... down a hole.

          It was fall in Concord, New Hampshire.  Trees were shedding their summer foliage, giving way to winter.  Leaves had turned from green to orange-brown, scattering on the ground and waiting for a foot to release their crackles.
          Days were damp, and it was getting colder.  Early mornings, when the sun was yet to rise, stores along Main St. were vacant.  Signs on the doors still read “CLOSED”.  Mr. Dingle was always the first to open.  He owned Dingle’s Hardware, next to the pharmacy on Main.  It was bought by his great grandfather in 1903 and then given to his father in 1937.  His father died in a hunting accident in 1965, so Mr. Dingle owns it now.
          Trees and small woods separate many of the houses on the outskirts of town. The only things connecting them are narrow, winding roads that twist and turn past each individual house.  Most houses are made of wood, with A-framed roofs to shed the snow.  Occasionally one sees a brick house. They provide better insulation from the cold. 
           Ms. Greenly lived in a brick house.  She was almost eighty-nine; she had arthritis and poor circulation that got worse in the winter.  Though relatively nimble for her age, she used a walking stick to shuffle around her one story A-frame in her printed frocks spotted with various unbecoming stains.  It had been mentioned that she should get one of those beepers to hang around her neck.  In an emergency, she could presumably signal for help.   Ms. Greenly would chuckle and say, “When god wills it, dear.” Unfortunately, Mrs. Greenly suffered from terrible flatulence, from which she was blissfully unaware, due to her diminished sense of smell and hearing.  She got few visitors.  The incontinence of old age was evidently too much for most to bear. 
            Most mornings, as winter edged in, you could see smoke pouring out of the chimneys.  The air in the mornings was brisk and fresh, tinted with the earthy musk of conifers.  Mr. McNeiley was out every morning at 7:00 am to walk his black Labrador retriever, Bonny.  Always a brief pause when he opened the front door, Bonny at his side, he drew in a deep, refreshing breath over his thick black mustache and through his immense nostrils.  Then he was off at a quick and even clip down the road, Bonny bounding gleefully by his side.  Each day, except for Sundays, Mr. McNeiley drove to Boston.  He ran a law practice there named McNeiley, McDougle & Associates.  McDougle had often suggested that Mr. McNeiley move to Boston, but McNeiley despised the idea of living in the city.  The 90-minute commute to Boston was well worth the peace and tranquility of life in the country.
             Across from Concord Convalescent Home, there was a house, a small two-story house.  The dark green wood finish was badly weathered from rain and snow.  The yard had gone unattended for some time.  No one had bothered to cut the weeds that grew along the gravel driveway.  A 1981 Honda was parked in front of the garage.  The car was old looking, blue, oxidized; a white stripe ran down one side, but not the other.  It had a rusted front fender and a missing hubcap.
             On the second story of the house, there was a small bay window overlooking the street.  Through the window was a small room with a slanted ceiling.  Inside the room was a boy, asleep on a little bed in the corner, covered by a Mr. T duvet.  His name was Billy Fickle.  Little Billy Fickle was nine years old.  He was in the fourth grade at Concord Elementary School. 
             Billy’s father died almost a year before.  His father gave flying lessons at a small airport half an hour out of Concord.  Billy remembered the day his dad went up in that little Sesna biplane.  He often wondered if it was his fault that his father died.  He and his friend Thomas Pratt were playing at the airfield the day before the crash.  Billy and Tommy were sitting in the plane pretending to fly.  Billy noticed that a reflector on the left wing was broken.  He meant to tell his dad.  Billy thought the reflector might have caused the accident.  Of course it didn’t. 
             Six days a week Billy’s mother worked at Mia’s Café.  Her days off she’d spend in the kitchen, sitting at the table, the smoke from an always-lit cigarette wondering up aimlessly from an ashtray overflowing with carcasses; dim light streaming through a window, casting a shadow of her on the black and white checkered linoleum floor.  She called Billy her “little man,” he liked that.  It was seldom he felt as close to her.  She would tell him to be strong, that they’d survive, no matter what.  Billy loved her.  He wished she’d stop smoking. 
             One fine day, Billy was walking home from school with Thomas. “Hey Billy, wanna ride bikes up to the fort today?”
“Sure, I guess, but my tires flat.  There’s a big old thorn in it.  I musta' gotten it when I rode through Mr. McNeiley’s roses, when Bonny was chasin’ me.  That deaf old dog never did like me.”
            “Bonny ain’t deaf, She’s just plain stupid.”
            “Sure she’s deaf.  When Mr. McNeiley took her on his boat, she was standin’ right next to the foghorn when it blew.  Knocked the ears right off her head.”
