I Know What You Did Last Summer (5 page)

"Hey, Peewee," Herb Bronson would say jovially, "when are you
going to put some weight on?" And at Christmastime half the stock
in the Bronson stores would appear beneath the tree-footballs,
shoulder pads, bats and rackets, boxing gloves and camping
gear.

Ray had not done badly in the minor sports; he was a member of
the high school golf team and could play a decent game of tennis.
It was football that was beyond him. He had managed to make the B
Squad in junior high because a number of his contemporaries had not
yet acquired their full growth, but suddenly, upon entering high
school, he had found himself surrounded by towering
individuals with weights up to and above two hundred
pounds.

The boys were friendly and most of them knew the Booter by
reputation. If he could not compete with them physically, Ray was
superior to many of them academically. They respected him for this,
and as he was a natural-born teacher, he often made himself useful
in a tutoring capacity. No major athlete himself, he did have
athletes for companions.

The first time he brought Barry Cox home with him for dinner,
his father and Barry had sat over tall glasses of milk for two full
hours after the meal was over, reviewing plays from Herb's career
and more recent ones from Barry's experiences.

"That's a sharp kid," Mr. Bronson had remarked late that evening
after Barry had left for home. "He's going to make it big, I'll
bet. He's a good friend of yours, Peewee? You and he buddy around
together a lot?"

"Yes," Ray had said.

"Good stuff," his father had commented approvingly. "I
like to see you with friends like that." And later that year when
he had started dating Julie James, there had been a similar
reaction.

"Got a cheerleader for a girlfriend, huh? Chip off the old
block, aren't you! Cuties of the school they were in my day. It
took a real guy to hook a cheerleader."

Julie had been more than that. Much more. But this he had not
told his father. He had just crooked an eyebrow and made a little
"here's to us" motion with his hand, and his father had clapped him
on the shoulder in a man-to-man way. It was disappointing,
sure, to have a son who couldn't make it in your footsteps, but Ray
was there in spirit, doing his best, and the Booter knew it and
respected him for it

That was the Raymond Bronson of a year ago. Sometimes
when
Ray
thought back upon himself, it was like looking at another
person.

I wasn't anybody, he thought incredulously. Not anyone real. I
was kind of a shadow, partly Dad, partly Barry, not making it
either way and not knowing how else I could make it. I don't know
what Julie saw in me.

But she had seen something.

"I love you," she had said once. Only once. They didn't get
romantic very often. They usually just goofed around and had a good
time like the rest of the kids.

But there had been one time when she had turned to him suddenly
and had seen something in his face that had reflected back into
hers. They hadn't been making out or anything. It was right in the
middle of a Sunday afternoon, and they had been sitting on the
floor in the living room of the James' home playing some
crazy card game, and out of the blue Julie had looked across at him
and said, "I love you."

Well, that was past. She didn't love him now. That love had been
snuffed out forever in one instant on one summer's night, as
quickly and irrevocably as one little boy's life.

Barry had been driving too fast. Barry always drove too fast
when it came to that, but he drove well, and nobody got upset about
it. Helen had been sitting close to him in the front seat. When he
thought back, Ray could remember that, because he could remember
her hair hanging over the back of the seat and swinging back and
forth as the car took the curves.

Aside from that, he didn't remember much, because he had
been kissing Julie most of the time during that ride. It was Ray's
car, but as usual he and Barry had flipped for the back seat, and
mis time he had won. Julie had been sprawled in his arms, and she
had been wearing a pink blouse with ruffles. Everywhere his hands
went, there were ruffles, and they had been laughing about
it, and while they laughed they were kissing, and then Helen had
screamed.

The scream had brought them both upright in an instant. There
had not been time to see much before it happened. The bicycle had
been there in front of them, caught in the glare of the headlights.
They had seen the child from the back. He had been wearing a
striped T-shirt. Then there was the thud and the crunch-and they
were past.

"My God!" Julie had whispered from beside him. "We hit him!"

