brisk clip, he passed his own house and thought about the mess inside, frowning at the thought of having to fetch his wife back to clean it up. As he neared Mrs.
Stanley’s house, he smiled and tipped his hat in the darkness but did not stop until he arrived at the foot of the tree where he’d had his vision. There was a crunch of frost underfoot, and the moon silvered the silent, bare branches. He listened hard for a minute, and then he unbuttoned his trousers and watered the tree. Giggling, he turned and ran over to piss on the marker he’d set out.
Stanwood tucked himself, pulled himself up to his full height, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted,
“I’ll be damned.”
Pleased with himself, he muttered, “I’ll be
goddamned,” all the way back to Mrs. Stanley.
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Although it wasn’t long past sunset, her windows were already dark. He cracked the door silently, planning to take his old friend by surprise. The only light came from a candle stub in Sammy’s corner beside the stove. The boy’s back was to the door. Stanwood stole across the room, thinking he’d give the boy a good fright first. But when he reached the bed, he saw what looked like a king’s ransom in coins laid out in rows on the blanket.
Stanwood put a hand over Sammy’s mouth and
whispered, “What have we here?”
Sammy tried to get free, but Stanwood held him where he sat. He reeked of drink and sweat. “You’re a real little bastard, ain’t you? Holding out on your grandma like this.”
When Sammy tried to twist loose, Stanwood gripped him around the neck so tightly, he thought Stanwood meant to choke him. But he let go and swooped down and filled his pockets with every last cent it had taken him years to acquire.
Stanwood swayed a bit as he straightened and fixed Sammy with a menacing smile: he put a finger to his lips and ran his other thumb across his neck. Sammy nodded and Stanwood went into Mrs. Stanley’s room, where murmurs were heard, then laughter, then hurried rustlings, then silence.
Sammy’s limbs felt like lead. He stayed perfectly still until the familiar honk of Stanwood’s snore startled him into motion. He pulled on his boots and coat and ran all the way into Sandy Bay, straight to the home of Widow Linner, where he knew he’d find the door unbolted. Inside, he wrapped himself in the hearth rug and curled up before the fire.
When Margaret Linner found him the next morning,
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she didn’t know whether to shake him or kiss him. Her floor was tracked with mud but Sammy’s face was so angelic, she pulled up a chair and watched him sleep while her kettle boiled. When he woke up, he crept to her side and told her that John Stanwood had arrived at Mrs. Stanley’s house with a sailor who wanted to use Sammy as he used the girls. Sammy said that he’d put up a fight and escaped, but having no family to turn to, he’d hoped for refuge from the kindest woman he knew.
“Please,” he begged, “don’t make me go back there. I’m afraid.” With pretty tears glistening in the corners of his sapphire eyes, he said, “I’m afraid they might still be there, waiting for me.”
With a few more hints, he had the old woman believing that his youth and beauty had often put him in similar jeopardy and
that Stanwood had been the biggest threat to his virtue. Mrs. Linner swore he’d never return to that wicked place and that he could stay with her. Later that day, she paid a call on Reverend Jewett, the minister at Fifth Parish, who made an unprecedented visit into Dogtown.
He told Mrs. Stanley—in very worldly, if not to say vulgar terms—of the consequences should she or any of her minions come after Sammy, who was now a member of his flock and under his care. The old whore smiled up at the handsome clergyman and said only, “My dear grandson is fortunate to have you for a friend.”
Though Sammy’s lodgings were larger and far more pleasant than ever, he felt dull and listless. Being penniless
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did not suit him. Mrs. Linner considered his labors a fair exchange for his board and gave him nothing extra for doing her laundry, heavy cleaning, and sundry errands and tasks.