The Hill

"You’re a strange one, Skeets."

They entered quietly, changed out of their wet uniforms into some of Skeets’ old clothes, and then laid down on the two sofas in the living room. Johnny was asleep before his head hit the cushion.

"Wake up, boy."

The sun peered through the front windows. The storm had passed and morning had broken.

"Wake up!"

Johnny felt a harsh nudge against his side. He forced his heavy eyelids open. An old man, must have been close to fifty, Johnny guessed, was standing over him with a shotgun.

"What’re you doin’ in here, boy?"

Johnny smiled. "I take it this is your old man, Skeets?"

The man looked mortified, and raised the gun. "What kinda evil shenanigan’s you tryin’ to pull, son?"

Johnny sat up, and the man raised his weapon higher. "Slowly, boy. What you got to say for yourself?"

Johnny looked over at the other sofa. It was vacant. He looked around. "Skeets," he called out.

"Stop it, you damned hooligan," the man shouted at him.
"Stop what? Skeets said you’d be surprised, Mr. Tyler. Only I thought he meant happy surprised, you know?"

"Why do you keep sayin’ that?"

"Saying what, sir?"

"Skeets. The only Skeets from these here parts died a war hero over in Germany."

Johnny felt bad for the old man. Obviously, the army had made a mistake; they must have told Mr. Tyler that Skeets had died in the war. "No, sir, no. The army must have told you wrong. Skeets is fine, I saw to that. His guardian angel, that’s what he called me."

Mr. Tyler looked up strangely at Johnny. "His what?"

"His guardian angel, sir. He’s fine. We got back yesterday and took a tug up from Boston Harbor. The weather sneaked up on us mighty quick though, and we capsized in that storm last night. Me and Skeets almost bought it, but we got lucky and washed ashore. Skeets brought me here through the trail in the woods. He got the key from behind the brick by the front steps; said he didn’t want to wake you. He must be in the bathroom washing up."

Johnny turned toward the stairs, "Skeets," he called as he started to stand.

The man nudged him back down with the barrel of his gun. "I don’t know what kind of game you’re playin’ mister, but I don’t like it. Nobody disrespects my brother’s name like that. Nobody. He was a war hero, he was." The man tilted his head and motioned toward a picture on the mantle. It looked just like Skeets. He was in dress uniform standing next to another man, one who looked like a younger version of the man who now pointed a shotgun at Johnny.

Johnny stared in disbelief. The dress uniform was US Army, but it was World War One. It had to be Skeets’ father in the photo. It was odd that Skeets had never mentioned that his dad had fought in the war. This old man must be Skeets’ uncle. The family resemblence was clear.

"That you with your brother, mister?"

"Sure is."

"Skeets looks just like him."

"That is Skeets." The old man was getting angry. "Ain’t you listened to anything I said?"

He stared at Johnny. "How’d you know about that key?"

Johnny wasn’t sure how to answer. If he told him the truth … well, you don’t want to anger a man who’s got a gun pointed at your head. He knew that much.

"And how’d you find that trail. Nobody’s used that since me and Skeets hiked it when we was kids. It’s so thick with brush, nobody even knows it’s there anymore. What kind of game you playing here?"