Tyler Buckspan Read online

Rev. Hagermann looked up at Devin, her eyes watering. "Tell her I said, 'No. I'm sorry but I gave them to the public library. They made me sad whenever I looked at them.'"

  Devin worked his jaw from side to side. Then he nodded. "She says, 'It's all right, Mama. I understand; I don't want you to be sad.'"

  At that point, Rev. Hagermann buried her face in her hands and wept like a child. Her shoulders shook like palm fronds in a stiff breeze.

  Grace Patterson looked at my grandma and raised her eyebrows. When I glanced at Grandma, her eyebrows were gathered.

  There in the temple, Grandma shook her head. She told my mom, "I've never seen anything like this. I still say something's fishy."

  Now, on Grandma's steps, Devin stubbed out his cigarette in the coffee can he kept there. He said, "I'll keep my job awhile; I'll perform sittings on weekends and evenings until business picks up. Then I'll quit the brickyard."

  ***

  On Christmas Day, in the afternoon, I shot baskets with a new ball Devin had given me, an official NCAA model, made of leather. It produced pleasant, thunking sounds when I dribbled on the driveway. I wore a Los Angeles Lakers jersey Mom had placed under the tree: a blue-and-white, rayon beauty with Jerry West's name and the number 44 on the back.

  The sky was overcast, and a cool wind blew from the east. The wind stirred fronds on a Sabal palm in my grandma's backyard, making rustling noises. Out front, a car engine hummed. A door slammed, a neighbor's dog barked, and when I rounded the corner of Grandma's house, I saw Jesse and Devin drive off in Jesse's dad's pickup truck. Smoke spewed from the truck's tailpipe.

  Clutching the ball to my chest, I chewed my lips. I worked the toe of my sneaker into the grass while I stared down the road.

  Where were they going? What would they do?

  I was very much in love with Devin, and terribly jealous of Jesse.

  Most Saturday nights, Devin and Jesse would ride the bus to Daytona Beach; they'd see a movie or shoot pool. Then they'd split the cost of a cheap motel room. Sunday, they'd return by bus.

  I had once asked Devin if the two of them slept in the same bed when they stayed in Daytona.

  He chuckled in response.

  "What do you think, Ty?"

  Now, just in time for Christmas dinner, Devin returned home. He sat across from me at the dining room table, with candlelight reflecting in his eyes. My gaze fell upon a signet ring he wore on his left hand, a jewelry item I'd never seen before. I opened my mouth to ask Devin about it, but before I could speak, he looked up from his plate. His gaze met mine, and he shook his head, subtly.

  Later that evening, in Devin's room, we sat on his bed, and then he raised his left hand. Light from the ceiling fixture reflected in three letters engraved on the ring's plateau -- "JSA," in fancy script. The tattoos on Devin's fingers looked shabby compared to the ring's monogram.

  "I gave Jesse one with my initials on it," Devin said.

  My spirits sank like a stone flung into a pond. Jesse and Devin were in love, weren't they? They shared a private universe now, one I'd never be part of. Devin cared nothing for me, did he?

  My eyes itched, and my nose clogged. I struck my hands between my knees. Then my face crumpled, and I wept like a baby.

  Devin put his arm about my shoulders.

  "Ty, don't worry. Your time will come."

  "When?"

  "Sooner than you think," was Devin's reply.

  CHAPTER NINE

  On a blustery Wednesday night, in late March, I lay in my bed, arms folded behind my head, my gaze fixed on the ceiling. The moon kept emerging and disappearing, while clouds skated across the inky sky. Wind gusts rattled my windows. Outside the window, branches of a longleaf pine tossed about, its needles fluttering. Grandma's oil-burning furnace wasn't too effective; the room was chilly, and I shivered under my blanket. I rubbed one foot against the other, to keep both warm.

  Go to sleep, Tyler.

  I closed my eyes. Then I tried a relaxation technique Devin had told me recently about, one he'd learned in prison.

  "It always helps me snooze, when I feel keyed up."

  I drew a breath, held it ten seconds, and then exhaled. I drew another breath, held it ten seconds, and then exhaled. I kept this up for a couple of minutes, and it did relax me some. But then something curious happened.

