Nick nodded. “I’d like to see that one fight him,” he said, pointing first to Dallas and then to James.
“Yeah, David, let’s shove ’em at each other and see what they do,” Matthew ordered.
David pushed James toward his friend until they bumped chests. Dallas put his arm across James’s shoulders, turned him aside, and kicked sand at David.
“All right, let ’em go,” said Krystal.
“Should we let you go?” David asked. “What do you think, should we let you go? Why don’t you beg us to let you go?” But in that instant, James remembered Dallas’s credo, and kept quiet. The kid looked like he was getting angrier. “I don’t hear you begging,” David said, circling closer to James. He grabbed him by the collar and shook him.
James found that he couldn’t move his arms; some force was holding them down, and he felt ashamed. He was allowing himself to be pushed around. He did nothing, even when David lifted his small body in the air, and threw him to the dirt.
Nick and Matthew surrounded Felix, who was limp with fear, staring at the ground. The two boys pushed Felix, laughing. They kicked him in his butt every so often, and stuck a foot out to trip him. Felix flailed his arms and scowled like a trapped raccoon in a garbage bin, which made Matthew laugh harder.
“He’s in a panic,” he said. “Relax, little man, it’ll go faster that way.”
Matthew shoved him to the ground. Felix scrambled back to his feet and threw a fistful of sand at Matthew. It was Nick’s turn to laugh.
“Little fucker,” Matthew snapped. He grabbed Felix’s shoulders and swept his legs out from under him. Felix jumped up again.
“He’s like a weeble-wobble,” Nick said. The two shook their heads in amused disbelief.
Felix ran off to the edge of the sandlot, where a patch of trees gave shade to the men who worked there. He grabbed a stick, holding it like a light saber, and stared back at them. They looked bored and turned their attention to the other two boys.
Dallas had reached down and grabbed a large rock.
“All right, enough,” Nick said. “Run along, little beasts.”
But Dallas stepped forward and fired the rock across the circle. It bounced loudly off David’s head. David stumbled back. “Goddamnit!” he yelped.
“Ooh, you’re going to let him get away with that?” Matthew taunted. Then he grabbed Dallas by the shoulders and pulled him down. He put a foot on his back. Dallas wiggled away, grabbed another rock as he rolled, and slung it at David. This time it hit him in the elbow. David jumped back again.
“Will you get him under control?” he screamed.
Matthew started to laugh, as if the threat of Dallas’s stones wasn’t serious. David was on the verge of losing a battle with a little kid. He turned red in the face. He looked at James, who was slowly stepping away from him, and grabbed him by the collar. James allowed himself to be yanked around and kept quiet.
“Your friend likes throwing rocks?” David said, using James as a shield.
Dallas looked around. Grabbed a handful of igneous rocks—he’d remembered more than he realized in science lab. They did the trick nicely. They were not the same rocks washed smooth from the ocean. They were jagged. Bits of quartz that sparkled in the hot sunlight. A few were chunks of mortar and concrete left behind from the brick pallets. Black pebbles from asphalt and tar.
Dallas began throwing them, in rapid succession, aiming for David’s head so as not to hit his friend. David twisted and ducked. Some of the rocks found their mark and each time, David grew angrier. Matthew and Nick kept laughing as they watched the scene unfold. When a sharp corner of cinder block struck David on the chin, he kicked the back of James’s knees and dropped him so his head was near his own knees. He reached back with his left hand and grabbed the gun he had tucked away. The weapon was then at James’s temple, and James shut his eyes. He squirmed as he felt the cold barrel touch his sweating face. Dallas stopped throwing. He heard Nick chuckling behind him, telling Matthew he’d never heard of killing someone with a BB gun. Dallas stared at David, snarled, and threw another rock.
“Stop throwing rocks,” David growled.
Dallas threw another one. It missed, and sailed past David’s head.
“Tell him to stop throwing rocks or I’ll shoot you,” David commanded. James didn’t even open his eyes. “Tell him,” he said again. James kept silent.
