Read Online The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys by Chris Fuhrman - Free Book Online
Authors: Chris Fuhrman
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dog was crawling through garbage. He slipped his machete from its sheath and reared back with it.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the slap of the blade, or whatever I heard, would return to me in fevers, in anxious half-dreams, and at moments when I thought I was happy. The dog never made a sound.
“What you wanna do that for, motherfucker?” The black boy’ssneakers smacked dirt coming towards us, and we both ran, machetes slapping our flanks, ran until the road became paved and there were plenty of streetlights.
Tim stopped under a light, leaned back against the post, and smacked his fists on his forehead, sliding down into a squat, gagging on tears. He stood up and streaked dirty palms across his cheeks and looked at me as if I was part of all this.
“There’s no God, Francis, I hope you realize that. I’m not ashamed for crying.” One of his legs was dashed with blood. He was shaking. He told me he’d never killed anything more than a mosquito. “I would’ve like to cure that dog,” he whispered, eyes red, “but it was past that. There was no reason for it to be alive except to suffer. Explain that.”
We didn’t spend my three dollars. I went to bed numb and exhausted and plunged into sleep. I dreamed about it. I woke in the darkness and God wasn’t there anymore.
Where the Wild Things Are
The highway had marsh on each side now. Egrets snaked their necks down and plucked minnows and fiddler crabs out of a creek. The bus crossed the bridge toward Marshland Island, half wrapped in a fence that wound among oaks and pines. Our bus passed through the gate and rumbled down a dirt road.
Mr. Thomas parked in a field between a rusty water tower and an old plantation house with brick wings added on. The effect was of a mansion with school buildings attached. Everywhere was green or striving toward green, and you smelled river mud and pine and salt water.
The teachers led us off the bus and packed us together on the field. Sister Ascension, the principal, plodded towards the building to find our guide. She climbed each step by raising one foot onto it, then bringing the other up alongside, like a toddler.
The traffic was a distant swish. I saw an osprey drifting in slow circles over the deeper part of the island, near the river.
“I wish I had my .22,” said Pete Hancock. Pete was one of those kids whose lips move when they’re reading.
“If it weren’t for their claws,” said Sister Rosaria, hand at her brow above the vulture nose, “I’d say they were God’s best creatures.”
Ascension came down the steps, her upper arms shuddering at each new level. Behind her was a tall guy in a flannel shirt. The nun, flushed from the effort of descending, said something and spread her rubbery lips in a smile, and the man faked a good-natured laugh, tilting his head back and squinting into the sun. He had a shaggy beard and mustache, brownish, and his hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore little round glasses, hiking boots.
Mrs. Barnes clapped twice and said, “Listen up, people,” and fixed an expectant smile. She turned to Ascension, and we turned too.
“Class,” Ascension’s voice was round and hollow, “this is Paul Steatham. He’s a naturalist. He’ll be showing us around and teaching us about the plants and animals on the island.”
Paul Steatham petted his beard and smiled, eyes glittering.
Rusty mumbled, “That guy’s smoked a few joints in his life.”
His mother, right behind us, said, “Russell Scalisi, if you embarrass me in front of these teachers, I’ll sell the television.”
Paul, with the beard, explained that the animals on the island were originally native to Georgia. He spoke of extinction as if it was a clattering machine that might someday crush our own fingers. Because his voice was deep and rich, an axe thunking a tree stump, everyone listened. He asked us to stay on the trails and be quiet and not to tease the animals.
“These creatures aren’t completely
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the slap of the blade, or whatever I heard, would return to me in fevers, in anxious half-dreams, and at moments when I thought I was happy. The dog never made a sound.
“What you wanna do that for, motherfucker?” The black boy’ssneakers smacked dirt coming towards us, and we both ran, machetes slapping our flanks, ran until the road became paved and there were plenty of streetlights.
Tim stopped under a light, leaned back against the post, and smacked his fists on his forehead, sliding down into a squat, gagging on tears. He stood up and streaked dirty palms across his cheeks and looked at me as if I was part of all this.
“There’s no God, Francis, I hope you realize that. I’m not ashamed for crying.” One of his legs was dashed with blood. He was shaking. He told me he’d never killed anything more than a mosquito. “I would’ve like to cure that dog,” he whispered, eyes red, “but it was past that. There was no reason for it to be alive except to suffer. Explain that.”
We didn’t spend my three dollars. I went to bed numb and exhausted and plunged into sleep. I dreamed about it. I woke in the darkness and God wasn’t there anymore.
Where the Wild Things Are
The highway had marsh on each side now. Egrets snaked their necks down and plucked minnows and fiddler crabs out of a creek. The bus crossed the bridge toward Marshland Island, half wrapped in a fence that wound among oaks and pines. Our bus passed through the gate and rumbled down a dirt road.
Mr. Thomas parked in a field between a rusty water tower and an old plantation house with brick wings added on. The effect was of a mansion with school buildings attached. Everywhere was green or striving toward green, and you smelled river mud and pine and salt water.
The teachers led us off the bus and packed us together on the field. Sister Ascension, the principal, plodded towards the building to find our guide. She climbed each step by raising one foot onto it, then bringing the other up alongside, like a toddler.
The traffic was a distant swish. I saw an osprey drifting in slow circles over the deeper part of the island, near the river.
“I wish I had my .22,” said Pete Hancock. Pete was one of those kids whose lips move when they’re reading.
“If it weren’t for their claws,” said Sister Rosaria, hand at her brow above the vulture nose, “I’d say they were God’s best creatures.”
Ascension came down the steps, her upper arms shuddering at each new level. Behind her was a tall guy in a flannel shirt. The nun, flushed from the effort of descending, said something and spread her rubbery lips in a smile, and the man faked a good-natured laugh, tilting his head back and squinting into the sun. He had a shaggy beard and mustache, brownish, and his hair was tied back in a ponytail. He wore little round glasses, hiking boots.
Mrs. Barnes clapped twice and said, “Listen up, people,” and fixed an expectant smile. She turned to Ascension, and we turned too.
“Class,” Ascension’s voice was round and hollow, “this is Paul Steatham. He’s a naturalist. He’ll be showing us around and teaching us about the plants and animals on the island.”
Paul Steatham petted his beard and smiled, eyes glittering.
Rusty mumbled, “That guy’s smoked a few joints in his life.”
His mother, right behind us, said, “Russell Scalisi, if you embarrass me in front of these teachers, I’ll sell the television.”
Paul, with the beard, explained that the animals on the island were originally native to Georgia. He spoke of extinction as if it was a clattering machine that might someday crush our own fingers. Because his voice was deep and rich, an axe thunking a tree stump, everyone listened. He asked us to stay on the trails and be quiet and not to tease the animals.
“These creatures aren’t completely
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