27 August, 1924 7 страница

During the next class I looked through the windows onto the parking lot and saw Mr. Thorpe driving Mr. Broome out onto Santa Rosa Boulevard. An hour later Mr. Thorpe drove back in alone. Mr. Broome did not appear back at Carson for two days.

Hazing

After English class the next day we had a free period. Morris and his trio had permission to practice on the stage, and so did Del; the club performances were now only three weeks away. Morris immediately set off around the back of the school and down the stairs — we could see the two sophomores who struggled with bass and drums already swinging open the big door off the downstairs corridor. Del hung indecisively by his locker for a few minutes, wondering how he could work on his act without his partner. Tom had stayed home — gossip told us — because his father had been taken to the hospital 'for good. ' Then Del muttered to the rest of us, 'Oh, well, it's better than study hall, ' and wandered away after Morris.

'I think that guy's a homo, ' Bobby Hollingsworth said. Sherman told him to shut his trap.

After five or ten minutes in the library, I realized that I had left one of the books I needed in my locker. Dave Brick was across the table from me, but he too had forgotten to bring the book — it took a long time to extract this information. Ever since Laker Broome's astonishing chapel performance, Brick had begun to look dopey and half-awake everywhere but in algebra class. 'Hey, I have to look at that too, ' he whispered, surfacing out of his daze. 'You can have mine when I'm done, ' I whispered back, and got permission to leave the library.

I found the book in the jumble at the bottom of my locker and turned around. The halls were empty. A lively conversational buzz came from Fitz-Hallan's room, a disgruntled roar from Whipple's. A door to the Senior Room at the end of the back corridor cracked open, and Skeleton Ridpath edged around it, still with that moony look on his face. Then he stiffened and turned toward the far corner; a second later he began to run down the empty hall. What the dickens? I thought. Through the thicknesses of glass I saw him round the corner and race down the stairs. Finally I realized that he had heard the piano. 'Oh, no, ' I said out loud, and began to go quickly down the corridor. I had just reached the Senior Room when I saw the top-left-hand corner of the door to the stage — all that was visible to me — swing out.

I ran down the stairs and opened the door again just in time nearly to be knocked down by Brown and Hanna, the sophomores working with Morris. 'Don't go in there, ' Hanna said, and sprinted up the stairs. Brown was leaning his bass against the wall just inside the door and trying to get outside at the same time, and he just stared at me as if I were nuts. I could hear Ridpath's voice but not his words. Brown left the bass rattling from side to side like a heavy pendulum, and flashed around the door.

I went into the gloom. '. . . and don't come back or I'll cut your balls off, ' I heard Skeleton curse. 'Now for you two. '

The first thing I saw was Morris' pale face far off above the piano, looking both frightened and obstinate. Then I saw Del standing beside a table covered in black velvet. He had turned in my direction. He just looked frightened, and about ten years old. Skeleton's long back hovered before me, about ten feet away. From the way his head was turned, he was looking at Del.

'They have a right to be here, ' I said, and was going to continue, but Skeleton whirled around and stopped the words in my throat. I had never seen anything like his face.

He looked like a minor devil, a devil consumed by the horror of his ambition — the shadowy light hollowed his cheeks, somehow made his lips disappear. His hair and his skin seemed the same dull color. He might have been a hundred years old, a skull floating above an empty suit. In the monochrome face, his eyes smoked. They were screaming before he did, so loudly and with such pain that I was silenced.

'Another one? Another one? ' he yelled, and jerked himself forward toward me. The light shifted, and his face returned to normal. The purple badges below his eyes looked as though they itched. 'Damn you, ' he said, and his eyes never altered, and before he hit me I had time to think that I had seen the real Steve Ridpath, the one his face and nickname concealed. He flailed out and clouted me in the ribs, and dreamily grabbed my lapels and twisted us both about and pushed me back between Del and Morris.

The blood pounded in my ears. I faintly heard the sound of wood on wood — Morris quietly closing the lid of the Baldwin. 'Now, wait a second, ' came Fielding's voice.

'Wait? Wait? What the hell else have I. . . ' Skeleton raised his bony fists up to his head. 'Don't you tell me to wait, ' he hissed. 'You don't belong here. ' He was speaking to Morris, but looking at Del Nightingale. 'I warned you, ' he said.

