The Trap Read online

  “Henry, I think when Carl punched you it made your ears stick out more,” said Helen.

  “What? No,” I said. I pushed at my ears, which I was always a little self-conscious about.

  “You’re gonna have a black eye tomorrow,” said Alan.

  “Henry, was that the first time you’ve ever been hit?” said Nicki.

  “You threw up,” Alan observed.

  “Let’s stop talking about me for a second,” I said, and then added, Burrrrp!

  “I’m sorry, you guys,” said Alan. “I know Carl can be a jerk. But he’s my brother.” Burp.

  “He has really been extra bad this summer”—bellllch!—said Helen.

  “And he didn’t show up for practice yesterday,” said Alan.

  Carl was a senior at Johnson High, and on the varsity baseball team. He was a great hitter, and a great first baseman—like Alan. They took after their dad, who’d been a pitcher in the majors, playing for the Twins until he hurt his back a few years ago. All to say, baseball is huge in their family. And even though it was just an off-season practice and didn’t count for much, it was pretty surprising that Carl would miss it.

  “Does your dad know?” Helen asked.

  “Doubt it,” said Alan, shaking his head. Alan’s dad wasn’t very interested in stuff. Like, not really interested in life at all beyond watching baseball on TV. His back bothered him, so he spent most of his time on the couch in their living room. But he did care about his kids. He’d be concerned if he knew Carl was skipping baseball.

  “Who do you think this Abe guy is, Alan?” Nicki interjected. “And what are they doing out there in the woods?”

  “Aside from reading science fiction books,” said Helen, frustrated that we hadn’t found any real clues.

  “I wish I could find that notebook again,” said Alan. “There was an address there, maybe the person Carl was spying on.”

  Just then, a noise came from the living room.

  Helen and I knew the sounds of our house really well, and she was quick to respond. She leaped from her chair saying, “Gottago,” and she was gone, the screen door slamming behind her only after she’d jumped on her bike outside. She was too fast for me. I was still halfway through recognizing the sound as Dad getting up from the living room couch. I hadn’t even got to thinking about how this meant he’d be working a shift at the rail yard tonight with Mom. And that being the case, he’d want Helen and me to make dinner to put in the fridge for when they got back. Consequently, as usual, Helen had left me to do it myself.

  Dad came through the kitchen door and saw me, Alan, and Nicki sitting around the table, all of us looking after Helen.

  “Hello, Mr. Nilsson,” said Nicki and Alan together.

  My dad is a tall, thin guy with blond hair in a crewcut. He used to be in the army, and he told me once, as a joke I think, that the army has a way of cutting your hair so it never grows again. Ever since he got back from serving in Korea he’s had this super-short hair. His ears stick out, too, kind of like mine. I got that from him.

  A couple of expressions passed across Dad’s face as he looked at us, one on the heels of the next. First, he was obviously about to tell me to cook dinner. He always did this in a stern way, because once I’d whined that I didn’t want to, and now I thought he always expected me to complain. But this expression vanished in favor of a surprised look, as he saw my punched eye. He squinted like he did sometimes when the car wouldn’t start—focusing in on an unwelcome problem.

  “It wasn’t my fault, Dad—” I began, which is a really bad way to start explaining something. Why is it that when you say it’s not your fault, it sounds like it is?

  “You were fighting,” said Dad. There was no denying it. All three of us were pretty banged up. “You two go on home,” Dad said to Nicki and Alan, gesturing at the door.

  They stood, both glancing at me empathetically. “See you tomorrow,” said Alan.

  “See you later, Henry,” said Nicki.

  They left, the screen door letting in a puff of hot air from outside as it closed behind them, and Dad and I were alone.

  This was potentially serious. Nothing made Dad angrier than fighting. He had absolutely forbidden Helen and me to fight, ever, no matter what. It had been his position since he got back from Korea. The first day he came home after his tour ended, he hugged us both right here in the kitchen and said, “Neither of you is ever to fight, and neither of you is to join the military. Do I make myself clear?” Those were the first words he said to us. Only later did he tell us that he’d missed us, and loved us.

