the ropes. The mattress shot forward, and our arsenal of rocks flew
through the air. I heard them thud against Ernie's body and clatter on the
road. He screamed and cursed as his bike skidded. The kid behind Ernie
ran into him, and they both fell. The other two turned around and sped
off. Brian and I started hurling whatever rocks were at hand. Since they
were downhill, we had a good line of fire and scored several direct hits,
the rocks dinging off their bikes, nicking the paint and denting the
fenders.
Then Brian yelled, "Charge!" and we came barreling down the hill. Ernie
and his friend jumped back on their bikes and furiously pedaled off
before we could reach them. As they disappeared around the bend, Brian
and I did a victory dance in the rock-strewn street, giving our own war
whoops.
AS THE WEATHER warmed, a sort of rough beauty overtook the steep
hillsides around Little Hobart Street. Jack-in-the-pulpits and bleeding
hearts sprouted wild. White Queen Anne's lace and purple phlox and big
orange daylilies blossomed along the road. During the winter you could
see abandoned cars and refrigerators and the shells of deserted houses in
the woods, but in the spring the vines and weeds and moss grew over
them, and in no time they disappeared altogether.
One benefit of summer was that each day we had more light to read by.
Mom really piled up on books. She came home from the Welch public
library every week or two with a pillowcase full of novels, biographies,
and histories. She snuggled into bed with them, looking up from time to
time, saying she was sorry, she knew she should be doing something
more productive, but like Dad, she had her addictions, and one of them
was reading.
We all read, but I never had the feeling of togetherness I'd had in Battle