A Time for Poncey — And other Stories out of Skullbone
Page 4
A Time for Poncey
Poncey always figured he could have finished school in half the time required by the district, and perhaps his teachers wished he had. Memories of long, grueling days spent in stifling rooms jumbled together in his head with countless scholastic traumas, all to no apparent effect. For instance, there was the time on the playground when someone passed him a football but failed to tell him about it until the second it arrived at the back of his head. And another time, when he’d helpfully informed his teacher that she’d skipped a classmate’s turn to read aloud, when in fact she hadn’t, and she made him write “I will pay attention” on the chalkboard five hundred times. He never finished, because his mind wandered. And then who could forget the run-in he had with Jazzy Luray on the playground. She’d butted into a perfectly good argument to point out how could he think he was so smart when he’d put his shirt on backwards that morning. Poncey was so incensed at her – and his shirt – that, as she sashayed away, he forgot himself and kicked her little behind.
“Poncey S. Muldoon!” his teacher, who had been spying, was horrified. “What in the ever-lovin’ are you doing? You apologize to Jacine right this instant.”
“No! She was stickin’ her nose in where it don’t belong.”
“Doesn’t, and that’s no excuse for kicking her in the bee-hind. If you think she’s being nosy, you know what to do. Now what should you have done instead of kicking her bee-hind?”
“Kick her in the nose?”
“Land sakes no child!! You apologize this minute.”
Poncey didn’t apologize that minute nor any other, so he spent the afternoon in the principal’s office. In the end, all he got for his trouble was a note for his parents to sign. His mother sighed heavily and barely scratched out her shaky signature.
Suffice it to say then that Poncey had little nostalgia for his school years. He still looked back on the whole ordeal as a waste, when all along he could have learned anything he wanted from a book, and as fast as he wanted. The looming brick school building might as well have been a penitentiary, with high-voltage wires running to his desk. Still, one good thing did come of all that trouble, and that was meeting Marlin MacLenoly.
The moment his family had arrived in town he was an oddity, since nobody moves to Skullbone. Almost everyone came to know him as Mack, and when Poncey tried to call him “Macaroni,” the melee that followed drew a crowd from blocks away. There’s nothing quite so entertaining as seeing two seven-year-old boys have at it. The two had been fast friends ever since. Mack had developed the odd habit, whenever his frustration overwhelmed him, of lifting his shirt and thumping his chest violently with a fist. Sometimes when deep in thought, he’d walk randomly and heedless of the world, slightly crouched, hopping and skipping along the way. He became a local legend as the pre-teen who attempted suicide by swallowing a bottle of pills that turned out to be his mother’s estrogen. Whenever anyone brought up the incident afterwards, Mack would only quietly refer to it as “my mistake” – and Poncey brought it up as often as possible, even into high school.
“That’s a heck of a mistake to make,” Poncey said. “No wonder your voice still hasn’t changed.”
“It’s changed as much as it’s gonna,” Mack kept his eyes low. “As much as it needs to.”
“It’s enough to scare the fish.” Mack did speak in kind of a high warble, a perfect match to his boney body. “Wanna go fishin’?” Poncey kicked his feet against the weather-pocked curb outside the drug store as the two lounged about on the late summer evening.
“Nah. Fish won’t be bitin’ now anyhow. Don’t you know anything?”
“I’ve forgotten more in this little finger than you’ll ever know,” Poncey declared. “Don’t want to go fishin’ anyway.”
“Well, what then?”
“Tell you what – let’s sneak on out to Jazzy’s house.”
“What fer?”
“She’s takin’ dancin’ lessons. I hear she goes out to the deck in back to practice.”
“So what?”
“I’ll fetch my camera, and maybe we can get some shots of her prancin’ around. She’d sure look like a fool, if we posted some of those pictures at school.” Poncey was giddy at the idea.
“Maybe she’ll even kick her clothes off,” Mack’s head waggled with possibility.
“You think?” Poncey was suddenly dead serious, agog at the idea.
“No. You’re an idiot.”
“No I’m not. I knew she wouldn’t. But I’m gettin’ my camera anyway. Let’s go.”