Then he swiveled his head toward Morris. 'Get away from that fucking piano. ' He began to move spastically toward Morris, and Morris smartly separated himself from the bench. Nearly sobbing, Skeleton said, 'Goddammit, why can't you listen to me? Why can't you pay attention to what I say? Now, stay away from. . . Christ! ' He pushed his fists into his eyes, and I thought perhaps that in fact he was sobbing. 'It's too late for that. Oh, Jesus. You crappy freshmen. Why do you have to hang around here? '

'To practice, you dope, ' Morris said. 'What does it look like? '

'I'm not talking to you, ' Skeleton said, and took his hands away from his eyes. His face was wet and gray.

Morris' mouth opened.

'You think you know everything, ' Skeleton said quietly to Del.

'No, ' Del said.

'You think you own him. You'd be surprised. '

'Nobody owns anybody, ' Del said, rather startling me.

'You shitty little bastard, ' Skeleton erupted. 'You don't even know what you're talking about. And you're the one who thinks I should wait. Damn. I know as much as you do, Florence. He helps me. He wants to know me. '

By now Morris and I were sure that Ridpath was literally insane, and what happened next only confirmed it.

As scared as he was, Del had the courage to shake his head.

This enraged Skeleton. He began to tremble even more than Laker Broome during the chapel interrogations the day before. 'I'll show you, ' he shouted, and went for Del.

Skeleton slapped him twice, hard, and said, 'Take off your jacket and your shirt, goddamn you, I want to see some skin. '

'Hey, come on, ' Morris said.

Skeleton whirled on us and froze us to the boards with his face. 'You're not in it anymore. Stay put. Or you're next. '

Then he jerked at the back of Del's dark jacket and pulled it off. Del hurriedly began to unbutton his shirt, which glimmered in the dim light. As if having something to do helped his fear, he seemed calm, despite his haste. His cheeks burned where Skeleton had slapped him.

Morris said, 'Don't do it, Del. '

Skeleton twisted toward us again. 'If you dare to say one more thing, either of you, I'll kill you, so help me God. '

We believed him. He was bigger and stronger, and he was crazy. I glanced at Morris and saw that he was as terrified, as incapable of helping Del, as I was.

'You fucking Florence, ' Skeleton moaned. 'Why did you have to be here? I'm going to initiate you, all right. ' His face constricted and blanched, then went a dull shade of red. 'With my belt. Bend over that piano bench. '

Morris groaned and looked as if he might faint or vomit.

Del dropped his glimmering shirt — it was silk, I realized — on the dusty floor and went to the piano bench. He knelt before it and leaned over, exposing his pale boy's back. Skeleton was already breathing oddly. He unfastened his belt, drew it out through the loops, and doubled it.

For a moment he simply looked at Del, and I saw on his face that expression I had seen before, of a devil's desperation and need and distrust, of a hungry certainty all mixed up with fear. I too groaned then. Skeleton never paused. He moved slightly behind Del, to one side, and raised the doubled belt and sliced it down on Del's back.

'Oh, Jesus, ' he said, but Del said nothing. An instant later, a red line appeared where the belt had struck.

Skeleton raised his belt again, tightening his face with effort.

'No! ' Morris shouted.

The belt came whistling down and cracked against Del's skin. Del jerked backward a bit and closed his eyes. He was silently crying.

Skeleton repeated his odd, painful prayer — 'Oh, Jeesus' — and raised the belt and cut down with it again. Del gripped the legs of the piano bench. I saw tears dripping off his chin and breaking on the floor.

And that is the second 'image which stays with me most strongly from Carson. The three lines blistering in Del Nightingale's white back, Skeleton twisting over him in his agony, his face twisted too, the belt dangling from his hand. The first image, of Mr. Fitz-Hallan ironically proffering a ball-point pen to Dave Brick — that picture of the school's health — jumped alive in my mind, and I thought without thinking that the two were connected as two points on a single graph.

'You rich little freak, ' Skeleton wailed. 'You have everything. ' He broke away from Del, looked wildly at Fielding and me from out of his tortured face, broke toward us and we scrabbled backward toward the heavy curtains. Skeleton uttered a word, 'bird, ' as one speaks without realizing it, broke direction again, and threw the belt at the curtains and began to lunge toward the door. We heard it slam; then heard a loud silence.

It felt as though a cymbal had been struck in that cavernous dark space, the shattering sound cutting us free from whatever had held us up, held us in place. Morris and I, already sitting, collapsed onto the boards. Del slipped off the piano bench and lay beside it.

