Summer'98

Jack
 

"Let’s play horses," Janet suggests at the beginning of lunch recess. It’s a game she and the girls play every day -- I’m the only stallion. "Follow me!" she commands, scrapes the ground with her feet, and whinnies. "Wait a minute! I’m the stallion! I’m the leader!" "You’re not," she replies. "I am. I’m a unicorn made out of silver and diamonds." I don’t know what a unicorn is and am not about to ask Janet to explain. She always thinks she knows more than I do -- but she doesn’t, just some things. "Well, I’m a giant golden horse with emeralds and you have to do what I say," I insist. "Karen, Patty, Lisa -- let’s gallop over to the monkey bars." They don’t move. Janet laughs. "C’mon," she tells the girls and tosses her long, shiny, blonde mane. They trot after her in search of fresh grazing and leave me standing alone in the middle of the play field stamping my saddle-shoe hooves. "Hey, Allen," one of the boys shouts. "Playing horsey with the girls again? What a little sissy." "I’m not a sissy," I yell back. Why do they call me that? Of course I play with girls. Boys never let me play with them. They scare me. I don’t know what to say to them. I prance after Janet and the mares. Mrs. Hazelwood, the teacher on playground duty, blows her whistle, points at me, and motions for me to come see her. She’s fat and ugly and wears dark red lipstick and pointy glasses with rhinestones. She’s the meanest teacher in school. We call her The Butcher of Bremerton. "Allen, why don’t you play with the boys for awhile? It isn’t good for you to play with girls all the time." I tell her I’m having fun, but don’t look at her. "Go play with the boys," she insists. "Go over there and play baseball." I walk slowly to the corner of the playground where a softball diamond is painted in white chalk on the dirt. I sit down and watch from a spot where I won’t bother the boys and can’t be seen by Mrs. Hazelwood. The new boy, Jack, hits a ball way out of the diamond. The boys, even the ones on the opposite team, cheer him and pat him on the back when he runs across home plate. He seems like a nice fellow. I haven’t spoken to him, of course. He looks at me and smiles; I look away. Mrs. Hazelwood blows her whistle again. "Boys, let Allen play," she bellows across the playground. I am so embarrassed. "Oh great," says Marty Barnes, one of the team captains. "Who wants little Pony Boy?" "Don’t ask him to be on our team," another whines. "I don’t want to be on your stupid team," I scream and cover my face with my arm to hide my tears and run back to our fifth grade classroom. "What’s wrong, Allen?" asks Mrs. Sheffield, our teacher. I can’t answer. I just sit on my small wooden chair and cry, though my tears only mean more humiliation when the other kids return. "Crybaby," Marty sneers as soon as he arrives. Everyone giggles. "Quiet, class! Take your seats quickly. Today we are going to learn how to make butter." She fills two jars with cream and a little salt, starts them on different sides of the room, and tells us to shake each of them a hundred times and pass them to the person next to us. They are already full of thick white globs when they meet at my desk. "Allen, take a spoon and try it," Mrs. Sheffield says and smiles. She’s always nice to me and checks books out of the library she thinks I’d like to read. I want to be the first to try the butter, but blush and hand the jars to the boy sitting next to me. He can try it. I don’t want any more attention.   After school, I grab my jacket, my Man from U.N.C.L.E. lunch pail and start to walk home -- our house is only a few blocks from school. Usually I walk with Janet, but after her snub on the playground, I’m not going to talk to her. Sometimes I walk home with Billy Ferguson, but we aren’t speaking, either. The last time we were together he told me his family was afraid of a nuclear attack and that they were going to live in an ice cave on Mt. Rainier where they would be safe. I called him a liar and he got mad, shoved me, and said I was a freak. "Do you want some company?" It was Jack. I look at my feet. "Yeah, sure."   Jack has been in our school only a few months. His family moved to Bremerton because his father, who is in the Navy, was re-stationed here from Hawaii. Navy kids are always coming and going in our school. I’ve never known anyone who has been to Hawaii before. I’ve only seen pictures of it in National Geographic. It looks exotic. His first day in class, Mrs. Sheffield asked Jack to tell us about life in our newest state. He told us about Pearl Harbor, sunken battleships, pineapples, palm trees, and steamy jungles. Once, cannibals chased him all the way to the fiery crater of Mount Haleakala, but he fought free from them at the last minute by clubbing them all to death with a big sugarcane spear. We all said, "Wow!" Mrs. Sheffield said she didn’t think there were cannibals in Hawaii and asked Jack to sit down. Afterwards, at recess, the boys surrounded him. "How would old Sheffield know if there were cannibals in Hawaii or not? She’s just a teacher. She’s never been anywhere," Marty said. "Yeah," his buddies chimed in. I think they’re all really stupid -- well, all except Jack. His cannibal story, if not true, was pretty clever. He’s different. He isn’t mean or a bully. He’s everybody’s favorite, even the teacher’s. And he’s good to look at, too -- compact and full of energy -- with a bright face and dark brown hair and long curly eyelashes.   "I’m sorry Marty picked on you," Jack says. "I can teach you how to throw a ball if you want. It’s not that hard." "I don’t want to know how to throw a ball," I answer bitterly. I don’t mean to be nasty to him, it just comes out that way. His attention makes me nervous. He shrugs and we walk the rest of the way to my house in silence. "Let me know if you change your mind," he says pleasantly when we stop in front of my house. "I just live a block or two down the hill." "Yeah," I reply. Jack winks and continues walking. I go inside through the back door -- I’m not allowed to use the front door because I might get things dirty. I hurry to the living room window so I can watch him. I’m flattered that he talked to me and hope it isn’t some kind of trick. Mother sees me from the kitchen and asks me whom I am watching. "Nobody." She comes to the window to check. "Who’s that, then?" "Jack." She asks me why I didn’t say so in the first place, but I ignore her. "Don’t forget to take out the garbage and set the table for dinner," she reminds me -- as if I’d forget. I think about Jack the rest of the day. I imagine I am king of the world and that everyone else is my subject. Janet is my cook. Marty’s my slave. I make Jack prince.   The next day our class has PE outside -- we play Red Rover. Jack is the leader of one of the two teams. I hate team games because I am always the last person asked to play. I’m surprised when Jack calls my name first -- so is everybody else. "I suppose somebody has to choose him," Marty mutters. Both teams form long lines and join hands. "Red rover, red rover, send Billy right over!" Jack calls. Billy Ferguson runs full speed at us and tries to break though our line where Janet and I hold hands. We hold! I look at Jack and grin! "Way to go, Allen!" he says and smiles. Marty gives me the finger. Later, in class, we write squiggle stories. One person makes a squiggle on a piece of paper and hands it to the person sitting next to them. That person has to make the squiggle into a drawing and then write a story about it. I create a character, named King Flatbelly, whose belly button popped open and the escaping air was so strong it sent him flying all the way to France. When I read it out loud, the class laughs. Mrs. Sheffield tells me I should stop writing such silly stories. Jack’s story is about a sea monster that eats potato chips. Mrs. Sheffield likes his story. It seems to me to be every bit as silly as mine. I watch him as he stands in front of the class and reads. I like it when he smiles. I like the way his straight hair falls over his right eye. I like how strong he is and how he looks in his jeans. Mother won’t let me wear jeans; she thinks they are too informal and I have to wear corduroys. I can’t even wear jeans to mow the lawn or weed the garden, which seems pretty informal to me. Kids tease me about it all the time. She makes me change into clean pants if I want to sit in the living room; I might get things dirty. After school, Jack wants to walk home with me again. I feel more comfortable this time and I tell him that I play the piano, have a three-speed bike, and like to play with toy soldiers. He has a bike, too, and a collection of WWII German tanks he’s made from kits. I walk with him to his house to see where he lives and he invites me in to meet his parents; they’re younger than mine. His father is wearing a white Navy uniform -- he’s an officer. He shakes my hand and then ignores us. His mother is thin and unattractive. Her voice is harsh and she’s drinking beer from a can. She doesn’t pay any attention to us either. Jack wonders if I want to ride bikes on Saturday. I tell him it would be great.   