I was going to write you about Kevin McCarthy’s fate. You don’t want to hear about that, do you?

Here is something shorter, cuter, funnier, a little sad.

Time disfigures flesh and old stories, does it not? Sometimes, as they say, “you had to be there.”

It’s Sunday, just be there.

On the Halloween night of this story, a million calendar years ago, there was a village that was just a patch of woods in Sullivan, Missouri, overlooking the Mississippi River. Now it’s a tourist stop. Go figure. Let’s go there.

The sailor here is my brother, James Conlon Devine, former signalman on the USS Massachusetts in World War II.

The Boy Scout is the writer of this ghost story. That’s me, and my beloved brother Jim, or “Jug,” a dramatic tenor who studied opera before and after the war, and sang at all the family weddings, graduations, funerals and according to legend, under the windows of various girls.

Jim sang at every woman’s wedding, and then went home with their bridesmaids. No, you can’t hear that one.

The young Jim was a ladies’ man, a singer, a great storyteller, and very fond of Clark Gable’s mustache — the star all the girls said he looked like. He didn’t look like him at all, but he did a great impression.

Jim fought the war in the Pacific and came home to sit at the end of the bar at Skeeter’s saloon, with the light in his eyes dimmed. Everyone was married by then, and there were no more love songs to sing. Oh, oh. Is that too sad?

Somewhere along that street of time, I had joined the Boy Scouts because they always marched in parades. The Irish love to march in parades. Well, it’s getting better.

My sister Rita took me down to the Boy Scout department at Famous and Barr Department Store to buy the uniform even before I joined.

I was told by my mother that John Egan, the Scout master, was dating Rita and thought her little brother would make a great Scout. That’s his move?

But John got sick, and Rita, bless her, talked Jim, the sailor in the picture, into driving 12 boys downriver to look for Jesse James’ ghost on Halloween.

So there we were in the cold woods with Wonder Bread bologna sandwiches, bottles of Coca Cola, a large can of baked beans and whatever Jug had hidden in his old Pea Coat.

We built a fire, and Jim put the beans atop it, and fueled it with the liquid in the bottle in his coat then set about making up scary ghost stories.

I remember I had a cold sore. Nevermind.

We all imagined sounds coming from the deep caves, of course, as Jim prowled around the fire, making faces, dramatically growling out police stories about finding bodies in alleys, and the first time he had arrested a hooker. Oh, God.

My friends loved every word, an eager pack. I was so proud of my big brother. Mama would not be proud.

Jim’s stories rapidly veered from the James boys to the war, to police raids and Harry Truman.

No one noticed that Jug had put the extra large can of Campbell baked beans on the fire without first opening it.

It exploded with a great bang.

Campbell baked beans with lots of brown juice covered all of our Boy Scout uniforms and sweaters. And the fire fizzled out.

Jim was snoring.

My friends told the story of that night for years to come. Wanna hear a better one? Is that you snoring? You wanna hear about Kevin McCarthy?

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. 

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