1

Chapter One
Sept. 1965 After the rain the four boys marched single file through the wet pines toward a clearing where Twit could see the black broomstick handle stuck in the ground with the cardboard sign that read: Laredo Town, GA, pop. 2. He asked himself if there were any other towns with only two people. Of course, they really werent people. And it really wasnt a town. Towns meant people bustling around with deadlines and cops and court houses and lots of pissed off adults. Thats why he opposed the name Laredo Town. He voted for The Hills of Heaven. More tourist friendly, for one thing. Laredo Town sounded like some town in the old west where they killed sheriffs on a weekly basis. Plus, the Hills of Heaven, was poetic. It was a metaphor for the breasts. Hills equal breasts. That was easy

2 enough. But only he and Jew Baby understood the word metaphor. He and his three buddies had just come from Last Step High, home of the 1952 Class C football champion Last Step Lizards (Go Zards!): Horace Kitchens (Lu), Harold Feely (Twit), Arnold Kaminsky (Jew Baby) and Sy Scruggs (Rutabaga). From the gloomy looks on their faces as they trudged through the plum bushes, loblolly pine, and sour grass, they resembled four sour dwarfs who were out of fresh hi hos. The air was sweet and pure. The leaves glistened from an afternoon shower. When the boys brushed up against them, they could feel the rain drops on their naked arms. At fifteen with his already thick beard and whip-lash command of curse words and genital humor, Horace or Lu, the leader, was the brutish flower of Last Step manhood. A cigarette dangled from his lips. He had just seen Giant for the third time and had tried to convince his friends that he was a spiritual brother to James Deans Jett Rink. Harold (Twit), the second in line, was six feet, three inches tallalready at fifteenwhich made him one of the tallest freshen in the halls of Last Step High. But there was no Zards jersey waiting for him with the name Twit Feely sewn on. He was not the stuff of a flaming forward for the Zards. For one thing, his skin was soft and white, a babys bottom with a rosiness that looked as far from tough as tea from whiskey. And there was a sloppiness about him that peeked through the bleeding madras, a shirt that hung to his knees not too far above the black socks jutting through the holes in both his tennis shoes. He tried autographing the shoes with T F, but the guys ragged him, saying it stood for turd face. After several washings there remained the imprint of blurred letters. His eyes were deep brown and alert. Lu had the five oclock shadowed face of a man who knows nothing; Twit had the face of a boy who knows entirely too much. Arnold (Jew Baby) was short and plump and his black, curly hair was long for Last Step, more in keeping with the anarchist protests at Berkeley, California that Walter Cronkite reported on the six oclock news. Jew Baby just didnt like to cut it. Twit tried to persuade him that if he wanted to appeal to girls, he had to cut his hair. Behind his thick glasses his eyes seemed small and since he was shorter than the other three, he was always looking up. Rutabagas acne-pocked face resembled the craters of the moon. A band aid usually marked the site of a Clearasil disaster or the bruised remnants of a zit popping match. Twit thought Roots mother was weird even though hed known her since he was in grade school when she took up reading a crystal ball out of their double wide trailer out on highway 80. They were carrying various items to Laredo Town. Twit had stolen a pack of Oreos out of his mothers pantry and took them into the woods to down with a six pack of Budweiser, which Lus dad, Bug provided. Lu had stuffed his jeans pockets with smoking paraphernalia: a few crushed packs of Winstons and a silver lighter that shot up a vigorous flame. In the parking lot between classes at Last Step High it was important to have a lighter with an impressively long flame. As entertainment chairman Lu was also carrying his fathers bar-battered Melophone guitar. Twit was sucking a grape Tootsie Pop which had turned his tongue blue and protruding from Jew Babys back jeans pocket was a copy of Candy, a pornographic novel that had come highly recommended from one of his fellow Hebrew students at Temple Beth Israel in Macon where in the afternoon his father drove him to study for his Bar Mitzvah. Jew Baby was concerned about keeping everyones energy level up with some solid nutrition so he had brought along a brown paper sack filled with chips, Kraft cheese spread, Hostess Twinkies, and Baby Ruth candy bars. For desert there were more Hostess Twinkies, Hershey bars, Sugar Daddies and bottles of Coke from his mothers refrigerator. Root was snuggling with his black and white kitten, Second Thessalonians. First Thessalonians had recently met his demise beneath the wheels of a lumber rig.

3 That particular week the four made the trek to Laredo Town every afternoon. Lu had the idea to make the breasts. The latest in a long list of his push-the-sex-envelope plans. At Laredo Town they could drink as many cokes as they wanted, as long as Mr. Kaminsky didnt catch them stealing out of his amusement park storehouse. They could smoke as much as they wanted, make references to genitals as often as they wanted, but most importantly to Lu and Jew Baby and Root, they could feast their eyes on: the breasts! Twit shook his head. He was trapped. The four had been friends since the first grade. In those Halcyon days their differences were insignificant, but Twit noticed more differences every day. Take books. Hed tried to get Lu and Root to read a book now and then. Anything. Readers Digest. But you couldnt do that sort of thing in Last Step too often or you got a reputation. That boy reads too many books. And since they didnt read there was nothing to talk about but sex. Now it was sex all the time, non-stop, unrelenting. Why didnt somebody tell him about this? Warn him about the coming sex storm. Its coming son. See that great dark cloud over the western horizon? Twit peered out. Yes sir, I see it. That, my boy, is a gigantic cloud of flying dirty thoughts! When they hit, there is nothing you can do except lock yourself in your room and come out only to take cold showers. But, sir. Cant I take a pill? Isnt there a cure? Son, there is no cure. Oh, and do you hear that rumbling on the earth? Twit put his ear to the earth. What you here is the thunder of ten thousand horny demons running this way to torment you in the night. Their group had become a giant sex sponge that soaked up all the sex water in the tub. The worst thing about it was nobody knew anything. They were flying blind. He and Jew Baby knew that, but Root and Lu pretended they were adult men with tales galore to share with the world. And then there was this Laredo Town business Lu had cooked up. Sure, he loved breasts, every man loves breasts, he was even willing to consider his girls breasts, which he had never touched or seenbut this? When they reached the sign on the broom handle that read Laredo Town, pop. 2, Lu made them take off their shoes. Beside the sign was a pair of pine limbs that had been whittled to a point on one end and jammed into the ground, making a kind of gateway. Got to pass through the town gate, Lu said. They all passed through the gate into Laredo Town, reverently. Twit chuckled and nudged Jew Baby. Lu was such a sap for ritual and sentiment. Jew Baby pretended to hold his hands solemnly in front as if he were praying. He pursed his lips and muttered something in Hebrew. Lu turned around. Hey! Twit bowed to Lu. Yes, he said, oh, enlightened one. We give many thanks for Laredo Town. May your ancestors smile down and say: bull shit. Lu rolled his eyes. Yeah, well, wait till you see em. The freshly-made lean-to covered with pine straw was ahead. It had been Lus labor of love built with a rusty hatchet and nails swiped from Bugs s garage. Under the lean-to sat an altar of concrete blocks and on the altar, covered with a coat of plaster of Paris sat two, trash can-sized, red paper machete breasts, topped off with new nipples to replace the pine cones: baby bottles nipples pilfered at Weezys Drugs and Do Dads. Lu had painted them brown. Damn , Lu. Root said. He put Second Thessalonians down.

4 They all gaped. Lu walked over and posed in front of his creation. Nipples arent brown, Root said, shaking his head. I saw my aunts Well, your aunt is some kind of deviant, bee-bop-a-ree-bop, Lu said. Look at Playboy. Nipples are brown. Twit rolled his eyes. Breasts. His girls breasts. No, the breasts that belonged to a girl he yearned for. Thats all he had done. Yearn. She was not his girl, yet. So he couldnt call her his girl yet, naturally, the other three felt completely natural doing just that. Shes Twits girl, so lets build Twits girls breasts. True, he and Laramy sat by one another in geometry. They flirted. He stared, a lot. On the days when she was late he was beside himself. Once he even stood and went to the widow hoping to see some sign of her in the parking lot. One blessed day she reached over and flicked Fritos crumbs from his navy blue sweater and when she reached back he heard her whisper: There. Now youre all clean and bright. After that moment her eyes began to gravitate to his and vice versa. Once she borrowed his compass and he simply marveled as she drew a perfect circle and his mind started racing with ideas and images. Suddenly he burst out: You know there arent any perfect circles. Carefully, she placed the compass back on his desk and inched closer. Really? Then the idea came into his head. Hed never had such ideas before. For an instant he wondered if hed become a conduit for some angelic spirit. The only perfect circles are in heaven. But he didnt want other people to see his girls breasts or the breasts of the girl he hoped would eventually become his girl. But that was Lu. Sometimes he was funny, often he was disgusting, but he was almost always vulgar. So now he had to consider his wannabe girls nipples? He surveyed the ridiculous scene. Two large breasts made from two trash cans. They were like some weird ancient religion worshipping some weird ancient goddess statue. Ugh! But slowly his thinking sank to the level of his company. The truth was hed given a lot of thought to this subject. Nipples were important. They were the headlights coming at you down the dark highway of life. But hed never thought about their color. They couldnt all be the same color. What about Negroe nipples? Swedish nipples? Chinese nipples? Albino nipples? The thought of millions of pairs of nipples suddenly leapt onto his mental screen. A planetarium of nipples where you just lie back and gaze up at them while some college science major pronounces the Latin names. And to your right there, by the Big Dipper, is Nipplonius Maximilianus. The real problem was: he didnt have enough data, as his science teacher would say. He had never seen any, not live, and certainly not close up. What was the word for nipple in French? Should he ask Madmoiselle Faget, his French teacher? Probably not. She was so old he wasnt sure she still had any. But could she, could any woman you lose her nipples? When she got really old, would they just shrivel up and drop off like dried fruit? Suddenly, the thought of Ms. Faget having sex wandered onto his mental stage! It disrupted the whole mental play and sent all the actors screaming for cover. Well, one thing was for sure: he sure couldnt ask dear old mom. She kept her bedroom door locked tight as Fort Knox. He sat down with the others on the logs in front of the lean-to. Clouds passed over the sun and the wind picked up, whipping through the pines, bending the taller, limbless trees until they yielded and their long, slim trunks began to creak. A feeling of mystery crept out of the trees. They look weird, Jew Baby said.

5 Do hers really look like that? Root asked Twit. How should I know? Twit said, glaring at him. But youre the one with the hots for her. It was true. He was in love with the girl the breasts belonged to. And the new nipples are from baby bottles? Root asked Lu. Yep. Makes me wanna reach out and squeeze em, Root said. Then, he realized Twit was the wannabe boy friend so he raised his hands. Oh, scuse, me, Twit. Twit shook his head. Hey, Ive never even kissed the girl. Yeah, but you got a thing for her, Root asked. Jew Baby giggled and rubbed his nose against Second Thessalonians nose and the kitten meowed. Lets get down to business, Lu said, standing up and turning to face the other three who were now all seated on the wet ground. Twit here has this thing for Laramie Laredo. Melonius. Jew Baby said, shaking his head. Melonious, Lu said, pretending to hold melons at his chest. This is serious business. Twit grimaced. He didnt particularly like having his love life, or lack of a love life, dragged out in the open for everyone to discuss, but Lu was right. He had a serious thing for Laramie Laredo. Make it quick, he said. Ting-tang walla walla bing bang. Lu turned to the lean-to with his arms lifted. O, gods of the great breasts! Whore you talking to? Root asked, looking up. Lu turned back around to face him. The gods of the great breasts. I never heard of the gods of the great breasts. Well, what you havent heard of would fill up a book. Lu turned back to face the lean to. Again, he raised his arms to the sky. Should we close our eyes? Jew Baby asked from behind. At schul we close our eyes. Its OK with me, Lu said over his shoulder. The three faithful closed their eyes. O, gods of the great breasts, Lu continued, look down on Twit here. He wants to love up one of your nymphs. Nymph? Root asked. Laramie Laredos a nymph? Ive got to say a ward-off. Lu turned back around, irritated. Nymph is just a word. Its how you talk about some girls. Mother of Melchizidek! Why do you always say that? Twit asked. Whos Melchizidek? How should I know? Lu answered. Its just something Bug says. Look down on your servant, Twit. Hes hurtin real bad down here. He began to strum his guitar. At the break he paused, lifted his eyebrows and gave a lewd grin: Tequila! The truth was: hanging out with his friends was losing its luster. Except for Jew Baby. The rabbi, as Twit called him. Jew Baby read James Bond and something called the Midrash. Twit griped that the dancing was stupid, but he hoisted his tall, thin body up and began to dance feebly alonga twist here, a half-jerk therethen looked around to see if anyone was watching. He felt stupid. Lu and Root, of course, threw themselves into eye-rolling, arm-flying

6 ecstasy. Lu played as he danced, a single chord strummed viciously. Root war-hooped up and down, saying ward-offs just to make sure he wasnt offending any spirits. Jew Baby just sat there rubbing his nose in the cats fur. Every now and then he bobbed his head like a chicken. From time to time the entire group would pause and holler: Tequila! He may have thought it was stupid, but Twit actually hoped the danceor somethingwould cure his fever. He was desperate. It had become a fire in his belly he couldnt put out. At night he would wake up sweating and he hadnt been able to sleep for weeks. In his room he would just lie there, feeling stupid, trying to fall asleep. Every time he drifted off the image of Laramie Laredo would appear to him: her pigtails, her saddle oxfords, her poodle skirt and weight lifters thighs, and her long, black lashes. Thus, Laredo Town was populated by two breasts, a sculpture in plaster of Paris over two upside-down trash cans of the breasts of Laramie Laredo.

Chapter Two
Inhuman Steadman recalled the cold November afternoon in nineteen twenty-three at Porter Stadium when he played for Mercer U. and crushed the nose and entire frontal bone structure of a right guard. It was one of those moments that lived in his nerves and blood: the feel of the bones giving way beneath his elbow, the crunching sound like cracking pecans, the scream, the blood spurting out in rhythmic beats, the player in a fetal curl on the grass kicking and writhing with pain, the cheerleaders standing over him with their hands over their faces yelling. Now the players wore face masks. Afterwards came a combination of recrimination and awe from the coach who was secretly pleased that one of his players had turned out to be so ruthless. Manyfamily, friends, teachers expressed shock at his brutality. That was when he acquired his nickname: Inhuman. Secretly, he was pleased. In the ensuing years he had achieved a deep, restful sleep many nights just by recalling how skilled he was at inflicting pain. He was standing in the drink line at the Nahunta game waiting for a pimply-faced soda jerk to stop flirting with a cheerleader long enough to draw two cokes. The cheerleader plucked her hair; the jerk nodded with a grin. The usual ritual. Overhead, the score read Last Step 30, Nahunta 45. At six four, a broad-shouldered and slim-waisted sixty, Hume Steadmans buzz cut white hair caused him to stand above the others around him like some mountain carved into a presidential sculpture. It was hard to say whether the deep lines on his tan face were natural. They almost seemed to have been etched into his flesh by the knife of some Martial god to demonstrate his worthiness. His red La Coste sport shirt was turned up at the neck. Inhuman Steadman rarely smiled. He considered smiling a luxury he couldnt afford. His students over the years understood punishment and deprivation less and less. Suffering is the road to success. Only through pain does the body learn who its master is. He looked around him at the chubby and the chocoholics standing in line to get their sugar fix. He coached them on the football field, year in, year out. And in the weight room. When Laramy began lifting she lived for candy and ice cream. He had to sweat it out of her, squats, bench presses. Girl, God has gifted you, he told Laramie, who stood in front of him. Sometimes I wish God was a little less generous, she answered. She stood like a boy, feet solidly planted, arms folded. The growling her stomach made was so loud she was afraid the people around her heard it. He wouldnt allow her to drink Coke. Before a match he wouldnt allow her to drink anything. She sucked ice cubes. Less fat than a chicken beak, he said. After they bought their drinks, he allowed her one sip of her coke and three of his potato chips. Then he gave the coke away and threw the sack with the remaining chips into the garbage. Hume, Im starving, she said as they climbed back into their seats and the second half began. So starve, but when we weigh in tomorrow in Macon you will be one-hundred and forty pounds. Period. There was no use in arguing. She tried to focus on the game. The Lizard center, a toothpick

8 with a five oclock shadow, had a cold and one of their guards was already an alcoholic at sixteen so Nahunta was killing them from inside and outside: easy undefended set shots from the corner and easier layups blowing by the hacking toothpick as if he werent there. Then she saw Twit leaning with his back against the wall under the Lizards basket. He was wearing a tan London Fog raincoat and his black socks were sticking out of the holes in his tenni pumps. He grinned at her and she waved. Quit! Hume whispered, loudly. Im just being friendly. Yeah, and Im Jackie Kennedy. She giggled, but it wasnt a good omen when Hume Steadman sucked his large, perfectly white teeth. The Lizard gym was so cramped there were few fast breaks. A player could easily leap for a layup at break neck speed and wind up smashed against the wooden wall. Twit watched as Laramie cut her eyes back over to him again and again. She sat with her back straight. What a hold this guy has on her. He knew her father was some kind of salesman who was on the road a lot and the mother was as a school teacher, but why would they turn their daughter over to this man? It seemed cruel. The previous week in the gym he adored her from afar while the Lizards varsity clattered by with their steel cleats pounding the scarred, wooden floor. He was leaning against the wall by the door into the equipment room where a harried trainer was mumbling to himself, clipboard in hand, trying to climb a small mountain of leather cleats as he was searched for a pair of size six triple Es. Twit could hear him throwing cleats against the wall with a ka-thump, ka-thump. An odor of sweat mingled with oil of Wintergreen hung in the air. He could see across the gym floor to the weight lifting corner: a bench, a squats bar, various dumbbells, and a parallel bar. Bright sunlight shone down from high above where the old, iron milk glass windows were propped open with sawed-off broom handles. The wire mesh in the glass threw criss cross patterns over the gyms wooden floor. Laramie was in the middle of squats. She wore a black leotard that revealed her ample curves. He drank in her body. Even beneath the sweat jersey and leotards its curves and valleys hummed with desire. Her pigtails were bound up in a bun and she wore a sweatband around her head that couldnt cover all her acne. The expression on her face was raging concentration. Standing under the bar, she took several deep breaths, each time raising her head as she inhaled and lowering it when she exhaled. Then, one of the younger coaches helped her hoist the bar onto her shoulders two hundred pounds. Her arms went up and grappled the weight. Suddenly, her face was transformed. Twit watched as the pleasant girl he longed for from afar disappeared and in her place there appeared an wild woman who shook and grunted and gritted her teeth and spat out her pain onto the gym floor. He was shaken. She inched out from under the bar and eased into the squats: Once, twice, Three times. Then she stood up and breathed deeply. Her lips drew back showing perfect white teeth. She took in quick, angry breaths, one, two, three, and resumed Once, Twice, Three times. She repeated this pattern a half dozen times. Her neck quivered. She bit her lower lip until the skin turned white. Anyone watching Twit would have seen from the outside an ordinary tall, lanky, brown-haired

9 fifteen year old boy, leaning against the wall; inside, he was boiling with manly thoughts. He suspected it was wrong to have such thoughts, but he couldnt stop them. They flooded in, demanding to be heard. As Laramie rose from the final repetition, Twit felt a powerful hand on his shoulder. What you lookin at, son? The face he confronted was the man preparing Laramy to be the first female weight lifter to go to the Junior Olympics from the state of Georgia. Hume was as tall as Twit so they looked at each other eye to eye. His tanned face was criss crossed in a fractured web of flesh that seemed the work of a thousand manic spiders. The creases were deepest in his neck. Besides Inhuman some called him The Eagle. Others called him The Ice Man. Legend had it that during his baseball coaching days he tied the players to a flag pole and threw balls at them to overcome their fear of being hit by a pitch. At least two players had died of heat stroke in summer practice during his reign as football coach. That pretty little things going to the big show, he said. His voice was gravelly and sonorous. He squeezed Twits shoulder til it hurt. She dont have time to play in the sandbox with you. You go on home now. Your mommas waitin supper. Heart pounding, Twit slunk out of the gym. He felt as if hed been caught stealing. He could still feel the coachs hand squeezing his shoulder as he hung his head down and he made his way home on foot down the long sidewalk that carried him past the football team which was running in place then hitting the ground, then back up again for more of the same. Sweat. Punishment. Pain. Laramy and the football jocks were members of the brotherhood: giving themselves over to sweat, punishment and pain. Twit wanted to climb up into the stands beside her, but he knew better. He moved along the wall toward the Lizard bench where, in anticipation of defeat, the only three subs hung their heads under their towels like three condemned criminals. The crowd was resigned as they watched Nahunta sink one unanswered shot after another. Twit slipped onto the end of the bench next to the yellow plastic ice chest. He was reluctant to come to basketball games because people asked him why he wasnt on the team. The coaches taunted him and the parents nagged him. The truth was he couldnt dribble. Hed practiced and practiced in his yard, but he could never take his eyes off the ball; the minute he did the ball bounced off into the bushes and he was left in the middle of the court looking stupid. So, even though he was taller than everyone on the team, he avoided basketball players and coaches. Someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind. It was Laramy. Quick! she whispered. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the shadows beneath the bleachers where it was womb-like and the floor was littered with candy wrappers, peanuts and cigarette butts. I told Hume I was having female problems. Hes a sucker for all that stuff. She wore a red sweater with a single, heart-shaped locket and a black, tan and red plaid skirt. Across her forehead was a swath of Clearasil. Suddenly the crowd leapt to its feet above them and screamed and stamped on the bleachers. The roar was frightening. Laramie squeezed his arm. She smelled like peppermint candy. He could feel her forearm muscles and it put him off at first, but the more she squeezed him the more he was drawn into the smell and sight and feel of her. He didnt know what to do. He didnt want to get her into trouble.

10 Well? she whispered. Hm-m-m She pulled him down to her. He kissed her, gently at first, and she lowered her lids and moaned. Her upper lip had a fine coat of down. Suddenly, the crowd screamed, again. Twit jumped. Hotdamn, hes finally come alive, someone screamed above them. Eat em up, son! Eat em alive! Laramie grinned up at him. The two of them took in all the fannies, some sprawling, some with rips in the breeches, the mud-caked boots, the holes in the bottoms of the shoes. It was another universe. He chuckled and they looked at one another, and laughed. Now she put her hand behind his head and drew him down into her arms. She kissed him hard now. Her other hand squeezed his shirt. The crowd whistled as the cheerleaders began: Stick em, stick em, stick em boys! You make the baskets; we make the noise! Twit felt blood and lust rise up in his body like a volcanos lava . He pushed her hard against the wall. Oh, God! she whispered, loudly. Her eyes opened wide. She glared at him, shockedand aroused. His hands were all over her now. Her could hear her panting. She ran her fingers through his hair. She rammed her tongue into his mouth. For a second he was startled. Hed only heard of this, but he was a fast study and returned his tongue thrust for thrust. Suddenly, someone whipped him around and slammed him against the wall. His head banged back against the concrete as he felt a powerful hand at his throat squeezing so hard he couldnt breathe or swallow. There was a grizzled, wagging finger in his face which he barely saw through the pain. You bean pole son of a bitch! I told you to stay away from her! Twit wrenched his head from side to side, gagging. Hume! Stop it! Laramie grabbed his right arm, the squeezing arm and tried to pull it away. Inhuman Steadman showed his white teeth. His upper lip was curled back, showing his gums. Goddamn you boy, you are not gonna screw up my chances for an Olympic medal! Laramie was beating on him with both fists. Get off! Get off my man! Suddenly, a clarity came into Humes eyes. As his entire face dropped, he turned toward Laramie who was still pulling. Your what! he said. Confused, she stopped pounding long enough to catch her breath. I said You said, goddamit, to get off your man. Laramie backed away. Hume turned back to Twit. What had been anger now became something else. Twit had never seen such a look directed at him. Nahunta scored, driving the crowd into rage at the alcoholic guard who had failed to stay behind the Nahunta snowbird. You booze hound! Get back down court! For the first time in his life Twit understood what it meant to be a mans enemy. There was something final about it. A door seemed to close into his childhood. He felt himself fading

11 backwards through a fog, calling out for someone to reach out and pluck him back from the abyss of lost tenderness, mo more chance of reconciliation. There was no forgiveness now, no chance to say Im sorry. He could see in the sixty year year old eyes that he had stepped onto a land mine of ego and unfulfilled dreams that could blow his tender unformed life into splinters, taking Laramy with him. The eyes were desperate, lucid, fixed on one goal with the fanaticism of a suicide bomber, a zealot willing to explode his own body into a million shreds, to cover the walls of a bus or a classroom with his own entrails just to satisfy some fire-breathing God who looked on with approval. I ought to beat you to a pulp The two were face to face when a drop of yellow liquid dripped fell onto Humes nose. Then another. Then a stream on his shirt. Drip. Drip. Drip. Now a steady stream on his white head. Inhuman Steadman swatted at the liquid like it was flies. What the hell? Bobby C., did you put the Huggies on him the way I told you? The voice came from up above. A face appeared, a woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips, looking upside down onto Inhuman Steadman. She was fiddling with a toddlers pants. Bobby C! You got to tape em together, baby. Thats what the tapes for! I will not put any more diapers on any more butts! Theres baby dooky all over my hands! Twit assumed that the high-pitched, nasal twang was Bobby C. The woman looked down. Mister, Im so sorry. Little Pistol heres real clean. He didnt eat all day so Im guessing theres nothing toxic in that pee. Holy shit, Inhuman Steadman said. By now he had taken out his red La Coste which he was using to wipe the pee off his nose, shirt and head. The woman flicked ashes down onto the floor. He did drink three cokes today but thats pure sugar. I dont guess a little sugarll hurt a great big stud like you. Twit backed away to avoid a falling drop. Hume, that baby peed on you! Laramie said. She was pointing up at the woman. Her expression showed something between shock and ecstasy. The sudden change from testosterone to toddler piss sank into Twit and Laramie. They backed away, looked at each other, and bent over, shaking with laughter. Honest, mister, the woman said. She was swabbing her toddler with a Handy Wipe so her cigarette bobbed up and down in her mouth as she talked. My Little Pistol never eats hog meat or chitins. I mean this boys got a Mr. Clean stool. Like an angel. Course, I guess angels dont have to go and all, but if they did, Little Pistold be right up there in the front stall with Gabriel and all those trumpet tooters. She hugged Little Pistol. Hes somethin! Little Pistol jammed his thumb inside her left nostril and pulled hard. Son, dont rip my nose off! Then she flashed a fake smile at the trio below. Say bye-bye to the nice man. Bye-bye! Bye-bye! While the mother held the childs hand and pretended to wave goodbye, Inhuman Steadman glared up. One final drop of golden pee dripped onto his nose.

12

Chapter Three
A skinny woman without teeth teetered high on a ladder in the middle of the street in front of the brown brick court house. Cars and trucks eased around her and honked or waved. She paid no attention. She was dressed in pioneer garb: a long calico dress, a bonnet and a Marlboro dangling defiantly from her toothless lips. The sign she was hanging read: Last Step, GA 100 years Founded 1865. Inside Weezys Soda Shop across the street Lu sucked out the last gurgling gobs of his chocolate soda and thought how easy it would be for her to fall and splatter into a thousand gooey pieces right there in front of Weezys and how he would be a witness and would be interviewed on the six oclock news that covered five counties including Twiggs and he would say to some sexy TV reporter : Yes, mam, I saw the whole thing. It was awful. That poor woman! Just think of her babies! He would ham it up. Weezys sat in the heart of downtown Last Step. It was Saturday; so the usual congregation of misanthropes were in attendance across the street beneath the old magnolia tree whose boughs spread over the court house lawn and provided ample cover for a population of roaches less garrulous than their human counterparts. Ham Bone, the blind, black guitar player passed in front of Weezys, singing about The Good-Bye Time, a battered tin cup wired to the top of his guitar, empty eye sockets wrinkled like the flesh of a prune. Lu smacked his lips. Weezys sodas were just right. Not too much Coke. Hed been to Macon twice in the last month and both times the sodas had too much coke. His yellow T-shirt had once read: Go Zards! In his brown, watery eyes anyone could see how much he yearned for a friend. Two potential candidates entered the soda shop: one, tall and dark skinned, was wearing a turban with a large, green jewel in the center. The other grimy and short was shirtless. His body was covered in tattoos. Needless to say, Lu eyed the two men carefully as they approached. There was something exotic about them that made him think of the hit song Ahab, the Arab, king of the burning sands. When they sat down at the counter, he decided they definitely werent local. They were probably with the circus which had just arrived and they were probably in need of reliable information, someone who knew Last Step like the back of his hand. In other words, they needed him. He slid over closer. The dark-skinned man smelled of onions and spices Lu couldnt identify; but there was something about the other man that gave him the creeps and excited him, at once. The mans head was tattooed with a giant bulls eye. The bulls eye was on top; the black rings expanded downward and grew larger and larger until they reached his eyebrows where they stopped. Jutting down from his jaws was a pair of tattooed tusks. On his back was a flaming sun, behind the face of an angry Jesus and these words: Just try it!

13 Lu was impressed. But the last thing he wanted was to show it: they might get the wrong idea and think he hadnt been around. He had seen weird things before. . Call you bulls eye? he asked. The tattooed man grinned although it wasnt really a grin; it was as if someone ripped open his mouth. Reginald, the Autocrat of the Tattooed Arabesque. Lu only half heard the name. He couldnt keep his eyes off the tattoos: a two-gun David and a cigar-smoking Goliath, an Indian goddess with eight armswith cigars in each hand and a ziggurat of hair, Death with a long, obscene tongue tracking a terrified Playboy Bunny, the Temptation of St. Anthony which showed the saint floating in mid air while demons-some with beaks and some with corkscrew tonguesfloated around him in mid-air and tortured him with pitchforks. Were just in from Siberia, Reginald said. You speak Russky? The turbaned man giggled. They ordered cherry cokes which they complimented with a half-pint of Old Stag. It seemed to Lu that men such as this did not happen along in Last Step every day. The Bulls Eye reminded him of Bug, his daddy. He knew the circus was in town and the circus always brought oddballs. Bug said they were all queer. But Lu was no fool. Bug had taught him there were times when you just had to grab the tree and shake it. The tattoos reminded him of some special place or time or maybe not even a real place or a real time; they made him want to stand up and look out over everybodys shoulders and see what was coming down the road. This was some kind of guidepost along the highway of life and he meant to follow it. We sell insurance, the tattooed man said. His voice was gruff and deep. Catastrophic Life and Failing Health. The turbaned man giggled again and nudged the short man. The short man drank his whiskey and coke in one long swallow. One more, baby doll, Reginald said to Wheezy as he belched and held up his glass. I aint your baby doll. Ooooh! Reginald said as she sat the fresh cokes down. He leaned over close to her and whispered: How bout me and you in my back seat tonight? Weezy stormed out. They both lit up. Lotta weird stuff in the circus, Lu said. The turbaned man turned his glass up until his Adams apple jumped. They sat for some time while Lu asked them about the circus. The short man said little. He stared straight ahead while Lu gawked openly at the tattoos. On the way to Laredo Town in their truck Lu explained to them that even though what they were about to see was incredible, so incredible, even, that he didnt know how anyone would ever put a price on it, he would be willing to negotiate. He explained to them he was reasonable. One hundred bucks would be a good start, but what they were about to see was worth much more. He recognized, he explained, that they were men of the world. That was the reason he was letting them have it at such a bargain. Plus, it would benefit humanity. Lu had heard this phrase recently in civics class and noticed that everyoneespecially the adultsseemed to be impressed by it. He had no idea what it meant, but it sounded good. He kept looking at the two men, hoping to see some sign that they understood what a marvel they were about to see, how special it was, but the one called Reginald only stared at the road with a wad of Red Man in his mouth and said

14 nothing. In the shifting afternoon light his bulls eye turned blacker and Lu could see the pores in his scalp. The one called Singh seemed to be asleep, although from time to time his lips moved and he smiled. Only one like em in the whole world, he said to no one in particular. Ideas were slow in taking shape in Lus head, but once they settled in, they were like concrete. About now the idea was taking shape that it was possible he and the others had created something that no one else had ever created before. Maybe no one had ever even thought of it before. Hed sure never seen any on TV. Suddenly, he felt like Jett Rink, ready to make the entire adult world mad. Maybe all his years as a goof-off were worthwhile. Only now he wasnt going to be punished; now he was going to be rewarded! He was imagining fame, money, TV, movies. They arrived at Laredo Town the back way via the pulpwood road. The road was muddy and Reginalds pick-up slid back and forth. Mud, he grumbled and sneered. Lu admired the sneer. Between Reginald and himself, the turbaned man sat with his skinny arms folded and his eyes shut. His lips were pursed and the sound: Om-m-m-m came out. Lu wondered why anybody would want to whine about home. He knew what it was like to be homesick, but hed never wanted to say home. When they reached the sign: Laredo Town, USA pop. 2, Reginald jumped out of the pick-up and pulled the broom handle out of the ground. He turned to Lu. Whats this? Thats the city sign. You know, it tells where Laredo Town is, Lu said. Suddenly, he felt embarrassed. A broom handle! They should have made it bigger, better. These were men of the world. Maybe one of those creosote poles the telephone company uses. The pines creaked in the wind. The man with the turban looked over his head at the trees and whistled. Old sister wind blow from the mouth of Prapti. Shut your trap! Reginald said. Lu led them into the clearing. There they were. He stood by, proud as the two men stooped under the lean-to. For a moment the two seemed wary of approaching. They stalked around the artificial breasts. They were brown, made of plaster of Paris in the shop class at high school on a day when the regular teacher had been at home sick and the secretary had forgotten to phone for a substitute. They measured a full five feet in height. At the top were nipples from baby bottles. Reginald squatted and eyed them from a lower angle. He leaned over the artificial breasts and sniffed them. He even stroked them and leered at the other man who giggled. Lu was about to burst. He felt like a proud father showing off his baby. These men would understand. The turbaned man began to make a strange, high-pitched hum with his eyes closed. Lu imagined that these men of the world would have real different ways of doing things. They werent ordinary people. Maybe they would want to buy the 44 Laredo out right. Spend their money upfront. Or maybe they wanted to invest. Hed learned that word in history class, too. It meant that one man gives another man money so they make money together. He tried to imagine where they would take them. The Ed Sullivan Show? Hollywood? Reginald began to make a bizarre twisting movement that made his mouth open wide and his jaw expand. He cracked his knuckles. Lu cracked his, as well. He wasnt sure how youre supposed to behave when youre closing the deal. He figured the best thing to do was imitate the buyer. Arent they something? he said. Reginalds voice was restrained. He looked into Lus eyes and nodded his head as if he

15 expected Lu to nod back so Lu nodded back. He noticed the two tattooed fangs seemed to be twitching. Then, Reginald smashed him in the face. Lu fell backward in the grass. He tried to get up. Blood spurted out of his nose. Hungh! Reginald, the Autocrat of the Tattooed Arabesques, kicked Lu in the stomach, once, twice, three times, spat on him, then dragged him up off the ground and spat in his face again before he brought his knee up high and hard into Lus groin. Pain shot through Lus eyeballs. He had never felt such splitting pain. Reginald, the Autocrat of the Tattooed Arabesque kicked him in the groin again and again. Eddie, thats enough! Singh said, as he grabbed his partner. You made me drive out here for this? Reginald flung him to the ground where Lu doubled up, clutching his stomach. He couldnt breathe and he seemed to be throwing up, over and over, but nothing except huch-h-h! would come out. Waves of pain came roaring up his spinal column over and over, breaking into his brain where they seemed to explode. The one called Singh picked up the two breasts as they left. Whatre you doing? Reginald asked. Lets have some fun.

