J. J. White

Chapter 1

 

One thing by itself rarely triggers a disaster.

Had the construction worker not dropped his banana peel between two boxes of the dynamite he loaded into a shed, the rat may not have gnawed on the wooden crate, thinking the wonderful aroma was inside and not between the boxes.

And had the rat not left a small pile of sawdust and wood shavings near the box of dynamite, then the bullet may have passed harmlessly into the wood floor of the construction shed.

And had the two seventeen-year-olds, Gavin Weaver and Steve Sinclair, actually hit their intended target, a curious skunk, then the bullet from Steve’s 22 would not have hit the shed, unintentionally creating a minute, smoldering fire of the rat’s wood shavings now creeping ever closer to the box of blasting caps, adjacent to sixty-five boxes of dynamite.

Dynamite that would alter Gavin’s life.

* * *

The cool morning air raced across Dennis Daley’s face as he maneuvered his English racing bicycle effortlessly over the small hills on Williston Road. With the Green Mountains behind him and the flat coast of Lake Champlain in front, he rapidly coasted downhill. The Bosch speedometer pegged its limit of sixty kilometers per hour as he traversed the last hill into South Burlington. He was returning to his point of origin, the elegant campus of the University of Vermont, in downtown Burlington.

This had been his exercise routine for the last four months. In April, he purchased the bright green Peugeot PX10 from Bove’s Cycle downtown. He told Tony Bove how he thought it strange that a French bicycle could be called an English Racer, but as Tony explained, Peugeot had all the latest technological advances of the English Racers used in tournaments throughout Europe in the 1961-62 racing season.

Dennis hesitated at the seventy-dollar price, but eventually capitulated when he saw the perfectly taped ram horn handlebars and the sophisticated derailleur.

Each weekend since taking ownership of the bike, Dennis set out from his apartment before sunrise for the excruciating trek from Burlington to Williston. The two-hour ride took a toll on his body. By the time he reached his turn-around point, his hamstrings ached. With the hard part of the journey finished, he rested ten minutes before heading back on the exhilarating downhill ride toward campus. The ride home would take only about thirty minutes, depending on the traffic.

Dennis had just crossed the city line between Williston and his hometown of South Burlington, when he passed Marie D’Acutti’s 1956 turquoise Studebaker, also heading toward Burlington. He smiled at her as he passed the car, then slowed and pulled over to the side of the road, hoping she might do the same. He was crazy about her for several reasons, not the least being that she stood only five feet tall, significant to his masculine pride considering he was only five-foot-four. Her other attributes, a good sense of humor, a great figure, and rich parents, certainly helped to peak his interest in her.

As he had hoped, Marie eased her car to the shoulder of the road, next to his bicycle. She flashed a contemptuous glare at him as if she were upset with him for passing her.

“The cops are going to give you a ticket if you don’t slow down, Mr. Daley.”

God, she’s cute.

“You’re the one the cops should ticket, Marie. That car can do over a hundred miles per hour and you never drive it past forty.”

He stooped over and stared at her through the window. She wore a man’s white long-sleeved dress shirt tied in a knot that exposed her midriff and lifted her breasts. She had on tight blue jeans, the cuffs rolled twice in the latest fashion. Her bare foot rested on a block of wood taped to the accelerator pedal. She probably couldn’t reach it any other way.

“What in the world are you sitting on?”

“Phonebooks. Father taped the block of wood to the pedal and Mother strapped three old phone books together for me to sit on. If we had more people in this cow-town, I’d only need one book.

“Just be happy you don’t live in Rutland. You’d need four books then.”

 “Ha—funny. Is that a new bike? It’s ugly as hell.”

“What do you know about bikes? It’s a Peugeot, the fastest French touring bike made. That’s why I passed you so easily.” He clicked the gear into first, hoping she’d notice the complicated derailleur. “What got you up so early, anyway?” he asked.

“I’m going downtown to the Free Press Building. Their delivery truck broke down so my brother asked me to drive into town and pick up the bundles for him. Are you headed back to your apartment?”

“Sure,” he said, excited by her intimation. “It’s tough riding toward Williston, but easy heading back.” He lowered his gaze to the road.  “Are—are you going to the shindig Friday at Fletcher Hall? I’ll be playing banjo on four of the songs.”

“I guess I might go. Is Nancy going to be there?”

