that he was unbroken. Only, next time he might not be so direct. Maybe next time he would try me on the flank.
Maybe it's just mob spirit. Jump on the individual.
But I didn't believe that then, and I don't believe it now, although it would explain much. No, the subtle shift from Ted's end of the seesaw to mine could not be dismissed as some mass grunt of emotion. A mob always wipes out the strange one, the sport, the mutant. That was me, not Ted. Ted was the exact opposite of those things. He was a boy you would have been proud to have down in the rumpus room with your daughter. No, it was in Ted, not in them. It had to be in Ted. I began to feel strange tentacles of excitement in my belly-the way a butterfly collector must feel when he thinks he has just seen a new species fluttering in yon bushes.
"I know why Ted quit football," a voice said slyly. I looked around. It was Pig Pen. Ted had fairly jumped at the sound of his voice. He was beginning to look a wee bit haggard.
"Do tell," I said.
"If you open your mouth, I'll kill you," Ted said deliberately. He turned his grin on Pig Pen.
Pig Pen blinked in a terrified way and licked his lips. He was torn. It was probably the first time in his life that he'd had the ax, and now he didn't know if he dared to grind it. Of course, almost anyone in the room could have told you how he came by any information he had; Mrs. Dano spent her life attending bazaars, rummage sales, church and school suppers, and Mrs. Dano had the longest, shrewdest nose in Gates Falls. I also suspected she held the record for party-line listening in. She could latch on to anyone's dirty laundry before you could say have-you-heard-the-latest-about-Sam-Delacorte.
"I " Pig Pen began, and turned away from Ted as he made an impotent clutching gesture with his hands.
"Go on and tell," Sylvia Ragan said suddenly. "Don't let Golden Boy scare you, hon."
Pig Pen gave her a quivering smile and then blurted out: "Mrs. Jones is an alcoholic. She had to go someplace and dry out. Ted had to help with his family."
Silence for a second.
"I'm going to kill you, Pig Pen," Ted said, getting up. His face was dead pale.
"Now, that's not nice," I said. "You said so yourself. Sit down."
Ted glared at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to break and charge at me. If he had, I would have killed him. Maybe he could see it on my face. He sat back down.
"So," I said. "The skeleton has boogied right out of the closet. Where's she drying out, Ted?"
"Shut up," he said thickly. Some of his hair had fallen across his forehead. It looked greasy. It was the first time it had ever looked that way to me.
"Oh, she's back now," Pig Pen said, and offered Ted a forgiving smile.
"You said you'd kill Pig Pen," I said thoughtfully.
"I will kill him," Ted muttered. His eyes were red and baleful.
"Then you can blame it on your parents," I said, smiling. "Won't that be a relief?"
Ted was gripping the edge of his desk tightly. Things weren't going to his liking at all. Harmon Jackson was smiling nastily. Maybe he had an old grudge against Ted.
"Your father drive her to it?" I asked kindly. "How'd it happen? Home late all the time? Supper burned and all that? Nipping on the cooking sherry a little at first? Hi-ho."
"I'll kill you." he moaned.
I was needling him-needling the shit out of him-and no one was telling me to stop. It was incredible. They were all watching Ted with a glassy kind of interest, as if they had expected all along that there were a few maggots under there.
"Must be tough, being married to a big-time bank officer," I said. "Look at it that way. She probably didn't realize she was belting down the hard stuff so heavy. It can creep up on you, look at it that way. It can get on top of you. And it's not your fault, is
Maybe it's just mob spirit. Jump on the individual.
But I didn't believe that then, and I don't believe it now, although it would explain much. No, the subtle shift from Ted's end of the seesaw to mine could not be dismissed as some mass grunt of emotion. A mob always wipes out the strange one, the sport, the mutant. That was me, not Ted. Ted was the exact opposite of those things. He was a boy you would have been proud to have down in the rumpus room with your daughter. No, it was in Ted, not in them. It had to be in Ted. I began to feel strange tentacles of excitement in my belly-the way a butterfly collector must feel when he thinks he has just seen a new species fluttering in yon bushes.
"I know why Ted quit football," a voice said slyly. I looked around. It was Pig Pen. Ted had fairly jumped at the sound of his voice. He was beginning to look a wee bit haggard.
"Do tell," I said.
"If you open your mouth, I'll kill you," Ted said deliberately. He turned his grin on Pig Pen.
Pig Pen blinked in a terrified way and licked his lips. He was torn. It was probably the first time in his life that he'd had the ax, and now he didn't know if he dared to grind it. Of course, almost anyone in the room could have told you how he came by any information he had; Mrs. Dano spent her life attending bazaars, rummage sales, church and school suppers, and Mrs. Dano had the longest, shrewdest nose in Gates Falls. I also suspected she held the record for party-line listening in. She could latch on to anyone's dirty laundry before you could say have-you-heard-the-latest-about-Sam-Delacorte.
"I " Pig Pen began, and turned away from Ted as he made an impotent clutching gesture with his hands.
"Go on and tell," Sylvia Ragan said suddenly. "Don't let Golden Boy scare you, hon."
Pig Pen gave her a quivering smile and then blurted out: "Mrs. Jones is an alcoholic. She had to go someplace and dry out. Ted had to help with his family."
Silence for a second.
"I'm going to kill you, Pig Pen," Ted said, getting up. His face was dead pale.
"Now, that's not nice," I said. "You said so yourself. Sit down."
Ted glared at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to break and charge at me. If he had, I would have killed him. Maybe he could see it on my face. He sat back down.
"So," I said. "The skeleton has boogied right out of the closet. Where's she drying out, Ted?"
"Shut up," he said thickly. Some of his hair had fallen across his forehead. It looked greasy. It was the first time it had ever looked that way to me.
"Oh, she's back now," Pig Pen said, and offered Ted a forgiving smile.
"You said you'd kill Pig Pen," I said thoughtfully.
"I will kill him," Ted muttered. His eyes were red and baleful.
"Then you can blame it on your parents," I said, smiling. "Won't that be a relief?"
Ted was gripping the edge of his desk tightly. Things weren't going to his liking at all. Harmon Jackson was smiling nastily. Maybe he had an old grudge against Ted.
"Your father drive her to it?" I asked kindly. "How'd it happen? Home late all the time? Supper burned and all that? Nipping on the cooking sherry a little at first? Hi-ho."
"I'll kill you." he moaned.
I was needling him-needling the shit out of him-and no one was telling me to stop. It was incredible. They were all watching Ted with a glassy kind of interest, as if they had expected all along that there were a few maggots under there.
"Must be tough, being married to a big-time bank officer," I said. "Look at it that way. She probably didn't realize she was belting down the hard stuff so heavy. It can creep up on you, look at it that way. It can get on top of you. And it's not your fault, is
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