16

Chapter Four
Four gloomy boys gathered the following day around the now cannibalized altar and lean-to. They were wrapped up in thick jackets after an early October freeze the night before had left ice on everything. Why did you bring em here in the first place? Twit asked. He was squatting by the fire warming his hands. Twit was dressed in his long, London Fog raincoat and jeans that were so long they dragged the ground at his heels. Lu sat cross-legged across the fire with his face was covered by a bandage that crossed over from high right to low left. He wore a Navy P jacket with the collar turned up. I thought maybe theres a special side show. You know, step right up, ladies and gentlemen and see the worlds largest boobs! Theyre not from Singapore! Not from France! Theyre from right here in Last Step! Twit didnt crack a smile. The guy Lu described sounded like some circus demon. What had Lu been thinking? He hadnt slept, obviously. That probably meant his demented father was home again. There were circles around his eyes and he stank like a dogs mat. His finger tips were stained from smoking too much and there was a sleeping bag rolled up in the corner of the lean-to surrounded by Baby Ruth wrappers. Lu had been sleeping in the tent! This might be just the way out, Twit thought. He hadnt really wanted to sit around and feast his eyes on paper Mache trash cans of his girls breasts. For one thing, it would surely get back to her eventually. In a town the size of Last Step you couldnt sneeze on one end without somebody on the other end hearing it. Lu passed around cigarettes for all. This unusual display of generosity spoke volumes. They lit up. Lu smoked with his head down instead of his usual cigarette gymnastics and smoke rings. Jew Baby patted Lu on the back. Since second grade his three friends had all called him Jew Baby. He and his father were the only Orthodox Jews in Last Step. His brown hair bounced and jutted out in all directions and he wore thick glasses. The four boys had been friends since they were in kindergarten together so the bonds of affection between them were tight even if their family histories were vastly different. Twit, for example, lived alone with his mother, a woman with a college degree whose husband had been killed in Korea. Lu lived with his mother also, but his father, Bug, appeared regularly, sometimes with gifts and loving attention, other times with alcohol and bruises. Jew Baby lived with his father, Mr. Kaminsky, a strict orthodox Jew who forced Arnie to go to Hebrew lessons at schul in Macon every afternoon after school. There he studied Torah, the Law and the Prophets and the Writings. Currently, his class was studying the story of Esther and her fight to protect all the Jews of Persia from the clutches of the wicked Haman, a man whose appearances in Arnies dream as Mr. Cook, the Algebra teacher, left the boy somewhat confused as to the status of Algebra in the pantheon of the academy. We can make another pair, he said. Not like those Lu said, talking to the ground. Theyre gone. And its my fault. Twit noticed there were blue bruises on Lus wrist. Those thugs do that? he asked pointing to the marks.

17 Lu seemed surprised. He tried to cover up the bruises. Fell down. Twit nodded, but he knew better. It was the end of the month. Bug the Human Slug, was home begging for money. That meant beatings and that explained why Lu was sleeping in the tent. Look, he said. We should tell the cops. Those men beat you up. Cops! Lu said. Hell, no, no cops. Why not? Twit said. Jesus, Twit. You want cops out here snooping around asking us all these questions. Siftin through our stuff? I think we should track em down! Jew Baby said. He pulled out his copy of Thunderball. Bond would track em down. For several minutes they held forth on James Bond. In British accents Twit and Arnie went through the dialogues which they knew by heart. They discussed martinis, dry, shaken, not stirred. As to why not stirredJew Baby gave a complicated answer involving the correct temperature for achieving an exchange of electrons which Twit ridiculed with an impression of the science teacher Mr. Crumbrine, a somewhat comic figure in the eyes of his students since he had been reared on a farm and most of his knowledge of science came by way of animal husbandry. Now cla-a-a-ass, Twit said, letting his drawl out until the others chuckled. There are two kinds of gas on the sun. Theres fart gas and non-fart gaswhich is merely fart gas minus one electron known as the fart electron. The FE. That electron has an atomic weight of one STthats One Sow Turd for you novices in the highly complex world of barnyard science and it tends to realign itself with any pretty little element sashaying down the hallif you get my drift. Root was laughing so hard he seemed to be slipping into unconsciousness. His whole body shook and his black and white kitten, Second Thessalonians, stared up at him in amazement from his lap. Gradually, the quakes of laughter grew slower and slower and he raised his head again, alive and well. He reached down and snuggled the kitten who pawed at the amulet he wore at all times in case he had to perform a ward-off. Track em down. Go to the circus, Root said. He started laying down his mothers Tarot cards, one by one. His mother was also known as Sister Hope over on the highway. Find Hope with Sister Hope! Circus is open this afternoon, he said without looking up. All we got to do is go and tell em what happened and Ill bet theyll make em give us back the Laredos. And momma knows Sister Genius Miraculous. Who? Twit asked. Only the best mind reader, psychic in the whole US of A. Got a spirit guide. A Hungarian hairdresser named Roscoe. Tells her all this secret stuff like whos gon be killed or raped or in general cut up and maimed, even before they show all the blood and guts on the 6 oclock news. They did a big spread about the Great Roscoe in this magazine I saw once. Showed a great foggy lookin house with a light in the window they said was the Great Roscoe doin his thing and all. Twit rolled his eyes. The Great Roscoe. Sister Genius Miraculous. Bob Newhart couldnt think up funnier stuff. **** The circus parking lot was covered in trucks that were in turn covered by a thick layer of red clay dust. Beyond the lot flowed the red clay waters of the Big Mammy River. The circus always set up camp here because they could lead their elephants down to the river. The water was usually

18 shallow enough for the dirt-covered creatures to wade out and relax. Every afternoon after the last show, the trainers would drive their elephants out into the Big Mammy where they would bellow and scoot river water over the thick, grey bodies. The boys walked a quarter mile through a pasture on a thick, red clay road before they came to the gate. There were hundreds of locals milling around: men in work overalls, sweaty, many were drinking. The men talked among themselves around the tailgates of pickups as they passed around bottles in brown bags. See The Great Zambini Tame the Original Untamable Tunisian Tigers was the title above the tents as the boys bought tickets from a lady with a beard. Jew Baby held Second Thessalonians. Both, boy and cat, stared at the woman. Do you shave? Jew Baby asked. His fuzzy hair stuck out from the sides of his head. The woman leaned over, smiled and blew a cigar smoke ring into his face. No, baby doll, the tooth fairy plucks em out one by one. Jew Baby coughed while Second Thessalonians swatted at the smoke with his paw. Root giggled. They walked together in a line like a gunfighter clan at the OK corral. Ahead they could see the pointed big top tent surrounded by trailers and a few rides. Twit remembered when the circus was fun. Now he thought of fagged out old timers in baggy clown suits and animals so drugged they could barely stand up. The year before hed even tried to psych him-self into believing. He turned off all the critical thoughts and was doing OK til a guy came down the aisle selling peanuts. His face was so sad and he was so obviously hopped up on something even his straight-laced mom said something. So much for the halcyon days of yore or whatever crappy kind of literary word the poets would have used. The circus was a traveling psych ward. There were yellow spring wild flowers bordering the park where the circus tents were set up. The stops holding the tents in place were battered so many times they seemed to have flower petals dangling all around their edges. The boys passed through clouds of scents: cotton candy and the resin from the saw dust, hot dogs and fries, animal dung. After a few minutes they found the trailer with a sign painted on in Gothic letters: Sister Genius Miraculous, Prestidigitator Extraordinaire. Twit wasnt expecting much. He couldnt understand why anybody would ever pay grade A American cash for this. Knowing Roots mother over the years had left him with the impression that all spiritualists were foul-smelling scam artists. Nevertheless, he liked Roots mother. After all, he and Root and Jew Baby and Lu had all gone through school together. Hed grown up with the woman. She always made great ginseng cookies, but she did allow live chickens inside her trailer. When they were little, he and Root helped her chase down some bird she beheaded in the back yard, but the scatter-brained woman forgot to close the door into the trailer so the animal made its way back inside and managed to hop up and down on just about every piece of furniture they owned. He had nightmares for years of that poor birdhead dangling off to the sidehopping from couch to fridge to table and back like some demonic Penny Arcade game all the while splattering blood over everything. Roots mother was forced to sell half her furniture because she couldnt get the blood off. Plus, the poor woman didnt have any teeth. Thugs and winos over the years had knocked them out. The only thing in the trailer that didnt smell of chicken shit and snuff Roots mother preferred Brutonswas her crystal ball, a onetime bubble gum machine from the Last Steps Sheriff Willi Simple who was convinced Roots mother had helped him nail a serial 7/11 stick-up artist. But the person who came to the door took Twits breath away. Ye-e-es? she said. Her long black hair was parted perfectly in the middle. It framed a face

19 that was chalky white, but perfect in its long sallow lines and bright red lipstick. Twits eyes roamed down her silver spangled dress and the hint of things that lay beneath. Sign me up for a palm reading, he thought. True, she was wearing a coon skin cap and smoking a long stem pipe, but as far as spiritualists went, this was an improvement. Root introduced himself. She shook his hand vigorously. Oh, I am most very grateful. It is hard to make in America friends. Your mother is my friend. The tiny room smelled of incense. The walls were covered with herbs and flowers. Eddie and Singh. They are the big strong guys. She made a fist to mock them. They give fake boobs to Manny. Manny? Root said. Twit noticed Root was feeling uncomfortable. He clutched his rabbits foot and appeared to be mumbling ward-offs nonstop. Manfred Malbogue. Wait yes? Roscoe? Is it you? Suddenly, she stood and put her hands on her hips. The boys gaped without shame at this fullblown goddess figure in their midst. Lu whistled at her figure. Roscoe! I have guests! She looked down at the boys. I am so sorry. Its Roscoe. Very jealous. He wants to give me perm. She looked up at the ceiling. The boys followed her eyes up. Lu whistled the theme from The Twilight Zone. They are boys, cheri. BOYS. After a deep sigh, she sat back in her chair. He is angry with me. TV signals driving him to mad. He wants I cut my hair. He say long hair make electricity and he cannot make contact. He say long hair make me look like Bohemian whore. Twit stood up. Look, Miss Genius Miraculous, if this isnt a good time for you No! No! Please, stay! She smiled coyly at Twit as he sat back down. You are very cute, you know. Root buried his giggle in Second Thessalonians who was already having a hard time with the incense. Lu pointed at Twit. You are so cute, he said. Sister Genius Miraculous nodded. I see, she said. She looked around at the group. A knowing smile crept across her lips. They are jealous. Whats your name? Twit. Twit. Well, Twit, you will break some hearts someday. Roscoe! He is too young for me! It seemed to Twit that someone had turned up the heat. He was sitting across from a woman, not a girl, curved and coy and coming on to him. She took a few puffs from her long stem pipe. It made her look like a sexy Ben Franklin, Twit thought. Bet the founding fathers would have started another revolution for this woman. What is that thing she does with her eyebrows? And the foot rocking? Wasnt that the same thing Laramie did. Do all women do that? Sister Genius Miraculous served them some kava kava cookies and told some wicked circus stories even though Twit had the feeling they were made up to hustle the rednecks. But he listened just so he could gawk at her. Hed never been turned on by a woman in a coon skin cap. He would never look at Davy Crockett the same again. Tell me, she asked, finally, what do boys do with fake boobs? They looked at each other, slightly uncomfortable. Its a science project, Lu said, quickly. Were studying how the human body works.

20 Sister Genius Miraculous grinned. Of course. Anatomy! But, you know, you could have come to me. Twit nearly jumped out of his seat. What about it, Twit? she said. Wouldnt you like Sister GM to teach you anatomy? Idiot, he thought. Say something! He heard himself mumble garbled syllables of classic male stupidity. Finally, when she belly laughed, he figured out she was toying with them. This woman was wicked! She stood again and shook her finger toward the ceiling. Roscoe. I have told you it three times! I not cut my hair! Suddenly, she lurched toward her dresser. Roscoe! Roscoe had decided the fun was over. She stepped forward, stepped back, flung out an arm, and pushed at some invisible something with both hands, sputtered. You big Hungarian buffoon, stop this! It was like watching someone fighting some inner urge, a drunk or a drug addict. Twit wanted to help her, but whoever this Roscoe was he was strong enough to throw a grown woman around against her willand he didnt even have any arms! Probably better stay out of this. Ooooh, you are to pay big time for this! Her hand ripped open the dresser drawer which poured its contents onto the floor. Underwear and bras scattered everywhere. Like a well-rehearsed team the boys gawked together. Twit spotted a black bra with holes in the tips. Ooooh! Lu nudged him. Sister Genius Miraculous turned her head quickly back to the boys. I am sorry. He is sometimes like this. Hungarians are very jealous men. He wont even let me watch I Love Lucy. He says Lucy is Bohemian whore. For a few more minutes she put up a fight. Twit couldnt tell which language she was cursing in, but he was certain he picked up a few French words. As the scissors inched their way upward in her own hand!her arm began to tremble. No! No! No! she shouted. Twit eyed the door. He could see the others had the same idea. He had never seen a ghost before. He had pretty much decided they didnt exist, but this woman was making a pretty good case that they did. And a Hungarian ghost, at that. Maybe there were atmospheric conditions or something in the water in Hungary. And why did he hate I Love Lucy? How could anybody hate Lucy? And where the hell was Bohemia? By now she had the scissors in hand and was cutting. Twit couldnt believe it. Those beautiful locks, dropping to the floor like black pine needles. Even Second Thessalonians was scared. He clawed Jew Baby as he tried to climb under his shirt. The boys made a dash for the door. As it closed behind them they heard Sister Genius Miraculous shout: No, you human goulash, I not Bohemian whore! They followed the crowd toward the big top. After some bickering, they bought tickets which Twit thought was a waste of good money; but Lu was especially passionate about finding this Manfred Malbogue character, so he went along. When the clowns finally came out, there they were: Laramys Breasts! The two false breasts were mounted onto a plywood base which was hanging around the neck of a clown in an orange wig. The clown, who was apparently Manfred Malbogue the Mirthless Mime, thrust his false breasts into the faces of other clowns who screamed or ran or hid or giggled

21 or licked. Manfred responded with seltzer water, a hammer or shaving cream. It was standard stuff only it seemed strange to Twit for them to be out there where everyone could see them. He had to remind himself no one knew they belonged to his girlfriend. When he looked around, he could see how much pleasure the breasts were giving all the little kids. Weird, he thought: I think of sex. The kids think theyre a joke. After the performance, they found Manfreds trailer. It was covered with balloons and leading up to the door was a garden of fake daisies that spurted water. Manny turned out to be an ex-actor. He was thin and pale and looked a lot like Vincent Price. He offered the boys a Budweiser, plopped his size twenty-two clown shoes onto the kitchen table where he praised the breasts as a great find. Edward and Muhammad brought them. Im sure you realize Edward has led a somewhat wayward life; consequently, this intrigued me. I see a great future for the young fellow once we find out how to have that awful bulls eye removed from his head. Twit smelled a booze hound. The mans hands were shaking. Plus, he had that fat, pink nose. Definitely in the bottle. Lu tried to explain the situation, but Manfred. We need em real bad, Lu said. There was a helpless, pleading look on his face. The man looked directly at Lu. You need them? What on earth for? Twit rolled his eyes. He thought about Lus sleeping at Laredo Town and the obvious beatings now that Bug was lurking around for his monthly handout. Mister, Ill do anything, Lu said. Ill work for you. Maybe I could carry clown stuff. Dont you need somebody to carry clown stuff. Mister Manfred, sir, Twit said, I think what Lu means is that we spent a lot of time building the sculpture at school and had hoped to use them in a school theater production. Oh, delightful, Manfred said, What are you doing? Twit thought quickly. He had to say something this guy would believe and that would impress him. South Pacific. Manfred stood and swirled around the room. Some enchanted evening, you will meet a stranger Yeah, thats it, mister, Root said. Thats real good. Of course, its good, you little bumpkin. I sang it for two years at the Fulton County Community playhouse. Packed house every night. Then, Twit spotted it behind the door! The Laredo Breasts! While the others kept the actor occupied, Twit eased around toward them. Please, Mr. Manfred. Well pay you for them, Lu said. Root and Jew Baby saw what Twit was doing. Tell us about South Pacific, Mr. Manfred, Root said. He cut his eyes back to Twit. Manfred was lost in his own memories and the effects of his booze. Yeah, did you play the lead? Jew Baby asked. The man stared at Jew Baby. Of course, I played the lead. Cant you see my resemblance to Ezio Pinza. He turned to the side. Twit stopped heisting the 44 Laredo long enough to note his craggy, aquiline nose. Sure! Lu said. Ezio Pinza! Eziosaydo you little trailer urchins even know who Ezio Pinza was? Or for that matter why do you need fake boobs in South Pacific?

22 Then the trailer door slammed open and Twit dashed out holding the 44 Laredo over his head. The others pushed Manny down. Lu kicked him once. You little bastards! he shouted from the floor. He struggled to rise, but was too drunk. Panting, he finally made it to his chair where he clung to it like a life raft. They made a run for it across the circus yard and by the time they were in the parking lot they heard shouting from the direction of Manfreds trailer. They ran low, dodging behind trucks and making for the woods where they pushed deep into the pines and battled through briars and black berry bushes, fallen limbs and even fell down a gulch, into damp pine needles and leaves, but righted themselves and ran on. After ten minutes, Twit fell to one knee in a clump of poplar trees. Their arms and necks, and faces were sliced and scratched and covered with bits of pine bark, but no one had followed them.

23

Chapter Five
As he put Laramys breasts back in place under the lean-to, Twit shook his head, confused. He should have left them with the circus. He should never have even gone to the circus! But what had he done? He went alongas always. Mr. Go Along. Thats what his mother called him because he was so easy going. He lay down in the grass, munching a Baby Ruth hed saved from lunch and watched as Lu cooed and fussed, straightening the new Playboy fold-outs hed brought. He was like a mother hen. Twit felt sorry for him. Laredo Town was obviously turning into his only real home. When the sun started to set and they all started shivering, Jew Baby threatened to go home if Lu rearranged one more thing, so they all settled down for a smoke and a package of Oreos Root had brought. Root apologized about Sister Genius Miraculous. I loved the coon skin cap, Twit said. Boy, Id do her! Jew Baby blurted out. He was holding the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. Thats not the way you hold it, Lu said. You look like a fag. He slipped the cigarette between Jew Babys index and middle finger. Root opened his mouth full of Oreo. Do what? he asked. You know, do her! Jew Baby said. At the mental image of Jew Baby and Sister Genius Miraculous Twit howled. Hey, you big Methodist wannabee! Jew Baby said, frowning as he glared at Twit. Twit munched an Oreo. When he asked where he would do Sister Genius Miraculous, Jew Baby considered a minute as he stroked Second Thessalonians. Right here. In Laredo Town! Everybody applauded this idea. They would all pay money to see it. Id do her, Root said. He was lying on the ground on his stomach. He had Tarot cards spread out in front of him. The discussion turned to sex. Already an experienced group, the four boys discussed: the parts of a womans body, which none of them had touched, and various love potions, which none of them had ever seen. Among these was the legendary Spanish fly, although no one knew whether it was a real insect, and a special potion Roots mother made known as Love Mud, which Root claimed smelled like a dead snake, but he had never seen the stuff. No one could boast of any sexual encounters. Thats when Lu produced yet another of his dads pack of playing cards, so filthy as to beggar all their infantile fantasies. Twit shuffled through them. He tried to pretend they werent so bad, but in fact, they shocked him. Why did real photos in black and white of real women look so really dirty? He imagined some bald, fat guy with a cigarette stub whose ash was two inches long in some Yankee metropolis hunched over a camera while a aging woman lay sprawled underneath the camera. Hey, Vito, from this side can they see my cottage cheese thighs? He thought about Laramy. What if she were on a card like this? What if someone else, some pervert were looking at cards with her body? Hed kill the guy! He sat down with the others on the

24 logs in front of the lean-to. Clouds passed over the sun and the wind picked up whipping through the pines, bending the taller, limbless trees until they yielded and their long, slim trunks began to creak. Just then, a truck pulled into the pulp wood road close by. Through the woods the boys could make out an animated figure hop out and run towards them. It was a grey-haired man, small, wiry, dressed in fresh jeans and a new white T-shirt. He was carrying a gun! Its Bug! Lu shouted. He leapt to his feet. Before the others could stand up, the little man had plowed through the plum bushes and briars and was on top of them. He was short and fast and his face was rough and crossed with deep wrinkles. The wild, red eyes told Twit he was drunk. Wheres that fifty bucks? he yelled at Lu. You took it out of the laundry basket! Root and Jew Baby fled into the woods leaving Twit who stood his ground beside Lu. I dont have it, Bug! I swear, I dont! You little liar. Give me that moneynow! With that he fired a shot into the dirt beside Lu. Lu jumped straight up and started screaming at the top of his lungs. Bug fired again. Lu collapsed onto the ground, screaming. He balled up into a fetal position. Twit froze. There was a second when he thought he was going to die, but then he realized Bug was after Lu. An image came into his head: himself at five standing against a boy twice his size in the second grade. The Monster, they called him. He stole your pencils, broke them and stuck the pieces up his nose before he gave the pieces back. He looked down at Lu, lying in a fetal position. Hed never seen him like this. I know you took it! You was the only one knew where it was! Momma knew! Lu whimpered from his balled-up knot. Your momma only knows whats in that National Inquirer. Now he aimed the pistol at Lu. Twits heart nearly stopped. I should have shot your sorry butt years ago. Lu was delirious with fear. He was whimpering and talking to himself. Please, God, dont let him shoot me! Please God! Twit closed his eyes. This is crazy, he thought. This is how you get killed. Then, without thinking he stepped in the line of fire between Lu and Bug. The hell you doin? Bug said. He spat tobacco and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Better move your sorry butt before I blow that little smirk of yours into next Tuesday. Twit was terrified. His legs were trembling, but his mind was clear. Hed seen Bug drunk before. He was one of those show-off drunks. He has to cause a scene, make trouble, stir everybody up. What he really was was a drunkand a coward. Hed never shot a thing. Now he beat his son and his wife, regularly. In grammar school when Lu came to school with bruises around his neck and head, the cops tried to stop it, but the law was on Bugs side. The momma was emotion ally unstable so that left only the dad as guardian. Youre a chicken, Bug Kitchens! Twit said. Bug stared at Twit. What? All of a sudden you his big buddy? Twit said nothing. He had raised his hands as if to fight, but that was stupid, he told himself. He was swallowing so fast he thought he would choke. This was a first. A gun. Aimed. At him. Youre a gutless chicken ! he yelled again. Bug took aim at Twit. Chicken, huh? There was a frozen moment when Twit felt he might pass out. His heart was pumping so fast he

25 thought it was burst, but he didnt give in. Eye to eye he met Bugs gaze, his blurred, watery, blue eyes. The little man stared back, tried to focus but couldnt. He was breathing heavily through his mouth. He laughed, curling up his upper lip into a snarl. Then he lowered his weapon, walked over to Lu and rummaged through the coiled up boys pockets and fished out the money. Then he walked away. For a long time Twit stood there with his arms at his side. He was hoping his heart wouldnt burst open like a ripe melon. Below him, Lu was still lost in his terror. Please dont beat me, daddy! he whimpered. It seemed to Twit an entire day had passed when in fact it had been more like three minutes. Twit watched Bug through the woods as he turned on his truck lights, then roared away down the dirt road. He bent down to Lu. He was quivering. His knees were in his face and his chin was trembling as if it were freezing. When Twit laid his hand on Lus side, the boy yelled: Daddy, dont beat me! By now the others had crept out of the pines. They came forward tentatively, as if they recognized that something had happened here that would change all their lives. As they gathered around Lu and laid their hands on him, he began to quiet down. By now it was nearly dark. The air was filled with the smells of fried chicken from Twits house, not more than a hundred yards away where Twit imagined his own mother already setting the table for supper, a mother he had always trusted, a mother who had never aimed a loaded weapon at him.

26

Chapter Six
The next day, Saturday, Twit hummed My girl, talkin bout my girl through the woods to Laredo Town. As he made The Temptation spins and arm gyrations, he could see himself in a shiny pink suit on the album cover. She had kissed him. Kissed him! My girl! The dark clouds were gone; the skies were clear. There was nothing anyone could do this morning to sour his mood. He stopped and went down on one knee and sang: I guess you say what can make me feel that way When he walked into Laredo Town, the other three were sitting on logs around a fire. They turned and stared at him. Whats the matter with you? Lu said, lighting a cigarette with a burning stick. Twit turned in a circle. Talkin bout my girl, Lu, baby. My girl! As they listened to the story, which they hadnt heard yet because of the circus adventure, they pondered the mysteries of providence. The others liked the baby peeing on Inhuman Steadman. Doo-wah-diddy, Lu said, blowing smoke out. I am never havin babies. A mans not a man til hes had a kid, Root said. He was nibbling a roasted marshmallow from a coat hanger. He pulled at the blackened mass and sucked it from his fingers. Thats what my Daddy says. Course when momma doesnt take in enough with her Tarot cards and were short, he says a mans a fool to bring any more human beings into this world. Well, its not as if you can bring animals in, Lu said. The lean-to had picked up several ornaments over the weekend: more Playboy foldouts, various sexual devices, a dildowhich Lu explained was a fake penis. Jew Baby turned the thing over in his hands. It was made of hard rubber. Root was holding Second Thessalonians so Jew Baby pretended to pound the cat on the nose. The cat pawed back and tried to gnaw the rubber. Twit tried to pretend he wasnt disgusted. Hey, Run Around Sue, Lu said, thats not a chew toy He took back his prize and hung it from a hook on the outside of the lean-to. They debated what Twits next move should be. It wouldnt be a good idea to beat up a sixty year old man. We could cut him, Lu said. He leapt up and pulled out a switch blade. The blade leapt out like a snakes metal tongue. Whered you get that? Twit asked. He was seated with his long legs tucked up under him. He was sucking a grape Tootsie Pop. Macon. Bug showed me where you got to stick it to im. Stand up, he said to Root. Root handed the cat to Jew Baby. He stood up and Lu moved toward him and pretended to thrust into his stomach. Root backed away. Damn! Thats dangerous! No its not. I wont cut you. Root tugged at his rabbit s foot and sat down. Im on have to say a ward-off. Twit didnt feel like joking about a knife he might use to do in the aging Inhuman Steadman. For the time being he just wanted to bask in the glow of Laramies favor. He was the earth; she was the sun, warming, feeding him. He had started to shape lines of poetry in his head. Poetry! Who

27 could he share that with? He tried to see himself in a leotard and holding out a skull and talking to the thing. But thats exactly what he wanted to do. He wanted words to say what he felt. Why words? What was so special about words? The poetry he wrote was stupid: Id never tasted rainbows in the sky Until you reached across and touched my hand. Until we kissed I was prepared to die And never know how much you understand. She give you the tongue? Lu said. Of course, Twit answered. He didnt tell them hed never had the tongue before and the only reason he knew what to do was some primitive instinct that kicked in at just the right moment. Steadman sounds crazy, Root said. If you could have seen the look in his eyes Twit said.

28

Chapter Seven
Last Step, Ga., forty-miles southwest of Macon, was divided by The Big Mammy River into East and West Last Step. Many students from East Last Step couldnt construct a sentence without a double negative and most from West Last Step knew it; but they were all jammed together into the halls of Last Step High, the oldest and largest structure in town. It sat just off the town square, a gloomy institution with its three stories, pre-WWI brown brick and Ionic columns, its ominous learn or die aura. Inside, the shadows and whispers of boys and girls who had grown up hearing talk of Mussolini and Hitler mingled with the mocking laughs of the kids who smirked at the Kaisers name or the idea that American boys would ever fight in France. Stale cigarette smoke tarried in the corners and winked at the memories of flappers perfume that still allured it on a warm spring day. In the year nineteen sixty-five the United Sates dispatched several thousand troops to a small far eastern country, South Vietnam. Few people in Last Step had ever heard of it. Certainly the students in the halls of Last Step High were ignorant of these events. By December the United States would send an additional 200,000. There was little light in the hallway except for the sunlight from the doors at the end. The ceilings were twenty feet high, the windows ten and the desks in some classes were still bolted into the hard wood floor by wrought iron. Most citizens of the town had fumbled their way through the well-worn pages of the same textbooks their big brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers had used. Johnny loves Sally, penciled in with an arrow through the heart, had been written by a boy who drove a Model-T Ford, wore a straw hat on Friday nights out and danced the Lindy hop. To Twit, a first time high schooler, the school seemed a citadel of darkness. It was third period. Jew Babys fuzzy Harpo Marx head and double-wide glasses peeked around the fire extinguisher. The lookout. Behind him, surrounded by cigarette butts, Twit and Laramie waited, hand in hand, hearts pounding. Her perfume, White Shoulders, was making Twit squirm. He breathed it in, over and over. He couldnt get enough. It was like something the gods had made. Not those Greek dingbats running around knocking up teeny boppers and turning into rain. The gods who made up this batch of stuff were hip. Did anybody ever believe all that Greek gods crap? They were like horny goats. He stroked her hair. She was nearly a head shorter so while they waited for the coast-is-clear sign from Jew Baby he bent down and kissed the top of her head. She looked up. There was that look. He kissed her, drawing her up to him. She moaned and gripped his arm. Fire ran through his body, words failed to be words, nothing left but noises. What was that sound? An orchestra sliding down the scale, sliding, someone was holding on, clutching, wanting to fall, yet afraid of what lay at the bottom. The walls of the jail collapsed with a rumble and there they were in the wide open, breathing pure air, standing at the foot of a mountain, snow-capped, sailing through the ecstatic sky like a giant sexual toy. The school feel, the school place disappeared. He took a deep breath, drew back and looked at her. Her eyes were closed, her lips were parted. Dynamite was exploding in his loins! Its OK! Jew Baby whispered back. Then, he saw they were already kissing and giggled. Twit buried his face in her neck. Now she opened her mouth in a way hed only seen in a

29 movie: her jaw dropped. Where the pleasure? Where? He wanted to find it. Play with it. Squeeze it. He wanted to touch them now. Squeeze them. Should he? The delicious pain! There they were below him, waiting. He could almost hear them calling to him: Now, Twit, now. If you dont now, there will never be another chance. Somebodys coming! Jew Baby whispered loudly back into the stairwell. They separated quickly, straightened up and within seconds were leaning against the wall, calmly chatting about how useless Algebra was. Three cheerleaders passed by, pony tails bouncing. They laughed. He drew her back to him. Ill show them, she whispered as he nibbled her ear. Im going to win in Atlanta. The first female lifter from Last Step to go to the Junior Olympics. By now he knew that Laramie look: jaw-clenched. Damn the torpedoes! We have not yet begun to fight! Andoh, by the way, Twit, you big horny toad: no more making out! The mere sight of cheerleaders made her furious. Cheerleaders and rich kids who wander around aimlessly just looking rich. How did he get hooked up with a girl who was so goal-oriented? Twit, youre not goal-oriented, son. Thats a teacher, always with the son. Twit, set your goal and go after it. How about a goal of a six pack of Buds, a few good smokes and a buxomed beauty on your arm. Thats what wrong with America, he thought. Too goal oriented. He would start a school for the goal-less. The Lost Tribe of the Goalless. We wandered in the desert forty days and forty nights with no goal. So shoot us. Four score and seven goals ago our forefathers brought forth the big goal, the goalus maximus: Succeed! At all costs! Losers be damned! And his girl was the worst! So whens the big Atlanta lift? Two weeks, she said. Humes crazy with worry. Hes biting his nails again. Its pitiful. A seventy year old man biting his nails. And hes hoarse from shouting at me! Hume is a loon. He wont let me watch TV! What! He cant do thatcan he? Listen, he and my dad are such best buds. Id think they wereyou knownot rightif I didnt know better. What Hume Steadman says in my house goes. The bell rang. They kissed and separated. Twit and Jew Baby trudged ahead to History. They passed geometry and chemistry lab where Mr. Wareputz discussed kumpounds and ay-rees. The Punic Wars were next door. Twit thought: The Puke It Wars. Boring. Give him a chance to catch up on Mr. Shaken, Not Stirred. He pulled two Bond books out of his satchel. Lets see: Thunderball or Dr. No? He was reading two at a time to keep up with Jew Baby who read in his sleep. Hard Hearted Hannibal, Jew Baby said. You got it, rabbi. I think Ill go with the good Doctor No today. Perfect antidote to Hannibals crapacious herds. Antidote? Antidote? Hey, dont rag me about vocabulary. I heard that inexplicable in history yesterday. The Romans hatred for the Carthaginians is inexplicable. Inexplicable! Jesus, why dont you just prostrate yourself before Old Schmidts desk and worship: Oh, most high and mighty Schmidt: We praise thee, We kiss thy wart-covered ass, (Jew Baby giggled)

30 Only please, please, ple-e-e-se, give me an A+++. Hey, what can I say, Jew baby said. Jews have big noses so we can brown better. What does the Talmud say about brown nosing? The Midrash says: Think of your teacher as God. The Midrash, again? Great stories. Twit shook his head. The Midrash? Sounded like a skin disease. There were times when he felt he had learned far too much about being a Jew. It seemed to him that his time was running out. He didnt know where it was running to or what was about to happen that he should be worried about, but he was worried. He also wasnt crazy about the new bizarre objects around Laredo Town. Some were from Bug who made up for his inadequacies by keeping women in three towns: his battered wife, Lus mom, in Last Step, a feed and seed clerk in Wadley, who closed her store whenever Bug cock-walked his way in, chirping at the bitties. In Farewell his woman was a black elementary school maintenance engineer who always demanded Bug bring her a fresh can of WD-40 before she would offer him KFC and gospel music in the sweaty boiler room. Bug cruised the timber farm lines for Union Bag in Savannah who provided him with a heavy duty Chevy truck complete with radio, tool box and tools, and a .410/22 over and under for the booger rattlers. Whatever artifact he stumbled over in the pines made its way to Lus double wide and these days, to Laredo Town. The latest addition was a hair drier hanging from a pine limb so that in the fading sunlight with its large, steel head and long, slinky mount, it resembled a hung corpse and a noose. What is that? Twit asked, pointing to the dryer hanging from a limb above the Laredo leanto. Sex machine, Lu explained. He was lighting a cigarette as they both stared up at the device. You stick your head under it and it sexes you up. Twit approached it. Sex, Lu said. He held both arms out wide and hunched. You know, doin it. Thats a hair drier, Twit said. Theres no such thing as a sex machine! Lu approached Twit. He looked up at the object dangling like a victim of a lynching. Then he glared up at Twit. A squint came into his eyes. Are you calling my daddy a liar? Im sayin it looks like a hair drier, Twit said down to his friend. You know, those things in beauty shops. Lu jabbed the cigarette between his teeth. Im not fighting with you Twit Feely, but when my daddy tells me something, I believe him. Twit rolled his eyes. This perverse loyalty to a man who beats you. It was voted upon and three to one it was decided the drier/sex machine could stay. Jew Baby wanted to take it home and try it on his beagle Obadiah who had recently been spayed, but Lu declared it would just confuse the dog. Bug also brought home a bulls pizzle from the stockyards in Statesboro. Lu put it in formaldahyde and labeled it: This pizzle belongs to Bug Kitchens. Please return to owner if lost. There was also a large, metal sign showing a half-nude woman wearing a top hat and twirling a cane above a swastika peppered with rusted out twenty-two bullet holes. Lu claimed this was evidence Germans had been in Last Step. Jew Baby was particularly opposed to this bit of historical sleuth work.

