Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town, Cory Doctorow [best historical fiction books of all time txt] 📗

Six years later, Bradley was big and strong and he was the star goalie of all the hockey teams in town, in front of the puck before it arrived, making desperate, almost nonchalant saves that had them howling in the stands, stomping their feet, and sloshing their Tim Horton’s coffee over the bleachers, to freeze into brown ice. In the summer, he was the star pitcher on every softball team, and the girls trailed after him like a long comet tail after the games when the other players led him away to a park to drink illicit beers.

Alan watched his games from afar, with his schoolbooks on his lap, and Eric-Franz-Greg nearby playing trucks or reading or gnawing on a sucker.

By the ninth inning or the final period, the young ones would be too tired to play, and they’d come and lean heavily against Alan, like a bag of lead pressing on him, eyes half open, and Alan would put an arm around them and feel at one with the universe.

It snowed on the afternoon of the season opener for the town softball league that year, fat white wet flakes that kissed your cheeks and melted away in an instant, so soft that you weren’t sure they’d be there at all. Bradley caught up with Alan on their lunch break, at the cafeteria in the high school two blocks from the elementary school. He had his mitt with him and a huge grin.

“You planning on playing through the snow?” Alan said, as he set down his cheeseburger and stared out the window at the diffuse white radiance of the April noontime bouncing off the flakes.

“It’ll be gone by tonight. Gonna be warm,” Bradley said, and nodded at his jock buddies sitting at their long table, sucking down Cokes and staring at the girls. “Gonna be a good game. I know it.”

Bradley knew. He knew when they were getting shorted at the assayers’ when they brought in the golems’ gold, just as he knew that showing up for lunch with a brown bag full of dried squirrel jerky and mushrooms and lemongrass was a surefire way to end up social roadkill in the high school hierarchy, as was dressing like someone who’d been caught in an explosion at the Salvation Army, and so he had money and he had burgers and he had a pair of narrow-leg jeans from the Gap and a Roots sweatshirt and a Stussy baseball hat and Reebok sneakers and he looked, basically, like a real person.

Alan couldn’t say the same for himself, but he’d been making an effort since Bradley got to high school, if only to save his brother the embarrassment of being related to the biggest reject in the building—but Alan still managed to exude his don’t-fuck-with-me aura enough that no one tried to cozy up to him and make friends with him and scrutinize his persona close in, which was just as he wanted it.

Bradley watched a girl walk past, a cute thing with red hair and freckles and a skinny rawboned look, and Alan remembered that she’d been sitting next to him in class for going on two years now and he’d never bothered to learn her name.

And he’d never bothered to notice that she was a dead ringer for Marci.

“I’ve always had a thing for redheads,” Bradley said. “Because of you,” he said. “You and your girlfriend. I mean, if she was good enough for you, well, she had to be the epitome of sophistication and sexiness. Back then, you were like a god to me, so she was like a goddess. I imprinted on her, like the baby ducks in Bio. It’s amazing how much of who I am today I can trace back to those days. Who knew that it was all so important?”

He was a smart kid, introspective without being moody. Integrated. Always popping off these fine little observations in between his easy jokes. The girls adored him, the boys admired him, the teachers were grateful for him and the way he bridged the gap between scholarship and athleticism.

“I must have been a weird kid,” he said. “All that quiet.”

“You were a great kid,” Alan said. “It was a lot of fun back then, mostly.”

“Mostly,” he said.

They both stared at the girl, who noticed them now, and blushed and looked confused. Bradley looked away, but Alvin held his gaze on her, and she whispered to a friend, who looked at him, and they both laughed, and then Alan looked away, too, sorry that he’d inadvertently interacted with his fellow students. He was supposed to watch, not participate.

“He was real,” Bradley said, and Alan knew he meant Davey.

“Yeah,” Alan said.

“I don’t think the little ones really remember him—he’s more like a bad dream to them. But he was real, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Alan said. “But he’s gone now.”

“Was it right?”

“What do you mean?” Alan said. He felt a sear of anger arc along his spine.

“It’s nothing,” Billy said, mumbling into his tray.

“What do you mean, Brad?” Alan said. “What else should we have done? How can you have any doubts?”

“I don’t,” Brad said. “It’s okay.”

Alan looked down at his hands, which appeared to belong to someone else: white lumps of dough clenched into hard fists, knuckles white. He made himself unclench them. “No, it’s not okay. Tell me about this. You remember what he was like. What he… did.”

“I remember it,” Bryan said. “Of course I remember it.” He was staring through the table now, the look he got when he was contemplating a future the rest of them couldn’t see. “But.”

Alan waited. He was trembling inside. He’d done the right thing. He’d saved his family. He knew that. But for six years, he’d found himself turning in his memory to the little boy on the ground, holding the loops of intestine in through slippery red fingers. For six years, whenever he’d been somewhere quiet long enough that his own inner voices fell still, he’d remember the hair in his fist, the knife’s thirsty draught as it drew forth the hot splash of blood from Davey’s throat. He’d remembered the ragged fissure that opened down Clarence’s length and the way that Davey fell down it, so light and desiccated he was almost weightless.

“If you remember it, then you know I did the right thing. I did the only thing.”

“We did the only thing,” Brian said, and covered Alan’s hand with his.

Alan nodded and stared at his cheeseburger. “You’d better go catch up with your friends,” he said.

“I love you, Adam,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

Billy crossed the room, nodding to the people who greeted him from every table, geeks and jocks and band and all the meaningless tribes of the high school universe. The cute redhead sprinkled a wiggle-finger wave at him, and he nodded at her, the tips of his ears going pink.