The Rake

July in the deep South offered a kind of smothering heat with humidity thick enough to shower in. Nights weren’t much better. Long before central air and heat wormed their way into an engineer’s imagination, window and ceiling fans buzzed with the illusion that a cool breeze might be on the way. Then came the whole house attic fans. When the “on” switch was flipped, the house shuddered in anticipation of a comfortable night’s sleep. Window curtains stood at attention as outside air rushed inside. No doubt it was something to see. Unfortunately, even at one a.m. it was still eighty degrees so the big blow was still hot enough to provide clammy sweat-stained pillow cases and sheets. Then again, perhaps a hot breeze was better than no breeze at all.

It was on such a night in mid-July that Alec Mercer and his two best friends, Stu and B.J. were camping out in the mobile home his father was remodeling with Durwood Evans for resale. Forty yards from the back door of his house was far enough for eleven-year-old boys to let their imaginations run wild, but not too far in case of an emergency. Besides, a fifty by ten-foot house trailer with screen windows and electricity, compliments of an extension cord, beat a pup tent by a mile. After bologna sandwiches, potato chips and R.C. colas, Alec, Stu and B.J. settled in for the night. The candy bars B.J. had lifted from Allegood’s Grocery would provide them with a sweet-tooth nightcap before they turned in.

The oscillating fan whirred its magic and the table lamp gave off a comforting glow while the three boys looked at the “Playboy” magazine B.J. had traded his old chemistry set to Eliott Bivins for. Apparently, Eliott had watched his mother throw the “Playboy” in the trash can after finding it stashed in his father’s workshop. While most boys during those times weren’t all that clear about the finer details of the opposite sex, if it was forbidden, it had to be something worth having. The coup de grace was the half-empty pack of Winstons Stu had lifted from his aunt’s car. So there they were in eleven-year-old heaven, smoking Winstons and looking at pictures of naked women. Lighting up another cigarette, Stu looked at his two friends and said, “You can’t beat pictures of naked women.” Each turned page elicited whispers of excitement from the three boys. Smokes, naked women and candy bars—the stuff dreams are made of. There was only one problem. Watching from his bedroom window was Mason, Alec’s older brother. For him, it was “payback time.” Whether real or imagined, with the four Smith boys, it was always payback time for something.

Leaving by way of the front door, Mason eased around the side of the house and crawled up to the mobile home. He could smell the cigarette smoke and hear the animated chatter inside. He had no doubt Alec and his buddies were up to no good. He knew that because if he were in their place with his friends, the same would be true of him. Making his way back to the garage, he found an old, rusted leaf rake with a broken handle. Now he would wait for the right time. It wouldn’t be long.

The back porch light turned off—check. Parent’s bedroom light off—check. After waiting another thirty minutes and hearing his father’s snores through their bedroom screen window, Mason smiled to himself. “It's go time.”

Easing up next to the trailer, he slowly dragged the tines of the rake across the metal exterior wall. Not too long, just long enough for the sound of someone or something scratching.

“What’s that?” B.J. whispered.

Stu looked at B.J., then at Alec. “I heard it too.”

Alec peered out of the window. “Don’t see a thing. It’s kind of windy. Maybe a pine limb fell.”

Mason waited in the shadows until the chatter picked up again inside and the smell of Winstons filled the night air.

Time to end the show. The long, slow fingernails on a blackboard screeching sound of the rake sliding across metal siding created an ominous silence inside. Then with a single deft motion, he disconnected the extension cord. Lights out. The slow, rhythmic clinking of fan blades ground to a halt. The only light that remained came from the red, glowing tip of the Winston B.J. was sucking on for all he was worth.

Scurrying under the trailer, Mason positioned himself directly under the door leading outside and thumped the floor three times with the rake handle.

Game over. Almost.

Alec was the first one through the door. When his bare foot touched the top step, Mason reached out from under the trailer and grabbed his younger brother’s ankle. With a shout that woke half the neighborhood, Alec exited the mobile home with a leap that defied the laws of gravity. If he had been wearing a cape, he might have gone airborne.

Afterwards, during the course of his father’s interrogation, it didn’t take long for Mason to conclude that perhaps, he had gone a bit too far. And one look from Alec confirmed that he was keeping score and planning his own version of revenge. Still, pursing his lips in an almost imperceptible smile, he found solace in knowing the events of the night would most certainly be included in the Smith brothers’ vendetta hall of fame.