The Black Page 3

  "Young Master Foley!" bellowed a chubby guy in a gray uniform who hurried up to me. "Hello, my friend! Surprised to see you here."

  "Bernie?" I asked, more than a little surprised myself.

  Bernie was the mailman who delivered to our house when I was a kid. He was always laughing and telling corny jokes. I hadn't seen the guy in a long time, but I recognized him instantly.

  "Who else?" Bernie said with a laugh. "Hey, did you hear the one about the deaf mailman?"

  "Uh…no."

  "Don't feel bad, neither did he." Bernie burst out laughing like it was actually funny. I had to laugh too…not at the joke, at Bernie. The guy was a goof.

  "You back on our route?" I asked.

  Bernie gave me a strange look, as if he didn't understand the question. Then he burst out laughing again and clapped me on the back.

  "That's a good one," he said, and continued walking. "See you around, Chicken Coop. Shame you had to get here too soon, but that's the way it goes."

  "Too soon for what?"

  He walked off without answering, whistling a happy tune. "Hello, Mrs. Swenor!" he called to an old lady on the other side of the street. The woman smiled and waved back. Everybody liked Bernie. I hoped we were on his route again.

  I was about to head for home when I got a better idea. The trophy shop where Marsh worked was on the Ave. He would know what had happened to me. I did an about-face and walked quickly down the Ave. I wasn't worried about him being mad at me anymore. How could he still be ticked if I'd been in a coma?

  I passed several people who smiled or gave me a friendly "Hello." Everybody seemed to be in a good mood. I guess none of them had recently come out of a coma, either. I returned the greetings. Why not? I may have had temporary amnesia but I remembered enough to know that I wasn't a jerk. I reached Santoro's Trophies and was about to go inside when something got my attention that was so out of place, it made me shiver.

  The quaint buildings on the Ave were mostly made of brick and were all two or three stories high. Across the street from me, on the roof, I saw a guy standing with his toes right up to the edge. He wore a dark shirt and pants and was totally normal-looking in every way except that he was staring directly at me. There was no doubt. He was watching me. He didn't wave or acknowledge that I had seen him. He just…watched. Seeing the strange guy creeped me out, though I wasn't sure why. It wasn't like he was going to jump or anything. He wasn't doing anything wrong at all, but still, it felt off.

  I pulled the door open and ducked inside.

  Once in, I looked back through the glass door to see that the guy had left. He must have walked directly away from the edge because I didn't seem him moving north or south. What was up with that?

  I chose to focus on my own problems and went looking for Marsh.

  The door to the trophy shop was right on the Ave, but to get to the shop itself, you had to go inside and then down a flight of stairs. I ran down quickly and blew right through the front door, jingling the little bell that hung over it. The showroom was nothing more than a counter with samples of trophies and plaques everywhere. A short corridor led to the workroom where Marsh did his engraving. Beyond that was Mr. Santoro's office. I'd been there plenty of times, trying to get Marsh to blow off work so we could go do something fun, but Marsh always made me wait until he finished whatever he was working on. The guy was dedicated.

  "Hello?" I called out.

  Usually Mr. Santoro would rush right out as soon as he heard the bell.

  "Anybody home?"

  Silence. Strange. The door was unlocked but nobody was minding the store. I walked down the corridor to see if Marsh was working and concentrating so hard that he didn't want to answer. But when I entered the workroom, the engraving machine was empty.

  "Mr. Santoro?"

  I peeked into the guy's office. Nobody was there. Marsh worked part-time so he might not have been in that day, but it was weird for the place to be empty with the door unlocked. I went back through the showroom, wondering if I should lock the door, but I was afraid Mr. Santoro might have gone to the men's room or something and I didn't want to lock him out. I didn't want to hunt him down in the bathroom either, so I gave up and left.

  When I got back to the top of the stairs, I peered out through the glass door out to the Ave to see if the guy in the dark clothes had returned. He hadn't. Nothing about this day was making sense. I had to talk to somebody I knew. The sooner the better.