I worry the rest of the week that it will rain on Saturday, but it doesn’t and it’s warm and sunny. Mother lets me wear a short-sleeved shirt. She’s glad I’ve found a friend and makes two tuna fish sandwiches for us that she wraps carefully in waxed paper. Jack and I speed off to the city park. He’s faster than me and can ride without putting his hands on the handlebars. I try to imitate him, but get scared after a few seconds -- he laughs. When we get to the park we sit on a bench, watch people go by, and eat our sandwiches in the sun. It isn’t much of a park: some swings, a wading pool for kiddies, a slide, and a gazebo where the high school band plays in the summer. I like sitting next to Jack in the sun. He reaches over and unbuttons the top button of my shirt. "There," he grins. "Let’s lie on the grass and watch for shapes in the clouds." We see a pair of boots, an eagle, a train, an ocean liner, an angel, and a pile of dog poop float by overhead. As they pass, Jack tells me he likes to imagine things. He likes to pretend he’s a pilot all alone in the sky. He likes to imagine what it would be like to be older. He wants to paint pictures, or write books, or build rocket ships. He likes to read -- Treasure Island is his favorite book. I tell him I like to read, too, and that my favorite book is A Wrinkle in Time. Our hands brush against each other as we lie side by side on the sweet-smelling grass. He puts his fingers between mine and holds my hand. "The sun feels good," he sighs. I can’t speak. When I get home, Mother asks if I had a good time. I shrug and nod yes. I head for my room. "Button your shirt," she says. "I don’t want to. None of the other boys button their top button." "I don’t care what the other boys do. Button your shirt." "No. I don’t want to!" "Do as I say. If you don’t button your shirt, I won’t let you play with your friend again." I go to my bedroom and stare out the window. Why do I have to button my shirt? Why can’t I be like other boys? Why do I always feel different from other people? I button my shirt because I know that Mother will come in and check to be sure I have obeyed her. I’m not permitted to close my bedroom door. Mother doesn’t think it’s necessary. I shouldn’t have any secrets. I don’t like my room. It isn’t really mine. Mother selected the curtains, the rug, and the furniture -- even the pictures on the wall. She picked out my bedspread but, since it’s made out of nice material, I can’t lie on top of it. She dusts and straightens my room every day. She even goes through my desk drawers and organizes them. Mother comes into my room. "Good," she says, looking at my collar. I imagine Jack undoing it again.   The next time we walk home together we hold hands. It’s no big deal or anything. Our hands brushed against each other just like they did the day in the park -- only this time I did it on purpose -- and Jack took mine as soon as they touched. It feels comfortable and scary at the same time. I feel like I belong to someone, but I also know we are doing something that isn’t quite right, that could get us in trouble. A man emptying his garbage sees us; it’s the Little League baseball coach. His face lights up when he sees Jack -- his star pitcher and best batter. Then he sees our hands and his expression changes. "What the heck are you two doing?"" he asks. I try to pull my hand away, but Jack squeezes it hard and keeps it in his grasp. "Why, what’s wrong?" Jack replies. "Well, look at you. You look like a couple of little girls." He wrinkles his face up and shakes his head. I yank my hand free and put it in my pocket. I want to run away. Jack put his arm around my shoulder. I shudder. "We aren’t a couple of girls," he challenges. "Allen’s my friend." The coach turns red. I don’t think he’s used to being talked back to. "Come on, Jack, boys don’t hold hands. Certainly not boys on my baseball team." "Fuck the baseball team!" Jack says and steers me past the coach and on down the alley. He used the F-word to an adult! I didn’t think a kid could do that. I’m so proud of him. "Jack! Come back here!" the coach orders. He sounds more worried than angry. "Jack? You’ll be at practice later, right? We need you, slugger!"   "Yeah, sure," Jack calls back. He takes his arm off my shoulder and holds my hand again. We laugh. I’m afraid the coach will tell. I’m afraid I’ll get home and Mother will yell at me and tell me I can’t play with Jack anymore, but nothing happens.   We hold hands all the time now when we are together. We’re careful not to do it near school or our houses. Nobody says anything about it.   I watch every baseball game Jack is in. My father is happy that I’m taking an interest in sports. He’s told me many times that I stay inside too much. I’m glad to please him, but hope he won’t ask me to actually join the team or anything. He knows Mother would never allow it, anyway. She wants me inside, in sight, at my piano. The coach glowers at me when he sees me watching from the wooden bleachers. He tells Jack he thinks I’m a bad influence.   