Anthony’s eyes were locked on to Marty’s. He nodded shakily, but he nodded.
Back on the ground next to me, Marty picked up the book. And he took his time browsing for just the right question. Cig back in his mouth, he ran the forefinger of his right hand down page after page, all the while toying with the dagger in his left hand. Finally he slammed the book shut and stabbed the dagger into dirt. “We don’t need this,” he mumbled. He picked up the pen, leaned over the pad where it rested between us on the ground, wrote “R,” and asked Anthony, “What’s one plus one?” He tossed the book aside.
Marty was right; we didn’t need the book. The joke was going to be that Anthony had to guess whether Marty wanted the right answer or a wrong one. And, even more, it was a test to see if Anthony could bring himself to give a wrong answer to a math question.
Anthony was making a kind of squealing whining noise, like he couldn’t stand the strain. Marty grabbed the dagger and stood in front of him again. “Is that calculation too tough for you, whiz kid? Y’know, my grandparents were German. There’s a German word for kids like you. Wunderkind.”
Anthony stopped whining. He took a couple of rasping breaths and said, “Wunderkind.” He was correcting Marty’s pronunciation, so the W sounded like a V, and the d on the end sounded like a t. “It’s Wunderkind.”
Did this kid have a death wish? Marty balanced the lit cigarette between his lips and tossed the dagger from one hand to the other a few times, dangerously close to Anthony’s nose. Then, around the cigarette, he said, “That wasn’t the question, asshole. Just for that, you lose a sleeve.”
With his left hand he pinched up a layer of cloth at Anthony’s left shoulder, sliced through it, and then started to carve through the cloth. He pulled Anthony forward so he could cut behind him, the ropes cutting into skin from the pressure. Then Marty sliced slowly down the sleeve, inch by inch, toward the hem. Thank God it was a short sleeve, or I’m not sure Anthony could have taken it. He kept squinting his eyes tight shut, and then opening them wide to watch Marty’s progress, then squinting them shut again, all the while trying not to cough from Marty’s smoke—probably terrified that a cough would cause Marty to cut skin.
Marty held the cut sleeve remnant in front of Anthony’s face, then put it over his nose, and said, “Blow.” There was panic on the poor kid’s face by now, like he was afraid Marty was gonna suffocate him, and he just stared wildly.
“Blow your fucking nose, crybaby!”
Anthony did what he could, but he was having trouble getting his breath. When Marty was satisfied, he pulled the cloth away, laid it on top of Anthony’s head, and rubbed the snot into his hair. Marty left the cloth there, a corner covering one of Anthony’s eyes.
Back on the ground again, dagger stabbed into dirt and cigarette in his left hand, Marty resumed his role as inquisitor. “Now, Wunderkind,” he said, pronouncing it the same way he had the first time, “what’s the answer?”
Anthony whimpered, sobbed once or twice, and finally whispered, “Two.”
“Eh? Speak up, Tony. I can’t hear you. What was that you said?”
Anthony tried to take a deep breath and obviously failed, but he managed to say, “Two,” a little louder.
Marty sat back, took another puff of the cig, observed Anthony for several seconds, and then slowly reached for the dagger. After he’d dragged out the suspense as long as he could, he handed the dagger to me. “You know what you have to do.”
Now, Marty had written “R” before he asked this, so I knew I was to cut some rope. I also knew that Marty was trying to make Anthony think he’d made the wrong choice and that Marty had decided to give me the honor of cutting more clothing. But I wasn’t in the mood for delaying agony, so I was going to cut Anthony’s right hand loose.
Before I got close to the rope, though, Marty called to me, “Not all of it, Paul. Just cut maybe an eighth of the way through. After all,” and his voice was silky, “we seem to have more clothing than we have ropes. We want to be fair, don’t we?”
Marty had written “R” again before I sat down, and he called out, “What’s one plus two?”
Anthony gritted his teeth, probably feeling a little encouraged that Marty had kept his word on that last one and had cut rope. But the secret wasn’t in the right answer. It was in the right choice. “Five.”
I looked at Marty, whose face was pursed into fake disappointment. “Oh, Tony. Too bad, kid.” Marty stubbed his cig out in the dirt, reclaimed the dagger from me, and moved slowly over to the tree. Anthony looked anxious but not terrified, which was probably too bad for him. Marty stared at his face, then squatted down in front of him.
“No!” Anthony found his voice. His head jerked, and the snotty sleeve fell to the ground.