  Directly across the street from Santoro's was a drugstore called Meade's. Score. My dad was friends with Mr. Meade. The guy would definitely give me a ride home. I blasted out of Santoro's and jogged across the street, but only got halfway before I stopped short.

  Somebody was watching me from inside the toy store next to Meade's.

  I saw her through the window. It was a woman who wore the same kind of dark clothes as the guy from the roof. I might not have noticed her except that she had the same body language as the guy. She stood straight and still with her hands clasped in front of her, staring me down.

  I sensed movement to my right and realized I was standing in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. A car had stopped not two feet from me. The driver didn't honk or yell for me to get my oblivious butt out of the road. He just smiled and waited patiently for me to move on. I gave an apologetic wave and jumped onto the sidewalk. A quick look back to the toy store showed me that the woman was gone. I thought about running in to ask what her deal was and why she was watching me, but decided I had bigger problems to deal with so I went straight for Meade's.

  There was another bell over the door that jingled when I entered. Maybe it was some kind of ordinance in Stony Brook that shops needed to have bells. Stepping into Meade's was like taking a trip back through time. It had been around for a hundred years and didn't look any different from the day it had opened. The shelves were built out of dark wood and the ceiling was a big stained-glass window. The back of the store was where they had all the drugstore stuff, but the front of the store is where I usually hung out. There was a soda fountain counter with a long marble top and stools like you'd see in old movies. It wasn't just for show, either. I'd pounded down many milk shakes and sundaes there.

  Across from the counter were padded booths with tables where Marsh and I used to plot our adventures.

  Meade's was a kid magnet, but not that afternoon, which was strange for a hot summer day. The only customers were two older people sitting at the counter, both sipping on straws in the same milk shake. The two of them smiled and gave me a friendly wave as I sat down on a stool.

  A gray-haired lady wearing a white uniform dress with the name Donna stitched on the pocket was wiping up the stainless steel soda dispensers. She looked like a classic soda jerk, complete with a white cap that matched her dress. I thought she looked kind of old to be called a "jerk," or to be working as one, for that matter. Mostly it was kids who worked behind the counter and they never wore uniforms. It was like Mr. Meade was trying out a gimmick to make the place seem even more retro.

  The lady saw me and frowned.

  "Geez, so young," she said sadly as she shook her head. "Too young."

  "Too young for what?" I asked. "I don't want a beer or anything."

  "This your last age?" she asked.

  "What are you talking about?"

  The lady shook off the gloom and broke out in a big, bright smile. "No matter. It is what it is. What can I do you for, sport? Malteds are my specialty, in case you were wondering."

  She seemed like a nice old lady, but I wasn't in the mood for a malted…whatever that was.

  "I'm looking for Mr. Meade."

  "Ooh, sounds like you've got important business. Sure, sweetie, I'll get him for you."

  She hurried off, headed for the back of the store. It was a relief to know I was finally going to talk with somebody familiar. My eyes wandered to the mirrored wall in back of the soda fountain, where a bunch of ancient black-and-white pictures were on display. They were ph
otos of people taken at the drugstore throughout time. I knew most of the pictures because whenever I sat at that counter, I'd stare at them and wonder who the people were and what their stories might be. It was weird to think that people came in and sat at that same counter decades before I did. As I glanced at the ancient shots, one of them jumped out at me. I'd seen it a hundred times before and never gave it a second thought . . . until then.

  It was a yellowed photo of a man and a woman standing next to a car in front of the store. The car was a big gray tank that looked older than dirt. The guy was tall with an enormous gut and slicked-back hair. The woman was much shorter than him and looked old enough to be his mother. Something about her wasn't right. What was it? I leaned forward to get a closer look and instantly realized what was wrong: She looked exactly like the lady who was working behind the soda fountain. Donna. She even had on the same soda jerk uniform.

  "No way," I muttered.