On the last day of school, our class has an outdoor picnic on the lawn. We have hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. We bring our wooden chairs outside and sit in a circle. After we eat, we have Show and Tell. Janet has a cricket in a jar named Houdini because it mysteriously escaped from the jar twice. When she sees that none of us know who Houdini is, she favors us with his life story. Marty shows off his collection of Pez dispensers; Arlene, an old lace cap worn by one of her Dutch ancestors; Billy Ferguson, a toy canoe his father whittled from a dead branch of a birch tree in his back yard. I have a music box in the shape of a grand piano that plays Beethoven’s Minuet in G -- a piece I learned to play a few years ago. The boys in class groan. Jack holds up a carefully folded red flag. It’s something his father got during the war. He shakes it open and reveals a Nazi swastika. It’s bigger than a flag -- longer. It’s a banner, like the ones I’ve seen in picture books about the war that hung from buildings when Hitler drove past. I’m so impressed that I jump up and take one corner of it and Jack and I run around the lawn with the banner waving behind us -- it must be thirty feet long or more. Everyone gets excited and kids run behind us, yelling. Chairs topple and a tray of hot dogs falls over onto the grass. Mrs. Carter, the principal, yells at us and orders us to stop. She takes us into her office and tells us how bad we are to play with such a terrible flag. She says she’s shocked at our behavior. "Jack, your father was in the war. He wouldn’t like you waving a Nazi flag. And Allen, what’s come over you? This isn’t like you at all." I don’t know what like me is. I don’t understand why she’s so upset. We have to sit at our desks with our heads down while the other kids have ice cream for dessert.   During the summer, I see Jack often, but not every day. He has other friends that he plays with and, when they’re around, he doesn’t ask me to join them. That’s O.K., because I don’t like sharing him, anyway. Sometimes I hide at the end of his street and watch them play. We ride our bikes to the pier where the battleship Missouri is moored. I chatter like I’m Japanese and bow low over and over again to him -- Jack is General MacArthur. We stand on the plaque that marks the spot where the Japanese surrendered and he puts his arm around me and leans his head on my shoulder. I nuzzle his hair -- it’s soft and tickles and smells dark and warm. Then we run to look at the big guns. We go fishing at the public dock, but don’t catch anything. While we fish, Jack reads to me from a book that he likes called White Fang. He’s a good reader. The Kalakala comes and goes twice from the terminal as he reads. Each time we jump up and down on the dock and yell and pull the air with our hands to try and get the captain to blow the ship’s big foghorn, but he doesn’t. The ferry gleams silver in the afternoon sun. We play who can die the best and take turns shooting each other with an imaginary machine gun and try to outdo each other with our grisly death throes. Sometimes we play statue maker -- we spin each other around and then yell "stop!" and freeze like statues in whatever position we are in.   We have a mutual friend named Art we occasionally play with. We go to his house to play war games in his basement. His dad, who fought in Europe in WWII and likes to paint lead soldiers and make model tanks and airplanes just like us, plays too. He wrote a book of rules so we could fight realistic battles between our miniature German and American armies. He covered a Ping-Pong table with pieces of brown carpet pad for earth; made trees from modeling clay, wire, and lichen; made roads from narrow strips of fine sandpaper; and built villages of scale model houses. We toss a coin to see who gets to be the Germans, because they had the neatest tanks and airplanes. Jack and I share our generalship and, during the afternoon, thousands of lives are lost. We wait for Art to finish his turn and sit on a long low bench next to the table. Jack leans over and puts his head in my lap. I stroke his hair. "Are you guys gone on each other or something?" Art’s dad asks. "No," is all I can manage to say. I shift in my seat, but Jack won’t move his head, so I keep stroking his hair until it’s our turn. We win. Afterwards we walk home down the alley behind Art’s house and laugh about beating Art and how he had a fit when he lost, and how his dad ended up sending him to his room. We pass an empty garage with its door left open. It belongs to Mr. Rayburn, the neighborhood drunk, who looks just like Groucho Marx. Jack pushes me inside. He wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me close to him; his face is just inches from mine. "I like it when you stroke my hair," he whispers. "I like it a lot." "Oh," I croak. I tremble. Every part of my body seems to be going crazy. "You’re my best friend," he continues. His lips brush against mine as he says the words I have waited to hear. He kisses me and puts his tongue in my mouth. His lips are soft and wet. It feels weird to have his tongue darting around inside my mouth and running across the surface of my teeth. I pull away. No one had ever kissed me like that before; I had only received parental pecks on the cheek. "Kiss me," he insists. I stand still. He pushes me against the