Quote:By mid-August, we’d spent practically every sunny afternoon throwin’ down dares at Fairfield’s one and only rock quarry (christened “the Crusher” by Scotty Marsters). Who had the sack to take its highest jump? Who could swim to Doyon’s Finger and back again without drowning?
I was too chicken-shit for anythin’ higher than the twenny-five, except once. Once I did the seventy-five, though not willingly, as you’ll find out later.
My mind’s eye sees them now, the midnight swimmers—cannonballin’ and somersaultin’, executing flawless swan dives with natural precision. I see him, too, skin as white as alabaster under November’s moon, auburn hair shining like a new penny.
Sometimes, his voice comes to me out of the night, when things should be still. But they’re never quite still enough, are they?
“Bill, I don’t want you takin’ needless chances for fun’s sake. People have gotten themselves kilt doin’ foolishness,” Pa had warned. “Watch your step. Be careful. And stay away from that damned quarry.”
I should’ve listened. Ah, kids are gonna be kids, pigheaded and ignorant, and pigheaded was me all over.