Ray had tried to answer, but somehow he could not get his voice
working. The car had not stopped. It was moving on. It was going
faster. It took the next curve with such speed that they were all
thrown sideways, and Julie had fallen on top of him and had lain
there, clutching him, whispering over and over, "Ray-Ray-we hit
him."

"Go back!" Ray had managed to croak. "We've got to go back!"

"Go back?" Barry yelled over his shoulder. "What good would that
do?"

In the seat beside him Helen was sobbing wildly. Julie leaned
forward, pulling away from Ray.

"That little boy! We've got to go back and help him!"

"Help him? We're not doctors. We couldn't do anything." Barry
had slowed down a little now and was driving more evenly. "We'll
get to a phone and call for an ambulance. That's the best kind of
help we can give him."

They rounded the next curve and up ahead there appeared the
lights of an all-night diner. The car retained its speed.

"There!" Julie cried. "Aren't you going to stop? Barry, you're
passing
it!"

"We can't call from there," Barry said tersely. "There'll be a
counter phone with a room full of people to listen to every word.
There's a roadside booth up ahead about a mile. We'll call from
that."

A few moments later the booth appeared, just as he had
predicted, and his foot hit the brake, bringing the car to a
careful stop.

Ray was the first one out of the car and into the phone booth.
For one frantic moment he thought he didn't have a dime, and then
he found one and thrust it into the slot and dialed the 911
emergency number.

"There's been an accident," he said, "on Mountain Road,
south of Silver Springs. It's just above the junction with 301. We
hit a kid
on
a bicycle."

"Who is making this call?" the voice of the emergency
operator asked.

"My name is-" Ray began.

Barry's hand came down hard on the receiver, breaking the
connection.

Ray turned to him in amazement. "What did you do that for?"

"You told her enough," Barry said. "You said what happened and
where. There'll be an ambulance up there in a couple of minutes.
There's no sense giving our names."

"They'll get them when we go back," Ray said. He paused, full
realization beginning to sweep over him. "We are going back, aren't
we?"

"For what?" Barry asked.

"Why. because-because-we have to."

"We don't have to do anything," Barry said.

They had left the booth now and were standing beside the car. In
the front seat, Helen had stopped her sobbing. Behind her, Julie
too was sitting in silence. There was not enough light to see
either of their faces.

"Barry says he doesn't want to go back," Ray told them.

"I don't either," Helen said. "But I guess we have to, don't we?
Oh, Lord, I don't want to go back and see-see what we did." She
drew in a strangled breath and began to cry again, very softly.

"It's not what we want to do," Julie said. "It's what we have to
do. It's the law."

"That sounds real noble." Barry opened the car door and got into
the driver's seat. "It's a fine decision for you to make, but
who do you think it is who's going to get hit with a manslaughter
charge if the kid dies? I was driving, not you. And I'm the only
one here who no longer ranks as a juvenile."

"That's right," Ray said. "You're eighteen."

"Darned right, I am. No juvenile court for me. It's the real
thing-I'll get it right in the teeth."

"But it was an accident," protested Helen. "We all can testify
to that. That bike came out of nowhere. We just went around a
curve and there it was. No lights. No reflectors."

"Do you think that would make any difference?" Barry asked her.
"The facts are that we've been out partying. We all had some beer
and a little
p
o
t
tonight. The
police will spot that the moment we get out of the car. And it's a
hit-and-run. Oh. sure, we were running to get help, but technically
it's a hit-and-run. About the worst charge you can get against
you."

"He might not be dead," Julie said. "He's probably only
injured."

"Still it's a hit-and-run."

Ray climbed into the back seat beside Julie. "I'm responsible
too," he said. "It's my car."

"You would have been driving it too, if you hadn't won the
toss." Barry turned to look back at him. "You're the bright guy who
skipped a grade. You're still only seventeen. You want to turn
yourself in. go back and do it,"

"You mean, let them think I was driving?" Despite himself,
Ray could not keep the horror from his voice.

"You could," Helen said. "If you're that determined to
report it. The worst that could happen is that you might get your
license taken away for a few months. It
is
your car, and
like Barry says, it was just pure luck that you weren't the one
driving it."