I began to go toward him on all fours. Morris followed. Del's face was streaked with what looked like mud; finally I saw that it was the dust melting on his wet face. 'It doesn't matter, ' Del said. 'Get my shirt. '

'Doesn't matter? ' Morris said as he stood up and went for the discarded shirt. 'We can get him expelled now. He's done. And he hurt you. Look at your back. '

'I can't look at my back, ' Del said. He raised himself up on his knees and put one hand on the piano bench. 'May I please have my shirt? '

Morris came up white-faced and handed it over. Del's face was red, but composed. The wet dust looked like thick warpaint. 'Do you need help standing up? ' Morris asked.

'No. '

All three of us heard the door opening again, and Morris hissingly drew in his breath; Del and I probably did the same.

'You in here? ' came a familiar voice. 'Hey, I can't find you. ' Expecting Skeleton's return, none of us could identify the speaker.

'Hey, I was looking all over for you, ' Dave Brick said, walking slowly toward us out of the gloom. 'You get that book? Holy cow. ' This last because now he could see the way we were staring at him, Morris and I fearfully, Del with the warpaint on his face.

'Holy cow, ' Brick repeated when he was close enough to see Del's back just before Del struggled into his shirt. 'What have you guys been doing? '

'Nothing, ' Del said.

'Skeleton hit him with a belt, ' Morris said, standing up and dusting off his knees. 'He's out of his mind. ' '. . . a belt. . . ? ' Brick made as if to help Del put on his jacket, but Del waved him away.

'Really out of his mind. Are you okay, Del? '

Del nodded and turned away from us.

'Does it hurt? '

'No. '

'We can actually get rid of Skeleton now, ' Morris hammered on.

Brick went '. . . geez. . . ' and sat down on the piano bench. 'Right here? ' he asked stupidly. 'In school? '

Morris was looking thoughtfully at the piano and the bench. 'You know what I think, ' he said.

'Uh? ' Brick said. Del, who was still facing the curtains, and I said nothing.

'I'm thinking that's the second time Skeleton went nuts when he saw me playing that piano. '

'No kidding, ' Brick said, gazing in wonder at the piano.

'Why would he do that? ' Morris inquired. 'Because he put something there he wants to keep hidden. Sound good? '

Brick and I looked at each other, finally understanding. 'My God, ' I said. 'Get off that bench, Brick. ' He jumped away from the piano bench, and he and I lifted the lid as Morris folded his arms and peered in.

Brick screamed. Something small and crystalline flew up out of the bench, a silvery mothlike thing that rattled like a beetle. Dave Brick's scream had jolted Del out of his trance, and he turned around and watched with the rest of us as the small silvery thing flew in a wide arc across the apron of the stage and fell with a soft thud into the pile of old curtains.

'What was that? ' Morris asked.

Brick ran heavily, echoingly, across the stage to the pile of curtains. He bent to touch what lay there, but pulled back his hand. 'That owl. From Ventnor. '

'But it flew, ' Morris said.

'It flew, ' I repeated.

'Yes, ' Del said. I glanced at him, and was startled by the shadowy smile I saw lurking in his face.

'You shook the bench, ' Morris said. Brick leaned down and picked up the owl. 'That's what happened. You shook it. '

'No, ' said Del, but no one paid any attention.

'Yeah, ' Brick said. 'We both did, I guess. '

'Sure you did, ' Morris said. 'Glass owls can't fly. ' He leaned over again. 'Well, what else do we have here? ' And pulled out copied exam after copied exam. 'Well, now I know why he used to sneak back up here all the time. He wanted to make sure it was all still where he put it. When we tell people about this, he won't last another five minutes at this school. '

'We've got him by the short hairs, ' Brick said, suddenly stunned by joy.

Del looked at all of us and said, 'No. ' He extended his right hand toward Dave Brick, and Brick came toward us and put the owl in his hand. 'Wait a second there, ' Morris said, but Del was already raising his arm. He hurled the owl at the stage. It made a noise like a bomb and flew apart into a million shining pieces. Dave gawped at him in sheer dumb amazement for a moment, and — you have already guessed it — wept.

