Chapter Eight: An Unexpected Talk

On Thursday afternoon, three days after our run-in with Slicer, Joe and I went down to the local park to have a one-one-one basketball game on the deserted court. We were both surprised not to find anyone else there; basketball is pretty big in Bayport, though not quite as much as football. It turned out to be just as well that no one was around to observe us; neither of us had played since the last school game and we’d both gotten rusty in the interim. Basketball’s not like riding a bike. You either use it or lose it, as coach always says.

After we wrapped up our game- Joe won by a point when one of my lay-ups missed- we sat beside the court for a while, getting our breath back and wiping away sweat. “We need to get out of the city,” my brother complained. “Go somewhere cool.”

“That would be great,” I agreed, fanning the back of my neck and shoulders by flapping my t-shirt. “You know, Biff keeps talking about going up to his parents’ cabin in Vermont . Maybe we should take him up on that.”

“ Forest ,” Joe mused. “Lots of shade…cold lakes…yeah. Let’s talk to him about that. Like, tonight.”

I had to grin. “If you can find him. I heard through the grapevine that he’s taking Sally out tonight.” The grapevine being Chet Morton; he always seems to know who’s doing what and when in our group.

“They sure are getting serious.”

I shrugged. “Twice in a week- not that serious. After all, you see Iola almost that often.”

“I ‘see’ her, Frank, I don’t take her out places,” he retorted, and his already-flushed face got even redder. “Besides, she’s just a friend.”

“Ah.”

“She is! She’s a friend, not a girlfriend!”

“Settle down,” I suggested. “Nothing wrong with being friends with a girl, it’s just that people will wonder sometimes. If you say you’re friends, fine, no big deal, nothing to get so defensive about.” I didn’t mention the fact that the best love relationships start as ordinary friendships. In this mood, Joe would accuse me of making it up, even though he knew better. Besides, I couldn’t remember where I’d read it. It might be some author’s plot twist.

“Sorry,” Joe said after a moment. “I didn’t mean to growl. I think it’s the heat.” He took a breath. “Frank...”

“Yeah?”

“The reason I don’t come tell you when I have bad dreams anymore is ‘cause I sorta feel like I have to- to learn to fight ‘em off by myself.”

Absolute master of sudden topic changes, that’s my little brother.

“Oh,” I said, which was about all I could manage at the moment. It was the last thing I expected him to bring up. I had apologized Tuesday evening for pressuring him that morning, and he’d accepted it, but we hadn’t talked about it since. He never had answered my question and I’d resigned myself to the thought that he wasn’t going to- that, hopefully, he didn’t need to. And here I thought he was going to ask me for some girl-advice. As if. “I guess I can see that,” I admitted after some of my surprise wore off. “Don’t wanna get, like...over-dependent.” That’s one of his most common arguments, and it is true- just not to the extremes that he takes it.

“Right.”

“But you don’t have to keep it so secret that I don’t even know what you’re trying to do. I mean, you could keep me updated,” I ventured. He frowned. “I’m not talking about details and stuff, just mention it now and again so I’m not totally oblivious. I do like to know what’s going on in your life; that way I don’t get taken by surprise when you tell me stuff.”

“Oh. Yeah, I could maybe do that,” he murmured, toying with a tuft of grass beside him. We were sitting on the grassy area beside the picnic tables, which were all clustered under a wooden pavilion. The sun was getting low, casting the pavilion’s slanting shadow across the ground where we sat. Had we been at one of the tables, we would have been in direct sunlight, and it was plenty hot without doing that. Besides, there were numerous bees’ nests hanging from the rafters. Bees make me nervous, especially nests of them.

“Besides,” I added softly, “you know keeping everything to yourself just makes you miserable, in the long run. Same as it does me.” I don’t get low-self-esteem fits, but I don’t make a habit of talking to people, either. My problem is that I have to trust someone intensely before I’ll confide in them, and most people don’t qualify. So I know how hard to is to go around with something grinding you up inside and feel like you’re on your own in dealing with it.

