John C. Hampsey - Kaufmans Hill

Copyright 2015 John C. Hampsey

All Rights Reserved.

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Published by Bancroft Press

Books that Enlighten

P.O. Box 65360,

Baltimore, MD 21209

410-764-1967 (fax)

www.bancroftpress.com

Cover Art: T.S. Harris

Covers: Andrea Duquette

Maps: Thom Brajkovitch

Author Photo: Eric Johnson

Interior Design: J.L. Herchenroeder

978-1-61088-153-1 cloth

978-1-61088-154-8 paperback

978-1-61088-155-5 audio

978-1-61088-156-2 kindle

978-1-61088-157-9 eBook

Printed in the United States.

To my brothers and sistersBernie, Jim, Mary Kay, and Barbara

Rat Stick at Twilight

I was down at the creek hitting, at just about anything, with the Creelys. We whipped our sticks at leaves and branches and rocks, and even at the soft silver mud along the creek bank.

When we got to the sewer tunnel, the Creelys stopped and balanced themselves on top of some creek rocks. The late afternoon was cloudy and smelled like rain. The air was still, except for the cool sewer dampness blowing upon us.

The Creelys stepped onto the slab beneath the tunnel and started slapping their sticks against the metal bars that crossed the top half of the entrance, until Frank Creelys stick flipped out of his hand and landed on the other side.

Go get it, he told his younger brother.

We were all afraid of walking inside the tunnel. So Billy didnt move until Frank pushed him into the creek water. I pretended to ignore them by examining the underside of a mossy rock.

Billy ducked quickly under the bars and walked into the tunnel, his feet stretched out to the sides so he wouldnt have to touch the dark water. A few moments later, he stepped back out, holding Franks stick in his hand like a trophy, and jumped across the creek, landing under a tree on the other side.

Hey! Look at this! Billy yelled.

Frank crossed the creek, his left foot and pants getting wet along the way. And I followed along the creek bank until I could see Billy poking his stick at a dead rat about the size of a small football. It was bloated in the middle, with dark matted fur and closed eyes. Billy jammed his stick at its stomach, harder and harder, until I couldnt look anymore.

Its dead, he finally said. What should we do with it?

Whenever the Creelys found anything, they always thought they had to do something with it.

Pick it up, Frank said, his voice sounding serious.

But Billy didnt move.

The air began to smell heavier, and I wished it would rain so wed all have an excuse to go home.

Cmon, well use our sticks, Frank Creely said.

I was worried, because I knew the Creelys. They might try and fling the rat at me, or knock me down and drop it on my face.

We could take it up to the field, I said. And bury it.

Who wants to bury some smelly old rat? Billy Creely said.

Youre supposed to bury a dead animal when you find it, I said.

For some reason, Frank said OK, and they followed me up the creek bank carrying the rat carefully, its dark body jammed between their sticks.

Go on and dig a hole then, Frank commanded.

So I ran ahead up to Kaufmanns Field and chose a flat spot next to one of the big white rocks the Kaufmanns people had placed there where our woods used to be, and began scraping at the grass with the bottom of my stick. It was hard to break through the soil, though, and I was afraid the Creelys would get bored before I got anywhere. So I scraped faster, occasionally glancing back to watch them trying to balance the rat in the air. Whenever the rat fell, Frank yelled at Billy and hit him with his stick. And Billy screamed because he didnt want the stick that had touched the rat touching him.

They continued like this, jamming their sticks harder into the rat each time, until I thought they might stab it all the way through. Eventually, they held it steady up in the air and paraded around in circles.

When I heard them whispering, I turned just in time to see their arms swing toward my face, with Billy screaming Aaooahh ooahhooahh! like Tarzan does.

For a moment, the rat hung by its guts at the end of their sticks before soaring over my head and landing with one dead bounce on the rock behind me.

The Creelys seemed to lose interest then, and laid down on the brown grass, some of the green rat guts still hooked onto the ends of their sticks. This is just temporary boredom , I thought. Eventually, theyll start up again with rat stick torture. And Frank is always the worst, because hes older and can make us do whatever he wants. Mother thinks theres something wrong with him, and thats why he doesnt have any friends his own age.

My hole was deep but not wide enough. So I kept grinding my stick, feeling the blisters coming on as I knelt under the late afternoon light, with everything seeming to slow down. And maybe thats why I didnt hear Georgie-Porgie arrive from the direction of Kaufmanns Hill.

What are you guys doin? he asked.

Nuthin, Frank Creely said without lifting his head.

Were waiting for him to finish digging, Billy said, sitting up on one arm.

Why? Georgie-Porgie asked.

Because were gonna bury a rat, thats why, Frank said, his voice impatient and his eyes still closed, as if he couldnt wait for Georgie-Porgie to go away.

Well, wheres the rat? he asked politely.

Over there, Frank mumbled, lifting his arm to point, as if he was making a great effort.

Georgie-Porgie, who was Franks age and always dressed in adult clothes ever since his father died, stepped onto the rock and, holding his blue tie against his bright yellow shirt, examined the rat like a doctor examining an accident victim. He even touched the rat with his fingers, turning it over.

I know just the thing to do, he said confidently. But youll have to wait while I run back to my house.

Were still burying it, I said.

Yeah. When the holes finished, the rats going in, Frank Creely declared.

Without lifting his head, Frank squinted his eyes at Georgie-Porgie, who glided back across Kaufmanns Field, moving pretty well for a fat kid. He didnt even seem to shift his legs as he pulled his way up through the crown vetch on Kaufmanns Hill.

At the top, his yellow shirt flicked for a moment in the light of the graying-pink sunset, and then disappeared into the woods.

I continued to work on my hole, hoping the Creelys wouldnt see I was nearly finished. As long as they hear me digging , I thought, they will keep pretending they are napping... while Georgie-Porgie glides along the path through the woods and then runs through the backyards, his fine clothes flapping in the breeze... and on up Nakoma Street, toward his old brick house on Standish, where his yellow shirt finally disappears behind a screen door.

Little Kenny Franz sat cross-legged a few feet away. Somehow, he had appeared without any of us hearing him. But Frank Creely sensed him, and stood up suddenly.