Free Prudence by David Treuer Page A

talking, and he had turned from Billy and was walking away.
    “Come on, Billy. I said, come on.”
    Billy followed, stumbling.
    “Goddamn Indians,” said Frankie. “Come on.”
    Frankie forced his way through the brush, the branches slapping his face. Billy followed. They walked this way for a few minutes, maybe a minute.
    “Hold on, Frankie. Just wait up. They didn’t see anything. I don’t think they saw anything.”
    “Saw what?”
    “Would you stop? Just stop for a minute.”
    Frankie stopped but he wouldn’t look at Billy.
    “No one’s going to say anything.”
    “Just drop it.”
    Billy had wanted to touch Frankie’s arm again. He wanted to step close and hold him by both arms till he calmed down. But he didn’t dare. He wanted to tell him he didn’t care about push-ups or cherry pickers. He wanted to say that he liked Frankie’s arms—yes, his thin arms, his thin arms unencumbered, free of dull muscle. He wanted to say he liked his wrists, his dusty eyelashes. But he didn’t dare. He wanted to say, remember. Remember? Remember when they would steal time in the cabins. And how much he liked that Frankie let himself be held, let Billy curl his body around Frankie’s smaller one. Remember? To let yourself be held takes a lot more courage than to do the holding. But he didn’t dare. More than that. He wanted more: he wanted to retake the search for the German, back up the canoe, drive back to the station, and wait again—but he wanted to wait for Frankie, and only Frankie, to step off the train. And he wanted the train to be different. And the depot. It would be some other depot in some town neither of them knew or were known in. Some bland place no one would think of visiting. And Frankie would say, “Nice jacket, Billy!” and, “I like your style, kid.”
    But Billy said only, “Everyone’s going to forget about it.”
    “I’ll be gone in two weeks. In two weeks I’ll be in Montgomery.”
    “I know.”
    “What are you going to do when you turn eighteen? What are you going to do, for your part?”
    “I’ll do something. I’ll figure it out. Let’s go back. We can take the long way around the slough and meet the rest at the big house. There will be a lot of people around.”
    “Shh.”
    “Frankie. Please, let’s—”
    “Quiet.”
    Frankie turned toward the thicker brush. There was movement deep in the middle of it, under a blowdown.
    “Hear that?”
    Billy couldn’t see anything, but he heard the rustle ofleaves.

SIX
    J onathan lay on his bed. The Pines was finally quiet. A man could actually hear the goddamn pines now. And though it was late afternoon (could it be five already?) the heat had not broken. The grass and each and every leaf seemed to ooze moisture, to drip with heat. And for that and the quiet that let him breathe, he was glad he hadn’t gone with the others after the German. He’d almost caved when Emma asked him, and again after Frankie had arrived with Ernest, Billy, and that other boy whose name he could never remember. He almost gave in just so he wouldn’t have to endure any more of Emma’s nervous wing-beating. And Frankie’s excitement was a little contagious. But, by God, he’d met enough Germans during the last war. They were decent enough, and he’d been sorry so many died. He’d even saved a few who had been pulled back to the trenches with their own and he had been glad to save them. It made him feel noble. The Japanese were a different matter. And as he lay on the bed and searched for a breeze by turning his head one direction and then the other, he wondered if he’d save one of those if he were still in the Army. Probably not. After what they’d done it was hard to imagine helping them, or lifting a finger if one lay bleeding below him. Let him bleed. He’d seen men stretched out on the ground many times, and it was surprising how seldom they themselves knew they were going to die. They’d turn their headsas though searching for something,