Period 8

.4



Logs pops a beer and walks back into the living room, punching Power on the remote, watching the oversized flat screen go black. The porch light casts warm stripes through the half-closed venetian blinds and he sits, insulated from school and the world. Lessons are planned, most of the town sleeps, nothing or no one but his cat, Gehrig, to talk with until morning. This is it. He won’t let himself go fallow, will swim with Paulie, or by himself when Paulie leaves. He’ll travel; maybe write. There was a time back in his twenties when he thought he could be a writer, maybe even as a living. But story after story, great idea after great idea, died in mid-telling. He simply didn’t know how to end any of them. Maybe now, he thinks, when I’m closer to my own ending, when I understand endings better.

He feels the light, acrobatic pressure of cat feet in his lap, takes a long swig of his beer, and strokes the tiny cat’s head. Gehrig is fifteen, can’t weigh more than six pounds. Black with white bib and mittens, long and lean as a javelin, this cat has been hit by a car, lost a chunk of shoulder to some neighborhood marauding animal, spent several nights locked in a neighbor’s shed, and, like his namesake, never missed a day (except for those locked in the shed) as Logs’s companion. He calls Gehrig and Gehrig comes. Like a dog. He’s hunted birds of his equal weight and left their remains on the living room rug as presents with maddening regularity.

Now Gehrig lies stretched like a tiny afghan across Logs’s legs, purring like logging equipment. His entire head fits in the cup of Logs’s hand and he massages between the ears to increasing vibrating decibels. “We’ve had a good run, don’t you think, buddy?” Logs asks. “Fixed more than we broke, maybe? Lent a hand up?”

Gehrig’s answer is his steady purr.



Hannah drives the back road home, deliberately avoiding city streets and forcing herself to concentrate. She’s got at least another hour of homework and it’s closing in on midnight. She pulls to the side of the road and screams “FUUUUUUCK!” at the top of her lungs, pounding her fists against the steering wheel. Then she takes a deep breath and pulls back onto the blacktop.

It’s only a few more miles to her house on this winding two-lane, but it’s starting to feel like a hundred, her eyelids drooping under the weight of crushing fatigue. Not much chance with homework tonight; maybe she can get up early enough to catch up. Or maybe charm someone into letting her copy. She punches the power knob on her satellite radio, cranks up the volume, and hops from station to station looking for the old stuff. The really old stuff. Logs old. She regularly torments friends and enemies alike singing lyrics to songs written at the very birth of rock and roll. Now she wails along, loud to keep herself awake and off-key because that’s her only choice:

Where oh where could my baby be . . .

She reaches for the volume to crank it even louder, looks up barely in time to veer around a B-movie apparition, a girl with flowing dark hair in a long white coat.

“What the hell?” She checks her rearview mirror, sees nothing, speeds about a hundred feet to a wide spot and flips a U-turn.

The girl’s back comes into view, but she doesn’t turn, walks straight down the middle of the road. Hannah pulls up beside her, rolls down the side window. “Hey!”

The girl stops, peers into the car.

“Mary?” Hannah says.

Mary Wells sways, stares straight at her. “Hannah Murphy?”

“Yeah. Are you okay? What are you doing out here? It’s almost midnight.”

“I know, I’m just . . . I’m . . .”

“Where’s your car? You need a ride?”

“My car.” Mary glances around. “Yeah, I guess I do need a ride.”

“Get in. I’ll take you home.”

Mary looks at the door handle, doesn’t move. Hannah unhooks her seat belt, reaches over, and opens the door. Mary gets in, leans back against the seat and closes her eyes. “Thanks. Not home, though.”

“Where, then?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know.”

“It’s midnight, Mary, I’ve got to take you someplace.”

“I know.” She pushes her palms against her forehead. “I know. Someplace.”

Hannah waits. “My place,” she says finally.

With face in hands, Mary nods.

“Seat belt,” Hannah says, but Mary doesn’t move. Hannah reaches around her and pulls the belt across Mary’s chest. “Just close your eyes, I’ll have you there in a minute.”

Moments later they pull in front of a modern split-level. Hannah helps Mary into the dark house, leads her by the elbow into the guest room adjacent to hers, helps her partially undress and gets her under the covers, pausing only to yell back to her dad that everything is fine and she’ll talk with him in the morning. Hannah has a million questions of which she asks none. She has never seen Mary like this. This is the Virgin Mary. Mary Wells is bubbly.

As Hannah starts to leave, Mary clutches her forearm. “Thanks,” she says. “Really.”

“It’s okay,” Hannah says. “Get some sleep; you look . . . just go to sleep.”

Mary’s eyes close.



Only hours earlier, Paulie throws his workout gear into a corner of his room, kicks the door shut, and sprawls facedown across the bedspread, dog tired from two long workouts and the weight of his first day without Hannah. He was in Period 8 with her and he’s seen her in the halls, but is no longer allowed to punch her lightly on the shoulder or put his arms around her waist from behind. Somebody else . . . he can’t think about that.

He answers a knock on his bedroom door with, “Yeah?”

