saloon. Any night Any
night! Why'd you stop me!"
"You hit him with that cue stick and you'll kill him. You
have an Irish temper, Jackie."
"He's an animal!" Jackie punched his palm with his fist.
"Didn't you feel sorry for him?" Brendan asked.
"Sorry! Why--for the love of God?"
Brendan shrugged. "Because that's the best he can do. Push a
fifteen-year-old kid out of a poolroom. That's the high-water mark
for him. Rotten teeth. Smell like a goat. Red sores all over his
face. And one pair of jeans to his name. Life screwed him."
"Jesus. You know, Brendan, you could go around feeling sorry
for rattlesnakes. How about feeling sorry for me? I was making a hot
run on that table. Eleven balls I had."
"You don't need anyone to feel sorry for you, Jackie. You're
going to be king of the hill."
"What's that mean?"
"You're going to be a famous actor."
"Here comes the bullshit again."
"It's no lie, Jackie. You're going to go all the way."
Jackie put his arm on Brendan's shoulder. "Brendan--you
should keep that future stuff to yourself. Some of the people in the
family are calling you a weirdo. They say a banshee howled when you
were born."
"I know." Brendan shrugged at him. Acceptance, his
mother said.
Jackie punched his arm. "Hey, Brendan? Do you see me making
out with Annie O'Casey?"
They were walking down the beach toward the house. Jackie seemed
to have forgotten about the poolroom incident. The Irish temper a
grass fire of great heat, quickly burned out.
Jackie turned to Brian. "You finished with that ice cream
cone, Lump-lump? You're wearing most of it all over your face. Come
on, I'll spot you a hundred yards and I'll race you back to the
house. Deal?"
The sunset over the bay was a rich red, like the puppet devil's
face. From the sea, darkness was reaching out to smother the whole
island. And Brendan felt desperately alone. He wished for his mother,
wanted badly to have her advice. He walked alone with his hands over
his ears. Clippity clip. Clippity clip .
All up and down the beach, people were having the last bonfires of
the season. And everyone looked strangely red and merry.
He pulled his hat farmer down over his eyes. It was Uncle Matty's
yellow fishing hat and the brim could be brought down to hide his
eyes. He'd worn it all day so that others wouldn't see the doubt and
fear in his eyes.
Acceptance, his mother had counseled him. Acceptance. He was
trying. He felt like a leper. Maybe they would make him wear a
leper's warning bell as he read about in a story once. Acceptance,
Brendan, acceptance.
He sensed it before he saw it. It came sweeping with incredible
speed from the deep darkness of the east, shooting right at him a
foot above the water, over the breaking waves and curving in the air
above him. It was a huge bird. He saw it only indistinctly, catching
it in silhouette from the bonfires or by reflected light as it
circled above his head.
It shrieked at him as though he were an interloper of some sort.
A woman cried out and crouched. "What is it?"
"It's a hawk," a man said.
"What's it doing? What's it want?"
Brendan raised an arm to brush at it and felt razor-sharp talons
on his forearm. His hat was snatched off, leaving another cut on his
scalp. The bird's wing struck Brendan on the back of the head and
almost stunned him. It circled him once more, staring at his bared
head, rose higher and flew in larger circles, still emitting its
shrieks.
A group from one of the bonfires came running.
"What the hell is it?"
"A bird."
"You okay, kid?"
"It's a hawk! It's enormous. All black. See it?"
"What the hell's it doing here?"
"Must be from the Brigantine Bird Preserve."
One of the men picked up Brendan's hat. "The yellow must have
attracted him. Maybe he thought you were a bird on the wing."
And he laughed. They all laughed.
The hawk settled on a rooftop and watched Brendan a few moments
more. Then it spread its wings, sailed off the roof and with three or
four powerful pumps of its wings flew
night! Why'd you stop me!"
"You hit him with that cue stick and you'll kill him. You
have an Irish temper, Jackie."
"He's an animal!" Jackie punched his palm with his fist.
"Didn't you feel sorry for him?" Brendan asked.
"Sorry! Why--for the love of God?"
Brendan shrugged. "Because that's the best he can do. Push a
fifteen-year-old kid out of a poolroom. That's the high-water mark
for him. Rotten teeth. Smell like a goat. Red sores all over his
face. And one pair of jeans to his name. Life screwed him."
"Jesus. You know, Brendan, you could go around feeling sorry
for rattlesnakes. How about feeling sorry for me? I was making a hot
run on that table. Eleven balls I had."
"You don't need anyone to feel sorry for you, Jackie. You're
going to be king of the hill."
"What's that mean?"
"You're going to be a famous actor."
"Here comes the bullshit again."
"It's no lie, Jackie. You're going to go all the way."
Jackie put his arm on Brendan's shoulder. "Brendan--you
should keep that future stuff to yourself. Some of the people in the
family are calling you a weirdo. They say a banshee howled when you
were born."
"I know." Brendan shrugged at him. Acceptance, his
mother said.
Jackie punched his arm. "Hey, Brendan? Do you see me making
out with Annie O'Casey?"
They were walking down the beach toward the house. Jackie seemed
to have forgotten about the poolroom incident. The Irish temper a
grass fire of great heat, quickly burned out.
Jackie turned to Brian. "You finished with that ice cream
cone, Lump-lump? You're wearing most of it all over your face. Come
on, I'll spot you a hundred yards and I'll race you back to the
house. Deal?"
The sunset over the bay was a rich red, like the puppet devil's
face. From the sea, darkness was reaching out to smother the whole
island. And Brendan felt desperately alone. He wished for his mother,
wanted badly to have her advice. He walked alone with his hands over
his ears. Clippity clip. Clippity clip .
All up and down the beach, people were having the last bonfires of
the season. And everyone looked strangely red and merry.
He pulled his hat farmer down over his eyes. It was Uncle Matty's
yellow fishing hat and the brim could be brought down to hide his
eyes. He'd worn it all day so that others wouldn't see the doubt and
fear in his eyes.
Acceptance, his mother had counseled him. Acceptance. He was
trying. He felt like a leper. Maybe they would make him wear a
leper's warning bell as he read about in a story once. Acceptance,
Brendan, acceptance.
He sensed it before he saw it. It came sweeping with incredible
speed from the deep darkness of the east, shooting right at him a
foot above the water, over the breaking waves and curving in the air
above him. It was a huge bird. He saw it only indistinctly, catching
it in silhouette from the bonfires or by reflected light as it
circled above his head.
It shrieked at him as though he were an interloper of some sort.
A woman cried out and crouched. "What is it?"
"It's a hawk," a man said.
"What's it doing? What's it want?"
Brendan raised an arm to brush at it and felt razor-sharp talons
on his forearm. His hat was snatched off, leaving another cut on his
scalp. The bird's wing struck Brendan on the back of the head and
almost stunned him. It circled him once more, staring at his bared
head, rose higher and flew in larger circles, still emitting its
shrieks.
A group from one of the bonfires came running.
"What the hell is it?"
"A bird."
"You okay, kid?"
"It's a hawk! It's enormous. All black. See it?"
"What the hell's it doing here?"
"Must be from the Brigantine Bird Preserve."
One of the men picked up Brendan's hat. "The yellow must have
attracted him. Maybe he thought you were a bird on the wing."
And he laughed. They all laughed.
The hawk settled on a rooftop and watched Brendan a few moments
more. Then it spread its wings, sailed off the roof and with three or
four powerful pumps of its wings flew
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