  I have no idea what happened to Dad during the war. He’s never talked about it, but it all made a very bad impression on him. He didn’t want anyone to ever fight about anything for the rest of all eternity.

  Dad sat at the table with me, and he didn’t say anything for a second.

  “Thanks for getting soda,” I said. Here’s the thing about my dad—he gets angry easily, but not always. It’s unpredictable, so it’s worth it to see if you can do something to calm him down.

  Dad nodded, and I could tell he was glad for the thank-you. “Did the paper come?” he asked.

  Without a word I jumped from my seat and ran outside to check—and the paper was there, rolled in a rubber band and leaning against the bottom step. I picked it up and worked out the creases.

  There were three articles on the front page. One headline read, “Washington March Organizers Expect Peaceful Demonstration.” Another said, “Unions Gridlocked Over Rail Contract.” The third one said, “Noted Philanthropist Died Saturday.” Two of these were not going to be of interest to Dad. And the one about the union didn’t sound promising.

  Dad took the paper from me and mumbled under his breath as he stood and headed to the living room—telling me to make dinner and put it in the fridge, because he had a late shift with Mom.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t gotten mad. But after I thought about it for a second, I realized there was still some peril here for me and Helen. Dad knew we’d been fighting, and he’d surely tell Mom, and probably get riled up again unless I could provide a decent explanation.

  So, even though I didn’t want to, I followed him into the living room. He was sitting on the couch across from the TV set, just starting to read the front page.

  “Um, Dad?” I said. “About the fight. I have to tell you.”

  He didn’t look up, but I knew his big scoop ears were hearing every word. “I didn’t fight at all,” I said. “I just got hit.”

  “That’s still fighting,” he replied, clearly not wishing to get further into it.

  “No,” I said. “It’s . . . um . . . nonviolent noncooperation.” I thought this was pretty clever, a term I’d picked up from the news recently about civil rights demonstrations in the South. “I swear, Dad, scout’s honor.” I raised my hand, though I’d never been a Scout.

  “Who hit you?” said Dad, lowering the paper and thus signifying his willingness to transfer his disapproval to my attacker. I felt weird admitting it was Carl, since he’s Alan’s brother and I didn’t want Alan to look bad. But there was nothing for it.

  “Carl Dunn,” I said.

  Dad frowned, then shook the paper and raised it again. “Dis-missed,” he said to me, like a drill sergeant. I turned and left the room, feeling sorry for Alan for having such a jerk brother, and still not exactly sure where things stood with my father.

  Dad wasn’t home for much longer than it took him to read the A section. Within thirty minutes he was passing back through the kitchen, dressed in his gray work outfit with the Burlington Northern logo on the pocket.

  I was, at that moment, looking at a recipe book in the kitchen, having cleared away the empty pop bottles. “What did the article say about the strike?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” said Dad. (It was amazing how often our newspaper said nothing, and yet my parents never canceled their subscription.)

  After Dad left, my thoughts stayed with him for a
while. He used to work full-time for the Burlington Northern Railroad as a fireman. You might think of a fireman as someone who puts out fires, but a fireman on a railroad is the opposite. He keeps a steam engine powered up on a steam locomotive. There weren’t so many steam locomotives these days, though—they were mostly diesel. So the company wanted to get rid of firemen, but the union contracts said firemen had to be part of crews. The company had reduced Dad to part time, working nights whenever he could get them. Now Mom, employed by the company as a night clerk, was earning most of the money for us, which wasn’t much. I knew it was stressful. They argued about money sometimes, and of course Helen and I had not gotten new bikes this year, and some other things.

  As I thought, I cooked. I decided to make chili. I emptied two cans of tomatoes and two cans of red beans into the crock pot and then added onions, carrots, ground beef, and plenty of chili powder—I’d heard spicy food helps you cool down on a hot day.

