wayward property. With a headshake: “Might as well be in the river,” he said.
“Aw, it’s okay,” Charlie said. “I dare you to roll up your pants and wade over there.”
“Could be water moccasins,” Aaron rejoined, and folded his arms. “You did that on purpose. Dares go first.”
This was a common challenge; a boy who issued a dare must be willing to take the same risk. Charlie hesitated, searching the pond surface for any sign of poisonous water snakes, wondering how deep the pond might be, because the stagnant water, smelling of green scum, was not appealing. Then he saw the penny on the lily pad with the zoom plane.
Rarely has one cent brought more sweeping change. Twenty feet distant on a second pad lay another coin, one of the gray steel wartime pennies. And unless Charlie’s eye lied, a coin that might have been a buffalo nickel sat impudently on a pad, a silent dare more potent than anything Aaron could say. Visiting young servicemen were known to use such ponds as wishing wells, foolishly tossing small coins at lily pads to impress girls foolish enough to be impressed.
Charlie’s feet were already bare and as he rolled his pants as high as they would go, he said nothing about coins. Instead, he muttered about the danger, the genuinely icky smell of the pond, the unknown depths—and then sat on the low cement curb and eased his feet down in search of firm bottom.
The bottom was only knee-deep, and it was cement, and slimy. And as Charlie moved out toward his goal, gliding along slowly as if on skates to avoid sloshing or, worse, a headlong fall, he had a moment of skin-prickling, wonderful clarity. He realized that the pond had been visited not by a few coin-tossers but by hundreds of them, maybe thousands, maybe bazillions. And for every tosser whose coin had found a lily pad there had been countless others whose coins had dropped through murk to the bottom. And suddenly Charlie knew that he would have no trouble replacing his mother’s clippers. Because in the scummy slime under his toes lay more round metal discs than he could count, and each one was worth at least One Cent. He stopped, sweeping a foot experimentally to broom the coins together. But even if he managed to shove them to the edge of the pond, the man on the bench was chuckling his enjoyment. Who knew how the old codger might complicate this operation?
Aaron, because Charlie had stopped: “Getting deeper?”
Charlie: “Stinks. Real bad. I think I’m gonna throw up.” A pantomime of a dry heave thrust Charlie’s head forward. He turned, shuffling with both feet, and moved back to the low curb, seeming to ignore old Mr. Benchman while giving every sign that, at any moment, he might deposit his breakfast across the cement near the man’s feet.
“I don’t need this,” said Benchman to nobody in particular, rising with a grunt, limping out of Charlie’s life exactly as Charlie had hoped.
“It’s okay, Charlie, you tried,” said Aaron, reaching over to help his pal from the pond; and with this proof of his devotion he assured himself of riches.
Until that moment Charlie had thought he might retrieve the glider and only the few visible coins, leaving all the rest in their drowned condition until much later, perhaps at dusk, but certainly alone. Now, still looking after the departing old fellow who was well out of earshot, Charlie grinned. “I’m okay. Aaron, have I ever lied to you?”
“Lotsa times. But if you say you’re—”
“Not just fibs. Big old lies, guy.” Charlie’s gaze was intense, with the imaginary heat of uncounted wealth underfoot.
Aaron blinked and thought it over. “Well, there was that time in—”
Exasperated, Charlie burst out, “D-Word it, Aaron, just trust me, okay?”
Aaron allowed full force to Charlie’s use of this forbidden Word and grimaced as if pained. “Okay, okay! What did I do, Charlie?”
“Nothin’. It’s what you’re gonna do. If you trust me, lie down here and
“Aw, it’s okay,” Charlie said. “I dare you to roll up your pants and wade over there.”
“Could be water moccasins,” Aaron rejoined, and folded his arms. “You did that on purpose. Dares go first.”
This was a common challenge; a boy who issued a dare must be willing to take the same risk. Charlie hesitated, searching the pond surface for any sign of poisonous water snakes, wondering how deep the pond might be, because the stagnant water, smelling of green scum, was not appealing. Then he saw the penny on the lily pad with the zoom plane.
Rarely has one cent brought more sweeping change. Twenty feet distant on a second pad lay another coin, one of the gray steel wartime pennies. And unless Charlie’s eye lied, a coin that might have been a buffalo nickel sat impudently on a pad, a silent dare more potent than anything Aaron could say. Visiting young servicemen were known to use such ponds as wishing wells, foolishly tossing small coins at lily pads to impress girls foolish enough to be impressed.
Charlie’s feet were already bare and as he rolled his pants as high as they would go, he said nothing about coins. Instead, he muttered about the danger, the genuinely icky smell of the pond, the unknown depths—and then sat on the low cement curb and eased his feet down in search of firm bottom.
The bottom was only knee-deep, and it was cement, and slimy. And as Charlie moved out toward his goal, gliding along slowly as if on skates to avoid sloshing or, worse, a headlong fall, he had a moment of skin-prickling, wonderful clarity. He realized that the pond had been visited not by a few coin-tossers but by hundreds of them, maybe thousands, maybe bazillions. And for every tosser whose coin had found a lily pad there had been countless others whose coins had dropped through murk to the bottom. And suddenly Charlie knew that he would have no trouble replacing his mother’s clippers. Because in the scummy slime under his toes lay more round metal discs than he could count, and each one was worth at least One Cent. He stopped, sweeping a foot experimentally to broom the coins together. But even if he managed to shove them to the edge of the pond, the man on the bench was chuckling his enjoyment. Who knew how the old codger might complicate this operation?
Aaron, because Charlie had stopped: “Getting deeper?”
Charlie: “Stinks. Real bad. I think I’m gonna throw up.” A pantomime of a dry heave thrust Charlie’s head forward. He turned, shuffling with both feet, and moved back to the low curb, seeming to ignore old Mr. Benchman while giving every sign that, at any moment, he might deposit his breakfast across the cement near the man’s feet.
“I don’t need this,” said Benchman to nobody in particular, rising with a grunt, limping out of Charlie’s life exactly as Charlie had hoped.
“It’s okay, Charlie, you tried,” said Aaron, reaching over to help his pal from the pond; and with this proof of his devotion he assured himself of riches.
Until that moment Charlie had thought he might retrieve the glider and only the few visible coins, leaving all the rest in their drowned condition until much later, perhaps at dusk, but certainly alone. Now, still looking after the departing old fellow who was well out of earshot, Charlie grinned. “I’m okay. Aaron, have I ever lied to you?”
“Lotsa times. But if you say you’re—”
“Not just fibs. Big old lies, guy.” Charlie’s gaze was intense, with the imaginary heat of uncounted wealth underfoot.
Aaron blinked and thought it over. “Well, there was that time in—”
Exasperated, Charlie burst out, “D-Word it, Aaron, just trust me, okay?”
Aaron allowed full force to Charlie’s use of this forbidden Word and grimaced as if pained. “Okay, okay! What did I do, Charlie?”
“Nothin’. It’s what you’re gonna do. If you trust me, lie down here and
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