Del walked out after that, just before the bell rang for a new period. 'What do we do? ' Brick asked, wiping his face on his sleeve. 'We go to our next class, ' Morris said firmly. 'And after? ' I asked. 'We find someone to tell all this to, ' Morris said. 'I get a funny feeling about all this, ' I said. 'Like maybe Del won't help us. ' Morris shrugged, then looked uncomfortable. 'The owl, ' Brick blubbed. The three of us looked at the fragments on the stage — nothing faintly owllike remained. 'We didn't shake the bench, ' Brick said. 'You had to, ' Morris said. 'No, ' I said, and heard myself echoing Del — no was about the extent of what he had said ever since Skeleton had run out. I could still hear the rattling noise it had made as it flew. 'Darn, ' Morris said. 'We have to go. Look. ' He faced me, still believing that something reasonable could be extricated from a scene in which one student insanely beat another with a belt and glass owls flew thirty feet across stages. 'Fitz-Hallan likes you. He eats you up. Why don't you talk to him about this? ' I nodded.

On the way to my next class, I passed the Senior Room. A student was laughing in there, and all of my insides tingled. I knew with a cave dweller's atavistic knowledge that it was Skeleton Ridpath, all alone. During a free period, I did go to see Fitz-Hallan, but he was no help; Carson closed ranks, denied the mystery.

Thorpe

'I have spoken to Mr. Fitz-Hallan, ' he said, 'and last night I communicated with Nightingale and also with his godparents, Mr. and Mrs. Hillman. This morning I spoke privately to Morris Fielding. Now I must ask you, is there anything in your story you would care to change, in the light of its quite extraordinary nature? ' Mr. Thorpe glared at me. He was controlling his anger very well, but I could still feel its heat. We were in the office Thorpe used as assistant headmaster, a bare cubicle on the other side of the corridor from the secretary's offices. Mr. Fitz-Hallan was sitting in a typing chair beside Mr. Thorpe; I stood before the metal desk. Mr. Weatherbee, my form adviser, stood beside me.

'No, sir, ' I said. 'But may I ask you a question? '

He nodded.

'Did you also speak to Steve Ridpath? '

His eyes flickered. 'We shall come to that in time. ' He arranged three pencils before him, the sharpened points toward me like a row of tiny stakes. 'Firstly, boy, whatever aim you may have in concocting a preposterous story like this is quite beyond me. I have told you that I spoke to young Nightingale. He completely denies that he was beaten with a belt. He did admit that Mr. Ridpath's son, a senior, found you in an area normally off limits to frosh, and rebuked you for being there. ' He held up a hand to shut off my protest. 'It is true that two of you, Morris Fielding and young Nightingale, had permission to be on stage. Steven Ridpath of course had no way of knowing that. He may have acted imprudently, but he acted in the interest of discipline, which is in line with the general improvement in his work this year. I requested Mr. Hillman to inspect his godson's back, and Mr. Hillman reported to me that he found no indications of any such beating as you — and Fielding, regrettably — claim took place. '

'No indications, ' I said, not believing.

'None whatsoever. How do you account for that? '

I shook my head. Those welts could not have disappeared so soon.

'I can explain it to you, then. None took place. I believe Steven Ridpath when he says that he made young Nightingale do several push-ups and slapped his back, which was covered by shirt and jacket, when the push-ups were performed sloppily. Initiation is officially over, but in unusual circumstances the school has turned a blind eye to its continuance. When we felt that it was done to preserve order. '

'Order, ' I said.

'Something it seems you know little about. To proceed. Of course we found no traces of the Ventnor owl backstage. Because it was never there. We did find written — out examinations in young Ridpath's handwriting, to be used by him as a study aid after the examinations took place. '

'That doesn't make sense. He used the exams as study aids when he'd already taken them? '

'Precisely. To keep his grasp of the older material. A very wise thing to do, I might add. '

'So he's going to get away with it, ' I said, unable to keep from blurting it out.