             “Who cares about that dumb dog, let’s go to Dingles and get you a new inner tube so we can go work on the fort.”  The two boys walked through town to Dingle’s Hardware.  When they got there, they looked for the inner tubes, Tommy pocketing a few pieces of candy from the rack, like he always did.  Mr. Dingle was in the garage at the back of the store, loading steel piping on the back of his truck.  Engine running.  The last pipe loaded, he bent down and grabbed the handle to raise the garage door.  It was jammed and wouldn’t budge an inch.  Dingle struggled, pulling harder, then with both hands.  His brow furrowed and his face reddened from straining.  Suddenly he lost his grip, flying back he was knocked unconscious by one of the outstretched poles. Carbon monoxide slowly filled the room. 
             The boys were at the register with their inner tubes, Tommy’s pockets full of candy.  “Where’s mister Dingle?” Billy asked. 
             “I don’t know, ring the bell.” Tommy shot back.  Billy rang the bell, no answer.  Tommy cocked his head, “I hear something down the back, maybe he’s in the garage, heck let’s just leave with these tubes before he comes back.” 
             “C’mon Tommy, no way, let’s go see if he’s back there.”  They walked down the corridor to the garage door.  Opening the door they were hit with a blast of fumes.  “There he is lying on the floor! Tommy, get help, quick!”  Billy pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, climbed into the cab of the truck and turns off the ignition.  The carbon monoxide was overwhelming.  He tried the garage door.  Wouldn’t budge.  He opened the two side doors, and a long sliding window above a tool bench.  He ran outside.
             The doctor said any longer, and Dingle would have died.  The carbon monoxide was binding to the hemoglobin in his blood, diminishing the bloods ability to transport oxygen; it was suffocating him.   Billy didn’t understand all that, but he was glad to get free inner tubes for his bike, that Mr. Dingle promised “any time he needed them.” 
             It wasn’t long before things were back to their old pace again.    
             Mrs. Greenly was a nice old lady, a bit old-fashioned, pungent, but still nice.  She had no family to speak of or anyone to look after her, but absolutely refused to check into the convalescent home.  Since her late husband had left her some money, she could afford to have a nurse drop by once a week to check on her at home.  Which was just how she liked it.  She had a lot of faith in God and would always say blessing before each meal.  Rarely leaving the house, Ms. Greenly performed her own little sermons, reading passages from the Bible aloud, by herself, at home, every Sunday.   
             The weeds around her house thought they owned the place.  On the Saturday after the Mr. Dingle incident, Billy Fickle was passing by Ms. Greenly’s house on his bike. He was more conscious of the old lady than before, wondering how she was doing.  He rang the doorbell, and Ms. Greenly answered it. 
            “Little Billy Fickle, how are you dear?  How nice to see you.  Come in dear, come in, have some biscuits with me, I’ve just made some tea.  It’s not often I get company. How nice.” 
             Billy sat down and Ms. Greenly handed him a cup of tea with a chocolate cookie on the side.
            “Those were my mothers tea cups Billy, if you could possibly imagine such a long time ago.  They are all hand painted you know.”  Billy looked down at the flowery cups, then looked up and said, “They’re a bit girlie Ms.Greenly.”  To which Ms. Greenly chuckled and replied, “They are rather feminine aren’t they?” 
              Billy blushed, his cheeks turning the same pink as the flowers on the cup.  “What’s ‘feminine’ Ms. Greenly?”
              Ms. Greenly’s eyebrows rose faintly.  A second later responding in a gracious old-lady drawl, that only slightly betrayed her surprise, “that’s ‘girly’ dear.”
              Billy sipped some tea and finished the chocolate cookie.  He asked Ms. Greenly if she would like him to cut her lawn and pull weeds the following Saturday.  She said she would like that very much.          
              Billy was sure Ms. Greenly would give him a little something and was pleased by the prospect of earning some pocket money. Suddenly, without warning, from deep within the putrid and decaying bowls of Ms. Greenly’s paltry eighty-nine-year-old frame erupted the loudest, most onerous expulsion of foul smelling filth Billy had ever experienced.  His face turned from a flush of healthy pink embarrassment, to moss green. Ms. Greenly, looking quite innocent and quizzical asks, “Did you say something dear?”  Billy quickly excused himself, saying he would be back next Saturday. 
               The following Saturday, Billy came to Ms. Greenly’s house to do the yard work.  After about an hour of working hard, pulling at weeds, Billy went into Ms. Greenly’s house to get a drink of lemonade.  Ms. Greenly always had fresh, home made lemonade, and it was delicious.  As he was opening the refrigerator, he noticed a bottle of pills on the counter.  The label read “HEART PILLS.” 
                Suddenly, Billy heard a crash from down the hall.  He ran toward Ms. Greenly’ room.  She was laying on the floor, pawing at her heart, mouth agape and drooling onto the carpet.  Billy looked down at the bottle in his hand.  He ran back to the kitchen for a glass of water.  Kneeling by Ms. Greenly’s side cradling her head, he fed her a pill from the bottle, tipping the water glass to her toothless mouth, her pursed lips suckling at the glass. Swallowing the water, her rigid body relaxed almost instantly, falling back to the floor.  The pill had worked. 
