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“WE ALL START OUT KNOWING MAGIC…
BUT THEN WE GET THE MAGIC
EDUCATED RIGHT OUT OF OUR SOULS.”
—Robert R. McCammon
“AN EXUBERANT CELEBRATION OF
CHILDHOOD MYSTERY AND
MARVEL… BY FAR McCAMMON’S
FINEST BOOK.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“BOY’S LIFE IS A WONDERFUL BOOK. IT RECAPTURES
THE MAGIC OF BEING A CHILD IN A WORLD OF
POSSIBILITIES AND PROMISE. IT IS ABOUT BEING BORN
‘WITH WHIRLWINDS, FOREST FIRES AND COMETS INSIDE
US,’ AND IT REMINDS US OF A MAGICAL TIME BEFORE
THE MAGIC WAS ‘CHURCHED OUT, SPANKED OUT,
WASHED OUT, AND COMBED OUT.’ BOY’S LIFE IS FOR
THE BOYS—AND GIRLS—IN ALL OF US.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Robert R. McCammon captivated millions of readers with his storytelling power
in such bestsellers as Mine, Swan Song and Stinger. Now he has created his
tour de force: BOY’S LIFE, a masterpiece of magic and mystery, of the
splendors of growing up in a small town, and of the wonders beyond. Narrated
by one of the most engaging young voices in modern fiction, BOY’S LIFE takes
us back to our own childhoods, when bicycles were enchanted steeds and
anything was possible…
Zephyr, Alabama, has been an idyllic home for eleven-year-old Cory Mackenson…
a place where monsters swim in the belly of the river, and friends are
forever. Then, on a cold spring morning in 1964, as Cory accompanies his
father on his milk route, they see a car plunge into a lake some say is
bottomless. A desperate rescue attempt brings Cory’s father face-to-face with
a vision that will haunt him: a murdered man, naked and beaten, handcuffed to
the steering wheel, a copper wire knotted around his neck. As Cory struggles
to understand the forces of good and evil at work in his hometown, from an
ancient woman called the Lady who conjures snakes and hears the voices of the
dead, to a violent clan of moonshiners, he realizes that not only his life but
his father’s sanity may hang in the balance…
“IT’S McCAMMON’S THE PRINCE OF TIDES…
INCREDIBLY MOVING.”—Peter Straub
A Literary Guild Main Selection
Critical Acclaim for
Robert R. McCammon’s
“BOY’S LIFE IS REALLY JUST GORGEOUS—IT’S McCAMMON’S THE PRINCE OF TIDES…
INCREDIBLY MOVING—BOYHOOD AS IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN, RECOLLECTED IN GENUINE AND
GENEROUS DETAIL. I LOVED IT, AND I WANT MY SON TO READ IT, TOO.”
—Peter Straub
“ENTHRALLING… Midway through BOY’S LIFE, the young hero learns of a book
‘about [a] town and the people in it… maybe there wasn’t a real plot to it…
but the book was about life… [it] was sweet and deep and left you wishing for
more.’ That’s a perfect description of McCammon’s fictional autobiography as
well, an exuberant celebration of childhood mystery and marvel… McCammon
paints with a score of bull’s-eye details… BOY’S LIFE is teeming with smartly
realized characters… A CORNUCOPIA OF BITTERSWEET FANTASY STORYTELLING THAT IS
BY FAR McCAMMON’S FINEST BOOK.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“BOY’S LIFE, THE FIRST ‘MAINSTREAM’ NOVEL FROM ROBERT R. McCAMMON, IS A
WONDERFUL STORY OF POWERFUL EMOTIONS, MARVELOUS IMAGES AND INVENTIVE
NARRATIVE… FILLED WITH ENOUGH ADVENTURE, JOY, DISCOVERY AND HEARTACHE FOR A
DOZEN BOYS’ LIFETIMES.”
—Houston Chronicle
“FOR SHEER SCREWBALL STORYTELLING EXUBERANCE, McCAMMON’S BOOK IS HARD TO TOP.
