Even though it was snowing harder now than when he’d gone into Wackowski’s Variety, ten-year-old Ben McNally had a world record to break and that’s why he ran through the back lot, zig-zagging between the Fords, Chevys, and Dodges—he was getting good at recognizing makes and models—clutching the paper bag with ‘Wackowski’s Variety’ printed in red and blue on the side. Inside the bag, Ben’s favorite lunch: Wonder Bread, tuna, Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, and Tri-Sum potato chips.
All he had to do was run home, and do it in record time.
His mom had started letting him run food errands near the end of summer and, for the most part, Ben had risen to the challenge. Except for that one dropped bottle of Coca-Cola that smashed all over the back lot last week, Ben hadn’t lost any other food.
Jumping over the snow-covered divider in the middle of the parking lot, Ben was looking to beat his best time of ten minutes and thirty-five seconds. Most times when he ran to Wackowski’s it was either a Saturday or Sunday or holiday when he didn’t have school. On those days, his mom would be waiting at the door, watching the kitchen clock, cheering him on as he ran as fast as he could down the street toward their brand new apartment. She once joked with him that he never knew when he might have to use those speedy feet of his to outrun someone who was up to no good, seeing how they were the only black family not just in the neighborhood, but in all of Old Wachusett. Ben had sensed, due in large part to his mother’s forced laugh, that she wasn’t really joking. He knew what she meant. His grandfather had filled him in on the history of people of his color in America. Ben even wondered if the reason she sent him on these errands was to train him for a time when he might need to run, but Ben didn’t think his mother had anything to worry about. He’d made a couple of good friends at school, and all his teachers treated him kindly.
But today his mom wouldn’t be waiting for him. She was in bed sick, and even though it was the first day of winter vacation, she’d made Ben stay home rather than let him play with the other kids in the neighborhood in case she got really sick (throw-up sick!) and needed him to call the doctor or wipe up the puke.
All he had to concern himself with was cutting through the snow-covered scrub that had overgrown the abandoned B&M railroad tracks, cross said tracks without tripping over the rails and ties buried under the snow, sprint up the three flights of rickety iron stairs (thirty-six stairs in all that ran through a copse of trees and led up to the street he lived on) without tripping and face-planting himself into a snowbank, turn the corner onto his street, and sprint the last two-hundred yards to the finish line that was the front door to his first-floor apartment. And the sooner the better, ‘cuz man, his ‘nads (one of a multitude of strange and colorful new terms he’d learned from his newfound friend Duane) were turning into ice cubes out here. Not to mention the fact that it was snowing a lot, and if they were gonna get dumped on today Ben wanted to be home to make his army of snowmen before Grandpa came to check up on them. Grandpa always liked pulling up to the apartment to a hearty greeting from Ben’s legion of snowy Storm Troopers.
Folding the top of the grocery bag and tucking the package under his arm like a football, Ben cut through the scrub. He made it over the tracks, bobbled the bag, headed toward the iron stairs, and that’s when he stopped. Sitting on the second landing of the iron stairs, both smoking, both wearing their trademark worn leather jackets, dirty jeans, and scuffed-up work boots, were the two obstacles that just might prevent a new world record, and in its place give Ben a black eye or a fat lip. If he was lucky.
Ben had never personally had any interaction with the Scanlon twins, but he knew who they were. When his family had moved to this neighborhood, Ben’s new-found friend, Duane (whose family lived above the McNally’s on the second floor), had warned him about Louie and Clem. They were fourteen, both in the seventh grade after staying back last year, both a load of trouble individually, not to mention that when they got together it was like the evil version of the Wonder Twins. They’d give each other high-fives, thereby activating their Wonder Twin powers, and proceed to torture their victim. They seldom picked on more than one boy at a time, and when they did they never picked on kids that had even the slightest chance of standing up to them. They were the classic bullies; mean when it was one-on-one, outright vicious when it was two-on-one. Ben had asked Duane what they looked like, and Duane had said not to worry, he’d recognize them sure enough when he saw them.
Not many days after that warning, Ben had seen them. Luckily, Louie and Clem hadn’t seen him, and since then Ben had been smart enough and lucky enough to avoid having any run-ins with the Scanlon twins. They knew he existed, Ben was sure of that—he did, after all, stick out in a community as white as the Wonder Bread in the Wackowski’s Variety bag—but for whatever reason, he’d been able to keep out of their sights.
Until today.
