Free A Question of Manhood by Robin Reardon Page A

someplace he can walk home from.” I was having trouble breathing, praying it didn’t show. Praying Marty wouldn’t realize how scared I was.
    â€œWhat was it we wanted, Paul? What have we got now?” I hated the tone of his voice.
    I shrugged, trying once more to look casual. “Humiliate him. Take him down a peg. Show him that just because he’s smart doesn’t mean he’s invincible. I think we’ve done that.” I nearly added, “Don’t you?” but I wasn’t sure enough of the right answer.
    Marty paced slowly back and forth in front of Anthony. At least I’d got him to stop pointing that dagger at the kid’s groin. “I don’t know. I’m not feeling quite—what’s the word? I’m sure Tony here would know. What’s the word I’m not quite feeling, Tony?”
    Anthony closed his eyes and fought for breath.
    â€œMollified!” Marty shouted, and Anthony’s eyes flew open again. “I’m not quite mollified.” He started laughing. “Mollified. Like Molly, get it? Like Moll?” He laughed some more, looked at me like I should be getting the joke. I offered a weak smile, which was all I could muster; I wasn’t getting it. “Molly. The gangster’s Moll. You know, kid,” and Marty stopped right in front of the tree, hands on hips and dagger dangling from one hand, “I don’t think I’ll call you Tony ever again. I know you don’t like it. So I’m going to mollify you.” He threw his head back and barked out one more guffaw. “From now on, you’re Moll. You’re my bitch, kid.”
    Marty moved forward again, dagger pointing upward now, directly under Anthony’s nose. “Tell me that suits you. Go on. But don’t nod, or you might lose a nostril.”
    Anthony’s eyes were crossing so hard they must have hurt, trying to see the point of that dagger. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t say anything, was my guess. Marty tilted the blade so that it was pointing toward the tip of Anthony’s nose now, but he pulled his hand away about a foot.
    â€œCome on, Moll. Say that suits you.” He started moving the blade forward.
    Anthony’s squeal started again, and just before the blade point would have met skin he whimpered, “Okay.”
    Marty pulled the blade back an inch. “Okay, what? Come on, you little faggot, tell me it suits you. Tell me you liked having a guy’s dagger so close to yours. Tell me you got hard because you’re queer. Say that’s why I can call you Moll.”
    Anthony was struggling to oblige him, I think, but he couldn’t quite decide what words to start with. I got up and moved over to them.
    â€œAnthony, just nod if it’s okay for Marty to call you Moll.” Anthony’s eyes veered over to mine, and he nodded. “Nod that it’s because you’re queer.” I couldn’t let the kid off too easy, or Marty would keep at him. He nodded again.
    Marty said, “Nod because you’re my bitch, faggot.”
    Anthony squeezed his eyes shut and, once more, nodded.
    Slowly Marty lowered his arm and slid the dagger back into its sheath. He punched my arm and said, “C’mon, Paul. Let’s get outta here. This kid is pathetic.” He moved toward the car.
    â€œBut…he’s still tied up. And we have to take him home.”
    Marty was standing beside the open driver’s door. He pounded a fist on the roof. “Leave him!” he shouted at me.
    There was this tense moment when we stared at each other over the car roof, and then he pounded it once more, got in, roared the engine to life, and gunned it, shooting gravel in all directions. I watched until I couldn’t see the car anymore, just dust hanging in the air over the dirt road. Then I turned to the tree.
    Anthony’s head was hanging down, and he was sobbing quietly. He knew the worst was