The day was hot and sultry with heat rippling the air above the pocked tar and the candy colored cars with
their amphibious tails drying beneath a cruel golden star. Hot, hot, hot, and I wiped liquid salt from my forehead
with a narrow arm lightly sprinkled with good sweat-catching brassy fine hairs. I gazed directly up at the sun
without really thinking about it, and my heat-baked brain obliged me for one startling moment with an eerie replay
of a solar eclipse created by the arrival of a great floating ball of purplish mists. Chrome ice slid along my lower
spine and I inhaled haltingly as a terrible shudder wracked my too-thin shoulders.
Detecting a poorly muffled cough, I turned my head toward the source of the sound. I saw myself. I saw a small
wisp of a boy whose flyaway blond hair looked almost white in the bright noonday sun where sweat hadn�t
plastered it darkly to his forehead and neck, worn clothes baggy on his twiggy frame, one shoelace untied, staring
directly at me, forehead pinched, dark eyes squinty and confused by the trick. I was watching him through round,
green, waxy leaves, gaining little comfort from what little shade the shrubbery provided, aware of a small,
velvet-bodied spider too near me on a low branch. The kid I stared at breathed hard, his ribs rising and contracting
quickly beneath summer-bronzed skin, panting during this unbroken late July heatwave.
The boy I stared at was Alex Roglitz.
I turned my head again, and saw myself turn away from the itchy shade of Mrs. Worthington�s well-kept
hedges. Pretending not to see myself, I felt mischievous relief flood me.
Excellent.
Shaking my head to clear the odd double-vision from it, I darted left, pivoting on one of my torn canvas
tennis shoes, then spun abruptly in the opposite direction and lunged after the boy in the bushes. In the second that
Bobby�s smug assurance I�d spotted one of the other boys nearby and gone in pursuit of him changed to watery fear
and surprised anger over having been the one I�d been after all along, I was able to crash through the greenery and
snag his left shirtsleeve in my hard little fist and yelp, �Tag!�
Finley rose and dislodged me with a violent twist. My grin of victory vanished quickly with a gulp. I
stared blankly at him, still a tad disoriented from my bizarrely shifting point of view, and staggered a few steps
backward, nearly falling over Mrs. Worthington�s soaker hose. �You little shit! You�re cheating! I don�t know
how, but you always do!�
Davey Horner appeared from his hiding place behind the Worthington garage. �Whassup?�
�It�s Alex! He�s cheatin� again! He always finds us before we can get to home base!�
�Yeah,� Davey agreed mildly, uncomprehending. �So?�
�So I�m through playin� with him anymore, an� you�re not, either!�
Steve Eastman strolled over, still unable to work out the basics of his new yo-yo, but practicing at every
possible opportunity he got. �Hey! Who stopped the game?� I dodged a bolo-like swing of the wooden toy past my
earlobe.
Bobby pointed at me, face pinched and red, wide ears flushed like an upset wolverine�s. The three boys
were all older than me, Stevie the eldest at twelve. They were fifth graders�nearly adults! �Cheatin�!�
Eastman shrugged and executed a perfect Hang The Dog, as it refused to walk for him. �He always does.�
�Well we ain�t playin� with him, Steve.�
�Who�s not?�
�You an� Dave an� me!�
��kay.�
Bobby Finley spat in my direction. I had known the missile was incoming a split second before he�d
prepared it and scooted back just in time to see it raise dust an inch in front of my right shoe. I glared back at him
from beneath lowered eyebrows so pale yellow they were nearly invisible against my school vacation tan.
Eastman, who�d moved behind me during the distraction, gave me a good shove, and I pitched forward
onto hard packed powder, skinning the heels of both palms. A brief sound of protest escaped my throat, but I
refused to whine like a girl lest I get accused of being one. I rose slowly to my around three foot height and brushed
small pebbles, bits of broken green glass, and shards of rain-starved grass off of and out of my already scabby
knees. They had fled by then. I could hear them taunting me over their shoulders as they made their way across
various backyards. �Cheater! Cheater! Alex�s a cheater-peter-eater!�
With the fading of their stinging cries came a slow silence that settled thickly over the neighborhood.
