t asked to try it. He passed the beer forward. Gage was thinking about asking for a swig himself, but judging from the sour, distorted grimace on Nick’s face, he decided to wait until he was older.
Mr. Jackson was still wearing his dress uniform. He always came straight from work to these campouts without going home to change, “so I don’t have to look at the wife,” was his pat response anytime anyone asked.
Gage suspected he wore the marine uniform because he liked wearing it. It was tasteful and crisp. “A warrior’s dress for the ballroom,” Mr. Jackson had said more than once. When Jackson walked, he had the swagger of a warrior and with his square jaw, shaven head, and narrow eyes; he also had the look of a warrior.
“It’s not a ballroom we’re going to tonight,” Gage thought.
“Mister Jackson, Watch out!” Martin yelled.
Nick screamed, “Holy Shit! Look out!”
Mr. Jackson looked over the top of the beer he had just polished off. He couldn’t believe what he saw. Lifting itself reluctantly from the carcass of a dead deer in slow, heavy, labored flight was the largest vulture Louis had ever seen. The vulture, sensing something in front, turned its head so its right eye came around to view the Suburban. The bird did not panic, did not seem concerned. The vulture veered to the left, but so did the Suburban -- to miss the dead deer. The vulture began turning its head the other way, so his left eye could confirm what the right eye had seen. Climbing, the bird’s head rotated and its left eye appeared just as the Suburban slammed into it. The bird hit the windshield -- hard. The windshield shattered and it came through. It pushed past the front seat, slightly ricocheting off Martin’s shoulder. Martin’s screams could be heard through a fog of feathers. Nick was sitting in the middle of the back seat. The huge bird, slowed by the windshield and Martin’s shoulder, hit Nick square in the chest with a loud thud. The wind left Nick; his eyes rolled up in his head. He didn’t completely pass out. He looked down at the bloodied bird. Its eye gazed up dispassionate and cold at Nick. Nick, dazed and not altogether aware of his surroundings, did not recognize the vulture as bird. What had just happened just went dead in his head -- shock. Then it all came back, along with his breath. “Dog, get it off me,” Nick said flatly. His ears were ringing, and for the moment, he couldn’t remember were he was.
The Suburban slid to a stop on the graveled shoulder of the road. Mr. Jackson, seeing Martin was fine shouted, “Martin, shut up. Quit screaming like a girl.” Martin stopped screaming, but his mouth stayed open.
Mr. Jackson opened the back door. Gage slid past him and hissed, “nasty, fuckin bird.”
Nick looked up imploringly at Mr. Jackson, his blond hair peppered with black feathers, his thin, black glasses sitting sideways on his head.
“Are you all right, Nick?” he asked as he pulled the vulture off him. The dead bird was heavier than he thought it would be. It came off Nick wiggling and still alive, but in two pieces. He flung it to the side of the road.
“Gross, dog!” Nick said as he looked at his shirt.
“Get out, Nick. Get that shirt off you.”
Nick held his breath, closed his eyes and pulled the t-shirt over his head. His glasses fell to the ground. He snatched them up, examined them, making sure he had done no real damage to them.
“Hey, you all, watch its eyes, they’re glazing over right in front of me. Jeez Louise, it’s dying right in front of me,” Gage shouted.
Nick and Martin went and stood next to Gage and watched the vulture’s pinkish color quickly drift to a dusty white. Its eyes filled with the smoke of a living thing dying.
Gage looked at both boys in disgust and said, “Jeez, you all look like the bird flu.”
The next car around the corner was the Land Rover. Mr. Jones was going so fast he passed the scene by thirty yards before he could stop. He backed up quickly and erratically stopping right in front of the Suburban.
“What the hell happened?” Jones asked as he and the boys riding with him piled out of the car.
Gage picked a feather off the ground and cupped it in his hand. He walked to meet the approaching boys. “We were attacked by a giant vulture. If you’re hungry,” he said, “it’s still fresh.”
He put his cupped hand with the feather in it over his mouth and faked a cough. The feather flew out of his hand. It appeared he had coughed it up. Gage was pleased, it was one of his better tricks; he performed it flawlessly.
“Don’t any of you all want to know what vulture meat tastes like?” Gage asked.
The boys riding with Mr. Jones were older boys and too savvy for Gage’s inane stunt. They walked past Gage, ignoring him, continuing on to where the adults were standing. The bus soon came round the corner. Brother Justin easily brought it to a stop behind the Suburban. Justin had gone with the Boy Scouts on all their campouts lately. He had been sent by the abbot. There were rumors about how much drinking went on during these campout weekends. Saint Catherine’s wasn’t happy about the rumors. Justin and twenty some-odd Boy Scouts unloaded from the bus.
“What the heck happened, Louis?” Justin asked.
Ignoring the accusatory tone, Louis said, “we interrupted this bird’s dinner. See what happens to slow eaters.” Mr. Jackson looked at the boys who had gathered around and continued, “‘Blessed are those who eat and run,’ boys, that is the lesson to be taken from this slow ass vulture.”
The boys laughed. Justin didn’t laugh. It took a few minutes for Mr. Jackson and several of the boys to finish breaking out the rest of the windshield and clearing the glass and the feathers from the seats.
“Can you drive like that, Louis? I mean, with no windshield,” Justin asked.
“I don’t see why not, unless you can think of a reason I can‘t drive for the next few miles.”
Justin was uneasy about the boys continuing with Mr. Jackson. Louis knew this. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jones will take the lead. We’ll go slower. After the turnoff it gets tricky and it’s already dark, so you might try to keep up,” Louis suggested.
The boys didn’t talk much for the rest of the trip. No one could hear anything because of the wind ripping through the Suburban. After the turnoff, things got bumpy. They soon passed the swimming hole which was largely dry. Mr. Jackson reset his mileometer and announced, “one point three miles to go boys and its going to get rough, Roughriders!”
The boys turned around in their seats to watch the bus behind them. Every time it hit a big bump, the tops of heads could be seen rising and falling like popcorn popping as boys were thrown up and out of their seats. Justin would have made them wear their seatbelts, but the bus was an older bus and lacked seatbelts.
“Justin’s gotta be going crazy back there,” Gage said, “I bet they got themselves a dog pile on the floor of the bus by now,”
“You would think they would learn how to hold on to their seats after a while,” Martin said.
Gage turned to Martin and said, “you haven’t rode that bus; you can’t hold on to your seat. It’s like riding a bull.”
Mr. Jones stopped abruptly. Mr. Jackson, following behind him, stopped even more abruptly. Jack Jones pointed his spotlight down the hill. He lit up what he was looking for, the road to the creek.
“The bus will never make it,” He yelled.
Brother Justin yelled back from behind Mr. Jackson’s Suburban, “alright, I‘ll park it here.” He thought, “thank God.” He in no way wanted to take the bus down the hiking path Mr. Jones was calling a road.
Mr. Jackson and Mr. Jones slowly maneuvered their vehicles the rest of the way to the riverbed. It was just as described, except the creek bed had entirely dried up. As soon as the vehicles stopped completely, there began a fast and furious routine almost every boy knew: lighting lanterns; finding firewood; setting up tents; digging a hole for the fire and stacking rocks around it.
Albert Williams was one Boy Scout every other boy envied. He was the G. Q. of campers. He had a screen-lined, double-canvas tent with a floor which was air-inflatable, on top of the blow-up floor, an air mattress, and on top of the air mattress there were thick, down-filled blankets and pillows, embroidered by hand, with Albert’s name, address, and cell phone number. He had a six burner Colman stove. He often cooked breakfast for everybody. Albert had high dollar collapsible serving and chopping tables. His father had a nice boat, and whenever the scouts camped at Lake Tenkiller, dad was sure to come along. Albert was known as Mr. C. O. for Mr. Camp Out, or as Gage sometimes called him -- Mr. Cash Out. The name was meant to ridicule Albert; instead, Albert took instantly to it. He used it to refer to himself. He was proud of it.
