Camouflage (4 page)

“What's
your
name?”

The girl hesitated, then said, “Verity. Verity Mathers.”

“Hi, Verity.” He stepped forward. “What kind of fish is that you caught?”

“Trout.”

“Are they good eating? I don't know much about fishing.” He climbed down the slope until he stood only a few feet above them. Girls usually squealed and screamed at holding a live, wiggly thing—even a worm. This girl didn't seem to mind at all. She had nice blue eyes and pretty long hair, but she dressed like a boy.
Verity!
He liked her, even though she came on like a tiger protecting its cub. He even liked her name. “Could you show me how to fix a line? What kind of bait do you use?” he asked.

“I can't help you,” she said. “We're going home for lunch now.”

“No, stay! I've got enough to feed an army. I made sandwiches and . . .” Kyle yanked off his day pack and unzipped the top. “See? I've got chocolate chip cookies, potato chips, and a couple of bananas . . . We could share!”

“I like chocolate chip cookies!” Charlene said.

“Here.” Kyle held out the bag. “So, how about it, Verity? I don't know a soul here, except my father. Will you ‘do' lunch with me, as they say in Hollywood?”

Verity almost smiled. “Well, okay.” She checked the slopes behind Kyle again then dropped down on her haunches to help unload the food. “Where you staying, Kyle?” she asked.

“Just a mile or so up that way.” He nodded to the road.

“I know everyone lives that way. Who's your dad?”

Kyle opened a Baggie and handed half a peanut butter sandwich to Charley.

“Ed Klinger. Know him?”

“Klinger?”

Kyle smiled at her, although he sensed a change in her tone. “Yeah.”

“Sure, I know him.” Verity put down the sandwich she was unwrapping and stood up. “Sorry, I just remembered. We've got to go home. Charley? Get your things; we're going.”

“Wait! I thought you said you could stay,” Kyle cried, jumping up. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Charley! Give Kyle back that bag of cookies and come along.” Verity started down the bank to gather her fish and equipment.

Kyle ran after her. “Verity! What's the matter?”

“Nothing!” she said. “You wouldn't understand.”

“What wouldn't I understand?”

“Nothing!” she repeated. “I just remembered I'm due home!” In seconds, it seemed, she'd gathered her things and climbed the bank to the road, with Charlene close behind.

Kyle watched her go, puzzled and upset. What was that all about?

A
FTER EATING
, Kyle packed up the remains of his lunch and returned to his bike under the bridge. He pedaled the last two miles into town, his eyes fixed firmly on the distant road, which shimmered in the heat like a boiling lake. His shirt clung to his body and sweat dripped down his neck.
That girl is weird
, he decided. First she acted like he was some kind of murderer. Then she turned to ice when he told her his dad's name. Confused and discontented, he didn't even wave when he passed the girls on the road.

When he reached town, thirsty and limp from the heat, he dismounted and pushed his bike along the hot main street. Most of the stores looked empty. Where were all the people?

He walked into Marie's Diner wiping his forehead with his shirt. A large ceiling fan turned lazily, stirring up something of a breeze. The room smelled of burgers and fries. Dead flies lay on the windowsill. He took a seat at the counter and fanned himself with the menu, studying the other patrons in the mirror. Perhaps a half dozen men sat at Formica tables in the narrow diner. They all looked like farmers. An older boy sat at the end of the counter sipping a soda.

“What'll you have, honey?” the waitress asked Kyle, planting a glass of ice water before him and drawing a pencil out from behind her ear. She was a woman about his mother's age, with a cap of thick, curly blond hair. Kyle felt his face burn as she studied him with an amused smile. “I know you!” she exclaimed heartily. “You're Ed's boy, right? Kyle? He said you'd be coming in. By golly, you're the spittin' image of your daddy!”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, shifting uneasily at the loud attention. He glanced into the mirror to see if anyone had heard. Several men at the tables looked up. The boy at the end of the counter noisily sipped the last of his soda and studied him.

“I'm Marie.” She held out a hand. “How ya like our big town, darlin'?”

“Like it fine,” Kyle said, offering a limp shake.

“How's about a slice a' pie, on the house. Apple, lemon meringue, or blueberry. Make them myself and they're
gooood.
Right, guys?” She addressed her other customers.

“Sure 'nough, Marie!” several customers sang out.

