Mike straightened his back with only minor effort, and stretched. That was a respectable pile of leaves, and the weather was perfect for raking: cool with a light breeze not quite strong enough to go through the cloth jacket he was thinking of taking off if Carol wasn’t watching him through the kitchen window. He took a deep breath of autumn air. Nice to be out here. Not that seventy-eight was an outrageous age for raking leaves, but it was enough to be a little proud you could still do it.
The breeze rustled the pile of leaves. Mike frowned. There was a lot more rustle than there was breeze. Something in the pile was moving, some animal or homeless person who wanted shelter for the night…..
He shook his head, taking a step back. He’d just raked those leaves: when could something have crawled into them. And even if something had gotten into the pile while his back was turned, why would it want to come out again? It seemed big, from the way the pile was rustling: none of the neighbor kids could have made it in there without making a lot more noise.
Whatever it was was definitely coming out. Mike raised the rake in front of him with one hand while the other went down to the phone in his pocket.
The thing, which looked like nothing but a hunk of the leaf pile breaking loose, paused. The front end of it, the end pointed at Mike, came up a little and gazed on him with eyes that were human. Kind of.
Mike stared into the light brown eyes. The breeze shifted. He could smell the visitor, and it smelled not the least bit human. It was a smell of dry leaves and…sulfur? And back of it all was a smell of leather, like sporting equipment piled in a garage attic. Mike took a step backward.
The thing didn’t follow, just studying him. Mike could sort of make out a face around those eyes, a face as lined and dry as a leaf about to break up and blow away, just a shade darker than the big round eyes. The nose was hatchet thin.
Mike glanced up at the sun: it wasn’t all that hot but maybe he’d been out in it a little long. That nose reminded hi of Coach Burke. But he’d been thinking about the coach, as he generally did in this kind of weather.
“Coach Burke, eh?” The voice was like dry branches breaking. “Remember the tennis balls?”
“Ha!” Nobody who played for Coach Burke forgot those tennis balls. His jacket pockets bulged with them, and he would shy one at you without warning. If you didn’t catch it, the consequences could be exhausting.
“Eighteen laps,” he’d snarl. “You gotta catch ‘em when they come at you.” Old Butterfingers, who complained once that he hadn’t signed up for the tennis team, held the school record for most laps in a single practice.
But his snarl never sounded like snapping twigs. “Coach?” said Mike, his own voice one of doubt.
“Nah.” The big eyes blinked. “Listen. You oughta call up Clay.”
“Who?” Had Mike not been thinking of the coach, he might’ve thought for weeks without coming up with a name. “Clay? Clay Feschl? That jerk?”
“You haven’t talked to him since….”
“That was a foul! We lost the championship! I couldn’t walk for nearly two weeks! I haven’t even seen that cheater since…. Of course, I haven’t talked to him!” Mike shook the rake at the thing with the face. “Why should I?”
“The championship.” The leafy head bobbed, rustling. “You’re the last two who played in that game.”
“Go on!” Mike set the rake down and leaned on it. “There must be…plenty of us.”
The breeze rustled the thing’s face. “There was a war.”
Mike glanced at the house. “I know. Butterfingers didn’t come back, or….” He had to think. “Buster.”
“There were three lost in that war.” The eyes rose to the sky. “Then there were motorcycles, a ladder, a boat…life is not certain.” The pale brown face came back to Mike. “Call Clay. See if he’d like to watch a game. While there’s time.”
Mike leaned forward. “Meaning he may be gone soon?”
His answer was a long, slow blink, and then, “This is the time of year when life drifts toward its close.”
“No!” Mike pulled upright, taking a deep breath of the cool autumn air. “This time of year is all about life! It’s when we wake up again after summer! It’s….”
The breeze swept the smell of the creature around him and he was awash in the aroma of leaves, and the ball, and that freshly laundered uniform. Mom did that: she said the school laundry never got it really clean. He was on the field, stepping across the grass to cheers and that smell of sulfur and brimstone was left over from last night’s bonfire. Life was brilliant and clear around him and Buster, gone these many years, was walking in front of him. He reached out, and watched the rake fall into the pile of leaves.
It just missed the creature, who looked smaller, as if a lot of him had blown away. “There are just two of you left—one from each side—who remember walking out onto the field for that game. There are plenty who WATCHED it, but of all the young life that moved on the field….”
Mike shook himself. The cheers still filled his hearing, and the smell of…but that was smoke coming from Williams’s yard, down the street. Those leaves probably hadn’t talked to Williams.
Mike looked down. “So….”
He was talking to a pile of leaves. Without eyes. Whatever had been there was wherever it had come from.
***
At length, Carol realized the thump was coming from the garage, and looked out the kitchen window. Mike was tossing a tennis ball down on the driveway so it would bounce against the garage, and catching it as it came back. One went way high. She winced as he winced, reaching for it. She opened the window.
“I thought you were raking. What are you doing?”
He didn’t look up as he tossed the ball again. “Thinking.”
Carol had an answer for that, but shrugged. He was wearing that old letter sweater, and when he had that on, he wasn’t rational. She closed the window.
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