Read Online The Long Stretch by Linden McIntyre - Free Book Online

the school standing around close. Me doing nothing. Standing there, head down, eyes on fire. “Johnny sissy, Johnny sissy,” he shouts, a nickname with the awful potential of sticking to you. Like the one stuck to Hughie the Slut. And Ebenezer Lemonsqueezer. Johnny Sissy. I could be an old man, them calling me that.
    Donald is jolting my shoulder with the heel of his hand, not satisfied with the effect of his verbal taunt, but it bounces off, slams into my ear, deafening me for a moment. My hand comes up suddenly, an automatic spasm, more fear than aggression. Grazes his arm, high, close to his face. Provocation. Then the nauseating smack of his fists against my face. Quick thumps. And then the smells in your nostrils. Then the taste, sweet salted blood, snot, and tears.
    “I’m telling Sextus and Duncan,” Effie was saying, scrambling along beside me coming home, walking fast to keep up. “They’ll fix him.”
    “Don’t tell anybody,” I’m saying, thinking of Pa.
    “What happened!”
    But how do you explain that to the father who survived a thousand thumps? Delivered thousands more. Shook off a sniper’s bullet, and a whole war. Who could never understand.
    The hand went swiftly to my chin, thumb and forefinger rough on the jawbone.
    “Come on,” he said, voice quieter. “I don’t care who did it. I just want to know what you did back.”
    Eyes locked on mine.
    “See,” he said, “you let somebody walk over you once, they never stop. You hear what I say?”
    Me nodding against his hand.
    “You can get a black eye or a bloody nose. That’s nothing. But you let them get away with it…you never get over that.”
    He let go of my face, which tilted instantly to the ground.
    Then: “It’s my own fault…I never toughened you up soon enough. What are you now?”
    “Nine,” I think I said.
    “Here, give me one, hard as you can. Right in the guts. Let me see what you’ve got.”
    I couldn’t even lift my gaze from the ground.

3
    I hear his footsteps. Stops in the bathroom. Toilet flush. Now I can hear the creak of floorboards in the living room. He’s exploring.
    He calls, “I have a photograph here. The old man’s sawmill. Him in it.”
    “I watched him build it,” I say, impatient. Where did he find that?
    He shuffles into the kitchen with a photograph in his hand.
    “So what about the phone call?” I ask.
    “What about it?” he says.
    “Like when did Aunt Jessie find out you were around?”
    “Well, what’s the difference,” he says. “It just means now I’ll have to go see her tomorrow.” Something evasive in his voice, the averted face.
    “Wasn’t that your plan?”
    “Well, yes,” he says. “But you never knew how a fellow will feel tomorrow. Anyway. Look at this.”
    He drops the photo on the table between us. Black and white. Uncle Jack standing by the big circular saw. Hand on the long lever that controlled the carriage. Him looking like he has the rest of his life under his hand.
    “He gambled everything on that old mill. Everything he saved up working on the causeway. Lost his shirt.”
    “I don’t want to harp on it,” I say. “But how many people know you’re here?”
    “Couple,” he says with a shrug.
    “Like?”
    “Well. Ma, obviously.”
    “And who else?”
    “Well,” he says. “Effie knows. That’s the point, eh? Make her sweat. Worrying what we’ll be talking about.”
    “So what did you tell Effie you were coming down here for?”
    “I told her I wanted to see Ma…maybe you.”
    See me.
    “She thought that was pretty funny. Said I’d better make sure there aren’t any firearms in the old place.”
    I snort. “So you’re on pretty good terms,” I say.
    He laughs a long chortling “Noooooho. I wanted to take the kid with me. Sandy. See the place. Let her meet people. Expecially Ma.”
    “So?”
    “She laughed.”
    I couldn’t stay away from the sawmill. I’d head there straight from school. Hang around until near dark. Jack would often