Tonight, his mother was focused on him, constantly touching his hand, praising his accomplishments in the garden, and laughing about the call from the school principal regarding Jonas’ truancy. “You had better things to do.” She gave him a bright, conspiratorial grin.
Jonas soaked up the attention and basked in her electric energy, which sometimes seemed like a million candles whizzing in a brisk wind. He was relieved his father was absent because his father would probably give his mother one of the injections that made her so groggy, like she was a record turning on the wrong speed. The reason his father did this was because he detested noise or disturbances in the house, but Jonas believed he would have preferred for Jonas and his mother to disappear entirely, which was probably why he’d moved their home out of the city.
* * *
For the next two days, none of the kids bothered Jonas. All in all, he felt tremendous relief, even happiness as he and Martie worked on the front grounds of his house.
On Friday, Martie scanned the improvements with satisfaction, Jonas by her side. “Much better,” she announced.
He leaned on a rake and agreed.
“Where’s your mother?”
“Huh?”
“She’s not at the window.”
Jonas hadn’t realized his mother’s fleeting appearances had been noticed. “She’s, well, I guess she’s sleeping.”
Martie considered this. “Your mom’s crazy, isn’t she?”
Jonas had always avoided that word, tried to bleach it from his thoughts, but it kept returning. “Yeah. Kind of. She can’t help it, though.”
* * *
On Saturday morning, Martie arrived. She didn’t knock on the door and in fact had never stepped inside the house all week. Jonas assumed she was shy or felt intimidated, although he couldn’t understand why since she was so confident at school.
Jonas ran out to see her while his father, who was home for three days, brought the Mercury station wagon around. Jonas explained his father was taking them to the nursery to buy flowers, tomatoes, grass seed, garden stakes, and some new gloves—whatever they wanted.
As Martie entered the back seat, Dr. Hoeck nodded his head but said nothing. Jonas climbed in beside his friend.
“You look just like your dad,” Martie whispered.
Jonas didn’t answer. Instead he stared at his father’s sparse gray hair, his narrow shoulders that nearly touched his ears, the sallow cast of his skin, and wished he took after his mother who was a beauty, or at least she had been a beauty once.
At the landscaping center, Martie and Jonas wandered through the tables of flowers, putting flats of petunias and geraniums into a red wagon, enjoying the earthy smells of peat moss and fertilizer. Whenever Martie worried a plant cost too much, Dr. Hoeck would raise its pot inches from the silver eyeglasses perched on his narrow nose, squint, and nod his head. “That’s okay,” he’d say in his mild voice. Finally, the back of the car was crammed full, and Dr. Hoeck took Martie and Jonas to the diner for cheeseburgers and Cokes, something he’d never done with Jonas before. During lunch, Martie was quiet, but Jonas talked cheerfully about their plans for the vegetable and flower gardens. Dr. Hoeck said little, though his pale brown eyes skimmed over the diner and its inhabitants, occasionally lighting on Jonas and Martie.
The two friends worked all afternoon, tossing earthworms at each other and laughing. At five, Dr. Hoeck came out of the house.
“You’ve done a fine job,” he said. “Martie, thank you.”
Martie broke out in a big smile. “See, I told you we could do it, Jonas.”
Jonas nodded and grinned at her. Dr. Hoeck reached inside his breast pocket for his billfold and removed two twenty dollar bills. He gave one to his son and one to Martie. As he did so, Martie’s eyes lit up at the sight of the money. Jonas was pleased that his father was being generous with his friend, especially since the Trowbridges were poor.
“Thank you, sir,” Martie replied, as she accepted the bill. She stared at it, the brightness in her eyes slowly fading. “But I can’t take it. I’m sorry.” She handed it back and avoided looking at either Jonas or Dr. Hoeck. “I have to go.”
Jonas was mystified by her behavior. Why had Martie refused money when she needed it so much? At dinner, he asked his father, who glanced up from a medical journal, shrugged, and replied, “That’s the way some people are.”
* * *
The last class on Monday was arithmetic. Jonas was struggling to understand long division, so Mrs. Bromley asked him to stay after to review several problems. Martie passed Jonas a note saying she would wait for him at the bridge.
The students left. Mrs. Bromley explained how to align digits under the number to be divided until Jonas understood. After he had mastered the concept, he gathered his books and headed home singing “Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier.” He hurried up the hill from town, around a curve, and then froze. Ahead, he saw Jerry, Donald, Nick, and Henry—Henry had been on the fringes of Donald and Jerry’s group until the baseball episode, when his size had apparently made him an asset. The four boys were sneaking toward Martie, who was leaning against the wall, facing Jonas. When she saw Jonas, she waved.
He couldn’t move. He shivered with fear and his heart pumped so hard that he was dizzy. As the group descended, Martie noticed his expression and turned around, her books slipping to the pavement. Jonas heard angry taunts and watched in horror as the boys surrounded his friend, just as they had always done to him. His hands gripped his heavy satchel, and then he was running up the hill, screaming Martie’s name. Ten feet from the group, he slowed, his breath coming in gasps.
Donald squared to meet him. “What’s the problem, jerk? You afraid for your girlfriend?”
Jerry and Nick laughed. Henry wasn’t sure what the joke was but he joined in.
“Great girl you got here,” Nick sneered. “Real pretty.”
Jonas saw Martie’s hands clench and felt his do the same. He advanced closer. “Leave her alone,” he warned.
“Whaddya gonna do about it, coward?” Jerry asked.
“Yeah, what?” Donald demanded.
Henry stood silently by, unsure whether to risk his newfound friendship or stand clear. Then he decided to show his loyalty. He shoved Martie’s shoulder, nearly knocking her over. She regained her balance and quickly rounded on him, punching him hard in the jaw, which surprised him. Donald grabbed her from behind, throwing his arm around her neck, while the other boys began hitting her, drawing a gush of blood from her nose and face. Jonas watched in horror as red dots hit the pavement and flew in all directions. Then he heard himself howling like a hurt animal, his voice rising into a wail. Suddenly, he ran at Nick, slamming his satchel against his ear and toppling him to his knees. When he saw Martie fall to the ground, unmoving, fury burned through him like wildfire. He dropped his satchel and used his fists against the four boys, butting with his head, kicking, scratching, and screaming every obscenity he knew. Dimly, he saw Nick come to his feet, a scared expression on his face. Then Nick took off with Jerry following on his heels.
“This is all your fault, creep!” Donald took a swing at Jonas, catching him on the cheek.
The blow hardly registered. “It is not!” Hate exploded through his body. Jonas walloped Donald in the mouth.
“You son of a bitch!” Donald cried, as he spit out blood and part of a tooth.
Henry gawked at Jonas. “Jesus!” he murmured, his eyes round with fear. Henry groped for his books, turned, and ran.
The front of Donald’s white shirt was red. He glanced at it as if it belonged to someone else. Then he glared at Jonas, his blue eyes sharp with anger and a trace of fear. “This isn’t over,” he snarled, but as he picked up his book bag, he did so without turning his back on Jonas. “You’re crazy,” he muttered as he edged away.
As Donald left, Jonas felt an overpowering urge to run after him. He smelled Donald’s fear and it made him crazy with aggressive lust. Even though he was shaking, he wanted to pound Donald’s head against the pavement. But then he glanced at Martie and his fury turned to panic. Instantly, he fell beside her.
“Are you okay?” he asked, afraid to touch her with his trembling, bloody hands. Finally, he turned her gently toward him. “Martie?”
She didn’t answer.
“Martie?” he cried again.