The pies had looked appetizing in a glass case near the register, but it was too hot to eat. “No, thanks, Marie. Just a Coke, please.”

“Coke it is, comin' up. Hey there, Hiram!” she called to the boy at the end of the counter. “Move your butt on down here and meet your neighbor. Your daddies are good friends! Kyle Klinger, meet Hiram Johnson!”

Hiram picked up his cap and moved next to Kyle. He was a tall good-looking boy in his teens, with a buzz haircut and a broad, honest face.
Johnson
, Kyle thought. Was he the Johnson his dad wanted him to meet? The one whose farm they'd passed yesterday? Marie set a Coke down in front of Kyle, then went off to help another customer.

“You're from L.A., right?” Hiram asked. “My pa said I'd see you around.” He settled onto the stool next to Kyle. “Hear you got lots of nigger gangs in L.A. Greasers, too. Ever have any trouble with them?”

“Uh-uh.” Kyle tugged at the neck of his shirt, uneasy. Probably fifty percent of his school was black or Latino. He cleared his throat. “My best friend last year was black.”

Hiram didn't seem to hear. “We had some niggers lived around here awhile.” Hiram chuckled. “Not for long, though. We sure made their lives miserable!”

“Why?”

Hiram scowled. “What are you, some kind of friggin' communist? Hey, Marie? Slice of blueberry.”

Marie narrowed her eyes, hands on hips, until Hiram grinned and said, “
Pa-leaz
. . .” When he turned back to Kyle he asked, “So,
are
you?”

Kyle squirmed at Hiram's intense gaze. He'd never heard so much hate come out of anyone's mouth. How should he answer? This wasn't L.A., where he knew the rules. “A commie? Heck no,” he said quietly, aware that others in the diner were listening for his answer.

“Good! Around here we don't like commies,” Hiram said with exaggerated patience. “Not niggers, not beaners or gays, not Jews, Catholics, or Chinamen, either. This country belongs to the guys who made it what it is—us white folk.” He cut a big forkful of pie and plunged it into his mouth while watching Kyle.

Kyle swallowed the words he wanted to say and sipped at his Coke, eyes on the counter. Hiram was a guy his dad expected him to be friends with? He didn't see how. Still, no use making enemies. He changed the subject. “I met some girls this morning—out fishing.”

“Oh, yeah? That would be the Mathers girls, Verity and Charley the Retard, I bet.”

Kyle ran a finger down a crack in the counter, swallowing his discomfort. “What's with Verity? She seemed so . . . paranoid.”

“What's
paranoid
?”

“You know—scared of me for no reason.”

“Oh, that! Yeah, paranoid. She is, about that retard sister of hers. We like to tease her.” He chuckled. “Verity really goes ballistic. Got no sense of humor. Her dad's not so popular round here. Works for the govamint. ATF. You know—Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, around here those guys rank three notches below skunks.” Hiram pushed his pie plate aside and stood up. “Done? Let's go shoot us some rabbits.”

Kyle jumped off his seat. “You got a gun?”

“Everyone round these parts got guns. You don't?”

“My mom's boyfriend's a cop. He's got a gun. Lets me hold it sometimes,” he lied. “But I never shot one.”

“No foolin'? Well, time you learned, city boy,” Hiram said. “Let's go.”

“Give my regards to your daddy, hear, Kyle?” Marie said as he paid his bill.

“Sure, sure.” Outside, Hiram was already mounting his bike. Kyle left his change and ran after him.

The Johnson farmhouse lay south of town, stuck in the middle of cornfields like a ship caught in an ice floe. Kyle cycled behind Hiram down the dusty, treeless road that led to the frame home and barn, thinking about his good luck. Hiram Johnson talked ugly, but maybe it was just a pose. Maybe he was just trying to look like a big shot.

Suddenly from out of the cornfields came three barking, snarling dogs. They flew at Kyle's wheels, yapping in a mad frenzy. “Go 'way! Scram!” Kyle shouted, trying to kick off his attackers and pedaling harder. The dogs ignored his kicks and shouts. Heart pounding, wobbling dangerously as they snapped at his legs, he screamed for help.

Hiram turned his head. “Git!” he shouted at the dogs. “Go on, git!”

The dogs screeched to a stop and stayed behind, barking furiously.

