said.
And somehow the reason for that was all wrapped up with Meg and with girls and women in general, even with Ruth and my mother somehow.
It was too big for me to grasp entirely so I suppose my mind just let it slide.
What remained was depression and a dull ache.
“Come on,” I said to Kenny. He was staring at the house, still not believing it, like he was expecting the lights to come right back on again. But he knew too. He looked at me and I could tell he knew.
All of us did.
We trooped back silently to the tent.
Inside it was Willie Jr., finally, who put the canteen down and spoke.
He said, “Maybe we could get her into The Game.”
We thought about that.
And the night wound down from there.
Chapter Nine
I was in my yard trying to get the big red power mower going and sweating straight through my T-shirt already because the damn thing was worse than a motorboat to start, when I heard Ruth shout in a kind of voice I don’t think I’d ever heard her use before—really furious.
Jesus Christ! -
I dropped the cord and looked up.
It was the kind of voice my mother had been known to use when she got unhinged, which wasn’t often, despite the open warfare with my father. It meant you ran for cover. But when Ruth got mad it was usually at Woofer and all she had to do then was look at him, her lips pressed tight together, her eyes narrowed down to small glittery stones, in order to shut him up or make him stop whatever he was doing. The look was completely intimidating.
We used to imitate it and laugh, Donny and Willie and I—but when Ruth was the one wearing it it was no laughing matter.
I was glad for an excuse to stop struggling with the mower so I walked around the side of our garage where you could see over into their backyard.
Ruth’s wash was blowing on the clothesline. She was standing on the porch, her hands on her hips, and even if you hadn’t heard the voice or what she said you could tell she was really mad.
“You stupid shit!” was what she said.
And I can tell you, that shocked me.
Sure, Ruth cursed like a sailor. That was one of the reasons we liked her. Her husband, Willie Sr., “that lovely Irish bastard” or “that idiot mick sonovabitch” and John Lentz, the town’s mayor—and, we suspect, Ruth’s onetime suitor—got blasted regularly.
Everybody got some now and then.
But the thing is it was always casual swearing, pretty much without real anger. It was meant to get a laugh at some poor guy’s expense, and usually did.
It was just Ruth’s way of describing people.
It was pretty much like our own. Our friends were all retards, scumbags, lardasses or shit-for-brains. Their mothers all ate the flies off dead camels.
This was wholly different. Shit was what she said, and shit was what she meant.
I wondered what Meg had done.
I looked up to my own porch where the back screen door was open, hoping my mother wasn’t in the kitchen, that she hadn’t heard her. My mother didn’t approve of Ruth and I got enough grief already for spending as much time over there as I did.
I was in luck. She wasn’t around.
I looked at Ruth. She hadn’t said anything else and she didn’t need to. Her expression said it all.
I felt kind of funny, like I was spying again, twice in two days. But of course that was exactly what I bad to do. I wasn’t about to allow her to see me watching her, exposed the way she was. It was too embarrassing. I pressed up close to the garage and peered around at her, hoping she wouldn’t look over my way for any reason. And she didn’t.
Their own garage blocked my view, though, so I couldn’t see what the problem was. I kept waiting for Meg to show up, to see how she was taking being called a stupid shit.
And then I got another surprise.
Because it wasn’t Meg.
It was Susan.
I guessed she’d been trying to help with the laundry. But it had rained last night, and it looked as though she’d dropped some of Ruth’s whites on the muddy,
And somehow the reason for that was all wrapped up with Meg and with girls and women in general, even with Ruth and my mother somehow.
It was too big for me to grasp entirely so I suppose my mind just let it slide.
What remained was depression and a dull ache.
“Come on,” I said to Kenny. He was staring at the house, still not believing it, like he was expecting the lights to come right back on again. But he knew too. He looked at me and I could tell he knew.
All of us did.
We trooped back silently to the tent.
Inside it was Willie Jr., finally, who put the canteen down and spoke.
He said, “Maybe we could get her into The Game.”
We thought about that.
And the night wound down from there.
Chapter Nine
I was in my yard trying to get the big red power mower going and sweating straight through my T-shirt already because the damn thing was worse than a motorboat to start, when I heard Ruth shout in a kind of voice I don’t think I’d ever heard her use before—really furious.
Jesus Christ! -
I dropped the cord and looked up.
It was the kind of voice my mother had been known to use when she got unhinged, which wasn’t often, despite the open warfare with my father. It meant you ran for cover. But when Ruth got mad it was usually at Woofer and all she had to do then was look at him, her lips pressed tight together, her eyes narrowed down to small glittery stones, in order to shut him up or make him stop whatever he was doing. The look was completely intimidating.
We used to imitate it and laugh, Donny and Willie and I—but when Ruth was the one wearing it it was no laughing matter.
I was glad for an excuse to stop struggling with the mower so I walked around the side of our garage where you could see over into their backyard.
Ruth’s wash was blowing on the clothesline. She was standing on the porch, her hands on her hips, and even if you hadn’t heard the voice or what she said you could tell she was really mad.
“You stupid shit!” was what she said.
And I can tell you, that shocked me.
Sure, Ruth cursed like a sailor. That was one of the reasons we liked her. Her husband, Willie Sr., “that lovely Irish bastard” or “that idiot mick sonovabitch” and John Lentz, the town’s mayor—and, we suspect, Ruth’s onetime suitor—got blasted regularly.
Everybody got some now and then.
But the thing is it was always casual swearing, pretty much without real anger. It was meant to get a laugh at some poor guy’s expense, and usually did.
It was just Ruth’s way of describing people.
It was pretty much like our own. Our friends were all retards, scumbags, lardasses or shit-for-brains. Their mothers all ate the flies off dead camels.
This was wholly different. Shit was what she said, and shit was what she meant.
I wondered what Meg had done.
I looked up to my own porch where the back screen door was open, hoping my mother wasn’t in the kitchen, that she hadn’t heard her. My mother didn’t approve of Ruth and I got enough grief already for spending as much time over there as I did.
I was in luck. She wasn’t around.
I looked at Ruth. She hadn’t said anything else and she didn’t need to. Her expression said it all.
I felt kind of funny, like I was spying again, twice in two days. But of course that was exactly what I bad to do. I wasn’t about to allow her to see me watching her, exposed the way she was. It was too embarrassing. I pressed up close to the garage and peered around at her, hoping she wouldn’t look over my way for any reason. And she didn’t.
Their own garage blocked my view, though, so I couldn’t see what the problem was. I kept waiting for Meg to show up, to see how she was taking being called a stupid shit.
And then I got another surprise.
Because it wasn’t Meg.
It was Susan.
I guessed she’d been trying to help with the laundry. But it had rained last night, and it looked as though she’d dropped some of Ruth’s whites on the muddy,
Similar Books