“We do have that in common,” my brother sighed. “But-”

“You are off on another, ‘I’m nothing but a bother’ kick, aren’t you?” I asked anxiously. Then I wished I hadn’t, for he looked away and didn’t answer at first. For a moment, I was sure he wasn’t going to reply at all.

“I’m trying not to,” he said at last, plucking a dandelion from the wiry grass. “I keep reminding myself of…stuff. You know, things you and Dad and Mom have told me. And it helps, Frank, really it does. I just wish I knew why it keeps happening. I don’t like feeling this- that way.”

I would have put my arm around him, if it hadn’t been so hot. As it was, I reached out and tapped his dandelion, watching it sway. For a moment I hesitated, then braced myself for difficulties. “I probably shouldn’t mention this, but I heard Dad talking about getting you counseling,” I began.

“Yeah, he mentioned it to me. I said I’d think about it. I dunno, big brother, I don’t think I’d trust a therapist. Besides, it’d cost a lot of money.”

I let out a silent breath of relief at his calm response. “Well, not trusting them would be a problem, but I think whatever fee went into it would be worth it, if it helped you,” I told him. “Anyway, with all the people Dad knows, I bet he’d get a discount- maybe even pro bono, for someone he solved a case for.”

“That’s true,” Joe agreed. “But I’d still rather talk to you than a shrink. You know me, I trust you, and you don’t- most of the time- try to pry stuff out of me that I’m not ready to go into. I wouldn’t have to start at the beginning and- and explain myself to you.”

I felt my cheeks heat up, feeling very pleased, rather embarrassed, and a little uneasy at the thought. “Yeah, but I’m not a pro. I do my best, and I always will, but I’m not sure my best is enough.”

Joe considered that, slowly plucking bits of yellow from the flower-weed and frowning. “Well, it has been so far. Anyway, I’m still thinking about it. It’s a tough decision. Maybe- maybe when school starts, if I need to, I can talk to the guidance counselor. I expect if I’m gonna feel stressed, it’ll start then, but until then- it really hasn’t been bothering me as much, since…” he paused, yellow bits of flower falling onto his crossed legs and white shorts.

“Since we started taking cases together again?” I offered.

“Yeah.”

We were both quiet for a while, thinking of the past winter and spring. Dad and I had inadvertently made Joe feel like he could never measure up to our demanding standards- mine at school, Dad’s in investigating. Finally, in anger and bitter frustration, he’d exploded at us both and quit working on investigations entirely. Even after we’d talked it all out and his confidence began to return, he wouldn’t get involved for several months. During that time, I’d discovered that, as a solo detective, I stank. I wasn’t quite as bad when it came to assisting our father, but it wasn’t until Joe started working with me again that I- we- actually managed to solve a case. That was something I reminded him of whenever he started thinking his detective abilities were no match for mine.

“I still feel awful about that.”

“At least I learned something,” my brother remarked philosophically. “A lot, in fact.”

“Like that, without you, I’m a basket case,” I offered ruefully.

“I dunno if I’d put it that way,” he demurred, dropping the weed and brushing bits off his shorts. “But I did learn that I have strengths you don’t. I just have trouble remembering it sometimes.”

“If you need help with that- or with anything,” I started, “you know-”

“Yeah,” he repeated, giving me a small smile and laying his hand on my shoulder. “I know.” Then he got up, using me as a brace. “It’s getting late. Let’s head home and see what’s cooking.”

“Probably nothing, yet,” I answered, standing. “Maybe we’ll have time to clean up before dinner.” His blue and white-striped shirt was as damp as my own red one, and I wished I’d worn lighter shorts. Burgundy is a nice color, but it absorbs heat almost as well as black does. “I can’t believe it’s after five already. I’d swear it wasn’t much past three.”

“You’re still on spring time.” Joe retrieved the basketball with a smile and tossed it at me, and we played a reasonably subdued game of catch all the way down the streets to our house.

 

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.