We all fall down, p.19
We All Fall Down, page 19
“Listen, you don’t know me. But you know my name. My name is Harry Flowers.” Then quickly, at her intake of breath: “Wait, don’t hang up, please dont do anything. Just listen, that’s all, a minute, two minutes. Just let me say what I have to say …”
Her mother came to the door, peered in questioningly. Jane shook her head, gave her an it’s-not-important look and her mother returned to the kitchen.
“What I have to say is this: You’ve got Buddy Walker all wrong. Sure, he was with me and the others that night at your house. But he was drunk, didn’t really know what he was doing. He didn’t touch your sister. What happened to your sister was an accident whether you believe it or not, but Buddy had no part in it …”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, surprised at how calm and reasonable she sounded. How cool.
“I owe him this call. Look, I don’t even like him. He’s the kind of guy that I can’t stand. Thinks he’s better than other people, including yours truly. But he’s sorry about what he did that night. His father and mother were getting divorced and I took advantage of his crappy life. That’s why he got drunk and came with us to your house.”
I should hang up, she thought. But didn’t. She was curious. She wondered what Harry Flowers looked like. Wondered if she had already seen him on the street or at the Mall without realizing it. She tied to imagine his face, his features. But saw only Buddy in her mind.
“Buddy’s in trouble. He’s drinking again. He stopped for a while but now he’s drinking more than ever.”
She heard him take a deep breath.
“I was thinking,” he said, his voice becoming intimate, like a caress in her ear. “Maybe we could get together sometime.” Smooth, sly. “You know, to talk about all this. Just you and me …”
The telephone was suddenly like a snake in her hand. She dropped it to the floor and let it lie there for a moment before slamming it down on the receiver.
Jane and Buddy met by accident at the Mall on a Saturday afternoon in November, five months later.
She had been purposely avoiding the Mall, shopping instead at the small specialty stores on Main Street in Wickburg or a new shopping center that had opened a few miles away, near Monument.
He haunted the Mall, hoping to see her. Went out of his way to roam the stores, lurking near the entrances, sitting on the edge of the plastic bench in the lobby. The fountain still was not working, peeling even more than ever these days.
He sometimes drove to Burnside High in the afternoon and parked near the entrance—but not too near—hoping to catch glimpses of her. The sight of her walking along, her book bag slung over her shoulder, caused him such anguish and longing that tears sprang to his eyes and his chest hurt. He vowed not to return but always did.
On that November afternoon, they met face-to-face as he stepped off the down escalator and she approached the up.
Caught by surprise, she frowned, annoyed at herself for agreeing to meet her mother at Filene’s, having forgotten her intention to avoid places where she might run into him.
“Hello, Jane,” he said.
Although the Pizza Palace was several doors away, the smell of tomato sauce and pepperoni spiced the air with reminders.
He was pale. He had lost weight. She had once thought his blue eyes were beautiful. Now they were more gray than blue. The whites of his eyes laced with red.
“How have you been?” he asked.
She had wondered how she would react when they met again. “Good,” she said. She had no reaction. He might have been a stranger. Not to be needlessly cruel, she asked: “How are you?”
Her question energized him, the fact that she had inquired about him. “Fine,” he said. “I’m doing real good in school this year. All A’s and B’s so far.” Had to keep talking, had to keep her here. Silence would take her away. “Things are fine at home. I mean, my mother and father are definitely getting divorced but it’s a friendly divorce. Addy is doing fine, and my mother’s doing fine, too.”
How many times have I said fine? “I don’t drink anymore. I’m concentrating on my studies …”
“Good,” she said. He was obviously lying. She was amazed that he had once been able to deceive her so easily.
He realized that she had said good twice but had made no other comment except for that one question. He wanted to ask about her sister, Karen, but couldn’t do that because it would bring up the subject of what had happened at her house. His mind skittered, went askew—how many times he had dreamed of meeting her like this, arranging conversations in his mind, what he would say and what she would say, and was now speechless. More than that: without thought, the way it happened sometimes in class when he gave an oral talk and everything went blank.
“Well, I have to go,” she said. “My mother’s waiting for me—I’m already late.”
“Jane,” he said, unable to let her go.
She paused, half-turned toward him, not saying anything, waiting.
His mind cleared and he found himself speaking words he had rehearsed countless times in his head, words to make her remember the good times.
“It was beautiful there for a while, wasn’t it, Jane?”
He looked as if he were about to cry.
She thought of the trashing and Karen in the coma all that time and Mickey Looney dead and her father and mother and Artie. And those yellow stains under the paint in her bedroom.
“Was it?” she said, suddenly sorry for him, so sorry. As pity moved into that hole inside her, she discovered how distant pity was from hate, how very far it was from love.
She stepped on the escalator and slowly ascended, not looking back, leaving him down below.
Published by
Bantam Doubleday Dell Books for Young Readers
a division of
Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
1540 Broadway
New York, New York 10036
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that
this book is stolen property. It was reported as “ unsold and
destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 1991 by Robert Cormier
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher,
except where permitted by law; For information address Delacorte
Press, New York, New York 10036.
The trademark Laurel-Leaf Library® is registered in the U. S. Patent and Trademark
Office.
The trademark Dell® is registered in the U. S. Patent and Trademark
Office.
eISBN: 978-0-307-54907-5
RL:6.3
v3.0_r4
Robert Cormier, We All Fall Down