One of them motioned toward him. Ben looked to his left, to his right, saw no one in sight, looked ahead at the iron stairs. Louie and Clem Scanlon. Sitting, smoking, watching, and waiting. Now watching him. Two vultures with their hunched shoulders and beady black eyes focused on their prey which, thanks to Ben not paying attention, had wandered right into their nest. Or trap. The world record for getting home no longer seemed important to Ben. Getting home with all his teeth intact was now the goal.
He weighed his options. His options were found lacking. A crazy thought burst into his head. Why don’t I just go right by them? I haven’t done anything to get them mad at me. I don’t have to be afraid of them. His mom was always telling him how he needed to stick up for himself, don’t let no one push him around. Yes, walk away if you can, but if you can’t, then be courageous and stand up for yourself. Maybe now was not the time for running. Maybe it was a time for being a man and standing up for himself. He could turn tail and run, and he might—might—be able to outrun them. In the end, though, in the grand measure of things that mattered, what would he gain by running? If the world was as tough as Grandpa made it out to be, then Ben didn’t see the point in running away from his first potentially dangerous encounter with the neighborhood bullies. What better time was there to test his mettle?
Ben gripped the grocery bag tighter. Zipped up his winter coat. Looked up into the falling snow and adjusted the wool cap on his head. Before he started walking directly toward the iron stairs and Louie and Clem Scanlon, Ben stuck his tongue out to catch a few of the falling white flakes as if nothing in the world was wrong, like he was a gunfighter on Gunsmoke taking a final drink before the shoot-out. He caught dozens of flakes, not just one. It was snowing harder and the wind was picking up.
He took the first step toward the iron stairs, hoping his mother’s advice was right. Then he took another step, and another. He shivered as he got closer. Closer to the Scanlons. When he got to the first flight he walked straight up without hesitation, gripping the cold metal railing—don’t worry, mom, I don’t need my mittens, it’s not that cold out (yeah, right!)—not looking any farther ahead than the next stair, counting each as they passed under his boots. Three flights, twelve stairs in each flight, thirty-six in all. Then he was home free. He counted the stairs, keeping his thoughts focused on what he needed to do at the moment, which was get to the top of the first flight. Six, seven, eight…nine….ten…….eleven………twelve.
He got to the landing at the top of the first flight and looked up at the second flight ahead of him. Louie stood, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and flicked it over the railing and into the trees. Don’t worry, Ben encouraged himself. He’s just gonna move out of the way. That’s all. Twelve stairs down, twenty-four to go. That’s all. He reminded himself to not look them in the eye. Look down. Count.
One…two…three…
Another crazy thought entered Ben’s mind. Maybe it would be a good idea to introduce himself, kind of break the ice with the Scanlons.
…four…five…
That crazy idea was quickly jettisoned when he remembered that scene from War of the Worlds where those three guys approach the Martian machine waving a white flag, hoping to make friends. They get obliterated by the Martian death ray. Yeah, maybe not a good idea to try to make contact with alien life forms.
….six…..seven…..
I don’t acknowledge them, Ben thought, and they keep their fists to themselves. Simple, really, when you looked at it that way.
Louie had a different idea. He turned to Clem and offered up his hand for a high-five, which his brother promptly met with a hearty smack! The Wonder Twin powers were now activated. Next came the look in his eyes that said all sorts of things, ‘hello’ not being one of them.
“Look what we got here, Clem. Lunch delivery.” Louie grinned. “Didn’t know the slave boys worked this far up north.”
So much for just walking by them. Just don’t do or say anything stupid, Ben told himself. No sooner had his brain issued that warning when his ears heard his mouth say, “Hi, guys,” and his ears sent the words up to his brain and his brain could not, for the life of it, figure out exactly where those stupid words had come from. Heck, it hadn’t even detected the crazy thought that had initiated the launch sequence of those crazy stupid words that had somehow, beyond its wildest dreams, so casually and fatefully slipped out of his crazy stupid mouth.
“‘Hi guys’?” Louie backhanded Clem on the shoulder. “Get this, Clem. ‘Hi guys.’” Louie stepped down toward Ben. He stopped three stairs up from him, planting his feet on stair number eleven, and crossed his arms. He glared down at Ben. Louie, the king of the iron stairs, and Ben the lowly peasant who was trespassing through the royal palace gardens. “Goin’ where”—this was not good, said Ben’s brain to all his adrenal glands—“nigger queer bait?”
Nope, not good at all.
Although Ben hadn’t had any direct experience with the Scanlon brothers, he’d been an eyewitness on more than one occasion to what they’d done to other kids. Louie was the talker, the initiator of the teasing and the taunting and the name-calling, using every swear word Ben had ever heard and a lot more he hadn’t. It seemed that Louie liked the sound of his own voice and got a sort of high off the tears and fear that he could elicit from others.
