Jimmy Meets His Match by Patrick Sean Lee (popular books of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Patrick Sean Lee
Book online «Jimmy Meets His Match by Patrick Sean Lee (popular books of all time .TXT) đ». Author Patrick Sean Lee
Rocky Mountain News headline. Page 2. April 10th, 1957.
Blaze Erupts In Westside Elementary School
I said a hundred prayers of supplication to every saint I could think of after reading that, but Jimmy McGuire and I decided against finding that little rat Dennis and stringing him up by the thumbs...or the balls. Local investigators somehow failed to add up two and two, to our greatest relief, and so the mysterious fire in Mr. Kintzele's weed-infested vacant lot, the girl with the incinerated scalp at the Comet Theater, and the roaring blaze in the auditorium at Barnum Public School remained isolated incidents. We thought.
We decided to forevermore curb our fascination with pyrotechnicsâŠwell, kind of. Jimmy boasted that heâd nearly
solved the problem of the amount of gunpowder needed to propel his broom handle rocket into orbit.
Meanwhile, a certain detective familiar with my neighborhood began to apply basic arithmetic to the possibility of a connection regarding the firesâŠ
***
Detective Ryan did indeed visit the home of the Patterson family. I learned much later that Butch answered the door with the ever-present cigarette dangling out of his mouth that day. Unlike me, he did not make a good impression on Detective Ryan. But he did make a lasting one. Being stupid, Butchâs vocabulary was limited to sentences which made little sense, were contradictory, or else splattered with four letter wordsâand that did not set well with the detective. All told, his explanation of the events that terrible day at the Comet Theater sounded very much like a lie to Ryan. Suspicion concerning who committed the crime of shooting the match into the girlâs hair fell immediately onto his and Inkyâs shoulders.
Still, the matter was easily settled now that a battery of suspects had been tracked down. Ryan requested that my parents bring me, and that Mrs. McGuire bring Jimmy, down to the home of Dennis to star in a line up. All hope in my heart vanished when Mom informed Pop at the dinner table in tears that her son would likely be going to juvenile hall soonâif not the state penitentiary. Afterward she left the tear-stained room and marched next door to awaken Mrs. McGuire from her continuous drunken stupor, if such a thing was possible, and inform her that Jimmy must accompany us on the death march. Mickeyâs name was never brought up.
âDid you do it?â Pop inquired calmly after mom had disappeared in her breast-beating, doloroso veil.
I did not lie. âNo, sir. I had nothing to do with it.â
We walked; Mom two steps in front of Mrs. McGuire, Pop bringing up the rear, Jimmy and I sandwiched in between. Down past Cliffordâs big house, past Allenâs tiny one, then across Ellsworth Avenue we walked. Midway down the street we passed the dancerâs front door, and a sort of hellish feeling welled up in my stomach. She sat on the porch swing with a friendâor maybe the other girl was her sister. I tried not to glance over at them, or at her I should say, but a morbid impulse latched onto me and I turned my head. Sheâd noticed the parade, and she must have known it was more a procession of calves to the slaughterhouse, or murderers to the gallows. I dropped my eyes and cursed the moment.
When we reached our destination, I saw detective Ryan standing on the doorstep of Dennisâ house, the door ajar, the boyâs mother halfway in and halfway out, holding a handkerchief over her mouth and nose. At her side peeking out at us stood the bane of creation himself. I shot a look at Jimmy. He was sweating bullets this time around, and he whispered to me, âBy his little balls.â Dennis eased farther behind his weeping motherâs skirt.
âAh. Here they are, Mrs. Humboldt,â Ryan said when we came to a halt at the foot of her porch. âTerrence, can you step out here and take a look at these two boys? Do you recognize them as the ones who gave you the matchgun?â
Dennis, or little Terrence as it turned out, poked his head out from behind his motherâs broad posterior. He wasnât looking at me, Iâm certain. His eyes locked on Jimmyâs immediately, and the necessary words were quickly communicated. Even little Terrence valued the jewels he had not yet had the opportunity to use. He crumbled in the face of Jimmy.
âNo.â
âNo?â repeated Detective Ryan.
