and punched the roof.
The girl’s laugh said she’d seen this song and dance before. She turned to us and said, “Big Bruiser
maaaad
! Bruiser make heap big thunder!”
“Don’t encourage her, please,” Bruiser told us as we laughed. He sucked on his skinned knuckles and said, “If you encourage her she’ll never grow up.”
The girl stuck out her tongue at him. “I grew up like a thief, didn’t I? Always out of your sight.”
He beheld her with reproachful eyes. “When did you get so cold, girl?”
She stared straight ahead at that. I got the sense it was some kind of act, in which she was playing the hard girl. It didn’t suit her, but she played it well enough.
We arrived at the house with the small fenced-in yard. The girl kissed Mahoney on the cheek.
“He’ll get you home safe,” she assured us. “You’re in good hands.”
When the girl left, it was as if she took some part of Bruiser Mahoney with her. Dunk and I watched in silence as he popped the glovebox and recovered a bottle of pills. He shook a few out and dry-swallowed them and jammed the bottle into one of the many pockets of his coat. Then he drove on. The only sounds were the loose muffler rattling against the undercarriage and the muted
clink
of bottles.
“Ah, Jesus,” Mahoney said hoarsely, mopping his brow as a man with a high fever might. “Ah, Jesus, Jesus.”
Dunk leaned forward to touch Mahoney’s slouched shoulder. Mahoney flinched.
“God damn it.” He unrolled the window, cleared his throat and spat. “I’m not perfect. Never claimed to be. Made mistakes—who hasn’t? Look at you two. Your fathers get in some silly brawl and let a monstrous stranger walk away with their kids.
That’s
good parenting? Smelling like damn cookies, the pair of them. What in hell’s
that
about?”
“They work at a cookie factory,” I said.
Mahoney’s head rocked back on the stump of his neck. Maybe he was picturing it as I once had: a tree full of lumpen cookie-making elves, like in the commercials.
“I bet your dads have never taken you camping, have they?”
Dunk said: “We went to a cottage once.”
“Great galloping goose shit!” Mahoney said. He pawed through the case for a fresh beer, opened it and swigged deeply. It clearly rejuvenated him. “Never gone on a camp-out? A couple of fine nellies you’ll turn into.”
“What’s a nelly?” Dunk said.
“A pansy. A goddamn bed-wetter! That tears it—I’m taking you boys to the woods. It’ll put some bark on your trees!”
We pulled onto the highway. Mahoney fled down the two-lane stretch, hair whipping round his head like snakes from the wind through the window. His face crept closer to the windshield; he crouched over the wheel, and I imagined him squinting at the yellow broken lines blurring under the hood.
A police car fled past in the opposite lane, lights ablaze and sirens blaring. When it was gone Mahoney laughed, a creaky-hinge sound.
In some dimmed chamber of my heart I realized I ought to be terrified. Yet I wasn’t. Dunk grinned into the wind that screamed through the van, tugging at his clothes and stirring the drifts of soda cans behind us.
“Ever pitched a tent, boys?” said Mahoney.
Dunk said: “Never!”
“Ever baited a trap?”
“We lit a one-match fire in Cubs.”
Mahoney snorted. “Your fathers should be bloody ashamed of themselves.” He wrenched the wheel. We were off the main road—off pavement entirely—bouncing down a rutted dirt path. Longgrass glowed whitely in the headlamps. I may’ve seen lights burning in the distance, the lights of an isolated farmhouse maybe, but soon those vanished.
We drove over the crest of some empty land, very flat, the path running as straight as a yardstick, and then came a stand of apple trees hung with winter-withered fruit that shone like nickels at the bottom of a well. Next came pine trees that dropped and kept on dropping. I was sure the van would rattle to pieces. My teeth chattered
The girl’s laugh said she’d seen this song and dance before. She turned to us and said, “Big Bruiser
maaaad
! Bruiser make heap big thunder!”
“Don’t encourage her, please,” Bruiser told us as we laughed. He sucked on his skinned knuckles and said, “If you encourage her she’ll never grow up.”
The girl stuck out her tongue at him. “I grew up like a thief, didn’t I? Always out of your sight.”
He beheld her with reproachful eyes. “When did you get so cold, girl?”
She stared straight ahead at that. I got the sense it was some kind of act, in which she was playing the hard girl. It didn’t suit her, but she played it well enough.
We arrived at the house with the small fenced-in yard. The girl kissed Mahoney on the cheek.
“He’ll get you home safe,” she assured us. “You’re in good hands.”
When the girl left, it was as if she took some part of Bruiser Mahoney with her. Dunk and I watched in silence as he popped the glovebox and recovered a bottle of pills. He shook a few out and dry-swallowed them and jammed the bottle into one of the many pockets of his coat. Then he drove on. The only sounds were the loose muffler rattling against the undercarriage and the muted
clink
of bottles.
“Ah, Jesus,” Mahoney said hoarsely, mopping his brow as a man with a high fever might. “Ah, Jesus, Jesus.”
Dunk leaned forward to touch Mahoney’s slouched shoulder. Mahoney flinched.
“God damn it.” He unrolled the window, cleared his throat and spat. “I’m not perfect. Never claimed to be. Made mistakes—who hasn’t? Look at you two. Your fathers get in some silly brawl and let a monstrous stranger walk away with their kids.
That’s
good parenting? Smelling like damn cookies, the pair of them. What in hell’s
that
about?”
“They work at a cookie factory,” I said.
Mahoney’s head rocked back on the stump of his neck. Maybe he was picturing it as I once had: a tree full of lumpen cookie-making elves, like in the commercials.
“I bet your dads have never taken you camping, have they?”
Dunk said: “We went to a cottage once.”
“Great galloping goose shit!” Mahoney said. He pawed through the case for a fresh beer, opened it and swigged deeply. It clearly rejuvenated him. “Never gone on a camp-out? A couple of fine nellies you’ll turn into.”
“What’s a nelly?” Dunk said.
“A pansy. A goddamn bed-wetter! That tears it—I’m taking you boys to the woods. It’ll put some bark on your trees!”
We pulled onto the highway. Mahoney fled down the two-lane stretch, hair whipping round his head like snakes from the wind through the window. His face crept closer to the windshield; he crouched over the wheel, and I imagined him squinting at the yellow broken lines blurring under the hood.
A police car fled past in the opposite lane, lights ablaze and sirens blaring. When it was gone Mahoney laughed, a creaky-hinge sound.
In some dimmed chamber of my heart I realized I ought to be terrified. Yet I wasn’t. Dunk grinned into the wind that screamed through the van, tugging at his clothes and stirring the drifts of soda cans behind us.
“Ever pitched a tent, boys?” said Mahoney.
Dunk said: “Never!”
“Ever baited a trap?”
“We lit a one-match fire in Cubs.”
Mahoney snorted. “Your fathers should be bloody ashamed of themselves.” He wrenched the wheel. We were off the main road—off pavement entirely—bouncing down a rutted dirt path. Longgrass glowed whitely in the headlamps. I may’ve seen lights burning in the distance, the lights of an isolated farmhouse maybe, but soon those vanished.
We drove over the crest of some empty land, very flat, the path running as straight as a yardstick, and then came a stand of apple trees hung with winter-withered fruit that shone like nickels at the bottom of a well. Next came pine trees that dropped and kept on dropping. I was sure the van would rattle to pieces. My teeth chattered
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