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Authors: Jack Ketchum
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not a lady? You figure ladies can’t do what’s necessary? Can’t get rid of the goddamn pests in their goddamn garden?”
Meg looked confused. It came so fast you couldn’t blame her.
“No, I...”
“You damn well better say no to me, honey! Because I don’t need that kind of insinuation from any kid in a T-shirt can’t even wipe her own face clean. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She backed away a step.
And that seemed to cool Ruth down a little. She took a breath.
“Okay,” she said. “You go ahead downstairs. Go on, get back to your laundry. And call me when you’re finished. I’ll have something else for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned and Ruth smiled.
“My boys can handle it,” she said. “Can’t you, boys?”
I nodded. At that moment I couldn’t speak. Nobody spoke. Her dismissal of Meg was so complete with authority and a strange sense of justice I was really a little in awe of her.
She patted Woofer’s head.
I glanced at Meg. I saw her walk back to the house, head low, wiping at her face, looking for the smudge of dirt Ruth said was there.
Ruth draped her arm across my shoulder and turned toward the elm trees in the back. I inhaled the scent of her—soap and kerosene and cigarettes and clean fresh hair.
“My boys can do it,” she said to me. And her voice was very gentle again.
Chapter Eleven
By one o’clock we’d torched every nest in the Chandlers’ yard, and Ruth had been right—the birds were having a field day now.
I stunk of kerosene.
I was starving and would have killed for a few White Castles just then. I settled for a bologna sandwich.
I went home.
I washed up in the kitchen and made one.
I could hear my mother in the living room ironing, humming along to the original cast album of The Music Man, which she and my father had bussed to New York to see last year, just before the shit hit the fan about what I could only assume was my father’s latest affair. My father had plenty of opportunity for affairs and he took them. He was co-owner of a bar and restaurant called the Eagle’s Nest. He met them late and he met them early.
But I guess my mother had forgotten all that for the moment and was remembering the good times now with Professor Harold Hill and company.
I hated The Music Man.
I shut myself in my room awhile and flipped through my dog-eared copies of Macabre and Stranger Than Science but there was nothing in there that interested me so I decided to go out again.
I walked out the back and Meg was standing on the Chandlers’ back porch shaking out the living-room throw rugs. She saw me and motioned me over.
I felt a moment of awkwardness, of divided loyalty.
If Meg was on Ruth’s shit list, there was probably some good reason for it.
On the other hand I still remembered that ride on the Ferris wheel and that morning by the Big Rock.
She draped the rugs carefully over the iron railing and came down off the steps across the driveway to meet me. The smudge on her face was gone but she still wore the dirty yellow shirt and Donny’s old rolled-up Bermudas. There was dust in her hair.
She took me by the arm and led me silently over to the side of her house, out of sight lines from the dining room window.
“I don’t get it,” she said...
You could see there was something troubling her, something she’d been working on.
“Why don’t they like me, David?”
That wasn’t what I’d expected. “Who, the Chandlers?”
“Yes.”
She just looked at me. She was serious.
“Sure they do. They like you.”
“No they don’t. I mean, I do everything I can to make them like me. I do more than my share of the work. I try to talk with them, get to know them, get them to know me, but they just don’t seem to want to. It’s like they want to not like me. Like it’s better that way.”
It was embarrassing. It was friends she was talking about here.
“Look,” I said. “So Ruth got mad at you. I don’t know why. Maybe she’s
Meg looked confused. It came so fast you couldn’t blame her.
“No, I...”
“You damn well better say no to me, honey! Because I don’t need that kind of insinuation from any kid in a T-shirt can’t even wipe her own face clean. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She backed away a step.
And that seemed to cool Ruth down a little. She took a breath.
“Okay,” she said. “You go ahead downstairs. Go on, get back to your laundry. And call me when you’re finished. I’ll have something else for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She turned and Ruth smiled.
“My boys can handle it,” she said. “Can’t you, boys?”
I nodded. At that moment I couldn’t speak. Nobody spoke. Her dismissal of Meg was so complete with authority and a strange sense of justice I was really a little in awe of her.
She patted Woofer’s head.
I glanced at Meg. I saw her walk back to the house, head low, wiping at her face, looking for the smudge of dirt Ruth said was there.
Ruth draped her arm across my shoulder and turned toward the elm trees in the back. I inhaled the scent of her—soap and kerosene and cigarettes and clean fresh hair.
“My boys can do it,” she said to me. And her voice was very gentle again.
Chapter Eleven
By one o’clock we’d torched every nest in the Chandlers’ yard, and Ruth had been right—the birds were having a field day now.
I stunk of kerosene.
I was starving and would have killed for a few White Castles just then. I settled for a bologna sandwich.
I went home.
I washed up in the kitchen and made one.
I could hear my mother in the living room ironing, humming along to the original cast album of The Music Man, which she and my father had bussed to New York to see last year, just before the shit hit the fan about what I could only assume was my father’s latest affair. My father had plenty of opportunity for affairs and he took them. He was co-owner of a bar and restaurant called the Eagle’s Nest. He met them late and he met them early.
But I guess my mother had forgotten all that for the moment and was remembering the good times now with Professor Harold Hill and company.
I hated The Music Man.
I shut myself in my room awhile and flipped through my dog-eared copies of Macabre and Stranger Than Science but there was nothing in there that interested me so I decided to go out again.
I walked out the back and Meg was standing on the Chandlers’ back porch shaking out the living-room throw rugs. She saw me and motioned me over.
I felt a moment of awkwardness, of divided loyalty.
If Meg was on Ruth’s shit list, there was probably some good reason for it.
On the other hand I still remembered that ride on the Ferris wheel and that morning by the Big Rock.
She draped the rugs carefully over the iron railing and came down off the steps across the driveway to meet me. The smudge on her face was gone but she still wore the dirty yellow shirt and Donny’s old rolled-up Bermudas. There was dust in her hair.
She took me by the arm and led me silently over to the side of her house, out of sight lines from the dining room window.
“I don’t get it,” she said...
You could see there was something troubling her, something she’d been working on.
“Why don’t they like me, David?”
That wasn’t what I’d expected. “Who, the Chandlers?”
“Yes.”
She just looked at me. She was serious.
“Sure they do. They like you.”
“No they don’t. I mean, I do everything I can to make them like me. I do more than my share of the work. I try to talk with them, get to know them, get them to know me, but they just don’t seem to want to. It’s like they want to not like me. Like it’s better that way.”
It was embarrassing. It was friends she was talking about here.
“Look,” I said. “So Ruth got mad at you. I don’t know why. Maybe she’s
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