  A vision entered my head, quite vivid. I felt as if my conscious mind had departed my body. In my vision, I sat at my desk in English class, where afternoon sunlight slanted in through the western windows. I wore a collared shirt, blue jeans, and my basketball sneakers -- the same outfit I'd worn to school, two days before. An open textbook lay before me on my desk return. I read aloud from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, just as I had the day before yesterday. But now my viewpoint moved about the room, independent of my body, like a film camera on a crane. I saw everyone present, saw whatever they did. Moreover, I knew exactly what thoughts dwelt in each person's head: my teacher, Mrs. Calhoun; our intern teacher, a Miss Pritchard, visiting from Florida State University; and all my classmates.

  Mrs. Calhoun was not concentrating on the Chaucer I read. Instead, she pondered a recipe for three-bean chili she would prepare that evening. A girl seated two rows behind me, Angela Chastain, twisted a lock of hair around her finger. She thought about her last date, and how her boyfriend had touched her breasts when they'd tongue-kissed in his car.

  A guy named Butch DeLay -- scion of a notorious Deland redneck family and one of the toughest kids in the sophomore class -- chewed a filthy hangnail. He recalled his fistfight, occurring two days before, with a senior who'd outweighed Butch by forty pounds. Butch's left eye was swollen shut and purple, his lower lip was puffy, and he picked at a scab on his cheek. But I'd passed Butch's adversary in the school hallway that morning. He looked even worse than Butch: bruised and scabby and limping like he'd been in a car accident.

  My gaze fell upon Eric Rupp, a slender, sandy-haired boy with blue-green eyes, and a riot of freckles dancing across his turned-up nose. We knew each other by name, but we'd never hung out together. In Mrs. Calhoun's class, he sat one row behind me and to the right, so under normal circumstances I would not have seen what Eric did as I read to the classroom. But now I saw everything: Eric's gaze was fixed upon me. He studied my hair, my neck and shoulder, and my arm. He watched my knee flop from side to side -- a nervous tic of mine -- while my voice droned away.

  Eric's mind wasn't on Chaucer either. Instead he daydreamed. In his imagination, he and I occupied a bedroom with a Red Sox baseball pennant hung on the wall. Eric sat on the edge of a double bed while I stood before him, shirtless. Sunlight entered the bedroom, reflecting off a desk lamp. Eric worked open the button at the waist of my jeans; his knuckles dug into my belly, while I flexed my toes. Eric parted the flaps of my jeans. Then he shucked the jeans to my knees.

  I placed a hand on the back of Eric's neck, and then--

  A wind gust rattled my bedroom window. I jerked in surprise, and then my eyelids fluttered open. Glancing here and there, I wasn't sure where I was at first. Beneath my sheet and blanket, the pouch of my underwear felt damp and sticky. My armpits were moist, and beads of sweat decorated my forehead.

  What was going on? What had just happened?

  Had I dreamt?

  Or was it possible I had just taken a psychic journey? Could I sometimes read other persons' thoughts?

  And what of Eric Rupp? Had that been his sexual fantasy or mine?

  I scratched my belly and shifted my shoulders.

  Maybe spirituality isn't "bunk" after all.

  ***

  "Transcendental Meditation," Devin said. "Ever heard of it?"

  The previous night's storm had left Grandma's lawn strewn with pine branches and palm fronds. Now, Devin and I gathered them into a wheelbarrow. We would take them out back, stack them, and set them afire, using kerosene. A cold front had followed the storm, and the sky was bright, the sun as shiny as a new quarter. The afternoon air smelled of sodden pine bark an
d damp clay. Devin wore his brickyard outfit; I wore an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt too stained to wear to school.

  I had just told Devin about the previous night's experience in my bedroom, though I kept details of Eric Rupp's reverie to myself.

  Devin said, "Some folks don't believe in TM, but I do. The breathing technique helps your mind relax. Sometimes, you leave the physical world behind, and then you experience a different type of consciousness. Understand?"

  I nodded, but I wasn't sure I believed what Devin had just said. The whole thing sounded like... voodoo bullshit.

  I said, "Was I reading my teacher's thoughts? Or did my imagination make me think I could?"

  Devin dropped an armload of palm fronds into the wheelbarrow. Then he looked at me.

