Indeed, the Crossbills were proving themselves the bane of The Order, if not The Basin, the prototypes of exactly how not to raise your children—and none more unnervingly so, or with lesser assurance of actual fact, than Ephraim.
Between his recent disappearance, the traffic incident two weeks earlier and, now, as discovered that morning, an attack on his father’s house (windows shattered, the gutters ripped down, the walls streaked with paint), Ephraim had managed to dominate much of the local Order’s imagination. Fueled by rumors of family madness and bygone events of a generation—shady, bizarre events that could never be verified—speculation had raged.
And to look at him now, seated to the rear of the drug and alcohol counseling session—staring absently into space, dressed in what looked like a stolen jump suit, his pallor drained and the weeping abrasions about his neck more grievous than ever—would only have fanned the burgeoning flames of conjecture. His ghastly appearance invited it.
The session director could barely look at him.
The English, on the other hand, couldn’t look away. Torn between fascination and disgust, they rubbernecked, marveling all through the session. The city kids, too, could only stare—along with the pair of Beachies from Intercourse, both of whom kept a wary distance.
The Pink Gorilla, of course, honed in.
Still rankled by events in the previous session—the speaking in tongues bit, the open defiance—the Pink Gorilla had seemed intent on payback right from the start of the class.
Toward the end, he gestured to Ephraim. “Man.” He pinched his nose. “Did something die in here?”
A wave of snickering fizzled as Ephraim failed to react. He didn’t move. His gaze remained locked on the desk in front of him.
Discouraged, the Pink Gorilla resumed. “Your mother’s a bitch in heat,” he whispered.
More laughter, yet still no response. The Gorilla shifted, appearing somewhat embarrassed.
His third attempt was no more successful.
Ephraim appeared to be in a coma.
The Gorilla thumped the back of his head with a pencil.
At last, he began to stir.
Distracted, the session director, whose back had been turned to the class, looked around.
Nobody moved.
Facing the board again, he kept talking.
The Pink Gorilla resumed by jamming his pen cap into Ephraim’s ear. This time, Ephraim reacted, flinching. He looked around sharply. Colin and Samuel cast him an uppity, vigilant look. He waved them off. Thumbing his ear, he settled a glare on the Pink Gorilla.
The Beaver Street kid who had sold him the watch interjected: “Are you gonna sit there and take that?”
While most of the Crossbills squirmed uncomfortably, Ephraim turned back around in his seat. His knuckles, flexing white, wrapped over the edge of the desk. His expression was rigid.
For the next few minutes, the Pink Gorilla would work at the nerve he had managed to tweak. Over and over, he poked and prodded Ephraim’s ears with the end of his pen. Seething, Ephraim did nothing to stop it. He sat there, gripping the edge of his desk.
Samuel and Colin were crazed with frustration.
For two months, Ephraim had risen in rank—from an addled, outwardly sullen mute to a terror of men—within their gang. He had deified sowing the wild oats.
So watching him hedge from the Pink Gorilla, as such, was more than they knew how to bear. With four of his strongest companions on hand to assist him, if needed, it didn’t make sense. The English, even and especially the big ones, were flabby and slow. Their valves were bloated. They wouldn’t have lasted a day in the fields.
Yet Ephraim did nothing to halt the mistreatment. He sat there, taking it, taking it, taking it …
Even as the session director, with a glance at his watch, indicated the class’s end, Ephraim stood for dismissal without ever looking over.
Why was he doing this?
Out in the hallway, Colin and Samuel attempted to step in and cover his back. But Ephraim himself veered away from them, seeming intent on remaining an open target.
He was limping, they noticed: plodding along in discomfort, favoring one of his legs.
The Pink Gorilla closed in from behind. “That’s right.” He breathed down Ephraim’s neck, reeking of grease. “Just keep on walking.”
Someone, a Redcoat beside him, said, “Get on him, Gary!”
And another one: “Kick his ass!”
Ephraim was shoved from behind. He stumbled.
“Oh, yeah,” said the Pink Gorilla.
Laughter.
Once in the stairwell, Ephraim was blindsided—punched in the face. He fell to the landing.
The Gorilla stood over him, taunting and slapping and pushing. “Come on, then, Dutch! What’s the matter?”
A roar went up from the mob overhead. Bodies jostled for better positioning. Ephraim, still waving the Crossbills off, got up and continued down the stairs. His expression was blank. He looked hurt, but uninjured …
Once on the ground floor, he walked (to avoid being shoved) out the door, with the mob at his heels, to the half-empty lot behind the building. Bordered by thickets, a creek and fields, blocked from the road with no cameras in sight and the guards on the opposite end of the building, the half-acre plot of cement was unmonitored. No one remained to stand in the way.
The Pink Gorilla was bigger than Ephraim. He must have outweighed him by ninety pounds. He was brawnier, taller, wider and seemed to be able to throw his weight around. On appearance, it looked like a massacre waiting to happen. As happen it would, directly.