A gnat darted into one nostril. I sneezed it out and rubbed at my watery eyes with gritty fists. The sun
would be setting soon, and I remembered I had to be home around dusk�preferably just before.
I started plodding my way home with my little head of shaggy, dirty blond hair bowed with the weight of
intense thoughts filling it.
I neither saw nor heard the car until its whitewalls squealed and its horn blared a long, shrieking moan
which sliced with almost painful suddenness through my thick mental fog. Whipping my eyes up from where
they�d been contemplating the scuffed rubber toes of my shoes, I was met with the piercing, wide-eyed stare of a
small boy. He seemed either terribly frightened or amazingly angry, his dusty, startled features too hard to read
well through the bug-speckled windshield. The image was suddenly replaced by that of a curly-topped,
pimple-faced teen glaring at me from behind the wheel of his pollen-peppered vehicle. The horn screeched again
and I bolted from it in terror.
I didn�t pause for breath until I reached my front yard. We occupied a small house painted battleship grey
with black shutters where they hadn�t rusted at the hinges and fallen away from the curtainless windows. It was
early twilight, and the domicile appeared to be attempting to slink away into its own particular hue of dusk, the
jungle of surrounding tall weeds happy to help it along. So far as I could tell, there were no lights on inside, and
the only mode of transportation parked outside was the dented, matte black bicycle with a flat tire lying on its side
atop the crabgrass-choked driveway, an old length of knotty spiderweb swaying languidly from the uppermost part
of the handlebars.
The lock had broken long before, part of a key still lodged within it, so I pushed the door open only
enough to admit me, then closed it as quietly as I could manage. It was difficult to control my still labored
breathing, but I needed total silence to listen for any sounds of my younger brother or father. The house held a stale
odor devoid of either cooking or cleaning smells. The air was stagnant and tepid, long sealed from benefit of breeze
or humidity. It was the chokingly dry atmosphere of the inside of a coffin.
Dad was sitting alone mere feet from me in what passed for our living room, his slouched form blending
well with the shadows and silhouettes of the mostly lightless interior. He occupied his favorite chair�the
overstuffed one that swiveled for a look out the window behind it or the filled bookshelves beside it. Tolstoy,
Chekhov, and the American, Twain, held places of honor next to thick volumes full of Shakespeare bound in cloth,
Hans Christian Andersen, Charles Dickens, and Kipling. I�d read them all myself or had them read to me and
could recite lines from a selected title upon request, but they were to be removed and sold tomorrow. Mom�s books.
The ones she�d saved up pennies to buy in already poor condition, hoping I could teach her how to read English
someday. I�d never enjoyed being forced to read and re-read and even explain the meanings behind the lines. After
mom�s disappearance the year before, they�d almost filled in for her, and I�d huddled alone in my room with them
throughout the winter months, reading them aloud at a whisper as though she was still there to hear, explaining
entire paragraphs at a time, sometimes even arguing with myself over them, hoping to make her understand,
hoping to please her...glancing up expecting to see her puzzled smile. There was nothing else in the house left of
her. I cherished what few physical mementos remained.
The rough-carved man in stiff work clothes hunched forward over his knees, a brown bottle dangling by
its neck from a set of thick, callused, and prematurely aged and veined fingers. I hadn�t eaten all day, but I knew
better than to ask about dinner. We�d subsisted on little more than raw potatoes, black bread when we could afford
it, and thin soup flavored with too much salt and pepper and too little meat or vegetable. As a matter of fact, the
last meat we had consumed had been the remains of a dazed opossum dad had seem staggering across a tree-lined
road one night after it had just barely survived a brush with a speeding new sports car. Anyway, I needed to talk to
someone just now, not eat. I needed the answers to questions I wasn�t yet able to put into words. Why were the
other kids always accusing me of cheating lately? What had gone wrong today during tag? Why had the
high-school kid in the car acted so angry at me, when he�d actually been concerned for me and a little shaken on
the inside.... But I was only six and didn�t know where to begin.
So I stood there by the coat closet while night fell. Stars came out over dad�s head, and I could make out
the mysterious flickering glow of heat-lightning beyond the rooftops across the street.
