The Lost Boys Read online

  Grandpa opened the door to the refrigerator. Inside, hanging from the middle shelf, was a hand-lettered cardboard sign bearing the words old fart.

  “Second shelf is mine.’’ Grandpa pointed at the sign for emphasis. “Keep my root beer and double-thick Mint Oreo cookies here. Nobody touches the second shelf.”

  Grandpa closed the door and waved for the two of them to follow again. Michael glanced out the window as he turned to continue the guided tour. He recognized a small green bush growing by the comer of the house. A small green marijuana bush. This, he thought, could explain a lot. He nudged his brother and pointed to his discovery.

  Sam shook his head and looked back at Michael, puzzled.

  Younger brothers! Didn’t they know anything? Michael pressed his forefinger and thumb together, then put them to his lips, inhaling deeply.

  Grandpa had already disappeared into the living room. They had to hurry to keep up. On the far side of the room their mother was carting one last load of clothes upstairs.

  Michael caught up with his grandfather first. The old man had been silent since he had issued his instructions at the refrigerator. He seemed to be better at leading around than at talking. Michael realized that Grandpa might be as uncertain of how to react to them as they were around him. He supposed it made sense. Their father and grandfather had never gotten along, so Grandpa had always stayed away. They had hardly seen each other in years.

  Michael cleared his throat. He wasn’t going to be able to stay in a house with a guy who never talked. Maybe he should be the one to start the conversation going. Besides, there were things about this town he had to find out.

  He told his grandfather about the spray-painted sign he had seen on the back of welcome to santa carla.

  Grandpa grunted in response.

  Well, that didn’t start anything. Michael decided to try a more direct approach.

  “Is Santa Carla really the murder capital?”

  Grandpa paused and nodded. “Got some bad elements around here.”

  “Wait a minute.” Sam tugged at Michael’s sleeve. “Wait. I want to get one thing straight. We have moved to the murder capital of the world?”

  He pushed past Michael to get to the source.

  “Are you serious, Grandpa?”

  Their grandfather scratched absently at his mustache. “Well, let me put it this way: If all the corpses buried around here were to stand up, we’d have a population problem.”

  Sam and Michael looked at each other again. The situation in Santa Carla was not improving.

  “Now,” their grandfather continued, “when the mailman brings the TV Guide on Wednesdays, sometimes the comer of the address label will curl up. You’ll be tempted to peel it off. Don’t. You’ll end up ripping the cover, and I don’t like that.”

  He walked into the stuffed-animal room and turned to face them.

  “And stay outa here.”

  “You have a TV?” Sam asked, hope springing anew.

  “No.” Grandpa shook his head. “I just like to read TV Guide. Read the TV Guide, you don’t need a TV.”

  And with that he shut the door.

  They had managed to all sit down and eat dinner without having a fight. That was a positive sign. And Sam had given up the room with only a couple minutes of shouting. Michael had to admit that they were settling in here fairly well.

  Sam was in the living room, trying to set up the stereo. Every once in a while a note or two would blast into the kitchen before Sam lost it again. Nanook wandered into the living room to bark encouragement.

  His mother handed Michael a just washed platter for him to dry. They were alone in the kitchen, just quietly doing the dishes. He rubbed hard at the large plate, his dish towel squeaking along the rim. Maybe it would work here, after all. He’d thought about this all afternoon as he got his room in order. Maybe this was the place he’d really get control of what he wanted to do, who he wanted to be. Maybe Santa Carla would be the fresh start their mother had been talking about, after all.

  He’d made another decision this afternoon too. He put the platter down at the back of the dish rack. There’d be no better time to tell her than now.

  “Mom,” Michael began. “I think I’d like to get a job.”

  His mother looked up from the sink, a question in her eyes. She didn’t ask it.

  “School’s only a few weeks away,” she mentioned.

  He took another plate from her hands. He dried it for a moment before he spoke again. “I was thinking of not going back to school.”