He bore down by driving his elbow into the back of Ephraim’s head from behind. Ephraim dropped to the ground and rolled. Gripping his skull, he flopped to a halt. The Pink Gorilla lost his balance. Ephraim struggled to get to his feet. Weaving, he made for Samuel’s buggy, tied to a pole across the lot. He managed to clear more than half of the distance before the Gorilla was on him again. He was seized upon, spun around, picked up and head-butted.
Then he was dropped.
His head hit the pavement.
Again, the English howled with laughter.
Colin, Samuel, Isaac and Gideon watched in powerless mortification as Ephraim, grimacing, rolled to his side and spat out a tooth on the lawn.
They screamed.
He nodded his head, coughing hoarsely.
Isaac, reaching his limit, stepped forward.
Still coughing, Ephraim waved him off. “Get back!” He glared in terse refusal.
His order was heeded, however reluctantly.
Ephraim got up, shook off and turned, regaining his stance. The Pink Gorilla shoved him against a custom van. He rolled with the impact, leaving a streak of blood on the siding. Again, he was punched in the face. He went down.
The Redcoats cheered.
The Gorilla added a kick for good measure. Then he turned to a round of praise …
Gawking, the devastated Crossbills watched them gather around and congratulate him. Most of the Beaver Street League, disappointed at not having witnessed more back and forth—and not really up for expanding the cast while outnumbered four to one—walked off.
From out of the building, the session director appeared. On the way to his car, he caught sight of the crowd and stopped. He was spotted at once, and as quickly, the mob began to disperse—the Redcoats turning to walk to their cars in a huddle, the city kids panning out and the Orderlies standing behind, near their buggies, angrily calling after the English.
Ephraim was lying inert on the pavement behind the van, concealed from view. He didn’t move until the session director was gone, and in doing so, quietly, slowly. Nobody saw him get up. Nobody spotted him hobbling over the pavement. The first one to notice him routing around in the trunk of Samuel’s buggy was Colin. Gradually, the others turned to see. He lifted a portable stereo out of the buggy. He placed it on top of the seat and, with trembling fingers, inserted a tape.
The moment the lead
er began to roll, he turned to them flashing a crooked grin. Caught unawares, they could only gawk. As the chain saws commenced, he took off bounding.
The Pink Gorilla, along with the rest of his gang, heard the sound of a trash can lid being struck with a hammer, and froze in his tracks. Before he could turn, he was slammed from behind.
His cohorts leapt and scattered around him.
Peeling himself from the asphalt, he whirled around, stammering, wide-eyed, incredulous. “What?”
Ephraim was standing there, leering indulgently. One of his teeth had been chipped in half. It was bared as a jagged, oozing fang. His tongue curled over it, flickering wetly. His lips were a bluer shade of gray.
The sound of a fan belt slapping against an engine hood blared out of the stereo.
The Gorilla landed another punch. Ephraim’s head snapped back with the impact. He swiveled, then came around laughing, his smile giving way to a fiendish, wavering cackle. His eyeballs protruded. A vein divided his forehead, meeting just over the brow.
“Verdammis!” he hissed, dribbling blood through the gap in his teeth.
The Gorilla stepped back. The circle of English widened around them.
“Get on him, Zeke!” hollered one of the Beaver Street kids.
The rest of them came back to see. There were no other people in sight, no cops.
The vocals approaching: 3, 2, 1 …
Even while cocking back to strike, there was fear in the eyes of the Pink Gorilla. His punch was sloppy, an off combination of pulling and reckless overcommitment. At first, it appeared to have packed enough wallop to cave in the front of Ephraim’s head—it seemed to have planted, embedded itself in his face with a hollow, sickening crunch … But then came the screaming—both from the music, of ten thousand demons plummeting hell-bound, and the Gorilla, flailing about like an open nerve on the end of a string. A moment of disbelief washed over the mob, Crossbills and English alike. The Beaver Street kids, from the edge of the gathering, craned their heads for a better look. The English were already screaming for help, as the blood had already begun to flow when they saw what was happening, front and center: the Pink Gorilla’s knuckles were jammed in Ephraim’s teeth. His punch had been caught. His fist had been eaten in mid-extension … He screamed in agony—kicking and flapping, his face a deeper shade of crimson, with tears streaming down it, his jugular bulging—while Ephraim continued to maul his hand …
Under any other circumstance, Grizelda would never have gotten into an automobile. Although she had always been thought of as liberal-minded within her own district, and never more than in recent weeks, she was still, after all, a member of The Order. The Regel and Ordnung had to apply. Normally, the sight of Gideon’s beat-up vehicle approaching the Hostler home would have triggered a show of her indignation.
Tonight, however, would prove an exception.
With Fannie, Hanz and Barbara watching from one of the kitchen windows behind her, Grizelda stood in the gravel driveway, tensely hearing out Gideon’s report. On conclusion, she turned and hurried up the porch steps.
Fannie opened the door. “What’s the matter?”
Hastily pushing past her, Grizelda waved, as though to say, Not now, child. Instead, she ordered: “Fetch me your keys to the schoolhouse.”
Then she ran up the stairs.
