The Tank Man's Son Read Online Free PDF Page B

to walk up that hill, through those thick, scratchy bushes.”
    We’d set off at a fast walk, and Sheri would have to pump her shorter legs to keep up. It didn’t take long for the whining to start.
    “Wait!” we’d hear from behind us. “ Wait ! ”
    “We’re going exploring, Sheri, and if you want to explore, you have to keep up!”
    “But where? I’ll meet you!”
    “We don’t know where   —we’re exploring! Come on!”
    “Forget it!” she’d yell and tromp back toward the house. Jerry and I would shrug, watch her go, and return to our exploration.
    It didn’t always happen like that, of course. Sometimes she managed to keep up with us for hours. She was a tough little kid, and she knew better than to try for sympathy from Jerry or me when she acquired a new scrape or bruise. Other times we managed to leave her at home by just sitting around outside until she became so bored that she wandered back inside, at which point we’d race into the woods without her. If she suggested a game, we’d ignore her, even if it was what we already wanted to play, like hide-and-seek. And when Jerry or I suggested a game, we tried to pick one she wouldn’t want to play, like exploring or staging yet another skirmish in the sand with our army men.
    Sheri’s face was covered in freckles that stood out against her red cheeks whenever she worked hard or stuck her tongue out at us. Her toes had always pointed inward, which didn’t so much slow her down as make her look like she was about to fall over when she raced ahead of us across the dirt or through the oak trees. She usually wore plaid pants   —dirt-and-sand-colored plaid   —and Mary Jane shoes, along with a white shirt, also stained.
    Mom sometimes brought home toys Sheri could play with by herself, like an Easy-Bake Oven or small pieces of plastic furniture for her dolls, but Jerry and I made most of our own toys out of whatever grew and whatever we could scavenge from the junk Dad was always bringing home.
    Jerry and I knew our property by heart, as if we’d built it for one of our miniature battles. From the street, our driveway lanced directly uphill for about a hundred yards, and at the top of that first hill sat our house. On one side of the house was the well pit, and on the other side was Dad’s shed   —which he had covered with a generous supply of tar paper. Leaning up against the shed were piles of hoses, pipes, andunfinished projects. Next to that, a broken generator perched atop its trailer, the trailer’s tires long since empty of air. Wedged between the generator and the shed were large piles of rusted steel that had been lying there long enough that weeds grew up around them.
    Next to the house was a level area where we parked Mom’s Ford Custom and Dad’s Ford pickup. There were two small valleys behind the house, both of which Dad figured out uses for. The first was our personal garbage dump, while the second was where he tossed or dragged his ever-growing collection of discarded vehicles. One, a rusting VW minibus, was filled with old tires, as well as what seemed like a million dead leaves that had blown in through the open windows. Beyond that rusted a motley collection of other equipment he’d acquired at swap meets, auctions, and estate sales.
    The rest of the eleven acres was mostly rolling hills covered in trees and scrub, although there was also one noteworthy hill, a short jog past the edge of our property, that was covered in a thick grove of oak and maple trees. At the foot of the hill was a pond. Years before, whoever owned the land had attempted to dig a basement for a home, but it had filled with water, so he abandoned the whole project. It was deep enough that we had our own private swimming pool, as long as we didn’t mind trespassing, swimming in cold, dirty water, and then hoofing it the half mile or so back home.
    Even better, someone had tied a rope to one of the highest branches of the biggest oak atop the hill.