“Ha!” Marty shouted. “Wrong answer again!” He grabbed a handful of cloth right over Anthony’s groin, and the gasp I heard told me that Marty had also grabbed a handful of flesh. Very, um, sensitive flesh. He pinched his fingers together hard, working the cloth slowly away from what was undoubtedly Anthony’s dick, and then he lifted the dagger.
Anthony wasn’t whimpering any longer. He was crying, now, crying out, sobbing and begging. “Please! Please don’t! Stop it! What do you want?”
And to my surprise, Marty stopped. He let go of Anthony, lowered the arm with the dagger, and stood up. “You’re hard as metal in there, Tony. Do you know that? Your puny little dick is all excited. I think it’s enjoying this.”
Anthony’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open. “No!” was all he could say. “No!”
“Oh, but I think it is. Just look.” Marty stepped back and to one side. “Paul, do you see that?”
And Marty was right. Anthony had a boner. There was no denying it. Marty leaned toward him. “Tony? Is there something you haven’t told us?” Anthony just shook his head, desperate to understand, probably willing to do anything Marty said if it would get him out of this. “Oh, I think there is.” Marty reached forward and with the flat side of the dagger he slapped a few times at Anthony’s boner. Anthony flinched with every touch. Then Marty worked the blade up and down, sliding over the bulge and along the fly, then picked at the edge of the cloth with the metal point.
I can only imagine what Anthony was going through. But I’d had enough. “Look, Marty, I think we’ve got what we wanted.” Marty turned to look at me, and I got a hint of what he’d been boring into Anthony. It scared the shit out of me. But I couldn’t let this go on. “Just shove the snot rag down his back and we’ll cut him loose. We can dump him 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.
“What 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.
“Mollified!” 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.
“Come 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.
“Anthony, 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.
“But…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 over, but he also knew his life was going to be hell from now on. I didn’t know what to say, so I just worked at the knots, cursing Marty for disappearing with the knife. And the car. How the hell were we going to get back? And Anthony’s books were in the back of Marty’s car. Come to that, so were mine.
When he was free of the ropes Anthony glared at me, still crying, and ran off down the road. I guess I didn’t blame him, but I’d been thinking we ought to work together to figure out the best way to get home. On the other hand, I sure as hell didn’t know what to say to him.
I picked up the ropes, my math book, the pen, and the pad of paper we’d been using, and walked down the road until I found enough scrub along the side to shove all but my book into a spot where they’d be hard to see. A lot of the plants were the kind with dark, dusky green, flat leaves that smell sort of sweet and sort of sour when you touch them. I think it’s called sweet fern, but I’ve never liked it, and now I stunk of it all up my arms.
Five minutes later I heard an engine coming up behind me. I turned and saw a light blue pickup, some guy who looked like a farmer behind the wheel. He slowed down when he came alongside me. There was a dog in the truck bed.
“Need a ride, kid?”
Hadn’t I just offered a ride to Anthony? I almost said no, but I really didn’t want to walk all the way home. Plus, the guy looked harmless. “Thanks,” I said as I slid onto the seat and pulled the door shut.
“What’re you doin’ out this way, and on foot?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Horsing around with a friend. Wheelies, you know. But he got pissed about something and took off.”
The guy nodded, like he’d probably done stuff like that himself. Then he jerked his chin toward the road ahead and said, “That your friend, by any chance?”
I looked up the road, and there was Anthony, shuffling along, head hanging down. Christ, I was thinking; don’t stop! Please don’t stop! All I said was, “My friend drove off in his car.”
“His shirt’s ripped.” The driver pulled a little ahead of Anthony, who didn’t even look up. The farmer stopped the truck, got out, and went over to him. “You okay, kid? Need a lift?”
Anthony’s head came up to look at the driver, then he turned to look at the truck and saw me. He shook his head violently and shoved past the guy.
“Hey! Kid!”
Anthony started running, but he stayed on the road. The guy got back in the truck, pulled forward so he was a ways ahead of Anthony, and got out again. I turned to watch as he took Anthony’s shoulders in his hands, shook him a little, and finally threw an arm around his shoulders, propelling him toward the truck. Anthony looked as though he was trying like hell not to cry.
I was sure neither of us wanted to sit on this seat, thighs touching, after what had happened. After what I’d done. I got out. “I’ll ride in the back,” I said, knowing that there was a distinct possibility that Anthony would spill his guts to the farmer. I hopped into the bed and got as comfortable as I could on a burlap bag full of something, across from the dog, a Border collie, who was tied to a heavy piece of equipment.