There will be times when most adults will find themselves faintly embarrassed
to be gobbling the thing like hot buttered popcorn, but gobble they will all
the same… Not one to husband his narrative energies, McCammon writes here as
if he had several lives to squander, weaving together… enough plots and
subplots to fill a half-dozen ordinary novels.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“THIS SUPERBLY TOLD TALE COMBINES THE SENSIBILITIES OF MARK TWAIN, FLANNERY
O’CONNOR AND STEVEN SPIELBERG—SHIFTING FROM THE MORAL TO THE MAGICAL, AND ALL
THE WHILE SUCCEEDING AS A SOLID COMING-OF-AGE STORY AND A FINE MYSTERY…
FORTUNATELY, McCAMMON HAS NOT… HAD THE MAGIC TAKEN OUT OF HIM, ALLOWING US TO
WILLINGLY, AND HAPPILY, SUSPEND OUR DISBELIEF AND DEVOUR THIS BOUNTIFUL BOOK.”
—Newsday
“McCAMMON CAPTURES THE JOYS AND FEARS OF LATE CHILDHOOD WITH SURE STROKES,
ABLY CONVEYING HIS LOVE FOR THE TIME, THE PLACE AND ALL THE ATTENDANT FORMS OF
POP CULTURE: MONSTER MOVIES, COMIC BOOKS, ROADSIDE CARNIVALS AND BASEBALL.
INDIVIDUAL EPISODES RESONATE WITH WONDER, HUMOR AND TRAGEDY… AS AN AFFECTING
PAEAN TO THE MAGICAL POSSIBILITIES OF BOYHOOD… THE NOVEL WORKS EXCEEDINGLY
WELL.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“BOY’S LIFE IS CERTAINLY UNLIKE ANY OF McCAMMON’S OTHER NOVELS, AND IS EASILY
HIS BEST TO DATE, DISPLAYING A RANGE THAT IS ASTONISHING. A TOUR DE FORCE OF
STORY-TELLING, IT IS A POWERFUL STORY ABOUT THE MAGIC INHERENT IN EVERYDAY
LIFE, ABOUT THE MANY WONDERS AND PAINS OF GROWING UP, ABOUT THE STRANGE BEAUTY
AROUND US THAT WE SO OFTEN MISS… BOY’S LIFE HAS A WEALTH OF SMALL, ANECDOTAL
GEMS THAT GIVE IT ALL LIFE. LIKE A KALEIDOSCOPE TURNING TO REVEAL FASCINATING
PATTERNS IN THE LIGHT, SO McCAMMON SHOWS US A MULTITUDE OF INCIDENTS AND
CHARACTERS INTERTWINING TO CREATE ONE OF THE MOST ENTERTAINING BOOKS IN A LONG
TIME.”
—BookPage
“McCammon hangs this expertly told episodic tale on the bones of a skeleton
that becomes symbolic of evil doings in the quiet waters of small-town life…
This evocative novel is successful on more than one level. THE MYSTERY WILL
SATISFY THE MOST FINICKY AFICIONADO; McCAMMON HAS ALSO PRODUCED A BOISTEROUS,
POIGNANT TRAVELOGUE THROUGH A STORMY SEASON IN ONE BOY’S LIFE, PEOPLED WITH
THE ZANIEST, MOST MEMORABLE SOUTHERN CHARACTERS SINCE THOSE OF HARPER LEE.”
—Publishers Weekly
Books by Robert R. McCammon
Baal *
Bethany’s Sin *
Blue World *
Boy’s Life *
Mine *
Mystery Walk
The Night Boat *
Stinger *
Swan Song *
They Thirst *
Usher’s Passing
The Wolf’s Hour *
* Published by POCKET BOOKS
Most Pocket Books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk
purchases for sales promotions, premiums or fund raising. Special books or
book excerpts can also be created to fit specific needs.
For details write the office of the Vice President of Special Markets, Pocket
Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020.
POCKET STAR BOOKS
New York London Toronto Sydney Tokyo Singapore
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
“I Get Around.” Words and Music by Brian Wilson. Copyright ? 1964 Irving
Music, Inc. (BMI). All Rights Reserved. International Copyright Secured.
A Pocket Star Book published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster
Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright ? 1991 by the McCammon Corporation
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230
Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 0-671-74305-8
First Pocket Books paperback printing May 1992
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster
Inc.
Cover art by Gerber Studio
Printed in the U.S.A.
We ran like young wild furies,
where angels feared to tread.
The woods were dark and deep.
Before us demons fled.
We checked Coke bottle bottoms
to see how far was far.
Our worlds of magic wonder
were never reached by car.
We loved our dogs like brothers,
our bikes like rocket ships.
We were going to the stars,
to Mars we’d make round trips.