Ben cleared his throat. “I’m going home. That’s all. Just going home.”
Louie mocked him in a high-pitched voice. “‘I’m going home. That’s all. Just going home.’” Louie shook his head and laughed. It wasn’t an evil laugh, just an everyday, having fun, laughing at a good joke kind of laugh. And that scared Ben all the more. He removed his free hand from the railing, afraid the accumulating sweat would freeze his palm to the ice-cold iron railing.
Clem stayed where he was, sitting, puffing out smoke rings that quickly dissipated into the falling snow, staring. Louie stopped laughing. “Guess what, boy? You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Ben said nothing and did nothing, unable to speak or move. “Hey. Hear me? I’m talkin’ to you, you little faggot shadow boy.” Ben nodded, his head acting on its own accord. Louie pointed to the grocery bag. “Whatcha got? Mommy’s booze? Or tampons and douche bags? That would be funny, don’tcha think, Clem?” He turned to his brother and punched him on the shoulder. “A douche bag, carrying a grocery bag of douche bags. How ‘bout that, huh?” Louie laughed again. Clem stayed put, a live grenade waiting for his brother to pull the pin.
Ben didn’t know exactly what Louie was talking about—he had a vague idea of what a douche bag was from the pieces of talk he’d heard between his friends—but he knew Louie’s tone well enough. Ben’s luck had finally run out. He turned his head slightly, glancing down the flight of stairs.
“Go for it, pussyboy.” Ben turned back to Louie who was grinning, arms now down at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching. “See how far you get.” Louie spit over the side of the rail. “I’ll even spot you a head start. Shit, I’ll spot you a head job and a head start. How’s that for good sportsmanship?”
Ben’s legs started trembling. There was no way he could outrun Louie on a clear summer day, never mind through the snow, even if he ditched the groceries. And if he didn’t get back home soon, his mother might come looking for him, and if she found him being picked on and intervened on his behalf, that would only make it worse for him with the Scanlon twins, not to mention that his mom would put an end to the grocery runs. He definitely did not want either of those two things to happen. He clutched the bag closer to his body.
“Hey, Clem.” Louie didn’t look at his brother when he spoke, his eyes instead zeroing in on Ben. “Wanna bet the girl wets herself right here?” Clem smirked as he blew out a cloud of smoke and shook his head. He seemed to like letting his brother do all the talking. Their modus operandi seemed to follow a pattern of Clem letting Louie flap his gums before he stepped in to take over and do most of the pushing and shoving and hitting. Louie the talker, Clem the hitter. What a combo.
Clem was bigger than Louie, had a crew cut to offset Louie’s shoulder-length hair, and looked a heckuva lot meaner. If Ben could talk himself out of this with Louie, he might stand a chance of escaping.
“Look, guys, I don’t want any trouble. I only want to get home.” It sounded so weak and pathetic, but there was nothing else to say. And yet his mouth kept moving and words kept spilling out. “Please? My mom’s sick and she’s expecting me home by now, and she’s probably getting ready to come looking for me.”
Louie stepped down a stair. “I’ll bet you piss your pants in the next ten seconds. Then when mommy gets here she’ll have to use one of them douches in the bag to clean all the piss off your dirty, smelly panties and your natty pubic hair. That’d be fun to watch. Don’tcha think, Clem?” Louie smiled, but there was no mirth behind it. It was as if Louie was speaking English and a foreign language at the same time, half the words making sense, the other half hiding secret, dirty meanings behind their strange sounds.
Ben glanced to the left and the right. Still no one in sight. The snow was falling harder, the wind was kicking up, and the air felt a heckuva lot colder. Ben’s throat was dry, his hands were cold and wet with sweat, and his bladder was very close to amusing Louie.
Two stairs. That’s what separated Ben from annihilation.
Movement way off to the left caught Ben’s attention. Two or three blocks away, high above the row of apartment buildings near the center of the neighborhood known as The Hub, was a big blotch in the sky. A big blotch with wings. It was flying in their direction. It looked like a bird, had to be a bird, but if it was that far away and Ben could see it through the snow, it had to be humungous, the biggest bird he’d ever seen in his life.
Louie stepped down another step. One stair now separated them.
Ben did not register Louie’s movement. The thing coming at them wouldn’t let him. It was jetting at them, each flap of its massive wings sending swirls of snow spinning off each side of it, a living jet approaching them at Mach 1.
Clem stood and stepped down next to Louie and nudged him. Louie said, “What?” and Clem pointed at the bird. Louie said, “So what? It’s a bird. Big deal.”
Clem shook his head. “That ain’t nothin’ like any bird I ever seen.”
