Chain Letter

Chapter 2

"Everything looks the same Kipp," Tony Hunt said, standing at the window of a second-story bedroom, looking west into the late sun. Some kids were playing a game of touch football in the street; their younger brothers and sisters sat on the sideline sidewalks on skateboards and tricycles, cheering for whoever had the ball---a typical tranquil scene in a typical Los Angeles suburb. Yet for Tony it was as though he were looking over a town waiting for the bomb to drop. The houses, trees and kids were the same as before, only seen through dirty glasses. He'd felt this way before, last summer in fact, felt this overwhelming desire to go back in time, to yesterday even, when life had been much simpler. Chances were the chain letter was a joke; nevertheless, it was a joke he'd never laugh over.

"We won't have such a nice view out the bars of our cell, that's for sure," Kipp Coughlan said, sitting on the bed.

"I'm telling my lawyer I won't settle for a penitentiary without balconies," Tony said.

"A while back, they used to hang convicts from courthouse balconies."

Tony turned around, taking in with a glance the plain and tidy room; he was not big on frills, except for his poster of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, which hung on the wall at the end of his bed and which greeted him each morning with an erotic smile. "You know, we're not being very funny," he said.

"Really. Has Alison gotten hold of Joan?"

"Not yet. Joan's away with her parents at Tahoe. She wasn't at school today. But she should be home soon."

"She'll freak when she hears about the letter," Kipp said.

Tony nodded, stepping to a chair opposite his bed, sitting down and resting his bare feet on a walnut case where he stowed his athletic medals and trophies. It drove his mom nuts that he kept the awards locked up where no one could see them; he liked to think it was beneath his dignity to show off. Of course if that were true, why did he collect them at all? When he was honest with himself, he had to admit a good chunk of his self-image was built on his athletic successes. Grant High and won the league title in football last fall, it had been his passing arm that had been hugely to thank, a fact that was often mentioned but never debated at school. At present, running in the quarter mile and a half mile, he was leading the track team to a similar championship. What made him slightly ashamed of his accomplishments, he supposed, was his being a hero in a group he couldn't relate to. He was a jock but he really didn't give a damn what NFL team required who in the draft. He could never carry on a conversation with his teammates, and he despised their condescending attitude toward non-athletic students. That was one of the reasons he felt comfortable with Kipp and Neil. Neither of them could hike a football, much less score a touchdown.

"Neil called just before you arrived," Tony said. "He should be here any minute."

"Does he know that he now has a Caretaker?"

"Yeah. Alison gave him the gist of the letter over the phone."

Kipp grinned, which was always a curious affair to him. He had a buffoon's nose and a rabbit's ears, plus fair hair that had an unfortunate tendency to stick up, all of which at first glance made him look like a clown. But his intense black eyes belied the comparison. Even when he laughed, which was often, he looked like he was thinking. Kipp may not have been a genius, but he was close enough to make a difference. He had a 4.0 average and was going to M.I.T. come fall to study aeronautical engineering. He and Tony hadn't been friends for long; they had gotten beyond the superficial "Hey, what's happening?" level only after the incident last summer --- nothing like a shared trauma to bring people together. He had the rare wit that could ridicule himself as comfortably as it did others. He loved to talk and, being a prodigious reader, usually he knew what he was talking about. Tony was hoping he could shed some light on their dilemma.