  "You looking for me?" a guy said, sounding all gruff.

  I looked behind the counter and did a double take. The guy walking toward me was the same guy with the big gut from the picture. I looked to the picture, then to him, then back to the picture. No mistake. It was him. The old lady trailed behind. It was definitely her in the picture, too. But that was impossible, unless it was a fake old-time picture like they take at carnivals.

  "Uhhh," was all I could get out.

  "What's your business, son?" he asked.

  "I . . . I'm looking for Mr. Meade," I managed to croak.

  "You found him," he said.

  "No, I mean my dad's friend. What's his name, uh, Doug Meade."

  The guy glanced to the old woman. She shrugged.

  "What's the problem?" I asked.

  "Unless you know something I don't, Dougie won't be coming this way for quite some time," the guy said. "Let's hope not, anyway."

  "What? He's here, like, every day. Who are you?"

  "Who am I?" he asked as if I'd insulted him. "I own the place, buster. I'm Dougie's father."

  "No, you're not. He's way older than you!"

  "Look," the guy said, getting angry. "Unless you want to eat something, keep moving and stop bothering my customers."

  I sat there stunned, wondering if a brain tumor could cause amnesia and create hallucinations.

  "I…I…" I couldn't form words.

  The old lady patted the big guy on the shoulder. "Temper, Harry. Go on back. I think I know what this is about."

  The bogus Mr. Meade gave me a sour look and skulked away.

  The old woman smiled warmly and said, "Don't let him bother you. My boy's got anger issues. It's one of the things he's working on."

  "Your boy?" I asked, more confused than ever.

  "Yup. Harry's my son. Dougie's my grandson."

  My brain locked.

  The couple that had been sharing the milk shake walked past me on their way out. The guy patted me on the shoulder and said, "Don't sweat it, sonny. It'll get better. Just you wait."

  His lady friend gave me a sympathetic smile, and the two left. I looked back to the old woman behind the counter and said, "I think there's something wrong with me."

  She smiled. "You just got here, didn't you?"

  "Well, yeah, you saw me come in."

  "No, I mean you just came through to the Black."

  What the heck did that mean? I thought back to when I was passed out and everything was dark. It was black, all right, but how could she know that?

  "I thought so," she said without waiting for an answer. "It's unsettling at first but things'll come clear in no time."

  "There is nothing clear about what I've been seeing. I think I'm…"

  The bell over the front door jingled and I looked to see the silhouette of a man entering the store.

  "It's okay, Donna," he called out. "I'll handle this."

  The guy's voice was familiar but I couldn't place him because all I saw was a shadow.

  "He's a handsome one, Gene," she said, then winked at me. "Sure you don't want a malted?"

  I shook my head and turned to the guy who had just come in. He walked deliberately, like an old man with sore joints.

  "I figured on finding you here," he said. "Either here or that place with the french fries. Never cared for 'em myself. Too greasy."

  My head was spinning. The guy knew me.

  "This is much better," he said. "If I had a nickel for every ice cream I bought you here, I could buy the place out myself."

  The guy sat down on the stool next to me and I got my first good look at him.

  It was the best possible person I could have hoped to see…and the worst. He was my favorite person in the world. The old lady called him Gene. That was short for Eugene.

  Eugene Foley.

  My grandfather.

  "Close your mouth, Cooper. You look like a trout."

  Seeing my gramps made me want to throw my arms around him and hug him like I was six again. Only one thing stopped me.

  My grandfather was dead.

  4

  I jumped off the stool and backed away from the old guy. "No, no way," I babbled. "You can't be him."

  The guy scratched his head and frowned… exactly the way Gramps used to when he was thinking. In fact, the guy looked exactly like my gramps, complete with his glasses the size of windowpanes, walrus mustache, and thinning gray hair.

  "Don't get all lathered up," he said, which is something Gramps always used to say. "There's nothing wrong here."

  "Bull! Everything is wrong here!"