“Wow!” Kyle panted, pedaling hard to catch up. “That was close!”

“Mean, aren't they?” Hiram called over his shoulder, a grin on his face. “Pa trained 'em. Not likely any stranger's gonna come on
our
land without us knowin'.”

Isn't that the truth?
Kyle thought. Those dogs would maul a stranger in a minute—if no one called them off.

He followed Hiram past the farmhouse to a big barn in a clearing. A hot breeze rippled the young corn growing nearby. Crickets clicked loudly. The boys left their bikes against the barn wall, and Hiram slid back the big door.

Inside it was cool and dark and smelled of machine oil and hay. Blinded by the outside brightness, Kyle couldn't see at first. When his eyes adjusted and Hiram turned on a light, he saw a tractor, stalls for two horses, farm tools and equipment, and an assortment of cast-off furniture.

Hiram led Kyle to a Peg-Board wall, where a variety of rifles hung by their straps. On a shelf below were three pistols and boxes of ammunition. A half-open drawer contained more ammunition. “Take your pick!” Hiram said.

Kyle whistled. He'd never seen so many guns, except in movies, and Hiram made it seem like these were nothing—like they were just toys. And to think how Brian made such a fuss over his holding one measly pistol!

“Here, try this one.” Hiram took a rifle from one of the pegs and tossed it to Kyle.

“Hey!” Kyle caught it and laughed uneasily. Sweat poured out of every pore in his body.

“That's a Remington .22, single shot. Get the feel of it,” Hiram said, pocketing a box of shells from the drawer. “It's not loaded, so don't worry.”

“Wow!” Kyle whispered. He turned the gun over in his hands, feeling its coldness, letting his fingers memorize its shape. He hefted it, surprised at its weight, then raised it to his shoulder like in movies when they shot. “Cool!” A muscle twitched in his cheek. He grinned at Hiram.

“Over there's our target, those hay bales. We've paced out twenty-five- and fifty-foot firing lines. Come on, I'll show you what to do.”

Kyle followed Hiram to a line taped on the barn floor. Hiram dug into his pocket and took out a shell. “Give it here. I'll show you how to load.”

Kyle handed over the rifle and watched closely as Hiram pointed out the gun's parts, opened the bolt, slid a round into the chamber, and closed the bolt. “There!” he said. “Now, this here's the safety. It should always be on until you're ready to fire. Wouldn't want to shoot someone accidentally, right?” He winked. “Now, watch.” He raised the rifle, released the safety, set his feet, sighted, and pulled the trigger.

Kyle held his ears expecting a loud bang, but there was only a small pop. The middle bale of hay shivered and a barn swallow flew out of its nest near the rafters.

“How's that?” Hiram asked. He set the safety, reloaded, and fired again and a third time, then turned to Kyle. “Okay. Now,
you
try.”

Kyle loaded the chamber, released the safety, and held the rifle as Hiram had. He closed one eye, aimed, and fired.

Low.

“That's okay. You'll get better. Here. Take these.” Hiram dug into his pocket and handed Kyle a half dozen rounds. “Don't forget: Pull back bolt, insert round, close bolt, release safety.”

With each shot at the target Hiram had pinned to the hay bale Kyle grew a little less nervous, a little more comfortable. The gun grew warm in his hands, and heavier. He loved the smell of gunpowder. He loved the pop the bullet made. Most of all he loved just holding the .22. It made him feel like a man, full of power.

He had just hit the bull's-eye for the first time when a booming voice rang out.

“Hiram!”

Kyle swung around to see a huge man in overalls looming in the doorway. With the light behind the man Kyle couldn't see his face, but the voice came out loud and commanding. “Get your butt out of there, you lazy lout, and do what I told you!”

“But, Dad . . .” Hiram cried in a whining tone. “I was just showing . . . We were just going to—”

“Move!”

Kyle handed over the rifle and Hiram ran it across the barn to the Peg-Board. Kyle followed, thinking he'd better leave. Where had the time gone? It was after five. He was supposed to be home by four.

Mr. Johnson stood in the doorway, fingers hooked in his overall straps, watching as they came up to him. Kyle glanced at Hiram. He looked like he wanted to slink past his dad.

“Who are you?” Mr. Johnson demanded.

“Kyle. Kyle Klinger,” Kyle said so softly he hardly heard himself.