Brother Justin sat in disbelief as he watched Albert set up his camp. Albert had an instrument to test the direction of the wind and set the opening of his tent opposite to it. He had found a spot away from the edge of the creek bed and away from other campers. Albert didn’t like being too close to the other boys; he was always afraid they would steal something. The spot he chose was covered with medium to small, water-worn, rounded rocks. He set his tent right on top of the rocks. The bumpy ground he chose did not compromise Albert’s comfort. He simply over inflated the tent floor until it was soft, level, and smooth. Brother Justin watched Albert fill his small electric generator with gasoline and start it with a push of a button. Six light bulbs and a space age electric heater lit up. Justin watched him take his boots off and walk into his tent to hang one of the electric lanterns. He seemed to walk on air. The tent looked warm and cozy. It looked like home. Justin thought of his wadded up cotton sleeping bag and his scratchy wool blanket and became more envious of Albert than any scout in Troop 14.
Gage, Nick, and Martin were not oblivious to Albert’s camping advantages. Gage and Martin had been “dissed” by Albert on their last campout. Martin had lost his watch and together with Gage asked Albert if they could borrow his Thousand Candlelight spotlight. Albert refused. He also refused to help find the watch. Martin’s mother had given him the watch. It was expensive. Martin wanted to punch Albert in the nose.
“I could pop that long beezer one time and it would break in three places,” Martin whispered to Gage. Gage shook his head--no.
“Do you watch The Sopranos?” Gage asked as they walked off.
“No,” Martin said.
“One thing I learned from Tony, ‘revenge is a dish best served cold.’ Next time we’ll get even with the little Richie Rich.”
Gage had decided the dish had cooled enough. He had made a pledge and a plan for revenge, and tonight was the night revenge would be served, and Albert would just have to digest it the best he could. Gage watched Albert closely. He walked by Albert’s compound. Albert and a couple of his group were putting the finishing touches to Albert‘s campsite.
“How ya doing there, Mr. C. O. You got an extra dollar or two -- how about ten?”
“What? Hell no! Get out of here. Why would I give you ten dollars? Mooch!”
“Hell, Albert, I was going to buy you a Christmas present. How about a turd in a bag?”
Albert reached in his pocket and pulled out a dime. He flipped it to Gage. “Here’s a dime, Bozo,” he said. “I know I can’t buy a whole turd with it, but a dingleberry in a matchbox will do just fine. Oh, could you gift wrap it please? The tinny-winny, dingleberry paper will be fine. Oh, and could you please tie it with butt floss?” Albert and his friends laughed and glared with distain at Gage.
Gage looked at Albert and just smiled. As far as Gage was concerned, there was no backing up for Albert, “not even if he apologizes and begs for mercy. Albert‘s fate is sealed,” Gage thought. “And what the hell is butt floss anyway?”
The boys roasted dozens and dozens of hot dogs. They had a contest to see which boy could eat the most dogs in the shortest amount of time. The scout leaders had their own private sixth grade mathematician, Jason Lewis. Jason had devised a chart just for hot dog eating contests: Amount of time divided by number of hot dogs. He also assigned a value to sheer volume of dogs eaten over an extended time period. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Jones stood in sheer amazement at Sixth Grade Jason, his laptop, bell curves, and explanations of mathematical significance. Three overachieving overeaters puked in the dry creek bed. After an hour and half of this spectacle of unrestrained, competitive gluttony, a winner was determined. Larry McNabb, a small boy, took his prize and accolades lying down, as he could not stand. The prize was a Crash-Bag. The Crash-Bag was a backpack stuffed with all kinds of goodies needed for an overnight stay. The bag included all candy and food any two persons could consume in a weekend’s time, including an eight-pack of hot dogs. Mr. Jackson laid the backpack on the boy’s torso. He was afraid to place it on his stomach. Larry wrapped his arms around it and moaned his appreciation; he would continue to moan in discomfort and pain all night long.
“Good thing those dogs weren‘t cheese filled; he’d rot from the inside out,” Gage said.
“Gross, dog,” Nick said, after he thought about for a moment.
Two of the boys had a climbing race up two tall pines. Brother Justin was beside himself with concern. Mr. Jackson was irked with Justin because Justin had blessed all the hot dogs with a waving of hands and something said in Latin. Jackson was a Baptist, and even though he was raised around Catholics, Catholic mombo-jombo just pissed him off.
“Well, Justin, with as many of those hand blessed hot dogs as Larry ate, he ought to float on up to heaven, don’t you think,” Mr. Jackson laughed and held his beer toward Brother Justin as if for a salutation, a clicking of the cans, but Justin didn’t have a beer.
“Hell, I’d have you bless my beer, but it would probably burn too much going down, don’t you think?” Mr. Jackson said, a drunken slur beginning to surface.
Brother Justin was becoming distressed by Mr. Jackson‘s behavior, trying to change the subject he commented, “those trees are at least fifty feet tall. What if one of those boys falls?”
“Tell you what, Justin, You bless my beer, and when the kid falls, I‘ll beer fart a blue devil and he‘ll fly over there and catch him, as rotten as these boys are, it’ll be a professional courtesy -- from one little devil to another,” Mr. Jackson laughed. He was already drunk.
“I don’t think those boys should be allowed to do this; it’s just too dangerous,” Justin said as he watched the boys take off quickly up the wide trunks of the pines.
“Listen here, Justin -- buddy. I think you’re too overprotective of boys trying to become men. I don’t intend for these boys to grow up to be Latin speaking, fag pussys. And why is it any of your damn business? Why are you here anyway? You don‘t like camping. Seems to me like it is….”
Mr. Jackson stopped talking in mid-sentence. Behind Justin was Mr. Jones signaling to Mr. Jackson a non-verbal “zip it” with his fingers to his lips, and the invisible key, he threw into the fire.
Louis only then realized he was in the middle of deeply insulting the man who could put Troop 14 out of business. In a jester of drunken reconciliation, Louis said, “now, come on, Justin, drink a beer, sit down; let’s watch the show.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” he said as his eyes followed each boy anticipating
with anguish any mistake which would leave a boy crippled or dead.
Each boy reached in short time the agreed upon limb on each tree and slid down the pines, scraping arms and legs while sliding the fifty feet or better to the ground. It was declared a tie by Mr. Jones and each boy was given a choice between another hot dog and a bone-handled, long-bladed knife.
The boys were delighted with their new knives.
Justin walked over to Mr. Jones and asked in an almost whispered voice, “should those boys be given those large knives?”
Mr. Jones just looked at Justin and said, “Jesus Christ, Justin. We know what we’re doing here. Watching them gave you the heebie-jeebies, didn’t it? Why don’t you relax and withhold judgment for a month or so and watch these boys. These boys love this. Sure, it’s a little bit dangerous, but life is dangerous. I’ve driven race cars and I’ve been to war -- I’m still here. Not everybody lives life behind the walls of a monastery. Louis and I have been scout leaders for six years and no one has been badly hurt,” Mr. Jones said, and in his mind tried to define “badly hurt,” remembering several boys who had been, to some greater or lesser extent, “hurt,” and one child still limped a bit, but Jones rationalized, “not badly hurt.”
“I guess you’re right, Jack. Look I’m really tired, I am going to go to the bus and bunk down.”
“That’s a good idea, Justin, if there is anything you need, just let me or Louis know and we’ll do what we can to get it, O.K.?”
Justin looked longingly in the direction of Albert’s tent. “You wouldn’t have an extra pillow, would you?” he asked.
“I’m sure I can dig one up. You go on now. I’ll have it sent up. Good Night, Justin.”
“Good Night, Jack.” Brother Justin walked straight uphill to the bus.
“How come I always have to do crap like this?” he wondered. He hated camping out.
Mr. Jackson, Mr. Jones, and several boys keep feeding the fire well in to the night. They talked and told stories about danger until they ran out of danger stories, then they teased each other about girls and farts. The boys picked at each other about their sexual inexperiences, while the men continued to drink beer and fart to choruses of protest consisting of “gross… nasty… INCOMING!!…S.B.D….stinky…W.M.D,” and, “it was you that ate that dead bird!”