31 Germans never came to Last Step, he said. Well, ooh-ee-ooh-ah-ah, how do you explain this swastika? Lu stuck his index finger into a large bullet hole. It coulda been here for all kinda reasons, Jew Baby said. He walked over and ran his fingers over its cold metal edge. Maybe somebody brought it home from the war or maybe somebody just painted it to take target practice on. Lu shook his head. He pointed to the ground. There were Germans right here in Last StepI guarantee. Twit told himself that Lu had no home, to speak of. His mother collected stories of murders out of The Inquirer and pasted them around the trailer so that the inside wall was covered with grainy, black and white photos of people with their eyes covered over by black rectangles. Bug appeared occasionally with child support. Lu was obviously turning Laredo Town into his real home. In the colder days that followed the boys were forced to bundle up in Navy P jackets, Old WWII air force leather jackets with once cream-colored wool collars. Root had his mother make a black and white wool slip over for Second Thessalonians. She even made the cat his own rabbits foot which Root pulled on from time to time along with his own just to insure double good luck. The offerings onto the altar of the 44 Laredo became more exotic: a brass gyroscope from Bug with a full-breasted mermaid atop, more obscene playing cards, a Swiss jack-in-the-box with a crank which caused the breasts of the naked Heidi pop-up woman to twirl, a photo of an Siamese albino princess with no clothes, French ticklers, womens underwear, a G-string, a large, neon sign depicting a woman bending over and turning around to peek provocatively at the camera. Lu hung it beside the sex machine. Eventually, the cold demanded a change. The four brought a tent that replaced the lean-to. Lu called it a tabernacle which he said was an important word because if Laredo Town was in a tabernacle that would make it sacred. Twit objected. He had to stoop down to step inside. As usual, Lu prevailed. After a few weeks, a peculiar odor developed inside of cat-urine, musty tent cloth, cigarette smoke and a sweet scent of bubble gum. Then on the weekend before they had to go back to school after the Christmas break Lu surprised them all. They were now midway through their ninth grade year. It was a dry Saturday morning. The wind through the pines made the dry trunks and branches clatter against each other. The smell of wood smoke drifted over the trees from a Black settlement where a slaughtered hog was being gutted and its innards distributed to various members of the community. Twit was sucking sour grass and lying with the others outside the tent. He was in a funk. The day before he had seen The Warrior Women from Mars, an Italian movie in which the women of Mars rule the men of Mars with an iron hand. The women (Raquel Welch is their leader) force the men to wash, cook, and sew. The men cower and submit until one day a Martian Spartacus appears. His name is Octavianus and his beard is thick and brown and his voice boomingeven though its out of synch. He roars to thousands of Martian men gathered in the great valley of Apollodorus that they must revolt. Revolt or die! Soon, Octavianus tells them, what little manhood they have left will shrivel and disappear. At that point Twit ate through his popcorn box. Disappear! Did he mean? A rocket is en route at that very moment, Octavianus tells them, loaded with male robots who can do everything real males can do and better. They have more endurance, theyre smarter, and theyre faster. The list goes on. The men are shattered. The whole valley is silent. Twit was stunned! He wanted to shout at them, to tell them that everything was backwards, that men are supposed to be the strong ones. Get off your butts and do something! Of course, in the end, the men of Mars do revolt and the women are suddenly transformed into

32 giggling bimbos, but Twit came out of the movie more depressed than ever. He, Twit Feely, was washing the clothes. He was doing the cooking. He was pricking his finger and sucking his own blood at the sewing table. He was a back seat man, a step and fetch it man, a pushover man. His robot was on the way. When he looked at his balsa wood arms in the mirror, he imagined he could hear Laramy in the background whispering: Get off your butt and do something. Lu stood. He was wearing a Levi jeans jacket with the collar turned up and he had a cigarette behind his left ear. He smelled of smoke. He cleared his throat, then pulled out a piece of paper. Boys, its time to get serious. Weve been coming to Laredo Town now for two months . Time to take the next step. Today we take the pledge! Jew Baby looked up from the Winston he was trying desperately to inhale. As usual, his glasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose and his nose was running. What pledge? he asked. Lu slapped the lined writing paper. I pledge allegiance to the United States of Laredo Town and to the two breasts for which it stands and to a Laredo Town life and to Laredo Town liberty and to the pursuit of Laredo Town happiness. I will always do my duty to Laredo Town and my country and mine eyes have seen the glory and I swear this on the grave of my dear departedyou fill in some grandma or auntand I promise to always and from this time in sickness and in health to never to do anything stupid or to mess things up. Then theres a place for our signatures in blood, he said, holding up the sheet and pointing at four xs. Blood! Root said. What you want my blood for? Because its a sacred pact. Thats stupid, Twit said. He wondered how far Lu was going to carry this lets-make-asnuggly-nest-and-call-it-home thing. Is not, Lu said. Thats for little kids, Twit said. Were fifteen years old. Oh, listen to Mr. Big. Mr. Laredo. Twit rolled his eyes. He was getting cold. He was sitting on the ground in his London Fog with his long legs tucked under him. He wiggled his big toe, the one that stuck out of a hole in his tenni pumps. Jesus, Lu! James Bondd do it, Lu said as he folded his arms and challenged the three of them. That was an interesting thought. Bond, Jew Baby said, looking at Twit. James Bond. Stand up and raise your right hand, Lu said. He pulled out a black, leather-bound Bible from his knapsack. He went from one to the other, beginning with Jew Baby. Put your hand on the Bible. Jew Baby looked around at Root and Twit. He giggled, then, he put his hand on the Bible. Now, Lu said, repeat after me. When they finished, Lu whipped out his switchblade which he gashed his index finger with. Belly up, boys. Oom-boppa-mow-mow. Root closed his eyes and stuck his hand out. Twit offered one finger. Jew Baby made an awful face. Signing in blood proved to be easier said than done. After its metal tip was dipped in blood, the fountain pen ran dry before anyone could get their name signed; but, eventually, four runny signatures reflected the oath sworn by the four blood brothers. Lu tacked the pledge to the tent pole.

33 Now he handed out a program, typed on lined paper from a Big Chief notebook. There were some typos: First, the Pledge. Second, the Lifting of the Bra. Third, the Offerings. Dismissal How you like it? he said. What is it? Root asked. Lu explained that they were now official. If youre official, youve got to follow official rules. Anybody who was anybody knew that. These were the official rules for The Brotherhood of Laredo Town. Now its time for the lifting of the bra. He rose and parted the flaps of the tent. The Laredo Breasts had acquired a white bra! My momma made it! Lu said. The others went inside to feel it. Thats a nice one, Root said, after he had given one side a good squeeze. Its just like every bra I ever saw. What? Twit said, laughing as he squeezed the other side. All the ones youve seen? You never saw a bra in your life that wasnt through your mommas bedroom door! Root looked offended. I saw the ones in Pennys! Jew Baby tried it on. After Lu snapped it in the rear, Jew Baby sashayed around the tent with his chest stuck out. Each your hearts out, suckers! It was a glorious moment. The boys laughed as each one tried on the bra and for a few seconds, changed their sex. All the hoopla about Laredo Town had gone too far. Before he knew Laramie, Twit was willing to go along, but now there were times when he wanted to stand up and tell the others that the two trash cans under the tent werent real, that his girl wasnt just a pair of breasts. In fact, when they asked about them now, he didnt know what to say. They werent something you have or get, they werent a thing. Laramie was a person, for Gods sake! Maybe they would think there was something wrong with him. But when he tried to think about all this, his ideas flowed in and out of one another so rapidly that no sooner had he begun to make sense of one than another would rush in like the tide and sweep it out to sea. When it came his turn to waltz around wearing the over-sized bra, he declined. Ive got to go, he said. Big French test tomorrow. Pass Simple. Not having any of his buddies in French was often a blessing. Oh, parlez vous, skooby-doo! Lu said. He dangled the bra in front of Twit. Parlez vous, skooby-doo! they echoed and the three of them danced around him. The taunting irritated Twit, but he tried not to show it. He waved at them with his usual Twit wave (a finger pointed at each with a suave Im a cool guy head wobble) and left the tent. From that day forward Twit began to hate Laredo Town.

34

Chapter Eight
Weezy took a long drag of her Pall Mall as she surveyed her sweeping job: butts by the girlie mags, gum by the car mags, candy wrappers below the bin of Baby Ruths. Little brats! Her heart was thumping fast againall because of cleaning up their mess. She stacked the broom in the corner by the Alberto VO 5, then moved behind the fountain to make herself a soda. It was Thursday afternoon. Outside, a row of mud caked trucks were parked diagonally to the curb. The Courthouse Roosting and Squawking Society. They squatted under a magnolia across the street, a dozen old timers who would never stoop to actually making a purchase in her store. And since there was nobody in the place she took a good look at herself in the mirror behind the counter. She pulled her upper lip back to see the black, gaping holes where her teeth were missing. If she kept her upper lip tight and never smiled, they wouldnt show and she wouldnt look like a Halloween pumpkin; but there wasnt much to be done about her tight-spun eye. It drifted off in the middle of a conversation as if she had suddenly found someone more interesting to pay attention to. She stared at it a minute. Nothing. It seemed to know never to wander off when she was alone. At least she had her hair. It was grey, but it was so full and fluffy as it fell over her forehead, it seemed to weigh her down and make her shoulders stoop. From her window you could see across the town square to the brown brick third floor of the high school. A network of paths across the square through the magnolia limbs connected the school with Weezys. Her ceiling was dotted with paper straw slips blown upward from the booths below. The booths themselves were once black, but were now scarred with the scrawled messages and desperate outcries of romances of at least two generations. Weezys specialty was a BLT with mayo that oozed onto the plate. When the quartet entered, she was scooping out a fat ball of chocolate ice cream into a soda glass. I want one! Lu yelled form the door. They all rushed the counter. From the other side she braced herself as she carefully let the scoop of chocolate ice cream plop into the coke-filled glass. It bobbed back up, slick and seething with foam. You killers gotny green? Lu ponied up sixty cents, the price of a soda. Pistachio! he announced. The others grouped behind him like a bad poker hand. Weezy was out of Pistachioas usual. To get it she had to leave the store and go into the outdoor freezer. Oh, all right she said. She put her soda in the refrigerator so the little monsters wouldnt drink it and disappeared out the back of the store. Quick Lu said. Under the rubbers! The four dashed to the cash register. They found them under the boxes of Trojans: Playboys! Lu opened it up and let the centerfold flop out. Jesus! Root said. He put Second Thessalonians down. The four stared for what seemed an entire season of puberty. It depicted a pouty, pony tailed blond sprawled nude on her stomach on a white bear rug in front of a blazing winter fire. This goes to Laredo Town, Lu said. He kissed the photo.

35 Slam! It was Weezy at the back screen door. Wheres the cat? Jew Baby asked. Second Thessalonians had climbed onto the womens products glass shelf where he was delicately pawing jars of Mary Kay facial off the shelf onto the floor. Get him! Lu shouted. Jew Baby scooped up the cat just as Weezy rounded the corner toting a five gallon, cardboard tub of pistachio. This damn things gon send my heart into orbit! Thunder of tennis shoes. What the hell she said, looking up, mouth open. One hand fisted on her hips, the other spread flat on her chest, she watched the boys dash across the court house lawn through the magnolia leaves and disappear into an alley by the pool hall. Then, she spotted the blue boxes with the Trojan warriors helmet scattered on the floor. Little perverts! I hope we have a war so you can all go and be shot! After she finished restacking the condoms, she found the money: seventy-five cents in change on the counter by the cash register, the price of one Playboy. **** Back at Laredo Town, Lu tacked the centerfold onto the tent pole. As they all sat cross-legged in front of the breasts, they passed around a single warm Schlitz long neck. The Saturday morning air was October fresh. Jew Baby held a menthol cigarette delicately between his thumb and index while he took quick, nervous puffs none of which he inhaled. If you dont inhale, Lu said, theres no use in smokin. Jew Baby stared at the cigarette as if he were mustering courage to try again. Next to Lu, Root lit up a cheroot. Damn! Lu said. A sugar pop! He reached over for a puff. Root handed the wooden-tipped cigar to Lu who stood with the cheroot in his mouth. After he removed the Playboy foldout from the tent pole, he took a white, ribbed sock out of his pocket. Where you going? Twit asked. Hot date, he said. He winked at Twit while he moved his closed fist up and down. In a few moments he was behind a clump of trees out of sight of the others. When he returned, he handed Jew Baby the center fold. Your turn, shoo-wop-de-wop. Jew Baby looked up, surprised. His glasses were down on the tip of his nose. I dont do that. What do you mean? You just whip it out and wail. There was a long pause. It was clear Jew Baby was at an unusual loss of words. He began pulling grass up furiously. Its against Torah. Torah? Lu said. Now he sat down in front of Jew Baby who seemed reluctant to make eye contact. Torah says a man cant spend his seed on the ground. Jew Baby spoke with his head down so that the words were hard to hear. Torahs the Bible Twit said, rather loudly from the other side of the fire. Hes saying Jews cantyou know

36 What? Lu said. He looked around at the others as if to inquire was there anyone on earth who had ever heard anything so stupid. Lu returned the photo beside the breasts. Then, there was a long silence while Jew Baby continued to pull up grass. Twit lay back down to watch him. Over and over Jew Baby pushed his glasses up his nose. Twit noticed he did that when he was nervous or scared and he wondered what it must feel like to be so different, to go all the way to Macon on Saturdays to schulwhatever that was. To read Torahwhatever that wasand not the Bible. Jew Baby seemed to be missing out. His daddy wouldnt allow rock and roll inside the house so the Kaminskys didnt have a radio or a phonograph and Jew Baby didnt even know who Little Richard was! Once Twit asked him his favorite Little Richard and Jew Baby had no idea what he was talking about! How could anybody not know Little Richard? And now more thou shalt nots. I wouldnt be part of a religion like that, Lu said, finally. Since when have you been part of any religion? Twit said as he rose up onto his elbows to look at Lu. Lu stretched out and lit up, blowing smoke rings. Hey, I been to church. Abundant Mercies. Abundant what? Abundant Mercies of the Son of Man Clothed in Light and Fire. You are so full of it, Root said. You have never been inside a church. I can name all the books of the bible from Genesis to Revelation. Please, Twit said. I just cant do that! Jew Baby blurted out. He was staring at the tent and the Playboy foldout, but his eyes behind his glasses seemed to penetrate through them to some world beyond. For the first time that he could recall Twit wanted to know exactly what Jew Baby was thinking. Rabbi Kirchner says its a sin against the laws of God. Rabbi? Lu asked. If youd read a book every now and then youd know, Twit said. Its like a preacher. I didnt think preachers talked about stuff like that, Lu said. There was a silence. Jew Baby puffed, but didnt inhale. What happens if you dont do what the rabbi says? Twit asked. You go to Hell! Jew Baby said, plucking grass violently. Lu made a face. Man, I heard all that from my grandmamma. Thats bull. It seemed to Twit a new person was standing in their midst, somebody he didnt know. He looked at Jew Baby as if he expected him to say something. Lu was the unspoken leader of their group and here was Jew Baby challenging him. The frizzy hair, the thick glasses, the witthat was Jew Baby. Jew Baby went along. He did what he was told. But now he was pushing back, forcing his way to the front of the line. Its against God and man, Jew Baby said again, nodding his head emphatically. He looked around at the others. Suddenly, he rose and stormed off into the woods toward home. Whats eatin him? Lu said. He lay down and clamped the cheroot between his teeth. For a long time they lay there, silent, listening to the tall pines creaking in the wind. Twit felt he was standing in front of some untouchable and hidden reward. He rose up and stared at the breasts of his goddess. What he felt was a blessing and a curse at once. It was comforting and painful. He wasnt supposed to touch them; yet, he had to touch them. He didnt like it; yet, he yearned for it. There were no words to name what was happening. Jew Baby seemed to know more

37 ways to deal with it than the rest of them. It wasnt just the masturbation, either. There was more to it. Much more. But he didnt even know what that more was what shape it would or should take. Who could he turn to? He felt the way he sometimes felt in a horror movie, afraid, but not afraid that someone was going to hurt him. It was a different fear. Was there anybody who knew about such fears? Who would know? Did anyone know?

38

Chapter Nine
There were twelve Merry Dromedaries at Kaminskys Lake where Twit worked every afternoon after school. After twenty years of rain and humidity in Middle Georgia their mahogany was tarnished and crumbling, their one-time saddles were concave splinter-beds, their horse hair tails were three-inch stubble. Daily, Twit cleaned them. He plucked off dried mucous, rock-hard gum, whole Tootsie Pops hanging like Christmas decorations, Band Aids, and unnamable substances. These last he removed by tweezers, carried the item to the trash can as he held his nose and dropped them in. Mr. Kaminsky, Jew Babys father, was the owner. Mr. K., as he was known, worked in a green, sleeveless undershirt. He had two days of beard growth and frizzy sprouts on both sides of his head and his glasses were always slipping to the end of his nose. Nothing pleased him, but grunting his displeasure was such a way of life he did it as a matter of fact. Since he hated rock and roll, and the park was always ringing with the latest hit, he wore a grey, Army-issue, Korean War, muff cap that covered his ears. At that particular moment his muffs were sheltering his ears from Ray Charles Whatd I Say. The music reverberated through the park, out over the lake and to the other side to the thick wall of pines and back again. To keep him cool Mr. K. always carried a tiny, portable, battery-powered fan. He moved through the park, muffs over his ears, fan in hand, chatting with vendors, shaking the hands of sear-suckered Baptist preachers. Now, he moved from dromedary to dromedary with fan in hand stooped and looking over the top of his glasses. Whats this? he said. Twit looked down over Mr. Ks shoulder. There was a black stain on the dromedarys ear. I tried to swab it with Clorox Mr. K., but it wouldnt come off. The other boys gathered around and inspected. Definitely the clap, Root said. I saw pictures of it in a health book at school. He held Second Thessalonians nose to the spot. The cat squirmed and meowed loudly. Whys it on his ears, rama-rama-ding-dong? Lu said as he squinted and sniffed at the stain. He rose up and turned to Root who was still stroking his cat. He made a mocking face. Youre telling me that clap spirits dont know the difference between his ears and down below? Mr. K. was concerned about venereal disease. The Last Step Mirror carried regular horror tales for the fathers and mothers who believed their children were at BTU on Sunday night. VD, in Mr. Ks eyes, was Gods judgment, worse than the seven pharonic plagues. Unfortunately, he didnt understand the mechanics of how sexual disease is communicated. He lay awake at night imagining how the police would come and get him: he could hear the car drive up, the engine stop, the men, a dozen or so, clomp up his wooden porch steps, pound on the door, probably with the butts of their shotguns. Well, they werent getting him. Not this son of Israel. He would have the most sanitary dromedaries in the whole state of Georgia. Thus the burden fell on Twit to swab and swab again with Lysol, Clorox, alcohol. Multiple swabbing with rags, Q-tips, even steel brushes lest some innocent, freshly-scrubbed daughter of Martin Luther should slide her delicate, nubile bottom onto one of his dromedaries and become infected! Mr. K bit his lower lip as he bent to get closer. Each time he moved he was forced to move the fan. Now he held it under his chin upside down. He rolled his chin around as he enjoyed the breeze.

39 Mr. K. eased his ear muff back. Tell you momma Tell your pa Gonna send you back to Arkansas! He quickly fastened it back into place. Interesting. Its shaped like Australia, he said, bending over as if the shape were somehow a secret code. A geographical VD stain. Dad! Its just a spot of paint, Jew Baby said at his fathers elbow. His dad turned his head toward his son and the fan stirred Arnies hair. Lets pose a hypothetical here for a second and imagine that it isnt just a spot of paint, that Root here is correct, that this is some virulent form of a venereal infectionI mean who knows what bizarre venereal mutations they have in this God-forsaken swamp landand that Saturday night some fifty girls aged sixteen or older ride this particular dromedary and contractlets call it Kaminskys Disease. For which there is no known cure. It becomes a text book case, the victim loses her hair, her legs swell to the size of an elephants, and then lets suppose the health department sleuths out the source of this mini-Bubonic plague and they drag me off to the local hoosegow where the redneck inmates discover that I, Jacob Kaminsky, am the only orthodox Jew in Last Step and I am the perpetrator of this death-dealing plague that has taken the lives of their pork-fed sons and daughters and that Im going to share a cell with them, sleep next to them, shower with themwhat sort of bizarre and perverted scenarios Jew Babys eyes grew wide behind his glasses. Its just paint! His dad gnawed his lower lip, raised up and looked around at the boys. He suddenly looked sheepish. Hm-m. Im overreacting, arent I? Im sure its just paint, Mr. K., Twit said, patting Mr. K on the shoulder. Paint, Lu added. Mr. K. sucked his teeth and eased his muff away from his ear. See that girl with the red dress on She can do the bird land all night long! Such blasphemy, he muttered. He waved his fan in front of his face and closed his eyes as the air blew over him. He held that pose for a few moments, enjoying the cool flow of air over his face. His nose twitched and a smile broke out as he appeared to shed his worry. He worried so much about his son in this strange country. Being a father was a mans greatest task. He prayed to the Almighty every day to make him a better father and even, to help Arnolds friends, all three of whom seemed to be missing fathers. He had visited Roots mother once or twice when the boys were in grammar school but what he had found had shocked him. The woman was an occultist, summoning wicked spirits she didnt even believe in, not realizing that they do, in fact, exist. As for fellow Jewsthe ones met in Macon drove flashy cars and dressed like rich lawyers. They didnt know their prayers and many didnt even keep kosher houses. Watching Mr. K revel in the fan, Twit was reminded of a dog, his nose into the wind. He

40 imagined what it must be like to be a Jew. Once, Jew Baby had taken him into his bedroom where a large star of David hung on the wall beside grainy photographs of bearded men with long curls and strange hats standing amid piles of rubble. Behind them you could see the ruins of some city. To Twit the men seemed mysterious, even stranger than the aliens in Invasion of the Body Snatchers, the film in which it becomes impossible for earthlings to distinguish the aliens from the earthlings. He had nightmares for weeks after seeing the soapy pods pop open, disgorging human beings, each pod creature a twin of one of the actors in the film. For days he had walked around staring into everyones eyes, wondering. But there was no problem distinguishing the men in Jew Babys photos. Somehow it seemed they could have no doubles. They were one of a kind. Jew Baby said they were holy men. After a few more checks around the carousel Mr. K. left. The clap is bad, Root said. He was standing on the edge of the carousel. Second Thessalonians wandered under the horses. His tail curled around a pole. What? Lu said. The clap? He mounted a dromedary and took down the cigarette he kept behind his ear. He sniffed it, then thrust it into his mouth and licked it like a candy cane. My mom said it makes you blind, Root said from the dromedary he was still scrubbing with Clorox. And crazy, Jew Baby said. Make your nuts shrivel up and drop off, Root added with an ominous whisper. Yall are such doo-wop pussies! Lu said, shaking his head as he lit up. **** The quartette lined up four, rusty, fifty-five gallon oil drums, park trash cans, on the back side of The Tunnel of Titillation where Mr. K couldnt see them. They placed drums at five, ten, fifteen, and twenty yards; then, they emptied Twits crocker sack filled with beer cans. Throwing beer cans into drums was a Saturday morning ritual, but lately, Twit had grown far too accurate for the others. Silver-white cumulous clouds sat bloated above the pine tree line while out on the water a single yellow paddle boat unsettled the dark, placid surface. In the dance area down the hill below the dromedaries, on a concrete floor caged round by a hole-pocked screen, a pair of teen age boys stood leaning on either side of the juke box like the two handles of a vase. They were smoking and listening to Dell Shannons Runaway while they combed their ducktails and wiped the residue on their jeans. The boys sent Jew Baby to make sure Mr. K was occupied so they could goof off. On Saturdays, after inspecting the dromedaries for VD, Mr. K. usually dealt with bad checks, which required that he sequester himself inside his office above the dodge-em cars so he could curse in Yiddish and pound his desk without raising eyebrows. Jew Baby protested by holding his arms out. Why am I always the one who has to go? Cause, you know the ropes, doo wop, she-bop. Jew Baby sniffed and pushed his glasses up. Pouting, he trundled off, kicking the sand. Root and Lu started pouring out the warm beer left in the cans. It made dark dimples in the sand. I sure hope this is just beer, Root said, shaking out the last drops in a can of Pabst and squinting up into the hole, or Ill have to say a ward-off. Twit paid no attention. He already had a can in his grip. In his mind and in his body even before he threw it he could feel the rhythm of throwing. It was like a song that played itself in his mind over and over, a song he never tired of. He could rehearse it anywhere: in his sleep, at school,

41 at work. He lobbed the can into the five yard drum. Damn, Twit. Lu said. He stooped over emptying cans as he watched the perfect toss. Have the decency to wait til we ready. Twit turned and laughed, a tall boys slow chuckle. His brown hair was full and grew down low on his forehead. With his long thin arms and lanky stride he seemed older than fifteen. He tossed another can over and over in his hand. Go for twenty? He grinned at the pair. Lu shook his head in frustration and sat down on a bench where he stretched both arms on the back of the bench. Im not makin a fool of myself. So what are you gon do? Root asked. He was looking at Lu. Lets just make bets on Mr. Johnny Unitas here. Like bettin on a game or a horse. The others agreed and within minutes Twit was lobbing can after can into the oil drums while the two boys cleared a spot on the bench for their pot. Root sat on the ground while Lu assumed the posture of the money man. Youre a damn machine, Lu said, as Twit landed a clattering strike from five yards out. Yeah, Root said, squeezing a pimple on his neck. You ought to go out for baseball or something. Hate baseball, Twit said. Hit in the head when I was five. He hefted a Pabst can in his large hand. Drops of warm beer dribbled out. I thought yall got all the beer out. Aw, quit whinin, Laredo. OK. Whos in? Root fished in his pocket and pulled out fifty cents. Im in. OK. Roots calling the can and the bet. Go Rutabaga man. Rutabaga, Rutabaga, Rutabaga man. Root put Second Thessalonians under the bench where he quickly pawed out a menthol cigarette butt. Fifteen yards, Root said as he slapped the money onto the wrought iron bench. My fifty cents says no way. Twit grinned. As his long fingers gripped around the can as if he were feeling for purchase, a different look came over him. His easy-going face hardened. His eyes beamed in on the drum. He bit his lower lip and threw. The can turned end over end until it disappeared in the can with a clatter. Ting-tang-walla-walla-bing-bang, Lu said. Twit scooped up the two quarters. Twit was dead-on perfect. From five, ten, fifteen yards. Each time the can clattered into the drum. Each time Twit scooped up a win. Lu lit up another cigarette. All right, shimmy-shimmy ko-ko-pop, theres no way you can do this. Heres two bucks say you cant do three times in a row at twenty yards! He pointed to the twenty yard drum which stood in front of a picnic shelter. Yeah, Root said, suddenly emboldened. He scooped up Second Thessalonians, who was on his back, and fished out a dollar bill which he slapped down. The cat hissed. See, Twit says, even the cat thinks it a bad bet. The cats stupid, ram-a-lam-a-ding-dong! Jew Baby ran, panting, up the hill from the arcade. Guess who just bought a ticket for the tunnel? Balls Batson! Balls? Lu said. With a girl? You got it!

42 The quartet exchanged mischievous glances. A mud-slopping forty yard run in a driving rain to whip the Nahunta Nimrods had earned Balls a spot in the heart of every Last Stepper. For that entire year the 7/11s held Balls Batson Day with a two for one on Colt 45 six-packs. A banner over the courthouse sang his praises: We love you, Balls! The plan was hatched with a mixture of curiosity and awe. It was decided they would sneak into the maintenance platform and watch. They had watched many times. Indeed, Jew Baby often took notes, recording how many times she squealed or how many times he was slapped. Often a debate ensued about what constituted a squeal or a slap. Twit was a strict constructionist who would only admit a piercinghe used that worda piercing scream. Lu, the man of the people, opted for more liberty of expression. Its not right to say that was or that wasnt a scream. At that point Jew Baby would thumb through his Big Chief notebook and reference other screams. They were so accustomed to watching that Jew Baby often took along his Yo Yo, a navy blue Crystal Wrist-Cracker, a gift from his Uncle Sol in Trenton. When the action was slow, he walked the dog. They rolled the drums back in place, then opened the No Admittance door into the maintenance platform of Titillation Mountain. The mountain itself was a large hodge-podge of materials: plywood, Styrofoam, aluminum siding, all patched together over wooden scaffolding that covered half a football field. The river that ran through it was known in Last Step for the final twist, the nooky curve, where Mr. K built the maintenance platform for the fuse box and water meter. The boys hid behind the screen on the platform and waited. Inside the mountain was always hot and stuffy. The others forced Lu to stamp out his cigarette and in a few minutes they could hear the steady grind of the underwater wench that pulled The Love Duck. Twit hung in the back, tall, arms folded, mildly disinterested. It occurred to him that if he were in Balls shoes and a bunch of squirrely ninth graders spied on him, he would be outrage. Hed probably try to hurt somebody. At that thought he recalled the last time he had seen Balls. He was all muscle in his chest, which he showed off by wearing simple, but dazzlingly white T-shirts that barely stretched over his massive chest and pumped bi-ceps. Freshman paid him to squeeze his biceps. He was also legendary for his cowboy boots with steel taps and steel heels, neither of which could prevent his bow-legged stride from making him look like a cowboy who just got off a three day cattle drive. Whats the matter with you? Jew Baby whispered to him. This is dumb. This could get us killed. Jew Baby gave him an exasperated look and returned to his score-keeping. Now they could hear bumping and whispers. The boys knew it would be a giveaway if they spoke so they exchanged notes from Jew Babys pad. Root scribbled : Who is she? Lu scribbled: Dont know. The boat moved closer. More thumping. The girl seemed to be resisting. Now they could see Balls back and two fists pushing against him. Lu made a face. Silently, he mouthed: No way! Root grabbed Jew Babys pad and scribbled: Who? Who? Jew Baby and Root peered down onto the pad as Lu wrote out the name. The trio exchanged glances, then looked back at Twit who shook his head to show that he didnt care. Jew Baby just stared, open mouthed. In the semi-dark the water reflected off the

43 surface of his bi-focals. No way, Jew Baby finally muttered to no one as he stared out into the dark. The struggling grew louder as the Love Duck drew closer. Each burst of the wrench made a loud grinding. Cmon, baby, lemme see em! Finally, Root gagged with laughter, buried his face in Second Thessalonians fur and the cat screeched. The face of Balls Batson appeared, wrenched around backwards, befuddled, hair in his eyes. Whassat? An electric current passed through the boys. Root gripped Second Thessalonians muzzle, but the cat was fighting backand making a racket. Whos out there! Thunder on the wooden platform as the boys scrambled. Balls leapt out of the Love Duck. He waded quickly to the open door where the light was pouring into the Tunnel of Titillation, revealing cobwebs. He caught Root first, a flying tackle on the third hole of the Putt PuttGator Junctionwhere a you putted into the open mouth of a gator that had only one eye and whose mouth today was stuffed with an empty box of Milk Duds. They rolled onto the carpet until Balls was on top pounding him. You pervert! Damn you, boy! Damn you! Holding his hands over his face, Root was screaming. We wasnt watching. We was changing a fuse for Mr. K.! From the fifth hole, behind a wind mill, the terrified trio watched. You got to help him, Lu said to Twit. Me? Yeah, you the biggest. Youre biggern him. Hurry, son or hes gon kill the Rutabaga Man. Twit rolled his eyes. Jew Baby seemed to be in shock. Behind his bifocals his tiny eyes seemed to be shrinking to the size of peas and his frizzy hair stood out wildlyjust like his fatherson the sides of his head. Balls continued to pummel Root. Second Thessalonians had scampered away safely to lick his paws and observe his masters thrashing. Suddenly, there was a figure at the No Admittance doorway. A girl. Balls? she said. She shielded her eyes from the sunlight. Her white socks and tenni pumps were wet. It was Laramy Laredo! Twit felt his heart expand. Laramie and Balls Batson? In the Tunnel of Titillation? Balls? she said again with her hand over eyes shielding the sun. What are you doing? Lu began to roll his eyes as he punched Jew Baby over and over on the arm and pointed at Laramie. The spit dried up in Twits mouth. He tried to say something, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth. This was the girl he idolized, dreamed about. Something within him began to sink away into some groundless pit. He felt himself being dragged downward. His heart clawed to stay up, but it was futile. The force sucking him downward was too strong. A deep sadness crept up his legs and wrenched his gut into a knot.

44 The sound of Laramys voice appeared to tame the outraged Balls Batson. He stopped pounding. For the first time Twit got a look at how powerful he was. His short red hair seemed to swell downward into broad shoulders under his white T shirt. He was wearing Wrangler jeans and cowboy boots with steel tips on the toes. He breathed hard while he stared down at Root. Blood was bubbling at Roots nose which was visible beneath his crossed arms. Now that Balls had let up, Root peeked out from behind his hands defense and noticed his friendsnot helping. He coulda killed me! he shouted towards the others. Balls slapped him again. Ow-w-w-! Balls! Laramie said, firmly. His nostrils flared again and then seemed to withdraw like the tide as the anger passed out of his body. Laramie was standing with her arms folded, patting her well-formed tennis pump. Twit wanted to help Root; but he also wanted to ask: why Balls Batson? Hed understood she wasnt allowed to see anyone. She walked over and arched her neck as if to make a confession. I know what youre thinking, she said. Hume pays Balls to take me out. Pays him! Twit said. His eyes opened wide. He put his hand son his hips and glared at her. Ten dollars. To take you out? He says he can trust Balls. He doesnt want me to get involved with anyone. You know because of my training schedule. She was shielding her eyes from the sun. Twit could smell her perfume. His eyes drifted over her body. She was wearing all white: white Bermuda shorts, a tight white blouse, and tenni pumps. By now Balls was standing and bent over dusting his jeans off. Pervert! he growled down at Root, who was up on his elbows now as Jew Baby knelt and applied his own undershirt to Roots nose to stop the bleeding. The group seemed to be caught in a limbo now. Laramie moved toward Balls, but paused a moment to look back at Twit, who had both hands jammed in his jeans pockets. Lu wiped Roots forehead with a paper towel from the dispensary in the bathroom. Hey, Balls, man, Lu said over his shoulder. You know the Love Duck aint been sterilized since Dewey and Raedell was here. One-Eyed Dewey? The same. Lu eyed the others. Laramie stayed back with her arms folded. Balls, she said, Im going to the truck. When waved coyly over her shoulder to Twit as she left, his heart leapt. Be there in a minute, Balls said over his shoulder to Laramie. What happened to Dewey? You dont know? Lu said, sounding genuinely concerned. He was down on one knee looking up at Balls who was standing over him with his hands on his hips. The big boy was still panting. His white T-shirt had a red clay stain across the back. Dewey got the clap. Balls winced. Ouch! You get the clap just by contact, Lu said. Just by sittin where somebody elses been sittin. Like in the The Love Duck. But I never Dont matter, Lu said. Clap s the clap. It goes right through your jeans.

