mother came lumbering over, nodding, as if to confirm: "A kid."
The kid looked terrible. His clothes were scraps, rags. Wherever his body showed through, it was bony and dirty and scratched. The two bison, staring, staring, seemed to say, "Well, do something."
The old man gathered his own bones and muscles as best he could and managed to hoist the kid and get him into the pickup. He laid him on the seat, bent his legs so he could close the door.
He knew he should take the kid straight to the hospital, or a doctor, someplace official, someplace right. But the pickup just sort of steered itself back to the band shell, and there he was, lugging the kid into the baseball-equipment room.
The season was over by now, but the army-green burlap bags still stood ready for the next ump to call, "Play ball!" He yanked out a couple of chest protectors and laid the kid down, careful with his head. At least he was breathing.
Though it wasn't cold, it seemed as if the kid ought to be covered, so the old man took his winter work jacket off the hook and laid that over him. Then he waited and watched. With trembling, dusty fingers, he touched the kid's limp, scrawny hand. He had never held, never really touched a kid's hand before...
"Hey."
The kid's voice was barely a squeak, but it threw him back. He dropped the hand.
"Where am I?"
The old man cleared his throat. "The band shell."
"The band shell?"
"In the back. Equipment room."
The kid's eyes squinted, blinked. "And you?"
"What about me?"
"Who are you?"
"Grayson."
"Grayson. Do I know you?"
He got up. "Guess you do now." He went to his hot plate, heated up some water, and made some chicken noodle Cup-a-Soup. He gave it to the kid, who was sitting up now. "You want a spoon?"
He looked as though he could hardly lift the cup. He held it with both hands and gulped it down. "Huh?" he said.
"Never mind. You still hungry?"
The kid flopped back down. "A little."
"Wait here," said Grayson, and left.
Ten minutes later he was back with a zep, a large. It took the kid less time to polish it off than it had taken Grayson to get it. He told the kid not to eat so fast, he'd get sick. The kid nodded.
Grayson said, "Where'd you get them scratches?"
"Oh, some picker bush."
"What were you doing there?"
"Hiding."
"Hiding? Who from?"
"Some kids."
"Where?"
The kid pointed. "Somewhere out there. Some other town." He crossed his legs Indian-style on the chest protector. "Can I ask you a favor?"
"Shoot."
"Can we go somewhere and get some butterscotch Krimpets?"
Grayson squawked, "Krimpets! You still hungry?"
"For them, I am."
Grayson threw the greasy zep wrapper into the wastebasket. "I don't know. Maybe you oughta do something for me first."
"Like what?"
"Like tell me your name."
"It's Jeffrey Magee."
"And where you live."
"Well, I did live on Sycamore Street. Seven twenty-eight."
"Did?"
"I guess I don't anymore."
The old man stared. "You said Sycamore?"
"Yep."
"Ain't that the East End?"
"Yep."
With his fingernail, he scraped a path of dirt off the kid's forearm. He stared at it.
"What are you doing?" the kid asked.
'Seein' if you was white under there."
Neither spoke for awhile.
At last the kid said, "Anything else you want to ask me?"
The old man shrugged. "Guess not."
"Ah, come on. Don't stop asking."
"I'm asked out."
"How about the zoo, huh? Don't you want to know what I was doing at the zoo? At the buffalo pen?"
The old man sighed. "Okay, what?"
"I was living there."
"With the buffaloes?"
"Yep, with the buffaloes."
"You like buffaloes?"
"It was dark when I got there. I thought it was the deer pen."
"They switched the deer and the buffaloes around last month."
"Okay with me. I got along better with the buffaloes anyway."
"Well, I'll tell you one thing." The old man sniffed. "You sure do smell like one."
The kid laughed. They both laughed. When they finally calmed down, the kid said, "Any chance of those Krimpets now?"
Grayson reached for the pickup
The kid looked terrible. His clothes were scraps, rags. Wherever his body showed through, it was bony and dirty and scratched. The two bison, staring, staring, seemed to say, "Well, do something."
The old man gathered his own bones and muscles as best he could and managed to hoist the kid and get him into the pickup. He laid him on the seat, bent his legs so he could close the door.
He knew he should take the kid straight to the hospital, or a doctor, someplace official, someplace right. But the pickup just sort of steered itself back to the band shell, and there he was, lugging the kid into the baseball-equipment room.
The season was over by now, but the army-green burlap bags still stood ready for the next ump to call, "Play ball!" He yanked out a couple of chest protectors and laid the kid down, careful with his head. At least he was breathing.
Though it wasn't cold, it seemed as if the kid ought to be covered, so the old man took his winter work jacket off the hook and laid that over him. Then he waited and watched. With trembling, dusty fingers, he touched the kid's limp, scrawny hand. He had never held, never really touched a kid's hand before...
"Hey."
The kid's voice was barely a squeak, but it threw him back. He dropped the hand.
"Where am I?"
The old man cleared his throat. "The band shell."
"The band shell?"
"In the back. Equipment room."
The kid's eyes squinted, blinked. "And you?"
"What about me?"
"Who are you?"
"Grayson."
"Grayson. Do I know you?"
He got up. "Guess you do now." He went to his hot plate, heated up some water, and made some chicken noodle Cup-a-Soup. He gave it to the kid, who was sitting up now. "You want a spoon?"
He looked as though he could hardly lift the cup. He held it with both hands and gulped it down. "Huh?" he said.
"Never mind. You still hungry?"
The kid flopped back down. "A little."
"Wait here," said Grayson, and left.
Ten minutes later he was back with a zep, a large. It took the kid less time to polish it off than it had taken Grayson to get it. He told the kid not to eat so fast, he'd get sick. The kid nodded.
Grayson said, "Where'd you get them scratches?"
"Oh, some picker bush."
"What were you doing there?"
"Hiding."
"Hiding? Who from?"
"Some kids."
"Where?"
The kid pointed. "Somewhere out there. Some other town." He crossed his legs Indian-style on the chest protector. "Can I ask you a favor?"
"Shoot."
"Can we go somewhere and get some butterscotch Krimpets?"
Grayson squawked, "Krimpets! You still hungry?"
"For them, I am."
Grayson threw the greasy zep wrapper into the wastebasket. "I don't know. Maybe you oughta do something for me first."
"Like what?"
"Like tell me your name."
"It's Jeffrey Magee."
"And where you live."
"Well, I did live on Sycamore Street. Seven twenty-eight."
"Did?"
"I guess I don't anymore."
The old man stared. "You said Sycamore?"
"Yep."
"Ain't that the East End?"
"Yep."
With his fingernail, he scraped a path of dirt off the kid's forearm. He stared at it.
"What are you doing?" the kid asked.
'Seein' if you was white under there."
Neither spoke for awhile.
At last the kid said, "Anything else you want to ask me?"
The old man shrugged. "Guess not."
"Ah, come on. Don't stop asking."
"I'm asked out."
"How about the zoo, huh? Don't you want to know what I was doing at the zoo? At the buffalo pen?"
The old man sighed. "Okay, what?"
"I was living there."
"With the buffaloes?"
"Yep, with the buffaloes."
"You like buffaloes?"
"It was dark when I got there. I thought it was the deer pen."
"They switched the deer and the buffaloes around last month."
"Okay with me. I got along better with the buffaloes anyway."
"Well, I'll tell you one thing." The old man sniffed. "You sure do smell like one."
The kid laughed. They both laughed. When they finally calmed down, the kid said, "Any chance of those Krimpets now?"
Grayson reached for the pickup
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