Mackie’s face was an okay face, except that his nose looked like he had run into a wall and stayed there for a while. He was big, but he didn’t look clumsy or dumb. I saw that the paper sack was from the hardware store. When he unlocked his door, I caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster. As he pulled the door open, he saw me watching him and gave me a mean look.

“Whaddaya want?” he said.

I swallowed hard and said, “I’m collecting donations for the Crippled Children’s Society.”

His eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah? Where’s your little collection can?”

“I can’t carry it and move around on the crutches,” I said.

“Hmpf. You won’t get anything there,” he said, nodding toward the other apartment. “The place is empty.”

“Oh. I guess I’ll be going then.”

I tried to move past him, but he pushed me hard against the wall, making me drop one of my crutches. “No hurry, is there?” he said. “Let’s see if you’re really a cripple.”

That was easy. I dropped the other crutch, then reached down and pulled my right pant leg up. He did what anybody does when they see my bad leg. They stare at it, and not because it’s beautiful.

I used this chance to look past him into his apartment. From what I could see of it, it was small and neat. There was a table with two things on it: a flat, rectangular box and the part of a shot they call a syringe. It didn’t have a needle on it yet. You might think I’m showing off, but I knew it was called a syringe because I’ve spent a lot of time getting stuck by the full works, and sooner or later some nurse tells you more than you want to know about anything they do to you.

Mackie picked up my crutches. I was trying to see into the paper sack, but all I could make out was that it was some kind of can. When Mackie straightened up again, his neck and ears were turning red. Maybe that’s what made me bold enough to say, “I lied.”

His eyes narrowed again.

“I’m not collecting for Crippled Children. I was just trying to raise some movie money.”

He started laughing. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. He dropped it into my shirt pocket. “Kid, you earned it,” he said and went into his apartment.

I leaned against the wall for another minute, my heart thumping hard against that silver dollar. Then I left and made my way to the hardware store.

No other customers were in there. The old man behind the counter was reading a newspaper. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, sir, but Mackie sent me over to pick up another can.”

“Another one? You can tell Mackie he’s got to come here himself.” He looked up at me and then looked away really fast. I’m used to it. “Look,” he said, talking into the newspaper, “I’m not selling weed killer to any kid, crippled or no. The stuff’s poisonous.” That’s the way he said it: “crippled or no.” Like I had come in there asking for special treatment.

I had too much on my mind to worry about it. I was thinking about why a guy who lived in a place like the Coronet would need weed killer. “What’s weed killer got in it, anyway?” I asked.

He folded his newspaper down and looked at me like my brain was as lame as my leg. “Arsenic. Eat a little of that and you’re a goner.”

At home that night, I kept an eye on Harvey. I noticed that even though he was still laying it on thick with my mom, he was nervous. He kept watching the clock on the mantle. My mom was in the kitchen, making lunches, and he kept looking between the kitchen and the clock. When the phone rang at eight, he jumped up to answer it, yelling, “I got it.” To the person on the phone, he said, “Just a sec.” He turned to me and said, “Get ready for bed.”

I thought of arguing, but changed my mind. I went into the hallway, and waited just out of sight. I hoped he’d talk as loud as he usually did.

He tried to speak softly, but I could still hear him.

“No, no, that’s too soon. I have some arrangements to make.” He paused, then said, “Saturday, then. Good.”

That night, when my mom came in to say good night, I told her not to let Harvey fix her anything to eat, or take anything from him that came in a rectangular box. “He wants to poison you, Mom,” I whispered.

She laughed and said, “That matinee must have been a detective movie. I was waiting for you to tell me about your afternoon. Did you have a good time?”

It wasn’t easy, but I told her the truth. “I didn’t go to a movie,” I said.

“But I thought…”

“I went downtown. To South Street.”

She looked more scared than when I told her that her husband wanted to poison her.

“Please don’t tell Harvey!” I said.

“Don’t tell Harvey what?” I heard a voice say. He was standing in my bedroom door.

“Oh, that he got a bad grade on a spelling test,” my mom said. “But you wouldn’t get angry with him over a little thing like that, would you, dear?”

“No, of course not, sweetheart,” he said to her. He faked another laugh and walked off.

Although I don’t think Harvey knew it, she hadn’t meant it when she called him “dear.” And she had lied to him for my sake. Just when I had decided that meant she believed me about the poison, she said, “You and I will have a serious talk very soon, young man. Good night.” She kissed me, but I could tell she was mad.

That was a terrible week. Harvey was nervous, I was nervous, and my mom put me on restriction. I had to come straight home after school every day. I never got far enough in the story to tell her what happened when I went downtown; she just said that where Harvey went at night was his business, not mine, and that I should never lie to her again about where I was going.

We didn’t say much to one another. On Friday night, when she came in to say good night, I couldn’t even make myself say good night back. She stayed there at my bedside and said, “We were off to such a good start this week. I had hoped…well, that doesn’t matter now. I know you’re angry with me for putting you on restriction, but you gave me a scare. You’re all I have now, and I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

“You’re all I have, too,” I said, “I don’t mind the restriction. It’s just that you don’t believe anything I say.”

“No, that’s not it. It’s just that I think Harvey is trying to be a better husband. Maybe Father O’Brien has talked to him, I don’t know.”

“A leopard doesn’t change his spots,” I said.

“ Harvey ’s not a leopard.”

“He’s a snake.”

She sighed again. She kept sitting there.

All of a sudden, I remembered that Harvey had mentioned Saturday, which was the next day, and I sat up. I hugged her hard. “Please believe me,” I said. “Just this once.”

She was startled at first, probably because that was two hugs in one week, which was two more than I’d given her since she married Harvey. She hugged back, and said, “You really are scared aren’t you?”

I nodded against her shoulder.

“Okay. I won’t let Harvey fix any meals for me or give me anything in a rectangular box. At least not until you get over this.” She sounded like she thought it was kind of funny. “I hope it will be soon, though.”

“Maybe as early as tomorrow,” I whispered, but I don’t think she heard me.

I hardly slept at all that night.

The next morning, Harvey left the house and didn’t come back until just before dinner. He wasn’t carrying anything with him when he came in the house, just went in and washed up. I watched every move he made, and he never went near any food.

“C’mon,” he said to me after dinner, “let’s go on down to the church.”

A new thought hit me. What if the weed killer was for someone else? What if Harvey hired Mackie to shoot my mom? “I don’t want to go,” I said.

“No more back-talk out of you, buster. Let’s go. Confessions will be over if we don’t get down there.”