45 The others nodded. They were in on it now. It was payback time. Right through, em, Twit said. Jew Baby nudged him. By now Root was on his feet, wiping the blood and sweat off his arms. They all watched as this revelation about human hygiene sank in. You could almost track the thoughts winding their way through like a slow-footed fullback on a muddy field. It seemed to Twit like a good joke. Scare him. Scare him good. Paid to take Laramie out so nobody else would get involved with her? His Laramie? His goddess? **** They persuaded him there was only one sure fire way to prevent the clap. And they convinced him hed been exposed even though it became clear during the discussion that Balls was not completely certain about the meaning of the word exposed. They stepped into the park bathroom. Tick killer, Lu said, you spray it on within an hour. Balls swatted the gnats away from his reddened face and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Tick killer? You got it, big man. They told me how smart you are, Lu said as he glanced up at Twit. Twit nodded back. Lus voice softened as he leaned in for the kill. Little clap bugs got the same molecular structure as little baby ticks. Studied it in Biology. Balls seemed genuinely scared he might catch venereal disease. His normally lethargic face came alive with wrinkles and tics. My daddy said they had it in the pacific. Island whores. Twit noticed that Balls walked bow-legged, more like an ape than a man. His boots were worn raw on the sides. The others exchanged glances. Twit asked himself where this was going. Tick killer? Not even the biggest idiot at Last Step High would spray flea killer on his own privates. It could kill him. He began to have second thoughts. He wanted to hurt the guy, not kill him. Inside, the bathroom was rank. The wet concrete floor was dotted with cigarette butts and candy wrappers. Lu presented Balls with a blue can of tick killer: Tee-Total Tickless. Cleanareabeforespraying, Balls read off the can. Lu brought a wet towel. Balls dropped his Wranglers. Clean first, then spray ! Lu glanced at the others before Balls began to clean himself, delicately. Lu brought the blue can down. This is gon sting at first. Balls bit his lip and turned his head away as Lu made several round trip sprays. The others looking over Balls shoulders couldnt believe what they were seeing. The air was suddenly filled with a powerful, acrid odor. Jew Baby put his hand over Second Thessalonians Mouth. Hey, Balls said, thats not so bad. He strutted around the bathroom a moment. Yeah, now I wont get the clap from Dewey. One-Eyed Dewey, Lu nodded. Yeah. Trying to gimme me the clap. The others watched from the door of the bathroom as the cowboy strutted his way back around Titillation Mountain to where his truck was parked. Lu went for Cokes. When he returned, they were all still standing in the bathroom doorway.

46 Inhuman pays him, Twit said. Pays him to do what? Go out with Laramie. So she wont get involved with anybody. Thats crazy! Root said. Thats like being a male whore or something. No, Lu said. Inhumans just tryin to protect his investment. Jew Baby sniffed the spray-filled air. Jesus, Lu, that stuff might kill him! Lu withdrew the cigarette from behind his ear and lit up. Nah. But hell be a little sick tonight. Tried to kill the Root Man. He put his arm around Root and gave his friend a shake. Root pulled on his rabbit foot. Im on say a ward-off. Suddenly, there was a truck horn blaring in the parking lot. When they arrived, Laramie was pounding the horn. Do something! she shouted. Balls was jumping around outside the truck, flapping his arms and screaming. In his agony he pounded his head against the hood of his truck. Jesus, Lu said. Balls would pound, rise to check himselfgrab his crotchthen resume pounding. Im burning alive! Anyone driving Highway 80 into Macon from Last Step that evening witnessed an unusual sight: a truck filled with four teenage boys and the driver, a girl, pig tailed and dimpled. But they would have seen one more passenger, a young man strapped to the hood. The truck was travelling at seventy miles an hour and the young mans bottom was nude and his legs were spread wide so the wind could cool his burning privates. Several times they would have seen the truck stop while the young man tried to figure out which hurt worse: the burning or the bullets of bugs. Halfunconscious from pain he rolled his head back and forth on the windshield while the others watched, fearful of what they had done. They arrived at the semi-circular drive into the emergency room entrance of Middle Georgia Hospital. Thinking perhaps that Balls had achieved some feat of surpassing manhood that had left him in such a limp predicament, a group of wheel chair-bound, geriatric cheerleaders waved at Balls and clapped as the orderlies hauled him in on a gurney. Balls daddy considered his jock son an idiot and recognized that he was to blame for having tick killer sprayed on his privates. He didnt hold the others responsible. Twit persuaded the others to ride in the back so he could be alone with Laramie. She had just turned sixteen. In the wind of the warm, Georgia night her blouse clung to her tender emerging womanhood like a veil some spirit was using to conceal and reveal a mystery. Twit felt lifted out of himself. He tried to put into words what was happening, but his pitiful vocabulary stopped at mystery. There were mystery theaters on TV and there was the Hardy Boy mysteries, but this was different. He was looking at the body of a woman. For such a mystery there are no words. Laramie drove with a purposeful look. She took the task of driving seriously. She braked slowly. She accelerated in a careful, mature manner. To Twit it was like watching an old lady drive. They said little. It was late and dark. They had phoned their parents , but still there was something illicit about being out on the open highway at night, unchaperoned. Off into the trees in the chilly January night there were mini swamps with pine stumps barely visible in the moonlight. Twit relaxed as his mind drifted off into the darkness. It was his first night with his first love.

47

Chapter Ten
The recently completed I-75 was bumper to bumper with more cars than Laramy had ever seen. Hume drove and ground his teeth and gripped the wheel with both hands. He drove cautiously, gripping the wheel for dear life as if he expected the car to stay together from the sheer strength of his upper body. As the only adult who had ever done this sort of thing with her, he was Laramys guide; but could she trust him? There were times when Hume seemed to be a man possessed. Goal oriented, her father said. Her father told stories that made her hair stand on end. There was the game against Clemson in 24. Her father related the tale soberly around their dinner table. Hume lined up as middle linebacker, he said. The coach wanted him to dog the quarterback and put him out of the game because that boy had an arm. Not many people were passing well back then. Anyway, Hume lined up at middle line-backer, but during the count he slipped over to the corner and swapped with Skinny Smalls, a pimply faced wimp who wouldnt tackle. Their ends had been snagging great catches all daywe didnt have wide receivers in those daysbecause they knew no one was on their tails. So the ball is snapped and the Clemson end bolts off the line with his head down, not a thought given to what awaits him on the other side. The wimp, Skinny Smith had never once hit him coming off the line. Hume doesnt clobber him then. He trips the guy which makes the guy furious. Then the guy runs his little button hook in the flats, but discovers that just as he has extended both his arms high to bring down the pig skin, there was a pair of shoulder pads aimed at his exposed rib cage and the pads were doing about fifty miles an hour, backed by one hundred ninety pounds of pure steel. The boy regained consciousness in the hospital. Broke three ribs. Said hed never play football again. They passed Fulton County Stadium, home of the ass-dragging Braves as Hume called them. Laramys heart was racing. Her orange Zards sweatshirt was hot inside Humes creaking fiftysix Chevy, so she rolled the window down to breathe in Atlanta. Exhaust! Waves of it rolled in. She coughed. She sniffled. There was little air. Goddamn! he barked. You want to croak before you get there. Roll it up! She rolled it up. She studied his face. Since she was twelve, she had wanted to make that face smile at her. Fat chance! It rarely even gave off a squib of hope, much less a compliment or a grin of approval. Her father said that was because Hume had high standards. That was dad the optimist. She wanted to believe her dad, but she was beginning to think Hume was just an unhappy man who lived his life through othersmainly other kids such as herself and Johnny Minor. Johnny Minor had been the Zards star as Class C State football championship ten tears before. Minor and the Meat Hook! Minor ran the hundred under ten seconds, weighed two twenty. He had speed and power, but wound up in Athens, where he was injured repeatedly and wound up as a high school football coach in Ringgold GA. Laramy wondered if that was her fate. Laramy Laredo, weight lifting coach at Last Step High. At least shed have girls on the team. The gold dome of the capitol shone ahead in the sunlight like some celestial witness to the importance of her purpose, the absolute obligation she had to Hume and everyone who counted on her to win. When they finally parked in the stadium parking lot, there were buses from all over the southeast. Georgias high schools were there: North side, Druid Hills, Westminster, Darlington.

48 There was a bus with silver and red from Tallahassee and one with blue and gold from New Orleans. The busses came from universities: Georgia, Alabama, Tennessee, Mississippi, Florida, Georgia Tech, Duke, North Carolina. Everyone she saw looked more sophisticated, better trained, better dressed. They brought trainers, doctors, reporters, advisers of all variety, strange accents, Chicano, Chinese, Swedish American. Laramy brought grizzled Hume Steadman, mad at the planet, speaking an obscure dialect of Muscle. Inside, the coliseum was electric with TV cameras and the giant lights focused on the lift area. Her rotation number 205was high which meant she had to wait for hours in the makeshift weight room while her stomach churned up the high carb breakfast of mash potatoes, rolls, corn on the cob, tomatoes, beef steak and gravy that Hume had to force down her. She had never known such nerves. Her stomach muscles were actually rippling. She did sit-ups, sissy squats, a few sets on the bench press, but nothing seemed to help. After two hours of gut-gnashing she resigned herself to the anxiety; but when she did so, a sense of hopelessness came over her. She had never felt so alone. She sat on the edge of her benchlabeled #205, just for herholding her head down between her knees. She tried to focus only on her job. She sat, back straight, and tried to tell every member of her body to calm down. This was weights. She did it every stupid day. No big deal. But her body had its own opinion of the situation, the lights, the strange people, the new smells. Nothing but buildings and people and cars. Her body didnt care for the city. She tried to think about Twit, his silly, hair-in-the-face cockiness, his long, lanky body; but when her rotation number #205 glowed on the huge overhead score keeper in the middle of Alexander Memorial Coliseum, and the crackly speaker that fed into the weight room announced Last Step, youre on, Hume rose up like a vampire from his bench where hed been napping and laid his big paw on her shoulder. OK, podner, lets roll. Her heart sank. She exited the bench room, down a long oil-of-wintergreen smelling corridor whose walls were covered with photos of former Tech greats: Pepper Rogers and Old Heisman himself, mounted a ramp up into the bright arena and stepped up onto the lift platform. Blinded by the lights, she strained to see a single face she could identify with, some soul from her world that knew her, that cared about her, but there was no one, only Hume, behind the curtain, peering at her and grunting to suck from your gut. Her body seemed to withdraw from its own flesh and bones as if it were saying: No! I wont do this! The room was supposed to be silent, according to the committee rules that Hume was forever quoting at her, but the silence in the room wasnt really a silence, but a buzz, the audible glare of lights and whispers and machines and she knew they were all asking: shes from where? Last Step, GA? Ha Ha! What does she lift, carburetors? And when she finally squatted and gripped the iron bar in her hands, how cold it was, so implacable, so unwelcome. She always relished the gripping, the flesh to iron kiss, as Hume called it. It told her who she was. It was a welcome home, old friend. Lets make some sweat and get some blood pumping and it will feel so good! But today, the iron was different. It was as if someone had substituted kryptonite. It turned its back on her. It walked away and said: not today sister. You want to pump, go to a gas station! She groaned, heaving upward with every muscle and bone, ligament and cell, thrusting high until she managed to lift the bar only to her chest. But there it stopped. It felt as if she were lifting the planet! She recalled the image on her literature book of Atlas, stooped over, sweating and suffering. Poor old man, bones wracked, trying to hold up the entire planet! God! Shed lifted more in practice! But this wasnt the same weight, even though the numbers were the same. It drove her feet into the mat; her soles hurt from the weight. She couldnt believe it. The weights attacked her, drove her into the mat like some magnetic force was drawing them

49 back to earth. She couldnt even hold at chest level. It was over. She let it drop and the bar and the weights and her hopes and Humes hopes thundered down around her, reverberating and shaking the floor. On the icy ride back to Last Step her coach put his finger on the problem: Twit Feely. Things, he grumbled, are going to change.

50

Chapter Eleven
On the first day after her return Laramy emerged from Home Ec. with a red sweater tied around her shoulders. She tried to look cheerful. The whispers behind her back hurt, but she knew they didnt matter. She waved at Twit through the crowd. He was leaning against the trophy case with the collapsed football labeled 1952 State Class C champions. Behind it was a photo of a chubby, helmetless lineman biting his lower lip, squatting and glowering at the camera above the depiction: Meat Matthews, All-State linebacker, 52 Zards. It was the end of first period. They had seven delicious minutes to climb three flights of stairs, embrace, panting in their nooky corner under the rarely-used stairs where Jew Baby would be waiting as look out. Two minutes and thirty seconds, dash to second period, wiping smeared lipstick off en route, jerking clothes just as they stepped inside the classroom where a roomful of peers waited, who knew exactly what theyd been up to and where theyd done it. Laramy was also wearing a Scotch plaid wool shirt. Twit wondered if wool skirts scratched your legs. Hed once seen a man in kilts in Macon. A man in a skirt! That image plagued him for months. What about your privates, dangling there in the cold? What about dogs sniffing up you or little kids banging their toy swords around your balls like a piata and little twerps thrusting baseball bats up into a zone where so much damage could be done. To Twit the entire Scottish race seemed to be a country full of perverts. Laramys legs were muscle-woven. They rippled at her thighs and calves when she stood on her tip toes; but there was a gravity about her that was erotic. Her jaw sagged slightly and she seemed to look down at him when she approached with that knowing look. What was that look? He wondered how hard she was taking the loss in Atlanta. He knew how much it meant to her. Now to have to come back and face the Baptist cheer leaders with their stealth Marlboros and back-stabbing social gospel. He grabbed her hand. As he pulled her towards him for a peck on the cheek, he could smell her White Shoulders. Suddenly, there was a vice around his forearm. A steel claw! Balls Batson! No way, Twitty, Balls said, stepping in between them. He shoved Twit back onto the glass case. The glass shuddered. Students around them backed away quickly as they formed that timehonored, blood-summoning circle: the fight. Someone quickly shut the classroom door trapping the Home Ec. teacher inside. She pounded on the door, but no one paid attention. Two truck-sized linemen planted themselves against it in such a polished, practiced move it could have been staged. Although Balls was shorter than Twit, his shoulder power and arm strength emanated from his tight, white T-shirt. His teeth were brown and he reeked of cigarette smoke. His five oclock shadow and the balding spot in the back of his head made him look more like someones brother just out of the Navy than a student. Coach says for you to stay away from his girl. Hes paying me ten bucks a day. He clamped his hand around Laramys neck. Cmere, little weight lifter. The crowd cheered. The Balls Buster! they shouted. Hey-y-y-y! Laramy said as he held her up so that she had to stand on tip toes.

51 Balls grinned at Twit. His wide, sun-burned cheeks were scarred under one eye. He released Laramy and grabbed her wrist while she twisted. He slipped his other free fist under Twits chin. Just one false move, Twitty boy, and.WHAM! He shoved Twitty backwards, this time he fell backwards against the wall, and before he could stop them, Balls had dragged Laramy through the crowd. Twitty! Laramy shouted behind her as she was dragged up the steps. Other students pulled Twit off the wall. They wanted blood! They wanted the freshman to stand up, be the underdog! They grabbed Twit and pulled him to where he could see the couple disappear up the stairs. Go get her, Twitty they pointed. You can take him! Twit picked up his books. Dr. No was face down in the dust by the trophy case. No, man, you got to go get him, now! the crowd yelled. One boy kicked his book away. Twit was down on one knee. The shove back against the wall left himwith a throbbing in the back of his head. He was scared and furious and hurting. The scent of English leather and cigarette smoke filled nostrils. It was the Baptist Brigade, the choir boys by day and Old Stags by night. The leered down at him full of the sarcastic bitterness that comes only to arch hypocrites. Assholes! he whispered up at the older students. He tackled Balls on the steps. Balls fell forward, caught himself with his hands and righted himself quickly. He dusted off his hands, then his pants. As he turned to face Twit, he appeared almost unconcerned, arrogant. Sothe little freshman had really done it. Balls popped his knuckles and walked toward Twit who was half-standing, half-squatting on the stairs. But instead of jumping him Balls toyed with him, walked around him, cursed him softly, told him how bad he was going to hurt tomorrow, how he was going to enjoy whipping his ass as pay back for that little stunt in the amusement park. The bell rang. The students whod been watching cleared out. Then, Balls was about to show Twit his latest karate foot blast to the ribs, one hed learned from his brother who had spent two years in Japan. But a voice stopped him: Balls! Thats all it said. Balls. That was enough. The voice came from upstairs, third floor, where, from the stair well looking down, Inhuman Steadman watched the fight unfold. He tripped down quickly, light afoot for a white-haired old man. He snatched Balls by the hairy forearm, pulled him, literally, down the stairs to the main floor and spoke a few gruff words in his ears, enough, at least, to elicit several vigorous head nods and one emphatic negative shake. Then Balls was off, chastised, apparently, for his clumsy handling of the assignment and there was the white-haired eagle of Last Step High standing on the lower step, glaring up at him, a freshman nobody. There he was with all the rage and hatred a man can muster at a fifteen year old boy. The fury almost glowed off his old body, muscle hardened, creased with wrinkles, but still powerful. Twit thought of the Encyclopedia Britannica film theyd seen earlier that year in science about glowing radiation as Steadman walked slowly up the stairs towards him. He wondered if he would be expelled, suspended or just paddled in the principals office. Hed seen the paddle. It was three feet long with holes bored at the end. The old stairs creaked and the dirt swirled up around him in the morning sun light streaming in above them. Twit felt as if someone had poured concrete around his feet. He wanted to run. The bell had rung. Laramy had fled upstairs. She knew what was coming and she didnt want to see it. He was alone, a fifteen year old facing a sixty year old man who hated his

52 guts. Twit could smell his Old Spice. A brand new fruit of the Loom white T shirt was stretched taut across his powerful chest and a pair of grey Zards sweat pants skin tight, tied at the waist. His white hair, always buzz cut like the marines, stood stiff and clean like the rest of his body, toned as it was by years of selective eating and back-breaking workouts. His face was long and tan from all the hours he spent outdoors, coaching. Its over, son. You cant stop us! Twit blurted. As soon as the words burst out he told himself to shut up. Inhuman Steadman laughed, showing his long, white teeth, turned and walked up the stairs. Later, Twit realized there was something eerie, something final about that laugh. That afternoon behind a truck in the parking lot Balls jumped him. He hammer-locked Twit, squeezed the breath out of him until he fell to his knees. Gagging, clutching his throat, he tried to get his breath. Then, Balls kicked him in the ribs. Twits mouth opened as he ate red clay. Balls worked himself into a rage. He bit his lower lip harder and harder til it turned death white and his lips were curled up and back. As each boot blow crunched Twits ribs, his eyes seemed to grow larger, bug-like with each loud Hunh! as the boot landed. Twit took the blows, over and over. Some impulse came over him to be silent. He wasnt trying to prove anything. Who was there to prove it to? He curled up, burying his head in his own, consoling arms as the blows came in waves. Just when he thought they were done , another crashed into his gut. The red clay filled his mouth, nose and eyes. He coughed and gagged. Each shot sank deeper as if there was some inner sanctum the blows were never supposed to shatter, some sanctuary that was in danger of being violated. Harder and harder his whole body twitched as he clawed the gravel and dirt around him. He had never known such pain. He felt as if someone had reached a long hand down his throat and grabbed his gonads and twisted them around the base of his spine. At the end he lay like a rolypoly, his face covered with dirt and sweat, blood gurgling from his nose and ears. No one had seen anything since he lay in a far corner of the lot under the wheels of a truck. His stomach heaved in rhythmic spasms, but each time he thought he was throwing up, nothing came. When he woke up, hours later, the sun was setting and a blue haze had settled over the parking lot. The frogs croakedree-deep, ree-deep- down in the cool, thick, sickly sweet honey-suckle woods behind the school where seniors slipped their cigarette-stained fingertip up the skirts of naive freshmen girls at lunch. The parking lot was empty except for a the janitors beat-up Ford backed up to the gym door which was wide open for the concession people who would be coming in soon for the basketball game that night against Lyons. Twit couldnt move. He thought about the time Lu tried to have sex with a pine tree down behind the high school. He greased a hole with Valvoline and stuck his penis in it. Or the time Bug bought a fifth of pure grain alcohol and gave it to the boys. Fifth grade. They consumed it in one sitting and for two days lay nearly unconscious in Roots trailer while Roots mother had gone to Macon to an Occultist Convention. He thought about the old rock quarry pond, icy cold where he dove to the bottom last year with borrowed scuba gear, the black cold and the rocks with tiny plants growing but nothing else, a no life world. The sounds of the cicadas seemed to wash over him and he felt their river pick him up, lift him up and drive him down stream into the flow of noise, the easy, buzz growing louder until it seemed to drown all thought, all resistance to itself as if some hostile army had sent it out at night to lead the men and women and children away to some lotus land where they would be transformed into something no one would ever recognize because no one had ever seen it except in their dreams and that no one wanted to speak, the unspeakable, ineffable that rose up out of the buzzing that seemed to touch his, Twits dreams. This wasnt Wordsworth and Shelly frou- frouing around the lakes with their feather quill in hand and the heads up their butts. This was raw and

53 savage and it meant business. The sounds of the insects always made him feel that he was the alien. This was their home. He was the invader, lying there beaten half-dead. He was the outsider. Fear began to creep up his legs. As he realized he had been beatennearly to death. The thought took hold gradually and as it did so, he recalled his uncles funeral in Dublin two years before, the cloying flowers, the women wailing, the heat and sand and mosquitoes. He pushed his body up, urging his muscles to tighten, but they fought back and refused. Every effort to get up exhausted him and he fell back, panting. The red clay dirt around and under him covered his body; his jeans were half torn away showing his underwear which was as red as everything else. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself, finally, to sit up. His ribs and stomach screamed pain and fire. He rocked back and forth and tasted the clay on his lips and teeth. He spat and coughed. Eventually, as the moon rose fat and grey-speckled over Last Step High, Jew Baby and Mr. K went to look for him. Mr. K had been worried because Twit hadnt shown up for work. Today was clean the bottom of the floats day and Twit always loved to get into the icy cold water wearing the mask fed by the air compressor and scrub the scum off the wooden floats. Mr. Kaminsky was afraid of calling home because he didnt want to alarm Mrs. Feely. Then he and his son went to look. Gott im Himmel! Mr. K. shouted from behind the wheel when their truck lights finally fell on Twit crawling around in the dark on all fours in the deserted parking lot. They could see the blood gurgling at his nose and his red, ripped clothes. They parked. Flustered, Mr. K. began running around in circles, flapping his hands. Jew Baby thrust his hands under Twits armpits and tried to lift him up. They made it half way with Jew Baby squatting, straining and Twits legs trembling more and more until they splayed out from under him and he collapsed back into the red clay. By now Mr. K. was coming to his senses. After a spate of Hebrew prayersBlessed art thou, oh Lord, king of the Universethey managed to shove Twit like a sack of cement on to the tailgate where he curled up againby now it was forty degreesshivering in his short sleeved bleeding madras.

54

Chapter Twelve
The admitting nurse at Macons Middle Georgia Hospitalarms crossed, jaw set, a thick black moustacheforced Jew Baby and his dad to wait in the lobby of the emergency room where Mr. K. began rocking back and forth and holding his sides. Jew Baby discovered a furry copy of Mans Life magazine whose cover depicted a buxom, oriental girl on some remote island near Japan peering through leaves at a dazed American Flying Tiger pilot emerging from his crashed plane. He flipped the pages quickly looking for the hot parts; his dad rocked, holding his arms as if he were wearing a straight jacket. His hair like his sons hair grew out both sides, thick and curly. Most of the others in the waiting room were black women with toddling children who seemed to wander aimlessly around the room, bump into furniture, fall on their bottoms and shriek. Soon, another nurse led them back through a swinging doorNo Admittanceinto an alcohol smelling room where a resident was wrapping Twits ribs. An autoclave released steam on the counter beside a glass-covered pantry filled with gauze, swabs and boxes of bandages. There was a blinding door-sized light above the table where Twit was sitting upright holding his arms up over his head while the resident, bald and thin, worked gingerly, wrapping and wrapping gauze around his rib cage. Jeez, you look like a mummy, Jew Baby said at the door. Gonna hurt the next few days, the resident said with his back to the Kaminskys. Twit marveled at the residents nimble fingers. His head was thinsunken cheeks that rippled up into visible temple veinsand his eyes were set deep into shadowed sockets. He obviously didnt sleep much. His breath smelled like the odor from a broken gas main and there were still Krystal hamburger crumbs in the corner of his mouth. His voice was muffled because he was talking from under Twits armpit. Howd it happen? the resident asked. Twit heard the question, but his brain refused to process quickly. He was just beginning to be Twit again. The pain had washed away his personality the way a flood thunders down a valley and washes a small village away, houses, cows, cars, everything tumbling over and over as the power of tons of water rages through. His thoughts were coming back now, memories, where before had been nothing but a wall of hurt. He felt as if hed been banging against that wall for days. Hurt. Hurt. Hurt. Each time he struck it, it echoed back: More hurt! More hurt! More hurt! A boy at school, he said. A boot man, huh? the resident said. He stood up straight, measured tape, and tore off about two feet. What? Twit said. We get one or two a month, The resident said He wrapped the tape around and stood back to assess his work. Guys who really know how to use a boot. Its clean. No blood. Gee, Reverend Mister Twitty, sir, Jew Baby said. He put his hand on Twits shoulder. You could have been Balls first gentile victim. Twit threw him a stupid smile and said in the mock accent Jew Baby had taught him: Oh, Rabbi Kaminsky, youre such a consolation in these distressing times. Then he remembered Mr. K was in the room. Oh, excuse me, Mr. K.its just a nick name I give Arnie sometimes.

55 Mr. K. sat on the edge of his chair, held himself, rocked and winced. Hospitals he didnt like. Messhugah. Suffering everywhere. The dying calling out and he, nor anyone able to relieve their pain. He rocked harder. Like Jew Baby he said almost to himself. Then he threw a glance at Twit and smiled weakly. Twit looked at Jew Baby who quickly averted his eyes. There was a moment before Twit grasped what had just happened. An instant. Thats all it took. An instant. Here he was in the hospital, crushed like a peach on the highway and hed been given a glimpse into their world. It hit him: Mr. K. had just informed him, just barely let it slip out, that the nickname the other three boys, lifelong friends, gave his son, his only son, Arnie, was offensive! The Rabbi, Jew Baby! Twit blinked hard. This thought leapt through his groggy synapses and brought him back to life. He tried to recall: all of themLu, Twit and Roothad called Jew Baby Jew Baby sincewhen? The second grade! Since Mrs. Wideassanother nickname-the grand dame of Last Stepwhite hair, a chignon, a pince neza woman who gave her commands in French and liked to point out to everyone, as if she had made this discovery herself and was going to enlighten all the rednecks, how smart Arnold was and what a rich cultural tradition he and his father brought to Last Step. They all ridiculed her. Didnt they? Maybe only three ridiculed. Maybe Jew Baby didnt like it when they all began calling him Jew Baby, instead of Arnie, when all the kids at Last Step Elementary had started calling him Jew Baby. Twit sometimes noticed that certain kids uttered the name Jew Baby with a hiss or bitterness as if they knew something, he, Twit didnt know. He was wracked up in a hospital with a pain that had come upon him only hours before and he was finally figuring out that for years someone he cared about had suffered and he, Twit Feely, was the cause! Like I said, the resident said bouncing out, No movement. Three days bed rest. Try not to laugh. Hah! Hah! He closed the glass door behind him leaving the three alone. **** On the ride back to Last Step he was in pain, steadily throbbing from his waist to his neck, accompanied by an occasional stab in his gut; but the painful impression hed received in the hospital hurt worse. He didnt know how to relieve it. No salve or bandages would work. Mr. K. drove, his stubby arms arched up high on the wheel. Jew Baby sat between them reading. He could see both of them had felt what he felt. Hed seen it their eyes, that quick look away when someone has said or done something you dont want to talk about. So, was he, Twit Feely, a miserable hypocrite? Lu and Root you could forgive. They were retards, loveable, but retards. That was the question and the answer came galumphing down right behind the question with a big, shaggy grin on its face: Of course youre a miserable hypocrite! OK. So, now what? Get down on his knees and beg: please Jew Baby, I mean, Arnie, I didnt mean to call you that bad name all these years. You see I have this rare syndrome, native to the OFeely clans of the Emerald Isle. I dont know its difficult Latin name but in the Celtic patois its called He who shits out the wrong end which means I cant control what I say so right now for instance I want to say: Im sorry, sorry, sorry. Im such a jerk. Please forgive me a thousand times. He tried to stop the guilt. He couldnt. Then came shame. He was feeling guilt and shame and those two big thugsagents of Dr. No, no doubtwere speeding along in their mob mobile with automatic weapons to take him down. He asked himself what Bond would do. Smile, nonchalantly, seduce a gorgeous red head right there in the Aston Martin running one hundred mph on the

56 Autobahn. James, please, there are two three-hundred pound Chinese hit men behind us whose pork pie hats can sever your head. Ok. Enough kidding. Was the damage permanent? Only one way to find out. Uh, Arnie, did we have algebra homework? Twit asked. Arnie closed his book and spoke in a British accent in mock solemnity. Reverend Mr. Twitty, sir, as your Rabbinic counsel on Judaica I must inform you that there are Arabic numerals forecast for this evening. Those bloody Arabs. A cloud carrying quadratics and binomials was seen passing over the Feely household just this evening. We must consult the Midrash on freak, anti-Semitic thundershowers. Mr. K. chuckled. Just like his Uncle Sol, he said, taking his eyes off the road for the first time. His eyes were beaming. Funniest Rabbi in Elvira. Dad, Arnie said, holding his arms out in mock exasperation. Uncle Sol is the ONLY Rabbi in Elvira. There was a long pause while Mr. K. rocked his head back and forth, muttering, debating whether to cede the point. M-m-m-m-m Then, he turned to the two boys who were grinning at him and they all three broke up laughing.

57

Chapter Thirteen
Mrs. Feely accepted Mr. Ks explanation: Twit had slipped on a wooden float in Lake Kaminsky while cleaning the last platform. Everyone in Last Step knew that the last of the three floating platforms in Kaminsky Lake was an Impalas back seat on water. Twice, Mr. K. had been forced to call the cops because kids were on top of the pontoon, not under, but on top, having sex. In his duty as the official platform cleaner and repair man Twit claimed that a girl could get pregnant just swimming in the water around it. But his mother was not as pleased with the telephone call from the principal explaining that Twit had been suspended for fighting. The Laredo girl was involved. And an older student, Raphael Batson. Raphael! Twit chuckled when his mother told him. A number of students could verify the event. Three days suspension with no chance to make-up the work. His mother restricted for two weeks his movements to home, work and school. No Laredo Town, no Weezys, no movies or Dairy Queen. And especially no contacts with Laramy Laredo. Anyway, calling Laramy had become a waste of time. Since the loss in Atlanta her dad monitored all calls. Laramy was right. What Hume Steadman said was law in her house. Mr. Laredo, it turns out, had played quarterback for The Zards during Humes football coaching days. At three every afternoon the three other founders of Laredo Town appeared at his back door with a pleading, hang-dog expression hoping Twits mom would relent and let their son join them. Please, Mrs. Feely. It wasnt Twits fault, Mrs. Feely. Those idiots at school are conspiring against him, Mrs. Feely. Of course, his friends knew the truth. They knew how Balls had nearly beaten him to death in the parking lot, but they kept the secret. The bond was tight. No one attacked the founders of Laredo Town without a fight. Arnie had rallied the troops, inspiring them with vivid descriptions of how bad Twit looked when they had found him: bloodied, wheezing, his clothes ripped, how he was gagging and trying to throw up but couldnt. It was the end of February, still cold enough for a fire so they were making marshmallows and roasting hot dogs at Laredo Town. Twit lay in his room and imagined the crinkly, black of the sweet marshmallow. He loved to burn them and then scramble to eat them and jump up and down because they burned his tongue. And the hot dogs on a coat hanger wire, dangling in the heat til their flesh warped and bubbled and the skin burst sending juice sizzling into the flame. Then he would do his Bella Lugosi imitation and watch Root squirm. Scaring the Root was one of lifes great pleasures and since the Root had a supernatural view of all things, nothing was easier. Root and Arnie and Lu all stood in the doorway with his mother and begged. Janice Feely was a tall, brown-haired woman with an addiction to strong tobacco. She listened patiently, leaning on a broom, hearing the arguments, the pleas, even Arnies argument about the did he really use the word salubriouseffects of fresh air? And did she hear her own son chuckle at the word? She listened patiently, but in the end, she smiled primly, stamped out her Camel on the back porch stepssplayed tobacco threadsand said: no. Twits thoughts in these days of confinement turned back again and again to the beating: who ordered it, who did it. Balls Batson was an idiot. He couldnt feel contempt for an idiot; but he could feel contempt or worse for the man who ordered the beating: Hume Steadman. The iron jaw, the white buzz cut, the cold glareall these began to swirl around in Twits mind and he began to

58 grow hard., cold and filled with bitterness at what had happened. He had never before hated anyone or anything. There were foods, shots and certain teachers that came close, but those were nothing like what he was feeling now. A ball, a knot was growing inside him like a cancer. It was spreading, infecting his joy, tainting goodness, in him and in everyone elseeven his thoughts of Laramy. Now he began to understand why hatred was so dangerous. It could eat you alive. At the end of the two weeks Arnie appeared at Twits door after school and they made their way to Laredo Town via the pulp wood road that ran back into the woods. They passed the three markers: the bridge over Little Mammy Creek, the giant spider webfilled with tastily-wrapped flies and beetlesand the squirrels nest in the sycamore tree. When they came within sight of Laredo Town, they pulled up short. Parked in the road was a gun metal VW van with a California license. The side of the van read in tangerine arabesque against the grey: Mr. Vedanta and his Three Vedic Delights. O-o-o-o-h! Arnie said as he approached and pushed his face against the glass. California freaks! Inside the van sat a bong still giving off smoke, its arms spread out like the limbs of some maneating plant. The van was cluttered with psychedelic blue and orange fliers, dirty clothes, and cookies. Twit and Arnie crouched low behind the van. They could see Lu talking with the Vans occupants. In the Laredo Town clearing stood a short, fat man dressed like a genii with an orange Superman cape on. His handlebar mustache grew six inches long on both sides of his face which was tan and bloated. Although he was bald on top, his remaining hair, dyed black, hung long down his back. His shoes were slippers, golden, toes curled back. He stood with his arms folded beside Lu who was captivated by the three women who were seated in a lotus position. Eyes closed, they chanted over and over: Nee-nee-na-na-gitch-an-gat Make Shirl and Cindy not so fat OK, girls, the man interrupted, youve done that one to death. Now show him Gaias and Dolls. The girls lay face down on the ground. The man leaned over and whispered to Lu. This one is leftover from the guy who handled the girls before me. He was a big environmentalist. The Three Vedic Delights turned their heads to the side as their hips undulated. It was clear that they were hard-working and conscientious. Again, they chanted in unison: Come, oh come, oh mother Gai-ah, Make me sexy and on fi-yah. They repeated this three times. Make me toned and buff and tight, The perfect match for Mr. Right. Hey, Tone, one girl asked, Is that enough? Once more, he said, holding up one finger. They chanted one more round.

