Read Online Monkey Island by Paula Fox - Free Book Online Page B

side of the park came what looked like a small crowd. As they passed into the light, he saw fourteen or fifteen young men and, walking by themselves a few yards behind, three girls, their arms linked, the tangle of their hair above their chalky faces like small brush fires. All of their mouths were open like people in pictures of Christmas carolers.
    They were not singing carols. They were shouting, “Monkey Island! Monkey Island! Where the monkeys live!”
    Calvin stuck his head out of the crate. Clay saw the turbaned woman run out of the other side of the park. Two men, barely visible beneath rags and newspapers, rose from the ground like otters and swam away into the dark.
    What gleamed so dully? Clay blinked, opened his eyes wide, and stared. The men held lengths of chain and baseball bats. “Monkey Island!” they howled.
    â€œWe got to get out of here,” Buddy said urgently, but he didn’t move.
    Calvin was crouching by the crate. “The stump people … out for a night’s sport,” he muttered.
    The three girls danced in a circle in the middle of the street, their screechy laughter as piercing as shards of glass. The men had begun to hit the railing with their chains and bats. Now their chant had changed, but the words were as familiar to Clay as his own name, written on walls or shouted and grunted and hissed everywhere he had ever been in the city.
    They caught sight of Buddy. “Nigger!” they cried out in one great shout, and they hit the railing with greater force while they swayed from side to side like huge red worms in a tin can.
    Clay felt Calvin and Buddy grip his arms. They ran, Calvin stumbling and groaning, toward the farthest exit from the park. Down the street they went, turned, turned again, running for what seemed hours, until suddenly Buddy halted.
    Calvin was panting like a thirsty dog. Clay could hardly stand upright. All he heard now above the hum of distant cars was the click of the traffic light beneath which the three of them huddled. The buildings around them were dark.
    â€œAll right now,” Buddy said, his words barely audible.
    â€œNever be all right …” Calvin mumbled.
    Shadows moved in an entrance to one of the buildings, people trying to find better ways to sleep on stone, Clay thought. There must be no place in the city where there wouldn’t be those shadows, restless, stirring in dark places. He had learned to see them.
    Buddy walked on, and Clay hurried to catch up with him. He was shivering so his teeth were clicking like the traffic light. Where were they going to go now?
    â€œBuddy?”
    Buddy stopped and turned. “Where’s Calvin?” he asked.
    A truck rumbled down the street toward them. “Calvin!” Buddy called. He listened for a moment.
    â€œCome on,” he said roughly to Clay, and pulled him onto the sidewalk. The truck went by. Clay was dizzy. The truck appeared to be riding on its two left wheels. He sank against a wall. The street was empty except for Buddy standing a few feet away from him, turning in a circle as he continued to call the old man’s name. He fell silent a moment, looked up at the sky, then glanced at Clay.
    â€œWe got to find a place to get out of the cold,” he said.
    â€œWhere did Calvin go?” Clay asked, startled by the loudness of his own voice.
    â€œSomeplace. I don’t know. He’ll get drunk. I don’t know when or where he’ll turn up. If he does.…”
    â€œI’m cold,” Clay said.
    He’d never said until that moment that he was cold or hungry or scared. Perhaps it was because he had known everyone else was too. But now, the words had fallen from his mouth. He had not been able to stop them.
    â€œYou’re cold. I’m cold. It’s wintertime,” Buddy said quickly. “Let’s go, little white-neck.”

7   Out Cold
    They tried the park first. When they got within a block of it,