The Summer That Melted Everything Read Online Free Page A

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    â€œAin’t no goin’ back now. Flint will make sure the whole town knows who you say you are, so you better be prepared to be just that.”
    The boy nodded.
    â€œC’mon then. We’re almost there.” I pointed to the KETTLE LANE sign before us. “My house is at the end of here. There’s an actual kettle buried somewhere on this lane. They say if you find the kettle, you can drink your way to immortality. If I find it, I’ll let you have a sip.”
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    â€œDon’tcha wanna live forever?”
    â€œI’m the devil. I am already forever.”
    Any further conversation was doubted by the start of a John Deere in the nearby yard. Instead of trying to compete with its blaring rumble, we continued down the lane in silence.
    The lane was drenched in sunlight. The trees put their shade down in the large lawns of the large houses that made up Kettle Lane.
    The first house on the lane belonged to our neighbor, Grayson Elohim, and was part of an inheritance from Elohim’s banker father.
    As we came upon the orange-red brick, we saw Elohim eating on the porch. His feet, too short to reach the floor, hung barefoot. His lunch consisted of macaroni salad and a raw onion sandwich. No meat would be found on his table. At that time, he was the town’s only vegetarian. I used to think this put his sharp teeth to waste.
    He ate at the large, dark dining table on his white porch every day for all his meals. The heavily polished table was set for two, with a yellowed lace tablecloth, while a radio in the background played violin. He’d go through the gentlemanly motions of dining with his wife in mind.
    At one time he had been engaged, but his fiancée drowned in 1956. Though her body was recovered from the Atlantic and buried in Breathed, he lived as if she were by his side and not low and deep and slowly disappeared by the soft power of the worms.
    He showed me her picture once in his red leather scrapbook. A tall woman with lines like string, a very white string at that. As far as loveliness goes, she had something like it. Enough to be far too lovely for an ugly little man like Elohim.
    He was named Grayson, for being the son with the gray eyes. In his porridge-lumped face, his gray eyes gave possibility to his high-rising forehead and low-hanging chin. He wore his ashen hair long and slung in a low, limp ponytail. He had started balding in his late twenties following the sinking of the Andrea Doria. By ’84, and in his late fifties, he was completely bald on top, except for this strange growth of hair that grew above his forehead like a limp horn. He turned it into two by parting the meager strands, wearing them long to the corners of his mouth.
    â€œHey, Mr. Elohim.” I threw my hand up.
    â€œWhy, hey there, Fielding.” He spooned more macaroni salad onto his plate.
    When I turned to introduce the boy, he was gone.
    â€œOver here.” The boy’s hushed voice came from the other side of a nearby tree.
    â€œWho you talkin’ to, Fielding?” Elohim stood up from the table, craning his brief neck in the tree’s direction.
    I did my best to urge the boy out, but still he stayed behind the tree.
    â€œI thought you come by yourself.” Elohim cleaned his teeth with a toothpick. “If there’s anyone else, you come on out now. I don’t like hidden things.”
    The boy wouldn’t budge. Not even when I tugged his bony arm. When I asked him why he looked so afraid, he nodded toward Elohim.
    â€œYou ’fraid of ’im ’cause he’s a midget?” I asked quiet enough so Elohim wouldn’t hear me call him anything other than short. “He won’t harm ya none.”
    The boy chewed his lip. “You sure?”
    â€œHe’s never hurt me, and I’ve known ’im my whole life. That’s sayin’ somethin’, ain’t it?”
    â€œCome on out,” Elohim