The bliss was that when anything fell down or smashed, it didn't matter! When kids play tag and something breaks, run for the hills. Heaven turns to hell in one second. Mom's favorite vase in shattered pieces, a table punted across the floor, the silver frame a hundred years old until this minute . . . Game over.

But in Tyndall's living room that afternoon, full of stopped time and long shadows, no one cared about these objects, no matter how valuable they might have been. I'm sure they were valuable – the rugs were Oriental, and one glass that hit the floor shattered into beautiful colors. It didn't matter. The room was tag heaven that day.

That is only one memory of the Tyndall house. There were many others, some equally queer or memorable. We were there often. It was our castle and forbidden land in one. It rarely failed to captivate us.

The summer before I was sent away to private school, a bunch of us went back to the house. We knew we were too old for it by then. Having used it so often for our games and schemes, we'd squeezed out all of its juice long before. But this day, August boredom prevailed and we were desperate for anything different to do.

McCabe had heard that one could make a fortune selling old copper wiring and pipe to a junkyard in Rye. His plan was to check out the Tyndall place, then come back with the right tools and strip it bare. The idea of ripping wire out of old decaying walls in ninety-degree heat didn't excite us, but what else was there to do that day? Part of the reason Frannie was such a good ringleader was his ability to get fired up about things. Projects excited him; he was the one who could imagine money in our pockets after a job was done, whereas the rest of us had to be pulled along behind him like broken toys. Normally we just wanted something to do; he wanted to turn our days upside down.

Other than being hot as the inside of a kiln, there was nothing different about the house that afternoon. I knew it was pointless being there. Dumb too – like riding around on a bicycle so small that your knees keep hitting the handlebars.

We went in through the basement and worked our way up the back stairs to the kitchen. McCabe kept pointing to pipes running parallel to the floorboards. He'd say only "Copper" in a firm professional voice, as if he was giving us a guided tour of untold treasure. We were unimpressed. We wanted girls in orange bikinis, free tickets to the Yankees game, a great party to look forward to that night. Copper tubing didn't do it.

Al "Green Light" Salvato was there. After Frannie said "Copper" for the hundredth annoying time, Salvato picked up on it. Pointing to everything – his shoes, the floor, Frannie's ass – he said "Copper" in the same serious, informed tone of voice. McCabe pretended not to hear and continued to lead the way.

Through the kitchen into a large pantry the color of burned toast. We climbed a servants' staircase to the first floor because our boss wanted to have a look at the bathrooms. We scouted one out and sure enough, a copper bonanza was in there. But by then Frannie knew we didn't give a shit, the house was hot, and none of this was going to come to anything in the end.

His way of admitting defeat was, on catching Salvato mimicking him, shooting Green Light a savage knee in the balls that put the other on the ground in the shape of a comma.

"You guys don't like my plan, fuuuuuck you!" He stomped out of the room, leaving us with guilty smiles and our hands in our pockets. We were too old for this nonsense. Too old to be traipsing around empty houses looking for anything to do. Too old to be hanging around, too old to be biding time when we knew out there in the real world every other teenager on earth was having parties and getting laid. They were living lives that didn't depend on copper tubing, the whims of Frannie McCabe, or luck. Of course we were wrong and in the intervening years we learned that every kid believes life is happening where he ain't. But that knowledge wouldn't have helped back then because we wouldn't have believed it.

I was glad my parents had had enough of my bad behavior and sullenness to be sending me away to a school where there would be new faces and experiences. Looking for copper pipe in an old house couldn't have been a better reminder that anywhere had to be better than this nowhere.

We helped Salvato off the floor and left the bathroom. Right outside the door, McCabe came rushing back up. He put a finger to his lips and beckoned us to follow.

He moved along in a semicrouch, the way Groucho Marx walked in his films. Salvato copied him, but only because he was afraid McCabe would give him another nut-knocker if he didn't follow the leader step-for-step.

"What're you doin', Fran? Practicing deep knee bends?" Ron Levao asked. McCabe shook his head and waved us to follow. He duckwalked down the hall till he came to the top of the main staircase. We caught up and saw for the first time what was on his mind.

Down below in the strewn chaos of the living room, Club Soda Johnny Petangles was sitting on a decrepit once-pink couch, singing to himself. Lying across his lap was my dog, Jack the Wonder Boy. The two sat there unmoving, completely at peace.

I had never heard Johnny sing and was surprised at his sweet, frail voice. My dog lay panting from the heat, eyes closed. His small red tongue hung out one side of his mouth. From his long daily walks I assumed Jack knew every inch of the town, but since when had he and Petangles become friends? Had the dog been lured into the Tyndall house, or did the two of them roam around together while the rest of Crane's View went about its business?

Someone behind me snickered, "That's your dog, hah, Bayer?"

I nodded but didn't turn around.

McCabe looked at me and hissed, "What's that retard doing with your little dog, Sam?"

"Singing, looks like."

He slapped my head. "I see that. But I wouldn't let no fuckin' retard touch my dog! How do you know he's not feeling him up or something?"

"You're sick. McCabe! People don't feel up dogs."

"Maybe retards do."

We squatted there and watched the simple man sing to the dog. The two looked blissful together. Johnny was crooning the Four Seasons' "Sherry" in a high falsetto that was a decent imitation of lead singer Frankie Valli. Jack was panting so hard it looked like he was smiling. Maybe he was.

"You gonna let him get away with that?"

"Get away with what, Salvato? The guy's singing!"

Green Light looked eagerly at Frannie. "I think Petangles is a 'mo. I think he's a dog fag."

I looked at him and shook my head.

But McCabe thought it over, then nodded sagely. "Could be. You never know with retards."

"Fuckin'-a right, Frannie! I think he's doing something to that dog. We just can't see it from up here."

I hissed, "Salvato, you're full of shit! Come on, let's get outta here. It's hot."

McCabe called the shots – all of them. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe I'd come to the end of the line with these guys and this life. Maybe McCabe sensed that and wanted to throw one last uppercut. Whatever it was, just being there with him and those other knotheads made me want to go home and wait for fall when I would leave Crane's View.

I started to get up but Frannie shoved me hard in the chest with both hands. I fell back down. We looked at each other and I felt sure he knew everything I was thinking about him and the situation. It frightened me.

Everyone tensed. In a second, it felt like the heat had risen ten degrees. At a moment like this, McCabe was friends with no one; he'd bash whoever he felt like. No one was exempt. All of us had been his target at one time or another. If you wanted to hang around the guy, the unspoken rule was do whatever you could to stay on his good side – or else. We always knew when someone had crossed his line, but not what Frannie would do about it, and that made it even more alarming. Sometimes he would laugh, pat you on the back or offer you a cigarette. Sometimes he'd beat you until you bled.