Louie looked at Clem. “Hell you talkin ‘bout? It’s a bird for cryin’ out loud.” Louie turned toward the bird again and started to say, “What’s the—”
That was as far as he got. Like that, it was on them. The three of them ducked. It swooped over them, its massive wings kicking up snow around them. It rose, swept out a wide turn, and headed toward them again. It appeared it was going to get much closer on this pass. The three boys did more than duck this time. The Scanlons dove up to the landing, each using the railing as a guard against the incoming attack.
Ben did the opposite. Instead of diving, he fell. Backward. Down the stairs. The Wackowski’s Variety bag with the red and blue lettering sailed through the air and snow, spilling the bread and tuna and soup and chips. He tumbled down a couple steps, managing to grab the railing and stop himself before he broke any of his appendages. Having at least the presence of mind to stay low, Ben raised his head high enough to look for the bird. He couldn’t think of any birds around Old Wachusett that grew to be that big.
Looking up, he saw Louie and Clem hunkered down on the landing at the top of the second flight. Neither one of them dared move. Ben swung his head left, then right, searching the sky. The snow fell harder and faster, as if a mini-storm had kicked up within the larger storm. The wind howled and flung the snow into his face. He struggled to keep his eyes open, looking up to the Scanlons. He still had to get away from them, regardless of what the bird did.
Louie sat up, brushing snow off his jeans.
Clem, staying low, looked at him. “Are you crazy? Get down”
Louie pointed at the tuna and bread and chips on the snowbank. “Goin’ to collect that queer fairy boy’s lunch.” Simultaneously, a grin spread across Louie’s face, and a look of frozen horror appeared on Clem’s who was pointing to the sky, trying to speak, but nothing coming out. Louie looked where his brother was pointing. Which is to say, he looked directly above Ben’s head.
Ben didn’t have time to look up before the black shadow swept over him, bringing a chill with it that was deeper than the darkest, coldest snowstorm he’d ever experienced in his young life. The shadow rocketed up the stairs. One more flap of the massive wings—WHUMP!—before it slammed into Louie. And grabbed Louie. And lifted Louie. Ben blinked, not believing—not wanting to believe—what he was seeing. Louie screamed. His arms and legs flailed at the falling snowflakes. The bird—the thing—that carried him didn’t dip, didn’t sway, didn’t waver at all from its flight path, like it was carrying a mouse instead of a human being. It rose above the tree tops, disappearing into the vortex of swirling snow. Louie’s screams grew fainter…fainter…until there was nothing, nothing but the falling snow and howling wind.
Ben waited a moment before he got up. He ran and tumbled and scampered and flailed his way down the iron stairs, tripped over the last one and twisted his ankle and cried out as he mashed his chin into a patch of frozen gravel at the bottom of the stairs. He turned over onto his back. Clem, apparently forgetting all about Ben, was running up the last flight of stairs. Ben winced as he swiped snow and pieces of gravel and blood off his chin. He searched the sky for the bird and Louie, but couldn’t see anything except whirling flakes and gray clouds. What just happened? What was going on?
A scream. Louie’s scream. Ben craned his neck, his headed tilted as far back as it would go. High above him the bird was diving. At him. He scrambled to his feet, ran a couple steps, slipped, and fell. Louie’s scream was getting louder. Ben looked up again, and that’s when he came to the horrible realization that it wasn’t the bird that was diving at him.
Ben got up and ran. He tripped, this time over the scrub, tripped again, this time over one of the humps that was one of the B&M rails, and looked back as he sat on his sore rear end.
For the rest of his life, Ben McNally would regret looking back. Less than thirty feet away, Louie fell out of the sky. His body smacked into the hard-packed snow. That is what happened, but no words would ever adequately describe what Ben witnessed, what his brain had to struggle to even begin to make sense of. He would suffer nightmares for the rest of his life, slow motion instant replays of that one instant of time when he looked back and saw Louie Scanlon fall out of the sky.
The dark shadow swept across Louie’s body, grew wider, and Ben, paralyzed with fear, watched as the shadow crept up the iron stairs. Clem—poor, helpless Clem Scanlon—was two steps away from the sidewalk when the shadow overtook him. Then Clem was gone, his body yanked high into the storm.
Ben couldn’t tell if it was his own screaming, or Clem’s, the howling wind, or something else entirely that pierced his soul at that moment.
Ben got up, ran toward Wackowski’s Variety to call his mother, and thanked God he was lucky enough to have fallen on the stairs, thanked God for his clumsiness which might very well have saved his life.
Months later, Ben would learn it had been much more than just luck or clumsiness that had saved his life.