wall of the garage and leans his body against my body. My foot bumps against an empty gas can and I trip and fall sideways. A stack of tools leaning against the wall falls over and makes a loud clatter. We run down the alley, laughing. When I get home I go straight to my room. Though I had been laughing a few minutes before, my feelings about Jack, about being kissed for the first time, and about how his body felt against mine rush through me all at the same time and I burst into tears. I don’t understand all of the feelings inside me. They’re so strong, painful, scary, and wonderful: I love him; I’m not good enough to be his friend; maybe he loves me, too; I’m his best friend -- he said so; I don’t believe him; who could love me? I want him to kiss me again; I want to touch his body; I’m so ugly! Mother hears me sobbing and comes into my room and asks what’s the matter. "Did you and your friend have a fight?" "No!" I want her to go away. I want to close my door and be left alone. "What is it? Tell me," she persists. Why won’t she go away? "Leave me alone!" I shout. I have never yelled at my mother before. "Why can’t you just leave me alone?" She looks surprised, then flushes red. She slaps my face, hard, and storms out of the room. I slam the door shut behind her. "It’s my room! It’s my life!" Within seconds, she opens the door again. "I want this door left open!" she orders. "There’ll be no secrets in this house." "For Christ’s sake, Mother, leave the boy alone," my father yells from the living room. She turns and walks angrily back to the kitchen. I am grateful to my father and want to run to him and tell him about all my feelings, but how can I? How can he possibly understand?   In the fall, Jack and I are in the same sixth grade class. He’s still the most popular boy in school and it’s hard sharing him with all of his friends. I’m jealous and afraid he will like one of them better than me.   "Why do you have to spend time with them? Why can’t you just be with me?" "Because I don’t want to!" "You told me I was your best friend!" "So? Does that mean I can’t like other people, too?" "But you like me best, right?" He gets angry, tells me to stop bothering him, and goes off to play with his other friends. That night, in bed, I cling fiercely to my pillow and pretend he’s hugging me. I can’t sleep. Our fall art project is to make hand puppets out of papier-mâché. We can make whatever kind of puppet we want. Most of the kids make clowns, or Indians, or Martians, or witches, or dogs and cats. Jack makes a roaring lion. I’m not very talented with my hands except for playing the piano. My puppet looks like a runt -- a cross between a pig and a potato. When we’re finished making the puppets, we divide into teams and write plays using the characters we’ve created. Jack and I and four other kids are on the same team. Our teacher made a stand-up puppet theater out of a large refrigerator box. It’s painted black and has a stage window cut in it covered by a little red velvet curtain. The six of us squeeze inside the box when it is our turn to do our play. There’s barely enough room to move. Jack starts the play with a roar from his lion. He’s standing right in front of me; the back of his body keeps brushing against the front of mine in the crowded box. I kiss the back of his neck. "Mrs. Baldwin, Allen’s kissing me!" Jack yells. There’s dead silence in the room. I want to run away, to disappear. "Allen’s kissing me," he repeats, louder. "Allen, for heaven’s sake stop it! What are you thinking!" Mrs. Baldwin, our teacher, snaps. She reaches in the box, grabs my arm, pulls me out in front of the class, and shakes me. My classmates laugh. Tears fill my eyes. I throw up, right there, in front of everybody. Mrs. Baldwin sends me to the nurse and the custodian has to come in and clean up my mess. It’s recess when I come back. Mrs. Baldwin shakes her head. "Allen, I can’t even talk to you about this. Go outside and play!" I sulk in a corner of the play field. I don’t want anyone to see me, but Jack spots me and he and a few of his pals come over. "Hey, Puke Head!" Marty calls. Jack and his buddies laugh. How can Jack do this to me? How can he betray me like this? One boy calls me a homo. "You little queer," another teases. Jack turns on them. "He isn’t either," he screams. "Leave him alone! He’s my friend!" He puts his fists in the air. It begins to rain, hard, and the surprised boys run for cover. Jack stays behind. "I’m sorry," he confides. "I’m really sorry." Rain pours down our faces. He grabs my hand and kisses it. "Let’s go inside." Back in class, the boys don’t dare open their mouths. I can’t figure him out.   