because you can’t figure how else to amuse yourself—”
“I never—” Randall began, but Harry wasn’t in a mood to listen.
“What ever become of decency? That’s what I’d like to know.” He still held the sackful of garbage but seemed to have forgotten it. “What ever become of decency?”
“I don’t know,” Randall admitted.
Harry then remembered the bag and tossed it intothe dumpster, wiping his hands on his grimy apron. “Garbage!”
On Main Street Randall turned right to head home, then stopped to see if Wild Bill would retrace his steps when he discovered there was no outlet to the alley. When he did not, Randall went all the way back to the gym door, from which point he could see the entire alley in both directions. Wild Bill had vanished. On the other side of the chainlink fence was the sheer hillface, heavily wooded all the way up the slope to the old hospital. The only place Wild Bill might conceivably have gone was in through the rear door of one of the other shops that fronted on Main, something Randall was certain he had not done. Then he remembered the small package still in his pocket, and when he took it out, Randall did not immediately know what it was. “Ribbed and lubricated for maximum pleasure,” the little package promised. He quickly shoved it back in his pocket, just as he heard someone call his name. Randall half expected to see Boyer Burnhoffer, but when he turned, he recognized his father coming out of the Mohawk Grill. His shirt said
Steve
above the pocket.
“What’s up?” Dallas said, falling in step beside his son.
“Nothing.”
“Something must be up.”
Randall insisted there wasn’t anything up that he knew of, the end of the line for that conversation. He saw his father very seldom, and when chance threw them together, it was always a struggle to discover something to talk about. Most subjects just naturally fizzled after two or three exchanges.
When they passed the sloping lawn of the junior high, Randall heard his name again. The Cobras were still congregated at Nathan Littler’s feet, and they all waved. “See you tomorrow,” Boyer Burnhoffer called.
“Those boys friends of yours,” Dallas asked.
“Sort of.”
Dallas nodded thoughtfully, and they walked a ways in silence. “Anybody ever teach you to defend yourself?”
Randall frowned. “You mean fight?”
“You should know how.”
Randall shrugged, seeing no advantage to it. If you knew how, you’d only be tempted. “Gramp says fighting is for people who can’t think.”
“Sounds like your grandfather. I can’t recall him ever fighting over anything.”
To Randall, the very idea of his grandfather raising his fists in anger was preposterous. Not that he thought Mather Grouse a coward. Rather, his grandfather simply would have nothing to do with people he considered unreasonable.
“Somebody said he was in the hospital,” Dallas remarked.
“He’s home now,” Randall said, though he offered no free information. While his grandfather had never spoken ill of Dallas, the boy knew they didn’t get along. Perhaps Mather Grouse considered Dallas unreasonable. Dallas once had borrowed a substantial sum and never paid it back, and Randall knew that his grandfather wouldn’t want his private business, even his health, discussed with anyone so untrustworthy. This was the problem, of course. There were very few subjects his father ever introduced that Randall ever felt comfortable discussing.
“Your mother doing okay,” Dallas asked.
Randall said she was fine.
“She ever see anybody?”
“See?” Randall played dumb.
“Go out—date?”
“I don’t know—” he started, then felt his father’s eyes. “I don’t think so.”
This seemed to cheer Dallas considerably, and the fact that the question had been asked cheered the boy, for it meant that their visit was nearly over. Randall’s talks with his father always followed the same basic pattern. You just had to be
“I never—” Randall began, but Harry wasn’t in a mood to listen.
“What ever become of decency? That’s what I’d like to know.” He still held the sackful of garbage but seemed to have forgotten it. “What ever become of decency?”
“I don’t know,” Randall admitted.
Harry then remembered the bag and tossed it intothe dumpster, wiping his hands on his grimy apron. “Garbage!”
On Main Street Randall turned right to head home, then stopped to see if Wild Bill would retrace his steps when he discovered there was no outlet to the alley. When he did not, Randall went all the way back to the gym door, from which point he could see the entire alley in both directions. Wild Bill had vanished. On the other side of the chainlink fence was the sheer hillface, heavily wooded all the way up the slope to the old hospital. The only place Wild Bill might conceivably have gone was in through the rear door of one of the other shops that fronted on Main, something Randall was certain he had not done. Then he remembered the small package still in his pocket, and when he took it out, Randall did not immediately know what it was. “Ribbed and lubricated for maximum pleasure,” the little package promised. He quickly shoved it back in his pocket, just as he heard someone call his name. Randall half expected to see Boyer Burnhoffer, but when he turned, he recognized his father coming out of the Mohawk Grill. His shirt said
Steve
above the pocket.
“What’s up?” Dallas said, falling in step beside his son.
“Nothing.”
“Something must be up.”
Randall insisted there wasn’t anything up that he knew of, the end of the line for that conversation. He saw his father very seldom, and when chance threw them together, it was always a struggle to discover something to talk about. Most subjects just naturally fizzled after two or three exchanges.
When they passed the sloping lawn of the junior high, Randall heard his name again. The Cobras were still congregated at Nathan Littler’s feet, and they all waved. “See you tomorrow,” Boyer Burnhoffer called.
“Those boys friends of yours,” Dallas asked.
“Sort of.”
Dallas nodded thoughtfully, and they walked a ways in silence. “Anybody ever teach you to defend yourself?”
Randall frowned. “You mean fight?”
“You should know how.”
Randall shrugged, seeing no advantage to it. If you knew how, you’d only be tempted. “Gramp says fighting is for people who can’t think.”
“Sounds like your grandfather. I can’t recall him ever fighting over anything.”
To Randall, the very idea of his grandfather raising his fists in anger was preposterous. Not that he thought Mather Grouse a coward. Rather, his grandfather simply would have nothing to do with people he considered unreasonable.
“Somebody said he was in the hospital,” Dallas remarked.
“He’s home now,” Randall said, though he offered no free information. While his grandfather had never spoken ill of Dallas, the boy knew they didn’t get along. Perhaps Mather Grouse considered Dallas unreasonable. Dallas once had borrowed a substantial sum and never paid it back, and Randall knew that his grandfather wouldn’t want his private business, even his health, discussed with anyone so untrustworthy. This was the problem, of course. There were very few subjects his father ever introduced that Randall ever felt comfortable discussing.
“Your mother doing okay,” Dallas asked.
Randall said she was fine.
“She ever see anybody?”
“See?” Randall played dumb.
“Go out—date?”
“I don’t know—” he started, then felt his father’s eyes. “I don’t think so.”
This seemed to cheer Dallas considerably, and the fact that the question had been asked cheered the boy, for it meant that their visit was nearly over. Randall’s talks with his father always followed the same basic pattern. You just had to be
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