'Quiet! ' Mr. Thorpe banged the metal desk and made the pencils jump crazily. 'Consider, boy. We are going to be lenient with you. Because young Fielding's family has attended the Carson School for fifty years, and he thinks he saw what you also think you saw, Mr. Fitz-Hallan and I agree that perhaps you are not consciously trying to mislead us. But you leaped to conclusions and substituted your imagination for what you actually saw — a typical example of the irrationality which has been sweeping through this school, and which Mr. Broome has worked so hard to combat. ' The thought of this seemed to deepen his rage. 'Such fantastification as we have had here in the past month is beyond my experience. Perhaps some of our English people should stick to factual texts in the future. ' A burning sideways glance at Fitz-Hallan. 'A school is no place for fantasy. The world is no place for fantasy. I have already said this to Morris Fielding. Mr. Weatherbee. . . '

The adviser straightened up beside me. 'Perhaps you can keep a closer eye on incipient hysteria in the freshmen. Teachers must do more than teach, here at Carson. '

When our class went to the locker room to undress for an intramural basketball game, I looked at Del Nightingale's back as he pulled off his shirt. It was unmarked. Morris Fielding noticed that at the same time I did. I remembered the glass owl flying or seeming to fly out of the bench, making a whirring beetlelike noise, and knew from Morris' expression that he remembered it too. And though I had planned to use the minutes before the intermural game to talk to Del, I backed away, as if from the uncanny.

Tom's father died at the end of March.

I Hear You

Chester Ridpath switched off Ernie Kovacs on the old twelve-inch Sears television in the living room and covertly looked at his son, who had eaten only half of his Swanson TV Chicken Dinner. The kid was starving himself — half of the time he forgot the food was there in front of him, and stared off into space like a zombie. Or like something from those movies he liked, something that only pretended to be normal and okay. . . . Chester immediately banished these thoughts and sent them into the limbo where he had consigned everything he had thought or imagined about the 'hazing' incident two weeks earlier. Old Billy Thorpe had stuck up for Stevie, but Ridpath could see that despite his loyalty to a colleague, Billy wasn't quite sure in his own mind that he had done the right thing — every now and then he looked like a quarterback fourteen points down. Of course they had all felt like that lately, with Laker Broome cracking up in chapel the way he had and nobody knowing from one minute to the next if the head would keep his job. What a terrible year it had turned out to be. . . . He picked up the TV dinner's aluminum pan from the footstool in front of him and on his way out of the room took Steve's half-eaten dinner too. The kid smiled faintly, as if half-thanking, half-mocking him.

Thank God Billy Thorpe had never seen Steve's room.

Because that was the problem. Any kid who wanted to surround himself with garbage like that was the kind who could use a belt on a freshman or cheat on his exams.

Hell, Steve didn't cheat.

Did he?

Ridpath balled up the two crinkly pans and dumped them into the bin. Waste. His own father would have belted him from here to kingdom come for throwing away food. Just look at him now. If a fly landed on his nose, he wouldn't brush it off.

So talk to him. You talk to kids all day long.

Talk at them.

Better than nothing.

No, nothing was better. He'd seen Steve's face sometimes when he was in the middle of a story. Indifference. Blank as the face of a corpse. Even when he was just a short-pants kid, sometimes he'd crack him one and see that same expression on the little shit's mug. . . Jesus, he was glad Billy Thorpe had never seen that awful crap up in Steve's room. If that was the kind of stuff the kid had on his mind. . .

'Hey, Steve, ' he said, and went back to the kitchen door. 'Isn't that Kovacs kind of strange? Bet those cigars cost. . . ' He stopped the sad attempt at conversation. Steve's chair was empty. He had gone back up to do whatever the hell it was he did in that room.

Should go in there and rip out all that evil junk — just rip it out. Then tell him why — tell him why it's for his own good. Should have done it long ago.

No: first tell him why, then rip it out.

But of course it was too late for that. How long had it been since he and Steve had really talked? Four years? More?

Chester finished wiping the silverware dry and crossed the untidy living room and stood at the bottom of the stairs. At least that savage music wasn't on; like his good grades, it could be a sign that Steve was growing up, and getting old enough to know that all you had to do was burn the damn ball back, just forget the pain and return the fire. Wasn't that what a father had to teach his son? If you don't land the first punch, be goddamned sure you land the second.

'You busy, Steve? ' he called up the stairs. There was no answer. 'How about a talk? ' And surprised himself — his heart beat a little faster.

Steve was not listening: he was pacing around the bedroom, his feet going bang bang on the linoleum. Praying to the pictures, or whatever he did when he wasn't varnishing.

'Steve? ' Bang, bang, went the footsteps, echoed by his heart. Ridpath went halfway up the stairs and reached the step from which he could see his son's door, which was closed. Through the crack at the bottom of the door, with his eyes right at the level of the floor and looking through the posts of the railing, Ridpath could see the bottoms of Steve's loafers, pacing past. Bang, bang, bang, bang. Steve was patrolling from one end of the room to the other, metronomically, wheeling around when he reached a wall and marching back in a straight line. Marching, he was mumbling something to himself: it sounded like I hear you, I hear you to Chester. I bang hear bang you bang I bang hear. . .