A smooth skipping rock hit David on the shoulder. He pulled James up, turned him around, and James opened his eyes. The barrel was in his face, waving from his left eye to his right. “Tell him to stop or you’ll lose your fuckin’ eye, I swear to God.” He let go of James’s collar.
Though he was free, James didn’t move. Another rock whizzed by David’s head. James looked blankly back at Dallas. It was as if he was somewhere else; indeed, as if he’d abandoned his own flesh in the middle of Zambrini’s.
Krystal was creeping up behind Dallas. Nick and Matthew stopped laughing and turned to Felix, who was sliding away to make a run for it.
“Where you going?” asked Matthew. “You going to hit me with that stick? Your friend throws rocks, two can play at that game.” He picked up a handful of stones the size of golf balls.
Felix, shivering with the stick raised in the air, stared at Matthew’s hand. Matthew reached back and threw the first stone. It missed. He threw another one, and Felix swung the stick and knocked it to the side.
“Oh, you little wiseass,” Matthew said. He threw another one.
Felix swung the stick and batted the stone clear over their heads. Matthew craned his neck and watched the rock fly out of sight. His scorn deepened, and he threw another. Felix fouled it off. Matthew and Nick looked at each other, slightly amused. Felix bit his bottom lip and squinted. Eyes darting side to side, he watched to see where the rocks would come from next. In his head he made a quiet prayer that he could see each rock and knock it away. Two went flying at the same time. One missed, the other, Felix just got a piece of and knocked it weakly into the air. It was as if there was a force field. When Nick threw another one, more on target, Felix sent it into the trees some thirty yards in the opposite direction. Matthew and Nick began to whoop and holler at him, trying to distract him. Felix swung the stick with passionate abandon. It was as if every swing was a plea.
Another rock came at his head; he fouled it off. One came at his knees; he golfed it into the air. Finally, Matthew threw a stone that curved toward Felix’s stomach.
With a desperate swing, he hit a line drive back at Matthew, and it hit him square in the chest. Now enraged, Matthew and Nick bum-rushed Felix, throwing him on the ground. They squished his head into the leaves. Matthew got up and told Nick to back off. He had gotten hold of the stick Felix was using, and he raised it over his head.
James had his eye on the barrel of the gun; it seemed to eclipse the world around him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matthew hit Felix with a stick. He saw Nick step on his head to keep him on the ground. David was still ducking rocks from Dallas, growing impatient.
“You do realize I got a gun in your face, are you going to tell him to stop?”
James stared at him defiantly. Just as the last rock hit David in the chest, Krystal tackled Dallas.
Seeing her holding the boy steady to the ground, David let out an awful, guttural noise that made James flinch, and suddenly the gun was driven into the side of his face. James staggered back, eyes closed, and fell to the ground. He lay on his back. Stared up at the bright sky, as the sweat from his face rolled down and stung his eyes. A warm, thick liquid poured into his left ear. He heard David storm away from him.
David grabbed Dallas by the collar and rolled him over onto his back. The veins in his temples were visible. Something in his mind raced at that moment. He thought of all the taunts at school. His fight the night before. Bob and Julia. He was always being made the fool. Even by little kids. He could only hear white noise inside his ears, and feel the blood pumping through his head.
“You want to throw rocks? I’ll make you eat ’em! Open up!” he screamed. He grabbed Dallas by the throat and Dallas reflexively opened his mouth. “Here.” David stuffed a rock into his mouth. Dallas spat it out. David held his throat tighter and cracked him on the jaw with a clenched fist. He felt the boy go soft in his hand. “Here, and here,” he offered, stuffing rocks that were lying around Dallas into his open mouth.
Dallas tried to spit them out again, but the earth had fallen out from under him. He couldn’t hear. He could only feel the jagged edges of a stone cutting into the roof of his mouth. Another, smoother stone clanked against the back of his bottom teeth. His head felt like an empty coffee can being filled with rattling marbles.
“Here, eat rocks . . . Here’s another one.” With each rock stuffed into his mouth, Dallas’s face turned redder. “Here, and here!” shouted David. “Here, here’s another one. Eat it. Here’s another.”