“It’s me, Paul. I’ve eaten, but there’s plenty left over. Want me to warm it up?”

“I’m good, Mom. I grabbed a burger with Jus and Arney.”

“You need more than a burger, honey. You did two workouts today. You know how that cold water saps you.”

“‘A burger’ is a figure of speech. I ate three. Fries. Shake. I’m good.”

“You need your vegetables.”

She is not going away. This is not about dinner. “Ketchup, Mom. I had ketchup. It’s a vegetable. Since the Reagan administration. Read about it last year in U.S. history.”

“That was disallowed. And we’re Democrats,” Lilly Baum says through the door. “Ketchup is not a vegetable.”

Paulie sighs and pushes himself up, walks over, and opens the door. “You win, Mom. Raw vegetable platter. Lots of ranch. Give me five minutes. Dad come over?”

Lilly closes her eyes and shakes her head.

Shit. A raw-vegetables-with-ranch counseling session.

“Okay,” he says. “Five minutes. Lots of ranch.”

At the table Paulie opens a bottle of Gatorade and scoops the ranch out of a bowl with a stick of celery. “I thought Dad was coming over so you guys could talk.”

His mom looks away. “He had to work late.”

“Which you don’t believe.” I just saw him and he was looking forward to coming over. Paulie does hate knowing so much, but he also hates waiting for the hurt to leak out of his mother drip by drip. Time constraints alone make that a huge pain in the ass.

“I don’t know, Paul. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Listen, let’s do something nice as a family tomorrow, whether your father comes over or not. Why don’t you invite Hannah for dinner and we’ll get a movie or something. You two can pick.”

Shit. This is not the time to tell his mother that Hannah won’t be coming to dinner tomorrow or any other night, because he did exactly what she thinks his dad is doing right now. “Hannah’s buried in school stuff,” he says. “She waited too long to get her college applications in and she’s busting her butt to get her essays written.” It isn’t a total lie. Hannah is behind on her college applications. “Mom,” he says, “you’re not even forty. You work out; you barely look thirty and you’ll probably live to be at least eighty-five. This isn’t even halftime. You already have a perfect son.”

His mother smiles.

“Dad is who he is. Unless he has a stroke or somethin’ he’s not going to change. End this. You’d like each other a lot better.” He takes a deep breath. Man, who am I to be giving anybody advice?

His mother smiles again and touches his arm. “Maybe you’re right, Paul. It’s just . . . so hard to let go.”

Paulie looks at his watch. 8:30. He needs to get away. No Rocket shift tonight. Arney and Justin might still be at open gym. He’s tired, but not tired enough to put himself into the coma it will take to get a good night’s sleep on this night.



Paulie drops his workout bag onto the bleachers and watches Justin and Arney and several other guys he knows finish a five-on-five full-court pickup game. Jus and Arney play on opposite teams, guarding each other fiercely; it’s an even match. Both are strong and in good shape and what they lack in skill they make up in passion. Paulie finishes lacing up his shoes as Justin drives on Arney, spins and goes for the layup. As Justin stretches for the hoop, Arney undercuts him and Justin crashes onto his shoulder blades. All play halts at the sickening sound of bone on hardwood. After a fleeting hesitation Arney drops to his knees beside Justin, apologizing profusely. “Shit, man, I couldn’t stop. You okay? Hey, buddy, you okay?”

Justin lies there a few seconds, checking for damage. “Yeah, I’m okay. Watch that, man, you’re gonna kill someone.”

Arney brings the ball in on the next play and his guy drains a jumper, ending the game. Fist bumps, butt slaps all around. Almost. Justin walks away from Arney.

Arney spots Paulie, jogs over, and sits. “Been here since six,” he says. “Shoulda come earlier, we could have used you.”

“Swam this afternoon,” Paulie says. “Then had to check in at home. You guys up for a little two-on-one?”

“Hey, Justin!” Arney hollers. “Stay awhile and school the Bomb? Man, I’m sorry about that undercut.”

Justin looks up from the drinking fountain, twists his shoulders, and stretches. “Never too late to school the Bomb,” he yells back.

They shoot around long enough for Paulie to warm up, then line up at the top of the key to shoot for first outs. Arney swishes his first shot and the other two miss.

“Make it, take it,” Justin says. “Every bucket counts two, first free throw two, one after that. Score five, shoot free throws ’til you miss or hit five in a row and take it out. Game to twenty-one.” Standard cutthroat rules.

Arney shoots a three that deflects off the back rim in a high arc out to Justin, who drives to the hoop, right at Paulie. He goes for the layup, sees Paulie towering over him, pumps, switches hands, and attempts to force it from his off side. Paulie slaps the ball into the bleachers.

“Damn!”

“Don’t bring that weak shit in here,” Paulie says.

While the two trash-talk, Arney retrieves the ball and slides in for a layup.

Justin still jaws at Paulie. “Whose shit you callin’ weak? After that sorry show you put on in P-8 today?”

“It wasn’t my best ‘man-up’ hour.”