âNo. I never seen these guys afore. They ainât the ones. There was three of âem.â
Detective Ryanâs brow fell at that lie. He addressed Pop matter-of-factly. âWait by my car.â
And so the five of us turned and marched back out to the street. Ryan, Terrence, and his mother had disappeared by the time I took a seat on the curb and looked back at the house. A few moments passed in that state of Limbo out in the silence of the street. Then Ryan exited the house alone and strode down the steps, down the sidewalk, and came directly to me.
âYou told me yesterday that youâd given the boy a matchgun, Daniel. Now he tells me heâs never seen you before. Whatâs up here? Did you or did you not give that boy the weapon that enabled him to start a fire at school?â
I stood alone in the universe after that question. A concept Iâd never truthfully encountered on a real level surfaced in my head. A moral dilemma. I had two options, and neither of them was particularly palatable. Deny my involvement, or tell the truth. I answered Detective Ryan.
âNo sir. I didnât. Jimmy didâŠbut I was there. And it was us who shot the match inside the CometâŠâ
Mom let out a sound that was not a wail, nor a screech. I had kicked her in the stomach and her response was a muted bellow, a groan, a whimper.
Pop remained quiet.
Mrs. McGuire merely seemed confused.
***
I thought better of speaking at the dinner table that evening; of even being there in fact. But, my presence was requested, and my replies to the questions pitched at me were duly noted, as if Detective Ryan had seated himself with his notebook and pen at the ready directly across from me. A rancorous veil was thrown across me, this time not only by Mom, but also by Pop.
âEven if itâs true you didnât actually shoot that match in the theater, or have anything to do with handing the gun to that boy,â Pop lectured me waving a finger in my face, âyouâre still guilty by association.â
âYes, and Iâll tell you another thing, and it ainât twoâŠâ Mom began.
âBe quiet, Rosie, Iâll handle this,â Pop said. The color in his face deepened to incendiary red as he continued, at long last not the least lost for words. Mom sat back in her chair, defeated, or content with his command, or waitingâbut in silence.
âSo hereâs the deal. Iâll drive you to school for the remainder of the year, and pick you up at 3:30 every afternoon. I canât stop you from talking to Jimmy or that Fumo boy while youâre out of my sight, but by God if I hear even a whisper that the three of you have done anythingâanything
âthat would make me raise an eyebrowâŠdo I make myself crystal clear?â
Like looking through a window into Godâs home on high. âYes, Pop.â
âGood. Youâve shamed your family and yourself. Donât ever let it happen again. Understand?â
âYes sir.â
âAlright, then. Youâll stay in this house until I say you can leave. Now, finish eating, get the dishes done, and then go to your room.â
I looked up. Mom had placed her hand on Popâs forearm, and though Iâd pierced her side with a spear a few hours ago down at little Terrenceâs house, I saw her mouth curl upward into a smile. She remained silent as I rose and took my plate to the sink in the kitchen.
âAnd one last thing,â Pop added. âYouâll go along with me to that girlâs house and youâll tell her youâre sorry. God help you if her folks decide to press charges.â
âWhat about Barnum School?â I asked in dread.
âWeâll wait and see there.â
At last Mom decided it was probably safe to interject her feelings on the matter.
âSkippy. That was a courageous thing you didâŠtelling the truth. Iâm proud of you.â
***
The smoke cleared two weeks later, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The girl at the Comet whose hair Jimmyâs match had started on fire had a name, I discovered. Marilou Jenkins. She was very pretty, an honor student at a private school for girls on the eastside of town. As promised, or as threatened, we visited her.
Jimmy, Pop, and I drove to her home one morning when the sky had abandoned itself to a somber rug of gray. We pulled up to the curb, and at first I was shocked and disheartened when Pop checked the address heâd written on the back of an envelope, and then announced, âThis is it.â He cut the engine of our dusty old truck, emitting a cloud of smoke out through the tailpipe thicker than the dreary sky above us. We had driven to another planet.
âJe-sus H. Kee-rist,â Jimmy remarked, and I had to second the invocation.
The home, sitting in Versailles elegance on the corner lot, looked more like a grand museum or an important public monument,
Comments (0)