59 You three can now officially stand up, Tone said. The girls stood up and brushed off. They were dressed like Jeannie from the TV show: gauzy outfits, with bedroom slippers the toes of whose gold slippers, like Tones, curled up and back. How was that, Tone? one of the girls said, clipping up her ponytail with a hair pin. You three are improving, slow, but youre improving, Tone answered. He walked around the girls, eyeing them top to bottom. Thanks, Tone, Cindy said, smiling coldly. Youre a real charmer. She observed herself in a hand-held mirror, moistened her pinky and dragged it across her eyebrow. Who is this mother Gai-uh, Tone? she asked. I thought your mothers name was Laverne. Its not my freakin mother, Tone said. Its some name the guy gimme who had the act before. Some Greek thing. He returned to Lu whose lower lip sagged as he watched Cindy moisten her eyebrows. So, how bout it kid? he slapped Lu on the back. Ready for a little action? Lus eyes were spinning. He picked up a pine limb and gave it a swing. I dont know, Mr. Vedanta Call me Tone, kid. Cindy snapped her compact, winked at Shirl and cozied up behind Lu who was swinging at pine combs. She waited til he was finished, took the pine limb gently, almost motherly, set it down and squeezed his bicep. Then, she drew close: You must be really strong, she whispered. Lu grinned at Tone just as her hand tugged downward on his zipper. Hey, whoa, there he protested, grabbing her hand. Come on, kid, you wanna have a good time, doncha? Cindy said. Hey, stop the presses, Tone said, holding up both his hands. It is clear to me that what we have here is a young man with incriminating tastes. Hes looking for some class. You three do the song. Which song, Tone? Cindy asked, turning around and suddenly looking bored. She removed her gum, eyed it, and put it back in and continued chewing. We do lots of songs. You knowthe classy oneabout The Mayor of Poughkeepsie. The three girls assembled in chorus cheek to cheek: The Mayor of Poughkeepsie Was just a little tipsy Til he wandered in a camp And felt a little gypsy. Tony laughed. And felt a little gypsy. Ha! Ha! Then he turned to Lu. What do you think, kid, is that classy or what? Lu shook his head. I dunno Tone. One hundred fifty dollars is a lot of money. Tony sighed and motioned for the girls to disappear. He put his arm around Lu. So tell me, how much are willing to set aside for this particular venture, he asked, softly. While the two males chatted, the girls examined the objects hanging in trees or nailed onto the trees. Cindy pointed up into the pine where the hair dryer hung down like a glistening, emaciated body. Shirl, get a load of this. Shirl appeared, filing her nails. Geeze Louise, that drier is old. I think my Aunt Rita used those out on Coney Island when she ran her shop after the war. She reached up and grabbed the dildo. It snapped free and the limb popped back into place. Whats this thing? Cindy put her arm around her friend, took the dildo out of Shirleys hand and flipped it in the

60 air and caught it. That, my freshman friend, is a sexual toy. Or in the nomenclature of veterans: an objet damour. Shirl took it back and banged herself on the head with it. Whats it for? Cindy stared at her friend. Youre kidding, right? Shirl shook her head, irritated. No, Miss Smarty Pants always tellin everybody how freakin smart you are just because you spent two weeks at cosmetology schoolI aint kiddin. I dont know what the freakin hell it is! I meanI know what it looks likebutgeez Louise, down here in the Bible belt You got it, kid, Cindy said. Shirl made a face. E-e-e-w-w-w! Holding it away from her body with the tips of her fingers, she carried to the bushes where she tossed it in. The third girl, Rita raised the tent flap; she looked around, then stepped inside. Oh, my God! came the shriek from inside the tent. Its a redneck boobs cult! I wanna join, Cindy screamed and dropped Lus hand. All three girls dashed into the tent followed by Tone whose Superman cape dragged across the still smoldering ashes and nearly caught fire. Lu made a run for it. As he flew past the van, Twit tripped him. He fell on his face, looked up with sand around his mouth and in his eyebrows and grinned. Hey, yall! Arnie and Twit dragged him out of sight while the three Vedantic Delights admired their discovery. Whos that? Twit asked, pointing toward the four intruders. Lu shook his head; then, he blinked. It seemed difficult for him to focus his eyes. What the hells wrong with him? Twit asked Arnie. He shook Lu hard. Lu only smiled stupidly. Marijuana, Arnie said. My Uncle Sol gave me some at my Bat Mitzvah. He and Dad didnt speak for two years. Twit noticed more bruise marks on Lus arms. Bug was home again. That meant more beatings. Arnie conceived of a plan. Twit hid in the woods on the other side of the road. In a few moments, Arnie hotwired the van and cranked it up. Tone and the girls screamed and started after him as he eased down the pulp wood road. My weed! Tony shouted, running after. He stopped every ten yards to suck in air, both hands on his knees. My weed! Arnie drove fifty yards and stopped. As the three caught up with him, he started up again and moved on. When they caught him a second time, he moved on again, after a half hour, he arrived at Highway 80. He decided this was more fun than hed had in a long time. It was even more fun than his Bar Mitzvah because nobody was forcing him to eat gefilte fish. Twits reaction was different. This was proof that what they had created at Laredo Town was dangerous. Who knew what might have happened? Lu was out of control. He, Twit, had to talk to somebody, some adult he trusted and who trusted him. But did he know anyone who fit that bill?

61

Chapter Fourteen
The Torah in Hebrew sat opened on a wooden stand on the desk in Mr. Ks Zimmer, as he called it. Mr. K. read it aloud, daily, at the same time, five oclock in the afternoon when the park was usually the quietest. He used a metal pointer, his yad, to guide him through the text. The yad showed at its head the representation of a hand with a pointing index finger. The whole thing hung on a chain from the Torah stave. Because everything connected with the Torah was sacred, Mr. Kaminsky considered it disrespectful to touch the text when reading the passages. Below his room were the Dodge-em-Cars. The clash of steel on steel, the shriek of hysterical kids, and the roar from the wheelsthese companioned his studies. It was fitting, he thought. Below: the world, raucous, violent, vulgar; above: the Torah, triumphant, holy, untouchable. When he read about the Golden Calf, he could hear the metallic sounds of the idol being forged below; when he read of the Pharaohs army engulfed by the sea, he could hear the thunder of a giant wall of water crashing down below his Zimmer. Whenever he heard a loud thundering thump, he imagined the room where the arc of the covenant upended the Philistine god, Dagon. The shrieks of wild teens became the death cries of the Egyptian horsemen. Eventually, he came to believe that the Dodge-Em-Cars were powered by Divine Energy, transferred through his floor down to the roof below all the way to and down the metal poles until it energized the cars. Did not the great Hasidim raise the dead? And what of the Golem? Electricity, he commented to Arnie, is a puny word. It is the power of God. He stood at the window. Spring had smothered his park with its scent of honey suckle and pine, mingled with the fragrance of fries and cigarette smoke. A warm breeze blew across the water as the setting sun threw a pink and gold sky high above the wall of pines that lined the other side of the lake. Middle Georgia! He needed cold, grey, oil-heaters that suffocated you when they worked well, and a steady diet of kraut. Here, they ate pork, daily. Keeping a kosher house was work. These people are so blessed, he thought, but they know nothing about their blessings. Below him, unaware they were being observed by an orthodox Jew, a couple was necking on his beach. The boy, tall and lanky, kissed the girl beneath him on the neck; she clawed his back. He began kissing her lips. Mr. K. thrust his head out the window, a rooster crowing. Both hands made a megaphone. Hey, Romeo, this is a public facility! he shouted. The boy jerked around, looked up, and shaded his eyes from the sun. Finally, he spotted Mr. K. leaning out the window in his Korean ear muffs hat. He rolled his eyes, yanked the girl up and the two dashed off down the boardwalk. Pagans! Mr. K. whispered to himself as he closed the window and returned to his desk. He switched on the black, steel electric fan on his desk. Slowly, the blades began to turn. When he finally took his seat, the breeze was strong enough to ruffle the blue fur on his cap. He did not comprehend this new world. Leaving the rubble of Warsaw in nineteen forty-nine, he immigrated to the USA with his only son, Arnie. The rest of his family was dead. He had been in Georgia twelve years, but he still did not understand such an openly licentious people. Did they not fear God? It seemed, at times, he had escaped one chamber in Sheol where tyrants and dictators ruled, only to be shuttled next door to another, equally tortuous, where demonic temptresses twitched in constant titillation. In their movies and their magazines and TV American women

62 flaunted their holy, God-fashioned bodies as if they were showing off a new car. Even Jews! It was worse than in Warsaw. And yet churches stood on every corner! What a paradox. The holy and the obscene, side by side. Only the rural and barely illiterate, those whose speech and manners the rich and sophisticated ridiculed in their books and movies, only they seemed to hear the Lord Gods warnings. And they knew the Tanakh, or, the Old Testament, as they called it. Children about to make love out in the open on one of his beaches. It was shameful! He thought of his own Rebecca, murdered at Teresienstadt, a gifted painter and poet, a good Jew to her dying breath. Twenty years after her death he could still close his eyes and see her, dark and inviting, her long black hair and that gently bemused face, head cocked, questioning the patriarchy, nudging him to be more considerate of women. God is not a He or a She or an It or a They, Jakob; God is all these and more. Yet, his Rebecca remained faithful to the law. And on this law she would whisper to him and nip his ear seductively before they climbed into their sacred bed doth he meditate both day and night. A knock came on his door. He didnt want to be disturbed. He started to tell them to go away when a voice told him he should open. When he did, he discovered Arnie and Twit. Dad, Arnie said, Twit needs to talk to you? Arnie had made it clear to Twit that talking to his dad would be no fun. Twit needed advice. They both needed advice. Lu was out of control and Laredo Town had become a cesspool of dirty pictures objects and thoughts; but Arnie made it clear that any conversation with his dad resulted in commands. Are you sure you want to talk to him? Arnie asked. Im sure, Twit said. The two boys entered, slump-shouldered, their heads hung down. Mechanically, they took two metal fold-up chairs from against the wall and unfolded them. So, Mr. K. said, to what do I owe this honor? Twit began at the beginning. He told the story of the circus thug with the bulls eye on his bald head, Sister Genius Miraculous and Manfred Malbogue. He tried hard to be honest, but a voice kept telling him not to tell Mr. K. everything. He had never asked an adult to help him like this, but he knew things were spinning out of his control. The episode with the Three Vedic Delights scared him. What if those people had been psychos or escaped criminals, instead of a harmless pothead and his prostitutes? Reluctantly, he told Mr. K about the breasts. Breasts? Mr. K. Asked. Artificial. Plaster of Paris. Lu made them in shop, Twit said. The boys sat and watched Mr. K. At first he didnt seem to understand. Why would anybody want to make fake breasts and then put them out in the woods as a kind of altar? Was this a new form of art? He had just read of a man named Warhol who had made a film of an egg. Thirty minutes of nothing but an egg. Not cracking or being fried or poachedjust an egg, silent, unmoving. This crazy new country! Then, his eyes grew slowly wide. His nostrils expanded. His arms went up. An idol! You have made an idol, a golden calf! Arnie shook his head and rolled his eyes. Dad, theyre just a pair of fake boobs. Youre too young to understand. You cant see the forehead for the trees. The forest, dad. Mr. K. could hear the angelic trumpets calling good fathers everywhere to band together. His brow narrowed; his eyes drew into a squint as he came closer to the boys. And what sort of things do you do in this Laredo Town?

63 Twit felt his heart skip a beat. A new voice was speaking to him now, one he had heard faintly in the past. It was a confessional voice. It said: tell him everything. We fantasize about sex. Some of usnever Arniesome of us masturbate. Twit couldnt believe he had said that to Mr. K. Put his hands over his eyes and twisted his face into a pained expression. Too much info for the adults! Adults go crazy with too much info. A booming silence descended. Mr. K. closed his eyes and muttered something in Hebrew. A prayer of protection, Arnie whispered to Twit. What followed remained imprinted on Twits memory for years. He had entered into the confidence of an adult. He had never done that. He had never told his mother these kinds of things. It was always only Arnie, Lu and Root. Since grade school. Now Mr. K. was bringing a different voice to the tumult of inner voices that already crowed for Twits attention. Mr. K. took their both their hands. He said: Bow your heads, please. The boys bowed. Oh, Lord God, King of the Universe, Judge of all men, Be a fortress for these two young men. Take them under your wing and give them Guidance. Teach them to see with the eyes of David and Teach my young gentile friend here The ways of your mercy. When they finished Mr. K. was crying. Now, he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Wisdom: first, you must stand by Lu. He is your friend from childhood. You never abandon friends. Second, this Laredo Town, this is an abomination! It is disgusting in the eyes of God. It must be destroyed. You must burn it! But dad No! Sit down, both of you. Mr. K explained to them that they were made in the image of God, a God who loved them beyond our ability to imagine. But He was also a Holy God, who protected his loved ones like a mama bear. This God hated sin. What they had done at Laredo Town was sinful and the objects must be destroyed and the boys must ask Gods forgiveness and must be cleansed. They must stop using foul language. Foul language, he said, only makes the speaker foul. He said many other things as well, quoting scripture and begging the boys to renounce evil ways that had such a powerful hold on them. His tone was passionate and pleading, but it dawned on him slowly that Twit had little comprehension of sin. How could anyone raise a child in this wicked world without schooling him in sin? It was shameful, like sending a lamb to a slaughter. Arnie understood sin, but he was such good friends with Twit Arnie probably was reluctant to preach at him The boys listened patiently. Twit had learned to shut out whatever adults say so he had to force himself to understand. The word sin circled above his world like a distant, high-flying bird, a bird that seems to be waiting and prophesying at once. He had never paid attention to it. World class sinners such as Lu, had grown up so close to him. But the word sin was a word he never heard in his house. Over the years he had learned to associate it with the poor and illiterate. How could a word like that have anything to do with him. He left Mr. Ks shaken and confused. Gradually, as the days rolled by, Mr. Ks speech began to settle in. The message was harsh. What they had done at Laredo Town wasnt just disgusting. He, Twit, had always felt it was disgusting. Now another dimension was peeking its head in the door. What they had done was an

64 offense against God, a personal offense and God, Twit assumed, would not take personal offenses lightly. For the first time when he thought about God, he experienced a quiver in his spirit, as if when he uttered the name, someone was listening.

65

Chapter Fifteen
It was an April Saturday morning just before school was out as Twit and Arnie passed through the plum thicket, the first of the three markers on the road back to Laredo Town. Arnie picked a plum bit and made a sour face before he threw it into the pines. Twit was wrapped in the Twitty twist, Arnie called it. Since his arms were so long, Twit could wrap them around his body which he did whenever he needed to think. Arnie told him he looked as if he were wearing a straight jacket. Lu wont let us burn it, Twit said, looking at the ground. A recent rain left the pine needlecovered path damp and hot. Arnie looked for more plums. Tell him the cops are going to raid the place. Thats idiotic, Twit said. Cops dont care about a pair of fake boobs in the woods. They considered their options as they walked on and passed below the squirrels nest. Arnie aimed up with an imaginary shotgun. What Lu will doI mean, even if he doesnt want to burn the place and we go ahead and do it. What could he do, but whine? I mean heres Laredo Town, Twit said, a shrine to my girl. Now I want to burn it down, but Ive got to ask his permission. Youre so friggin nice, Arnie said. Id just burn it and tell him to sue me. At the bridge over Little Mammy Creek they leaned over the rail. They always leaned over the rail. It was one of their unspoken, even unrecognized customs. Down below was cool and inviting. The sand bore raccoon prints. The clear water soused over the smooth stones and pooled and swirled in a fluid swiftness that always fascinated the two friends. Through the trees they could see Laredo Town where Bugs white pick-up was parked on the old pulpwood road. Arnie looked at Twit. Whats he doing here? he whispered. Twit shook his head. The two boys crept quietly to the tent. Seeing Bugs truck made Twits heart beat faster. Bug only brought trouble and pain. He recalled Mr. Ks words about sticking by your friend, but what if your friends dad is a psycho? They could hear Lu and Bug laughing. Arnie made a strange face, then he motioned with his hand that they were drinking. Bug and Lu almost never laughedat the same time. Lu claimed Bug had a funny side, but Twit had never seen it. Bug only showed him the enraged side. Yet, the two sounded like an old class reunion. When Twit threw back the tent flap, the two were sitting at the foot of the breasts. Their shirts were off and they were painting the breasts with acrylics. Bug was delicately making his locally infamous Bug prints, yellow, blue, black, red and white. Bug prints were common in Last Step. There was even a pair of yellow ones on the Os in Welcome to Last Step on the water tower. The tent reeked of booze, paint and smoke. There was a bottle of Early Times sitting half-empty on the grass. Bug, spotless, was painting with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, head tilted back, smoke streaming into his squinting eyes. Lu was splotched with paint, hands, face, and hair. Twitty! Lu shouted, giggling, but not taking his eyes off the breasts. Arnie grabbed Twits shirt and tried to pull him back. He motioned for them to leave, but Twit refused.

66 What the hell are you doing? Twit asked. He had to stoop down to pass into the tent. Without looking his way, Bug said: Painting. Why? You got a problem with that? Arnie tugged harder, but Twit pushed him away. Boy, the old breasts never looked better, Lu said. He reached behind him and took a swallow of the Early Times. I might have a problem with that, Twit said. Those breasts youre slopping paint on belong to my girl. Bug sneered. O-o-o-oh, your girl. Thats right, Twit said. His heart was racing. He remembered the shooting and how crazy Bug looked pointing a gun at him. There was a long silence, punctuated only by the sound of Lus brush strokes across the surface of the breasts. Bug stood up and stretched. Lu, baby, its been a riot, but I got a hot date. Twit wondered if he was telling the truth. Maybe he had a gun and was just trying to distract everybody. Bug retrieved his shirtblack with gold stripes, collar turned upput it on and pushed past Twit and Arnie. It was a small shove, but it sent the message loud and clear. The message said: dont push, me, punk. I can push you, but you dont push back. Twit felt his stomach tighten. He wanted to take the arrogant jerk, but he knew that would be stupid. In Bugs wake Twit smelled Old Spice, smoke and booze. He watched as he climbed into his truck, but inside the tent, Lu didnt stir. After Bug pulled away down the pulpwood road, Lu emerged from the tent, wiping his hands with a rag as he followed with his eyes the white truck with the State of Georgia insignia on the door moving through the trees. Twit wondered what it must feel like knowing your father was going to meet some woman who wasnt your mother. Arnie whispered to Twit: Look, maybe we should wait. Im not waiting, Twit said. Arnie bit his fingernails. Stop biting your nails, Twit said. Sheepishly, Arnie stopped. The gaiety had gone from Bugs face. Twit had seen this before. A forced fun, a wished-for good cheer. That was as close as Lu ever brought anyone to happiness. Not that happiness was high on Twits scale of regular states of mind; but as near as he could tell, Lu was never happy, only drunk or depressed. Drunk, he giggled a lot. Depressed he cursed and smoked and hung around Laredo Town. Now his features shifted downward as if gravity had increased. The sagging face he made now was almost comic, but Twit knew there was nothing funny about it. I want to burn Laredo Town, Twit blurted out. He expected it would take a few moments for his words to sink into Lus brain, but it didnt. His friend reacted as if hed been lying in wait for them. His sweaty, paint-splotched face turned toward Twit. Hell, no, Twit Feely. Were not burnin nothin. Whered you get a fool idea like that from? Im sick of all this! Its sick! All this sex stuff and it all comes from Bug! Its all from Bugs perverted brain! And its making you sick like him. You need help, somebody, something. I dont know. Maybe the school counselorsomebody. You need help With that Twit turned away. Lu was on him like a furious animal. They rolled into the pines with Lu screaming: I dont need nobodys help. Nobody! Arnie tried to pull them apart, but an elbow to the lip sent him into the grass, bleeding. Twit tried to get away, but Lu tackled him and started beating him with both fists. Twit tried to shield

67 himself. He put his arms up. He didnt want to fight, but then something snapped. He screamed and started swinging back wildly. Lu, surprised, started backing up. Soon, Twit was on top, pounding his friend until Arnie leapt onto his back and knocked him off. Lu scrambled away into the pines while Twit lay on his back, panting, sucking air and looking up into the trees as they towered high above him. **** That night Twit lay on his bed, listening through his bedroom wall to the living room TV. His mom was watching Johnny Carson. The crowd was laughing at one of Johnnys jokes. Twit wondered what was it that makes people happy, makes them laugh, the kind of laughter that comes when your heart is full and your mind is at peace. Hed never seen a person change the way Lu was changing. He and Root and Arnie didnt talk about it, but he knew the others saw it. Seeing his friend so unhappy hurt; but what bothered him even more was the thought that eventually Laramy would find out. That thought finally drove him out of bed and out his ground level window. In the tool shed he found a can of kerosene. He figured the clearing around the tent was large enough that the flames wouldnt carry into the woods. The moon was high, quarter-full, so the road back to Laredo Town was dark. When he got to the tent and opened the flap, he found the breasts were gone. There were tire tracks through the camp, double wide. Lu didnt own a double wide. Then he remembered the circus was back in town.

68

Chapter Sixteen
Sister Genius Miraculous stood in her trailer doorway, yawning, and her lids half-shut. It was three in the morning. She was dressed in a filmy gown through which the back light from inside her trailer revealed her shape. Her long black hair was bound in a pony tail. Hello, anatomy boy, she said, softly. Twit felt his body stir. Sister Genius Miraculous, mam, I think those clowns stole our property again. She sighed. What is it with you men and boobs? Oh, all right, come in. Inside, Twit smelled alcohol. He sat in a chair with hot, wool, zebra striped covering and waited. This is crazy, he told himself. Why not just let these stupid breasts disappear? Why chase after them? In effect, the circus clowns had done what he wanted to do, but better, without a fight. But then he realized what he wanted was more than just to get rid of the breasts. What he wanted was things to get back to normal. He wanted the four friends to be one again. Before the breasts. The breasts had to be destroyed. By everyone. They had to be destroyed and everyone had to understand why they had to be destroyed. He wanted them all to agree to burn Laredo Town, Lu included, especially Lu. See it go up in flame and understand that they could all be friends again. And with that thought he realized how futile his thoughts were. Lu would never agree. Laredo Town was now his home. He had claimed it the way a pioneer out west laid claim to his land. And like a pioneer, Lu would fight to protect it. It occurred to him that Sister Genius Miraculous was taking a long time when the lights went out. There was only a candle burning and a light coming from the other end of the trailer. He sat up on the edge of his chair. Sister Genius Miraculous appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. She was clearly posing. She leaned back against the door and lifted her arms high above her head. It was then Twit realized she wasnt wearing her coon skin cap. In fact, she wasnt wearing anything! Twit grabbed the arms of his chair. He had never seen a naked woman before. Playboys, maybe, but not this. This was a woman, the complete package. He tried to clear his throat, but his mouth was dry as the Sahara. His mind started racing but it wasnt as fast as his body. It shifted into operational mode. It was scary. His body seemed to take on a mind of its own. He tried to smile, but his lips felt sewn up tight. So, anatomy boy, what do you say we forget the fake boobs and concentrate on the real thing Twit gave off a faint, limp laugh. Miss Sister Genius MiraculousI just came toI mean I didnt mean toI-I never figured Its OK, she purred walking toward him. Her long black hair flowed down over her shoulders and covered her breasts. Her dark eyes focused directly on him. The closer she came, the more they seemed to hone in on him. She seemed to know him better than he knew himself. Thoughts were running through his mind now like Mr. K.s dodge-em cars, banging into one another, causing screams of ecstasy and fear and once. He couldnt breathe. As she leaned down and pecked him on the cheek, he smelled her perfume. She ran her finger around his lips, slowly. His loins tingled. Anatomy boy, you are so American cute.

69 Twit thought he was going to pass out. A naked woman was standing practically on top of him. This was a first. And him without his camera. Arnie would never believe this. Then, a force hurled him out of his chair. He landed on his shoulder, his cheek jammed against the trailer door. Oh! Roscoe! Sister Genius Miraculous shouted with balled fists and stamping her naked feet. You are going too much this time! The door bolted open. Twit looked out at the wet grass then back at his would be lover. I dont think But before he could finish his sentence, he found himself sailing out the door. He saw the lights of Last Step and through the trees, the Big Mammy. When he landed this time, he heard crunching. A-g-h-h! He rolled over onto his back, grabbing his knee. A sharp pain ripped through it. Roscoe! she shouted. He is not human baseball! You big Hungarian goulash! She tripped down the steps and knelt. Twit clutched his knee with both hands. Are you hurting bad, anatomy boy? Twits cheek was clumped with grass and dirt. His knee throbbed, but the pain was rising up into his head where a wave of pain had begun to race back and forth from his eyes to the back of his head. Her hair dangled over his chest. Her long, sad face and dark eyes never seemed so invitingeven though he was in pain. Then, she was hurled backwards onto the grass. Yi-i-i! Sprawled in the grass, Sister Genius Miraculous hair was down in her eyes and her legs were spread out in front in an unlady-like fashion; but Twit saw none of this. He was catapulted forward like tumbleweedover and overdown the saw dust street. What he did see were trailers, upside down, a blue port-o-let, upside down, then, the lions cage, right side up where a bright light shone on a female lion who lay in the corner with her head on her paws observing with regal detachment the drama unfolding. Roscoe, no! Sister Genius Miraculous shouted. The door to the lions cage creaked slowly open. Oh! she whispered. Twit turned toward her. She had both palms flat against her face and look of profound terror on her face. He was launched upward in a graceful, almost tender thrust through the open door onto the sawdust. The stink was overwhelming: urine, dung and meat. In the corner a giant metal can stood with its tin lid curled back like a cobras head. The lions nostrils were under attack by flies. At first, her nose twitched and she swatted at it; then she grew angry and snapped at it with her huge jaws, once, twice. Then, her eyelids went down, languidly and her head lay back down to rest on her paws. She barely seemed to notice Twit as he lay there in the cage on his cheek, his rump thrust up in the air and his heart beating fast. Behind him, he heard the cage door close and the lock snap shut. The cat watched him, calmly. She seemed unmoved by the arrival of a total stranger in her home. Twit felt his body freeze. He was afraid even to roll his eyes, so completely the fear gripped him. He was staring into the gaze of a fully-grown female tiger. True, she was scruffy. There were several patches of fur missing, but her teeth looked perfectly capable of carrying out their appointed task on his tender, pubescent flesh. He attempted to calm himself with long, deep breaths, but no air came. His lungs, like every other organ in his body, stopped working the moment he caught sight of the clumps of meat that ringed around the big cats saliva-coated teeth. Supper, no doubt. Maybe the dog food in the corner or maybe something else. The possibilities

70 yawned before him. Legless, he would beg on the streets of Last Step like old, blind Willie Songs. There goes old man Twit Feely, theyll say, blind and legless, Twit and Willie Songs both on their flat roller boards pleading up at passersby who stoop to pat them on the head and drop a few pennies in the mason jar. Dont worry, Sasha is just eating, he heard Sister Genius Miraculous whisper. Twit turned his head, slowly, toward the sound of her voice. She waved. God, she thinks this is some kind of game, he thought. Her head barely made it up to the level of the cage. Twit was afraid to speak, but he wanted to ask: does that mean Sasha is still eating or she has finished. Grammar, lady! Anatomy boy, she whispered. I am doing kundalini breaths now. Stressing is too much. She closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply. Twit couldnt restrain himself. Not now! he whispered. Get me out of here! But she had already disappeared under the cage; then she reappeared and took another breath. Down, up, down, up. Twit eyed the tiger. Sashas right nostril quivered at a fly which then buzzed up onto her ear. It crawled in and out of the ear and then down the lionesss face. Sasha shook her head and the fly disappeared. Miss Sister Genius Miraculous! Not disturb me, anatomy boy. My third chakra is like big rock. Oof! Twit began to panic. There was danger and there was danger. This was real danger. This was up there with guns pointed at you and Balls Batson crunching your ribs with his boot. He wanted out. Now! He inched backwards. Suddenly, Sasha lifted her head. Twit froze. The lioness was watching him. Him! Anatomy boy, my kundalini breath not doing a trick. I must make my chamomile tea. She disappeared, leaving him in the cage with a fully-grown lion. His eyes met the lions eyes. The cat blinked once, then laid her head back down to rest on her paws, but now she didnt focus on the flies. Now she was focused on him. He felt something click inside him. His body turned to concrete: muscles, gut, and lungs. He could no longer feel his heart beating. It was clear to Twit: he was going to die. **** He walked past the courthouse clock as the hands showed five oclock. The Laredo breasts were heavy. He shifted them to his other shoulder as he walked down the middle of the street, happy, relieved, and confused. To his right Weezys was dark and unoccupied. The only light on the square came from high atop the courthouse, the jail. Hed been in it once to get Roots toothless mother out on bail; she had brained an unhappy customer with the butt of her shotgun after informing the man that he was going to die of liver failure. This morning he could see a single pair of hands at the bars. Unknown hands. Trapped inside. Well, now he knew something about feeling trapped. After the maintenance man appeared with the key, a weak-kneed Twit nearly collapsed coming down the steps of the lions cage. Sasha never budged. The maintenance man informed him the big cat was people proof and to demonstrate this he went into the cage, bent down and gave the lion a hug. They found the breasts covered with Bug prints, blue, white, red, green and blackunder the big top stashed behind the knife throwers wheel.

71 Trapped. He thought about that feeling as he turned down the side walk on the tree-lined road to his house. Under the street lights the fog from the Big Mammy still hung in long, gauze-like sheets over the street. He breathed in the sweet, grassy smell of early morning. Off in the distance about six houses down the street where his own white clapboard house with the tin roof was just visible. He breathed a sigh of relief. Who could he tell this story? Sure, hed have to tell Lu, Arnie and Root. But somehow, the thrill of the telling lost its appeal as he thought about being trapped. Hed been trapped in a cage with a lion, but he was trapped in Laredo Town, too. He couldnt get outnot without hurting his friend or fighting his friend. On the other hand, if Laramy found out, his life was over. Friend or girl friend. A paper boy whizzed by him on the side walk on a bike, his tail marker glinting. Friend or girl friend. Fight Lu or give in to Lu? Could this be worse than the lions cage?

72

Chapter Seventeen
Elvin Starlight combed his long, greasy haironce on the right, once on the left, a flicker down the middle to get the curl dangling between his eyebrows just right. Behind him, the drummer began to comb as well, an unlit cigarette dangling from the center of his lips. When the bass guitar player did the same and all three were combing in unison, they eyed one another, eyed the gaggle of admiring females gazing up at them from below the bandstand. Combing, their eyes said: Works every time. When they broke into Buddy Hollys Maybe Baby, Root danced with Second Thessalonians next to a twisting Twit and Laramy standing stiff, slightly shifting her upper body back and forth. Lu and Arnie stood transfixed on the band, stuffing their mouths with popcorn. Elvin had bad teeth, but since he sang tight-lipped, they rarely showed. He brought his red guitar up high and close to his ear as he picked, head bobbing back and forth to the beat, a tall, pale boy with an acne-pocked face. The air was filled with the smell of perfume, cigarette smoke, and cologneall enveloped in the rich scent of the lake. In the center of the dance floor a skinny boy was showing off in his white bucks, as usual. He and his date moved in sweeping gestures; their hands flipped off their flourishes with exaggerated poise as he twirled his date and her skirt rose and fell. They inscribed a forbidden circle. Around them the kids muddled through, sullen, as they glanced from time to time at the histrionic master. After Maybe Baby Lu and Arnie joined Root, Laramy and Twit. Lu was wearing the black cotton shirt with the collar turned up that Arnie called Lus greaser shirt. His hair was combed in ducktails. He was smoking. Hes great, shoo-wop-de-bop, Lu said to Twit as he dropped his butt and stamped on it. Laramy wagged her finger at him, picked up the butt off the floor and took it to the trashcan where Mr. K. patted her on the back and motioned to Twit what a good girl she was. When she returned, Twit embraced her from behind and nipped her neck. She grinned up and back. Lu rolled his eyes. Twitty, give it a rest! Twit and Laramy both made outlandishly puckered faces at him. Love, Lu, baby, love! Twit cooed at his friend. Twit was feeling the night air and his girls perfume. Since the fight back in the summer, he and Lu had made up, but the wounds were not completely healed. Bugs mistreatment was getting worse. Just this past week he had beaten Lus mother. I think you should call Sheriff Stemple, Laramy said. He cant do anything, Lu said. He thrust his hands into his front jeans pocket. He just calls some social worker and she gives me a ton of papers to fill out. By the time me and momma are done filling them out Bugs actin all nice and sweet and the social workers wonderin what all the fuss is about. He reached over to where Root was holding Second Thessalonians, now grown fat. He took the cat and snuggled it. It was Saturday night, July, at Kaminskys Lake. The concrete floating dance hall was filled with Last Step boys in Levis, white socks and penny loafers and girls in summery skirts and blouses. At the door, Mr. Kaminsky stood sentinel with a flashlight to shine on the stamp

73 you received when you paid. If you left the dance, Mr. K. wouldnt allow you to come back because he knew people only left the dance to drink. Arnie stuck a pair of vampire teeth into his mouth, grabbed his dads flashlight and made a face at Lu, Twit, Root and Laramy. Twit made a face back. I vant blood, Twit said as he nipped Laramys neck. Young, Christian, virgins blood. Im young, Christian and a virgin, but youre not getting any of my blood, big boy. Ive got a workout tomorrow morning with a real vampire. The Inhuman One, Twit said. Holding his arms out in front stiffly, he mimicked Frankenstein. Arnie leapt onto his back and shouted. Hes alive! Hes alive! I dont know whats wrong with him, she said, suddenly growing serious. Hes so grumpy and he looks awful. Hes lost weight, too. One day I came into his office and I honestly believe he was crying. He keeps complaining and complaining. Im sick of it. Hes not focused. Laramy said. O-o-o-h, Miss Goal Oriented. Oh, shut up. Lu sniffed and turned his head to the side. He mumbled something. What? Laramy said, leaning closer. Im scared, Lu said. Twit eyed his friend carefully. Look, Mom said you could stay with us any time you want. Nonot yet Lu said. Laramy put both fists on her hips. This is just not right! He shouldnt be allowed to do this to you! Arnie took Second Thessalonians from Root. The cat closed his eyes and purred as Arnie rubbed his face against the whiskers. Alcoholics lose their brain cells, he offered. They all turned to him. Whats that mean? Lu asked. It means Bugs going to get worse, Arnie said. A silence descended on the group. He beat momma with a rubber hose, Lu said softly. When I tried to stop him, he turned on me, but I got away because he was so drunk. When I got back, momma was crying on the bed. Was she hurt? Twit asked. She had bruises on her back. The band played Richie Valens Donna. Laramy wrapped her arms around Twit as they danced in one spot. Lu, Arnie and Twit looked on. Laramy stared out beyond Twit through the screen that wrapped around the dance platform. Cicadas sounded in the night air as far as anyone could hear. It seemed to Twit as a child that cicadas ruled the earth. Their insistent buzzing wrapped itself around you so completely it mesmerized. The moon cast a reflection on the brown lake that was shattered form time to time as couples passed through it in their paddleboats. Lu makes me sad, she said. Makes me mad, Twit said. Ive been living with Bug as long as he has. Yeah, but your mom is wonderful. Twit said nothing. There were times he had little respect for his mom, but when he heard Lus story again, it reminded him of how lucky he was. Mr. K. would say it wasnt luck. He glanced over at his boss standing at the entrance to the dance floor, holding his flashlight, wearing his weird Korean ear flaps. It seemed to him that that queer little man understood things he would

74 never understand. Heck, he didnt know what the questions were. He still wanted to burn Laredo Town, as Mr. K. advised, but he wanted them all to do it. He no longer went in the afternoons. Arnie told him Lu was bringing strange-looking people out to the camp. Just the past week hed brought a guy in a beard and a guitar over his back, a hippie. They smoked grass. Arnie said he had left because he didnt want to wind up on the obituary page of the Last Step Sentinel when his dad found out he was smoking dope. Twit agreed something had to be done, but he didnt know what. He was terrified Laramy would find out.

