identify your son in a photo lineup.'
'Wait here. I'll get him.'
Five minutes later the two of them came out of the
back of the house together. Even though it was almost noon, Darl's face
looked thick with sleep. He raked his hair downward with a comb, then
gazed at the lint that floated out in the sunlight.
'What's that spick say?' he asked.
'Darl…' his father began.
'That you blindsided him and kicked him on the
ground,' I said.
'How about my car? I was supposed to enter it in the
fifties show in Dallas. What right's he got to ruin my paint job?'
'That's a mean cut on your ring finger,' I said.
'It collided with a flying object. That guy's mouth.'
'Two weeks ago?'
'Yeah, his tooth broke off in my hand. I'm lucky I
didn't have to get rabies shots.'
'Look up a little bit,' I said, and popped the flash
on the Polaroid.
Darl's eyes stared back at me with the angry vacuity
of an animal who believes it has been trapped in a box.
'I'm going back to the house,' he said.
'Thank Mr Holland for the help he's giving us, son,'
Jack said.
'He's doing this for free? Get a life,' Darl said.
Thick-bodied, sullen, his face unwashed, he walked through the shade,
his hand caressing the peach fuzz along his jawbone.
Jack turned away, his fists knotted on his hips, his
forearms corded with veins.
That afternoon Temple Carrol found me
back by the
windmill, hoeing out my vegetable garden. The sky behind her was purple
and yellow with rain clouds, the air already heavy with the smell of
ozone.
'My sister-in-law works at the video store. This
tape was in the night drop box this morning,' she said.
I stopped work and leaned on my hoe. The blades of
the windmill were ginning rapidly overhead.
'Somebody must have dropped it in by mistake. You'd
better take a look,' she said.
We went through the back of the house to the library
and plugged the cassette into the VCR.
At first the handheld camera swung wildly through
trees illuminated by headlights, rock music blaring on the audio, then
the camera steadied, as though it were aimed across a car hood, and we
saw kids climbing out of convertibles, throwing ropes of beer on each
other, passing joints, kissing each other hard on the mouth for the
camera's benefit, their features as white as milk.
Then we saw her in an alcove of trees, in
Clorox-faded jeans and a maroon T-shirt with a luminous horse head on
it, a longneck beer in one hand, a joint in the other, dancing to the
music as though there were no one else present on earth.
'Roseanne Hazlitt,' I said.
'Wait till you see what a small-town girl can do
with the right audience,' Temple said.
Her auburn hair was partially pinned up in swirls on
her head, but one long strand curled around her neck like a snake. She
let the beer bottle, then the joint, drop from her fingers into the
weeds, and began to sway her hips, her eyes closed, her profile turned
to the camera. She pulled her T-shirt over her head, her hair
collapsing on her shoulders, arched her shoulders back so that the tops
of her breasts almost burst out of her bra, unsnapped her jeans and
stepped out of them, then twined her hands in the air and rotated her
hips, ran her fingers over her panties and thighs, grasped the back of
her neck and widened her legs and opened her mouth in feigned orgasm
and pushed her hair over her head so that it cascaded down her face
while her tongue made a red circle inside her lips.
The screen turned to snow.
'How about the look on those boys watching her?'
Temple said.
'You recognize any of them?' I asked.
'Three or four. Jocks with yesterday's ice cream for
brains. How do kids get that screwed up?'
I looked at my watch. It had started to rain outside
and the hills were aura-ed with a cold green light like the tarnish on
brass.
'I'll buy you a barbecue dinner at Shorty's,' I
said, and dropped the Polaroid photo of Darl Vanzandt in front of her.
We sat on the screen porch and ate
plates of cole
slaw and refried beans and
'Wait here. I'll get him.'
Five minutes later the two of them came out of the
back of the house together. Even though it was almost noon, Darl's face
looked thick with sleep. He raked his hair downward with a comb, then
gazed at the lint that floated out in the sunlight.
'What's that spick say?' he asked.
'Darl…' his father began.
'That you blindsided him and kicked him on the
ground,' I said.
'How about my car? I was supposed to enter it in the
fifties show in Dallas. What right's he got to ruin my paint job?'
'That's a mean cut on your ring finger,' I said.
'It collided with a flying object. That guy's mouth.'
'Two weeks ago?'
'Yeah, his tooth broke off in my hand. I'm lucky I
didn't have to get rabies shots.'
'Look up a little bit,' I said, and popped the flash
on the Polaroid.
Darl's eyes stared back at me with the angry vacuity
of an animal who believes it has been trapped in a box.
'I'm going back to the house,' he said.
'Thank Mr Holland for the help he's giving us, son,'
Jack said.
'He's doing this for free? Get a life,' Darl said.
Thick-bodied, sullen, his face unwashed, he walked through the shade,
his hand caressing the peach fuzz along his jawbone.
Jack turned away, his fists knotted on his hips, his
forearms corded with veins.
That afternoon Temple Carrol found me
back by the
windmill, hoeing out my vegetable garden. The sky behind her was purple
and yellow with rain clouds, the air already heavy with the smell of
ozone.
'My sister-in-law works at the video store. This
tape was in the night drop box this morning,' she said.
I stopped work and leaned on my hoe. The blades of
the windmill were ginning rapidly overhead.
'Somebody must have dropped it in by mistake. You'd
better take a look,' she said.
We went through the back of the house to the library
and plugged the cassette into the VCR.
At first the handheld camera swung wildly through
trees illuminated by headlights, rock music blaring on the audio, then
the camera steadied, as though it were aimed across a car hood, and we
saw kids climbing out of convertibles, throwing ropes of beer on each
other, passing joints, kissing each other hard on the mouth for the
camera's benefit, their features as white as milk.
Then we saw her in an alcove of trees, in
Clorox-faded jeans and a maroon T-shirt with a luminous horse head on
it, a longneck beer in one hand, a joint in the other, dancing to the
music as though there were no one else present on earth.
'Roseanne Hazlitt,' I said.
'Wait till you see what a small-town girl can do
with the right audience,' Temple said.
Her auburn hair was partially pinned up in swirls on
her head, but one long strand curled around her neck like a snake. She
let the beer bottle, then the joint, drop from her fingers into the
weeds, and began to sway her hips, her eyes closed, her profile turned
to the camera. She pulled her T-shirt over her head, her hair
collapsing on her shoulders, arched her shoulders back so that the tops
of her breasts almost burst out of her bra, unsnapped her jeans and
stepped out of them, then twined her hands in the air and rotated her
hips, ran her fingers over her panties and thighs, grasped the back of
her neck and widened her legs and opened her mouth in feigned orgasm
and pushed her hair over her head so that it cascaded down her face
while her tongue made a red circle inside her lips.
The screen turned to snow.
'How about the look on those boys watching her?'
Temple said.
'You recognize any of them?' I asked.
'Three or four. Jocks with yesterday's ice cream for
brains. How do kids get that screwed up?'
I looked at my watch. It had started to rain outside
and the hills were aura-ed with a cold green light like the tarnish on
brass.
'I'll buy you a barbecue dinner at Shorty's,' I
said, and dropped the Polaroid photo of Darl Vanzandt in front of her.
We sat on the screen porch and ate
plates of cole
slaw and refried beans and
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