Boys Life

see Mom in her robe, running to the street. But the pickup truck was already moving away, and Mom cried out, “Don’t go!” Dad’s hand emerged from the driver’s window, and he waved. Dogs barked up and down Hilltop Street, roused from their doghouses by the commotion. I knew where Dad was going. I knew why.
    I was scared for him, but during the night he had made a momentous decision. He was going to find peace, rather than waiting for it to find him.
    That morning was an exercise in torture. Mom could hardly speak. She stumbled around in her robe, her eyes glazed with terror. Every fifteen minutes or so she called the sheriff’s office to talk to Dad, until finally around nine o’clock he must’ve told her he couldn’t talk anymore because she didn’t dial the number again.
    At nine-thirty, I got dressed. Pulled on my jeans, a shirt, and a sweater, because though the sun was bright and the sky blue the air was stinging cold. I brushed my teeth and combed my hair. I watched the clock tick toward ten. I thought of the Trailways bus, number thirty-three, on its way over the winding roads. Would it be early, late, or right on time? Today such a thing as seconds might mean life or death for my father, the sheriff, Chief Marchette, and the Moon Man. But I pushed thoughts like that aside, as much as I could. They came back, though, evil as poison ivy. I knew near ten-thirty that I would have to go. I would have to be there, to see my father. I could not wait for the telephone call that would say Donny was on the bus with the two marshals, or my father was lying shot by a Blaylock bullet. I would have to go. I strapped on my Timex, and I was ready.
    As eleven o’clock approached, Mom was so nervous she had both the television and the radio on and she was baking three pies at once. The Alabama game was just about to start. I didn’t care a damn for it.
    I walked into the pumpkin-and-nutmeg-fumed kitchen, and I said, “Can I go to Johnny’s, Mom?”
    “What?” She looked at me, wild-eyed. “Go where?”
    “Johnny’s. The guys are gonna meet there to…” I glanced at the radio. Rollllll Tide! the crowd was cheering. “To listen to the game.” It was a necessary lie.
    “No. I want you right here with me.”
    “I told ’em I’d be there.”
    “I said…” Her face flamed with anger. She slammed a mixing bowl down onto the counter. Utensils filmed with pumpkin slid to the floor. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she put a hand over her mouth to hold back a cry of anguish.
    Cool on the outside, hell-roasted in the guts. That was me. “I’d like to go,” I said.
    The hand could no longer hold. “Go on, then!” Mom shouted, her nerves at last unraveling to reveal the tormented center. “Go on, I don’t care!”
    I turned and ran out before the sob that welled up rooted my shoes. As I climbed onto Rocket, I heard a crash from the kitchen. The mixing bowl had met the floor. I started pedaling for Ridgeton Street, the chill biting my ears.
    Rocket was fast that day, as if it sensed impending tragedy. Still, the town lay quiet in its Saturday drowse, the cold having chased all but a few hardy kids indoors and most folks tuned to Bear’s latest triumph. I leaned forward, my chin slicing the wind. Rocket’s tires thrummed over the pavement, and when my shoes lost the pedals the wheels kept turning on their own.
    I reached the gas station just past eleven-fifteen. It had two pumps and an air hose. Inside the office part that connected to a two-stall garage, the gas station’s owner-Mr. Hiram White, an elderly man with a humped back who shambled around his wrenches and engine belts like Quasimodo amid the bells-sat at his desk, his head cocked toward a radio. At one corner of the cinderblock building a yellow tin sign with TRAILWAYS BUS SYSTEM on it hung from rusted screws. I parked Rocket around back, near the oily trash cans, and I sat on the ground in the sun to wait the coming of high noon.
    At ten minutes before twelve, my fingernails gnawed to the bone, I heard the sound of cars approaching. I edged around the corner and took a peek. The sheriff’s car pulled in, followed by Dad’s pickup truck. The Moon Man, wearing his top hat, was sitting beside Dad. Chief Marchette was in the passenger seat of the sheriff’s car, and seated behind Sheriff Amory was the criminal himself. Donny Blaylock wore a gray uniform and a smirk. Nobody got out. They sat there, both engines rumbling.
    Mr. White emerged