  Once the chili was simmering and the kitchen was full of good sneezy smells, I went into the living room. I lay on the couch, and my mind immediately returned to the fight. I remembered Helen yelling, and I remembered standing dumb while my opportunity passed. As I relived the humiliation, my ears felt hot and my eye throbbed.

  And then I did something that often helps me to feel a little better. I got a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote it all out. Only, I didn’t write it the way it happened. I wrote it the way I wished it had happened. In this version, Carl punched me but I wasn’t fazed. I came back quick with a sock to the nose and he fell over, crying, butt in the air. I put a foot on his neck, turned to Nicki, and said, “Wanna go to the dance?” Nicki batted her eyes at me . . .

  My pencil skidded and stopped. It was getting too unrealistic. I wished I was the kind of person who really could do stuff like that—take charge of the situation while it was happening, and not sit around wishing and dreaming hours later. If only, I thought to myself, I was more like my sister. I crumpled the paper, threw it at the trash can, and missed.

  It’s never been easy to be Helen Nilsson’s twin. Since day one, she’s been better than me at just about everything, save the most boring kinds of schoolwork. Sometimes people call us “the Nilsson Twins,” but just as often they call us “the Helen Twins.” I was glad Helen didn’t know I had a crush on her best friend. Because she would give me such grief. Make fun of me for sitting around thinking about it instead of doing something.

  The Fall Formal was coming up quick. Boys started asking girls during the first week of class, I’d heard. And I knew I wouldn’t be the only guy who thought Nicki was cute. Someone would ask her if I didn’t. And what made my procrastination seem even worse, I had the best opportunity of all, since she was my sister’s friend and I saw her all the time.

  I glanced at the wall clock, then went to the TV and turned it on. My favorite show, The Dead of Night, was on soon. I don’t know if you know that show, but it was a half-hour-long weekly series where strange things happened to people, sometimes terrifying things. Occasionally it was so scary I couldn’t sleep afterward, and yet I never missed an episode.

  The picture tube started warming up, which takes about a minute, the little dot at the center appearing first, and growing brighter before finally engulfing the whole screen. A science book I read a while ago talked about the Big Bang, which supposedly created everything. I imagine it being like a TV turning on—that little dot heating up and then, whammo, exploding into the show of the universe.

  As I waited, I remembered those books we’d taken, in my rucksack. I fetched them from the kitchen, but before I could begin looking through them, the sound came up on the TV and the screen filled. The Dead of Night was just starting, with its creepy intro: “You’re walking down a roadway in the forest, toward the graveyard, lost . . . in . . . the dead of night!”

  The episode this time was about a black man in the South who was taking a city bus really late, and it was just him and the driver, who was white. They got to talking, and the driver told the black guy he shouldn’t fight for civil rights, and should just accept the way things were. Then, when the bus stopped and the doors opened, the white guy stepped out, as if he was the passenger, and the black guy was suddenly the driver. Outside, everyone on the street was black. And there was segregation everywhere, but against white people—a drinking fountain labeled “Blacks Only,” and a hotel with a sign saying “Whites Use Service Entrance,” and other stuff. The white guy, in the end, was chased by a pickup truck full of drunk black guys. He disappeared down the road . . . into . . . the dead of night.

  I knew from school that the South was segregated, almost everywhere. Buses, restaurants, schools, everything. That’s why black people were coming in a few days to Washington D.C. for a big protest march. Here in Iowa, though, there wasn’t so much segregation like in the South. There was in a few places, like some stores, or funeral homes, but not restaurants, buses, or schools. Not most places. There were hardly any black people to segregate from, anyway. I’d only seen a few in my whole life.

  So, this episode of the show wasn’t particularly interesting to me. I preferred the ones where there was a deal with the devil, or space aliens. I really liked space aliens, and space in general.

