The Obsession of Henry Enright

About the end of July, the summer got as hot as I’d ever seen it. It must have been a hundred, and it didn’t cool off at night. Laura’s family got kind of loose about what time she came home. It was getting so we were out ‘til one or two every night. We’d just sit in the Oldsmobile and hug each other until we were so sleepy we had to go home. It was just that kind of summer. You didn’t feel like moving much.

So one hot Tuesday night we’re doing the usual thing. We were tired. We’d been cooking hot dogs and shuffling cheeseburgers at Mush’s Dairy all day. We’d closed up about an hour before but were still sitting in the parking lot. It was dark—no moon, no stars. It wasn’t raining but it had that muggy feeling that made everything seem wet. I could hear a few cars around the lake—some kids cruising or fooling around. And once in a while I’d see some headlights by the cove, but nobody drove by us. Anyway we both fell asleep. She was sitting in the corner. And I had my head on her lap and my feet out the window. First thing we heard and it woke us up was a siren. I didn’t know if it was a fire truck or what, but it kept getting closer and it sounded desperate. There wasn’t any traffic in Union at two in the morning ever, so there was no reason to keep a siren wailing like you would in Boston. It turned out to be a police car. It came skidding out of Hobson’s Wood Road going about ninety and went screaming by us and up the lake road.

“That’s my brother,” Laura said. “That’s Butchy! He’s going to kill himself driving like that!”

“Wow,” I said. “He’s going like hell! Something’s up!”

“Where’s he going you think?”

“How do I know? Come on. Let’s follow him,” I said getting behind the wheel.

She chewed a fingernail for a few seconds. “Uh-uh, NO! He’d kill me! I can’t do that!” “Why not?”

“Cause he’d kill me! We’re not supposed to have anything to do with his police junk.” She put her knees up under her chin and wrapped her

Father Boltons, the Prefect of Discipline, who I got to know from being in detention so much, saw me smoking and came charging out with his cassock pulled up to his knees. His name spelled backward was Snotlob, and that is what I called him to myself—Father Snotlob. “Enright!” he screamed. “Put out that cigarette!” Everybody looked. I stood up, took a slow drag, dropped the cigarette, and stepped on it. “Pick it up, Enright!” I said, “No, Father,” and a few kids made stupid gasping noises. Father Snotlob put his hands behind his back and leaned forward like he didn’t hear me right the first time. “Did you say, ‘no,’ Enright?” “That’s right, Father.” I couldn’t stop my insides from jigging, but I tried to look calm … As I turned my back to him and started down the hill, he yelled, “You’ll pay for this, Enright!” I murmured to myself, “I don’t think so, Father Snotlob.” It’s funny how things work out … I didn’t tell anybody I wasn’t coming back. I just disappeared.