                The doctor insisted to Ms. Greenly that she get a live-in nurse if she intended to stay out of the convalescent home.  She couldn’t count on Billy, the now official “Town Hero,” to save her each time her heart threatened to give out.  Ms. Greenly just smiled and said, “When God wills it, dear.” She gave Billy two shiny quarters for his handy work in the garden.
                The fort was coming along nicely, quite a grand accomplishment for two nine year-old boys.  Billy and Tommy had built themselves a tree house out of old scrap from Johnson’s Building Co.  Every Friday after school, Billy and Tommy Pratt would ride their bikes down to Johnson’s.  They would load all the scrap wood they could on their wagons, taking it to their fort deep in the woods.  Tommy was always borrowing his dad’s tools.  His dad didn’t seem to mind since he knew they were having fun and being boys.  Tommy’s mom was always telling them to be careful, like moms do.  Billy stayed at Tommy’s a lot.  Billy’s mom worked a lot to keep the bills paid, and when she was home, she’d rarely leave the kitchen or stop smoking.  Home just didn’t feel like home to Billy.  Like he didn’t even belong there, or wasn’t welcome.  His father was warm to him, but he was gone now.
                The fort was about half way done, but they still had a lot to go.  It was built on an old oak tree, about one fourth the way up.
                It was an exceptionally cold morning, Mr. McNeiley had rushed to get to work and the back door didn’t quite latch when he slammed it shut.  Bonny, bored with sleeping, decided she wanted a run.  She walked to the door and pawed at it. It was the same old spot she’d been pawing at for years, to no avail, but on this day and to Bonny’s delight, the door swung open.  Bonny darted across the lawn and down toward the street.  A gray Ford Taurus is sped down the road at almost fifty.  Bonny didn’t hear the horn honking steadily as she barreled across the street. BEEEEEEEP!
                “WATCH OUT YOU STUPID MUTT!!”
                Bonny escaped by only a few feet.  Running like the wind, she stormed through the woods toward the boy’s fort.  Billy looked up from his hammering and said to Tommy,  “What’s that noise?”  Tommy looked puzzled, and replied “What noise?”
                 “That noise, it sounds like someone running through the leaves.  And they’re coming this way.”
                 “Maybe it’s a unicorn,” Tommy said facetiously.
                 “It’s not a unicorn Silly, look!” Both of them stood up and looked over the railing of the fort, down at the leaf-covered ground.  Sure enough, it wasn’t a unicorn, but Bonny, dashing flat out underneath them. “It’s Bonny! How’d she get out?”
                 “We have to go catch her!”
                 “She hates us Billy.  She’ll bite us or something, we’ll get rabies.”
                 “She doesn’t have rabies Tommy, come on!”
                 The boys slid down the rope and started chasing after Bonny.  They had run about three hundred yards, when they saw something so terrifying that they froze dead in their tracks.  There was Bonny, standing in front of the biggest black bear that ever lived.  The beast was on its hind legs, jowls flapping, massive teeth gapping over its dark pit of a throat, saliva flying everywhere, the roar was deafening.  Bonny was barking at the beast as fiercely as she could.  She was a feisty old bitch, but one whose bite was outmatched this time.  It is certain that if Bonny could hear, she would have fled in terror, just like Billy wanted to.
                  Bonny rushed at the bear and its eyes turned red with rage.  With one swipe of its massive paw the beast knocked the dog twenty feet through the air.  Bonny slapped against the trunk of a huge oak and fell to the ground with at thump, a sack of meat and bone.  The boy’s eyes widened in shock as Billy remembered Mr. Dingle and Ms. Greenly; he’d saved their lives, he could do the same again. “Tommy, try and go around, see if she’s alive, I’ll distract the bear.”
                 “What, are you crazy? It’ll kill you.”
                 “Just do what I say.”  Tommy did what Billy said. 
                 Billy reached down and picked up a rock that was lying by his feet. “Lets see how you like being hurt.”  He cocked his arm back and flung the rock as hard as a nine year-old arm possibly could.  Every ounce of Billy’s courage was in this throw.  The rock whizzed through the air, towards the bear’s head.  Just before the rock could make impact, the bear descended down to all fours, the projectile sailing over him.  Billy’s mouth dropped open in despair. His heart sunk in his chest.  Billy turned and started to run.  He couldn’t hear anything, or feel his legs.  All he could see was the ground, blurred, reeling under his feet, almost in slow motion.  Billy didn’t notice the root sticking out of the ground, all of a sudden things had changed--Billy had fallen, he was laying on the cold forest floor, face up, the silhouette of the black beast blocking the rays of light leaking through the treetops.  For a brief moment, Billy lost sight of the dark and ominous apparition as it descended upon him.  Up in the sky, past the black and faceless creature filling his eyes, Billy saw something he recognized. It was a plane, passing overhead.  Father, he sensed.  Billy felt a calm caress him, like he was slipping into a warm bath, his head effortlessly submerging; the bear had clamped its teeth down onto Billy’s skull and warm blood was running down his forehead, welling up in his eye sockets.