Finally, well after midnight, the last of the campfire sitters went to bed. They would have stayed even later, but they knew the sun would soon be up and those left sleeping would be shown no mercy. Collapsing tents on those still sleeping after sunrise was one of many early morning amusements indulged in at the expense of sleepyheads.
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Three
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The kid had a lurking devil in him…It was a good-humored, jovial imp, or a cruel and blood-thirsty fiend, as circumstances prompted.
Sheriff Pat Garrett on Billy the Kid
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Gage shook Nick.
“What, dog?” Nick protested.
“Come on, it’s time to go.”
“Go where?” Martin said sleepily.
“I told you all. We’re going to go get Albert. You all remember; Martin would have found his watch if it weren‘t for dip-shit Albert.”
“Yeah! My mother gave that to me for my birthday. C.O. could have helped. The little snob, let’s kick his ass.”
Gage giggled, “I’ve got something better than that. Let’s go.”
The boys followed Gage. They went quietly past the smoldering campfire, each stepping lightly past the Scoutmaster’s tent. The campsite was soon behind them.
“Where we going?” Nick’s voice was heard in the dark; they brought no flashlights with them.
“It’s a secret,” Gage whispered back.
Almost in admiration, Nick whispered to Martin, “Gage can keep a secret.”
“He can tell a lie too,” Martin replied.
“sssshhhh!” Gage hissed.
The boys followed Gage up the road toward the bus. They left the road and followed a narrow path along a ledge above the campsite. The woods were remarkably quiet, so they naturally tried to be ever so quiet as they walked, “like Indians,” Gage thought.
A very gentle south wind pushed softly against only the tops of the tall pines. There was no other noise. Not even the Mockingbirds sang. The talkative birds sat in silence and watched the boys practice their Indian skills.
“Perfect!” Gage could not hide his enthusiasm as the boys reached a spot on a path high above the campsite, but not far from it. A spot well above and facing the open front of Albert’s tent. He handed each boy a condom. “We aren’t going to rape him, are we, dog?” Nick looked distressed and disappointed.
“No, Stupid. What’s wrong with you? God! Just pee in the rubber and then tie it off.”
“Well, I do got to pee,” Martin said cheerfully. He was relieved to know he wasn’t going to have to corn-hole Albert.
“I got to pee too, dog,” Nick chimed in.
Gage couldn’t have been happier. All three boys filled the condoms with very respectable amounts of pee. All the condoms were tied off. Gage looked below him. Albert’s tent flaps were wide open. Gage could hear Albert snoring. All was ready.
“OH! I get it. We’re going to spin off these bags of pee into Albert’s tent. Right, dog?” Nick asked.
Gage just smiled a very smug, self-contented smile. He overdramatically signed, and with fake regret said, “that’s so right, dog! I‘m so sorry that Albert has forced us to do this. All right, it’s not real hard to hit home. We’re going to swing the rubbers in a circle like this,” Gage demonstrated. “Do it four times, then let go. Don’t miss! It will be a real waste of pee if you miss.”
“Let’s do it,” Martin said almost too loud.
“All right. Four times, then let go. Then run like hell. I get it,” Nick said.
“One,” Gage whispered.
“Two,” a little louder.
“Three,” even louder.
“FOUR!” he almost shouted.
Two bags of pee went airborne. Nick and Martin fled. Gage stood waiting to see the bomb damage. One bag hit the side of the tent with a thud and bounced off, then rolled away. “Shit!” Gage said. The other bag sailed through the open tent flaps. Gage heard a splash. It was quiet for a very long moment. Albert’s snoring stopped abruptly.
A light came on. “Ohhuugg,” Albert groaned in disgust. Gage began his wind-up.
“One,” he counted.
“Two,” Albert stood up and exclaimed, “gross!”
“Three,” Albert stumbled to the door of the tent.
“Four!” Gage let go. The pee-bag flew high in a deeply arched path, a parabolic path of insult and humiliation delivered “cold.”
Albert looked up. He thought he heard something. Something clear sailed toward him. Albert’s instinct to duck came slightly too late. The bag of pee exploded on the top of his head. Albert felt something in his hair. He reached up and pulled a large part of a ribbed rubber out of his hair. He looked at it for a long second, and then he dropped it and began to throw-up.
Nick almost screamed when Gage dove through the door of the tent. It was completely dark, and even though Nick and Martin were anticipating Gage’s return, it still unnerved them when he fell through the tent door landing on his sleeping bag.
“We thought you got caught, dog,” Nick gasped.
“Well I didn’t, did I?”
“Yeah, hey, what about Albert?” Martin asked in a whisper.
Gage began whispering what had happened but laughed so hard he could hardly finish, “Martin’s bag got him. Nick, shit, you might as well have stayed in the tent. You missed by a mile.”
“No, Fool, you lie!”
“Oh. Yeah, you missed. But I waited. I had to make sure we got him good. Martin’s pee was all over his bed and he woke up. You would too--warm, stinky pee everywhere. Well, he came to the door of the tent; that’s when I let go of mine.” Gage began laughing again. They could hardly understand him when he said, “the pee bag landed right on top of his head. He was drenched. That’s all I saw. It was great.”
The boys straightaway became quiet when they heard Albert screaming at the top of his lungs. Mr. Jackson jumped off his cot and sprinted toward Albert’s tent. He carried his pistol with him. He was sure Albert was being attacked by a bear. Soon Gage could hear sobbing. Then he heard several of the older boys talking. Then nothing. Gage, Nick, and Martin pretended to be asleep, and before long, they were asleep.
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four
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Work is so much more fun than fun.
Noel Coward
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The next morning breakfast was being cooked on the campfire. It seemed Albert was refusing to cook. He cleaned his tent. He said nothing to no one. He was pouting. He would likely pout all day. This was to be a horrible weekend for the world’s most prepared Boy Scout.
Mr. Jackson was sure he knew who pee-bombed Albert. He was sure it was two of the older boys. He all but accused them. After their adamant denial, he put off trying to find out who did it. He never really liked Albert, and to top it off he was so hung over his vision was blurred. He just wanted to give the boys a project and sneak off to nap in his Suburban.
Mr. Jones and Mr. Jackson called the boys together. The older boys had a plan to hike to the swimming hole and then go on to Rudy to eat lunch. There was a small gas station/grill/mayor’s office/post-office all housed under one roof in Rudy. It was the only commercial building in Rudy. The people of Rudy called the half-block long, sagging, wooden structure The Rudy Mall. The other two larger buildings in town were both churches.
Mr. Jackson tried to convince the boys to bring the larger part of the younger scouts with them, but they absolutely refused. Louis looked to Mr. Jones to coerce the older boys to agree to bring the younger children. Mr. Jones just closed his eyes. He really didn’t want to be responsible for the younger boys, they often wandered off and they always tired too easily. Jack Jones knew Louis was trying to shirk his Scoutmaster’s duty and nap off his hangover; he had no real sympathy for him. He was somewhat hung over himself. Mr. Jackson gave up; he did not have the energy this morning to bully. Albert would usually find something for the younger kids to do. Mr. Jackson looked to Albert. Albert returned his pleading look with a cold, unforgiving, I’m-looking-right-through-you-at-the-rock-behind-you, gaze. Albert had hoped for a pee-bomb throwers inquisition, but was to be disappointed. Louis looked longingly at his Suburban.
Brother Justin spoke up, “I’ll take all the boys who are not going to Rudy with me!” Justin said surprising everybody, including himself.
“Where we going, Brother?” Bryan asked.
With skepticism in his voice, Albert said warily, “off to see the wizard?”
Justin ignored Albert. He recognized Bryan as one of the boys from the tree climbing contest when he saw he held one of the prize winning knives. Bryan had been throwing the prize knife into the air. Justin cringed as he watched him catch it.
“Stop that with the knife, please,” Bryan put it back in its sheaf. “What do you boys want to do?”