  Last year President Kennedy started the Apollo project, to send a person to the moon. And after that maybe farther, to Mars, or even another star. Whenever someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said, “An astronaut.”

  Thinking about space reminded me of the books from the campsite, and I picked up the top one, Airman Crusader Versus the Centipede King. I opened the worn paper cover and started reading.

  “Airman Crusader, greatest of all airmen, strode forward, his pure white cap shining in the sun . . .” the story began.

  I read Airman Crusader Versus the Centipede King in one sitting. It was great. Airman Crusader and his fellow airmen hear about this secret potion that could make a person live forever. It was hidden on the planet of the centipede creatures, who were these disgusting bugs that drooled green poison from black fangs. The airmen decided they should steal the potion—that the centipedes shouldn’t be immortal, because they were evil. It would be better if the airmen were immortal, because they were the good guys. So they went to the centipede planet and broke into the centipede city, which was tunnels underground. The airmen killed the centipedes until they reached the throne room. They interrogated the king, who was as big as a building, and it turned out the centipedes didn’t have the potion—it had already been stolen by the bat creatures, who lived in a totally different part of the galaxy.

  Then the centipede king tried to stab Airman Crusader with his poison tail, but Crusader was quick and shot the king with a blaster. A big wave of goo squirted out of the massive king, which carried all of the airmen back to the surface. Then they flew their spaceship home.

  “Will Airman Crusader find the potion of immortality?” the narrator asked at the end. “Read Airman Crusader Versus the Bat Creatures to find out!”

  I wanted to read it immediately, but first I went to the kitchen, where the chili was simmering. In my mind the book played over, and I imagined that I was Airman Crusader, battling the evil and repulsive centipede creatures. As I divided the chili into servings, I imagined myself firing my blaster into the legion hordes of centipedes, bug legs flying everywhere. I put some of the chili in the fridge for Mom and Dad, some into a bowl for myself, and some in a Tupperware container for Helen, for whenever she got back from whatever she was doing (primarily avoiding cooking this chili).

  Since I was getting up early tomorrow for the first day of school, I decided to turn in and read awhile in bed. I carried the stack of paperbacks with me upstairs and put it on my bed. Then I changed into my pajamas, still imagining that I was fighting the inhuman hordes of centipedes, and brushed my teeth.

  Not much to say about my bedroom, which is pretty uninteresting. Aside from my bed there’s a linoleum-topped desk, a bookshelf, and a closet wi
th a full-length mirror on the door. I asked for my own record player for my birthday this year, but they’re expensive and I didn’t get one.

  If my room is full of anything at this time of year, it’s heat. Upstairs is always hotter than downstairs. I was sweating and I opened my window wide, and some slightly cooler air came in smelling of cedar (we have cedar shakes on the roof). I got into bed with just the sheet over me. It had been like this almost all summer, and I was more or less used to it.

  I turned on my reading light and moved the stack of books to my bedside table. I also turned on my radio (which is what I got for my birthday instead of the record player). The fuzzy music came on and I kept the volume low—I knew just how low it had to be to not annoy anyone. I like listening to the radio as I fall asleep. Elvis had a new song out called “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” that the station DJs sometimes played just before KRW went off the air. At the moment, “Rock Around the Clock” was playing.

  My eye throbbed painfully, reminding me of the fight, and in my mind’s eye I saw Carl looming up, his giant fist plunging at me.

  It hadn’t always been like this with him. He used to be kind of nice.

  I’d known Carl and Alan for about four years, ever since they moved to Farro. They’d sort of crash-landed in the mobile home up the road after their dad washed out of the major leagues. Carl was a freshman at the high school, and he started on the varsity team. Everyone in town who had even a passing interest in baseball knew about the Dunns, and about their dad Elmore in particular, who was kind of famous for having been a Native American pitcher.

  Helen and I biked past their place about a week after they moved in (riding the bikes we had then, mine blue and hers pink) to find Carl standing in the field out front, plotting a baseball diamond.