“Uh, no, I don’t see why she would. I didn’t mention it to her. I’d like you to come if it’s okay with your parents.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, “as long as Nancy’s not.” She rubbed her index finger down his shirt. “Maybe I’ll come by your apartment later and say hello.”

Dennis smiled.

“Race you into town,” she said.

Dennis sped off on his bike toward the college. It took Marie about three minutes to catch up and pass him. As she drove by, she blared the horn and waved her arm excitedly.

At the crest of the last hill into South Burlington, he saw the airport. He thought of two years earlier, when Jack Kennedy shook his hand on the tarmac as the Massachusetts Senator passed through Burlington on his presidential campaign tour.

Dennis thought it was exciting that his country now had a president of Irish heritage. Dennis was the youngest of ten children in what must have been the most Irish-American family in Vermont. No one was prouder of Jack Kennedy’s accomplishments than Dennis’ mother, Louise. She had two pictures on her living room wall—a portrait of Jesus Christ, and a photograph of JFK.

He sped by Al’s French Fries and the Grinder House. Al’s opened after the war and seemed to be more popular with the teenage crowd every year. For fifty cents, Al sold you a paper cone of vinegar soaked fries and a coke. The Grinder House was better known to Dennis as the hangout where he and Nancy made out behind the building, more so than as the place to get the best submarine sandwiches in town.

He slowed the bike when he saw the roofs of the eighteenth century university buildings. To his left, about a quarter mile away, was the huge Interstate 89 construction site.

“A cloverleaf connection to Williston Road,” his father said. His mother called it, Ike’s tank road, because in her opinion, Eisenhower wanted it built to move his tanks from one end of the country to the other without stopping for any damn stoplights.

Two young men stood on top of a hill overlooking the site. They held what looked like BB guns, and were firing toward the construction area. It was a Saturday, so Dennis knew little harm would come from the boys’ mischief since there wouldn’t be any construction workers around to be peppered by the BB shot.

Just ahead, he saw the poplar and maple trees telling him he had reached his destination. He walked the bike toward the campus and his apartment.

* * *

The Little League game between the Braves and the Milton Reds was tied with one man on and no outs. South Burlington Braves manager Larry Lampson had no pitchers left in the bullpen. He called Charlie Lawton in from right field.

“Charlie, have you ever pitched?”

“No, sir,” Charlie said, staring down at his glove.

“Listen, son. Your dad said you’ve got a pretty good arm.

“My Dad said that?” Charlie eyes grew wide. He took the ball from his manager and squeezed it nervously. “I guess I can try, but I’m not sure I can reach home plate.”

“Just do your best, son. We don’t have much choice. They won’t let me pitch, that’s for damn sure. Now, throw it as hard as you can.”

Lampson walked off the field, shaking his head. Charlie had never felt so alone in the world than atop that mound with dozens of eyes on him. The batter stared impatiently.

The umpire stood up and yelled, “C’mon kid, throw the ball.”

The batter stepped out of the box to let Charlie throw a few practice balls to the catcher. All five throws fell well short of home plate. Charlie looked over to the dugout and saw his manager covering his face with his hands.

The umpire swept the plate, pointed to Charlie, and yelled, “Play ball!”

 Charlie checked the runner at first, went into his wind-up, and flung the ball as hard as he could toward home plate.

* * *

Gavin Weaver and Steve Sinclair stood on a hill overlooking the I-89 construction site and fired their 22s at anything that moved. They were unaware of the small fire in the shed Steve had caused with his earlier wayward shot.

“There it is again,” Steve said, pointing to a black blur near the shed. He took aim and fired three times. The dirt in front of the shed shot up where the bullets hit.

“That’s a cat, you idiot,” Gavin said. “You’re gonna kill some little girl’s pet.”

“It’s the skunk, wisenheimer. I think I know the difference between a skunk and a cat. Can you imagine what it’ll smell like down there if I hit it?”

“Yeah, it’ll smell like a dead cat.”

Gavin, like Steve, had finished his junior year at South Burlington High. A three-sport athlete, tall, square jawed, and blond, with the Irish good looks of his father. He knew he was bright, but had little enthusiasm for schoolwork. Though a C student, most of the faculty hoped he’d get accepted to UVM because of his athletic ability.

His proudest memory to date was going all the way with Carol Gero, the school’s head cheerleader. His fame for that feat, so far, overtook his heroics on the field. Steve was also popular, but not as gifted in sports as Gavin. Gavin knew Steve had also been with Carol, but still considered him his friend.