The guy shut the passenger side door after Anthony climbed in, and then he leaned his arms on the side of the truck bed next to the dog, staring at me. “What’s going on?”
It was Marty who got me into this mess. This isn’t really my problem. “The kid’s a jerk,” I said, wondering even as I said it where I thought this was going to get me. “We were just teaching him a lesson. We didn’t hurt him. He’s fine.” The guy stared at me until I had to drop my gaze. I felt heat flowing up my neck and into my face.
“Where do you live?” After I told him he said, “We’re taking this kid home, and then we’re taking you home. After that, you’re on your own.” He walked around the back of the truck to get to the driver’s side, but before he opened his door he said to me, “You’re a bully, you know that, kid? You can’t sink much lower than that.”
We bounced along the dirt road until the guy turned onto paved surface. There was another ten minutes, maybe, to Anthony’s house. So I was stuck back here until then. And maybe I wouldn’t even get into the cab after we dropped the kid off.
Then again, it would get me away from this dog. He kept staring at me. It was like he was saying, “Are you proud of yourself, you big, big boy?” I tried waving a hand in his face, but he barely flinched and just kept staring. In case you don’t know, Border collies are about the most intelligent dogs there are. There’s a joke that goes, How many Border collies does it take to change a lightbulb, and the answer is one, but he won’t get to it until he’s checked to make sure the wiring in the house is up to spec. Dad’s joke.
It was my Dad who told me about Border collies. And German shepherds. And standard poodles. And Australian shepherds. He likes the intelligent dogs best, I think. And that one, in the truck with me, he was definitely one of the smart ones. Now he was saying, “Do you feel great? Did you get what you wanted? How are you gonna feel when you see that kid in school tomorrow? What if he’s not even in school tomorrow? What will you think then? Will you be worried? How are you gonna tell your mom what you did? What will your dad do? Worse, what will Chris think?”
What will Chris think. That was the worst, the dog was right. I figured my dad would blow his top, probably lash me a few times with a belt, ground me for a month. Mom would cry and ask how could I have done such a thing. That’s all same old, same old. But Chris…
By the time we pulled up to Anthony’s the dog had read me the riot act, and I felt like a total shit. Anthony got out of the cab and ran pell-mell toward the front door of the house.
The driver called back to me, “You getting in?”
I wasn’t going to. I really wasn’t. But this dog was too much. It watched me as I scrambled over the side of the bed, turning its hea
d as I went around the front where I was hoping it couldn’t see me, but I had to get into the cab on the dog’s side. He was looking right at me, and I could almost hear him clucking his tongue. I slammed the door and braced myself for a lecture from the dog’s owner, but the guy was totally silent. He wasn’t looking at me, but this silent treatment was at least as bad as the dog staring at me. Finally I couldn’t take it.
“It wasn’t my idea, you know.” No response. “The kid isn’t hurt. He’s just scared. He had to be taken down a couple of pegs. He thinks he’s God’s gift to the world or something.” Still nothing. I threw myself against the back of the seat and sulked for all I was worth.
When we got to my house he pulled into the end of the driveway. I reached for my math book on the floor, and finally the guy broke his silence. “Whatever you bullies called him, you’re worse.” Maybe Anthony hadn’t said much, then. But it was like this guy knew, anyway.
I slammed the cab door without looking around; that dog was probably glaring at me.
There was maybe an hour before dinner, and after I scrubbed my arms to get off as much of the sweet fern stink as possible, I spent about fifteen minutes sitting on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, trying to convince myself this wouldn’t be so bad. That farmer couldn’t be right. I mean, how could being a bully be worse than what we’d called Anthony? After all, it was actually illegal to be queer. Or, at least, to do anything about it. My dad had gone on at great lengths about it after that Stonewall incident in New York City, when all these homos attacked the police who had come to arrest them, or whatever it was that had happened. There was a riot, anyway.
“Of course they should be arrested!” Dad had bellowed at the time. “Disgusting people. Shouldn’t be allowed. Thank the Lord we don’t live in that modern-day Sodom.”
Still, this whole episode was making me feel ashamed, and I guess I knew, really, that it was bad. Soon I was trying to calculate how long it would be before Anthony’s parents called mine, and wondering whether it would be better if I told them about it first. Then I realized it would be better if Chris told them. So I went to find him.
A Question of Manhood Page 6