Read Online Faraway Places by Tom Spanbauer - Free Book Online

the name of a real man. I thought the nigger would laugh. I hated that he was going to laugh like the big guys did in physical-education class, in the locker rooms after class, like my father laughed, the way I guess the men in the posse laugh, the way thesheriff and Endicott laugh for sure. I hated that I had ever given myself that name, a silly kid’s name, a girl’s name. I hated even more that I had just blurted it out like that, not making any sense in front of the nigger. Haji Baba, Haji Baba went around in my head like liar, liar, pants on fire . I wished to God that I would finally grow up and stop making up silly names; wished to God that I would learn to think straight and not blurt dumb things out like I just did with Haji Baba .
    Snakes can hypnotize you with their eyes and that’s what I thought the nigger was doing to me, looking at me that way. The haywire sound was getting louder and louder, and then, suddenly, the nigger spoke: “And my name is Geronimo,” he said without laughing, without moving his eyes. Then he smiled, warm and friendly. The world got flat as a cookie sheet and the sky became a bright dome. The light filtering through the tree leaves made the nigger look like those pictures of Jesus with a halo around his head.
    And then he left. He disappeared around the Hall of Mirrors trailer. I ran after him and touched him on the shoulder, but he didn’t want me to touch him or be around him anymore.
    â€œShe was your mother , wasn’t she?” I said.
    The nigger looked at me like he hated me then. He doubled up his fists and stepped toward me and I thought for sure he was going to hit me. But he stopped.
    I started to tell him that I knew, that I had seen what the hellhounds had done to his mother, that I had tried to help but couldn’t because I was too scared, and after, because no one would listen to Haji Baba. I wanted to ask him to take me with him so he could tell me about things, about feelings coming up strong from down there like that, because he knew about those kinds of things. I could tell. And he knew about things like the chinook and probably about one thing leading to another and illusion and important things like how far it is from the tip of a hummingbird’s wing to its heart.
    I didn’t know, and I didn’t ask him. Instead I gave him therest of my money—twenty-eight cents—and the Lucky Strikes. The nigger’s hands weren’t fists anymore and he didn’t look like he hated me. He took the twenty-eight cents and the Lucky Strikes, said thank you, and was gone.
    WHEN I FOUND my mother it was at the Catholic Women’s Booth. I gave her the Kewpie doll and she liked it, but my father didn’t. “Waste of good money,” he said.
    And then my mother said, “Joe”—that was the first time I had ever heard my mother call my father that—“when’s the last time you brought me a prize?”
    My father didn’t say anything.
    I kept the dice.
    SOMETIME AFTER THE Blackfoot State Fair but before school started again, my mother finally got the window in the kitchen she had always wanted above the sink, so she could look out to the west while she washed the dishes. Before she’d had to look at the wall with a picture of the Last Supper on it.
    My mother had talked about that window all that summer and the summer before, maybe even the summer before that. Forevermore is how long she had wanted that window, she said.
    One morning at the breakfast table, my mother slammed down the plate of eggs and sausage and toast and hashbrowns in front of my father and told him she was going to go find a bar and get drunk the next Saturday if she didn’t have a window above the sink by then. My mother slammed his coffee cup down too, spilling coffee into his saucer, which was something my father hated.
    My father ate his breakfast without saying a word. When it came time to drink his coffee, he