Fannie was left behind with her siblings. She could tell something was terribly wrong. A feeling had haunted her all afternoon—a queasy, dread-filled sense of foreboding. Seeing her mother carry on thus confirmed it. Something was happening now.
She turned to her brother and sister, addressing Barbara, the older: “Please, if you will—fetch me the keys from my coat upstairs.”
They complied, disappearing. She stepped out the door.
The horizon was streaked with bands of yellow and orange. Clouds rolled over the sky. A gentle, chilly breeze was blowing—field hay tumbling up the drive.
Across the yard, a spark lit out from the darkened car window Gideon was sitting behind. After a moment, the flaring glow of a cigarette cherry lit up his face. His expression, clearly directed toward Fannie, was one of snide, sardonic amusement.
“Good evening,” he spoke in Py. Dutch, at first barely audible. Then, more deliberately: “Wonderful night for a ride in the country.”
Fannie came forward, eyeing his beat-up car with an air of decided mistrust. “Why do you drive this thing?” she asked, running her gaze from bumper to bumper.
He grinned, pausing to drag on his cigarette. “Well, you know …” he shrugged nonchalantly. “Necessity dictates.”
Drawing closer, Fannie could see he was sweating profusely.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He said nothing. Changing the subject, instead: “You should have seen your cousin today.” He shook his head. “You would’ve been proud.”
She looked at him nervously. “What do you mean?”
Leaning forward, he turned on the radio.
Fannie jumped at the blast of music. “Turn that off!” she snapped, afraid that her mother might hear.
He turned it off.
It was quiet again. He leaned out the window. “You know—you really should try to relax.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Not good for the nerves …”
“Shut up, Gideon. What are you doing here? What’s going on?”
He leaned back in. His bearing was darkly intent, if sarcastic. “Concerned, are we?”
“You know I am.”
Slowly, he tapped his ash out the window. “Like I said, he did us all proud. Not to worry. He’s fine … And the party’s still on.”
Fannie leaned forward and grabbed his arm, overriding his gaze. “What happened to Ephraim?”
His smile faded, gradually sinking to poorly concealed discomfort. He answered: “He got in a fight with a Redcoat. They’re holding him downtown, in jail. We need your mother.”
She tightened her grip. “Is he hurt?”
“Not really.”
She waited for more.
He shrugged. “We just have to get him out, that’s all.”
Relaxing her grip, she stepped away from the car.
His look of discomfort lifted.
“So, then—” He motioned toward the house. “Quilting party this evening, eh?”
Fannie, lost in thought, looked around again. “What?”
He nodded. “Doesn’t your mother hold quilting parties on weekends?”
“No.”
He dragged on his cigarette. “Too bad.” He spoke with a tone of somber nostalgia. “Patterns.”
Clearing his throat, he resumed with purpose. “So, I guess you’ll be at the party then.”
She ignored him, staring across the field.
“Come on,” he coaxed her, cooing melodically: “Come on—your verschproche will be there.”
That got her attention.
“At midnight.”
She turned away, feigning disinterest. “You boys be careful,” she mumbled. “You’ve already been arrested once this month.”
Smirking, he answered in English. “Don’t worry about that, Miss Fannie. Just come to the gathering.”
Behind them, Grizelda appeared in the doorway. Hanz and Barbara followed her out. They handed the schoolhouse keys to Fannie, who handed them off to her mother in turn.
Grizelda took them and, pausing, looked into her daughter’s eyes. Her tone was solemn. “I want you to stay inside this evening.”
Fannie nodded.
Grizelda shook her head. “I’m serious. No exceptions.”
“Yes.”
“Your father will be home soon.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Grizelda turned and walked down the stairs.
Her children watched her go from the porch.
She plodded around to the side of the car. She opened the passenger door. She stuffed a knapsack into the seat, then crawled in after it.
“We need the Bishop,”
she said to Gideon. Her tone was strictly business now.
Then, leaning forward, she called from the window: “Good night, children!”
Gideon looked to them, grinning.
His eyes had gone milky white.
As the car pulled away, moving steadily west through a browning expanse of tobacco fields, an aching nausea welled up in Fannie.
The moon would be up in a couple of hours.
Owen swung by the house on his way across town. There, he dropped off his things from the office and picked up the bag of grass he’d been saving for just the right occasion.
Finally, a blast of smoke—be it ever so wanting in nicotine. This would be hard-earned.
He twisted a comically bulbous joint and, while grooving to Miles en route to the West Side, sucked on it, choking and yukking it up as if the fate of a species hung in the balance. The smoke on the back of his throat was a miracle, ripping its way to the pit of his lungs.
He was stoned off his noodle on reaching the gym.
His neurons shouted a million thanks.
The building was tall as an aircraft hangar. The lights were out. The place looked empty.
Owen parked his car along King Street. He turned off the stereo and glanced in the rearview mirror. His eyes were grotesquely bloodshot. A bottle of Visine was stashed in the glove box. He used it.
With smoke wafting up all around him, he stepped out and, tripping, locked the doors.
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