Shallow Graves

only wheels I got.”
    “Can I, Mom?”
    “Sure, just be back by six for dinner.”
    “Mr. Pellam, this place is the greatest. They got red ones and green ones and they got mortar shells that Dad says they don’t have powder in them anymore and hand grenades. . . .”
    “Do not, under any circumstances, buy him anything.”
    Pellam laughed, “Yes, ma’am.”
    They got into the camper.
    “Hey, Sam, you know, one thing’d be fun?”
    “What, Mr. Pellam?”
    “Why don’t you bring your metal detector along?”
    “My metal detector?”
    “I have this collection?” Pellam said. “And whenever I’m in a new town I like to add to it.”
    “I collect dinosaurs. And baseball cards. And pro-wrestling cards, of course.” Sam jumped down out of the Winnebago and ran into the house.
    Energy. Where do they get it?
    He was back in two minutes.
    “You need batteries?”
    “Nope. They’re recharged. I used nicads. What do you collect, Mr. Pellam? Coins?”
    He said, “Bullet casings.”
    Sam said, “Wow.”
    AS IT TURNED out, Pellam liked the bombs as much as Sam did.
    This particular junkyard was a lot classier than R&W. He remembered it from the poker boys’ list. It sold mostly what the name promised: army surplus, which seemed to be in pretty good supply despite what Bobby (or Billy) had said. Vehicle parts, cartridge boxes, portable latrines, tools, tents, flashlights. All solid, olive-drab, functional. A lot of things that you couldn’t use for much other than paperweights: bombsights and old altimeters and doughboy helmets that wouldn’t even make good planters.
    But the bombs, yeah, they were great. All different colors. Different shapes. Some pointed like rockets, some rounded like old-time airplane bombs. Jesus, they were huge. Pellam cautiously tapped one. Hollow.
    Sam said, “They’re just practice bombs. You don’t have to worry.”
    “I wasn’t worried,” Pellam said.
    “You looked like you were afraid it was going to go off.”
    “Ha, ha.”
    Sam showed him mortar shells, concussion grenades and bayonets, mean-looking things with deep blood grooves up the side. Most of the knives were still wrapped in sticky creosote.
    Despite what Meg had told him, he wanted to buy the kid a bomb. They were only fifty bucks. Then he admitted he really wanted one for himself. One of thedeep blue ones. He wanted to mount it on the front of the Winnebago.
    No—what he really wanted was to buy one and mail it, C.O.D., to Alan Lefkowitz, c/o Big Mountain Studios, Santa Monica Boulevard, Century City, California. . . .
    Then Sam decided it was time to look for bullet casings. They climbed back into the camper and drove ten minutes out of town, parked and started hiking.
    They walked through the woods, following what was a pretty clearly marked trail. The boy had a box over his shoulder and carried a short metal rod with a disk attached. He had a headset around his neck. They were by themselves. The day was very quiet. Sam kept looking up at Pellam as if he expected him to say something brilliant.
    “You think you’re going to find bullets here?” the boy asked.
    “You never know.”
    “Like from hunters?”
    “Right.”
    “You hunt, Mr. Pellam?”
    “Yep. Haven’t for a while. My father and I used to go out all the time.”
    “Where’s he live?”
    Pellam glanced at him. “He died few years ago.”
    “Like Grandpa Wold.”
    “That’s your mother’s name? Wold?”
    “Un-huh. She’s got a gun, my mom. Grandpa gave it to her. It’s an old one. Mom and me shoot it sometimes down by the river. Wow, it makes this totally loud noise, really loud. And it knocked me over nearly.”
    He set down the metal detector and illustrated shooting the gun and falling backwards. He lay on the ground, still.
    Pellam looked down at him, alarmed. “Hey, you okay? Are you all right?”
    “Sure!” He jumped up. “My dad doesn’t hunt much. We go fishing sometimes. What’d you hunt?”
    “Pheasant, duck, geese.”
    Sam asked, “You like football?”
    “I used to play.”
    “Yeah, I knew it! Where? Pro, I’ll bet.”
    He laughed loud. “Pro? I’m about a hundred pounds light for that. Naw, just in high school.”
    “Quarterback, right?”
    “Receiver. I figured it was better to get jumped by one or two big guys instead of four or five.”
    “What’s it like to score a TD? Running over the line. I like the way, you know, how they run over the line and then drop the ball like it’s nothing