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Authors: William Gay
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back across the ridges to pick up their truck.
What were you going to do, back there, kick my ass?
Dennis was looking at the sliding yellow water. What?
Back there at the camp when my jet fuel was missing. You got up and folded your little glasses and shoved them in your pocket. You looked for all the world like a schoolteacher getting ready to straighten some folks out. You think you can kick my ass?
I wouldnât want to hurt you, Dennis said.
Wesley laughed. How long have you known me, Dennis?
You know that. Since the third grade.
Third grade. Have I ever lied to you?
I donât know. How would I know that? Not that I know of.
I never lied to you. So Iâm telling the truth now. Iâm going to kill them. Iâm going to kill them with an oar, not flat like I was paddling their ass, but sideways like I was chopping wood. Iâll take their heads off. Do you want out? Iâll ease over and let you out.
The boat hadnât slackened. The oars dipped and pulled, dipped and pulled, with no variation in their rhythm. The boat seemed to have attained its own volition, its own momentum.
No, Dennis finally said, and he knew with a cold horror that Wesley was telling the truth.
Do you really think Iâd stop long enough to let you out?
You never lie.
No.
I can ask you the one right question and youâll lie.
Ask it then.
But before he could ask it, Wesley suddenly shouted. A hoarse cry of exultation. Dennis looked. They were aligned on a sandbar far downriver, three of them, the three canoes beached on the shore like bright metallic whales. Tiny dark figures in attitudes of waiting, watching them come.
Shouts came skipping across the water. Now he could see that Lester had his hands cupped about his mouth like a megaphone. It took you long enough, he yelled.
Wesley might not have heard. He was leaning into the oars, the muscles in the arms that worked them knotting and relaxing, knotting and relaxing.
They stood like the last ragged phalanx of an army backed to the last wall there was. They each held an oar. When the boat was still twenty feet from the shoreline Wesley bailed out. Oar aloft like Godâs swift sword. He seemed to be skimming the surface, a dark, vengeful divinity the waters would not even have. He knocked Lesterâs oar aside with his own and drew back and swung. The oar made an eerie, abrupt whistling. Blood misted the air like paint from an exploding spray can. Lester went to his knees clutching his face, blood streaming between his fingers. Wesley hit him across the top of the head, and a vulval gash opened in the shaven flesh. Dennis slammed the longhaired man backward, and he stumbled and fell into a thicket of willows and wild cane. He advanced on him, swinging the oar like a man killing snakes. An oar caught him across the bicep, and his left arm went suddenly numb. He turned. A man with a fright wig of wild red hair and clenched yellow teeth broadsided him in the shoulder with the flat of an oar just as Wesley broke his own oar across the manâs back. Wesley was left with a section half the length of a baseball bat. The redhaired man was going to run through the cane, and Wesley threw the stub of the paddle at him.
The longhaired man had simply vanished. Dennis had driven him into the cane, and heâd just disappeared. Dennis was almost giddy with relief. It seemed over before it had properly begun, and it had not been as bad as he had feared it would be.
Lester was crawling on his hands and knees away from the river. He crawled blindly, his eyes full of blood, which dripped into the sand below him.
Wesley picked up a discarded oar and walked between Lester and the growth of willows. He had the oar cocked like a chopping ax. Lester crawled on. When his head bumped Wesleyâs knee he reared backward, sitting on his folded legs. He made a mute, armsspread gesture of supplication.
Wesley , Dennis yelled.
Kill this motherfucker graveyard dead, Wesley
What were you going to do, back there, kick my ass?
Dennis was looking at the sliding yellow water. What?
Back there at the camp when my jet fuel was missing. You got up and folded your little glasses and shoved them in your pocket. You looked for all the world like a schoolteacher getting ready to straighten some folks out. You think you can kick my ass?
I wouldnât want to hurt you, Dennis said.
Wesley laughed. How long have you known me, Dennis?
You know that. Since the third grade.
Third grade. Have I ever lied to you?
I donât know. How would I know that? Not that I know of.
I never lied to you. So Iâm telling the truth now. Iâm going to kill them. Iâm going to kill them with an oar, not flat like I was paddling their ass, but sideways like I was chopping wood. Iâll take their heads off. Do you want out? Iâll ease over and let you out.
The boat hadnât slackened. The oars dipped and pulled, dipped and pulled, with no variation in their rhythm. The boat seemed to have attained its own volition, its own momentum.
No, Dennis finally said, and he knew with a cold horror that Wesley was telling the truth.
Do you really think Iâd stop long enough to let you out?
You never lie.
No.
I can ask you the one right question and youâll lie.
Ask it then.
But before he could ask it, Wesley suddenly shouted. A hoarse cry of exultation. Dennis looked. They were aligned on a sandbar far downriver, three of them, the three canoes beached on the shore like bright metallic whales. Tiny dark figures in attitudes of waiting, watching them come.
Shouts came skipping across the water. Now he could see that Lester had his hands cupped about his mouth like a megaphone. It took you long enough, he yelled.
Wesley might not have heard. He was leaning into the oars, the muscles in the arms that worked them knotting and relaxing, knotting and relaxing.
They stood like the last ragged phalanx of an army backed to the last wall there was. They each held an oar. When the boat was still twenty feet from the shoreline Wesley bailed out. Oar aloft like Godâs swift sword. He seemed to be skimming the surface, a dark, vengeful divinity the waters would not even have. He knocked Lesterâs oar aside with his own and drew back and swung. The oar made an eerie, abrupt whistling. Blood misted the air like paint from an exploding spray can. Lester went to his knees clutching his face, blood streaming between his fingers. Wesley hit him across the top of the head, and a vulval gash opened in the shaven flesh. Dennis slammed the longhaired man backward, and he stumbled and fell into a thicket of willows and wild cane. He advanced on him, swinging the oar like a man killing snakes. An oar caught him across the bicep, and his left arm went suddenly numb. He turned. A man with a fright wig of wild red hair and clenched yellow teeth broadsided him in the shoulder with the flat of an oar just as Wesley broke his own oar across the manâs back. Wesley was left with a section half the length of a baseball bat. The redhaired man was going to run through the cane, and Wesley threw the stub of the paddle at him.
The longhaired man had simply vanished. Dennis had driven him into the cane, and heâd just disappeared. Dennis was almost giddy with relief. It seemed over before it had properly begun, and it had not been as bad as he had feared it would be.
Lester was crawling on his hands and knees away from the river. He crawled blindly, his eyes full of blood, which dripped into the sand below him.
Wesley picked up a discarded oar and walked between Lester and the growth of willows. He had the oar cocked like a chopping ax. Lester crawled on. When his head bumped Wesleyâs knee he reared backward, sitting on his folded legs. He made a mute, armsspread gesture of supplication.
Wesley , Dennis yelled.
Kill this motherfucker graveyard dead, Wesley
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