it.
Aside from taking it out of the closet again and looking at it—which he did on Saturday morning, turning it over and over—there didn’t seem to be a way to know anything.
On closer examination in good light the skull proved to have all good teeth, no cavities. At least in the upper teeth—he did not have the lower jaw or teeth.
“Does that mean anything?” he said aloud in his room. It was early on Saturday morning and his mother was gone—off on some trip with Bill. They were growing closer and Brennan was happy for her—although it had happened many times before. Getting this close.
“It could mean he was young.…”
There it was again.
He
. Why did he think the skullwas male? No, why did he
know
the skull was male? Because he knew it, was certain of it.
And without any reason.
“All right.” He set the skull on his desk, the eye sockets staring up at him. In a second it bothered him and he turned it sideways. “All right—so the teeth are good and that might mean it—
he
—was young. And if he was young, then the measurements could mean he was about my age.”
Of course it’s all guessing, he thought, leaning back. From the side he could see the damage done by the bullet. The entry hole in the forehead was a little over a half inch in diameter, and almost perfectly round. But a piece of bone as big as the palm of his hand was missing at the back, broken out in a rough oval.
God. How must that have been, he thought. How could that be? To have an explosion and then a bullet slam through your head that way and carry away the back of your skull and all the things you are, all the things you were or are or ever will be are gone then, blown away.
He shook his head. He was squinting, feeling the pain, and he tried to think of something else but could not. Instead he thought of the film he’d seen of Vietnam, an old film showing a man shooting another man in the temple on a street. It had been a television news film. He remembered the way the shock of the bullet had made the man squint.
He stood, turned away from the skull, looked out the window, and broke it then, broke the train of thought.
A week. I’ve had the skull a week and a day and I’m going crazy. What have I done?
He wrapped the skull up again and put it in the closet. I’ll do it now, he thought, I’ll call the police.…
But he didn’t, couldn’t. Instead he found himself putting his running shoes and shorts and a T-shirt on and heading out into the cool Saturday morning air.
He set an easy lope away from the house, not meaning to head in any direction but in a block he turned left and started the long road that went up and around the side of the mountain overlooking El Paso.
There was almost no traffic yet, no distractions, and he gave himself to running, did not think but increased the pace until he was driving up the mountain road, his legs pumping.
In moments the work made him sweat and he pulled his T-shirt off, still running, and rolled it and tied it around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes.
Running hard now, pushing himself, deep breaths, deep and down his legs knotting and bunching and taking him up the steep road, his shoes slamming on the road, no thoughts, a blank …
And the word
Homesley
came in.
Perfect, he thought. Homesley.
Maybe he’ll know what to do.
13
John Homesley was a biology teacher in Cardiff School. Brennan had taken biology from him the year before and an almost-friendship had developed.
Well, Brennan thought, jogging down the street that led to Homesley’s house, cooling from his run—it hadn’t started that way.
Brennan had nearly flunked, had trouble in school, and Homesley had stopped him in front of the school one day as he was heading home at the end of the day.
He was an enormous man, tall and very heavy, bordering on fat but in a controlled way. Like a bear. He had rounded shoulders that somehow looked massively strong, with a heavy head of dark curly hair
Aside from taking it out of the closet again and looking at it—which he did on Saturday morning, turning it over and over—there didn’t seem to be a way to know anything.
On closer examination in good light the skull proved to have all good teeth, no cavities. At least in the upper teeth—he did not have the lower jaw or teeth.
“Does that mean anything?” he said aloud in his room. It was early on Saturday morning and his mother was gone—off on some trip with Bill. They were growing closer and Brennan was happy for her—although it had happened many times before. Getting this close.
“It could mean he was young.…”
There it was again.
He
. Why did he think the skullwas male? No, why did he
know
the skull was male? Because he knew it, was certain of it.
And without any reason.
“All right.” He set the skull on his desk, the eye sockets staring up at him. In a second it bothered him and he turned it sideways. “All right—so the teeth are good and that might mean it—
he
—was young. And if he was young, then the measurements could mean he was about my age.”
Of course it’s all guessing, he thought, leaning back. From the side he could see the damage done by the bullet. The entry hole in the forehead was a little over a half inch in diameter, and almost perfectly round. But a piece of bone as big as the palm of his hand was missing at the back, broken out in a rough oval.
God. How must that have been, he thought. How could that be? To have an explosion and then a bullet slam through your head that way and carry away the back of your skull and all the things you are, all the things you were or are or ever will be are gone then, blown away.
He shook his head. He was squinting, feeling the pain, and he tried to think of something else but could not. Instead he thought of the film he’d seen of Vietnam, an old film showing a man shooting another man in the temple on a street. It had been a television news film. He remembered the way the shock of the bullet had made the man squint.
He stood, turned away from the skull, looked out the window, and broke it then, broke the train of thought.
A week. I’ve had the skull a week and a day and I’m going crazy. What have I done?
He wrapped the skull up again and put it in the closet. I’ll do it now, he thought, I’ll call the police.…
But he didn’t, couldn’t. Instead he found himself putting his running shoes and shorts and a T-shirt on and heading out into the cool Saturday morning air.
He set an easy lope away from the house, not meaning to head in any direction but in a block he turned left and started the long road that went up and around the side of the mountain overlooking El Paso.
There was almost no traffic yet, no distractions, and he gave himself to running, did not think but increased the pace until he was driving up the mountain road, his legs pumping.
In moments the work made him sweat and he pulled his T-shirt off, still running, and rolled it and tied it around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes.
Running hard now, pushing himself, deep breaths, deep and down his legs knotting and bunching and taking him up the steep road, his shoes slamming on the road, no thoughts, a blank …
And the word
Homesley
came in.
Perfect, he thought. Homesley.
Maybe he’ll know what to do.
13
John Homesley was a biology teacher in Cardiff School. Brennan had taken biology from him the year before and an almost-friendship had developed.
Well, Brennan thought, jogging down the street that led to Homesley’s house, cooling from his run—it hadn’t started that way.
Brennan had nearly flunked, had trouble in school, and Homesley had stopped him in front of the school one day as he was heading home at the end of the day.
He was an enormous man, tall and very heavy, bordering on fat but in a controlled way. Like a bear. He had rounded shoulders that somehow looked massively strong, with a heavy head of dark curly hair
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