Mr. Jackson rolled his eyes and moaned in pain. “Don’t ask them; just tell them what to do,” he whispered to Justin before he walked off in the direction of his Suburban.
The boys looked to each other. They all were bewildered by the question. There were whispers and mumblings, and then Bryan spoke up, “why don’t we build a dam?” He suggested and looked around. The other boys were quiet. They were waiting to be convinced.
“You all know we’ll be back here to camp again. It’s really an O.K. spot. Look up there just before the bend.” Bryan pointed as he spoke, “you see, it narrows. That’s a perfect spot to build it.”
Where the creek narrowed, cliffs went straight up on both sides of the creek bed with steep, wooded hills perched on top of bare, white rocks like icing on a cake. The creek bed went from shallow to deep, from wide to narrow, maybe only twenty yards across at the narrowest.
“How many of you want to build a dam?” Justin asked.
Every hand went up.
“Just how dangerous can dam building be? It’s just stacking a bunch of rocks,” Justin thought; then he announced, “O.K., boys, let’s go build us a dam that will last one-hundred years.”
The boys gathered at the bend and argued about a plan. Albert offered to cook lunch, “hamburgers and French-fries for everybody.” Albert’s mood had changed. He loved a project. Albert stood with his hands on his hips surveying the dam site. From almost directly beneath the towering cliffs, Albert saw the bottom edge of what had to be a large boulder. It was almost directly above him. He went back to camp and returned with two long steel tent poles and a thick roll of nylon rope.
“What are the poles for, dog?” Nick asked.
“To rock and roll and roll a rock, dog,” Albert’s nonsense was delivered with sarcasm.
Justin split the boys into two groups: one group to find and move good rocks; the other group to stack them into a dam. Justin’s two groups turned immediately into four, all going in different directions. They all had a plan, even though their separate plans had little to do with the agreed upon plan.
Albert and a group of three boys went east to where the tall cliff rounded off to a hill and rolled and lowered itself to the creek bed about two hundred yards below where the creek narrowed. The boys began their assent from there. Albert led the boys up through the woods to the cliff where the boulder he had spotted from the dam site rested. It was much larger than it seemed to be when he spotted it from far below. There were two other larger boulders sitting near the edge of the cliff in a row next to the one Albert had picked. Albert’s boulder was the size of a mid-sized car. After realizing just how big it was, he felt it would be useless to try to budge it, much less get it down to an appropriate place in their dam. “What the hell,” he thought, “we’re already here.”
The tent poles were nine feet long. Albert found two rocks he could use as fulcrums. Then the boys pushed the tent poles deep under the boulder. After everything was set up, the plan began to take on an air of possibility. Albert was pleased, except the tops of the poles were way too high for them to grab.
“Bryan and Curtis, climb up on the next rock there and you all jump and Bill and me will pull, and if it works -- it works.”
Bryan and Curtis were the contest tree climbers, agile and unafraid. Bryan said, “we need a running start.”
“O.K., whatever you need,” Albert said, not really understanding the request, but willing to blindly go forward despite miscommunication.
“What I mean is you will have to count to four, and on two Curtis and me will begin to run, then on three we’ll jump, and you’ll pull on four, O.K.?”
“Oh, O.K.,” Albert said. The boys got ready. Each child was in his spot. Curtis and Bryan were on top of the next boulder.
Albert began with, “Houston, Houston…Everything’s a Go, A-O.K., Houston-- green light for the launch of the space rock.” Albert grabbed the tent pole and yelled into an invisible microphone, “time to light the candle--begin the launch!”
“One,” Curtis and Bryan crouched down to a start position.
“Two,” Albert continued.
“Three,” Curtis and Bryan ran toward the tent poles sticking in the air.
“FOUR!”
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five
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If a little knowledge is dangerous, where is the man who has so much as to be out of danger?
Thomas Henry Huxley British biologist and educator
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Brother Justin and several of the boys went up the creek a hundred feet or so. They were marking and pulling the largest rocks they could move. Justin was helping lift and roll rocks. He was constantly warning the boys to watch their fingers and toes. He imagined how horrible it would be to have to tell a child’s father and mother why all four fingers on little Johnny’s hands were smashed and broken. Justin was very careful and always worried. Dam building was beginning to seem much more hazardous in actuality than in theory. Justin looked behind him to the dam site. He watched Nick and Martin clear rocks to leave a smooth bed. The plan was to place the largest rocks they could find at the base of their dam. He spotted Gage sitting on a large rock doing nothing to help -- not unusual for Gage. He was about to yell at Gage and tell him to get up and help his fellow scouts, when his eye caught something move high above the dam site. A huge boulder fell snapping a tall pine tree in half. It sounded like a gunshot. Martin and Nick looked up, turned, and ran. Gage was sitting with his back to the cliff. He heard the tree snap and Justin scream. Gage jumped up, looked up, and began to run backwards. He stumbled and fell on his back. The boulder had cleared the cliff and was in free fall. Brother Justin screamed again. A vision of the bishop and cardinal escorting him to the front door of the monastery and taking him by the arms and tossing him to the lawn appeared in his head as the boulder fell free of the cliff. Gage crawled, belly-up and backwards, scattering rocks as his hands and feet moved frantically. He closed his eyes and cringed in terror as he anticipated being smashed like a bug.
Mr. Jackson had walked to his Suburban. He started it and moved it across the creek bed to the access of the creek road. He parked in the shade. He was now hidden from the campsite. He reclined his seat and turned on the radio. He soon found his favorite sleep station, N.P.R. In a matter of ten short minutes he was in a deep sleep. The peaceful, sonorous, nectarous voice of Terri Gross was in large part the reason.
“Mister Jackson, wake up! Brother Justin needs you, now… NOW, Mister Jackson!!
“What the hell for?” Jackson looked around -- no one. His small messenger had delivered his short message in his small, shrill voice and had already run away.
Louis walked toward the dam site. All the boys were standing in a circle. There was the car sized boulder to the right of the crowd. Brother Justin holding a washcloth to Albert’s nose.
“What the hell is going on here?” Mr. Jackson asked that question a lot on campouts.
Justin said, “Martin broke Albert’s nose.”
Gage spoke up, “yeah, Albert tried to kill us. You ought to have him arrested. I’ll press charges -- attempted murder. You’re going to prison, you murdering sack of shit.”
“We didn’t try to kill anybody,” Albert blubbered. “We just rolled that rock down. We didn’t see them. We’re so soorry,” Albert wailed.
Perplexed, Mr. Jackson asked, “what the hell are all you boys doing here anyway?”
Brother Justin explained everything to Mr. Jackson: the dam; the rock; the fight. Mr. Jackson interrupted him, “Albert, how in the hell did you move that boulder?”
“Fulcrum and lever,” Albert said, as he sniffed and doctored his swollen nose.
“I really would have liked to have seen that one, Albert.”
Gage spoke up and said, “yeah, then you would have seen it was attempted murder.”
Mr. Jackson turned to Gage, “shut-it, you paranoid weirdo, you probably think your own mother would kill you.”
Gage’s eyes got real big. He folded his arms and walked away in silence.
“Hey, Mr. Jackson,” Albert spoke up, “there are two more huge rocks up there.”
Mr. Jackson, realizing his headache was gone, smiled and said, “let’s go take a look at those rocks, Albert.”
Within an hour, all the boys left in camp that morning were on the cliff above the creek. Brother Justin stood at the cliff’s edge to make sure no one else would slip in below without being noticed, thereby becoming Albert’s second target. Albert and Mr. Jackson brought more rope, a pulley, and two more steel tent poles. The first boulder they moved wanted to slide, side to side, rather than roll. It took three tries before it turned half-sideways and rolled once, then slid on its own the rest of the way to the edge. At last, guided by its own momentum and weight, as if on slippery ground, it slithered over the edge. It bounded once off the face of the cliff and broke in two. Mr. Jackson declared the halfs of boulder to have landed in useful places. The last boulder was as round as an apple and went as easily and as effortlessly as the first. It fell perfectly to the far side of the creek. The Boy Scouts had the foundation of a really nice dam. All scouts returned to the creek bed. Albert cooked lunch for everybody except Gage, Nick, and Martin. Albert was sorry he had almost killed them, but not that sorry. He had a whiff of a suspicion Gage and his buddies might have been the ones who threw the pee bombs, so he conveniently forgot to cook their meals; they had to cook their own.
