Dillon drove his brother’s van through town toward his old neighborhood, where he and Preston had grown up together, across the back alley from Mrs. Crummet, and Charlie the Cat. He pulled into the alley and parked up close to the side of the old garage, next to a box of rusty car parts, placed there years ago to mark the site of a savage killing. He got out of the van and stood staring at the box, wondering if his memory of the events on that long-ago summer evening connected him in any way to T.B. Martin. He imagined it did.
He crossed the alley, approached the back porch, then knocked lightly on the screen door. When no one answered, he rang the bell, and a small, pretty woman, probably in her mid-thirties, appeared. “Yes?”
“Hi,” he said. “My name is Dillon Hemingway, and I used to live in that house next door. There was an old woman living here then. Her name was Mrs. Crummet. Do you by any chance know what happened to her?”
“Sure,” the woman said, opening the screen door. “She lives right here with us.” She put out her hand. “I’m Betty. She’s my mother.”
Dillon nodded and smiled. “Do you suppose I could see her?”
The woman motioned him in. “Certainly,” she said. “She’d love to see you, I’m sure. To tell you the truth, she doesn’t get many visitors.”
The woman led Dillon into the living room, where an ancient lady sat rocking in her chair. She didn’t look up as they entered the room, and the woman walked directly in front of her, bent down, and raised her voice gently. “Mom,” she said, “this is Dillon Hemingway. He used to live next door. He came to see you.”
Mrs. Crummet looked around the room, seemingly startled when her eyes came to rest on Dillon, who stood before her, his hands folded in front of him. “Hi, Mrs. Crummet. Do you remember me?”
Mrs. Crummet stared back as if she hadn’t the foggiest notion who this boy was. Her daughter stood and whispered in his ear, “She gets confused, Dillon. She’s pretty old. Eighty-three last month.”
Dillon knelt down to her eye level. “I used to live next door,” he said, and Mrs. Crummet nodded, still without any recognition whatever. “Hemingway,” he said.
Mrs. Crummet said, “Hemingway,” then started with recognition. “You used to live next door,” she said. “Daddy’s a mailman or a truck driver or something.”
“Yeah,” Dillon said. “That’s me. Do you remember a cat you used to have? A cat named Charlie?”
“Charlie,” Mrs. Crummet said with a faraway look. “Charlie. Oh, yes. Charlie. He’s out back. In the woodpile.”
“No,” Dillon said. “This was a three-legged cat you had about ten years ago. He disappeared.”
“Three legs?” she said. “Oh, yes. Three legs. Had to chop one of ’em off. It was just hanging there. Charlie. Yes. He’s out back in the woodpile.”
Dillon closed his eyes. “He’s not out there, Mrs. Crummet. My brother and I—we killed him.”
“Well, you boys should be ashamed,” she said. “The very idea. . . . What were you doing out there?”
“No,” Dillon said. “I mean, it was ten years ago. We killed Charlie. It was stupid. He hurt our dog.”
“He hurt your dog?” Mrs. Crummet was indignant. “I’ll have a word with Charlie this afternoon. Is your dog all right?”
“Our dog’s fine,” Dillon said. “I mean, he’s old now. He’s gone. But I came to tell you about your cat. I came to say I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Crummet’s eyes went soft and faraway. “Well, that’s nice,” she said. “More people should say that. More people should say they’re sorry.”
Tears welled in Dillon’s eyes. He ran his fingers softly over her wrist, and she placed her other hand over them as he stared into her face and she gazed out beyond the kitchen doorway, across the alley to an old box full of rusty car parts.
Her daughter put a hand on Dillon’s shoulder. “She doesn’t understand,” she said. “I do, though. Let yourself off the hook, Dillon. You were a little boy.”
He stood, staring sadly at Mrs. Crummet before her daughter walked him back toward the kitchen door, where he thanked her and said, “I guess some things just can’t be fixed.”
In late summer a police detective in Orlando, Florida, walked into a plush law office in a tall office building only a few minutes’ drive from Disney World. Without identifying himself he approached a handsome, tanned middle-aged lawyer standing in the waiting room, talking with his secretary. “Are you Terrence Martin?” he asked.
“Why, yes, I am,” T.B. said, extending his hand.
“I have a warrant for your arrest,” the detective said. “You have the right to remain silent . . .”
Three days later Dillon Hemingway entered his first triathlon in more than a year and placed third in his age-group, eighteenth overall, with a time more than twenty minutes faster than he’d projected.
His former high school principal, John Caldwell, was heard to say, “What a waste. It’s a real shame I could never teach that kid any respect.”
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About the Author
CHRIS CRUTCHER has written nine critically acclaimed novels, an autobiography, and two collections of short stories. Drawing on his experience as a family therapist and child protection specialist, Crutcher writes honestly about real issues facing teenagers today: making it through school, competing in sports, handling rejection and failure, and dealing with parents. He has won three lifetime achievement awards for the body of his work: the Margaret A. Edwards Award, the ALAN Award, and the NCTE National Intellectual Freedom Award. Chris Crutcher lives in Spokane, Washington.
www.chriscrutcher.com
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Books by Chris Crutcher
Running Loose
Stotan!
The Crazy Horse Electric Game
Chinese Handcuffs
Athletic Shorts
Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes
Ironman
Whale Talk
King of the Mild Frontier
The Sledding Hill
Deadline
Angry Management
Guys Read: “The Meat Grinder”
Period 8
Credits
Cover photograph © 2004 by Ali Smith
Cover design by Hilary Zarycky
Cover © 2004 by HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Copyright
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint an excerpt from Horton Hatches the Egg, by Dr. Seuss. Copyright © 1940 and renewed in 1968 by Dr. Seuss. By permission of Random House, Inc.
CHINESE HANDCUFFS. Copyright © 1989 by Chris Crutcher. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Crutcher, Chris.
Chinese handcuffs / by Chris Crutcher.
“Greenwillow Books.”
Summary: Still troubled by his older brother’s violent suicide, eighteen-year-old Dillon becomes deeply involved in the terrible secret of his friend Jennifer, who feels she can tell no one what her stepfather is doing to her.
>
ISBN 0-688-08345-5 — ISBN 0-06-059839-5 (pbk.)
EPUB Edition © August 2009 ISBN 9780061968365
Version 06132016
[1. Child abuse—Fiction. 2. Suicide—Fiction. 3. Brothers—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C89Ch 1989 88-45809
[Fic]—dc19 CIP
AC
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First Harper edition, 2004
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Chris Crutcher, Chinese Handcuffs
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