We swung on vines like Tarzan,
and flashed Zorro’s keen blade.
We were James Bond in his Aston,
we were Hercules unchained.
We looked upon the future
and we saw a distant land,
where our folks were always ageless,
and time was shifting sand.
We filled up life with living,
with grins, scabbed knees, and noise.
In glass I see an older man,
but this book’s for the boys.
I WANT TO TELL YOU SOME IMPORTANT THINGS BEFORE WE START our journey.
I lived through it all. That’s one problem about relating events in first
person. The reader knows the narrator didn’t get killed. So whatever might
happen to me—whatever did happen to me—you can be sure I lived through it all,
though I might be a little better or worse for the experience, and you can
make up your own mind which.
There might be some places where you’ll say, “Hey, how come he knows this
event right here happened or this person said or did this or that if he wasn’t
even there?” The answer to that question is that I found out enough later on
to fill in the blanks, or in some cases I made up what happened, or in other
cases I figured it ought to have happened that way even if it didn’t.
I was born in July of 1952. I am approaching my fortieth birthday. Gosh,
that’s some number, isn’t it? I am no longer, as my reviews used to say, a
“promising young talent.” I am what I am. I have been writing since I was in
grammar school, and thinking up stories long before I understood exactly what
it was I was doing. I have been a published writer since 1978. Or is it
“author”? Paperback writer, as the Beatles said. Hardback author? One thing’s
for sure: I certainly have developed a hard back. I have suffered kicks and
smiled at kindnesses just like any other brother or sister on our spinning
home. I have been blessed, to be able to create characters and worlds out of
whole cloth. Writer? Author?
How about storyteller?
I wanted to set my memories down on paper, where I can hold them. You
know, I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic
town, among magicians. Oh, most everybody else didn’t realize we lived in that
web of magic, connected by the silver filaments of chance and circumstance.
But I knew it all along. When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic
lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present, and into
the future. You probably did too; you just don’t recall it. See, this is my
opinion: we all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest
fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the
clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic
educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed
out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be
responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God’s sake. And you
know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid
of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and
sad of what they’d allowed to wither in themselves.
After you go so far away from it, though, you can’t really get it back.
You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When
people get weepy at movies, it’s because in that dark theater the golden pool
of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of
logic and reason again and it dries up, and they’re left feeling a little
heartsad and not knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust
turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you
listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where
it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the
briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm.
That’s what I believe.
The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence
that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good,
some of them not so good. Things happen to us. Loved ones die. People get in
wrecks and get crippled. People lose their way, for one reason or another.
It’s not hard to do, in this world of crazy mazes. Life itself does its best
to take that memory of magic away from us. You don’t know it’s happening until
one day you feel you’ve lost something but you’re not sure what it is. It’s
like smiling at a pretty girl and she calls you “sir.” It just happens.
These memories of who I was and where I lived are important to me. They
make up a large part of who I’m going to be when my journey winds down. I need
the memory of magic if I am ever going to conjure magic again. I need to know
and remember, and I want to tell you.
My name is Cory Jay Mackenson. My hometown was a place called Zephyr, in
south Alabama. It never got too cold there, or too hot. Its streets were
shaded with water oaks, and its houses had front porches and screens on the
windows. There was a park with two baseball fields, one for the kids and one
for the grown-ups. There was a public swimming pool where the water was blue
and clear and children plumbed the deep end for pennies. On the Fourth of July
there was a barbecue, and at the end of summer a writing contest. When I was
twelve years old, in 1964, Zephyr held about fifteen hundred people. There was
the Bright Star Cafe, a Woolworth’s, and a little Piggly-Wiggly grocery store.
There was a house where bad girls lived out on Route Ten. Not every family had
a television set. The county was dry, which meant that bootleggers thrived.
The roads went south, north, east, and west, and at night a freight train
passed through on its way to Birmingham and left the smell of scorched iron in
its wake. Zephyr had four churches and an elementary school, and a cemetery
stood on Poulter Hill. There was a lake nearby so deep it might as well have
been bottomless. My hometown was full of heroes and villains, honest people
who knew the beauty of truth and others whose beauty was a lie. My hometown
was probably a lot like yours.
But Zephyr was a magic place. Spirits walked in the moonlight. They came
out of the grassy graveyard and stood on the hill and talked about old times
when Coca-Cola really had a bite and you could tell a Democrat from a