After lunch Mr. Jones and the older boys returned. They were greatly impressed and mystified by what their younger compatriots had accomplished in such a short time. The older boys joined in and soon took over the piling up of larger rocks against the colossal, air-delivered boulders. By late afternoon, the dam was finished.
“It looks like The Army Corps of Engineers built this one,” Mr. Jones bragged.
He was very proud of it. They all were proud of it.
Albert announced, “when we come back next time, we’ll have a swimming hole that won‘t ever dry up.”
Gage had been watching Albert all day. Gage was still convinced Albert had intentionally tried to kill him. “He must have known we were down there, all he had to do was look. Look at him! What a cool cucumber,” he thought. Gage was becoming a little frightened of Albert.
That evening, the boys cooked steak and potatoes. It was a Saturday night, Boy Scout camp-out tradition. They watched a very large and yellow, full moon appear above the trees in the East as they devoured their feast.
“That’s a harvest moon,” Justin announced. “Look at the big circle around it.”
“What does a ring around the moon mean, scouts?” Mr. Jones asked.
Several scouts answered in unison, “a ring around the moon means rain real soon.”
“Batten down the hatches, boys. Make sure your tents are pulled tight so the rain doesn’t puddle on the roofs. We are getting up with the sun tomorrow. We’ll break camp, load and leave, rain or shine, wet or dry,” Mr. Jackson said as he stood to finish off his beer.
The boys, as a whole, did not complain much. Lifting hundreds of rocks and finishing off the day with steak and potatoes made young boys very sleepy, very early.
“Jason Lewis,” Mr. Jones yelled as he opened his third “last beer.”
“Yes, Sir,” Jason responded.
“When will that moon be right above us?” Mr. Jones asked.
Jason folded out his laptop and within seconds announced, “the moon will be overhead at 12:15a.m.”
“How do you know that, Jason?” Mr. Jones asked.
“Really, two ways. The sun will rise at 6:15 a.m., and the moon rose at 6:15 p.m., so halfway will be at 12:15.That’s because, during a full moon, the moon rises as the sun sets and when the sun comes up the moon will be setting. The other way to know is: the moon crosses the sky at a rate of approximately 15 degrees per hour; 90 degrees is straight overhead; all you need to figure is the hours and degrees -- simple.”
The whole group of boys looked amazed. Gage spoke up and said, “that’s right, I knew that. That’s easy. I could have told you that.”
Martin punched him hard in the arm. Gage fell backwards out of his chair. “Bet you knew that would hurt too, didn’t you?” Martin asked.
Gage lay on the ground half-laughing, half-crying. “O.K., O.K., maybe I didn’t know it. Jesus! You don’t have to knock a guy out of his chair just for making a joke,” he objected.
Brother Justin spoke up, “you all quit it. That’s enough fighting for one day. And another thing, Martin, someone needs to apologize to Albert about his nose.”
Mr. Jackson asked, “should Martin apologize, Albert?”
Albert looked surprised. He thought about what to say for a second, “‘I’m sorry’ wouldn’t hurt, but I did almost kill them. I guess I should have looked to see if anyone was down there.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Gage exclaimed.
“Shut-up, Gage,” Mr. Jackson insisted.
“O.K. Albert, I’m sorry I hit you in the nose,” Martin apologized.
“That’s alright, Martin. Sorry about almost killing you all.”
Mr. Jones said, “that’s great, boys. You all are really acting like adults. Now I’m announcing a curfew tonight. No bullshit tonight. At nine o’clock I want everybody in their tents. Tomorrow starts early.”
Mr. Jackson chimed in, “boys, at seven o’clock in the morning your tents will come down with you in them or out of them. It doesn’t make me any difference.”
The campfire burned down early that Saturday evening. Everybody in camp was asleep before curfew. Albert’s tent was cleaned up, aired-out, and aired-up. Albert was in his silk Chinese pajamas. He closed his tent flaps and zipped them shut. He turned down his electric lantern, and it wasn’t long before Albert was sleeping on air. Nick was so tired he didn’t even get in his sleeping bag. He fell asleep on top of it. Mr. Jones and Mr. Jackson were both snoring with their beer cans next to them. Cocooned in his sleeping bag with his Rosary still in his hand, Brother Justin fell asleep in the driver’s seat of the bus.
The only sounds heard in the camp were a gentle, southerly breeze washing through the trees and the songs of two Mockingbirds-- one near, one further away. The birds repeated to each other the songs of other birds, then each other‘s songs, and finally one bird, the bird farther away, tried the meow of a cat. The Mockingbird sang it out over and over. The nearer bird became silent, refusing to repeat it. There would be a long, dead pause; again and again the first bird would meow. The second Mockingbird remained silent. The mute bird, wanting nothing to do with cats, seemed to have no sense of humor.
The circle around the moon vanished; the moon raced through thin, scattered wisps of clouds. Soon, the moon became lost in thick rolling and rumbling storm clouds. The rain was coming.
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six
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Nature does not have a human heart.
Chinese proverb
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The meteorologists at the National Weather Bureau in Tulsa have never understood the reason why so much rain fell in Northwest Arkansas that Sunday morning. Fayetteville reported 11 inches; Springdale: 9 inches; Rogers: 9 inches; Mountainburg also reported 11 inches of rain. It began shortly after two in the morning. It seemed to start everywhere at once. The bulk of the rain fell in the first three hours. Most of the total amount of rain that fell that night in Fayetteville fell in the first two hours, which seemed by all accounts to have been a record for the Midwestern United States. The newspapers called it, The Mysterious Ozark Deluge.
By the time the sun came up Sunday morning, the storm and the rains had passed. Everything was fine for most Arkansans, except for those who lived in low lying areas near rivers, creeks, and streams. Those who lived there were caught unaware and became the unwarned victims of Arkansas’ most historic flash flood. Over one-hundred homes were destroyed; two hundred and thirty cars and trucks washed away into swollen streams and rivers, several people lost their lives, some of their bodies -- never found.
The scouts woke up to the heavy pounding of rain on their tents. Between the deluge and the thunder, they could not talk to each other, even inside their own tents. Ear to mouth was the only way one could be heard. No one ventured outside at first. Then water began to flow through tents. It was ankle deep and higher in some places. Gage, Nick, and Martin rolled their blankets and sleeping bags up and stuffed the doorway with them. They quickly washed back into the tent. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Jones did not hear the heavy downpour at first. They could have stayed passed out through the whole event were the storm a normal, unremarkable, severe thunderstorm. Brother Justin had awakened and while considering waking Mr. Jackson and Mr. Jones, a blinding strike of lighting blistered a tree thirty yards behind the Scout Master’s tent. It lit up the tent like an x-ray. Even through the thick tent canvas, Justin could see the silhouette of everything in the tent. Mr. Jackson’s head pushed through a small opening between the zippers in the door of the tent. He looked around, then quickly disappeared back into the tent.
Less than a minute later, the entire camp heard Albert’s screams, screams of confusion and horror. “Help. Help. HELP. HELLP! HEELLP! HELP MEEEEeee.
Gage threw a blanket over his head and went out to see what it was with Albert. He looked to were Albert’s tent was, but it was gone.
Gage again heard, “Help!”
He fixed his eyes to where Albert’s voice had come from, and in the blazing flash of a lightning strike, Gage spotted him -- Albert’s tent was floating downstream with Albert perched in the doorway. Albert’s air inflatable tent had become a raft. Albert stood and screamed again, “HELP!!”