“What do you think of Sharon?” Gavin asked.

“Sharon who?”

“Sharon Blodgett. What other Sharon do you know?”

 “I dunno. She’s got big bazoobas and kind of a pretty face. Nose is kinda pointy. I guess she’s all right. Why? You like her or something?”

“Well, I dunno, Maybe a little bit. I think so anyway. I mean she’s great, you know. She’s really smart and smiles all the time. Did you ever notice that, how she smiles all the time? Even when she’s mad or surprised, she’ll smile. It’s really cute. And her teeth, they’re bright white so when she smiles it makes you want to smile with her.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And her head, it always bobs back and forth when she’s talking and—”

“Yeah, like a chicken.”

“No, you know what I mean. Like she’s keen on everything. Really listening to what’s going on, you know?”

“Jesum Crow, Gavin, you’re really hooked.”

“Naw —I just think I’d like to ask her out to a movie at the Flynn or something, that’s all.”

 “Aren’t you uckfaying Carol? She’s good looking, and she’s putting out. Why would you wanna give up Natalie Wood for Doris Day? Sharon won’t go to third base. Not a hell’s chance of that, dumb ass. Don’t be such a square. Sharon’s a brainiac. Stick with Carol.”

“Maybe I don’t want to. Besides, Carol’s not funny like Sharon. Sharon can make a joke out of anything.”

“Funny like Milton Berle funny, or what?”

“No, you know. Like if somebody trips or something she says something like, ‘Wow, that guy’s got feet like a duck.”

“Oh, hilarious.”

“Well she is to me. We were talking for a couple of hours yesterday and I almost asked her out then. I’m calling her tomorrow to see if she wants to go out with me.”

“Do what you want to, jerkwad. If you don’t want Carol, I know somebody who does—me.”

“I don’t care,” Gavin said. “You can have her.”

Steve sighted his rifle.

“It went behind the shed.” He fired twice, both shots hitting the window and shattering the panes. Black smoke poured out.

“See that smoke?” Gavin said. “It’s on fire. Why’d you do that? Somebody could be sleeping in that shed.”

“There’s nobody in there, dufus. If there was they would’ve woken up by now.”

Gavin laid on the ground, narrowed his eyes and studied the shed.

***

 

The fire hadn’t burned through the wooden box of blasting caps, but the heat from the blaze was just above the temperature needed for the closest cap to ignite, setting off a chain reaction of the other caps as well as the first box of dynamite. In seconds, all of the dynamite exploded.

Steve didn’t see the wooden shed disintegrate. One of the planks on the west side of the shed flew the hundred feet up the hill, decapitating him where he stood, his rifle still clutched in his hands.

Gavin, because of his prone position, also didn’t see the explosion. The mound of dirt directly below him transformed into a forty-foot wave of soil and rock, propelling him backward down a sixty-foot embankment, slamming the left side of his head against a large boulder blown out by the explosion.

* * *

Charlie Lawton couldn’t tell whether the ball he had just thrown to home plate made it all the way there or not. The shockwave of the explosion knocked him off the pitcher’s mound. He felt the ground heave upward a few inches as his face lay next to the white rubber strip. A few seconds later, the sound wave boomed over the field breaking car windows and all the bulbs in the field lights.

Charlie rolled over to see his entire Braves team also lying on the field in shock. Then all eyes turned to stare at the huge cloud of dirt and fire towering above the north end of the ballpark. Several parents ran to their cars and drove in the direction of the cloud that marked the horrific accident.

* * *

Dennis Daley was also knocked down to the ground when the dynamite exploded. Being much closer to the site, the sound hit simultaneously with the shockwave.

He saw an old man lying on the grass lawn in front of the First National Bank. The man’s arm shook as he pointed to the sky above Dennis.

Small rocks and dirt pelted the roof of the bank and the surrounding area. Dennis stood up and moved out from under the old poplar tree to get a better look at the shower, when a small black spot in the sky caught his attention. He stared at it, mesmerized by its speed.

Before he had time to react, a large boulder slammed into his body, rocketing him into the base of the tree. He fell forward onto the boulder, then rolled off it, landing face down on the sidewalk.

Dennis turned his head toward the Billings Library of the university he loved so much, and closed his eyes for the last time.

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