banana seats. He had lingered in the Western Auto Store one afternoon, listening to the salesclerk explain the features. He had picked up the names of all the parts: the banana seat, the sissy bar that rose up behind it, the high butterfly handlebars, the sparkly silver streamers flowing out from the handgrips. A Sting-Ray. A twenty-inch Sting-Ray. Katie was riding hers in a circle in the driveway, and Mr. Mackey was standing by his truck, his hands on his hips, a grin on his face. Mr. Dees understood that Junior Mackey was pleased that he had been able to give Katie that bike. Mrs. Mackey turned back to the house—perhaps she had thought to run in and grab the Polaroid or the movie camera—and Mr. Dees was sorry for her to have to see him there, watching from behind the door. He stepped back, meaning to move quickly through the house, to make his escape, but the tablet slipped from his hand, fell to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, and he heard the back door open, and then Mrs. Mackey was there, saying, “My goodness, we forgot all about you.” He thought for a moment that she meant to invite him to come out to the driveway and watch Katie ride her new bike. Then she said, “Here, let me write you a check. I think we owe you for three sessions this week. Yes?”
Before he could stop himself, he said what had been on his mind all the time he had been coming to the Mackeys’. “She’s a pretty girl, your Katie. A precious, pretty girl.”
The look on Mrs. Mackey’s face changed. Her smile faded. Her eyebrows came together as she squinted at him. He understood that if anyone else had said what he had it would have been an innocent compliment, the kind parents make about other people’s children all the time, but from him it sounded wrong. It sounded like what it was, an expression of love from someone who had no right to make it. He tried to say something else, something that would assure Mrs. Mackey that his interest in Katie was merely that of a teacher, a teacher who was concerned about the way young boys and girls grew up and became responsible adults. “That nail polish,” he said. “Isn’t she too young?”
But that only made matters worse. “Little girls play with makeup,” Mrs. Mackey said. “They play dress-up. They put on their mother’s nail polish.” She said all this in a way that made it clear that she thought she shouldn’t have to say it. Mr. Dees should know as much. “I don’t know what you think—”
He cut her off before she could finish. He didn’t want to hear what she was about to tell him. “Yes, three,” he said. “You’re right, but don’t worry. You can pay me another time.” He looked back out to the driveway where Katie was still riding her new bike. “I don’t want to keep you from your family,” he said. “Go on. I’ll let myself out the front.”
When he stepped out onto the porch, he could still hear Katie’s excited squeals, and he heard them as he turned toward home and for a good ways up the street, and he hated himself for not being able to tell Mrs. Mackey, or Raymond R. earlier, what he had really wanted to say.
I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t. Please help me.
Mr. Dees
I BOUGHT THAT pen for Katie, and when I gave it to her, she hugged me around my waist. I dreamed of her. I won’t deny it.
Raymond R.
M AYBE I STOLE those cement blocks. Sure, I’ll own up to that. But, brother, that’s all. You can ask my wife.
Clare
S O HE BUILT that porch. Night after night, he was out there laying blocks, and I was pulling weeds from the flower beds, the two of us talking back and forth to each other the way married folks do, and the only one who ever stopped to visit was Henry Dees.
He came one evening just after supper. I was sitting on a kitchen chair in the yard snapping beans, a mess of Kentucky Wonders one of the girls who worked at Brookstone Manor had brought me from her
Before he could stop himself, he said what had been on his mind all the time he had been coming to the Mackeys’. “She’s a pretty girl, your Katie. A precious, pretty girl.”
The look on Mrs. Mackey’s face changed. Her smile faded. Her eyebrows came together as she squinted at him. He understood that if anyone else had said what he had it would have been an innocent compliment, the kind parents make about other people’s children all the time, but from him it sounded wrong. It sounded like what it was, an expression of love from someone who had no right to make it. He tried to say something else, something that would assure Mrs. Mackey that his interest in Katie was merely that of a teacher, a teacher who was concerned about the way young boys and girls grew up and became responsible adults. “That nail polish,” he said. “Isn’t she too young?”
But that only made matters worse. “Little girls play with makeup,” Mrs. Mackey said. “They play dress-up. They put on their mother’s nail polish.” She said all this in a way that made it clear that she thought she shouldn’t have to say it. Mr. Dees should know as much. “I don’t know what you think—”
He cut her off before she could finish. He didn’t want to hear what she was about to tell him. “Yes, three,” he said. “You’re right, but don’t worry. You can pay me another time.” He looked back out to the driveway where Katie was still riding her new bike. “I don’t want to keep you from your family,” he said. “Go on. I’ll let myself out the front.”
When he stepped out onto the porch, he could still hear Katie’s excited squeals, and he heard them as he turned toward home and for a good ways up the street, and he hated himself for not being able to tell Mrs. Mackey, or Raymond R. earlier, what he had really wanted to say.
I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t. Please help me.
Mr. Dees
I BOUGHT THAT pen for Katie, and when I gave it to her, she hugged me around my waist. I dreamed of her. I won’t deny it.
Raymond R.
M AYBE I STOLE those cement blocks. Sure, I’ll own up to that. But, brother, that’s all. You can ask my wife.
Clare
S O HE BUILT that porch. Night after night, he was out there laying blocks, and I was pulling weeds from the flower beds, the two of us talking back and forth to each other the way married folks do, and the only one who ever stopped to visit was Henry Dees.
He came one evening just after supper. I was sitting on a kitchen chair in the yard snapping beans, a mess of Kentucky Wonders one of the girls who worked at Brookstone Manor had brought me from her
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