Free The Jersey Devil by Hunter Shea Page A

essence, was what sold.
    â€œWhen are you planning to go there?” Norm asked.
    â€œSaturday. We’re all heading down.”
    Norm took off his straw hat, looked at the sweat-stained band, and secured it back on his head. He said, “I’ll b-book a flight out of Charlotte to Newark. Tell me where to meet you.”
    * * *
    Ben Willet sat on the back porch, nursing a beer after sneaking a few nips of Johnnie Walker from the flask he kept under the porch steps. The sun was setting in a violent display of pinks and purples, making the ribbons of clouds in the distance look like cotton candy. The screen door opened and his brother, Daryl, came out holding two beers by their longnecks.
    â€œFigured you’d be ready for another,” Daryl said.
    Ben wondered if his brother knew more than he was letting on.
    He drained the Rolling Rock and took the proffered Budweiser.
    â€œWhere’s April?” Ben asked.
    â€œShe’s coming. She’s just drying the rest of the dishes.”
    â€œMom and Dad know?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œGood.”
    They took long pulls from their beers, staring off at the horizon. Boompa had been excited as hell all day and through dinner. He was upstairs in his room right now, packing. Their mother and father had been more subdued, warning Boompa he’d bust a heart valve if he didn’t take a breath.
    Ben wasn’t as sold on the story as Boompa, but that didn’t matter. Their grandfather was heading down to the Pine Barrens with or without them. The latter wasn’t an option. They’d need him out there, especially if the old man’s hunch was right.
    April came out with a full glass of wine. The hem of her shirt was wet from standing close to the sink.
    â€œThanks for abandoning me,” she said to Daryl.
    â€œWhat? There was hardly anything left. This beer was calling out to me.”
    â€œYou’re not even legal to drink,” April said, tapping the bottom of his beer with the tip of her boot.
    â€œIf I was in college, I’d be drinking a hundred times more than I do now and that would be acceptable,” Daryl said.
    â€œHe’s old enough to serve if he wanted, he’s old enough to drink,” Ben said. That closed the case. He knew they didn’t defer to him because he was the oldest. No, they danced around him on eggshells because they didn’t want to upset him. Most times, it pissed him off. Not tonight.
    â€œCome on,” Ben said, pushing off the step, headed toward the cornfield. His brother and sister followed close behind. When they were a few rows in, he stopped and inspected one of the ears. It wasn’t ready just yet. Ben loved early August corn. Nothing in the world was sweeter. He’d eat it straight off the stalk. When he was in the Middle East, he fell asleep many a night dreaming about eating corn while he walked the fields.
    â€œOkay, brother, why the secrecy?” April asked, twirling the wine in her glass.
    As kids, he and April used to pretend the cornfield was another world, teeming with monsters and heroes, booby traps and secret lairs. Somehow, even if they’d been fighting like cats and dogs all day, the moment they entered the cornfield, they were best buds. To them, there was magic in the endless rows of tall stalks. And in the face of such magic, they had to band together, both to thwart the black forces and revel in the white.
    By the time Daryl was old enough to play with them, Ben was driving and had long since lost that tether to the mystery of the fields.
    â€œI want to ask you both something,” Ben said.
    â€œShoot,” Daryl said, finishing off his beer and tucking the bottle in his back pocket.
    â€œWhat do you really think of the story about the guy they found mauled to death in the state park?”
    April sucked on her teeth for a bit, then said, “I mean, it could be it. I looked on a map and it wasn’t far from where that kid