75

Chapter Eighteen
The following week, Lu ran away from home. He left a note (wrinkled Big Chief Notebook) tacked to the tent post at Laredo Town: I cant stand this place. Im going to New York City. I will write. Your buddy Lu With five hundred dollars rolled in a rubber band in his pocketpartly his own, partly money stolen from his mothers Crisco can she kept under the sinkhe made his way in a smoke-filled Greyhound bus to New York City. When he emerged from the bus station in the city, an alien, hot air rose from a grid and blasted him-odors of baked goods, sickening sweet perfume. He looked down below through the metal grid and saw the tops of hundreds of heads hurrying and heard and felt the thunder of a passing train. Around him the sidewalks were thronging with people he had never had any contact with: Chinese, Puerto Ricans, Latinos, Arabs. Hucksters hawked watches, hot dogs, combs, trinkets, bracelets, pretzels, doughnuts, snow cones, Bibles, shirts from the trunks of cars, velvet paintings of bull fighters, taffy, popcorn. He was accosted by a fast-talking man wearing watches the length of his arm. Passersby touched himhands, arms, shouldersbut Lu refused to be distracted. He walked leaning forward, with his head down, his old Tequila guitar in case in hand, a fierce look on his face. He took a job in a dingy little Chinese restaurant, Mandarin Moods, in Greenwich village ( the neon sign flashed a Chinese chef flipping flapjacks) where the kitchen was the size of a bathroom and was filled with the smell of fried rice and cigarette smoke from the Lucky Strikes his boss smoked, Mamma Lee, a tiny, toothless woman who wore a hair net, Army boots and curses. At his elbow checking to insure that Lu washed the glasses well, she nagged him mercilessly: Lu-lu, you too slow to be real American! You fake American. Nothin fake about me, Mamma Lee, he answered drying by hand the bright blue flower covered bowls for shrimp-fried rice. They bore scenes showing Japanese women in traditional Geisha attire. Americans too stupid to know difference, she said when Lu asked her why she had Japanese bowls in a Chinese restaurant. Americans see China, Japanall slope-eyes! One perk was the food. Lu devoured it, especially the shrimp-fried rice. After two months his Levis with the hole in the knee began to shrink. Mamma Lee griunned and clapped, arms akimbo, Lucky dangling from her lips. The other chefs leaed out to look and grin. You get fat! they said. Good for you. You growing boy, Lu Lu, Mama Lee said. Eat Mama Lee out mouse and home. He worked hard, living in a one room apartment above the restaurant on the edge of Greenwich Village. One chilly afternoon he was crossing Washington Square to reach a hotdog vendor hed grown fond of when he came across a student sitting on the fountain wall, singing and playing a guitar with a harmonica attached. The boys long blond hair hung down over his guitar as he fumbled at the instrument. Even Lu recognized how badly he was playing, but there was something about that image. The students accent betrayed his Massachusetts roots as he explained patronizingly to Lu, the redneck, a role he was getting used to, about the new music sweeping the

76 country. As he talked he stuck his cigarette under the strings of his instrument. The guitar itself an Alvarezwas beaten up and old. That night Lu thought about Kaminskys Lake and Twit and Arnie and Laramy and Root. It seemed hard to understand how that world and this world were part of the same world; but amid the swirling memories of homeLaredo Town, Bug, his motherthe image of that pompous guitar-playing student rose up through the confusion. Everywhere he went kids were wearing their hair long; beards were sprouting from most of the young men. From that moment on he wanted to be a singer with a harmonica and a message. He bought a harmonica in a pawn shop that smelled like gasoline and Lysol. The owner followed him around the store, a tiny white-haired man with a large mole growing at the tip of his hooked nose which he was constantly blowing into a dingy handkerchief. Whenever Lu picked up anything, the little man moved in close and peered over his shoulder. The harmonica gave off a low, rich sound he liked. It touched some part of him. He began immediately in his room, screeching, alternating back and forth from his old Tequila guitar to the harmonica. He learned fast, strumming, getting bloody finger tips from playing into the night. With his big hands and gruff voice he soon sounded like a beefy, Protestant, Southern Bob Dylan. By days he hung around Washington Square with the other vagrants picking and learning new songs about the movement, whatever that was. The talk about politics left him puzzled. He sat in large circles with other disenfranchised souls like himself; he didnt say much because he learned early on that someone would always make fun of his accent. He called himself Brandon. He got the name from an old movie poster that showed John Wayne and Brandon De Wilde in a WWII film about Pearl Harbor. Hi, Im Brandon. He said the sentence to himself over and over as he lay on his bed at night, smoking and picking out songs which he listened to on a record player Mamma Lee loaned him at night after the restaurant closed. Every night he lugged it up the stairs to his room where quickly he built up a repertory of protest songs by Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Odetta, Phil Ochs and others. He discovered John Lee Hooker, Son House, Mississippi John Hurt, Sonny Boy Davidson on harmonica and Big Bill Broonzy, all on a collection of used LPs he stored between two long boards. All his money went for LPs and pot. His hair grew longer and longer; his stomach and beard grew with it. He began to pay attention to his clothes. He bought a thick serapered, green and bluefrom Good Will where he also found a pair of thick, tan cowboy boots with white swirls on the toes. One day he was passing a pawn shop and he spotted a pair of sun glasses made of real glass with gold metal rims. He had never worn sun glasses in his life. He thought they were for sissies. When he put them on and looked at himself in the mirrorserape, long hair, sunglassesand imagined his guitar with the harmonica, he felt happy. It was the first time hed felt that way since childhood. He began to write songs. At first they were clumsy imitations of banal popular lyrics, but one night he was listening to Dylans new : Subterranean Homesick Blues alone in his room when some lines came into his head: I got the Big Mammy muddy water blues. Big Mammy mud in my dancin shoes. From those two lines he began to write about his home town. In the clubs where he was permitted to sing for free, he sang his songs. His gritty voice and his heartfelt lyrics were authentic and if anything was popular in Greenwich Village in 1965 it was authenticity. He sang about moonshine, trailer parks, catching bull frogs The Talkin Bull Frog Homesick Blues:

77 Had dream the other night, Dreamed I was sitting an old pine log. The skeeters were thick and it was gettin close to night When I first laid eyes on that old bull frog. For the first time in his life women began to approach him. They told him how unique he was. He wasnt one of those drop outs from NYU or Harvard wondering around ripping off Dylan and Baez. Youre the real thing, Brandon, they cooed. He began to believe them. He was the real thing. Last Stepred neck, back woods, hick town was turning out to be a gold mine. When summer came, there was an excitement in the air around Washington Square. There was talk of a march on Washington in the summer. Blacks in New York were angry. The energy that drove the national scene affected him and drove him to read, which he didnt do well, but gradually, he began to read the magazines and journal he heard people mention around the square. The first time he uttered the words: I read in the Village Voice his heart pounded so badly he had to go back to his apartment and smoke a joint to calm down. In the winter of 66 he played one club regularly where the boss, a short fat Italian named Benedetto, loved his music. It was a subterranean grotto called The Eternal Finger. Inside were two dozen tables where for five dollars you could buy a watered down whiskey and munch stale pretzels and watch Brandon sing about Last Step and life on The Big Mammy. You are a bard-a, Brandon. A natural singer of-a songs-a. Lu rolled his eyes and began to smoke hashish. A year passed. He was getting used to thinking of his home as a place to sing about and not as a place where people actually lived when a big-bellied trucker came in one May night and reminded him Last Step was a real place. The club was half-empty. In the back two acne-plagued, skinny, pony-tailed hippies were sipping beer and sending up lazy curls of smoke like a pair of communicating Indians. The brick walls and black carpet seemed moist with alcohol and the gold ball overhead spun slowly, casting splotches of light around in a lighthouse circle. The trucker sat down in front with his grey hair pulled back in a ponytail and sunglasses. Lu was on stage in a stool singing his latest composition: Sometimes I walk the Big Mammy by night When the king of snakes rears up his head His fat bright coils on the whispering shoal I hear him sing to the shimmering light: The trucker shouted out in a deep southern accent: If that aint a goddamned lie, I never heard one! Lu glanced over at Benedetto who was trying to convince a plump, blond waitress from California to go home with him that night. The girl was smiling politely, nervously glancing around, tossing her long, golden brown hair. She obviously didnt want to go. The trucker picked up a chair and hurled it up onto the stage at Lu. Lu ducked, then hopped off his stool. What the hell you doing! You a goddamned liar, boy. I lived on the Big Mammy and there aint never been no King of the Snakes on that river!

78 Bellowing, the man chased Lu who held his guitar high in one hand and his cigarette in his other. They looped several times around the club sending customers under their tables. Benedetto, hands aloft, tried to push the trucker out, but the trucker was too big. Lu finally locked himself in the bathroom while the trucker bellowed outside the door about how nobodys honest no more and you cant just make up shit and the world is going to hell and he, Brandon, the queer-bait folk singer by singing a lying tale about the sweet old Big Mammy, was going faster than most. The next day Lu took the bus home.

79

Chapter Nineteen
In the darkness of his garage Hume Steadman inhaled the smell of gasoline as he wrapped the barbed wire around his body carefully, his forearm muscles flexing as he bent the metal to the contour of his rib cage. He bit his lower lip as the cold metal punctured his flesh. A light flashed before his eyes. He sucked in air, panting, til he reached a place that only he understood where the losses and failures and wrong choices converged into something pure. He threw his head back A-a-a-a-a-h! showing his white teethas the remainder of the coil bit into his back, inched its way around him like a steel caterpillar; the prickly knots of steel were its feet sinking into his body. Quick rivulets of blood dripped onto the concrete floor of his garage. He stooped, carefully, to avoid too much ripping, and wiped them with bloodied gasoline rags. He understood now what all great men are after. He understood the Bible. Suffering. That was the real calling. Athletics could take you there part of the way. Sweat and heart beat could, administered in the right doses, bring about some suffering. But nothing he had ever attempted came close to this. This was his expiation. He had descended into such an abysmal state of mind that he had encouraged a seventeen year old to beat a fifteen year old boy to within an inch of his life; then he had intervened to insure that nothing was done! For fifty years he had worked with boys and girls training, pushing them to their limits and he ended his career like this! At the time he had been convinced such extreme measures were justified, but he realized finally he was wrong. He was wrong in a way he had never before been wrong. Hed misgauged an athletes abilities. Hed called in a bad offensive play on a goal line stand, but he had never before down what he had done to Twit Feely. Seeing the boy daily in the halls was torture. He began to take stairs and go the long way around so he wouldnt have to confront him. And hearing the friends that hung around with Balls laugh about itthat was worse. The respect they had had for him was gone as well. Rumors flew and they were all about him. Eventually his own self respect vanished. It happened in the afternoon. He was standing by a window in his room watching the B team run wind sprints out his window. He thought about what it takes to run wind sprints, how much you have to care. Day in and day out, the little ones and the big ones came out and tried hard to attain some goal they didnt understand. He had understood it, once. He had worshipped that goal. Be the best, the top, the elite. And they way to get there: hard work. Blood. Sweat. Tears. And he had given them freely all his lifeuntil this defeat with Laramy. After that, something inside him had gone wrong. Hed put his hand flat up against the window pane. The cold hard glass felt good, but he realized: he had destroyed everything in his life that ever had meaning or value. But there was more to it. The guilt he felt was caused in part by Twit Feelys beating, but there was something deeper he had never understood. It had haunted him all his life, but he had buried under work and more work. The Twit incident had reawakened it and now it hung like a cloud above him. It was if he had committed some crime in his sleep. He couldnt pay it back or make restitution for it because he didnt even know what it was. He wanted something or someone to help him find relief. But how could he find relief if he couldnt even describe it? One afternoon, sitting with his feet propped up on his beaten up desk in his muggy office with the WWII vintage metal fan creaking back and forth in front of his face, he came across an article

80 in the newspaper about medieval monks who found relief for their sense of guilt by wearing something called a hair shirt. It cut the skin and had to be worn with caution or the wearer would die of weakness. He lowered himself and began to pay attention. It was if his brain had suddenly found the nourishment it needed to carry own. For the monks the pain of the hair shirt seemed somehow to overcome the guilt. He had never seen a hair shirt, but when he tried barbed wire, it gave relief. He took the wire into his garage where he filed the prongs down until they werent so sharp. The pain was blinding, but he could stand pain. What he couldnt stand was the feeling he had committed some crime when he knew in his heart he had never left a parking ticket unpaid. As he had done every morning for the past six months he began slowly now to wrap the wire with thickly padded gauze. It was painstaking. The thicker the gauze the less chance blood would seep through his shirt. After a half hour he felt he had enough. He slipped his white Go Zards! oversized sweat shirt over his upper body and examined himself in the mirror. He was losing weight, but he didnt care. Whenever the guilt came on him now, he simply stooped over. The pain ripped away his guilt. Normally, he walked the half mile from his small, two bedroom house in Humes hollow to the school. This morning he set out under the winter sun up the gravel road toward the high school. The Big Mammy flowed behind his house. Today the water was red clay colored and high because of rain. Great whirling pools of froth heaved twigs and leaves down river. Hume panted as he started up the hill. Behind him Humes hollow was draped in honeysuckle and kudzu so in the heat of the day it was cool. He breathed in the sweet air form the honey suckle but it hurt. Breathing was becoming a problem. He stopped, stooped over, hands on his knees. His new Converse low tops were still shiny. In a few moments the pain passed and he went on, but by the time he reached the town square he was dizzy. He leaned against the brick wall outside Weezys. The court house clock across the street had no hands! He looked harder until they came into focus. He could feel his heart pumping harder than usual. A wave of nausea moved up and down his body. He began sliding down the brick wall as he felt his legs getting weaker. Twit and Laramy were coming out of Weezys sucking cherry cokes in paper cups on their way to school. It was nearly seven forty-five. Home room was at eight. There was a steady stream of students crossing the street toward the high school whose red brick could be seen through the magnolias on the square. When she spotted Hume, Laramy screamed. He was sliding slowly down the brick wall with his mouth open. His eyes rolled toward her. He tried to speak, but only a gasping emerged. The two squatted beside him in time to see his eyes roll back in his head. When they undressed him at Middle Georgia Hospital, the attending physician and nurse found discovered four rounds of barbed wire wrapped around his body. Under the wire were thick pads of gauze and under the gauze were deep wounds and partial scabs. They called the others on duty to come in and have a look because they were certain they would witness such a horror only once in a medical lifetime. Nurses brought their cameras and snapped photos while Hume Steadman lay on the operating table unconscious. Several nurses brought in a textbook of bizarre cases and showed the gathering black and white photos taken by GIs in Europe after entering a Benedictine monastery in Czechoslovakia where a ninety year old monk was found dead with his body wrapped in wire. **** Laramy and Twit clung to each other I the hospital room where Hume was recovering. It was cramped and dark, except for the light that poured in around the shade. The room was austere. No

81 flowers, no paintings. The tile floor was old and in spots in made dips and rolled up. Why a psychiatrist? Laramy whispered to Twit. I guess its not normal to wrap wire around you. They think hes nuts. Hes not nuts! she said, fiercely, and turned up to look at him. She swallowed hard. I know hes not. In addition to the doctor there were Laramys dad, Arnie, Mr. K. and Twit. Hume lay unconscious, sunken cheeks and bulging eyes. The features that had given strength and authority to his face when he was healthy had turned against his body now and transformed it into a skeletal mockery of health. His lips had pulled back from his teeth so they now seemed even longer than before. The usual grim-jawed express seemed to have ceded the place to its begging brother whose mouth was wide and gasping. Glucose and blood were being fed intravenously. Standing behind Laramy, Twit said nothing. He had never known anyone wear barbed wire. Arnie had looked it up in the encyclopedia where he found a painting depicting a saint wrapped in thorns. The article explained that some monks believed they could feel closer to Jesus if they suffered like Jesus. Mr. K had looked at it and closed it quickly. Oh, children, this is not something for you. Let us just say that God has taken this poor man and given him a good shake. Lets hope the doctors can help him as he tried to respond. As Twit watched the scene unfold he noticed that Mr. K seemed in his element. Everyone else was nervous and uneasy. He was nervous and uneasy. But Mr. K had removed his Korean cap and looked at Hume the way people look at a sick child. He approached his bed and closed his eyes and whispered prayers in Hebrew while the others watched, stymied. No one else seemed to know what to pray. How do you pray for a man whos done such a thing to himself? It was beyond the imagination. The four boys had just looked at each other for a week after it happened, as if they werent any smart aleck lines are movies they could relate to. What would James Bond do sounded insulting now, to Twit and Arnie. Mr. Steadmans problem is not merely physical, the doctor said as he scribbled onto a metal chart board. He was a tall, silver-haired patrician-looking man who spoke with a northern accent. He looked up at Laramy. His voice lowered. Is there no immediate family? Humes alone. Im not surprised, the doctor said. He turned at looked at the man lying in bed. He seemed to understand why Hume had wrapped himself in barbed wire. Twit almost asked him to share his thoughts with the rest of them; why on earth would anyone do such a thing? And none of that religious gobbldy-gook, either. Religion is something you did on Sunday inside a church with an organ or, if you were a Holy Roller, a piano. Religious people didnt wear barbed wire. But he was too intimidated by the man, the place, the smell of alcohol and death. Well, whats wrong? Laramy asked. We dont know? the doctor said. For the past six months, apparently Mr. Steadman has been wrapping his body in barbed wire. He read Humes chart and turned to the group. His face was sharp and thin. Twit noticed that he wouldnt make eye contact with anyone in the group. How long has the patient exhibited these self-flagellatory tendencies? As he spoke, he wrote everything down, yet there was a detached tone in his voice. We dont know, Laramy said, as she turned back to Twit. We were just coming out of Weezys and there he was He was sliding down the wall, Twit said. He was white as a sheet.

82 Thats the blood loss, the doctor said. Whats Weezys? Thats a soda shop in Last Step, Laramy said. She looked cheerfully around at the group. And does Weezy have a relationship with Mr. Steadman? the doctor asked. Everyone stared at him. Weezy and Hume? Laramy turned to the others. Arnie giggled. The doctor looked amused. Thats funny, Arnie said. Inhuman Steadman and Weezy. Making out! The entire group started chuckling, even Mr. Kaminsky. The human animal is capable of a liaison with any other human animal, the doctor said, looking at the group and speaking as if this was a lesson theyd better learn. Even his own sex. Twit eyed Arnie and they both giggled. Are you saying Hume Steadman might bedifferent? Mr. Laredo asked. He was a tall, quiet man dressed in a blue suit. His deep-set eyes and strong jaw gave him a rugged look. Da-a-a-d Laramy said, looking up and back at her father. Honey, the man said even the opposite sex. I am not making a pronouncement as to Mr. Steadmans sexual proclivities. The doctor said. Then he turned and pried open Humes mouth with a tongue depressor and shone a light inside his mouth. Humes eyes fluttered open. He brought his gaze to bear on the man whose finger tips were moist with his saliva. Whatwhat are you doing? Arnie giggled. Im examining your mouth, Mr. Steadman, the doctor said. He backed away, wiping his fingers with a paper towel. Billy, whats this man doing sticking his fingers in my mouth? Mr. Laredo approached and laid a hand on Humes forearm. Its OK, Hume. Hes a doctor. Just trying to help. And how long have you known Mr. Steadman, the doctor said, addressing his remark to Mr. Laredo. He dropped the tongue depressor in the trash can and picked up his chart. Most of my life, Mr. Laredo said, patting Hume on the forearm. Hume smiled up at his friend and reached over and put his hand on top of Mr. Laredos. Hume seemed almost human for a moment; then, a scowl came over his face as he turned back toward the doctor. Whats that got to do with anything? Hume said. A long standing male relationship, the doctor said to Mr. Laredo. I noticed you touched Mr. Steadman without reservation. Mr. Laredo looked around at the others. What? he said. You seem to feel you can touch Mr. Steadman freely. Do you like to touch him? Silence came over the room. Well Holy Red Grange! Hume exclaimed. This faggots got you believin youre a faggot, Billy! Mr. Steadman, the doctor said, scribbling, I suggest that you refrain from this sexually derogatory language. It will not be conducive to healthy relationships in the hospital. Hospital? Central State Hospital. Milledgeville! Hume shouted. For a second the old vigor returned as he tried to rise up off

83 the bed. Since you have no relatives, Mr. Laredo here has consented to a stay of six monthsfor your own good, to insure that you do no harm to yourself. What! Hume turned back to Mr. Laredo. Suddenly, he withdrew his hand. Billy, son, what are you doin to me? Hume, I dont know what to do, ripping yourself apart with barbed wire.. The doctor said you would probably do it again. Its like youre trying to kill yourself. Why? Hume sniffed. I dont know, he said softly and he lay back, sighing. I dont know. I just know it makes me feel better. It makes you feel better when youre in pain? the psychiatrist asked, writing quickly. Hume looked at him for a long time before he answered. Yes, doc, when Im in pain, I feel much better.

84

Chapter Twenty
During Lus absence Twit and Arnie and Root returned to Laredo Town. It was the winter of their sophomore year, 1967. They debated destroying everything, as Mr. K. advised, but decided against it because of Lu. I want to burn it, but it would be like stabbing him in the back while hes gone. The others agreed; but destruction comes in many forms. The rain and dew and constant exposure to the elements was turning everything made of paper into a shriveled, dripping mess; the sex machine still hung like a metallic corpse from on high above the tent; various sex-related devices dangled rusting or rotting or smelling. Inside the tent the stench was sickening; the Laredo breasts still bore the painterly transformation of Bug prints and colored designs from the night of the fight. The three tied up the tent flap and huddled instead around the fire, roasted marshmallows and hot dogs all that summer, staring into the flames, knees up to the chin as in the old days, listening to the cicadas din climb and fall each night in the pine woods. Arnie was smoking now, letting the cigarette dangle from the center of his lips until the smoke burned his eyes. Twit took a couple of quick puffs, coughed and that was it. The taste was nauseating. How can you stand that? he asked Arnie. Arnie winked with the knowledge of one who had arrived at a higher plateau of manhood. Root clung to Second Thessalonians, puffed mindlessly along with Arnie and complained that nobody wanted their fortune told anymore. His mother was working two jobs: she told fortunes and she shelved at the Piggly Wiggly. Lus return was reported to the triooddly enoughby Mrs. Feely who informed the boys that Lu had played guitar and sung for the BTU on Sunday night and that he had long hair and a beard and had gained considerable weight. The boys were sitting at Twits kitchen table eating a snack of baloney sandwiches with mayonnaise. Mrs. Feelytall, long leggedstood in her apron with her back to the group, her cigarette burning on a metal ashtray beside her on the counter. She was slapping mayonnaise on white bread while the boys were practically swallowing their sandwiches whole, elbows on the red, Formica table top. Arnie was wearing his black Yarmulke because he had to drive to Macon that evening to class where Rabbi Kirschnera plump, bearded man who drove a scratched, green, VW-taught him to read Torah beyond the Bar Mitzvah. A fat Second Thessalonians with big splotches of black and white fur, sat in Roots lap, munching bits of bread crust which Root would pinch off and stick into the cats mouth. Wheres he staying at? Root asked, rolling bread between his fingers. Mrs. Feely said she didnt know, but that she had heard his father was furious about the way he looked. Lu the hippie, Arnie said, chuckling. He imitated Bob Dylans high-pitched whine: How many joints must a stoned man roll Arnold! Mrs. Felly said without turning around. She slapped on mayonnaise more quickly. Sorry, Mrs. Feely, Arnie said, rolling his eyes as he took a big bite. Twit leaned low over the table across from him. You pervert folk-singing communiss! Drugs are not funny, boys, Mrs. Feely said.

85 The three straightened up. Mrs. Feely didnt speak often, but when she did, she backed up her words with actions. Hes been in a big city on his own. I suspect hes picked up some bad habits. Twit pretended to smoke dope. He rolled his eyes around and swooned. Root giggled. I heard hes going to play his music at the June ball, Mrs. Feely said. Twit made a face. Lu? She nodded yes without turning around. And, you know what else I heard? She had them now. They all turned toward her. She screwed the mayonnaise lid back on and sucked a blob off her index finger before taking a long, slow drag off her Lucky Strike. I heard hes good. The March Ball was a tradition in Last Step that went as far back as the previous century when men wore straw hats, packed shoulder holsters, picked up their dates in dust-covered buggies and danced to a brass band. In the hall of Last Step High a photograph hung showing a couple standing in front of a buggy. The slender, mustached man was standing rigidly, hair parted in the middle, holding his straw hat in his hand. His date wore a wide-brimmed, floppy hat with a long sash that dangled down to her waist. Over the years the photo had faded; worse, vandals had embellished the corners with references to body parts and immoral sexual practices which the various administrations had attempted to remove without destroying the photo. The night of the dance Twit and Laramy crossed the red clay covered parking lotcar lights bouncing up and downas the drivers snaked their way through the bumpy, root-infested parking lot. Radios blared rock and roll. There were several large oaks and one magnolia in the lot. As Twit and Laramy passed under the last oak before they reached the gym, Twit stopped and looked up. Hey, Thumper. What you drinking tonight? A voice spoke up in the high branches. Jim Beam. Overhead the sky was clear; the moon was surrounded by an aureole and the June air was filled with the sweet smell of the coming summer: magnolia, honey suckle and the freshly cut grass from the football field visible below the school in the moonlight. The cut grass lay in clumps around the edge of the field. The boys were dressed in starched Levis, plaid and striped cotton shirts, buttoned-down, white socks and penny loafers; the girls were wearing skirtsblack, blue, tanand sleeveless blouses with lace collars set off by a gold chain and a locket. Inside, the gym was festooned with Zard colors: blue and orange. Everyone had their shoes off because they were dancing on the polished wooden floor of the basketball court. There was a buzz because the secret was out: Lu Kitchens was playing. For the time being a DJ was playing as fast record and Twit and Laramy danced. Laramy loved to watch Twit watusi. His tall, lanky frame seemed to be out of control. He made awful frog-like faces and shook his brown hair wildly all about. On slow numbers they clung to one another like survivors of a sinking ship. After an hour, when their backs were clammy with perspiration, they stepped in front of the giant B-29 fan mounted like a floor lamp. The warm air blew Laramys blouse back tight over her breasts. When she noticed the boys gawking, she stepped away. Animals, she whispered to Twit. No, babe, males. Lu clomped out onto the stage, waving and smoking. Everyone cheered as he approached the mike. Twit was surprised by how much weight hed gained. He wore once-tan cowboy boots, baggy jeans frayed at the knees, a vest covered with a multi-colored Indian bead zigzag design, and his long hair bound in a pony tail that hung to his waist. His beard was thick and long and sandycolored. He began with Talking Last Step Blues:

86

Down in the hollow where the Big Mammy flows I dream Im a-walking with mud in my toes, But boys, theyre dyin in a place called Nam. So I pack my clothes and I kiss my mom, I kiss Uncle Sam on his ruby-red cheeks. And Im riding the Mekong ten long weeks. (Up harmonica) Afterwards, the crowd cheered. Twit craned his neck around. Lus auditors, he concluded, had only a vague idea of what he was talking about since many had never heard of Viet Nam. The only reason he knew about it was his mom who watched the six oclock news every night wreathed in a cloud of Lucky Strike smoke and then wondered why she was gloomy: men, blindfolded, being shot, bodies in mass graves. Twit thought it was ironic. Previously, Lu had few friends, but suddenly he was Mr. Popularity. Why? Because he ran away to New Freakin York? Hes good, Laramy whispered as Lu continued singing. She slipped her arm under his, erotically scratching him with her nails. Twit wanted to take his date into the parking lot, but he had to concede. His old friend had turned out to be something more than anyone had expected. He played with intensity, cigarette smoke curling around his head: old Americana a la Woody Guthrie, Jamaican, Negroe spirituals such as Guide Me Thou, Oh Great Jehovah! which he rendered into a bluesy number by thumping the guitar with the butt of his hand. Twit shook his head anew each time his old friend broke out into some unexpected song, such as the Beatles, the new group from England. He altered their upbeat She Loves You into a slow, torch song with bluesy riffs, sexy winks and nods. Twit whistled and clapped hard for his friend. When Lus set was over the DJ reappeared. Lu met Twit in the parking lot. Twits heart was pumping hard. He didnt know what to expect. The world was going crazy with Viet Nam and the hippies and the drugs. How would Lu stand on all these things? Did it matter? Twit Feely, he said, as they hugged, man, it feels good to be home! They sat on Arnies beat up Ford under an oak tree, Twit and Arnie and Laramy listening as Lu recounted tales of the city and passed around a six pack of Pabst which he shared with all. They toasted The Talking Last Step Blues. Everything in New York is about the movement, politics, Lu said. His hair hung down over his face; his cigarette glowed more brightly each time he took a drag. From off in the distance a girl shrieked, and laughed. Twit listened to his friend, amazed at the transformation of this person he had known all his life. Lu seemed to have grown up. He was speaking complete sentences. He listened and responded with intelligent answers. Twit felt his jealousy yielding to wonder. What good is school, he thought. Lu flunked course after course; yet, he goes off to New York and learns to write music, speak clearly and even reason about complex social issues. Maybe that was the solution for all the flunkies at Last Step High. Send them off to New York to get a street education. We should never have gone into Viet Nam, Lu said. The whole theory that the communists want to dominate Southeast Asia seems bogus to me. Theyre talking hundreds of thousands of American boys. Hell, the Chinese cant even feed their own people. Why would they want to conquer other countries?

87 Laramy argued. Her dad had fought in WWII and she knew a thing or two about war. Twit yawned. Political discussions seemed so monotone. Nobody really knew anything apart from the hashed over views they picked up in their last bull session, dubious statistics, reckless claims and misquotes from the papers. Why bother? The place was half a world away. The group returned to the dance where a group called The Swamp Debutantes were onstage. There were teens dressed as barefoot debutantes with ghoulish wigs and make-up. Their lead singer used a hand puppet he called Senor Winces: Let us sing a L-e-e-etle R-e-e-echard P-e-e-eniman! Twit and Lu and Arnie and Laramy watched until someone shouted form the door. Thumper just fell! Dance is over They all turned. Thumper, the plump, sleepy boy Twit had spoken to in the tree, walked into the dance with an empty pint of Jim Beam raised on high. He was drunk, but he could walk. This dance is officially done! he shouted. As they all filed out, Thumper spoke to Lu. My daddy worked three limbs higher, he said.

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Chapter Twenty
Twit glanced in the gym door. Inside, the Monday morning sun shone through the high wired windows above the basketball court, still scuffed from Friday nights defeat at the hands of the Unadilla River Dogs. Motes of dust swirled in the long, beams of sunlight and an odor of sweat and cigarette smoke still clung. Thus, even though the cleansing bath of sunlight from the high windows brought a visible freshness to things, the nose sensed otherwise and confused the brain. The previous night Twit dreamt that Laramy found out about Laredo Town. In the dream she wept and screamed and beat him with her fists, afterwards fleeing to China where she changed her name and had her eyes surgically altered. When Twit arrived, desperate to locate her, he was met with hundreds, thousands of little slope eyes, as Root called them, all of whom resembled Laramy. And no one could pronounce her name: You rook for Raramy RaRong? He was forced to examine each girl, closely, to find his love. They fed him rice with chop sticks but it fell and piled up under him till he was sitting high atop a mound of rice. Out the door there was a line as far as the eye could see of girls dressed in white lab coats with horned rim glasses. All resembled Raramy RaRong and all were waiting for his examination. This dream came in the wake of a real conversation in the cafeteria a few days before. The gaseteria-as Arnie called itwas crammed into the basement of the school. The concrete floor and wire-reinforced milk glass windows evoked prison associations. The odor of school food was thick: veal steak, soppy Cole slaw and a brittle, bite-defying peanut butter cookie. The students received their food, paid and trudged in silence back to the table where a teacher would often be seated with a scowl, a thermos and an apple. The four member food team dishing out the tasty fare glared at the students passively as if they were serving cattle. They slapped the potatoes onto the plates with an unmistakable twinge of vengeance as if each glob represented a blow to the society that had so arranged their lives that their only option was serving potatoes at Last Step High. The students sensed this anger and kept their heads down as they filed through. As to the white cafeteria workersmost were former Zards. Regularly, a student recognized a cousin serving potatoes and for a brief instant, the cold atmosphere was relieved. The black workers had no one to relate to since there was no contact between the black and white communities. Twit and Laramy sat opposite one another down the table from a group of student athletes who called Twitty with a high-pitched voice and flapped their arms like birds. Arrrk! Its Twi-i-i-ty! Twitty sneered. Twit 10, Zards Zip, he said. One of the seniors flipped him a bird. These were overfed young men who wore their orange Zards letter jackets to sleep and filled their trays with double portions. They ate in a group of four, hunkered down over their food as if someone were going to steal it. The girls in English were telling me about this place called Laredo Town, Laramy whispered. She wasnt looking at him, but was precisely cutting her meat. Her hair was in a bun which was held in place by a rainbow-colored scarf. Twitty nearly reissued his potatoes back to Uncle Sam. He coughed hard, bringing his napkin to his mouth. And what did the girls say?