  "Hang on now," he said. "Let me think a second."

  He scratched his head, again. And frowned, again. Either this guy was really my gramps or he was an incredible impersonator.

  "Okay, I got it," he declared. "Who else knows about this?" He held up his hands like claws and bellowed in a thick Transylvanian accent, "Beware! I have come to suck your blood, for I am… the Grampire!"

  "Grampire?" the old lady said with a chuckle.

  The old man looked to her and shrugged. "He loved that when he was six."

  I did. But it only helped to confuse me more.

  "Stay the hell away from me!" I yelled, and ran for the door.

  "Cooper!" the old man barked in a stern voice that I had heard many times before. I froze, probably out of habit.

  "I know this is confusing, kiddo," he said with sympathy. "But running outta here ain't gonna help."

  I wanted to believe he was my gramps. But if it was really him, it meant I had to buy into a whole lot of other things that weren't as good.

  "My grandfather's dead," I said slowly to make sure he understood every word. "That means you're an imposter, or I'm insane."

  The old lady sniffed and patted the old man on the arm. "Good luck with that one, Gene," she said, and left us alone to go back to work.

  "I'm afraid there's a third possibility," the old man said.

  "Please. Tell me."

  "You won't like it."

  "I'm not liking any of this."

  He squinted. Gramps always did that when he was debating with himself. "You want it straight, or should I ease you in slowly?"

  "Just tell me!" I shouted.

  "You're dead, Cooper."

  The words rang in my ears. I felt dizzy. How could I be dead? I was dizzy! You can't be dead and dizzy at the same time.

  "You got hit by a speedboat out on Thistledown," he added. "I'm not sure who was the bigger fool, the kid driving the speedboat or you for being out on that lake at night with the running lights off. What were you thinking?"

  I had to breathe. Air. Real air. Dead people didn't breathe and I wanted to prove to myself that I wasn't dead. I ran out of the drugstore and onto the sidewalk to take in a lungful. Everything was so normal. I couldn't be dead.

  Somebody clapped me on the back, making me jump. "Hey, Chicken Coop." It was Bernie the mailman. "Feelin' any better?"

  He winked at me and kept moving up the Ave. I suddenly remembered why Bernie wasn't our mail
man anymore.

  "Damn fool."

  I whipped around to see the old man standing in the door of the drugstore with his hands in his pockets. "He got himself electrocuted by jiggering somebody's antenna to try and get free cable. His jokes aren't funny here, either."

  "Here?" I asked. "What do you mean 'here'? We're in Stony Brook, right?"

  He gave me a sad smile and reached out to pat me on the cheek. It was so familiar.

  "Wish I could say I was happy to see you, Coop," he said. "Cripes, you're still a kid. Sometimes life just ain't fair."

  "Where are we?" I implored.

  "We're in Stony Brook all right, but it's your Stony Brook. The town as you remember it."

  I glanced around, wondering why something so familiar could suddenly seem so alien.

  "This must be a dream," I said. "It's all happening inside my head."

  "Nope. Sorry."

  I looked to the toy shop next door.

  The woman in dark clothes was back, watching me. Not moving. Smiling.

  I ran straight for the store, yanked open the door, and jumped inside.

  "Who are you?" I screamed… at an empty store.

  "Can I help you?" a salesgirl asked, walking toward me from the back of the store. It was a cute girl who looked high school age, definitely not somebody who was dead.

  "Where did the lady go who was just here?"

  She looked around. "I didn't see anybody."

  "I don't know you," I said. "Do you go to Davis Gregory?"

  "I did," she replied. "Didn't make it to graduation, though."

  "Transfer?"

  "Drunk driver."

  I took a step back as if her words pushed me. "You got hit by a drunk driver?"

  "No," she said, looking sheepish. "Homecoming party. Some guys brought beer. I only had a couple but I never should have tried to drive home. It was totally my fault. Thank god nobody else died. You looking for a toy?"