happened to look over at us, sitting in the dirt by the back step. She looked just in time to see the mouse going down Herk's throat, headfirst.
She screamed-what a fright it can give you when a grown-up screams!-and ran over and put her finger down Herk's throat. Herk threw up the mouse, the hamburger he'd eaten for lunch, and some pasty glop that looked like tomato soup. He was just starting to ask his mother what was going on when she threw up. And there, in all that puke, that old dead mouse didn't look bad at all. It sure looked better than the rest of the stuff. The moral seemed to be that puking up your past when the present is even worse makes some of the vomitus look nearly tasty. I started to tell them that, and then decided it would only revolt them-like the story of the Cherokee Nose Job.
"Dad was in the doghouse for a few days. That was all. No divorce. No big thing."
Carol Granger started to say something, and that was when Ted stood up. His face was pale as cheese except for two burning patches of red, one above each cheekbone. He was grinning. Did I tell you he wore his hair in a duck's ass cut? Grease, out of style, not cool. But Ted got away with it. In that click of a second when he stood up, he looked like the ghost of James Dean come to get me, and my heart quailed.
"I'm going to take that gun away from you now, tin shit," he said, grinning. His teeth were white and even.
I had to fight hard to keep my voice steady, but I think I did pretty well. "Sit down, Ted."
Ted didn't move forward, but I could see how badly he wanted to. "That makes me sick, you know it? Trying to blame something like this on your folks. "
"Did I say I was trying to-?"
"Shut up!" he said in a rising, strident voice. "You killed two people!"
"How really observant of you to notice," I said.
He made a horrible rippling movement with his hands, holding them at waist level, and I knew that in his mind he had just grabbed me and eaten me.
"Put that down, Charlie," he said, grinning. "Just put that gun down and fight me fair."
"Why did you quit the football team, Ted?" I asked amiably. It was very hard to sound amiable, but it worked. He looked stunned, suddenly unsure, as if no one but the stolidly predictable coach had ever dared ask him that. He looked as if he had suddenly become aware of the fact that he was the only one standing. It was akin to the look a fellow gets when he realizes his zipper is down, and is trying to think of a nice unobtrusive way to get it back up-so it will look like an act of God.
"Never mind that," he said. "Put down that gun." It sounded melodramatic as hell. Phony. He knew it.
"Afraid for your balls? Your ever-loving sack? Was that it?"
Irma Bates gasped. Sylvia, however, was watching with a certain predatory interest.
"You " He sat down suddenly in his seat, and somebody chuckled in the back of the room. I've always wondered exactly who that was. Dick Keene? Harmon Jackson?
But I saw their faces. And what I saw surprised me. You might even say it shocked me. Because there was pleasure there. There had been a showdown, a verbal shootout, you might say, and I had won. But why did that make them happy? Like those maddening pictures you sometimes see in the Sunday paper-"Why are these people laughing? Turn to page 41." Only, there was no page for me to turn to.
And it's important to know, you know. I've thought and thought, racked whatever brains I have left, and I don't know. Maybe it was only Ted himself, handsome and brave, full of the same natural machismo that keeps the wars well-attended. Simple jealousy, then. The need to see everyone at the same level, gargling in the same rat-race choir, to paraphrase Dylan. Take off your mask, Ted, and sit down with the rest of us regular guys.
Ted was still staring at me, and I knew well enough
She screamed-what a fright it can give you when a grown-up screams!-and ran over and put her finger down Herk's throat. Herk threw up the mouse, the hamburger he'd eaten for lunch, and some pasty glop that looked like tomato soup. He was just starting to ask his mother what was going on when she threw up. And there, in all that puke, that old dead mouse didn't look bad at all. It sure looked better than the rest of the stuff. The moral seemed to be that puking up your past when the present is even worse makes some of the vomitus look nearly tasty. I started to tell them that, and then decided it would only revolt them-like the story of the Cherokee Nose Job.
"Dad was in the doghouse for a few days. That was all. No divorce. No big thing."
Carol Granger started to say something, and that was when Ted stood up. His face was pale as cheese except for two burning patches of red, one above each cheekbone. He was grinning. Did I tell you he wore his hair in a duck's ass cut? Grease, out of style, not cool. But Ted got away with it. In that click of a second when he stood up, he looked like the ghost of James Dean come to get me, and my heart quailed.
"I'm going to take that gun away from you now, tin shit," he said, grinning. His teeth were white and even.
I had to fight hard to keep my voice steady, but I think I did pretty well. "Sit down, Ted."
Ted didn't move forward, but I could see how badly he wanted to. "That makes me sick, you know it? Trying to blame something like this on your folks. "
"Did I say I was trying to-?"
"Shut up!" he said in a rising, strident voice. "You killed two people!"
"How really observant of you to notice," I said.
He made a horrible rippling movement with his hands, holding them at waist level, and I knew that in his mind he had just grabbed me and eaten me.
"Put that down, Charlie," he said, grinning. "Just put that gun down and fight me fair."
"Why did you quit the football team, Ted?" I asked amiably. It was very hard to sound amiable, but it worked. He looked stunned, suddenly unsure, as if no one but the stolidly predictable coach had ever dared ask him that. He looked as if he had suddenly become aware of the fact that he was the only one standing. It was akin to the look a fellow gets when he realizes his zipper is down, and is trying to think of a nice unobtrusive way to get it back up-so it will look like an act of God.
"Never mind that," he said. "Put down that gun." It sounded melodramatic as hell. Phony. He knew it.
"Afraid for your balls? Your ever-loving sack? Was that it?"
Irma Bates gasped. Sylvia, however, was watching with a certain predatory interest.
"You " He sat down suddenly in his seat, and somebody chuckled in the back of the room. I've always wondered exactly who that was. Dick Keene? Harmon Jackson?
But I saw their faces. And what I saw surprised me. You might even say it shocked me. Because there was pleasure there. There had been a showdown, a verbal shootout, you might say, and I had won. But why did that make them happy? Like those maddening pictures you sometimes see in the Sunday paper-"Why are these people laughing? Turn to page 41." Only, there was no page for me to turn to.
And it's important to know, you know. I've thought and thought, racked whatever brains I have left, and I don't know. Maybe it was only Ted himself, handsome and brave, full of the same natural machismo that keeps the wars well-attended. Simple jealousy, then. The need to see everyone at the same level, gargling in the same rat-race choir, to paraphrase Dylan. Take off your mask, Ted, and sit down with the rest of us regular guys.
Ted was still staring at me, and I knew well enough
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