how much taller, stronger, how much better his father is than Mr. Fuller. His own father a better man than this man, though everything he tries goes wrong. The gas station. Before that, a lumberyard. Before that, a diner on the highway. When Jesse was very small, his father had tried to raise chickens and pigs on a brokendown farm his parents had owned. In those days they had lived in the deep country, the real country, back on a dirt road, no electricity, no neighbors, “no nothing,” as his mother would say, speaking sourly of those years. Mr. Fuller lived in Yewville, somewhere near school. Nobody talked about him except to make jokes. They mocked him behind his back. But to his face they were afraid of him, even the older boys were afraid. He had a stern, pale, pasty anger in him, a weak man’s anger, quick to be released. His voice, when raised, sounded shrill and alarming. He was all right in Yewville, because he had a job and everyone knew him. Everyone knew Willard Harte too, and didn’t dare to make jokes about him, buthe wasn’t all right. There was something wrong with him. Something wrong. You couldn’t figure out why, what made the difference between these two men. There had to be a difference. If Willard Harte were to rush into this room, his hair wavy and stiff, his footsteps making the floor shudder, Mr. Fuller would have to step back; there wouldn’t be room for both of them. If Willard Harte were to tell one of his jokes, laughing and moving his big hands around, drawing shapes out of the air, Mr. Fuller would have to retreat, to cringe … that nervous smile of his would be no match for Willard Harte’s grin. Willard Harte was tall—about six feet four inches—and his shoulders were broad with a restless, urgent look to them, even under his clothes, and the cords and arteries in his neck looked urgent too, impatient with silence or with standing too long in one place. You had to keep on the move! Had to keep going! Out hunting, Willard Harte always took the lead. His friends’ dogs sidled up to him, bending their heads to him, panting to be petted by
him
, grateful when he rubbed their heads with the stock of his shotgun. Mr. Fuller, who had lived all his life in Yewville, who did not hunt and would have been frightened of a gun, would have to retreat in shame before Willard Harte. Shouldn’t Jesse feel pride in that?
But no pride. Nothing. He feels shabby and meager in this man’s eyes—just a boy from the country in overalls, Willard Harte’s son.
“There’s no need to return to assembly,” Mr. Fuller says.
“Thank you,” Jesse says.
Left alone, he feels relief; then he feels a peculiar looseness, a lightening, as if he has been abandoned. His face is very warm, maybe feverish. Maybe he is sick? It will be a relief to be sick, he thinks, to lie in bed and have his mother worry over him. He thinks of what he had to eat for breakfast that morning—but it is gone, vomited away, not enough left to make him sick again. He has a fear of being sick to his stomach in front of other people, but his stomach seems empty now, so he steps out into the hall. Strange, to be alone here. The corridor is deserted and he can do anything he wants. No one is watching. Up and down the narrow hall there are decorations for Christmas the girls put up—bells that open up, made of red crepe paper, slick paper cutouts of Santa Claus, angels made of tinfoil—and they wobble in his eye. He would like to tear them all down. He walks quickly to his locker, which is in the ninth-grade corner. Nearby, a picture of Abraham Lincoln,high on the wall, has been decorated with green and red crepe paper. Down the hall George Washington’s heavy ornate frame has been decorated the same way. Jesse puts on his frayed, quilted blue jacket, feeling that he was mistaken in thinking no one was watching him: the men in these old portraits are watching him. Kindly, abstract, surrounded by fuzz or clouds, these dead men
him
, grateful when he rubbed their heads with the stock of his shotgun. Mr. Fuller, who had lived all his life in Yewville, who did not hunt and would have been frightened of a gun, would have to retreat in shame before Willard Harte. Shouldn’t Jesse feel pride in that?
But no pride. Nothing. He feels shabby and meager in this man’s eyes—just a boy from the country in overalls, Willard Harte’s son.
“There’s no need to return to assembly,” Mr. Fuller says.
“Thank you,” Jesse says.
Left alone, he feels relief; then he feels a peculiar looseness, a lightening, as if he has been abandoned. His face is very warm, maybe feverish. Maybe he is sick? It will be a relief to be sick, he thinks, to lie in bed and have his mother worry over him. He thinks of what he had to eat for breakfast that morning—but it is gone, vomited away, not enough left to make him sick again. He has a fear of being sick to his stomach in front of other people, but his stomach seems empty now, so he steps out into the hall. Strange, to be alone here. The corridor is deserted and he can do anything he wants. No one is watching. Up and down the narrow hall there are decorations for Christmas the girls put up—bells that open up, made of red crepe paper, slick paper cutouts of Santa Claus, angels made of tinfoil—and they wobble in his eye. He would like to tear them all down. He walks quickly to his locker, which is in the ninth-grade corner. Nearby, a picture of Abraham Lincoln,high on the wall, has been decorated with green and red crepe paper. Down the hall George Washington’s heavy ornate frame has been decorated the same way. Jesse puts on his frayed, quilted blue jacket, feeling that he was mistaken in thinking no one was watching him: the men in these old portraits are watching him. Kindly, abstract, surrounded by fuzz or clouds, these dead men
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