Matthew and Nick had walked away from Felix, leaving the little boy sobbing at the edge of the woods. Krystal stood behind David, somewhat in shock. She brushed some hair back behind her ear and stood there, mouth agape. She looked at Matthew and Nick, who were drifting over toward David. Matthew still held the stick he’d used to hit Felix.
“Here. Eat this,” they heard.
“He can’t breathe!” Krystal screamed.
“David, that’s enough!” shouted Matthew. But David had pushed Dallas’s chin closed so the rocks were completely in his mouth. Dallas’s eyes had turned red, and he looked up at David with muted fright.
“That’s enough, for Chrissakes!” yelled Nick, as he lunged and tackled David away from the boy. David was panting. He looked down at what he’d done. Dallas was squirming on the ground, clutching silently at his throat.
“He’s choking to death,” said Matthew.
“Oh my God,” Krystal cried. She turned and ran out of the yard, into the street where Nick’s car was parked. Matthew kneeled at Dallas’s side, but Dallas jerked away and knocked him onto his back. Matthew got back up and reached for the little boy. His face was turning purple.
“What did you do?” yelled Nick, shoving David away from him.
“I don’t know the Heimlich,” announced Matthew, looking desperately at the boy. His convulsions were slowing.
“Do something!” yelled Nick.
“I don’t know what to do!” Matthew screamed back. Nick turned and ran away. Matthew stood up. “I’m . . . oh God . . . I’m sorry,” he said to the boy, and ran off as well. David stared at the three little kids in quiet shock. It was as if a shell had exploded between them, and they were all just beginning to realize they were hit. Stumbling to his feet, he tucked the gun away, turned, and ran.
James had opened his eyes when he first heard the kid stuffing rocks into Dallas’s mouth, but his heart was so heavy—his mind so petrified with self-preservation—that he dared not move to stop him. He’d listened to the kid counting off the rocks as he stared up at the sky.
It was a bright sky, cloudless. It was muggy. Desperately trying to find a place of calm, James listened to the silence with relief.
Some blue jays were disturbed, screeching in the treetops. From the left side of his peripheral vision, a glider appeared in the sky, drifting soundlessly over the yard. Even as he heard Dallas kick with a weak leg, and heard a mute squeal rising out from his friend’s red face, he watched the plane with envy, soaring beautifully.
He was afraid to move, for the kids could come back. Maybe they’d stuff rocks in his mouth. He could tell Dallas was crawling toward him. A slight squeal escaped from his body. James could see he was rapidly scratching at his throat. Then Dallas rolled over to his side, and lay there, motionless. James watched the plane glide over the yard, and disappear behind the tree line.
When Dallas kicked and convulsed for the last time, the yard fell silent. James could feel his left eye swelling shut, but the pain didn’t follow. A blue jay chirped. A slight breeze rushed through his hair. He dared not move. Finally, he rolled his head to look at Dallas, whose red face had stiffened, and his eyes had reached their resting place, the outer corners dragged down toward his mouth. His face wore an expression like he’d been sent to his room for the night.
James heard Felix roll out of the woods and flop over on his back. He was still crying, and covered his face with his hands. James turned his head back to the sky and watched the blue expanse blaze over him in mockery. A shadow jogged into James’s view. When he looked up, Spybot was standing over him. The dog rooted his nose down into the dirt and sniffed at James’s neck. He sniffed the wound across his face, and licked it. James reached up and shoved him away weakly.
The dog trotted over to Dallas, sniffed him, and as if he’d smelled something entirely unholy, left the boy lying there and sat down beside James. He felt the dog’s warm body nuzzle against his side. The heat grew more intense. Felix stopped crying and pulled his knees into his chest. Suddenly, James heard his mother’s voice crying out into the air, “Jaaaaaaames!”
He was too weak to answer. He listened to the older neighborhood kids on River Drive answer with their sarcastic imitation. “Yeeeeeaaaaaah!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
IVAN ILLWORTH STOOD BEHIND HIS LITTLE BOY in the full-length mirror in their bathroom, adjusting the boy’s black tie. It had been years since Ivan wore a tie, but the memory of how to tie one never left him, though so many other memories had. He crossed the tongue over the knot, pulled it through and tightened it, like a noose. He flipped the boy’s collar down to frame the knot, but left the top button open. James watched him in the mirror. Ivan’s eyes fell upon his boy’s face for a moment. His mouth turned down in a solemn frown.