  The stereo kicked to life in the other room. His mother frowned at Michael. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. What was the song playing in the other room? It was another oldie.

  Sam rushed into the room with Nanook close behind.

  “Come on, Mom!” he yelled. “The sixties live again! It’s Pony time!” He grabbed their mother’s hand and pulled her away from the sink.

  Michael remembered to breathe again. Saved by the song. What was that music? “Land of a Thousand Dances”? Something like that. He couldn’t remember. It was whatever song had that Na-nananana stuff in it. The lyrics didn’t make much sense. What exactly was the Mashed Potato, anyway?

  Mom and Sam boogied all over the kitchen, while Nanook barked for emphasis. The two of them danced in his direction, reaching out to drag him in.

  Michael shook his head and backed away. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do. But he really didn’t feel much like dancing.

  Five

  The night was alive. Michael had never seen anything like it. The beach was full of people. There were bonfires everywhere, almost to the edge of the boardwalk. And every bonfire seemed to have attracted a hundred kids who bounced around the flames like moths.

  Michael walked around the edge of the crowd. He and Sam had escaped from the house just after “Night of a Thousand Dances,” before his mother could ask any more questions. How could he explain to her how important it was for him to change his life? If that meant leaving school behind and getting a job, he was ready to do it. But he knew that kind of thinking didn’t fit in with his mother’s “values,” the sort of things she always said she “expected from her sons.” He didn’t think she’d ever understand.

  Rock music blasted all around them. A band played up ahead on a makeshift stage, their songs mixing with noise from a dozen boom boxes around the bonfires. Michael’s feet hit the sand in time with the beat. He was glad he didn’t have to do any explaining yet. It was good just to be outside. It was time he and Sam found out about Santa Carla for themselves.

  A young blond girl almost ran into them. She laughed and waved as she ran away, leaping over a prone couple who seemed to be very involved with each other. Whether or not it was the “murder capital,” it sure was a lot wilder than Phoenix. And Michael decided he liked it. He wanted to look everywhere, to see and hear everything.

  Michael shook his head as the crowd shouted with a song, a noise so loud that it almost set his ears ringing. There were so many people. He was sure some of them were runaways and drifters, just looking for a good time. A few of those might be trouble, he imagined. With a crowd like this there were bound to be some drug dealers too. He wondered if that mix of drifters and drugs could make this the “murder capital.”

  He probably would never know. Michael decided it wasn’t worth worrying about. He doubted anything really violent could happen out on the beach. There were too many people, all of them moving, jumping, dancing to the constant beat. It was almost like a tribal thing, a huge crowd all together as one. Maybe, Michael thought, that’s why this place attracted so many ex-hippies. Maybe that was even why his Woodstock-era mother had brought them here.

  Michael had to stop to let his brother catch up. Sam scuffed his new shoes in the sand. He didn’t seem to be having a good time at all. It had taken him five minutes before he left the house to make sure his hair was just right, that his clothes were just the right combination of Matthew Broderick and Judd Nelson. Now, Michael was sure, he was all too aware of all the other teenagers jumping and shouting. It was a wild crowd, dressed for summer and the beach, wearing everything from skimpy bathing suits to sweatshirts and jeans. There was only one way they weren’t dressed: There didn’t seem to be a brat-packer among them. Sam looked like he came from another world.

  Sam stared down at the sand. “Wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face,” he muttered.

  Michael laughed. His brother had been traumatized by too much life in junior high. “Will you stop worrying about your clothes?’ ’

  Sam pulled absently at the pleat of his trousers. “Just because you buy yours by the pound.”

  Michael tugged on his brother’s arm and led him up a set of stairs close to the stage. He was going to get to the center of the action, and he wasn’t going to let his little brother’s moping slow him down. The music was even louder here. It seemed to surround them. Michael could feel the drums pound through the sandy stairs. The wailing guitars pressed against his bare face and arms. He shut his eyes and could feel the singer’s words behind his eyelids, lie swayed back and forth, carried away as the music flowed through his muscles; the beat pumped blood through his veins.