“You couldn’t pick a best minute outta that hour.”

Paulie backs Justin into the key, protecting the ball with his body. When Arney tries to sneak around to slap the ball out, Paulie crosses over and swishes a short hook.

“Man, you are messin’ with my stereotype. How is some tall pale distance swimmer scorin’ over me?”

“Over you isn’t exactly high,” Paulie says, dribbling to the top of the key.

“All I can say is you should have listened better in kindygarten,” Justin says. “Got to make good choices, man.”

Arney slaps the ball out of Paulie’s hand, steps back, and drops a perfect three. “I love playing with you guys,” he says. “While you go at each other, I just wait for opportunity.”

“How’s that fit with your stereotype?” Paulie says to Justin. “It’s one thing to get schooled by a tall pale merman, a whole ’nother thing to get spanked on the court by the ASB prez. You know how a guy gets to be student body president? By sucking at everything else.”

“Funny,” Arney says. “Hey, you guys, I gotta go. Sorry about your, uh, dilemma, Paulie. Maybe if you sit back and be cool things’ll work out.”

“Bet if you just told her who it was, it’d be all good,” Justin says. “Let her take it out on the chick.”

“Yeah, and be accessory to a felony,” Paulie says back.

“Maybe you should tell us,” Justin says. “We could leak it.”

Arney says, “There’s an idea.”

“I’m not tellin’ you guys anything.”

Arney pulls on his sweats. “Thought you always told the truth.” He smiles. “So . . . tell us the truth.”

“I am,” Paulie says. “The truth is, I’m not telling you.”

Arney waves over his shoulder as he exits the gym, while Paulie and Justin go one-on-one until the lights blink.



Logs pulls into the teacher’s parking lot after second period the next morning, having taken two hours of sick leave for dental work, and spots three police cars parked out front, two more than he would expect. In the front office he finds the regularly assigned school officer along with two others engaged in conversation with Marj Johannsen, the principal.

Dr. Johannsen looks up as Logs enters. “Mary Wells is missing.”

“From school?” It’s a dumb question.

“Missing,” Dr. Johannsen says. “This is Officer Rankin,” she says, pointing to the taller of the two unfamiliar officers. “He says she’s been gone two days. Her father reported it early this morning. The police are asking if we can get some students to help search the county park near the Wells’s house.”

“They’re thinking foul play?”

“Mr. Wells reports that her room was torn up; a bookcase overturned, bedcovers on the floor,” Officer Rankin says. “He says she normally keeps an immaculate room, and no way is his girl a runner.” He nods at Dr. Johannsen. “I’m hearing she has a promising future.”

“She does have that,” Logs says. “You say she’s been gone two days?”

“That’s what he says.”

“And he just reported it today?”

Officer Rankin only raises his eyebrows. “We have people over there now, but there’s not a lot to go on. The room has been straightened up.”

“What? That doesn’t sound right.”

Officer Rankin shrugs. “There’s a lot doesn’t sound right. That house has better security than City Hall. Nobody heard anything that sounded like struggle.” He shakes his head. “Chief says we treat it at face value, so we’re gonna look. Short window of time here if there is foul play.”

Logs turns to Marj. “What can I do?”

“I thought maybe your lunch period kids would be best,” Marj says. “They all know her and most of them could afford to miss a half day. It will take us until lunch to get parental permission and get a bus over here anyway. You could ride out with them and I’ll get a sub to cover your afternoon classes. Officer Rankin says there will be personnel at the park to meet you and organize.”

“Sounds good.” Logs waits until the police have finished making arrangements and are walking toward the exit before saying more. “This is strange, right?” he says when the doors at the end of the hall slam shut.

“I thought so too. I mean, had there been more evidence than a torn-up room, and only a reported torn-up room at that, I could see combing the park.”

“You say that to Officer Rankin?”

She nods. “He said ‘Orders from the chief,’ that people like Mr. Wells have a much better chance of getting quick action than the run-of-the-mill citizen.”

“Well, I think something doesn’t add up, but I’m not a cop.”

“I’ve called the Wells house several times, but there’s no answer. I left messages on both cells. I’m skeptical about providing students to search but better safe than sorry, I suppose. Rankin seemed to think it’s urgent. It would be awful if we refused and they found her in there.” She shudders. “Supposedly there’s a rapidly closing window following a disappearance and we’re well over twenty-four hours already. KXLY is on their way, which I’m not real happy about since we’ve had no contact with Mary’s parents. I think I’ll refer them to the police.”



The bus pulls up in front of the school and the Period 8 kids board. Paulie approaches Logs from behind. “Could I talk to you?”

“Can it wait?” Logs says. “We need to get this bus moving as quick as we can.”

“Yeah,” Paulie says, “it can wait. But not too long, okay?”

“You got it, buddy. Soon as I get a chance to breathe, we’re talking. This is crazy.”

“Yeah. Maybe crazier than you think.”

“Couldn’t be.”

Justin comes up behind Paulie and bulls him onto the bus. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Catch you on board,” Paulie yells over his shoulder.