Free Staying Fat for Sarah Byrnes by Chris Crutcher Page B

kid; the kind of man a dog circles warily, his hackles at attention. Mr. Byrnes doesn’t talk much, buthis glare makes Mautz look like Bambi. The most telling thing about him is how afraid he makes Sarah Byrnes. Sarah Byrnes isn’t afraid of much, but your mention of her dad’s name dramatically increases your chances of a black eye and a bloody nose.
    I stand against the back desk, trying hard to fade into the background as he moves toward the exit, but he spots me and moves in my direction. His black, broad-brimmed hat rides low over his eyes, and a tattered black cotton sportcoat pulls tight on his broad shoulders. His gray shirt is buttoned to the top, and his dark baggy pants complete the picture of Death, come calling at your door in the middle of a dark, rainy night. That may sound a bit dramatic, but I wanna tell you, Sarah Byrnes’s pappy gives me maximum creeps. “You’re Calhoune,” he says, standing a few feet from me.
    â€œYes sir.”
    He glances back at Sarah Byrnes, then back to me. “She say anything to you?”
    â€œNo sir.”
    He’s quiet another moment, staring hard at my eyes. I hold his gaze, vowing not to blink or look away, while sweat glands pop open like kernels of popcorn. “You let me know if she does.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    The attendant stands patiently by the open door, keys dangling from her hand, and Mr. Byrnes disappears into the outer hallway.
    I think I detect the fleeting shadow of a sneer across Sarah Byrnes’s lip as I slip onto the seat beside her, but I know it must be my imagination, and I can’t help thinking back to what Dale Thornton said that day.
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    â€œI think we oughta do a ex -pose on that little rat Elgin Greene,” Dale said, pacing the wooden floor of our attic hideaway. “Little goofball’s got some kinda bad news stink to him. We could chase it down, maybe find out it come from a giant comet turd landin’ in his backyard or somethin’. You know, explodin’ all over his whole family whenever it hit.” Dale had definitely become comfortable with the content, if not the spirit of our biweekly rag.
    I sat at the keyboard, chin propped in one hand, feeding myself nonstop Lorna Doones with the other, a major writer’s block shrouding me like the stench around Elgin Greene.
    Sarah Byrnes lay on the couch, heels planted firmly against the arm, absently drumming her hands on her stomach along with the Kingston Trio, one of whom was runnin’ like a dog through the Everglades. “I’vetold you a thousand times, we don’t pick on guys like Elgin Greene. He’s one of us, only helpless.”
    â€œOle Greene ain’t helpless. Get downwind from that kid, he’s a powerful mother.” He laughed, nodding. “Yup. I think a ex-pose on Elgin Greene is right what we need.”
    â€œFirst of all, it’s ex-po-say,” Sarah Byrnes said. “Not ex -pose. Jesus, you could at least learn to say it right. And second, we pick on people who do us dirt. Picture us as good guys, Dale, hard as that may be for you. We’re champions of the underdog. Underdogs call Elgin Greene an underdog. We’re not giving him a hard time and that’s it.”
    â€œSo you come up with somethin’,” Dale said. “You’re so damn smart, got your brains all wrapped up in your ugly head by them scars.” Dale was going for the throat; it didn’t take much to wound him. Killing him was something else…. “That’s the only reason you stay so smart. None of it gets out ’cause it’s packed in there so good.”
    No half-witted remark about burn scars ever got a rise out of Sarah Byrnes—not since maybe first grade. “Oh, Dale,” she said sarcastically, “you’re just so darn clever. I bet all the girls swoon. Got lots of dates lined up for the weekend?”
    â€œUp yours,” he said. “You really