Read Online The Further Adventures of The Joker by Martin H. Greenberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Martin H. Greenberg
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behind me.
“And I’ll be sure to give Dina your best tonight.”
On a Beautiful
Summer’s Day,
He Was
Robert R. McCammon
a boy.
Junior was smiling, and the sun was on his face. He was fourteen years old, it was the middle of June and summer looked like a long sweet road that went on and on until it was out of sight, swallowed by the hills of autumn a hundred miles away. Junior walked along the street two blocks from his house, his hands in the pockets of trousers that had patched knees, his fingers clenched on bird bones. The warm breeze stirred through his shock of brown hair, and in that breeze he smelled the roses in Mrs. Broughton’s garden. Across the street, Eddie Connors and a couple of his buddies were working on the engine of Eddie’s red, fire-breathing Chevy. They were big guys, all of them eighteen years old, already getting beer guts. Junior lay in bed at night and listened to the racket of Eddie’s red Chevy roaring up and down the street like a tiger looking for a way out of a cage, and that was when the shouting rose up from the Napier house like the wrath of God and—
Eddie looked up from the work, grease all over the front of his sweat-soaked T-shirt, a smear of grease across his bulbous nose like black war paint. He nudged the guy next to him, Greg Cawthen, and then the third of them, Dennis Hafner, looked across the street and saw Junior, too.
Junior knew what was coming. His feet in their bright blue Keds stuttered on the broken pavement, where bottle shards caught the summer sun. He was a tall boy for his age, but gaunt. His face was long, his chin pointed. His eyebrows merged over a thin, sharp nose. Know why your nose is in the middle of your face? his father had asked him once. Because it’s the scenter. That’s a joke, Junior. It’s a joke. Get it?
Smile, Junior!
SMILE, I SAID!
The corners of Junior’s mouth upturned. His eyes were dark, and his cheeks strained.
“Hey!” Eddie shouted. His voice came at Junior like a freight train, and Junior stopped walking. Eddie nudged Greg in the ribs, a conspiratorial nudge. “Where ya goin’, gooney?”
“Nowhere,” Junior answered, standing on shattered glass.
“Yes, you are.” Eddie tapped his beefy palm with a socket wrench. “You gotta be goin’ somewhere. You’re walkin’, ain’t you?”
Junior shrugged. In his hands he worked the bird bones deep in his pockets. “I’m just walking.”
“Gooney’s too stupid to know where he’s goin’,” Dennis Hafner spoke up, from a mouth that looked like a puffy red wound. “Skinny little fruit.” His ugly lips spouted a sound of disgust.
“Hey, Gooney!” Greg Cawthen said, his face square and ruddy under a crewcut of red hair. “Your old man home?”
Junior squinted up at the sun. A bird was flying in the sky, alone in all that stark blue expanse.
“We’re talkin’ to ya, numb nuts!” Eddie said. “Greg asked if your old man was home!”
Junior shook his head. His heart was beating very hard, and he wished he had wings.
“Yeah, right!” Dennis nodded, and punched Greg on the shoulder. “They’ve got Gooney’s old man in the crazy house again. Didn’t you hear?”
“Is that so?” Eddie stared balefully at Junior. “They got your old man in the crazy house again? They got him locked up so he can’t hurt nobody?”
Junior’s mouth moved. “No,” he answered. He felt cold inside, as if his guts were coated with ice.
“Why’d they let him out, then?” Eddie Connors went on, his eyes narrowed into fleshy slits. “If he’s crazy, why’d they let him out?”
“He’s not . . .” Junior’s voice was weak, and he stopped speaking. He tried again: “My dad’s not crazy.”
“Sure!” Dennis let out a mean yawp of laughter. “They only put sane people in the crazy house!”
“It wasn’t . . . wasn’t a crazy house!” Junior said; it came out louder and harder than he’d wanted. “It was a hospital!”
“Oh, yeah! Big
“And I’ll be sure to give Dina your best tonight.”
On a Beautiful
Summer’s Day,
He Was
Robert R. McCammon
a boy.
Junior was smiling, and the sun was on his face. He was fourteen years old, it was the middle of June and summer looked like a long sweet road that went on and on until it was out of sight, swallowed by the hills of autumn a hundred miles away. Junior walked along the street two blocks from his house, his hands in the pockets of trousers that had patched knees, his fingers clenched on bird bones. The warm breeze stirred through his shock of brown hair, and in that breeze he smelled the roses in Mrs. Broughton’s garden. Across the street, Eddie Connors and a couple of his buddies were working on the engine of Eddie’s red, fire-breathing Chevy. They were big guys, all of them eighteen years old, already getting beer guts. Junior lay in bed at night and listened to the racket of Eddie’s red Chevy roaring up and down the street like a tiger looking for a way out of a cage, and that was when the shouting rose up from the Napier house like the wrath of God and—
Eddie looked up from the work, grease all over the front of his sweat-soaked T-shirt, a smear of grease across his bulbous nose like black war paint. He nudged the guy next to him, Greg Cawthen, and then the third of them, Dennis Hafner, looked across the street and saw Junior, too.
Junior knew what was coming. His feet in their bright blue Keds stuttered on the broken pavement, where bottle shards caught the summer sun. He was a tall boy for his age, but gaunt. His face was long, his chin pointed. His eyebrows merged over a thin, sharp nose. Know why your nose is in the middle of your face? his father had asked him once. Because it’s the scenter. That’s a joke, Junior. It’s a joke. Get it?
Smile, Junior!
SMILE, I SAID!
The corners of Junior’s mouth upturned. His eyes were dark, and his cheeks strained.
“Hey!” Eddie shouted. His voice came at Junior like a freight train, and Junior stopped walking. Eddie nudged Greg in the ribs, a conspiratorial nudge. “Where ya goin’, gooney?”
“Nowhere,” Junior answered, standing on shattered glass.
“Yes, you are.” Eddie tapped his beefy palm with a socket wrench. “You gotta be goin’ somewhere. You’re walkin’, ain’t you?”
Junior shrugged. In his hands he worked the bird bones deep in his pockets. “I’m just walking.”
“Gooney’s too stupid to know where he’s goin’,” Dennis Hafner spoke up, from a mouth that looked like a puffy red wound. “Skinny little fruit.” His ugly lips spouted a sound of disgust.
“Hey, Gooney!” Greg Cawthen said, his face square and ruddy under a crewcut of red hair. “Your old man home?”
Junior squinted up at the sun. A bird was flying in the sky, alone in all that stark blue expanse.
“We’re talkin’ to ya, numb nuts!” Eddie said. “Greg asked if your old man was home!”
Junior shook his head. His heart was beating very hard, and he wished he had wings.
“Yeah, right!” Dennis nodded, and punched Greg on the shoulder. “They’ve got Gooney’s old man in the crazy house again. Didn’t you hear?”
“Is that so?” Eddie stared balefully at Junior. “They got your old man in the crazy house again? They got him locked up so he can’t hurt nobody?”
Junior’s mouth moved. “No,” he answered. He felt cold inside, as if his guts were coated with ice.
“Why’d they let him out, then?” Eddie Connors went on, his eyes narrowed into fleshy slits. “If he’s crazy, why’d they let him out?”
“He’s not . . .” Junior’s voice was weak, and he stopped speaking. He tried again: “My dad’s not crazy.”
“Sure!” Dennis let out a mean yawp of laughter. “They only put sane people in the crazy house!”
“It wasn’t . . . wasn’t a crazy house!” Junior said; it came out louder and harder than he’d wanted. “It was a hospital!”
“Oh, yeah! Big
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