Chapter 3 - The Battalion

By the time I tracked down the Battalion, the fair was in full swing. They were sat under a poplar on the edge, smokin’ candy cigarettes and watching a horde of kids ride the witch’s hat like sailors in a storm. Chester was sat back against the poplar’s trunk, sunlight bronzing his dark hair and skin, with the other three sat in a semi-circle facing him. Folks said apart from our sizes, it was easy to tell Chester and I were cut from the same tree. I wasn’t so sure. Our bark might be the same, but according to Grandma, his eyes were deep as oil wells, while mine were blue as thunder. In any event, my cow’s lick was way bigger’n his. 

“Can’t believe you went and wasted your fifty on a jar of nuthin,” he said in that lazy scoffing way of his.

“Did you hear anythin’ I jus said?” I retorted.

“I heard you say you gave Roach a fifty for a jar you can get just about anywhere for three cents, ‘cept it would be filled with marmite.” This bought guffaws from Maurice and Jaybee.

“Dumb numbskull,” Maurice added, flicking a stone at me with his fat fingers.

“If I’m so dumb, then why’d this other fella pay so much? Even if they was one-dollar bills, there must have been over a hundred. And I swear that was a ten-dollar bill I saw.”

“Ten-dollar bills!” Jaybee squawked. “You’re soft in the head!”

“Or lyin’. Lyin’ like a laying Leprechaun,” Maurice added. 

A part of me considered layin’ into him right there and then. Maurice was way bigger than the rest of us, me most of all, but I reckoned I’d get him to shed a tear before he whupped me. Instead, I decided to appeal to Chester’s reason. “Lyin’s worse than cryin’. Millers don’t lie. Tell him, Chester.”

Chester lay back, puffed on his candy smoke, and blew invisible smoke rings into the bright blue sky. Then he said quietly, “He’s right, Millers don’t lie. I don’t know what he saw, but he wouldn’t straight out lie ‘bout it.” He sat up. “Let’s see it.”

At first, I thought he was talking about my little brown jar, but then I realized he wanted to see the other one. Still smarting but feeling a mite more righteous, I eased the other fella’s jar out of my pocket. Truth be told, it was making me a little skittish. It was a deep, shiny red. So red it was almost black. And it was covered in glass tears. Like wax run down a church candlestick. I handed it carefully to Chester. He turned it over in his hands. 

“Don’t open it!” I said when it looked like he might.

He let go of the lid. “You sure this is it? Why would he throw it away so soon after buyin’ it?”

I nodded. “I went and fetched it right after. Nobody else went near that trashcan before I got to it. It was the only thing in it, ‘sides paper and a dead mole.”

“May-be. The fella. Al-ready. Let the luck…out.” Norman always spoke like that. Like he had to pry every word from his brain. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, Chester seemed to pay his words more than he paid ours. Him speaking out now somehow made my tale more respectable, and I was grateful. But, at the same time, what he was sayin’ was dead wrong.

“Nope, no way,” I said. “He caught it left hand and dropped it in the trash left hand. His right didn’t go anywhere near it. Hard to screw the lid off with only one hand. ’Sides, it was still sealed tight when I got there. Why’d he be bothered screwing the lid back on if he let the luck out?” 

Chester took another puff while he considered this.

“But here’s the thing!” I rattled off, now that I had him. “Roach never put the name inside. It was too quick. Like I told you, when he did mine, he had to light a candle and everything. It took at least a couple of minutes to do it proper.”

Chester blew another candy smoke ring.

I carried on. “‘Cording to Roach, without a name, it’s no good.”

“Maybe,” said Chester slowly, “or maybe not.”

I blinked.

“Maybe.” he continued. “Maybe without a name, the luck’ll just hook on the first person it touches.”

I hadn’t thought about that, but in the back of my mind, I think I somehow knew it to be correct, which is why I was so twitchy with Chester opening it earlier.

“What kind of luck did you say was in here again?” he asked.

“The worst kind,” I repeated, “whatever that is.”

 Chester grunted.

“And another thing,” I added, knowing I had given Chester an itch and wanting to make it worse. “The thing I really can’t figure is that I’m pretty darn sure Roach looked at the name the man gave him. Why would he do that?”

“Yeah … why would he do that?” said Chester. He looked thoughtful. Then he did something that, to this day, still makes me wanna knock his block off. He tossed the jar chock-a-block filled with the worst kind of luck in the world back at me. But not directly. It went way up over my head. I had to turn and lunge to catch it before it hit the ground.

“You crazy?” I yelled at him.

“Crazy as Daisy,” he said coolly while everyone, apart from Norman, cackled. 

For a moment, I considered smashing the jar into the ground at their feet and letting its contents engulf them like a fart cloud. But I didn’t. I turned and ran instead.

Halfway across the field, a faraway voice found my burning ears. “Hey, Lewis! Don’t be late, mate.” 

I could feel their faces grinning into the back of my neck. Screw you, Maurice. I had no intention of being late. And I had no intention of failing either.