Another flash of lightning revealed every scout in the camp was up and out of their tents watching Albert sail away. Mr. Jones and Mr. Jackson, who were in their underwear, ran to the rain swollen creek. Without saying a word, Mr. Jones dove in and swam toward Albert. The tent had snagged on something, slowing Albert’s cruise to oblivion, giving Mr. Jones a chance to catch up. Mr. Jackson was on his way to dive in behind Mr. Jones when, to his surprise, he realized he still had on his boots. He couldn’t remember not taking them off. He stood on one foot frantically unlacing and pulling, the first boot came off. He grabbed his other boot and fumbled to loosen the laces… he heard something. His thinking froze. He let go of his foot and stood still, listening intently in the dark with dread to sounds of tumbling rocks and rushing water. Others around him looked in the direction of his rooted gaze. Lightening struck, and then another bolt followed right behind the first one. Both flashes stuck for a long time to the ground, sizzling the night sky. The scene illuminated by the lightning strikes deteriorated any hope Louis had for an acceptable outcome to the crisis rapidly enshrouding Troop 14. Goosebumps instantly rose all over his drenched body. A lake had formed behind their dam, and their dam was not holding.
“DAM BREAK, DAM BREAK. RUN FOR THE BUS! RUN!”
One boy turned to go back to his tent. Mr. Jackson grabbed him and slapped him hard in the face, “RUN, YOU LITTLE BASTARD, OR YOU‘LL DIE!”
Other boys, who also had thoughts of saving things, ran.
Brother Justin couldn’t make any sense out of what was going on. He dug into his pack and found his yellow, plastic, rain hat. He was sure the coat was in there too, but he couldn’t locate it. Justin got out of the bus. The rain was cold. He held the straps of his yellow hat tight around his chin and went around the front of the bus. There was a bright flash of lightning so close he felt the air around him collapse. It was seamlessly followed by a rattling gunshot of thunder. In the light of the flash, Justin saw half-naked boys running lickety-split up the path, bringing up the rear was Louis pulling two half-drowned boys with him. Justin’s everyday stoic calm shattered when right behind Mr. Jackson he saw Mr. Jones’ Land Rover, bobbing like a cork, slipping downstream.
Standing still in the soaking rain, holding the strings of his yellow rain hat, he cried out loud, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, save us!”
Gage and Nick were first up to the road. They flew past Justin. Justin went after them.
“Start the bus, Justin. We’re in a big hurry,” Gage said as he and Nick jumped through the bus door.
As soon as Justin landed behind the steering wheel, Gage reassuringly patted Justin on the shoulder. Gage was excited but not frightened. There was a buoyant calm about Gage. He had never been face to face with catastrophe, and instead of worrying about dying a watery death, he was looking for a way to be a hero. He had Elizabeth on his mind. Boys slipped and slid through the bus door like fish being poured from a bucket. Every one of them pleaded for Justin to start the bus. Gage had moved to the jump seat in the back of the bus looking for Martin.
“Nick, where did you see him last?”
“He left right before all this started, dog. He said he had to poop.”
Gage spotted Mr. Jackson coming up the path, but no Martin. The bus started, the headlights came on. And there, in the bright lights of the bus, was Martin in the top of an oak tree waving his hands, even though no one could hear him, Gage knew he was screaming for his life. Gage grabbed a pile of tie-down straps and swung out the back door. He landed with his feet already moving in a slippery, shoeless run.
“Mr. Jackson, Martin’s stuck in that tree.”
“What? Another one?” The distress of disaster had begun to show. He grabbed Gage and lifted him off his feet and demanded, “how many more? How many more are there?”
“Relax, Louis,” Gage said as calmly as any adult would, “Martin’s the last. I’ve got straps right here. Martin’s no chicken. He’ll do what you tell him.”
Disarmed by Gage’s soothing reassurance, and embarrassed by Gage’s calm, he said, “O.K.-- let’s do it.”
In a matter of a few seconds, they stood in the slippery mud on an embankment still ten yards from Martin’s tree. The water was steadily rising. Gage was tying the four tie-down straps together. Gage thought he heard the bus go into gear. He looked behind him. He saw the bus lurch and die. The headlights dimmed a bit.
With panic emerging in his voice, Mr. Jackson turned and asked, “what the hell does he think he’s doing?”
Gage said, “looks like he’s leaving us.”
“Give me those straps,” Gage handed them over. Mr. Jackson didn’t test Gage’s knots. He had a new found confidence in Gage, confidence springing from urgency. Martin was screaming. Neither Gage nor Mr. Jackson could hear him. Mr. Jackson rolled the straps in a ball and threw the yellow ball as hard as he could toward Martin. Gage held the other end. The strap hung near the end of a branch too thin to hold Martin’s weight. Mr. Jackson was about to pull it back, when Martin, trembling with fear and in a complete panic, ran down the limb and dove for the strap. An astonished Mr. Jackson watched Martin hit the water with both hands tight around the yellow strap. The slack took up instantly as Martin was sucked downstream. Gage was quickly being pulled toward the rushing water.
“Mr. Jackson, HELP!!!”
Louis jumped in, grabbed Gage by his belt and hung on. His anchoring Gage caused rushing water to push Martin in a semicircle to land. Martin let go of the straps when he hit and immediately ran for the bus.
“The sons-of-bitches are leaving us!” he screamed behind him.
Bryan saw the three of them running after them and yelled to the front of the bus, “Brother Justin, STOP!! They‘re coming!!”
Justin didn’t say a word. He kept driving. As he drove, he glanced as often as he could to his left. The water in the creek was higher and closer each time a flash of lightening lit up the creek and road. Fast moving water was licking the edges of what remained of the road. The road would soon be overtaken. The bus topped the hill and at the bottom of the next hill was at least three feet of rushing water ten yards wide.
Bryan opened the back door. Mr. Jackson and Martin were gaining on the bus. Gage was at least fifteen yards behind them.
“Jump, cause Justin’s not stopping!” Bryan screamed.
Martin jumped first grabbing the hand hold on the left side of the exit door. Mr. Jackson landed right after him on the right side.
They both screamed, “run, Gage! RUN!”
There was never a more sincere and hopeful cheering section for any marathon. Gage set a pace. Mud flipped from his feet as he pumped his legs as hard and as fast as they would move. But he could not close the final few yards. The bus slowed as it geared down, preparing to enter the water. Gage closed on the rear of the bus just as the front of the bus hit the stream. The force of the water slightly nudged the bus sideways.
“Grab hold,” Martin and Mr. Jackson leaned away from the bus toward Gage. Gage reached hard, he felt Mr. Jackson’s hand, then Martin’s.
As soon as they had a grip on Gage, Gage heard Mr. Jackson yell, “PULL.”
Gage felt himself being lifted, and then, before he realized what had happened, he had been catapulted past several rows of seats. Amidst applause and cheers, Gage lay in a pile of muddy blankets, breathing hard, unable to speak. He looked up from the floor of the bus at the crowd of admiring faces smiling down at him. In the midst of cataclysm and adversity, Gage had claimed the high point of his young life. It pleased and mystified him that it had only taken a few short minutes to become a hero. Now he had to make sure heroism was recognized. He even thought about wearing the Silver Beaver openly, even at Boy Scout meetings. And he thought about Elizabeth.
Mr. Jackson went to the front of the bus. Justin almost wanted to smile when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw Mr. Jackson standing in his underwear with one boot and one sock on one foot and nothing on the other.
Jackson looked at Justin long and hard, his voice trembled with hurt when he said, “I would have waited for you, Justin.”
Justin became embarrassed and a little frightened. “I’m sorry. I thought it was time to save those I could. I guess I panicked, I’m sorry.” He paused and began to cry, “I’m so sorry about everything -- Poor Mr. Jones -- Poor Albert.”
Exhausted, Mr. Jackson collapsed in the seat behind Justin. “I’ve lost people before -- in Iraq,” he said. “The bad part is talking to the families. They always want to talk to you personally, to know what happened -- all the gory details.”
Mr. Jackson almost began to cry, but he gathered himself, and with a sense of obligation to duty, he pulled together what reserves of calm he had. He loudly announced, “we need to get a count. Boys, sound off.”
