Moonbog by Rick Hautala Read Free Book Online Page B

a new wing had been added. It was brick and aluminum, and clashed violently with the style of the older building. He wondered if there was still a separate room for the books that were considered “ Not Suitable For Children’s Eyes .” One afternoon during his senior year, under some pretext or other, he had gained admission to the room and leafed through several of the books, only to be surprised and disappointed by their tameness.
    When he reached the old grammar school, David pulled up to the curb. Leaning over the steering wheel, he stared up at the blank wall of brick and windows. It still looked like the prison it had felt like; it just looked much smaller. He got out of the car and slowly walked up the cracked concrete path.
    “ Dedicated To Our Children: The Hope For The Future ,” the scroll over the double doorway read. David was surprised when he felt a shiver, even though the sun was beating warmly on his shoulders. Walking up to the door, he pressed his face against the glass and peered in. Yesterday, this building was filled with children restless for summer vacation to begin in another two or three weeks. On Monday, though, the school would be closed—for Billy Wilson’s funeral.
    David barely recognized the inside of the school. What was once worn, hardwood floor was now bright, shiny linoleum. It looked as though someone had just been through with a buffer. The pale, peeling green walls and old pine wainscotting had been refinished and were now decorated with brilliantly colored graphics. On a wall near the door was a bulletin board with an assortment of pictures; David deduced that the topic was “What I’m Going To Do This Summer,” because they showed kids boating, swimming, and camping.
    David sighed as scattered memories rose in his mind. His breath fogged the window and then disappeared. Almost unconsciously, he put his hand on the door latch and wiggled it. The door clicked open easily.
    The smell of school reached out and tickled his nose. In spite of all the changes, new walls, new floors, new everything, the old “prison” still smelled the same: a curious mixture of floorwax, Lysol, and something else which David had never been able to identify.
    He inched the door open, blocking it with his shoulder as he stuck his head inside. The corridor was silent, filled only with stirrings, odors and memories from years ago. A sudden sound from somewhere inside startled him. He jumped, and the door began to swing shut, hitting him on the back. Footsteps sounded in the corridor and, just as someone rounded the corner, David let the door close and walked rapidly to his car. But before he drove off, he sat and stared at the old building for another minute or so.
    Now that he had started this trip down memory lane, he decided to drive the rest of the way through town and take the Little River Road up to the old homestead. He considered calling Allison and telling her his plan, but then thought better of it; she certainly wouldn’t want to go with him, and if she knew what he was doing she’d be angry—it was best to let her sit and wait.
    Main Street was quiet for a Saturday afternoon—at least quiet compared to what David was used to in New York. There was a single car at the gas pumps in the Tulsa station; a few old codgers sitting on the bench in front of Hank’s General Store; a mass of cars parked outside the Sawmill, with its flashing red CHOP SUEY sign. David considered stopping for a bowl of chop suey, but his stomach was still feeling queasy. He drove by and then took the right turn onto the Little River Road.
    If the road into town had been familiar to David, he had completely memorized this one. There were a few new houses between the older homes but as soon as he drove past the abandoned sawmill and lumber yard, the houses thinned out. The road wound its way through the scrub brush and swampy lowlands. This was the lower end of the Bog, the southern tip of the vast waterway.
    David