CLIMAX kids, 1956

“Let me come with you guys,” I implore, my composure and pride leaking into tears. I ache with an urgency to keep my little brother out of harm’s way, if I can. At least, I tell myself, he’ll have a better chance if I’m with him. I know deep in my heart of hearts that they plan to try smoking those devil cigarettes. The ultimate danger is being caught in the act, not the act itself. This distorted logic keeps nudging my subconscious.

The boys put their heads together and argue my trustworthiness. I kick at a stone with the toe of my sneaker and peep at them as they whisper, thick as thieves. The world is still and holding its breath as I wait, not a breeze nor the stir of a flying insect disturbs the air.

“Let’s give her a chance,” Artie sighs in resignation, knowing I am his trusted ally when push comes to shove.

“Yeah, but she said she’d tell, remember?” Jacky recaps.

“She’s my sister and she won’t tell. She hardly ever tells on me unless I make her mad about something,” Artie reasons.

More arguing ensues.

“Aw, let her stay, I guess,” the boys finally stingily agree. But first I must swear my allegiance. You know, like to the flag.

“Cross my heart and hope to die, a thousand needles in my eye.”

Whoopee! My heart leaps joyfully at being granted this dubious honor. But a mere moment later I am covered with a cloak of guilt, sweat seeps from my pores, prickling my face, and cobwebs cloud my mind. My fickle heart, a moment before swollen with elation, now rumbles with the gloominess that portends a dreadful storm.

Off we caper to a secreted den in the woods like a family of foxes intent upon a hen house attack. Even before anything happens, in my mind the judge and jury have already passed sentence and we are doomed. No heat can warm the pessimism that permeates me.

We crouch on the ground in a compact circle of conspiracy. Each kid is anticipating an epiphany, an up-close and personal revelation via the wanton undertaking, with the exception of the veteran Prier boys, and me, a cowardly, self-convicted criminal.

David’s fingers scratch a match on the side of the box. The stench of sulfur attacks my nose and sends me into a sneezing fit, caused by jitters more than anything. The match doesn’t light. Boy, oh, boy! He tries another. Sphitt. This one’s a dud, too. I suck in my breath and hold onto it. But, the third match flames and Danny is ready with a cigarette between his lips, and he then leans close to the tiny flame and puffs as if his life depends upon it. Smoke curls out of his mouth as he hands the thing to Joe. Puff. Puff. The cigarette changes hands quickly, until it’s Artie’s turn to have a go. He exchanges a furtive look with me and raises his eyebrows up and down--I know that look--then he takes the cigarette to his sweet, very young lips. Puff.

Each of them, Joe, Jacky, and my brother, cough and roll around, holding their stomachs. Tears spring to my eyes. I’m heartsick from my hair to my toes. I don’t even need to draw the smoke into my mouth to suffer what the boys are feeling. Each boy’s puff swirls in my head and leaves me feeling groggy and green around the gills. I am guilty by association.

The noon whistle alarms us and we stagger home to lunch.

Needless to say, Artie and I have little appetite for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but we feign hunger for the sake of hiding our transgression.

Later on in mid-afternoon, we rush out to our back yard as the whistle siren wails out an alarm. Presently we see the paddy wagon/fire truck careening through the trees, and we sprint our fastest to follow the truck to its destination. Suddenly we see that a pine tree is engulfed in flames in close proximity to the boulder field! Naturally as we watch the spectacle, I reason that our morning deeds are about to suffer complete disclosure. The firemen/guards attach their hoses to a nearby house and put out the flames in short order.

And then within the hour, the Prier boys are collared as the culprits in starting the fire, as they have been caught nearby with a box of matches, and confess. Oh, jeepers!