“One,” the first, thin, little voice rang out, “ Two…three…four…thirty-one, thirty-two.”
“I thought there were thirty-four. Albert would have made thirty-three. Who is thirty-four? Oh. My God, we’re missing another boy!” Mr. Jackson said, “I need a paper and a pen.”
“In the side pocket of my briefcase,” Justin offered.
Mr. Jackson found it with no trouble. He stood up. He looked ridiculous and helpless, naked except for one boot, one sock, and his skivvies.
“Boys, we need to do another count. This time sound off with your name and number. Go.”
“One, Bryan.”
“Two, Mike.”
“Three, Jason.”
Each boy gave his name and number, the count finished in the rear of the bus.
“Thirty, Gage.”
“Thirty-one, Nickolas.”
“Thirty-two, Martin…” and then there was silence.
At some point, while he waited in silence for a child’s voice to pipe up and call out “thirty-three,” his thin hope of finding the boy in the count dried up.
“No more?… Is anyone else missing?” Louis implored.
Someone sang out, “Albert.”
Mr. Jackson was silent.
“Any one else -- other than Albert?”
The same voice sang out, “Mr. Jones.”
Mr. Jackson was silent again. The silence was unbroken for a moment, almost in memory of the lost Albert, and Mr. Jackson’s friend, the lost Mr. Jones.
“Can anyone think of anyone else missing?”
All the boys looked at each other. Gage spoke up, “Mr. Jackson, we think everyone’s here. Don’t worry.”
Mr. Jackson sat back down and wept, not loud enough for anyone to hear. The boys quietly watched with sympathy. Mr. Jackson was certain another boy had drowned. His count was never wrong. He checked his list over and over. He tried to picture in his head the shy ones, the ones who never spoke, the weak ones, the ones they paid attention to only out of obligation or necessity. No one came to mind.
“Look at all the lights, will you?” Justin said in amazement.
“It’s the state police,” Louis said, “it’s probably a good thing. They’ll have dry blankets.”
“Look at all that water!” Justin said in amazement.
He brought the bus to a sliding muddy halt. It was not the creek, but a tributary. It had been a dry, bumpy dip in the road until a couple of hours ago.
Before anyone could say anything, an Arkansas State Trooper called to them over a Blow horn.
“Hello, Troop Fourteen. Are we glad to see you!”
Suddenly there was a bus of thirty-three, half-naked, cheering boys.
“Glad to see you too,” Justin whispered.
The state trooper continued in his much practiced, no-nonsense, official voice, “now driver, listen up. I am sending an officer over to you. When he gets there, he’ll tell you what to do. We’re going to allow you to let that bus fly, no speeding tickets will be written.” Justin smiled at this, the trooper continued, “I need you to drive that bus like you never drove it before, foot to the floor, right in the water. The bus will most likely flood, but we won’t let it sink. It’s important you do what Trooper Rick tells you to do. The officers are going to hook you with two lines so we can wench you out should you start to drift.”
A small motor boat had already started across the thirty or so yards of water. The middle of stream was white with fast moving water. They turned the boat into the force of the stream and ran the large motor full bore. The boat slowly inched sideways toward the bus. Then it broke free and slid swiftly to shore. The troopers jumped out of the boat and carried the two cables to the front of the bus. One of the troopers got back in the boat and started back, the other trooper entered the bus. He acknowledged the adults with a nod.
He then announced to the children, “my name is Trooper Rick. You have been very brave kids, but you are still in danger. I’m not going to lie to you, we need to hurry. A large bridge below Fayetteville was pushed over by water and debris about an hour ago. It has become an irresistible force, a kind of river Tsunami. It will be here in about…” he looked at his watch, “ten minutes. It has collapsed all the other bridges between here and Fayetteville. We fully expect it to collapse this one too.” He pointed to the bridge thirty feet above them. He continued with police officer seriousness, “when we get to the other side, I will give you instructions on evacuating the bus, but for now stay in your seats. There will be no time for mistakes. Follow my instructions to the letter.” He then smiled and said, “we’re real glad to see you boys, soon you’ll be home.”
Trooper Rick turned to Brother Justin and said, “all right, driver, I need you to back up about thirty yards and then give it all you got.”
If Justin’s best talent was prayer, his next best talent was driving the bus of Saint Catherine of Siena. His two best skills were about to be tested. Justin truly believed he could drive the bus across, and he also truly believed there were those in heaven who would bless the trip.
“Do not touch the brake under any condition. Once you are in the water and feel the bus is floating, turn the wheel all the way to the left. I know it seems counterintuitive, but it will keep the back of the bus in line. Do You Understand?”
Not looking at the trooper, Brother Justin shook his head. Justin was already positioning the bus.
“All right. Driver, revv the engine up and go on my order.” Justin brought the engine to a roar and the trooper yelled, “O.K., LET’S GO!!”
The bus took off with a jerk and within moments it landed in the stream like an oversized yellow hippo. Right away it was swayed, then was carried by the current. The bus lurched when the wenches took hold. Justin heard the grill buckle. He began an Our Father. The bus slid and floated sideways. It seemed to be headed to the roaring river, but as the wench took hold it abruptly swung and banged against the embankment. Troopers moved to the bus and signaled the boys to move away from the windows. With nightsticks they broke all the windows on the driver’s side of the bus.
Trooper Rick said to the boys, “watch your feet. Watch out for the glass.” He instructed other troopers to fold blankets over the bottoms of the windows to cover any small glass left in the window openings. “Almost none of these kids have shirts on,” he said. Trooper Rick knew little time remained before everything would be underwater. He yelled at the boys, “Go, Go! One at a time! Form a line!” State Troopers lined up next to the beached bus and pulled wet, cold, slippery boys quickly through broken windows.
Within a very few minutes, all the children were out of the bus and were being moved up the road. Justin, Mr. Jackson, and the Trooper were the last to leave the bus. They struggled up the muddy embankment. Mr. Jackson used his one boot for traction and limped up the embankment; his muddy foot slid a bit for every step the booted foot went forward. On the road, they were directed uphill about fifty yards to warm drinks, coffee, and blankets, which were being offered by the Red Cross. The whole scene was baffling to Mr. Jackson.
“How did all these people know to get here so fast? And who told them? It’s only five-thirty in the morning,” Jackson thought. He was grateful to see all the help, but also, greatly perplexed.
Gage came running up to Mr. Jackson, “you won’t believe who’s here!”
“It’s not my wife, is it?” Mr. Jackson’s face fell.
“NO. No. No one like that. Come with me.” Gage took Mr. Jackson’s arm and pulled him past the Red Cross truck. Behind the truck was Albert’s tent. It was upright and dry. Next to Albert’s tent was Albert. He was standing in his Japanese silk pajamas, talking on a cell phone.
From behind the tent came Mr. Jones, “Louis, what a morning, huh?”
Mr. Jackson spun around. He could hardly speak. “Thank God. You and Albert made it,” he said, and then began to shake and cry. He had never been so relieved and grateful. He tried to wipe his tears without anybody noticing. “How did you get here? I thought you all had drowned. And Jesus Christ, you‘re here.” Unchecked tears streamed down to the corners of his wide smile.
“You’ll never believe this, but Albert’s tent turned out to be rather seaworthy. We latched on to a long stick and poled it to the bottom of this bridge. To top it off, Albert carries his cell phone in a water proof pouch, as soon as we beached the tent, Albert was calling 911. The state police weren’t far. They had been trying to locate us. They had received a heads up from some of the parents. They were told we were on Clear Creek near Rudy, but that’s all they knew. After Albert called, they were here in ten minutes. They were preparing to go in to get you all out, until they heard about the bridge collapse. It was very tense, you know, waiting and hoping you all were on your way out, and well, you were. And here you are!”
Mr. Jones wanted to hug Mr. Jackson, but he knew Louis was not a hugger.
“You all were really very lucky, Louis,” Mr. Jones said, “I guess Albert and I were pretty lucky too.” He winked at Albert, who still was talking on the phone.