Eventually, my father glanced upward to focus on me momentarily as if he�d just noticed I was there. He
stared blearily at a tiny boy, much too small for his age, nearly skeletal, with uncombed hair, a dirt-streaked face,
and huge, questioning eyes that sought what? And the lad was a mirror image of myself at that exact age, except
with hair much lighter than my own jet locks and an overall lack of muscle, lean sinew, good for hard work in
short bursts. This blessed child before me lived in a real house devoid of the chinks that let in the knife-like icy
draughts that sliced one�s feet and fingers, had a luxurious bed all his own full of goosedown instead of musty
straw as the one I�d shared with my brother had been. He owned store-bought pajamas where I had slept in a crude,
shapeless shift my grandmother had fashioned with her knobby, twisted, red knuckled hands. He received at least
one meal of some kind a day where I had often survived for days in a row nibbling on a chunk of moldy crust I�d
hidden beneath a loose floor board, and I�d had to work odd jobs for neighboring villagers just to get that and a
swig of bread alcohol to wash it down with and keep me warm.
What on earth could this spoiled child want? Why does he stare at me so? Old enough to play away from
home, young enough not to have to worry about money or women yet.... It couldn�t be his mother. He knows better
than to ask about her anymore. But there�s...an agelessness to his eyes...like black water in some time-forgotten
swamp...and sometimes I can see the stars in them...a chill and goosebumps rise along my arms, lifting the coarse
black hairs there.... Fuck him. Can�t stand those eyes...like hers...it�s why I drink. Why I�ve lost my job! Not that
anybody ever paid me what I�m worth...Goddamn him! I�d kill myself to get away from him, but then who�d look
after David? Or Alex. And today the electricity...but I�ll sell the books tomorrow and we can have that back again.
I can take my pocketwatch to the pawnbroker, maybe buy that gun he has so we can get fresh squirrel and rabbit in
our bellies before they cave in completely.
A tear slid down my face, but when I moved to wipe it, I saw it was Dad�s tear, Dad�s face.
He swiveled suddenly toward the window. I thought I heard him make a sound.
Backing from the room and the uneasy silence reeking from the corner by the bookshelves, I hurried for
my spartan bedroom. David had been sleeping with Dad since Mom�s disappearance just about a year before, and
Daddy wouldn�t talk to me at all like it was my fault she�d been taken away. I peeled off my chalky shorts and used
my inside-out shirt to wipe some of the grime off of my skin. They called it an abduction. They had yet to find the
perpetrators. But, it wasn�t my fault. She�d just slipped away when my back was turned and been caught by some
sort of sparkly light that pulled her up into their spaceship. I certainly hadn�t encouraged her to abandon us, and I
hadn�t intentionally let go of her hand, so I couldn�t understand why Daddy was always so angry with me.
And now lately I could feel what he was feeling and thinking, almost hear the words inside his own head,
and it felt a lot like fear and frustration and less like anger...more like some disturbing sort of hatred.
And it hurt so deep, so bad.
So I cried.
And now the tears were really mine as they glided down fleshy cheeks still youthfully round, creating
paths of light tan through the powdery grime, cooling as they fell and found my ears as I lay still and stiffly upon
the old afghan atop my stinking feather bed. I tried to still my breathing completely as I gazed unseeingly up at the
cracked ceiling where the shadows of small saplings swayed erratically in night breezes I could neither feel nor
hear. The tang of cheap beer coated my mouth with a sourness as I sat contemplating the house directly across the
street from ours where the family within was sitting down to a sumptuous late meal prepared by the lovely svelte
mother and the three blossoming daughters who all worked after school as candy-stripers. Their huge oval dining
room table was set before their beautiful new bay window where I could see the eldest of the plump daughters
carrying in a steaming platter of roasted meat surrounded by fancy carved carrots and boiled parsley potatoes
glazed with gold butter. My mouth did not water because I could neither recall smell nor taste of such
home-cooked delicacies. So I watched the shadowplay dance across my ceiling through eyes that burned and
brimmed with tears of sorrow and self-pity and saw the handsome father smile while he placed large slices of
dripping meat on everyone�s plate and decided to keep my problems to myself.