“So you can breathe in this heat, son, we’ll leave the collar open slightly.”
James looked at himself from head to toe. Other than the stitches above his right eye, he looked like a respectable old man in his little black suit bought special for the occasion. He glanced back up at his father, who had taken his hands off his shoulders and was adjusting his own tie; he hiked his all the way up and kept the top button fastened. James made a curious face.
Ivan looked at his son in the mirror. “People are less forgiving of adults,” he said. “I’d look disrespectful if I didn’t button all the way up.”
James stared back into the mirror at himself, and his father. “Button mine up too.”
Ivan stared straight ahead and nodded. It had also been a long time since he’d looked into a mirror sober, a vow he’d made to himself that morning. He’d spent most of the ordeal glazed over—through the police questions, the hospital, even sitting in Michael Darwin’s living room while the man rocked back and forth in his wife’s arms. But today he’d keep the bottle capped. He was surprised at how bad he looked—the broken capillaries in his face and eyes, and the dogged, wrinkled skin of his cheeks. It would almost amuse him if . . . He looked back down at his son and put his hands on his bony shoulders. He hoped his expression said all the apologies he could muster, because he couldn’t speak them.
James sat in the backseat behind his father on the way to the funeral across town. His brother sat silently beside him. Ivan drove slowly past the Darwins’. Their car was already gone. They drove past the patch of woods on the corner of River Drive and Mayflower Road that was supposed to be the home of their new fort. James looked into the trees, blinking, and turned away. His brother put his arm across his shoulder and patted his back. His mother sniffled in the front seat.
* * *
The doors of O’Shea’s Funeral Home were packed with people from the Darwins’ church. When the Illworths arrived, all heads turned and watched them climb the steps. They didn’t move until there was some whispering, and they saw the stitches on James. Then they parted down the middle of the porch to make way. Everybody stared as they passed and entered the building; Ivan nodded silently.
In the foyer, more people from the Darwins’ church were gathered in small pockets, some sobbi
ng, some consoling one another. A couple of grown men wandered about with Bibles in their hands. Ivan lowered his eyes as he passed them and soon they were in the chapel room, where Dallas’s coffin rested, closed, on top of a bier ringed with flowers. There were so many flowers they formed a teepee, piled at the base of the bier. James peered out from behind his father, who was clutching his hand. The grip grew tighter the closer they got to the coffin. James heard his mother gasp.
“Oh God,” she cried, and rushed out of the room. Kevin followed after her.
Ivan and James continued along the crowded wall, weaving their way to the front. Ivan turned, still holding his son’s hand, and cast his eyes over the crowd. He saw, on the far side of the room, Minister Roberts clutching his Bible, speaking to a small group of ladies. Ivan looked down at his son, who stared wide-eyed at his friend’s coffin. Pictures had been put together in a collage. James looked for his own face, but he couldn’t focus. Ivan glanced over at Minister Roberts.
“Looks like there’s not an ounce of blood in that minister,” he said absentmindedly. “Like all those priests when I was growing up in the Bronx.”
James looked up at his father and watched the muscles of his jaw tighten. He didn’t appear to be talking to anyone but himself.
“All bloodless and constantly shocked by everything. Everything surprised them. So why did they ask so many questions, if the answers were going to take all the blood away from their face?”
Ivan and James crept closer, pressing against the wall.
“I think that’s why they drank so much,” Ivan continued, “to keep some color in their cheeks. But this one, this one here doesn’t drink. He asks the bloodletting questions, but he doesn’t drink. You must think I’m half out of my tree,” he said to his son. “Why do I keep talking about drinking? It’s just . . . to look at him, even now he looks like he’s asking questions he shouldn’t be asking. I mean, why talk at all? Just say the prayer and let everyone be to themselves.”
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