joint seemed the least of it. We were growing up. It was one of those moments when you could practically feel the adult pushing out, pushing forward into the world. Perspective suddenly existed where it hadn’t existed before. This was just the beginning of our lives— our lives , things that we were responsible for, things that we could control. It seemed all at once too big and too simple an idea.
And maybe it wasn’t until then, down there next to the water, the cicadas louder than ever, that we realized exactly what had happened and the implications of it all. It wasn’t until that clammy, dark silence when we realized just how truly wrong they had been.
12
D anny’s dad could be the coolest guy in the world or he could be the weirdest. Again, take the Nissan, for example. Totally weird that he bought a brand-new 300ZX, but totally cool that he let Danny use it whenever Danny (or any of us) wanted after he turned sixteen.
If you caught him on a good day—when you were calling to get Danny to come pick you up from wherever you’d been stranded by your mom or one of your other friends—he might say something like, “Oh, hey, Buddy. I’m doing great. Real great. I’m fixing eggs for my bride, taking my dog out to pee, watching the raspberries bloom.” When things were good—this was before Mrs. Hatchet died—he referred to Danny’s mother as his bride.
When things were bad, he usually didn’t answer the phone. But if he did answer the phone, he usually misunderstood who you were, mistaking you for an adult or one of his coworkers. Either he’d get real quiet, real sad, say things like, “Oh, Buddy, I’m not good. Not good at all. Listen, I just need a little up front,” or he might answer the phone already yelling, already midway into a conversation you weren’t a part of: “Not again. Not fucking again. I’m not going to tell you again.”
When things were bad, we usually just hung up the phone, or wrote Danny off for the weekend, because it was just too difficult to get through to him; because staying on the phone listening to a grown man unravel was just not within our purview at the time. Instead, we’d hang up the phone and call someone else, someone like Trey Stephens, who was almost always thrilled to have an excuse to get out of the house and come get us, no matter where we were or what we were doing, the novelty of the basement bedroom having worn off a long time earlier for Trey Stephens.
T hings for Mr. Hatchet were almost always bad after Mrs. Hatchet died. He drank more than ever, probably he was doing drugs, too. His clothes went from simply dorky to out-of-date overnight. His breath smelled like canker sores, like horse manure and rotten fish. His hair turned gray.
All that said, we spent a strangely large amount of time with the two remaining, male Hatchets our final two years of high school. Danny’s dad’s place, overgrown with kudzu, was where we all smoked cigarettes for the first time. Mr. Hatchet practically lit them for us. He also bought us beer. Not even Trey Stephens’ dad would do that. It was a haven during the Nora Lindell fiasco—a place we could talk openly without fear of parental interruption—especially on those nights when Trey Stephens would grow suddenly moody and kick us out of his basement.
The Hatchet door was always open to us. And we appreciated that. It was hard to not want to take advantage of such generosity. Mr. Hatchet’s place, you’ll remember, was on the short list for where to host the Halloween party the year after Nora Lindell disappeared, but the Jeffreyses won out, what with Sarah’s sad situation and Mrs. Jeffreys’ determination to control our comings and goings. (Probably none of the parents liked the history of suicide in the Hatchet house. Though honestly, can you imagine what an eerie, awesome Halloween party that would have been?)
Mr. Hatchet’s was where we found ourselves the night of the senior movie. It was the only
And maybe it wasn’t until then, down there next to the water, the cicadas louder than ever, that we realized exactly what had happened and the implications of it all. It wasn’t until that clammy, dark silence when we realized just how truly wrong they had been.
12
D anny’s dad could be the coolest guy in the world or he could be the weirdest. Again, take the Nissan, for example. Totally weird that he bought a brand-new 300ZX, but totally cool that he let Danny use it whenever Danny (or any of us) wanted after he turned sixteen.
If you caught him on a good day—when you were calling to get Danny to come pick you up from wherever you’d been stranded by your mom or one of your other friends—he might say something like, “Oh, hey, Buddy. I’m doing great. Real great. I’m fixing eggs for my bride, taking my dog out to pee, watching the raspberries bloom.” When things were good—this was before Mrs. Hatchet died—he referred to Danny’s mother as his bride.
When things were bad, he usually didn’t answer the phone. But if he did answer the phone, he usually misunderstood who you were, mistaking you for an adult or one of his coworkers. Either he’d get real quiet, real sad, say things like, “Oh, Buddy, I’m not good. Not good at all. Listen, I just need a little up front,” or he might answer the phone already yelling, already midway into a conversation you weren’t a part of: “Not again. Not fucking again. I’m not going to tell you again.”
When things were bad, we usually just hung up the phone, or wrote Danny off for the weekend, because it was just too difficult to get through to him; because staying on the phone listening to a grown man unravel was just not within our purview at the time. Instead, we’d hang up the phone and call someone else, someone like Trey Stephens, who was almost always thrilled to have an excuse to get out of the house and come get us, no matter where we were or what we were doing, the novelty of the basement bedroom having worn off a long time earlier for Trey Stephens.
T hings for Mr. Hatchet were almost always bad after Mrs. Hatchet died. He drank more than ever, probably he was doing drugs, too. His clothes went from simply dorky to out-of-date overnight. His breath smelled like canker sores, like horse manure and rotten fish. His hair turned gray.
All that said, we spent a strangely large amount of time with the two remaining, male Hatchets our final two years of high school. Danny’s dad’s place, overgrown with kudzu, was where we all smoked cigarettes for the first time. Mr. Hatchet practically lit them for us. He also bought us beer. Not even Trey Stephens’ dad would do that. It was a haven during the Nora Lindell fiasco—a place we could talk openly without fear of parental interruption—especially on those nights when Trey Stephens would grow suddenly moody and kick us out of his basement.
The Hatchet door was always open to us. And we appreciated that. It was hard to not want to take advantage of such generosity. Mr. Hatchet’s place, you’ll remember, was on the short list for where to host the Halloween party the year after Nora Lindell disappeared, but the Jeffreyses won out, what with Sarah’s sad situation and Mrs. Jeffreys’ determination to control our comings and goings. (Probably none of the parents liked the history of suicide in the Hatchet house. Though honestly, can you imagine what an eerie, awesome Halloween party that would have been?)
Mr. Hatchet’s was where we found ourselves the night of the senior movie. It was the only
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