Boys Life

right.”
    She hesitated, her fretful nature gnawing at her. Ever since my camping trip, though, I could tell she’d been making a mighty effort to stop worrying so much about me. Even though I’d gotten lost, I’d proven I could survive in the face of hardship. Finally, she said, “Go on, then.”
    I took two Lorna Doones and headed for the porch.
    “If it starts comin’ down hard, you stay at the courthouse!” she called. “Hear?”
    “I hear!” I told her, and I got on Rocket and pedaled as I crunched the Lorna Doones between my teeth. Not too far from the house, Rocket suddenly shuddered and I felt the handlebars jerk to the left. Ahead of me, the Branlins were pedaling side by side on their black bikes, but they were going in the same direction as me and didn’t see me. Rocket wanted to turn to the left at the next intersection, and I followed Rocket’s sage advice to take a detour.
    Thunder was rumbling and it was starting to sprinkle a little as I reached the dark-stoned, gothic-styled courthouse at the end of Merchants Street. The drops were chilly; summer’s warm rain was a thing of the past. I left Rocket chained to a fire hydrant and went into the courthouse, which smelled like a moldy basement. A sign on the wall said Mayor Swope’s office was on the second floor, and I climbed the wide staircase, the high windows around me letting in murky, storm-blue light. At the top of the staircase, three carved gargoyles sat atop the black walnut banister, their scaly legs curled up and their claws folded across their chests. One wall was decorated with an old tattered Confederate flag and there were dusty display cases holding butternut uniforms riddled with moth holes. Above my head was a darkened glass cupola, reachable only by ladder, and through the cupola I heard thunder resonate as through a bell jar.
    I walked along the long corridor, which had a floor of black and white linoleum squares. On either side were offices: License Bureau, County Tax Department, Probate Judge, Traffic Court, and the like. None of their lights were on. I saw a man with dark hair and a blue-paisley bow tie coming out of a pebbled-glass door marked Sanitation and Maintenance. He locked the door from a ring of jingling keys and looked at me. “Can I help you, young fella?” he asked.
    “I’m supposed to see Mayor Swope,” I said.
    “His office is at the end of the corridor.” He checked his pocket watch. “Might be gone home by now, though. Most everybody leaves around three-thirty.”
    “Thank you,” I told him, and I went on. I heard his keys jingling as he walked toward the stairs, and he whistled a tune I didn’t know.
    I passed the council’s chambers and the recorder’s office-both dark-and at the corridor’s end I faced a big oak door with brass letters on it that said OFFICE OF THE MAYOR. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to knock or not, and there was no buzzer. I grappled with the question of etiquette here for a few seconds, as the thunder growled outside. Then I balled up my fist and knocked.
    In a few seconds the door opened. A woman with hornrimmed glasses and an iron-gray mountain of hair peered out. Her face was like a chunk of granite, all hard ridges and cliffs. Her eyebrows lifted in a question.
    “I’m… here to see Mayor Swope,” I said.
    “Oh. You’re Cory Mackenson.”
    “Yes ma’am.”
    “Come in.” She opened the door wider, and I slipped in past her. As I did, I got a jolt of either violet-scented perfume or hair spray up my nostrils. I had entered a red-carpeted room which held a desk, a row of chairs, and a magazine rack. A map of Zephyr, brown at the edges, adorned one wall. On the desk there was an in tray and an out tray, a neat stack of papers, framed photographs of a baby being held between a smiling young woman and man, and a nameplate that said MRS. INEZ AXFORD and, underneath that in smaller letters, MAYOR’S SECRETARY.
    “Just have a seat for a minute, please.” Mrs. Axford walked across the room to another door. She rapped softly on it, and I heard Mayor Swope say in his mushmouth accent, “Yes?” from the other side. Mrs. Axford opened it. “The boy’s here,” she said.
    “Thank you, Inez.” I heard a chair creak. “I believe that finishes us up for the day. You can go on home if you like.”
    “Want me to send him in?”
    “Two minutes and I’ll be with him.”
    “Yes sir. Oh… did you sign that application for the new traffic