Now on to the scene!
Okay, so, I am
prefacing all my posts with saying I am currently hiking the Santiago Trail in
Spain with my parents, 570 miles over 30 days, firstly because it’s so cool and
secondly because my thoughts might be a bit scattered!
So this is the
opening scene from the original version of the book, which was written from
Amity’s perspective. What an opening line! : )
Three months
before the world ended, at least for the Cresswells, I moved to Almsrand, New
York.
As my dad and I
drove into Almsrand from Greater Binghampton Airport, he rolled the radio dial
back and forth between two stations—one was a sleazy
chat station and the other was a religious sermon. I followed the wires winding
from the mouth of the radio to a black box beneath my seat.
“What is this?” I
nudged the box with my foot. My dad put his hand out to stop me.
The radio
crackled.
“…Ms.
Simmons again. She says she lost her cat. I didn’t have the heart
to tell her the damn thing’s been dead for
years. Should I send someone over?”
My dad raised his
eyebrows at me and turned up the volume so the sound filled the car.
“Last time we sent someone, she attacked them with a
baseball bat. Thought they were a burglar.”
“That was you, wasn’t it, Roy? Huh-huh.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“She’ll forget about the cat.”
I couldn’t help
it; I laughed. “What in the world was that?”
“It's nothing…it’s a police scanner.” He tugged at the
tufts of hair behind his ear.
“Wait. You have a
police scanner and I don’t even have a cell phone?”
“You don’t need a
cell phone. You just think you need a cell phone.” My dad was always telling me
what I thought, as if I might not know.
“I would argue
that it might come in handy in an emergency, but obviously you have that
covered.” I motioned to the radio. “Is this how you spent your summer? Spying
on your neighbors?”
“It’s all part of the job.”
“Oh? And what job
would that be?”
“The legal
consultancy,” dad said, glancing sidelong at me like he expected disapproval. “I
told you and Aunt Haley about it on the phone, remember?” I had spent the
summer in Georgia with my Aunt Haley, who blamed my dad for everything from the
state of my hair to the way I said ‘grace.’
“Don’t you have to
have a degree to practice law?” I said, repeating what Aunt Haley had said to
him.
“It’s a
consultancy, Amity. I’m not representing people in court. There’s a difference
between actual laws and what people think are laws.”
“Well, I’m pretty
sure this is against the law,” I said, indicating the radio. “And inadmissible
in—”
“Cresswell again, the blonde one, at the gas station on
Idlefield Road. He has this…thing on his mouth. I think it’s infected. I
don’t know what to do with these kids anymore.”
My dad slid
forward in his seat.
“What’s a ‘Cresswell’?”
I said, but he turned the volume up so high it drowned out my voice.
“I thought their daddy was supposed to be a healer?”
One of the voices mumbled
something unintelligible.
“That man gets to me, something about that man gets to
me.”
“Armand says the kid stole a tree tap. Says it’s the
fourth time this summer.”
“Where’s the kid?”
“Where do you think? Off in the trees.”
I scanned the
forest outside the windows, trying to spot a blonde runaway between the
sunburnt maples and the pines.
“I’m just going to
stop and fill up,” my dad said, pumping the brake. I saw a sign for Idlefield
Road and beyond it, I could make out the white peaks of the cookie cutter
houses along Main Street.
“Don’t you think
you should leave it to the police?” I said as we pulled underneath the awning
at the gas station. A police car was parked sideways at the edge of the woods,
like it had frozen mid-pursuit.
My dad touched his
finger to his lips and switched off the radio. Then he stepped out of his truck
like he was just filling his tank. I rolled my eyes but craned forward in my
seat.
The Great American
was one of those picturesque country stores, with fresh-cut wood walls and
Dutch windows. A police officer leaned against the candy counter, talking to
the shopkeeper, but the shopkeeper wasn’t paying him much attention; he was
staring out at the trees like he expected them to have an opinion.
The parking lot
was deserted except for a thin, sallow-skinned woman stretched out on the
pavement underneath a bench. Her top half was in the shade but her legs were
all akimbo in the sunshine.
The police officer saw my dad and strode out,
pulling up his police belt like he had been enlisted to solve the crime of the
century. His nametag read ‘Officer Dell Hardy.’
“Mitchell Sawyer.”
Officer Hardy’s lips spread. “What are you doing out here?”
“Filling the
tank,” Dad said, making no move toward the pump. “Everything okay out here?”
Officer Hardy’s
head did a quick swivel, taking in the empty parking lot and the destitute
woman sprawled across the concrete. “I got a call from Armand; one of the
Cresswell kids wandered in. He was walking up and down the aisles and reading
all the packets, you know, all of
them. Armand thought he was bored. You know how they are, those kids, bored stupid.
Armand almost didn’t catch him slipping it in his sweatshirt, but he’s got that
mirror now.
“The kid tried to
book it, but Armand blocked the door and called us up. Armand tried to talk him
down, I guess, but he said the kid wouldn’t say nothing, just kept pacing up
and down the aisle like a caged animal. Then he made a break for it. When I
pulled up, he was streaking across the parking lot, so I jumped out of the car
and caught him by the sleeve, but his sweatshirt tore and he got away. That’s
when I saw the thing on his face.” He pointed to his own lip to demonstrate. “So
much for good kids, right? I thought they were supposed to be God’s own angels
or something.”
Sunlight blanked
out my dad’s spectacles as he peered out into the space between the trees.
“So it was
Mortimer?” my dad said. “The white hair?”
“I don’t know
which one it was. I can’t tell them kids apart. He said something to me, when I
grabbed him. You know, in their imaginary language. Spooky, that stuff.”
My dad reached
into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. “Give this to Armand.”
Officer Hardy held
up his hand. “Officer Tulle is on his way down here.”
“Don’t tell Officer Tulle about it, give the
money to Armand. I’m not asking you to take it.”
Officer Hardy
tucked the money in his front pocket as my dad climbed back into the truck. He
didn’t seem to notice that my dad hadn’t filled his tank.
“Hey, Mitch!”
Officer Hardy fiddled with his belt. “Don’t go down there.”
Thank
you so much for having me!