Mr. Jackson’s looked startled, suddenly panic-stricken -- he recalled the no-name missing boy. “Jones, I had a thirty-four count when we left. We’re still going to be looking for a dead boy,” Jackson said grimly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Louis, that boy was Allen. His mother showed up at the last minute Friday and pulled him off the bus. She said he was grounded for not feeding the dogs and cleaning the kitchen. He’s a good kid, but his mother’s mean! Nice looking, kind of reminds me of the girls in your family.”
Mr. Jackson was crying again.
Mr. Jones said, “I’m sorry, Jackson, I should have told you. I know the count is important.”
“So, no one was lost.”
“No one.”
Mr. Jackson said a prayer of thanks as he walked away toward the river. He stood and watched the water rise as the realization of being off the hook soaked in. He didn’t care about the things he lost: his uninsured Suburban; all his camping equipment; his clothes; and three six packs of beer. He was grateful he had not lost any children, and he had not lost his friend Jack. This new found gratitude was to find a home in his heart.
From in front of him, he began to hear shouts of, “here it comes. It’s coming now. It’s going to be big!”
The trooper with the blow horn instructed, “all of you, back up, back up. Back up NOW! Back up to the Red Cross truck.”
A loud indescribable noise could be heard moving downstream. Looking upstream, Mr. Jackson saw the tops of trees so dimly lit by a dawn diffused through cloud, gray drizzle, and fog that the trees looked like green shadows of trees etched in frosted glass. What happened then defied reason so egregiously, Mr. Jackson could hardly believe what he barely could see. Trees were disappearing from the skyline. They were being sucked out of the dimly lit horizon, one by one, as if removed by an eraser. The sound was like a train sloshing through water interspersed with loud snapping and grinding of trees. The watery train rounded the last bend and roared toward them. The water rose by tens of feet instead of by inches. Debris slammed into the bridge. Grown men, who had ignored the state trooper’s warnings and stayed near or on the bridge ran uphill, their smugness in face of danger changed to terror. They ran to save themselves. Trees, brush, and all sorts of other debris including a drowned lama and several dead cattle could be seen sticking out of the pile of rushing rubble which almost instantly filled one of the two arches of the bridge. The first arch was stuffed like an overfilled trash can and the second one was filling fast. Fast moving water had already begun to flow over the top of the bridge. The roaring noise was thickset with rapid explosions. The bridge went completely underwater and water rushed in from around the edges of the bridge and soon covered it. The water kept rising: thirty feet in a matter of seconds; then forty; and slowly --fifty. The crowd continued to back up. A news crew showed up on the other side of the river. They set up as fast as they could. A yellow VoltsWagon bug floated by. It was sitting on top of the water like a boat. Headlights on and facing forward, it looked like it was being driven down a road at about thirty miles an hour. Its blinker was on. No one was in it. Everyone cheered as it went by. Then someone spotted Texas plates on the rear and the cheers turned to jeers and boos.
Just as the camera crew began filming, there was a groaning from beneath the creek, or more accurately, the raging river. There was a high pitched whine, then a muffled explosion. The water swirled, bubbled and churned. The water level dropped by twenty feet in twenty seconds. There was no longer a bridge. It had been ripped from its footing and rolled to its side, then pushed open like a gate. The furious, floating holocaust continued downstream to the bridge at Alma. The news team packed up and backed up. Within a minute, they were gone: gone to the bridge at Alma; then Cedarville; then Van Buren; then Fort Smith. By the end of the day, this particular news crew would no longer be rookies at disaster reporting; overnight, they became America’s foremost media pundits on flash floods and bridge sinkings.
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seven
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All’s well that ends well! Still the fine’s the crown;
What e’er the course, the end is the renown.
William Shakespeare All’s Well That Ends Well
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Troop 14 was brought back to Fort Smith by a convoy of various squad cars from several police departments. There were also three fire trucks from the Van Buren Volunteer Fire Department. Every priest in the monastery was waiting outside for the Boy Scouts and Brother Justin. There were so many emergency vehicles and news crews; one would think it was a terrorist threat or a hostage situation.
Abbot Butterworth was standing with the older priest and monks. He had a square head and sturdy jaw. He was a round, solid bulk. His appearance was of an old, well-fed boxer. He was a big man with advanced liver and lung cancer. He had become completely hairless from the chemotherapy: no eyelashes; no old-person nose or ear hair; no hair on his arms or legs. Taken together, it all made him appear like a toy action figure. “Mega-Priest,” he had thought to himself when he mused in the mirror over the ravages disease and old age had visited on what had once been the physique of Adonis. His paleness against his dark priestly attire made him appear otherworldly -- a fish-bellied-colored man. His endurance and tolerance to pain had advanced with the advance of his disease. He neither allowed himself to show discomfort or pain, nor would he allow his immense bulk to slump or buckle. He stood erect and always smiled.
Four state police cars pulled up first and four boys got out of each car. They all wore blankets and little else. As the boys began to show up, the abbot kissed each one of them on the top of the head. If they were too tall to kiss on the top of the head, he shook their hands until they shook. He giggled and the boys giggled. He was a cheerful man to begin with, and today he was deliriously cheerful.
He struggled up the steps of the church, turned to the crowd and tearfully began, “I rejoice today, for a miracle has come to Saint Catherine of Siena this Sunday morning. I love the Lord because he hears, because he bends down and listens. As many of you know, I have cancer and the Lord will soon take me home. That is the way of a fallen world: age; decay; and death brought to us by Satan through Adam and Eve and original sin.
There is evil in this flawed world, and there is sometimes, sadly, tragedy. The greatest human tragedy is the seemingly needless death of the young and innocent.
But Not This Sunday Morning! Not this beautiful Sunday morning. Christ has shown his mercy. Evil had its hands around the throats of these small boys. They were moments away from being brutally collared by a horrific death. Their bodies, for the most part, would not have been found. Almost all would have had muddy, unmarked graves. Sorrow and trouble was a breath away for their parents, for all of us. But because the Lord bent down and listened to these young boy’s pray, as long as they had breathe…pray, every last one of them survived certain death. Not one was lost.
From what I understand, we also have heroes here at Saint Catherine’s. Heroes who neglected their own safety to save others. Had our heroes lost their lives trying to save their brothers, this morning we would have new saints in heaven.” Abbot Butterworth smiled, winked at Gage, and said, “I think we’re happy enough with heroes. I hardly think these boys are ready for sainthood. Let us thank God!”
He finished with a short prayer and continued slowly on up the steps and then into the church. He was spent. He needed to sit down.
Many parents of the Boy Scout’s were there waiting for the return of their children. When the storm began the previous evening, they watched the Weather Channel and before long they had seen enough to move them to action. Action was to call the state police and go to Saint Catherine’s and wait.
Reporters caught several tearful reunions for the six o’clock news. However, the picture which made the national papers, and the story which led at the top and bottom of the hour for C.N.N. for two days was of a twelve year-old boy rescuing another twelve year-old boy. He pulled him from the tops of a drowning oak tree with tie-down straps. The photo used by the A.P. was of Gage standing, feet spread apart, arms folded, naked except for his underwear. Behind Gage, Mr. Jackson was standing covered with a short blanket, a hole cut in the middle for his head so it could be worn like a parka, his wet boot and white sock still on one foot and still nothing on the other. This was the photo the entire nation saw. The story of heroism the nation heard was Gage’s version of events. Louis Jackson allowed Gage his embellished story. There was enough glory to go around.
There was a continuous celebration for a week, and after all the whoopla and hullabaloo, awards and recognition, Troop 14 was disbanded by Saint Catherine of Siena school. No explanation given. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Jones, with their new found heroes’ status, began a new Boy Scout troop. Troop 24 at Champion Street First Baptist Church became their new home.
No one from Saint Catherine’s saw or heard from Mr. Jackson or Mr. Jones again. Albert started a rumor he and his father had seen Mr. Jackson go into the Alcoholics Anonymous building on several occasions. No one believed it. No one could imagine Mr. Jackson giving up his beer.
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