89 Laramy nibbled the meat coyly and whispered seductively: They said you and Lu and Root and Arnie all go to this campfire out behind your house and smoke and tell dirty stories. Well, Twit said, wagging his head and pushing the hair out of his eyes. I admit we smoke too much and I have heard an inappropriate joke slip once or twice but nothing to telephone the BTU about. Laramy said nothing more, but Twit could tell from the inquisitive look on her face that she sensed something was going on at Laredo Town. Why did you name it Laredo Town? The question was not a come-on. It was heartfelt. Twit lifted his chin high an uttered in his beast English accent: homage to your beauty, wit and high moral standards, my dear. She giggled and kicked him under the table. Ouch! he said. Heathcliff! Where is Heathcliff? Woman, I am in want of any sensible explanation of your behavior. This was a routine he and Arnie had worked up one night after watching an old horror movie set in the Northumbrian heath. They refined it when they were forced to read Wuthering Heights after which they drove everyone mad with their Heathcliff and Katherine skit. H: Katherine! Katherine! K: eathcliff! eathcliff! H: Come, I must have you. I must have you. K: OK, but be quick Ive got to a doctors appointment in an hour and hes going to burn all these warts off my tongue. Hey, Twitty, want me to come down and work her over a little? one of the jocks said from the other end of the table. No, thanks, Ill take the rubber hose to her after lunch. Keeps her in line. Laramy glared at him. I dont think thats funny, she said. You know what poor Lus momma has to put up with. Why make jokes about something that serious? To keep from crying, he said seriously and stared off as he bit delicately into a rock-hard cookie. After lunch, as he stood in the gym door observing the set up with the cameras, these two events were stalking around in his mind like Sasha the big cat, only these cats were lively and scary. If she found out, it would mean the end of the known universe. Lights were arranged in a half circle around Lu on the gym floor. A film crew with a Mitchell Standard camera was preparing to film; cables ran everywhere. Dozens of students watched from the bleachers along with several faculty members who were there to insure there would be no inappropriate outbursts during the taping. The students were abnormally somber. The girls were dressed in poodle skirts and saddle oxfords; the boys wore white shirts and neckties. Lu was perched in the middle of it all with his guitar and a mike. Beside him writing notes and smoking furiously sat a small man in a dapper grey suit, moustache and thick glasses. Few men in Last Step wore a moustache. Twit listened, leaning against the door. The camera man made a motion like a whirring toy above his head. The kids giggled, but then drew themselves up and grew serious. This was TV, filmed in Last Step, perhaps, for most of them, the first ever witness of the marvel of the new age, the proof that the images in the box they sat in front of night after night in their homes had an origin: The Lone Ranger, Superman, The World of Disney, Whats My Line, Maverick and Rawhide. Gradually, they realized the gravity of the situation and their expression changed to one of profound observation. The gum stopped popping; the nudging and pinching ceased; the pony

90 tails dangled with respect. TV camerasnot Browniesin The Last Step High gym! Lu shook his head and wondered if Arnie knew what was happening. He was tempted to speed up three floors to Algebra where, at that moment, Arnie was being tortured by a stooped and gravelly-voiced and nearly blind Mr. Graves, a chain smoker who coughed in class incessantly. Lu, the man asked, tell us how you came to write Talkin Last Step Blues. Mr. Lomax, Lu said I just write what I feel. Some love, some pain, some mercy. Some love, some pain, some mercy, Mr. Lomax wrote. Would you sing Talkin Last Step Blues? I think our TV audience would like that one. Lu began to play and sing: My momma lied, said there aint no Hell. My best friend lied, sold me hellish weed. My best friend died; his chopper flamed and fell, But the waters of the Big Mammythey forgot to bleed. Mr. Lomax coaxed Lu to sing other songs. He asked about influences. Lu cited people Twit had never heard of: Robert Johnson, Sun House, Josh White, Big Momma Thornton. While the kids in the bleachers listened to this new music patiently, Twit studied the contrast: the girls in their penny loafers, white socks, wool skirts and lockets around their neck vs. Lu who looked as if he hadnt bathed in a month. Twit was amazed that the crowd seemed to like it even though the music wasnt anything like what they were accustomed to: love songs or silly ram-a-lam-a-ding-dong tunes like the ones Lu used to sing. He wondered if they were going along merely because the TV cameras were present or did they actually like what had come to be known in Last Step as protest music? Lu played on, wreathed in smoke that expanded higher and wider until it seemed the entire gym was engulfed by smoke clouds. Twit tried to take it all in. Here was his childhood friend writing about a war that was half a planet away. Lu had never been there; he, Twit, had never been there; he didnt know anybody whod ever been there; yet they talked about it every night on the news. He didnt want to think about it; but Lu seemed more than willing to think about it for all of them, the whole town, even. He was beginning to wish Lu had never gone off to New York. It was as if someone had gone to Africa and brought back a deadly virus and now it was infecting everybody. He had a bad sense about the days ahead, that this war was going to do more than just make the evening news. He had the feeling something was dying, but he couldnt name it. Later he met Lu in the parking lot. There was a cold wind blowing off the river. The lot was filled with second hinders and soaped up jalopies parked at all manner of odd angles, some in gulleys and some on top of huge tree roots because there were oak trees scattered here and there in the lot. Many of the cars bore inscriptions on their door such as: Cherry Picker or the King underlined in arabesque much like the elaborate signatures of the founding fathers Twit had read about in Civics. Twit wore a grey, suede jacket and a blue sock cap and had his big, pale hands thrust into his front jacket pockets. He felt odd talking to Lu these days. In the past he had always assumed he understood him. After all, they had been together since kindergarten; but now, he wasnt sure. Lus transformation as the other three founders of Laredo Town were calling it, made him wary of assuming anything about Lu Kitchens. He could feel the heat and smoke coming out of Lus paintless Chevy Impala which hed restored at Laredo Town with the help of his weedsmoking buddies out of Macon. His arm hung out of the window as he cupped a cigarette and

91 looked up at Twit over his sunglasses. Twit noticed how bad his teeth had become. His names Alan Lomax, Lu said. He wants me to do a TV show in New York. WhatEd Sullivan? Twit said, sarcastically. Lu stared at him. Are you mad at me? No. Youre Mr. Kingpin music now. Im happy for you. I really am. You can be a downer sometimes, you know that? Why? Because Im not one of your little groupies screaming for you to throw me your underwear? Lu rolled his eyes and drove away, steering the big Chevy, creaking and rocking over the gulley-washed parking lot. As Twit watched him bounce over the roots, the same parking lot where Balls Batson had nearly beaten him to death, he shook his head. His tongue was wagging out of control. Why was he mad at Lu? The emptiness he felt seemed to deepen. When the four of themLu, Root, Arnie and Twit had been close friends, he, Twit had always been the mocker, the outsider. He had made fun of Laredo Town. He hated the artificial breasts. Now he yearned for that kind of close-knit circle again. **** On a Sunday morning in January, 1967 they gathered in Mr. Ks Zimmer to watch Lus debut: Twit, Root, Arnie, Laramy and Mr. K. Mr. K. decided to hold Second Thessalonians. He stroked him and sang a song in Yiddish while the cat lay on his back, paws up, letting himself be scratched. The kids munched chips and drank Coke, free of charge from Kaminskys Lake. They all sat on the hardwood floor around Mr. Ks TV which he placed atop his writing desk in front of his copy of the Torah. In the corner Mr. Ks space heater glowed with yellow and blue tiles. The screen showed a large, ornate bronze sun, smiling. The disembodied voice was soft and cultivated: Welcome to Omnibus. On this cold January morning in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and sixty-five, we explore the world of folk music, not the slick, buttoned down version produced by college kids that sells millions of albums every year. No, this is a different type of folk music. Real folk music. Our own Alan Lomax has just returned from a folk music tour of the Deep South. Lets recall that the Deep South is where so much American music began. One has only to recall W.C. Handy, Stephen Foster, Ray Charles, Elvis Presley. Along the mighty Mississippi, down to New Orleans, and on around to Last Step Georgia and the banks of the Big Mammy River where Alan has discovered a young man whose gifts have transformed him into a bard for his own people, a primitive Homer, if you will, singing the stories of the people he grew up with, the good and the bad, the beautiful and yes, at times, the ugly. Agamemnon and Ulysses in Georgia, you ask? Well, lets let Alan tell us. And now without further adieu, heres Allan Lomax. Mr. Lomax appeared, seated atop a high stool. His legs were crossed and he was smoking. Twit observed that on TV his five oclock shadow was even darker. There was Lu, in a cloud of smoke, sunglasses down on the tip of his nose. He sang with his head down; his hair was so long and his beard so thick Twit decided it was like watching an AntiSmokey the Bear play guitar. He looks so grubby, Laramy said. Does he ever bathe? She was lying on the floor on her back with her head in Twits lap and a cherry Tootsie Pop in her mouth. How much weight has he gained? Mr. K. asked. He fed the cat a chip. Second Thessalonians

92 sniffed and licked it once. Arnie and Root bobbed their heads to the music. Laramy looked at them and made a face. You like that? Arnie shrugged. Yeah. Kind of. Its not slick, but its authentic. Mr. Music Critic, Twit said, rolling his eyes. Authentic. Root stood and imitated a rock and roll guitar player. His hair hung down in his eyes as his body shook. Will you sit down, Twit said. One doofus star from Last Step is enough. Maybe momma could work music into her prophecies and all, Root said as he sat down. He reached up to pet the cat who was startled awake by his antics. Like tell everybody their fortune with a song: Hey, Mr. Goober Head, I want you to know Your gap toothed mommashe dont love you no mo. Shes going to do you wrong, run off with your car. You better call the high sheriff, the man with the star. Lu broke into Shall We Gather at the Riveronly he sang it as a blues. Interesting, Mr. K. said. For the first time he leaned forward and listened. The kids took note. Mr. K. was a tough critic. An interesting transformation of the standard gentile hymn, he said. He nodded and made that little bobbing move back and forth with his head which Arnie also made. He looked around at the others. Twit tried to recall the number of times Mr. K. had approved of anything. Was there really something to Lus ability? Its just that old church song, Root said. No, no, Mr. K. responded. It is the old church song as you phrase it, but Lu has transformed it. Hes taken it out of its original setting and appropriated it for himselfwithout, I might underline, without undermining its spiritual integrity. All the kids stared at him and waited for a translation from somebody, but none came. Now Twit returned to the screen; suddenly, he asked himself if he was witnessing a true revolutionary, not just Lu Kitchens, son of booze hound Bug Kitchens from the banks of the Big Mammy. Lu sang for nearly an hour. Mr. Lomax peppered him with more questions: the anti-war movement, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, drugs. Lu mumbled, but he had an interesting opinion about them all. In the end he acquitted himself to everyones satisfaction. And now Lu Kitchens is there anyone out there in our viewing audience youd like to thank or say hello to? Lu brushed the hair back from his eyes and removed his glasses. Id like to thank my buds: Twit, Arnie and Root. But most of all Id like to thank Laramy Laredo. Laramy, it was the Laredo Town breasts that got me started. Ive never heard of anybody thanking a statue before, but thats what Im doing. If I hadnt built that model of your breasts in shop, none of this would have ever happened. The image of the bronze sun faded. Twit felt as though someone wrapped a piano wire around his throat. He couldnt breathe. Arnie bit his lip as he stared ahead, painfully aware of those around him. He plucked at his shoe strings, terrified, butor so it seemed to Twitperversely amused. Twit

93 wasnt the least amused. Root combed Second Thessalonians fur; as usual he was oblivious to what just happenedwhich made Twit furious. How could he not know! What he, Twit, was feeling was simple: terror. He could feel his own heart pounding. He closed his eyes hoping his heart would stop, but the pounding only got worse. His chest cavity hurt. An image came to mind of a movie: the hero is standing by night in the middle of the new Interstate. A light comes over the hill. It blinds him. He shades his eyes, but only sees a huge truck shadow within the light. Then he hears the rumble of the eighteen wheels on the pavement. He freezes, every muscle turned to a steel chain he cant escape. Now he hears the hornlong, plaintive, blaring. Got to move! Got to dive! Got to! Got to! Got to! He started to turn to her to explain: Laramy, we wanted to tell you, butor, we didnt mean any harmor, it was a just a silly idea that got out of hand, but.Every word that came into his head sounded stupid. Ridiculous. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot! The thing he most feared had just happened , almost unnoticed. He resolved to shut up. Take the medicine. What good were words now? Nothingno words, no musicnothing could help him now. He had just witnessed the end of life as he knew it. It would have been no different had Jesus Christ himself appeared in the doorway and announced that in five minutes all living things were to return to their maker. Breasts? Laramy said, quietly. She sat up, removed the lolly pop from her mouth. With her legs folded under her she lifted her upper torso up, erect. No one spoke. Mr. K. tip toed out of the room, placing Second Thessalonians down carefully. As the door opened, the sound of the Dodge-em cars poured into the roomclatter, ka-boom then, when the door was shut, it ceased. Laramy cocked her head at Twit. Her eyes moved around the room from boy to boy, once, twice; no one would return her glare. Her lips quivered. Her face seemed suddenly drawn tight as if her very flesh had become living and breathing, flesh aware as the brain is aware, flesh hopeful, but now hope was shattered and it seemed poised to carry her mind and body to some other world. Breasts? she said more loudly. It seemed to Twit that he was looking into the face of someone who had just witnessed a tragic accident, a mother or father killed in traffic. She covered her face with both her hands. Then she took them down and stared at the floor. Did Lu Kitchens just mention my breasts on National Television? I dont think we heard that right, Arnie said. Must have been a bad signal or something. Her voice approached a shout. On National TV? Do you realize what just happened? Twit blurted out in a manic tone: Well, you know how crazy Lu is. Everybody will know its just crazy Lu shooting his mouth off. Nobody will notice. He stood up. He wanted to run. His hands took on their own life, rubbing one another. He went into the Twitty twist, bent over, stooped like an old man, stalking quickly around the room. Arnie sniggered. She turned on him. He had never seen her so furious. My father and mother were watching that! she shouted at him. My school teachers were watching that! My Sunday school teachers were watching that! Everybody I have ever known or cared about or loved my entire life on this planet was watching that! She paused, panting. Tears were running down her cheeks. She made two fists and lifted them toward the ceiling. Twit watched, fascinated and repelled and frightened at once. This was an endwhat kind of end he didnt know yet, but some period in his life was drawing to a close, some giant medieval door, perhaps to a dungeon or a treasury, was slowly closing somewhere, dark and rumbling as it

94 ground closer toward the last light escaping from within. And it was most assuredly his door, made especially for Twit Feely; only until this instant no one had ever told him the door even existed so that even though he had known nothing about it, about the riches that awaited him within, it was to be closed to him forever. Whatever was inside it would was lost. He felt cheated. There were riches and beauty and dreams inside which he had never seen or touched. Now he never would. It was too late. Regret swirled around the last inches of the opening, regret that he could have spoken this word or offered that caress or even listened well. He wanted to keep it open, but the decision wasnt his. Its closing had been decided somewhere else by someone else in some other time. Oh, my God! she yelled to no one. He did, didnt he? He did! He talked about my breasts on national TV! Oh, my God! Oh, my God! She darted out of the room. The door slammed against the wall.

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Chapter Twenty One

Laramy disappeared. It was the middle of her junior year and she disappeared. Twit stopped by the gym every afternoon to look at the squats bar, lonely and unused. He phoned her house, but Mr. or Mrs. Laredo always answered and explained to him in courteous, but undeniably chilly tones that Laramy was visiting her aunt and that they would appreciate it if he would stop calling. It was like eating ice cubes. He sat on the last float on Kaminskys Lake, knees up under his chin, watching the geese squabble on the lake. Time stopped. He didnt want to go out. He lay in his room. He threw a baseball in the air for hours. Arnie stood at the door, day after day, begging him to come out, but he was inconsolable. Then, the rumors began. At first Laramy was pregnant, but that story died quickly because too many students knew how obsessive Laramy was about weight-lifting and how careful she was in all things physical and dietary. It just didnt make sense. Then came the second wave, more vicious and more insidious: Laramy had a disease. This rumor nearly drove Twit mad. He threw a basketball at Ronnie Nesmith, an acne-covered, skinny boy who smoked and shot pool down at the pool hall who insinuated Laramy was afflicted with a sexually transmitted disease. The boy leaped up after Twitwho towered two feet over him and they rolled on the gym floor, yanking at each others hair and grunting until a coach yanked the smaller boy up by his leather belt and held him up. With Nesmith swinging wildly in the air the coach hauled him into the showers followed by a hundred boys who cheered when the coach turned on the spigot to cold and held the offender under. Finally, Nesmith gave up and stopped squealing and just stood there. The water made his long, duck-tail hair droop down around his ears and his cigarettes got wet. No one would have known Laramies whereabouts had Arnie not driven by the La Wong house one afternoon in May in the beat up blue pick up his father used to haul drinks. Hed had his license for 6 mos. As he passed the Laredo housea single story brick with a large white bird bath in the front lawnstealing the US mail crossed his mind; he found himself crossing the road against the traffic, then easing to a standstill directly in front of the freshly painted black Laredo mailbox. Jail? Probably. Reidsville or worse. He suddenly saw himself with his frizzy hair sticking out from all sides as he sidled up to lima beans and mashed potatoes, sandwiched between gigantic killers who could barely speak English. He pulled out the mail. A bill from Georgia Power Co., a bill from the hospital and a blue envelope with a handwritten address: Mr. and Mrs. James Laredo. The return address? Camp What if a Much of a Which of a Wind, Rt. # 2, Tiger GA. What kind of a name is that? Twit asked when Arnie told him. They were sitting on two of Mr. Ks dromedaries. The wind was cold and the sky was overcast. I looked it up, Arnie said. He lit a cigarette in the wind, cupping his hands. Its a girls camp in North Georgia. Dont you remember her telling us about her Aunt Sadie, the camp counselor? Twits face showed the first vitality in weeks. They could hear the Shirelles Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? on the jukebox below. Twit turned around and looked up at Arnie. So? Arnie took a puff. Sowhat do you want to do? After a long pause, they looked at one another and grinned. Go to camp! they said in unison.

96

**** Mr. K. argued. He paced around his Zimmer, staring at the floor, quoting Torah, the Midrash, the Talmud, Rashi. Ram Bam. Half-dozen Rabbis. He buttoned and unbuttoned the flaps of his muff cap. His hands flew up and down. It was summer. They should be working, earning money, not girl chasing. They were inexperienced drivers. The roads were teeming with robbers and murderers. The mountains were hundreds of miles away from Last Step. Theyd get lost in the mountains and bears would eat them alive. Even if they could get there, what good would it do? The girl had been embarrassed publicly. She was shattered. Why would she want to come back and face a town full of gossips? It was Twits own fault and Arnie was at fault, too. He wagged his finger at both of them and they both held their heads between their legs. They should have known all along how she would respond. They should have shown some moral backbone and done as he, Mr. K. counseled them and burn that awful place. Twit and Arnie countered that even if they had burned it, it wouldnt have mattered. The damage was done as soon as those terrible breasts came into being. In the end Mr. K sat, as well, and the three heads hung down. After an hours discussion, Mr. K. rolled his eyes and gave in. Thus, on a Saturday morning in July Twit and Arnie put on their swimming trunksTwits long, pale legs providing everybody with a source of jokesloaded Arnies blue Chevy truck with baloney sandwiches, a sack of apples, a dozen Baby Ruths, two sleeping bags, a map of North Georgia, a flashlight, a tool box which included Mr. K.s special Golem hammer, an instrument he claimed could make anything happen. Sunlight splintered through on the horizon sending long, red-gold rays across the sky. In her night coat and curlers Mrs. Feely stood behind their screen door, smoking as she observed the boys load. She had given Twit fifty dollars; Arnie got forty from Mr. K. who checked the carburetor one last time, closed the hood and gave the boys a hug. At that moment the white milk truck passedLast Step Dairy, the home of cheerful cowsand the bottles inside clanked. It is a wise man who knows to curb his appetites, Mr. K. said to them. Twit waved goodbye as Arnie steered the truck down the gravel of Twits driveway and they headed north. They passed through Macon, crossed the Ocmulgee with clay red color, lazy in the morning sun. A motorboat knifed through the water below, leaving behind a white wake that eventually lapped up onto a sand bar. Across the Stribling Bridge Twit could make out the even rows of confederate graves, the crosses in silhouette against the sun. When they finally pulled onto the interstate above Plant Arkwright, the frozen chicken trucks and monster kaolin rigs were rumbling past them like diesel demons. But Arnie was undaunted. He drove like his dad: both hands in a death grip on the wheel, his frizzy hair blown by the wind. His face was set in combat mode. Twit mocked him. It was clearly Arnie the Jewish genius versus all the redneck hotrods and Arnie wasnt about to let the locals get the best of him. When an eighteen wheeler pulled up behind him and menaced him to get out of the way, Arnie gritted his teeth. After mumbling something Twit couldnt understand, he eased over into the other lane to let the bigger vehicle pass; but even as the truck eased by and the cowboy behind the wheel acknowledged the favor with a nod of the head, Arnie growled. They climbed into the Piedmont Plateau: Forsyth, Barnesville, Griffin, pecan groves, walls of kudzu. By lunch they pulled into a gas station outside Atlanta for cokes, peanuts and more sandwiches. By supper they were in the mountains.

97

Chapter Twenty-Two
After losing their way several times, they found Camp What if a Much of a Which of a Wind. Camp WM, the brand sign, was posted on everything from wooden gates to camp shirts. The boys followed a small dirt road through a pasture until the road began to climb and they felt their ears popping. The tree trunks grew thicker. The sun was gradually shut out until the cool air seemed to be the air of another season altogether. The boys hung their arms out the window just to feel the cool. After fifteen minutes they emerged into another field, this time on a plateau. Ahead, the camp was nestled in a large grove that ran on both sides of a small river and emptied beyond into a lake. Several wooden bridges crossed the river. The screened in cabins sat on stilts next to the river; above the cabins were the showering facilities. Farther, one could discern the outline of stables, a baseball diamond, and an archery range. The boys pulled up to a large log cabin whose sign said Information and Visitors. Until this moment neither had discussed what they were going to say to Laramy. Girls in gym shorts! Arnie said twisting around in his seat to get a better view of the archers. Girls, pulling back bows and flexing their melonius you-know-whats. Yeah, Twit said. He grappled himself, the Twitty twist. OK, what is it? Arnie asked. What? Why are you doing the Twitty twist? Twit quickly released his grip on himself. Nothing. Just tired from the trip. Look, man, youve got to get down on your knees. You know that, dont you? Twits face turned white. Beg? Beg? No, beg is what the penniless do. You have to wallow, plead, weep, crawl like the miserable love-sick snake that you are. Itd be easier if you were a Jew. Jesus. Yeah. You need him, too. Its about time you got some religion! Inside the cabin they faced a mammoth black bear skin on the knotted pine wall. A different world, Twit thought. Mountains. You couldnt see beyond the next hill so the genial collective you felt on the flatland was fragmented, leaving every man for himself or for his family. People seemed suspicious. When you cant see beyond the next hill, youre arent really convinced anyone is there so when they do appear, in the flesh, breathing and talking their city ways or flatland ways the whole thing comes as a shock. Arnie fondled the arrowheads, the coonskin cap, the authentic Cherokee memorabilia: peace pipe, medicine kit, war bonnets. Twit thumbed through the brochure for the camp: page after page of girl trios and quartettes in braces, beaming out showing their zits and as they received their rewards for best archer, best swimmer, best on track and field day. There was a smell in the cabin of wood and sweet grass. The woman who emerged from the rear was about forty-five. Her mannish bodybroad shoulders, thick thighswas hardly concealed under her baggy green Camp WM windbreaker, sleeves pushed up to the elbows revealing a bright gold ladies watch. Her bleached sandy blond hair and golden hair on her exposed thighs and forearms came from years in the sun giving riding instruction, playing softball, camping and swimming. Strong white teeth greeted you when she

98 smiled and even though her facial features themselves were plain, the general impression was of a woman who had escaped the rat race into a mountain hideaway where her boyish figure and athletic skills would be appreciated. Gentlemen, what can I do for you? she asked cheerfully. Were looking for a friend, Laramy Laredo. The womans expression went from good cheer to extreme caution. She turned her back on the boys as she spoke and fiddled with books in a book shelf behind the counter. You boys must be from Last Step, she said. Her voice had a thick, honey-like tone. You know, Im Laramies aunt. The boys tried to smile. Twit felt his stomach tighten. Here comes the lecture, he told himself. They should have sneaked into camp, unannounced. That way they could have avoided this. Yes, mam,he said. He tried to look contrite. The woman turned back around now and confronted the two of them. Twitty, she said, Im not sure she wants to see you. Up until this moment, Twit hadnt known how much this woman knew or how much she cared. Apparently she knew most everything. Weve driven nearly three hundred miles. Please, let us see her. The woman stared out the window as a pair of riders passed, walking two palominos back to the barn. Excuse me, she said. She stepped out onto the porch. Girls, be sure you tell Woody to check for nails and tacks. Theyre building that new house up on the ridge and I know the workmen are dropping them on the road. Back inside, the boys waited. What if she says: no, Arnie whispered. Well camp out and sneak in later tonight. Arnies eyes widened. Are you crazy? Theyve got bears in these woods. Aw-w-w, thats just locals trying to scare people. All the bears were killed off years ago. Laramys aunt returned, all smiles, as she began gathering up the new lariats that were coiled and bound with tape in the corner. Calf roping tomorrow, she said. Were the only camp in these parts that offers it. Athens Y used to but they gave up because of the trouble. You have to hire some real hands, rent a calf, set up bleachers. Its a lot of work but the girls love it. About Laramy Look, she said and turned to face them. Her eyes were green with a hint of blue. They were like clear pools you could look in to. Laramy was a mess when she got here back in March. Its taken her a month to get her head screwed back on right so I dont want you cowboys to go and foul things up for her. She plans to be a cabin monitor for our July group and shes working real hard to learn some skills other than lifting. Arnie turned to leave. Where are you going? she asked, coiling rope around her shoulder and fore arm. Didnt you just tell us we couldnt see her? Arnie said. She laughed. Boy, Im glad my husband wasnt put off as easily as you two. Wed never have had kids. She directed them to the lake. They drove Arnies pickup through camp, slowly. Girls were everywhere: on the tennis courts, playing Hearts in their cabins, at crafts, playing badminton and volleyball. Twit felt like an idiot. He slipped down in the seat so no one would see him. Its Twitty! a girl of the tennis court yelled. And Arnie!

99 The boys looked at each other. When they arrived at the lake, they parked under a tall pine. Ahead, the lake was brown, surrounded on all sides by thick tree growth: sycamore, poplar, oak, pine, spruce. The wind rushing through the tree tops enveloped them in a sound neither had heard before, the sounds of a thick, mountain forest. Off ahead, they could hear the squeals of girls laughing. As they began to walk around the lake, keeping the water on their right, they heard splashing, so they negotiated a rootclotted path that brought them into a clearing where a tall, wooden platform provided a diving site. There were canoes, a dock, a spillway beyond and a large, tin building giving off steam. Some three or four girls were jumping off the platform. One of them, a skinny blond, shivering and holding her arms close to her body turned around and directed them in such a casual way it seemed they had been there for weeks. She pointed to the tin-roofed building. Shes in there, Twitty. Getting her beauty steam. She waved. Hi, Arnie! Youre cuter than Laramy said. Damn, Arnie whispered. Just damn. He lit a cigarette and the two of them sat down under a pine tree. Twit tried to look angry. Should he be upset that she told the entire camp about them? Who had the right to be more upset? Then, he asked himself what right did he have to be angry? This is weird, Arnie said. Twit nodded. Look, Rabbi, were walking into the heart of the female jungle, here. This may be our last day on earth. Arnie puffed. Yeah, yeah. Admit it. You love it. Dont try to deny it. Suppose she still hates our guts? We have a long drive back through Indian country. The tree tops cast a long shadow over the lake whose surface apart from the swimming area was placid. The only sounds were the whisper of the wind and the girls splashing. Twit listened hard to pick up street sounds. There were none. It was as if someone had wrapped cotton around the world. When the door to the small, tin roof building burst open, a half-dozen girls emerged, squealing in a cloud of steam. She was standing in the sun. It was as if looking at her his eyes would go blind, but he didnt care. He had to look. He had to feast his eyes. The sun! Look in the sun! It had transformed her into a golden girl. She was wearing a black, one piece bathing suit that gave her curves such a freedom and grace, his throat tingled. Until this moment he had tried to fight off the idea that he might never see her again. The suspicion had lingered, but he had pushed it deeper and deeper into his mind, hoping she would never break what had been their secret pledge. Sappy lyrics poured into his head, songs he knew were just heart-pluckers, as Mr. K. called them, but he couldnt help it. His heart was plucked. Her hair was partially bleached. She shaded her eyes from the sun as she looked at the two of them. Well, its about time, Twit Feely! she shouted as she ran and threw her arms around him. Arnie grinned, bobbed back and forth. Like Twit he was trying not to appear happy. The other girls surrounded them, squealing, wiping themselves with bath towels. The smell of suntan lotion and steam from hot rocks enveloped them. Arnie couldnt stop giggling. Aw-w-w, shucks mam, he said, as he toed the grass. The girls howled. See, Laramy said to her friends, didnt I tell you hes a hoot? She hugged Twit so hard her moist, hot body made him sweaty.. I missed you so much, she whispered into his ear. Her eyes were moist from the steam. They

100 were deep brown, the brown of warm chocolate and uncut forests. He kissed her, full on the lips. Her hand went behind his head and pushed him closer. E-e-e-e-e! the girls screamed and jumped up and down. They toyed with Arnie, who made all the requisite wise cracks and did his best movie star imitations. The girls led them down onto the wooden dock. Apparently, Laramy wanted to recount to them every adventure shed had since arriving, but the boys couldnt keep up with the names of all the girls she referred to. They all climbed up onto the top level of the diving platform where they looked out over the water. There was a brief lull while the group considered the beauty of nature. Arnie was uneasy. He hated heights. Isnt it peaceful? Laramy whispered to him. She slipped her arm under his and snuggled close. Ive never been at such peace, she said. Twit tried to nod meaningfully, even though he was baffled. No one seemed angry about anything. She ran away from home, practicallyalthough she had her parents consentand now she acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. There seemed to be a swiftly moving cloud under them, a jet cloud that was flying so fast he could find no purchase, no place to find what was that word Mr. K was always using? Perspective. Suddenly, someone shoved him. He grabbed for Laramy, but she jumped back out of his reach with a gleeful, devilish giggle. Her mouth made a mock surprised:Oh, Twitty! Hey-y-y-y! He swung wildly out and around, grabbing at everything, anything, as the tree line shifted from top to bottom. Nothing was under him. Arnie tumbled by him, swimming in midair. Tree tops, wooden dock, inner tubes. The image flashed by kaleidoscopically, twisted, retwisted and twisted again. It was as if someone had turned a diorama upside down causing the two fully-clothed boys to fall thirty feet into the ice cold lake. The water took his breath. There seemed to be no bottom. Frantically, he fought his way back to the surface. When they came up, the girls were laughing and pointing at them. Thats for what you did to me Twit Feely! Laramy yelled. Meet me in one hour at the dining hall and well go riding. Treading water, freezing, the two boys shook their heads. Arnies glasses had slipped and were sitting crooked on his face. His long hair, now soaked gave him the look of a dunked puppy dog. As they watched, the girls disappeared, still giggling along the root-clotted path back to camp. It suddenly occurred to Twit that Arnie couldnt swim. Next time you go looking for love Arnie said, locking onto Twits shoulder like a vice, Im buying you a puppy.

