The Twelve-Fingered Boy by John Hornor Jacobs Page A

hands.
    â€œThis is the Ghost Dance. It’s the dance that at one time all American Indian nations practiced, and it was inspired by an eclipse of the sun. It’s the harbinger of the cleansing of the world.” Red Wolf takes a prancing step, like a horse stomping, repeats it with the same foot, and then repeats the cycle with his other foot. He dances in a circle.
    â€œCome on, boys. It’s not hard. And when you do it, it separates your ghost, your spirit, from your body. Your body is incarcerado. But your spirit is free to roam. Roam now.”
    I look at Jack. He takes a step, then another with the same foot. And then we’re all doing it, stomping around in circles on a basketball court in a kids’ jailhouse named after a Pollock. If that isn’t spirit-lifting, I don’t know what is.
    Jack’s laughing now, an unreserved laugh that rises up toward the heavens, and I realize just how much he’d like to be freed from his body.

    When we come down, when we’re back incarcerado, deep in our bodies, we walk out to where the grass rises to meet the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. We sit on the slope by the bleachers—the bleachers where I do a goodly portion of my deals. On a workday I take a seat, a mark walks below underneath the benches among the struts and trusses, tugs on my pants leg, and if I don’t see the correct change appear on my bleacher, then no drop for the ravenous candymonger.
    But today’s my day off, so Jack and I sit in the sun to digest and watch the kids playing hoops—Ox, Reasoner, Fishkill, and a few goons from D Wing.
    â€œSo, you read that comic?” I’m leaning back on my elbows, watching the high, wispy clouds scuttle across the sky. “Any good?”
    â€œYeah. Storm gets some mutant kids that’re being bullied and brings them to the school.”
    â€œSweet. She’s so hot. When did they start drawing her like that? Sometimes I wish they wouldn’t.”
    Jack laughs, a real laugh, not an imitation of a real-boy laugh. He throws back his head, like when we did the Ghost Dance, and lets his body go unguarded and at ease. I grin, resting on my elbows. I remember Vig and miss him horribly. Am I less tough to say that? Most likely I wasn’t that tough to begin with. Just a talker with a way with the vocab. A salesman.
    I feel good like I’d forgotten I could feel good, here with someone who needs me, not someone who wants something from me.
    But Jack’s laugh dies, quicker than I would have thought, and he’s silent again, looking at the yard.
    â€œYou think he’ll come today?”
    He doesn’t have to say who
he
is.
    â€œNah. It’s Saturday. Even pervs like him need the afternoon off.”
    â€œWhy do you keep calling him a perv?”
    I have to remind myself that Jack’s what? Twelve? Maybe thirteen? And been on the inside for just a week.
    â€œDidn’t you hear it? In his voice, when he asked about the … the diphallia.” Someone with two penises.
    At first I think Jack is embarrassed. It’s hard talking to another guy about this stuff.
    He’s not embarrassed. He’s furious.
    The air in front of me dimples, wavers, like a boiling moat of water stands between him and me, sending up steam. I feel pressure on my shoulder, and then I’m toppling over and sliding away, down the hill, away from Jack.
    â€œJack! Stop!”
    He slumps, coughs, and then begins to turn on the waterworks. It only takes a moment. I rise up on my hands and knees and climb back up to him.
    Over and over again he’s saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    I put my arm around him. He turns his face into his hands, just like Vig used to do when he was mad or ashamed.
    â€œJack, it’s okay.” I don’t know what else to say. With Vig I could just make a goofy face or turn on the TV.
    I don’t know what’s going on here, but