  He opened his eyes and looked out over the crowd. Everybody was moving, laughing, having fun. Yeah, Michael thought. What could be better than this?

  That was when he saw her.

  Her long, dark hair cascaded in ringlets around her beautiful face and brushed softly against her bare shoulders. She was dressed all in lace, like a gypsy, or a girl from a fairy tale. Her clothes might look ordinary on some other girl. On her, well—Michael had to remember to breathe.

  He had never seen anyone like her before. There had been girls in Phoenix, but they had just been girls. How could he describe it? Everything about her was just right.

  She was in the middle of the crowd, but Michael couldn’t see anyone but her. It was as if they were the only two people truly alive, really listening to the music, as if the thousand others around them had just been put here for show. When she danced, she was dancing just for him. When she smiled that sweet, sad smile, Michael knew just what she felt.

  Sam said something behind him. He couldn’t really hear the words. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was a tightness in his chest as he watched her, but it was a wonderful tightness.

  And then she looked at him, straight into his eyes. Michael knew, in that instant, he had not been fooling himself. She saw something in him, too, something that she needed. It was plain in her eyes, the way her forehead creased, the way her mouth opened just so.

  Michael smiled at her. She looked away for a second, then met his gaze again. Michael felt she wanted to smile too. Why didn’t she?

  She looked away again and grabbed the hand of a sandy-haired boy who was even younger than Sam by a couple years. Michael guessed he might be ten or eleven. He had the same sad face as the girl, probably brother and sister. She turned and pulled the youngster into the crowd.

  “Sam!” Michael yelled.

  “Huh?” His brother looked away from the rock band. Michael grabbed hold of Sam’s arm and started to run for the spot where the girl disappeared. He ignored his brother s protests, content for the moment to drag him along. After all, how could Michael explain, especially to a younger brother, that he had just found his reason for living?

  Six

  It certainly was festive here. Bright lights, restaurants, and stores open until all hours of the night. It was quite a change from Phoenix.

  Lucy hoped that it was the right kind of change. Not just for her but for the boys. They had been through so much with the divorce. Both of them were smart; she knew that. And both of them were pretty sensible, too, most of the time. But she was pretty sure that Michael, especially, still had some emotions locked up inside of him that he just wasn’t letting out. She just hoped he could find some way to express those feelings without hurting himself.

  Well, he was almost grown now. She really couldn’t keep him too close to the nest anymore. He had to try things on his own. That’s why she had let the two boys go down to the Boardwalk so soon, to get a sense of their new home and maybe unwind some of those tensions they still held inside. Besides which, she made the two of them promise to stay together. It was safer that way. She figured, even at the worst of times, they had enough common sense to keep at least one brain working between the two of them.

  But that big old house of her father’s had seemed awfully quiet once the boys had left. Grandpa had retreated to the taxidermy room to stuff his animals. There was no TV; she really didn’t feel like reading. Besides, it was a nice summer night, perfect for a walk.

  She decided it was time to get reacquainted with Santa Carla. She changed into a soft blue summer blouse and khaki skirt and went for a stroll on the pier.

  The sound of rock and roll power chords drifted from the distant beach. There was a rock band playing out there tonight on the edge of the Boardwalk, with maybe a thousand kids watching them, including, she imagined, her sons. That was nice. Sam and Michael should really enjoy themselves.

  She was just as glad she wasn’t there herself. Once, she had loved being the center of all that noise and action. Now it just made her ears hurt. She laughed softly to herself. Aversion to rock bands. One of the first signs of old age.

