Mr. Alarcon lived in a little brick ranch-style house on the other side of the neighborhood. He was a crusty old Italian guy who had immigrated to the US back in the thirties. He still talked with a heavy accent. He was an all right guy, for the most part, and we all liked him.
He lived in the house with his sister Irma and a giant dog that had once eaten a live squirrel in front of three screaming kids. It just left the furry tail kind of wagging itself on the front lawn. The kids were never the same. Neither was the squirrel.
The hornet's nest was on the back of his garage and had been there since early spring, and it just kept getting bigger and bigger. Jimmy Dills, who was Tommy's little brother, was only about three and a half and had been stung about seven times one day during the summer. His back swelled up so much it looked like he was carrying a basketball around under his shirt.
But we were more careful than that. We'd hucked rock after rock at that nest and had never gotten stung once. Of course, we could run a lot faster than a three and a half year old.
That day, as we walked, we planned our daring escapade with great precision. Chris ran home and grabbed a Mason jar full of kerosene from the garage, and I tore off part of an old rag I'd found back in the new house. The plan was that we would soak the rag in the kerosene, light it with one of the remaining matches, and throw it at the nest, which would then go up in smoke.
Only, it didn't happen that way.
When I pulled the rag out of the jar, Bob lit it with the match. I didn't have time to throw it anywhere before it became a giant ball of fire.
We stood there in shock as the fire made its way rapidly toward the garage. "Hurry!" was all I had to say before everyone was stomping and kicking at the fire to try and put it out. In the confusion, however, the jar of kerosene got knocked over and the fire was out of control.
When the fire trucks arrived, we were ten blocks away, panting and puffing with enough adrenaline and terror pumping through us to kill a bull elephant. Even that far away, we could see the black smoke billowing into the heavens like a genie coming out of an evil magic lamp.
None of us said anything for a long time. No one had to. Everyone knew we were in big league trouble.
We stood there for several minutes like five quaking aspens being blown feverishly by the wind, transfixed by the ebony cloud that loomed ominously on the horizon of our lives.
"What are we going to do?" Bob finally asked with a nervous whimper. "We're going to jail, man, we're going to jail!"
Chris agreed, shaking his head anxiously. "Geez! We've really done it this time! We're in so much trouble."
My brother just cried, and loudly.
"Listen," I said authoritatively. "We can't tell anybody about this. If we do, we're going to jail for sure. We've got to keep quiet. So far, nobody knows it was us. If we don't tell, nobody will ever know."
Rick nodded profusely. "He's right! If we tell anybody we did this, we're toast! We've got to promise that nobody will talk!"
Looking at each other in that instant I realized how well we banded together when the chips were down. The only one we really had to worry about was my brother.
"You won't tell, will you bro?" I said. The other guys looked at him threateningly.
He eeked out an "I won't tell" that seemed to placate everyone but Bob. Bob was naturally very suspicious, and when it comes to little kids, he trusted them about as far as he could drop them. "You tell, kid, and you're history," he shouted, sticking his finger in my brother's chest. "You understand?"
I stepped between them. "Leave him alone, Bob. He's just a little kid. He won't tell, will ya?"
I flashed a loving but stern smile.
"I won't tell," he whispered.
And he didn't. When mom told us the news that night at the dinner table, he gave an Academy Award winning, virtuoso performance in his portrayal of the surprised son. "You're kidding!" he said with seemingly sincere amazement and wide eyes. "How did it happen?" He was magnificent.
"Mr. Alarcon said he thinks it probably happened because he stored a lot of gas and old rags in there," said mom.
"Was anybody hurt?" asked dad.
I swallowed hard and shoved a big piece of cauliflower in my mouth. Looking over at my brother I saw that he had done the same. I really didn't want to hear the answer to that question.
"Not from what I hear," mom replied. "But Mr. Alarcon's car was burned up."
Mr. Alarcon had the nicest '49 Packard Station Sedan that was ever made. It had white-wall tires all around its woodie frame and the standard Packard hood ornament on the front. He used to take us for rides around town on Sunday afternoons. To him, that car was more like a member of the family than just a vehicle. He was the original owner.
"Oh, not the Packard," said my dad, who was himself a car enthusiast. "What a shame. That thing was beautiful."
I looked at my brother. He looked back at me. We both looked down at our dinner, sick with guilt. Neither one of us looked up again until we'd choked down the mint chocolate chip ice cream mom had given us for dessert. It was my favorite, but for some reason, that night it just didn't taste the same.
Coming soon - Part IV
No comments:
Post a Comment