"That's ridiculous!" Julie spoke up sharply. "He
wasn't
driving and it would be idiotic for him to say he was. It would be
on his record forever. And we can't know for sure that he wouldn't
be punished."

"So it's all right for Barry to get a jail sentence, but heaven
forbid that your Ray might get a splotch on his record?" Helen's
voice was shaky with emotion. "What kind of friends are you
to want to offer Barry up like some kind of human sacrifice? You
don't have anything to lose. He does."

"She's got a point," Ray said quietly. "It would all be on
Barry. He isn't anymore responsible actually than the rest of us,
except that he just happened to be the one who was driving."

"Driving too fast," Julie said. "You know he was -he always
drives too fast."

"Have you ever objected before?" Barry asked bitterly. "If you
were all that concerned about my driving, why didn't you say so?
You were awfully anxious to get into the back seat tonight. 'Oh,
Ray- Ray-we won-we won!' You knew I was a little high. It didn't
bother you then."

"Let's take a vote," Helen said. "Let's decide that way."

There was a moment's silence. Then Barry said, "Okay. How about
you two in the back-do you agree to stick by a vote?"

"It'll be two to two," Julie said.

"Then we'll flip."

"You don't flip about things like this."

"How else are we going to decide it?"

"We have to vote," Helen said. "It's the only thing we can do. I
vote we don't go back. We just go home and-and let the police and
doctors and people take care of things. What good would our going
back there do? We couldn't help."

"I vote with Helen," Barry said.

"Well, I don't," said Julie adamantly. "I vote we go
back-
now."

"Then you will go by the final vote?" Barry pressed her.

"By a vote, but not by a flip. If it's two to two, I'm holding
out for going back." She turned confidently to Ray.

"I-I vote-" He looked at Barry. He could not see him well in the
dark car, but he could see the tense way he was sitting, the way
his hands were clenched on the back of the seat.

In the distance there came the wail of a siren.

"He's my best friend, Julie," Ray said softly.

She stared at him unbelievingly.

"You don't mean you're voting with
them?
Ray, you
couldn't be!"

"Like Barry says, what good would it do to go back now? The
damage is done. He'll have all the help he needs, poor kid, before
we could even get there. It would be so unfair, letting Barry carry
the ball for all of us-"

"I don't believe it," Julie whispered. "I just don't believe
you're really saying this."

There was a long silence. Then Barry said, "That's it, then.
We've made a pact, and no one can break it. Now, let's get the hell
out of here and back home."

The next morning it had been in the paper. Ray had read it at
breakfast. Sitting there at the table, hearing his father's voice
reading aloud from the sports page, smelling the plate of pancakes
his mother had just placed before him, he had stared down at the
story, on page two next to the obituaries, and he had known
he was going to be sick.

"David Gregg . . . conscious upon arrival of the rescue crew . .
. died en route to St. Joseph's Hospital. . . ."

"Excuse me," he had mumbled, getting quickly to his feet. "I-I'm
not too hungry-"

"Why, Ray," his mother had exclaimed in concern, but he made it
out of the room before she could stop him.

Later he called Julie. Mrs. James had answered the phone.

"Julie isn't feeling well this morning, Ray," she had told him.
"Why don't you call back this evening?"

He had, and Julie had answered. Her voice had sounded small and
thin.

"I don't want to talk," she had said. "Not now. Not about
anything." And he had known then mat it was over. He had placed the
receiver back on the hook and lowered his face into his hands and,
for the first time since he had been a little boy, he had
cried.

Now, almost a full year later, he stood, staring again at the
story, and the same cold feeling touched his heart. The clipping
was yellowed from exposure. Someone bad handled it often, and read
it many times. It was creased down the middle and had the smell of
old dollar bills. Someone had kept it in a wallet, perhaps, drawing
it out at odd times during the day to look at it, to dwell upon it.
Someone had finally come to a decision and had addressed an
envelope and mailed the clipping to an eighteen-year-old boy named
Raymond Bronson.