Jack is made captain of the school patrol. They monitor the crosswalks near the school and make sure the smaller kids get safely across the street. They wear neat policeman-like hats, red jackets with white belts, badges, and carry red flags with STOP written on them in white letters. I’m in the patrol, too. Maybe Mrs. Baldwin feels sorry for me. Jack and I are assigned to go on patrol together. On the way to our intersection, I ask him why he doesn’t like me anymore, why he is mad at me. "I like you. Why shouldn’t I?" he answers. It isn’t enough. I need more. "You know I love you, don’t you?" I blurt out. He spins toward me and pushes me against the hurricane fence that surrounds the schoolyard. He looks like he’s going to slug me. I cut my right index finger on the fence and it bleeds in a small stream down my hand. I look at the blood and then at Jack. His face softens. "Here, let me look at that," he says and takes my hand and examines the cut. He puts my injured finger in his mouth and sucks the blood from it gently. He pulls it slowly out. "There, that’s better." He reaches for his patrol badge and undoes the clasp. He jabs the steel pin into his forefinger; blood gathers at its tip. I take it and touch his bleeding finger against my cut. No," he urges. "Suck it." I put his finger into my mouth. I taste his skin’s saltiness and the rusty flavor of his blood. "OK?" he asks and takes his finger out of my mouth. He gently wipes its wetness on my lips. "Now we’re blood brothers." "Aren’t you going to help me across the street?" a kid who has come up behind us asks sarcastically. "Sure, sure," I blush. I step out into the crosswalk and hold out my flag. "Why do you keep changing?" I ask Jack. "Some days you are nice to me and others you are mean." "I don’t know," he answers. "Sometimes when I’m with you I’m scared."   Once a month the patrols are invited to the police station to hear Officer Friendly talk about law and order and respect for authority. Afterwards, we’re treated to a free movie at the Roxy Theater. Jack and I go to see Mothra on one of these outings. He buys a big bag of jellybeans for us to eat during the show. We sit in the dark theater and watch the giant moth wreak havoc on Tokyo. "Can I have some jellybeans?" I whisper. He puts one of the beans in his mouth, gets it spitty, takes it out, and puts it in mine, which is hanging wide open in surprise. For the rest of the movie, he hand-feeds me spitty jelly beans. We sit with our legs spread so our knees touch. Jack rests his hand on my thigh. When the lights go up, I carry my jacket in front of me. We take the bus to his house after the movie and play soldiers in his bedroom -- he’s a Spitfire fighter plane and flies over me, strafing my tanks and making machine gun noises with his mouth. When we get bored we sit on the floor, lean against his bed and finish the jellybeans. "I’m hot," he says and takes off his T-shirt. He gets up on his knees, faces me, and folds his arms over his head. I can’t help it. I have to do it. I reach out and touch his chest. I put my hands in his smooth pale armpits -- they’re warm and moist and I can feel his pulse there. I run my fingertips over his small brown nipples, down his soft belly, and explore his navel with my blood brother finger. He stands up and undoes his belt. His pants drop to the floor. "Look," he says and glances down. He’s stiff. I touch the tip of it and then quickly draw my hand away and gasp. All along it are cuts, like razor blade slices. Each cut has a thin orange stripe of Mercurochrome on it. There’s maybe twenty of them -- some on his balls. He turns around and there are more cuts and stripes on his butt as well. "Jack?" I turn him toward me and take him into my arms. "What happened?" He leans his head on my shoulder and sobs. I rock him back and forth. "Don’t ask," he pleads. This time I kiss him. "Jack!" his mother hollers through his closed door. I jump; he looks terrified. "It’s time for dinner, you’d better ask your friend to go home."   Later that week, Jack tells me his father is being re-stationed again. In a few weeks they are moving to Pennsylvania. I can’t believe it. It can’t be true. He promises me that we will spend time together before he goes and that he will write me as soon as he gets to his new home and that we will visit each other. He’s so busy during the next weeks that I don’t ever get a chance to see him alone again.   I walk to his house to say goodbye, but the movers are there and things are so hectic and his parents keep wanting him to do things. We shake hands, say we’ll miss each other, and that’s it. I come home, sit in my bedroom, and stare out the window. I feel so empty and lost. I have to get out of the house. I have to get away. I go for a long walk and am late for dinner. Mother’s angry when I get back and has a yardstick in her hand. She says she’s going to spank me. My father grabs the stick from her and breaks it over his knee. "Let him be! He’s just late." I’ve never seen them fight before. "O.K.," he says. "Let’s eat." We sit in our assigned places. I unbutton my top button and don’t look up.