"I always thought I hated him ... that's what I thought ... we fight half the time ... I guess I did hate him ... sometimes ... but now ... now. Oh, Mr. Jonas, if only ..."
"If only what, boy?"
"If only you had something in this wagon would help. Something I could pick and take upstairs and make him okay."
Tom crie
d again.
Mr. Jonas took out his red bandanna handkerchief and handed it to Tom. Tom wiped his nose and eyes with the handkerchief.
"It's been a tough summer," Tom said. "Lots of things have happened to Doug."
"Tell me about them," said the junkman.
"Well," said Tom, gasping for breath, not quite done crying yet, "he lost his best aggie for one, a real beaut. And on top of that somebody stole his catcher's mitt, it cost a dollar ninety-five. Then there was the bad trade he made of his fossil stones and shell collection with Charlie Woodman for a Tarzan clay statue you got by saving up macaroni box tops. Dropped the Tarzan statue on the sidewalk second day he had it."
"That's a shame," said the junkman and really saw all the pieces on the cement.
"Then he didn't get the book of magic tricks he wanted for his birthday, got a pair of pants and a shirt instead. That's enough to ruin the summer right there."
"Parents sometimes forget how it is," said Mr. Jonas.
"Sure," Tom continued in a low voice, "then Doug's genuine set of Tower-of-London manacles got left out all night and rusted. And worst of all, I grew one inch taller, catching up with him almost."
"Is that all?" asked the junkman quietly.
"I could think of ten dozen other things, all as bad or worse. Some summers you get a run of luck like that. It's been silverfish getting in his comics collection or mildew in his new tennis shoes ever since Doug got out of school."
"I remember years like that," said the junkman.
He looked off at the sky and there were all the years.
"So there you are, Mr. Jonas. That's it. That's why he's dying...."
Tom stopped and looked away.
"Let me think," said Mr. Jonas.
"Can you help, Mr. Jonas? Can you?"
Mr. Jonas looked deep in the big old wagon and shook his head. Now, in the sunlight, his face looked tired and he was beginning to perspire. Then he peered into the mounds of vases and peeling lamp shades and marble nymphs and satyrs made of greening copper. He sighed. He turned and picked up the reins and gave them a gentle shake. "Tom," he said, looking at the horse's back, "I'll see you later. I got to plan. I got to look around and come again after supper. Even then, who knows? Until then ..." He reached down and picked up a little set of Japanese wind-crystals. "Hang these in his upstairs window. They make a nice cool music!"
Tom stood with the wind-crystals in his hands as the wagon rolled away. He held them up and there was no wind, they did not move. They could not make a sound.
Seven o'clock. The town resembled a vast hearth over which the shudderings of heat moved again and again from the west. Charcoal-colored shadows quivered outward from every house, every tree. A red-haired man moved along below. Tom, seeing him illumined by the dying but ferocious sun, saw a torch proudly carrying itself, saw a fiery fox, saw the devil marching in his own country.
At seven-thirty Mrs. Spaulding came out of the back door of the house to empty some watermelon rinds into the garbage pail and saw Mr. Jonas standing there.
"How is the boy?" said Mr. Jonas.
Mrs. Spaulding stood there for a moment, a response trembling on her lips.
"May I see him, please?" said Mr. Jonas.
Still she could say nothing.
"I know the boy well," he said. "Seen him most every day of his life since he was out and around. I've something for him in the wagon."