'Okay, you hear me, ' he said. 'How about coming out and having a beer with the old man? ' His throat was dry — hell, you'd almost think he was afraid of Steve. 'A beer sound good? ' he asked, and was pathetic even to himself.

I bang hear bang you bang I bang hear bang you bang I bang. . . The black bottoms of the shoes appeared in the crack at the bottom of the door, one, two, hayfoot, strawfoot, came back in five or six seconds, vanished. 'Beer? ' Chester muttered, realizing that whatever Steve was hearing, it was not his father.

Sometimes Steve acted like he was tuned in to another world, somewhere out in space where all you heard was the far — off metallic voices on a lost radio beam.

'Aaah, ' Steve uttered, a single private moan of pleasure or insight, and his feet went by the door again — it was as if someone had just finished explaining something to him.

Then Ridpath, his face glued to the newel posts of the half-railing on the second floor, remembered a terrible dream, what must have been a dream, from the winter before — a huge bird fighting against Steve's window, breaking the glass, whapping its big wings against the side of the house and tearing with its talons. . . . 'Oh, my God, ' he whispered.

Steve was going aaah now, but Ridpath could not see the black bottoms of the loafers as he went past the door.

Beating, beating, thundering at the house, whipping that awful beak from side to side. . . Ridpath had a sudden irrational notion that now that nightmare bird was upstairs in Steve's room. . .

bang, went one foot on the left side of the room, where the window was, and then bang, bang, both feet on the right-hand side of the bedroom.

Bang. Just as if he had touched down back on the window side of the room — just as if that nightmare bird was ferrying him back and forth, the joy of flight causing aaah aah to bubble out of his throat couldn't be, he wasn't hearing right, there was some reason why he could no longer see Steve's loafers move past the door. . . some reason. . . those damn kids and their endless talk about bad dreams. I was up in the air and no one could get me down. Ridpath felt his whole body go cold. Whisper, went Steve's loafer on the right side of the room, and — an instant later — whisper, on the left.

'Come talk when you're ready, ' Ridpath said, but only to himself.

That was on a Friday night. Chester Ridpath fled into the basement and uncorked a bottle of Four Roses he kept hidden under his workbench.

Two Saturdays after that, Tom Flanagan left his mother's side for the first time since the funeral. From the morning of Hartley Flanagan's death, his son and wife had been as if welded together: they had gone together to the funeral director and made the burial arrangements, had eaten every meal together, lingered together in the living room at night, talking. Mr. Bowdoin, the insurance man, had explained to both of them that Hartley Flanagan had left enough to pay all the bills for years to come. Together they had conferred with the Reverend Dawson Tyme, planned the funeral — Tom sat beside Rachel while she made all the telephone calls. He sat beside her while she cried, sat beside her and said nothing when she said, 'It's better he's gone, he was in so much pain. ' Sat across the room in an uncomfortable Victorian chair when the fat Reverend Mr. Tyme returned and crowded beside his mother on the couch and blew out little minty breaths and said, 'Every tragedy has its place in his plan. ' Saw that she, like himself, doubted the plan and mistrusted any man who would invoke it. Shopped with her; with her opened the front door to their visitors; stood beside her in the crowded funeral parlor during what the director called 'the visitation'; stood beside her finally at the grave on a wanning Sunday and realized that it was April first — April Fool's Day. And watched the crowd of Hartley's fellow lawyers and their wives and Hartley's friends and cousins and saw grief on some faces, restlessness on others, even embarrassment on others; there was no time to talk to any of the mourners, not even Del. They had to get back to the house and serve the food keeping warm in the oven. Chin yourself up out of that grave, he said to his father, just get out of there and be like yourself again, but the dry sun came down on them, the Reverend Mr. Tyme talked too much and pretended that he had been a friend of his father's, an April wind blew sand onto the graves and stirred the flowers. The grass looked sharp enough to inflict wounds. When it was over, he too cried and did not want to leave the grave. He looked at fat, minty Dawson Tyme and the lawyers — all of them were sleek, well — fed beasts, carnivores. A wall had crumbled, an anchor had snapped; he was without protection. The vulture had won and now it was Tom's turn to begin the walk into that long valley.