101

Chapter Twenty-Three
Rose Valley Cemetery rose from the banks of the Big Mammy and made its first funereal statement in a row of brown-stained mausoleums carved out of the clay banks above the red water. Those were the earliest graves, the cotton planters and railroad men who had first settled the area back in the early nineteenth century. Above those tombs were the confederate graves, crosses, row upon strict row, mostly with no names. Above those came the individual family plots. The roads through the cemetery were concrete and barely wide enough for a car. Humes grave was in the new section where the marble still glinted in the sun and there were fewer obelisks, those monuments to an age when death was seen as an enterprise worthy of the fattest bank accounts. The stone glinted in the sunlight and seemed almost proud of the fresh markings on its side: Richard Congreve Steadman, 1905-1967. Laramy and her family, along with all the staff of Last Step High, sat on the front rows in green, metal, fold-out chairs under the canopy. The crowd spilled out and down the green lawn like a single multi-colored organism so few people could actually hear the ministers remarks. Around the casket the ground was covered with a navy blue tarp that surrounded the coffin piled high with flowers. It was April, the time of renewal and natures thrust upward into the sweet smells of innocent life. The skys blue was nearly overshadowed by cumulous clouds which seemed to burst with a renewed white. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghostamen, the minister said. The crowd gathered echoed: Amen. The minister was a plump, cheerful man wearing a dark, three piece suit and white bucks. His head was large and sweaty and except for a thin swath of brown that made a sharp V, his hair had mostly disappeared, along with his waist line. His fat cheeks bore tiny blue varicose veins, but his eyes sparkled as he spoke from a lectern in front of the coffin. Hume Steadman, he said, knew goodness. He strove his entire life to give birth to goodness where ever possible; only when it came to finding goodness within himself, he struggled. How many of us here knew the tough disciplinarian who kept us all in line, encouraged us when the score was against us and even picked us up on occasion out of the mud? But we, his friends, his students, should not fear for him. God knows the goodness of the human heart and he knows the goodness in Hume Steadmaneven if Hume himself didntand He alone will bring Hume to a place of joy and peace. Twit noticed that many of the adults seemed irritated. It was already hot and the gnats and mosquitoes were dodging the newspapers and funeral fans handed out at the entrance. He could understand why people were peeved at the heat, but he also suspected they were peeved that Hume had put them out so by forcing them to dress up and attend his funeral. He had noticed this many times. Adult disliked funerals, yet they dressed up and pretended to care about the deceasedeven when they didnt. His mother had given him a lecture about his cynical attitude, but when he looked around him at the strained faces and the squinting eyes and the nervous change rattling in the pants, he decided he was not far from wrong. It seemed to Twit that what the preacher was saying made little sense in this or any other

102 universe. How is that you cant find goodness in yourself and yet God can? That wasnt just irrational. It sounded like God was being sold a bill of goods. Or was God rigging the whole game? Was He making up goodness just to please himself? Why didnt he permit Hume to find goodness or hope within himself before he died, before the self-punishment and the toxins that ripped through his system? The whole situation was so weird he wished he hadnt agreed to come and sit beside Laramy. She had begged him, weeping, so he couldnt say no. The fine dark hair around her mouth had grown so plush now that he wanted to reach down and kiss her even as she pled for him to come to the funeral; but the real reason he didnt want to attend was that he wasnt sad that Hume was dead. He knew he was supposed to be sad, but a large part of him wasnt. A part of him was happy! And he hated himself for it. He knew he wasnt supposed to feel that way. When he was face down in the red dirt in the parking lot after Balls Batson had beaten him unconscious, he hated Hume at that moment; but his hatred was always mixed with awe and respect. It wasnt just hate; it was hate plus a dozen other feelings. None of what he was feeling seemed to match what he thought he should be feeling, but when he asked himself where did he get the ideas of what he was supposed to feel, it occurred to him they came from reading James Bond, watching movies and TV, talking with his friends. Fantasy, in other words, or, at best, rumors, tales and even outright lies. As these thoughts rambled through his mind, he heard Mr. Ks voice asking and answering the questions. It was as if, he, Twit, were a Jewish boy, sitting at the feet of Mr. K. soaking up the wisdom, even if he didnt have the courage half the time to do what Mr. K. advised. Fantasy, the voice said, leads to confusion and sin. Look at this coffin. Think of the human soul inside, created by God, loved by God and called back to God. Thats not fantasy. That, my son, is reality. Hume Steadman is being called even now to account for himself before the Lord High God, blessed be His name. Here Mr. K always muttered something in Hebrew. Arnie told him it was a prayer of protection for having to utter Gods name. But as the preacher droned on, a creepy feeling came into Twits heart. He was beginning to think he was responsible. Twit Feely was responsible. It was one thing to be responsible for an F in algebra. He only had to put up with ribbing by Arnie. But to be responsible for killing a man? If he had left Laramy alone, maybe she would have won in Atlanta and maybe Hume wouldnt have started punishing himself and maybe he would have never died. A lot of maybes. But in his teenage economy maybes turned into certainties, fast. It had never occurred to him before that someday he could be responsible for the death of another man. Never. That night he had the sensation that Hume had come into his room. His window was partially open and the curtain stirred softly. Slowly the sense came to him, the same sense he had when Hume had grabbed him observing Laramy do her squats. The same fear. Then the sense he had done something terrible wrong and would be punished for it. He didnt see Humes ghosthe wasnt crazy!but he sensed his presencewhich may have been worse. A wave of shame and guilt passed through his body. He got out of bed and turned the light on and the feeling went away slowly. The dreams continued for weeks after the funeral. He had never before experienced such a loss of sleep. He was dozing off in class, in conversations, even with Laramy. When he lay down to sleep at night now, he was already anxious he would wake up with that feeling. It didnt always come. It wasnt like clockwork; but it came with a persistence that seemed designed to wear him down, to make him vulnerable to something worse. What, he didnt know. He was walking in a strange, unchartered land where there were no maps or signs. He was afraid to discuss it with his friends because he knew they would misunderstand or simply not care at all, which was worse since, if he needed anything right now, it was the knowledge that there were people who cared for

103 him, people who loved him, who eventually would know all his secrets and would love him, in spite of them. He began taking pills. Aspirin, at first, then some pills he found in the medicine cabinet that belonged to his mother. He had known for a long time that his mother had a sleeping problem. So he was growing up to be a pill popper? The druggists probably didnt carry an anti-Inhuman Steadman pill and he couldnt tell anybody that he was sensing a ghostly presence in his room every night. His mom would have him sent to Milledgeville. He began to distance himself from his friends. He wasnt like them; he was seeing ghosts. He yearned for sleep, but whenever he napped, even, he was afraid of sensing that presence. His mind painted images with the alien presence like a naked statue that needed clothing. As he dreamedthe few times he could dreamhe saw Hume as a young athlete, a star, muscled and handsome, but that image would change into a horrid figure with such a terrifying faceholes for eyes and black teeththat he would start out of sleep, even when napping on the sofa. Later Mr. K. put the question to him. You think youre responsible for Humes death? Mr. K. asked. They were eating hotdogs by the dromedaries. Mr. K kept getting mustard on the tip of his nose and Arnie kept reaching over to wipe it off. There were black circles under Twits eyes. He stared at the food. Normally, he devoured Mr. Ks dogs. Not today. Twits really a Jew, dad. The guilt is finally coming out. His dad laughed. No, no, Twit, youre serious, arent you? And you dont look so good. Twit nodded. The odor of the onions made him nauseous. Mr. K stood up and started pacing, eating his hot dog in one hand, drinking a coke in another and expounding on Jeremiah. The heart, the prophet says, is endlessly deceptive. It convinces itself that it is innocent, then it convinces itself that its guilty and that all innocence is a lie only to be corrected by the truth which, inevitably, only it, the heart, can supply. Its like a dog chasing its tale. But, in case there is anything to your dream, you should ask God to forgive you. Andand this is importantyou, Twit Feely, should pray for peace for the soul of Inhuman Steadman. When both Arnie and Twit pointed out that Twit didnt go to church, Mr. K was astounded. He approached Twit with dog and Coke in hand, a shocked look on his face. What? You dont go to church? You dont know about your own religion? Twit felt stupid. He set the plate with the hot dog on it down on the floor. Now he paced. After dad was killed in Korea, mother stopped going to church. She said God was wrong to take him away and that she wasnt going to be part of any church that worshipped a cruel God. Chewing slowly, Mr. K. stared hard at him. Your mother holds God responsible for your fathers death? Twit nodded. That is not good. Mr. K whispered, hoarsely. Mr. K. was concerned. Earlier that day Mr. K. read that there had been an outbreak of gonorrhea at Rockaway Beach in New York where some of his relatives lived. Some of the boys, according to the NY Times, had been hospitalized so today he was scrubbing especially hard. Also, it was hot and Mr. Ks fan was broken so he was irritable on top of the VD worry. The park was half-full on a Saturday afternoon. After they finished their dogs, they started to scrub. The three of them sat on the wooden floor of the merry go round, dipping brushes into the baking soda. Maybe if she hadnt met me she would have gone on to be what he wanted her to be, Twit

104 said, scrubbing. He dipped his tooth brush into the soup can and tapped it against the metal sides. An Olympic champion, Mr. K said. Right. Mr. K dipped his brush and began to scrub a blue hoof. The great sages all said that The Almighty speaks to us in our dreamson occasion. But the evil one is also known to use the same connection. I guess its what you call a party line. So, its Satan? Twit asked. Maybe it is you talking to yourself, Mr. K said. He cocked his head and looked at Twit. He seemed pleased with his suggestion. What? Hume is you talking silently to you about Hume. Youre trying to decide whether to forgive him. Mr. K lay down on his back and slid up under the horse to get at the blue underbelly. Let me tell you a story, he said. I was a boy about 16. It was 1942. We lived outside Lublin and I had a goat. His name was Eleazar. I loved my little Eleazar. He was small and brown with a cute pink nose that he liked to ram into my face on cold mornings. Every afternoon before schul I would climb the big hill behind out house and feed him. He loved animal crackerswhich we had even in those dark days of the past. So I fed him lions and tigers and elephants and he would munch them like a humorless rabbi, licking his great lips. I could sit and watch him eat for hours. One afternoon I was feeding him corn from my hand when I heard a scream and I looked down and there was a big Army truck in my front yard. We lived outside a village in the country so no one ever came. My father said they would never come for us because we were of no value to them. We had no food except what we grew. We had no natural resources. What could we offer them, he would say. We had no money. The land was barren. My poor father. He was what we call today a liberal. All men are good in Gods eyes, he would say. Then I would say what the rabbi had taught me: but are all men good to other men, Poppa? My poor father did not understand evil. He believed that men are good and that you can always reason with a man; yet there they were, reasonable men, intelligent men from the country of Beethoven and Goethe, men whose people gave us such beautiful things and now they were dragging my father and mother and my three sisters out the front door of our house. And I mean drag. They grabbed my sisters by the hair. One passed out and they literally schlepped her unconscious across our yard and into the truck by the hair. There were long clumps of black hair everywhere when I finally came down. I picked it up and have it to this day in a cedar chest in my bedroom. Rachel, Esther and my sweet little Miriam. She had long, lovely fingers and could play the piano like Chopin himself. My father resisted so they beat him and he bled from the nose all over my mothers lovely white roses. I heard my parents talking days before and I heard mother say we would have to leave, but my father naively believed the mayor of the village where we lived in would protect us. God Bless old Mr. Arno Schmidt. He was a good man and he even liked Jews and helped us when the synagogue was burned Kristallnacht. I was told later he stood up to them and they shot him. This was still early in the war before the letzte Losung when they had only six camps inside Germany. I hid in the forest for days. I ate mushrooms in terror because I didnt know a good one from a bad one. At night I would cry for my poppa and mamma and sneak into the village and steal scraps from the garbage cans. There were Nazis everywhere in the village. They used the butts of their guns to beat open any door that resisted. I was told they had taken my family away by train. I never saw them again. For twenty years every night I get down on my knees and pray for their souls. But and here is the message for you, young Twit Feely who does not go into the churchI also pray for their killers.

105 What? Twit turned with his toothbrush in hand. Why? They killed your family. No. Not to forgive is crazy. Jesus told Peter to forgive seventy-times seven. Thats four hundred ninety times, Arnie said from above them where he sat in the saddle and worked on the animals ear. Thats a beginning. I should pray for Hume? Twit asked. Thats a decision Twit Feely must make. Mr. Ks advice was bewildering. Hed never prayed for anybodyespecially not someone you didnt like. At night, however, he began to feel another mood coming on him. It was if another self was growing inside him. This new self was complicated and didnt see things clearly in black and white. It seemed to be the only part of him capable of coping with what he was feeling.

106

Chapter Twenty-Four
After he got off work at Kaminskys, Twit drove over to Macon to High Street behind St. Josephs church. It was approaching sunset as he parked in front of Lus house next to the Sydney Lanier cottage, the birth place of the poet, a white bungalow kept up by the historic-minded in Macon. Cherry trees bloomed up and down High Street, cobblestoned and lined with houses built during Reconstruction. The house was a two-story ante-bellum with four dirty-white Corinthian columns which were completely out of character with Lu since the house gave off an air of gentility and ante-bellum culture which Sydney Lanier would have felt at home with, but probably not the author of The Big Mammy Blues. The owner was a sprightly, retired proctologist, who, as Twit pulled up in his rattletrap truck, bounced down the steps in dirt-stained khaki work pants and a blue work shirt and a straw hat and sweating, a short man with a florid face which beamed up at Twit with generosity. Hello, young man! You must be Twit. Lu told me all about you. Here, have a spade and assist me in transferring my geraniums to a more propitious locale. He handed Lu a spade whose handle was sweaty from the doctors own palm and they climbed the steps up between the Corinthian columns where Twit helped to relocate a ceramic pot overflowing with geraniums from one side of the porch to the other. The mans face seemed so red Twit grew worried. When they stood up, however, the doctor was beaming and breathing well. The porchs hardwood floor was painted dark gray and was covered with six, high-backed strawbottom rockers painted white. There! Where the sun shines bright/ your buds will open right. I think thats Edgar Guest or someone of the same sentimental ilk. Now, please come inside and have a cup of tea. The interior of the old house was an homage to the old south. A large portrait of Robert E. Lee hung on the wall in the hallway and opposite was a gold framed full-length mirror wherein the old general could contemplate his own face. Nearby hung the Dr.s diploma from the Medical College in Georgia in Latin written in such a florid script that even a skilled classicist would have difficulty in deciphering the sweeping fs and swooping gs and qs. They sat in the front parlor in wingbacked chairs covered in red beneath the portrait of a silver-haired woman in a stunningly low-cut black evening gown and long white gloves that ascended clear to her elbow. There was a knowing smile on her lips that Twit found himself staring at. Stunning creature, isnt she? Passed away two years. The doctor had already set up a rolling cart with a silver tea pot and cups and saucers surrounded by a variety of cookiesVanilla Wafers, Oreos and homemade brownies. Twit sank his teeth into a brownie and watched as the Doctor poured tea and gave him plenty of cream and sugar. Im sure you love sugar, dont you? Never knew a growing boy not to. They munched happily for a few minutes. Then, the doctor set his tea cup down and grew rather somber as he leaned over and placed his elbows on his knees. His voice lowered to a whisper: Now, then, Twit. There is something I must discuss with you. It concerns Lu and some of his friends. I was a rascal myself when I was young. I wont bore you with the sordid details of my peccadilloes, but mostly they were just that, peccadilloes, not full-blown misdemeanors or felonies,

107 God forbid. Our friend Lu, likeable and talented as he is, is quite a cannabis consumer. Not to mention his friends who I believe do more than merely consume but are, even as we speak, involved in the growth and distribution of sizeable quantities of the pleasure plant to other parts of the state. I have to admit that I am not pleased with this. Do you think you could put in a word? Lu tells me you and he are old buds and that your ship sails completely straight. Twit was surprised. Lu had told him over the phone that he roomed over a weird old doctor, but he hadn t expected the man to be concerned about Lus affairs. On the other hand, it was reassuring that someone cared. The old man seemed to have nothing but genuine motives at heart and as a doctor he could probably see things coming health-wise which the average person would be hard pressed to discern. God knows Lus alcohol-marinated father had no intention nor ability to care for his son and his poor mother was so lost in snipping out other peoples disasters from the tabloids that she couldnt recognize her own. I understand, Twit said. Ill speak to him. By the way, are you still practicing? Me? Good Lord, no! Why Im eighty-one. I remember being paid off with live chickens and turnips. No, no, I lead a quiet, life with little excitement. Across from Lus house was a small park sporting live oaks and cherry trees. The sky behind the house was swept with red and pink and yellow fire as the sun was nearing setting. Twit climbed the iron, outdoor stairs above a magnolia and knocked on a white door with a glass doorknob. Lu opened in his bare feet and jeans shorts with frayed edges. He was smoking and listening to records. Twit entered and they began to chat as if nothing had happened. Later Twit would ask himself how or why he chose to visit Lu. He certainly had never considered Lu a fountain of wisdom in the past nor did he now, but they knew things about one another that no one else knew. They had a shared historyhowever much the recent past had served to destroy it. What he had never understood about Lu was the suffering. In his house suffering meant having a chest cold. In Lus house it meant beatings and alcoholic rages. Since he had started sensing the presence at night and losing sleep he began to feel a bond with Lu he had never felt before. Lu was running from his father the same way he was running from this specter. Lus room was covered with posters: the young Dylan with cigarette dangling, a map of the Mississippi Delta showing the birthplaces of blues greatsMuddy Waters, Robert Johnson, John Lee Hooker. The whole thing done was drawn carefully in pen and ink and was surrounded by concert photos of Big Bill Bronzy and Sonny Boy Williamson in concert at Monterrey. On the record player Lu was listening to Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. You have that dream or whatever it is every night? Lu asked about Hume. He was lighting a fresh cigarette from an old. Twit nodded. He had told Lu the whole Hume-in-the-night story. Weird, Lu said. You didnt really do anything to the man. I kept him from his dream. Yeah, you did, didnt you. But I wasnt trying to hurt him. Yeah, thats happened to me. You do something bad and you dont even know it. Twit was having trouble breathing since Lu had no air conditioner; Lu opened a balcony door and there was Macon spread out below them as far down as Fifth Street and the brick companies and beyond the Ocmulgee River, clay red and slow. The clatter of trains from the railroad lines could be heard far away in the growing darkness. Twit breathed easier.

108 Sorry about the smoking, Lu said, as they sat back down. Im an addict. Twit told him what Mr. K said about praying. Lu listened carefully. For a moment some spark seemed to jump between them. Yeah, Mr. K says I should pray for Bug he said, but it just doesnt feel right. It seemed to Twit that the word prayer was one they shouldnt be using. He couldnt have said why. It wasnt like a curse word that society wouldnt allow. It was as if the word had been marked from his childhood to stand for some activity outside the world he understood. His mother never prayed. No one he knew prayedabout anything, but he knew kids at school for whom prayer was a big part of their lives. He told Lu all this. Lu puffed slowly and considered it. They walked down to the Nu Way Weiners which was elbow to elbow with kids from a concert across the street at the old city auditorium. Teenagers were squealing and running back and forth from the auditorium to the hot dog restaurant. Customers were jammed into tiny, Formica top booths with a small, silver juke box at each booth. At the counter the customers sat on low stools and devoured chili dogs, slaw dogs, regular dogs. The two boys bought a six bag and brought it back to the room where they devoured the meal and continued talking. Lu appeared to swallow his dogs in one bite. He wiped his mouth and began to tell Twit what it was like growing up under a tyrant drunk who beat his mother. For the first time Lu talked about the days and nights hed spent feeling lonely and friendless and sleeping at Laredo Town. Man, I was so scared. I lay there under that lean-to every night in my sleeping bag. I was scared to make a fire, scared Bug would spot me. I just knew he was gonna hurt momma real bad or shoot meheck, you saw what he did that time about the money! Twit nodded. Why didnt you say anything to us about it? What could I have said? You knew what was going on. Lu shot him an accusatory glance. It was true. They had all known what was going on. Soon it was dark so the boys rode around town in Lus beat up Chevy. They cruised down Cherry Street past Thorpes and The Dempsey Hotel where Lu stopped in for cigarettes. There was a woman standing outside, well-dressed, twirling an umbrella on her shoulder. She grinned at Twit who slid down in his seat. She wore a tight-fitting red sweater and short black skirt, but her hair was piled high in swirls and she was wearing glowing pink lipstick and smoking. Hooker, Lu said, sliding in and slamming the door. She come on to you? He chuckled, then unwrapped the cigarettes with his teeth, popped the pack on the palm of his hands. Thats three, four hundred, my friend. You got that kind of dough? Twit smiled weakly. They drove down Vineville to the Pig and Whistle drive-in where Macon teens gathered to talk and flirt. The ate Bar B Que and fries and Lu recognized a few friends from the folk music scene. The lot was jammed with carsbig Lincoln continentals, new Pontiac Bonnevilles, and smaller souped-up jalopies, usually driven by the Jones County red neck crowd. Willie and Anderson, two of the popular curb boys vied for Lus business. Willie was short and peppy. Always working an angle. Planning on going to songwriters school. He sang Shop Around but added a little twist and spin move. Anderson, with his deep bass voice, was a knockout on Ray Charles. Lu gave them both big tips and sent Willie down into the Vineville bottom for a half-pint of Old Stag. He disappeared over the fence into the thick undergrowth around the Pig; in a few minutes he was back with a brown paper bag which he handed Lu. They both took a short swig. Twit didnt like whiskey, but the buzz he got from even a taste was enough to convince him what the drink could do to you in large quantities. When the got back to Lus, the phone was ringing. It was Lus mother. His face turned white.

109 Twit watched as he turned into rage and shame at once. Momma!Momma!Can you hear me? Call EMS! he shouted into the phone, but his mother had dropped the phone. He turned to Twit. She must have passed out. Bug lost his job, went on a binge and beat her. The boys hopped in Twits truck and drove out I 16 to Last Step. En route Twit thought about all the times this had happened. He had witnessed Bug in rage, had even seem him hit Lus mother once with the back of his hand. He knocked her across the room. She was a small women and he had picked her up like a puppy when the blow struck. Shed landed against the opposite wall like a doll. By the time they pulled into the trailer park Twit was enraged. They found her in the corner behind the barca lounger. Her body was twisted: face squashed against the linoleum floor, one arm behind her and the other above her against the wall. Her clothes had been ripped mostly off. The EMS man asked them to step out of the trailer. Later he spoke to Lu and Twit. He was a short blond man with a moustache and way of popping his neck to the side. Beat her bad, he said standing outside while his two partners strapped into the stretcher. Rubber hose. Man knows how to use it. Her face was covered with bruises. They carried the stretcher by the boys. Lu gripped his mothers hand and leaned over to hug her. Barely conscious, she smiled. She had a broad face that had once been beautiful. But her own bad habits combined with Bugs abusemental and physicalhad left her hair grey, her eyes sunk deep into her head. Several front teeth were missingfrom previous beatings and now her eyes were swollen shut and her lips were crusted thick with dried blood. Lu cried, softly. As he stroked her hair, she lifted one arm to his head and patted it. Hes gone to the water tower, she whispered. Lu rose up and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. They loaded his mother into the EMS unit and soon the truck was speeding away toward Middle Georgia Hospital in Macon since there was none in Last Step. The two boys stepped inside the trailer. The TV was smashed in. Glass all over the floor. There wasnt a stick of furniture left that had not been broken. The walls were spray painted in black with: Fuck the World! Lu sat down on the steps of the trailer, head between his knees. Twit felt he shouldnt be there. He rose to go, but Lu grabbed him silently by the shirt tail and pulled. Twit turned. Tears were streaming down Lus cheeks. The boys said nothing. Twit sat back down, put his arm around his friend and felt his own heart breaking up like an ice flow. He didnt want this opening of himself up to anothers suffering to happen. It was always there, deep in the wilderness of his own heart. Suffering. Lus tears turned into sobbing, his big body quaking with waves of grief, raking through it and issuing in unmanly gurgling and sniffles. I hate him! By God I just hate him! Then he looked Twit. But hes my daddy, Twit! Twits own memories began to melt free of the ice. One by one they broke free until he could see that day coming slowly into view. The day he tried never to think about. He was five years old. He had answered the doorbell. The two men standing there were etched in his memory. Erect and stiff, they were both in brown Army uniforms. The tall one with blond, short hair looked at Twit and Twit noticed the man swallowed hard when he spoke.

110 Hello, son. Is your momma home? The word hello sounded so unusual to him, even today. He knew something was wrong. His daddy wore a uniform. But these men werent his daddy. He turned to see his mother step out of the kitchen where collards were cooking and wipe her hands. Her mouth had opened just enough to get out the words: Well, Twitty dont just stand there, ask the folks Then, when she saw the two soldiers, she collapsed on the living room floor and gave off a hoarse cry. It was a sound he had never heard her make before or since. It wasnt really a human sound because, as he decided later, what had happened wasnt really human. Only one other sound had ever even come close and he had never told anyone about itleast of all his mother because she wouldnt understand. He had been visiting a farm in the fifth grade with the 4H when the farmer had shown them a sick mother cow that was going to die. She lay on her side in the hay, black with white splotches. When she gave off a groan that made some of the girls in the fifth grade class cry, they said thenthe teacher, the farmer, everyone who heard itthat the cry was almost human. He hadnt understood, then, how an animal and a human could sound alike. He supposed he never would understand until he was an adult and he lost the person closest to him. Whenever that memory tried to force its way into his mind, he barricaded his mental gates with music or exercise or homeworkanything to get his mind of the pain the scene brought, but the barricade took on a life of its own. It spread and blocked feelings in other places where he wanted feelings. So he began to realize that to prevent pain he had to forego pleasure. It became a law of the mind that he came to acknowledge, but dislike. At the water tower a crowd had already gathered. It was ten oclock on a Tuesday night. Bug had climbed up the ladder to the edge of the great sloping container at the top of which sat a flagpole that hadnt been used since WWII. He had often threatened to tie one of his bug prints at the top. Now, he had painted a blue and green flag with yellow big prints and was waving it at everyone below him, showing them he was prepared to make the dangerous climb to the top. He shouted down at the gathering crowd. Bug rules the world! The volunteer fire department of Last Step eventually arrived in their second-hand fire truck with Mighty Mouse hand-painted on one side and a bust-sized image of Marilyn Monroe on the other. They climbed down, weary and sighing, as they regarded Bug on the tower. I forgot my rifle, one said. Hes too far off. They were reluctant to go up after Bug. In the past they tried to rescue himhe climbed the tower frequentlyand several men had been injured when he pushed them or took a swing at one of them on the way down the shaky metal ladder. They all stood there, eyeing Bug and shaking their heads. Lu asked if they would go up. Were thinking about it, is all they would commit to. The crowd grew so large Weezy opened up her shop and Lu went for coffee. When he returned there was a man with a bull horn yelling up: Cmon down, Bug! Its late! These folks got to work tomorrow! Bug flipped the man off, then ran around the rail that encircled the giant water tank. Got a lot of energy, dont he, the man with the bull horn said to Lu. Hell, hes two years older than me. He was a pot-bellied man in a grey maintenance uniform. Several front teeth were missing. He was so overweight he had to lean against the pickup hood to steady himself. He took out a cigarette and lit up. I remember the night he first went up, the man confided to Lu as he blew the smoke out his nose, twenty years ago. The night your momma said shed marry him.

111 Several police cars came bumping over the greasy uneven field with their blue lights flashing. Seeing them seemed to energize Bug; he jumped up and down and applauded, but from so far below it was hard to hear what he was saying. Twit was thankful. He knew most of it was cussing. Lu was so embarrassed he slipped behind Twits truck where he lit up a cigarette as they both sat on the tail gate and sipped their coffee. This is what passes for a family gathering at my house, Lu said. Hes happy as a clam getting all this attention, but he wont be so happy when they slap his butt in jail for beating momma. Whatever happened to his rehab? Twit said. In the past Lu had mentioned re-hab. Bug knew he had a drinking problem, and admitted it to complete strangers as if he were proud of it. No money. The company would have paid for it, but now that theyve canned him The firemen finally started up the ladder. They carried ropes, mace and a pint of Early Times. On the ground a toddler waddled in and out of the car lights and giggled each time the lights hit her. After the firemen reached the top, Bug scampered around to the other side of the tank. The three firemen chased him round once; then they put their hands on their knees. as Bug started scaling the slope of the tank toward the top. He was on all fours, moving slowly up the slope towards the pole. Twit watched as Bug scrambled up, slipped backwards, then scrambled up again. He turned around to take in the whole scene. There were two dozen pick-ups and at least fifty people, more than attended church on any given Sunday. He asked himself whether they wanted to see Bug die. Hes going to try and hang that flag from the top, Twit said. He may be crazy, Lu said, but the crowd had never been bigger. The tanks curved surface was angled about thirty degrees. The firemen below him just stood and watched. Once he slipped hard and rolled over twice, grabbing himself with one hand, but he pulled himself back into the all-fours position needed to make the climb and continued. Each time he slipped, the crowd gasped. Even Lu and Twit hopped off the tailgate and came forward. Hell kill himself! one woman said. Serve him right, another answered. At the top he stood and cheered himself and attached his bug print flag to the top of the tank. Several people in the crowd cheered with him. Ill be damned, one man said. I didnt think he had it in him. Then, it happened. He started to dance around the top. He shook his whole body like a dog after a dousing; then, he fell. He tumbled down the surface of the tank over and over, out of control, grappling here and there. Even from the ground they could hear the sound of his nails scratching the surface of the tank. The women below shrieked and bit their knuckles. By the time he reached the edge of the rail where he would have plunged to his death his jacket snagged and there he hung, wiggling and squiggling and screaming obscenities at the world. At last, a bug. The firemen reached him and tried to unhook him. He was still swinging and fightingat nothing or no one except his own demons. The crowd gathered closer under the tank as Bug continued to yell obscenities at the firemen them and a snack truck pulled up with sandwiches and coffee and several Shriners put on the temple hats and began passing the hat for their upcoming walk-a-thon. They were planning to walk from Last Step into Jeffersonville, nearly five miles

112 through white kaolin country. Someone brought a powerful search light and focused it on Bug. The crowd applauded and honked their truck horns. Bug protested loudly: Cut that thing off! It occurred to Twit that These people had grown up with Bug, had watched him pull this stunt for years, and now they were getting revenge. Lu just sat on the tailgate of the truck, sipped coffee and shook his head at the comic figure who hung by his belt from the water tower and swung back and forth like a body at the end of a hangmans rope. A fat man with a giant soft drink cup sat on the tail gate with the two boys. He had a wad of chewing tobacco. He offered the boys a chew; Twit declined, but Lu pulled out a shaggy wad, opened wide and stuffed it in til his cheek bulged. The man spat a brown, wad of tobacco juice onto the grass. Eventually, the firemen unhooked him and brought him down to the ground where he thrashed and screamed. His eyes were wild with drugs and booze. He was dressed only in a fresh, tightfitting T-shirt, blue jeans and his gold necklace. He was barefoot. I did it! he shouted at the crowd. He was like a mad dog, snapping at them and yearning to inflict harm on someone. Goddamn the world, he shouted. Im king of the world. After a shot of thorazine, the king was silent.

113

Chapter Twenty Five

The processional down the pulp wood road through the tall pine trees would have seemed strange to locals and non-locals alike. Littered with cans, shot gun shells and whiskey bottles, the roads ruts were patterned in tire treads which the footprints of the processional marred. The group was headed by Mr. K carrying a prayer book and wearing a black suit and a fedora, followed by Arnie in black suit and wearing his yarmulke, followed in turn by Laramy, Root, holding Second Thessalonians, Lu and Twit. The air was sweet with honey-suckle and the mornings dew still dripped in sun-burst drops on the plum trees that lines the road. When they reached the clearing, they found the old sign, Laredo Town, USA Population 2, on its side in the grass. The wood of the broom handle was rotting. Twit watched as Laramy paused a moment to examine it. She squatted in her skirt and reached down and tried to lift it up. The handle made a sucking sound and termites emerged on the underbelly. E-e-e-u-u-u she said as she held it up between her thumb and index finger. The others glanced at Twit. Mr. K. closed his eyes briefly, muttered something and pulled her hand away, then motioned for her to step to the front with him where he took her hand in his and walked closely beside her. Twit breathed a sigh of relief. He hadnt wanted her to come, but when he told her what they were planning, her face took on that determined glare he had seen when she was hoisting two hundred pounds on her shoulders. She wanted to see that horrid place. He explained that this was Mr. Ks idea and that he really didnt understand what it was all about, but she seemed to grasp it immediately. There it was, still standing, Laredo Town. It had been nearly a year since any of the boys had been there. Root let the cat go and it immediately went to the tent and slipped inside. Is that it? Laramy asked Twit as she pointed at the tent. He took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. Mr. K. had assured him that Laramy was mature enough to handle what they were about to do. Let her come, he had told the boys. After all, she has a bigger emotional stake in all this than any of you lug heads. Twit loved to hear him say lug heads. It was Mr. Ks single venture into Southern vernacular and when he said it and he realized that everyone understood, the mans face lit up. Thats it, he whispered. She lifted back the tent flap. The stench rushed out at them and the boys backed away, but Laramy stepped inside as if she had received an invitation. The rain had nearly collapsed the breasts. They had shriveled up like rotten oranges. She walked around and around them, at first not looking closely, but then looking and stooping and touching. The boys stood at the flap with worried looks on their faces. Mr. K. refused to look at all, but stood by the rocks of the fire and read prayers sub-vocally from his prayer book. Laramy reached up and tugged at a nipple, but it refused to come off. What are you doing? Twit asked. I want a souvenir, silly. The boys looked one another and rolled their eyes. I got to have a smoke, Lu said. This is getting too weird. He disappeared behind the pines

114 where a cloud of smoke soon appeared. Laramy giggled. Whats the matter, boys? Hey, Twit whispered, this isnt supposed to be funny. Oh, hush, she said. A girl can giggle, cant she. Twit helped her unstick the nipple and she slipped in inside her purse. Twit kissed her on the cheek. You are very strange young lady, he said in his best Dracula imitation. The gathered around the fire where Mr. K was standing with his eyes closed. Today we are going to bring to an end a phase of your life together. I will ask the Almighty for forgiveness for all of you. And I will ask for protection from the unclean spirits here. There was an uncomfortable silence. Mr. K had said nothing about unclean spiritswhatever they were. What do you mean? Twit asked. I mean that you have all defiled yourselves and you must be cleansed. Only the Almighty can do that. By now Lu had returned and everyone turned to look at him. I understand, Lu said. I understand about the unclean spirits, Mr. K. and want to be cleansed. And I want to pray to forgive my daddy. Twit looked at Lu who was standing with his hands folded, looking down. The others considered Lus suggestion. Twit thought how strange it was to hear Lu express a desire to forgive Bug, the man whod nearly beaten his mother to death with a rubber hose. When Lu had asked him if he still wanted to burn Laredo Town and would he go with him to Mr. K and ask him to join them, Twit had not understood what was going to happen. And you, Twit? Mr. K. suddenly asked. All eyes turned to him. What should he say? Mr. K. knew everything. In fact, the people standing around were the people who knew him best of all, but he was still reluctant. I dont know, he said. Id like to pray for the soul of Hume Steadman, Laramy said next to him. He was a sad, tormented man, but in his heart he was good. And I think God knows that. I just want to remind him. When Twit turned to look at her, tears were streaming down her cheek. Mr. K began: The soul that has been breathed into every one of us is a priceless gem that becomes even more refined and sparkling when one chooses to live a soul-directed life. He read in Hebrew from his prayer book. Arnie, who was standing on Twits other side, translated: Thus will I magnify Myself, and sanctify Myself, and I will make Myself known in the eyes of many nations; and they shall know that I am the LORD. He turned to them. Now, you repeat these words in English each time I pray: Yisgadal vyiskadash shmay rabbah. Arnie translated: May his great Name be blessed forever and ever. Now you. Mr. Kadinsky said. Together they all repeated: May his great name be blessed forever and ever. Mr. Kaminsky continued: May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified in the world that He created as He willed.

115 He nodded. May his great name be blessed forever and ever. May He give reign to His kingship in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetimes of the entire Family of Israel, swiftly and soon. May his great name be blessed forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, Almighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, Blessed is He. He nodded: May his great name be blessed forever and ever. Beyond any blessing and song, praise and consolation that are uttered in the world. He nodded: May His great name be blessed forever and ever. May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life upon us and upon all Israel. He nodded: May his great name be blessed forever and ever. Amen. Oh, Almighty God of our fathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, who parted the Red Sea, the same Creator who forgave King David for Bathsheba and who gave Jonah a second chance to heed your call, we ask now that you forgive these children. Turn the eyes of these children to behold the One who created them. Then Mr. K. moved around the camp and touched all the objects the rain and weather had not destroyed: the obscene photos, the sex objects, even the hair dryer. Like Ezra and Nehemiah who sought your holy assistance as they rebuilt The Holy City after its destruction we also ask here your assistance for a new beginning for these, your servants. We seek your spirit now to move here and cleanse these objects and return these unholy intruders to Sheol and the Pit. He moved around the whole camp and at each stop he said a prayer: May His great name be blessed forever, and to all eternity, and then: Blessed be His name, whose glorious kingdom is forever. The boys and Laramy watched intently. To Twit it seemed a door was opening somewhere in his heart. The place he had seen before inside the door, many, many years ago. The place was unsettling because he knew so little about it. It wasnt a fairyland or a Disney production. It was more real than the trees and flowers around them. Root doused the entire camp in gasoline and they burned it. The tent was consumed quickly. The flames swept up in a speedy point toward the top pole and within seconds, the shriveled breasts were exposed. They caught fire quickly and gave off a hissing sound. In a few minutes the trash cans beneath them were visible. Twit suddenly realized the trash cans were the support for the breasts. Trash. That was what they had been about. Trash in the mind, in the heart, in the eyes and ears. What was the word Mr. K. used? Defiled. An Arnie word. They were defiledall of them. And the flames were cleansing them. Now he understood why Arnie was always talking about flames cleansing things in the Talmud. To his way of thinking you cleansed things with soap and water. But that was bathtubs and silverware. How do you cleanse the soul? You cant really burn the soul up and annihilate it so there must be some way that God has of cleaning you without destroying you. The flames rose higher, the ashes fell on them and they stood, dumbfounded,

116 amazed. The ashes bore no trace of their former imprints; they were bringing forth new matter for a new world. Twit watched them fall all around him and reached out as they crumbled into nothing. Second Thessalonians swatted at them as if they were feline tennis balls God had made just for him and just for that time and place. At that moment Twit dropped to his knees and whispered to Mr. K. Id like to pray for the soul of Inhuman Steadman. The End