  These days, the so-called “pier” was more her speed. It was actually a street of shops and restaurants, built on a wide, wooden platform over the water. She was surprised at the diversity of the places out here now. When she was a girl, there had been nothing but bars and places to buy things that bore the legend “Souvenir of Santa Carla” but were actually made in Hong Kong. Since then (and Lucy realized it had probably been twenty years), the pier had gone upscale. Oh, some of the places along here now were still tourist traps, but some of them were quite nice; a bit overpriced, perhaps, because of their location, but many were actually filled with interesting crafts and useful clothing.

  She’d have to come back here when she had more money.

  // she ever had more money. Lucy sighed. It was her first night back in Santa Carla. She needed time to settle in. She really shouldn’t have to worry about jobs, money, and real life. Not yet. Leave it for tomorrow and the daylight.

  A small crowd had gathered nearby, listening to a speaker ol some sort. She wandered over toward the entertainment, Imping it would take her mind off other things.

  “You will be saved!’’

  She stopped at the edge of the crowd. A scrawny man i ailed to the crowd from the front steps of a store that had dosed for the night. He was dressed in bell-bottoms and a laded, flowered shirt, as if, Lucy thought, he hadn’t changed his clothes in twenty years. His long, lank hair fell in his lace as he shouted.

  “All of you! Saved”—he lurched across the steps, his right hand waving aloft—“from the sin of Santa Carla! Saved! All of you! All of you!”

  The old hippie paused, uncertain, as if he had memorized his speech and had temporarily lost his place. Lucy still watched him, but her mind was elsewhere.

  We all used to look like that once, she thought. How out of place this unwashed, half-crazed man looked now. How much we’ve all changed. For better or worse, most of us had moved on from the late sixties, left the drugs and free love and protest marches behind. And life wasn’t any the worse for it, really. It was just different.

  The old hippie walked back and forth across the step, mumbling softly to himself, as if moving might jar his memory. Lucy had seen far too many people like him before. Maybe he had taken a few too many acid trips. Or maybe he was one of those who couldn’t accept that the world had changed, whose mind could only hold on to one sliver of time when things seemed right. Whatever had done it, most of his brain seemed to be gone. What little was left seemed to have turned to religion, at least after a fashion.

  “Confront your sins!” The hippie smiled at the crowd. “That’s what it is! What you have to do!” He turned and pointed, straight toward Lucy. “Santa Carla, you can still be saved!”

  The couple standing next to her looked her way. Lucy shrugged. “I think I used to date that guy.”

  The couple laughed and walked away. Lucy turned to continue her exploration of the pier. She stopped at a kiosk covered with notes and flyers. Apartments for rent, boats for hire, self-realization seminars, missing children, but no notes saying “Help Wanted.” Just how hard was it going to be to find a job around here?

  “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice called softly past Lucy’s shoulder. Lucy stepped out of the way and watched a thin woman tape a new flyer over the others. There was a picture of a large man and the words:

  MISSING

  Security Guard Edward Winowski, also known as “Big Ed”

  Lucy didn’t read any further. The thin woman had two small children with her. She guessed that the man in the picture must be their father. What could have happened to him? Could he have run away from his family?

  The thin woman looked up at Lucy as she walked past. Her eyes were so sad. Maybe, Lucy thought, there were worse things than getting divorced and moving away from everything you’ve known for the last seventeen years. She hoped the woman and her children would be all right.

  Lucy stopped in front of a restaurant. There was a help-wanted sign in the window. Maybe there was a job here, after all. Still, she’d have to be cautious. She walked over to take a closer look. From what she had heard about the employment situation around here, a place might have to have real problems to have any kind of a job opening at all.

  There was a child crying near the sign. It was a young boy, maybe three or four. He looked very lost.

  Lucy squatted down beside him. She asked the boy what his name was. He just kept on crying. She asked him if his parents were around. No response, only tears.

  Lucy looked around. She’d bet the parents were somewhere nearby. There was a well-lit store right next to the restaurant, a place with a bright neon sign that read MAX’S video. Maybe the boy had just wandered out of there.