  "Here's how to find out: tomorrow, ask your teacher how her chili tasted on Tuesday."

  Devin winked at me like a conspirator.

  I lowered my gaze and patted my chin with my fingertips. Was it possible I possessed a "gift" myself? If so, how should I use it?

  ***

  Mrs. Calhoun wouldn't stop staring while I took my Friday vocabulary test. Earlier, before class had started, when I asked about her chili, a crease formed between her eyebrows. She raised her upper lip, as though she'd just viewed something spectral.

  "It was quite good, thank you, Tyler," was all she managed to say, and I knew I'd startled the bejeezus out of her.

  I walked to my desk with a smile playing on my lips. It's not bullshit after all. The breathing exercise works.

  Moments later, when Eric Rupp passed by my desk, I looked at his crimson mouth. I felt a stirring in my pants when I thought of kissing him.

  He's probably yours if you want him, Tyler.

  Do you?

  ***

  Early on a Friday evening, as the sun dipped below the western tree line and bats flitted about, Jesse and I watched Devin attach cables to posts on the Chevrolet's new battery, using a socket wrench. After lowering the hood and securing the latch, he looked at Jesse, then me.

  "Well," he said, "I guess it's time."

  Jesse and Devin both wore their filthy brickyard clothing; they smelled of sweat. I wore my school clothes. I climbed into the backseat. Then Devin sat behind the wheel, with Jesse next to him on the passenger side. The dome light's glow illuminated the Chevy's new headliner; it was taut as a drumhead. I ran my hand over the soft upholstery; every split in the cloth had been repaired. The chrome door handles and window cranks gleamed, the carpets smelled of shampoo, and the wood trim on the dashboard shone. Now that the battery had been connected, the clock's second hand skipped like a kid playing hopscotch.

  Devin placed the key in the ignition; he pumped the gas pedal twice and looked at Jesse.

  "You ready?"

  Jesse bobbed his chin.

  I held my breath while Devin twisted the key. Would the car really come to life?

  The starter clicked and the engine sputtered, but did not catch.

  Devin looked at Jesse and cursed.

  "Relax," Jesse said. "Try again."

  Devin pumped the gas pedal; he grimaced when twisting the key. The starter clicked, the engine coughed, and this time the motor turned over. Chug-chug. Rum-m-m-m. My scalp prickled when Devin switched on the headlights and the Chevy's dashboard instruments illuminated. When Jesse twisted a knob on the radio, Elvis Presley's voice wafted from a speaker.

  A chill ran up my spine. The Chevy was a mechanical Lazarus, wasn't it? Devin's and Jesse's labors had resurrected it from automotive death.

  Unbelievable.

  We all hooted and stamped our feet. Jesse grabbed Devin by the neck; he planted a kiss on Devin's cheek. Then the two of them stared at each other for a long moment, while Devin grinned and batted his eyelashes.

  I broke the silence. "Change the radio station; find some Beatles. Then let's drive someplace."

  They both turned and looked at me. Devin drew a breath and lowered his gaze.

  "Ty," he said, "we'll give you a ride later, but right now..."

  "What?"

  Devin returned his gaze to me.

  "Jesse and I need to be alone. You understand, don't you?"

  I felt like I'd stepped off a cliff. My eyes watered as I left the car. Why was life so unfair? Why must I be excluded from this glorious moment? Would Devin and Jesse always treat me like a punk?

  After shifting into reverse, Devin backed the Chevy toward the street. The engine purred, and the headlights cast cones of light. I stood on the driveway with my arms folded across my chest, watching the Chevy's taillights fade.

  A tear rolled down my cheek.

  CHAPTER TEN

  My grandma stood at her living room window, holding a curtain aside and shaking her head. A news reporter and a press photographer stood on the sidewalk before her house, looking our way.

  "Will they never go away?" she said to no one in particular.

  Cassadaga had turned into a hubbub in recent days, for reasons Grandma had explained to me, after her conversation with Rev. Gloria Hagermann.

  Days before, a Duval County sheriff's detective had sought Rev. Hagermann's assistance. He was investigating the kidnapping of one Julia Ball, a ten-year-old girl from a wealthy Jacksonville family, folks related to the DuPonts. A ransom note had been left in Julia's bedroom, but the kidnappers had not made contact with the family since then.

