I Feared He Wouldn’t Make It Through the Night

And I would be to blame

It was an impossible throw. I stood on one side of the sump and Chris stared at me from the other. For the rock I held loosely in my hand to reach Chris, it would have to fly in a rainbow over the sewers and the small pond of street runoff that filled the bottom of the sump.

Then the small stone, which I remember for its smoothness and perfectly round shape, would have to fall from its apex and come flying down directly on Chris’ head — which, I admit, I was aiming for.

It was a rock fight. As a young boy on Long Island, we had all sorts of fights. We had BB gun wars, for which we’d wear layers of sweats to keep the tiny golden BBs from penetrating our skin. I remember how a BB somehow went right through Frankie’s pants and lodged right below his kneecap. He had to have surgery to get it out. But that was a fluke. We blamed the shooter, Eddie, for pumping his air gun too many times. We had a three-pump rule that was supposed to keep the tiny projectiles out of our bodies.

Back in the sump, Chris was running and my rock was catching up quickly. I was both excited and terrified. I couldn’t believe I could throw the rock that far, but, at the same time, I knew the rock could kill Chris if it found its mark.

“Watch out!” I screamed, but it was too late. The rock hit his head and knocked him right to the ground.

“Holy shit,” said Eddie, who was on my team during the rock fight and stood next to me watching. “You fucking hit him.”

After we washed the blood off Chris’ head with my garden hose, we saw the perfect hole the rock left. It looked like a meteor crater on the moon. I couldn’t believe I caused such damage.

Chris wasn’t angry but he also wasn’t talking to me. To Eddie, he said, “Dirt-bombs, not rocks! We weren’t supposed to throw rocks!” This wasn’t true, of course, and we all knew it. We had agreed to a rock war. But none of us argued. We were too afraid Chris was going to die.

“I heard if you sleep after being hit in the head, you won’t wake up,” Eddie said.

“I know that,” yelled Chris, holding his head. “You go right into a coma and fucking die!”

I didn’t say anything. I had already said sorry dozens of times, but Chris wouldn’t even look at me. After some time of watching him rub his head, which was forming an egg where the crater was, I finally spoke again. “Please don’t sleep tonight, Chris.”

I was terrified and Chris knew it. He shrugged and said, “I’ll probably be fine.” But I kept imagining him not waking up. I’d be charged with murder.

“Please, Chris,” I begged. “Just pull an all-nighter. You can sleep over at my house tonight. We’ll do it together.”

Now Chris was smiling. “I’ll be good,” he said, giving me no assurance that he’d stay awake for the night. He walked away rubbing his head.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the kitchen by our phone which was mounted on the wall. I stared at the yellow phone and the fake brick decor it was screwed into. I even picked it up. Its curly chord twisted around me like a snake as I listened to the anxious dial tone and considered calling Chris’ house.

I could wake up his parents and tell them to make sure he was still awake. Or, maybe Chris would answer himself. But I doubted he would. He’d make me go through his parents and confess what I did. I’d be punished. But, if I didn’t call, Chris might fall asleep and die — and then what?

I stared at the phone and decided to take my chances. I hung it up. I went back to my room and lay on my back, waiting for the sun to rise.