And should he be walking back and forth, or did sleepwalkers just stand around
in the dark holding on to their cheese? Moments passed, and the current going through him went cold, and then he heard the
noise of Kenny Durkin’s daddy’s powerful tinkling straight into the middle of the bowl. (Spooner had been taught by his grandmother
to sit down on the toilet seat and tinkle into the front, above the waterline, to spare the ladies of the house the sound
of his urination.)
He stood frozen, his eyes still shut tight, and the tinkling went on and on, like he was in there filling the bathtub. Spooner’s
shoulders ached, and he began to feel the weight of his arms. A long time later, the pitch of the tinkling changed slightly,
growing higher, fading, and finally playing out.
Mr. Durkin proceeded to spasms now, like his battery was going dead, and then there was a soft, flabby sound as he shook out
the last drops. The toilet flushed and Spooner jumped at the sound.
He heard the footsteps again, but going the other way now, back to the bedroom. Spooner dropped his arms, and the aching in
his shoulders peaked and then passed.
He had a bite of the cheese. In spite of the mooing Kenny’s mother had done, it tasted about like all the other cheese he’d
tasted, and it was at that moment, with the cheese still in his mouth and Spooner undecided whether to swallow or spit it
out, that he noticed that even as Kenny Durkin’s daddy had been tinkling, he—Spooner—had been tinkling too. His shorts were
stuck against his leg, like something grabbing him in the dark, and thinking of being grabbed in the dark, he dropped what
was left of the cheese in front of him on the floor, and the puddle he’d made splashed up onto his feet and shins, and then,
not even closing the icebox, he ran for the door.
The screen door slammed behind him as he crossed the driveway into old man Stoppard’s backyard, running blind and seeing all
kinds of shapes in the trees, and a moment later he was in Granny Otts’s yard, his shorts as cold as ice and sticking to his
skin, pine needles and dirt and pine sap lodged in his toes. His throat threw out dry, grabbing noises as his feet hit the
ground, that sounded something like crying. And then he was in his own yard, and then at his own window, and then crawling
back into his own house.
He stood still then, listening.
Nothing.
His knee had been scraped, climbing back in, and it bled down his shin onto his foot. He put his shorts and underpants in
the bathroom hamper and crept to the bedroom and then lay awake, his face jumping here and there all over, and the only sounds
in the place were his own breathing and the pounding of his heart in his ears and the snoring from the other bedroom. His
skin was wet with sweat and tinkle and chilled him as it dried. Time passed, and his breathing quieted and his bed turned
warm, and he thought over what had happened, remembering the electricity singing through him the whole time he was inside
the house, terrified and tinkling into his own shorts, amazed at what had happened. He thought it probably felt something
like being famous.
By morning the following day, word had already passed through the neighborhood that the niggers had broken into the Durkin
house and pissed on the floor, and Mr. Durkin was prepared to kill the next one he saw on his property.
THIRTEEN
T he man who would be Spooner’s father showed up in July, toward the end of the month. He did not intrude suddenly—Spooner had
no memory of a first meeting—but one day was simply there, dropping in most nights after supper, and always with a can of
olives or a sack of popcorn or a book or a Chinese finger puzzle, and then, perhaps to avoid being thanked, he might read
them a story from the book or make a bowl of the popcorn (
white delicacies in a dishpan
, he said) or look around for something that needed to be fixed, or built. He kept his
in the dark holding on to their cheese? Moments passed, and the current going through him went cold, and then he heard the
noise of Kenny Durkin’s daddy’s powerful tinkling straight into the middle of the bowl. (Spooner had been taught by his grandmother
to sit down on the toilet seat and tinkle into the front, above the waterline, to spare the ladies of the house the sound
of his urination.)
He stood frozen, his eyes still shut tight, and the tinkling went on and on, like he was in there filling the bathtub. Spooner’s
shoulders ached, and he began to feel the weight of his arms. A long time later, the pitch of the tinkling changed slightly,
growing higher, fading, and finally playing out.
Mr. Durkin proceeded to spasms now, like his battery was going dead, and then there was a soft, flabby sound as he shook out
the last drops. The toilet flushed and Spooner jumped at the sound.
He heard the footsteps again, but going the other way now, back to the bedroom. Spooner dropped his arms, and the aching in
his shoulders peaked and then passed.
He had a bite of the cheese. In spite of the mooing Kenny’s mother had done, it tasted about like all the other cheese he’d
tasted, and it was at that moment, with the cheese still in his mouth and Spooner undecided whether to swallow or spit it
out, that he noticed that even as Kenny Durkin’s daddy had been tinkling, he—Spooner—had been tinkling too. His shorts were
stuck against his leg, like something grabbing him in the dark, and thinking of being grabbed in the dark, he dropped what
was left of the cheese in front of him on the floor, and the puddle he’d made splashed up onto his feet and shins, and then,
not even closing the icebox, he ran for the door.
The screen door slammed behind him as he crossed the driveway into old man Stoppard’s backyard, running blind and seeing all
kinds of shapes in the trees, and a moment later he was in Granny Otts’s yard, his shorts as cold as ice and sticking to his
skin, pine needles and dirt and pine sap lodged in his toes. His throat threw out dry, grabbing noises as his feet hit the
ground, that sounded something like crying. And then he was in his own yard, and then at his own window, and then crawling
back into his own house.
He stood still then, listening.
Nothing.
His knee had been scraped, climbing back in, and it bled down his shin onto his foot. He put his shorts and underpants in
the bathroom hamper and crept to the bedroom and then lay awake, his face jumping here and there all over, and the only sounds
in the place were his own breathing and the pounding of his heart in his ears and the snoring from the other bedroom. His
skin was wet with sweat and tinkle and chilled him as it dried. Time passed, and his breathing quieted and his bed turned
warm, and he thought over what had happened, remembering the electricity singing through him the whole time he was inside
the house, terrified and tinkling into his own shorts, amazed at what had happened. He thought it probably felt something
like being famous.
By morning the following day, word had already passed through the neighborhood that the niggers had broken into the Durkin
house and pissed on the floor, and Mr. Durkin was prepared to kill the next one he saw on his property.
THIRTEEN
T he man who would be Spooner’s father showed up in July, toward the end of the month. He did not intrude suddenly—Spooner had
no memory of a first meeting—but one day was simply there, dropping in most nights after supper, and always with a can of
olives or a sack of popcorn or a book or a Chinese finger puzzle, and then, perhaps to avoid being thanked, he might read
them a story from the book or make a bowl of the popcorn (
white delicacies in a dishpan
, he said) or look around for something that needed to be fixed, or built. He kept his
Similar Books
After
Marita Golden
The Star King
Susan Grant
ISOF
Pete Townsend
Rockalicious
Alexandra V
Tropic of Capricorn
Henry Miller
The Whiskey Tide
M. Ruth Myers
Things We Never Say
Sheila O'Flanagan
Just One Spark
Jenna Bayley-Burke
Island of Silence (Unwanteds)
Lisa McMann
The Venice Code
J Robert Kennedy