  The detective said the child had been missing two weeks.

  "I've run out of leads," the detective told Rev. Hagermann. "The trail's cold."

  He produced a pair of Julia's unwashed panties.

  Rev. Hagermann tried her best, but in the end, she could not help. Exasperated, she mentioned Devin. Perhaps, she said, he could be of assistance.

  The detective brought Devin home from the brickyard. After Devin showered and dressed in clean clothes, the two of them occupied Devin's room more than two hours, with the door closed.

  "It wasn't easy," Devin told us at the dinner table, afterward. "The child died a violent death. Her spirit's agitated; she resists contact with the living. So, it took awhile, but I finally got her to speak, to describe the location of her body."

  Grandma, my mom, and I listened while untouched food cooled on our plates.

  "It's a sawmill," Devin said, "one not operating anymore. There's a broken-down truck on the property with a company's name on it. The girl spelled it out for me."

  Next morning, while we breakfasted at Grandma's kitchen table, Devin received a call from the sheriff's detective. Julia Ball's body had been found near Palatka, Florida, at the abandoned premises of Putnam Lumber Company. The child had been strangled, and then left beneath a canvas tarp. Wild creatures, likely feral dogs, had discovered her remains; they tore her apart, and now she was barely recognizable.

  A Jacksonville television station broke the news. When Devin returned from work that evening, a phalanx of reporters and photographers converged upon him before Grandma's house. Questions were shouted while flashbulbs popped. Devin squinted into the brightness of a TV cameraman's light, answering questions, looking handsome and composed, despite his sweat-stained T-shirt, filthy jeans, and work boots.

  Now, our phone wouldn't stop ringing. Newspapers from Atlanta, Dallas, Chicago, and New York called to interview Devin. A film crew from NBC's affiliate station in Miami came to Cassadaga, also to interview Devin, but more in depth. The next night, we all watched on a neighbor's television while Chet Huntley described the kidnapping and murder of Julia Ball. Huntley spoke of Devin's assistance in locating her body while Devin's image appeared on the flickering, black-and-white screen. Devin wore his Banlon shirt, and the glow from TV camera spotlights reflected in his carefully styled hair. His voice sounded just like it did at home.

  "We're indebted to him," the detective said of Devin, during the NBC broadcast. "Without his help we'd never have found the girl."

  The press people weren't the only folks calling Grandma's house. Devin received calls from poli
ce officials and private detectives, from persons who'd lost loved ones and wished to speak with them, and from mediums throughout the country who wished to refer business to Devin. Our telephone shared a party line with three other households, and they complained so much my grandma had our number converted to a private line, at Devin's expense.

  "If this keeps up," she told Devin, "you'll have to purchase a second line."

  Already, Devin pondered quitting his job.

  "It doesn't pay well," he said at the dinner table. "Doing sittings, I'd earn more in a day than I would in two weeks at the brickyard."

  My grandma fingered her pearls. "Where would you practice?"

  Devin rearranged himself in his chair and cleared his throat. "Grace Patterson's offered me use of her home. I'll pay her something each time I'm there."

  Grandma looked at my mom and rolled her eyes.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On a Friday afternoon in mid-April, I boarded Eric Rupp's school bus, toting an overnight bag. I would spend the night at his home in Deland.

  I didn't care much about baseball. But during the past few weeks, I'd studied Red Sox statistics in the 1964 Street & Smith's Baseball Annual, and I'd learned enough to convince Eric I was a fan. I chose the Red Sox left fielder, Carl Yastrzemski, as my favorite player. Then I memorized his personal data: throws right, bats left, his 1963 batting average was .321, he made the 1963 American League All Stars, hit 14 homers, had 68 RBIs.

  A few days before, I had sidled up to Eric in the hallway at school. I asked him, "Do you think Boston will win today's opener against the Yankees?"

  Posing the question to Eric was like opening a water spigot. He spewed statistics: both teams' win-loss records in 1963, the names of opening day pitchers for the Yanks and Red Sox, the teams' likely batting lineups, and so forth.

  I countered with Yastrzemski's numbers while Eric listened, bobbing his chin. He said, "Did you know Yaz placed tenth in the American League's MVP race last year?"