Mack groaned as he lurched from his perch on the parking meter and trailed after Poncey. The mission didn’t interest him, and before long it would be late, and besides, his feet hurt. He followed along anyway. The Muldoon house – where Poncey kept his camera – was nearby, but Jazzy’s family lived quite a distance out into the country. Light from the setting sun clung delicately to the horizon, and cicadas provided a backdrop with their swelling chorus. As the two youths drew closer to the Lurays’ home, they left the gravel road and cut through a wooded area that faced the backyard. Poncey and Mack hunkered down in some bramble right at the edge of the trees.
“You see her?”
“No. Get off me.”
“I don’t see nothin’.”
“Well, wait awhile. I hear some music. Maybe she’s practicin’.”
“Don’t sound like dance music. Sounds like someone in the shower.”
Poncey scoffed. “A cat in the shower.”
“I see someone inside. There, see?”
“Shh! They’ll hear you!”
“There! See?”
“I said get offa me!” Poncey shook Mack off his back and sent him tumbling and cursing into a thorn bush. In the tussle neither saw Mr. Luray stare out the window in their direction.
“Shut – up!” Poncey emphasized as he hauled Mack to his feet by one arm.
“Have you seen her? Did she come out?” Mack whispered hoarsely; he didn’t really know what he was saying.
“Just sit quiet and watch. Maybe she’ll come out.” Poncey held on tight to his camera.
“Hey! Maybe that’s her!”
A dark figure appeared, framed by the screen door, and hinges screaked as it opened. Mr. Luray’s boots pounded upon the wooden deck as he lifted a shotgun to his hip and let go a blast in the direction of the woods.
“Sheeeet!” Mack screeched, a grating falsetto against the hollow boom, and back he stumbled into the briar. Poncey took to his feet like a boy fifty pounds lighter. Mack scrambled upright, leaving bits of clothing and skin in the thorns. Poncey leapt through the low brush, darting between trees like a running back. Something grabbed Mack by the ankle and sent him diving headlong into a mud puddle. Poncey broke from the forest and left it behind as he took the straightest line back to the gravel road. Mack scurried to his feet and limped along afterward, gingerly pulling his muddied clothing free from his wounded arms and legs.
It was back on the road that Poncey saw it. The full moon had come out, peering through the high weeds at its ghastly smile. The pale light gleamed off simple, sharp teeth, revealed within pink lips drawn back in a death masque, beautiful in its mournful horror. A possum lay in the scrubby grass, a victim of some mechanical menace, poised in exquisite pity. Around her lay perhaps a dozen kits, ruined as well either by the car, or by exposure, or by thirst, their sole protector being taken from them. Poncey stared in pious wonder at the sight – the possum’s white face looked like an undefiled canvas, a pure, soft background for beady eyes permanently open, and one paw reached out to him in a gesture of grace and petition.
Poncey squatted there enthralled, but Mack was slain. As he limped ever closer, he saw what held Poncey’s scrutiny, and joined the vigil, saying only, “Is it playin’?” His face obscured by its brackish mud covering, and sitting in the cover of shadows, Mack appeared to be no more than a pair of eyes gazing from the depths of space. The solemn possum took hold of his soul with its still demonstration. Ma
ck absorbed the possum with his eyes, in perfect empathy with the animal’s tragedy. The outrage of the possum’s demise sunk deep into his being, a oneness with sudden fright relieved only by death, an unconscious appreciation of eating and drinking and working, all the things of life that never quite seem like life. For a reason he could not name, Mack felt more deeply than he ever had before.
On the other side of the corpse, Poncey admired the possum as if it were a machine of his own making. The kits formed a halo about their mother; so many, Poncey thought this must be a record for possum reproduction. The mechanics of its paw, the fine borders of its fur – in his mind he recorded details he could study now only because of the serenity of death. Suddenly he remembered his camera, and he photographed every angle and view of the animal he could think of. Most carefully he took a portrait of its face and hands, gesturing like a beatific waif. At last leafy shadows engulfed the possum, and the sky grew too dark for Poncey to shoot any more, lit by only lightning bugs. He jostled Mack back to attention from his strange fascination.
“Mack, let’s go! Mack?”
“Huh?”
“It’s time to go.”
“It is time.”
Mack’s head didn’t clear completely until his mother beat him for making such a mess of his clothes. Poncey wandered slowly toward his parents’ home, reviewing his digital treasure trove of pictures. All along the way he could not shake that moment when technology, nature and art collided, and questions piled up within his mind. He quietly determined to learn every fact that he could find about possums.
Over time the depth of his knowledge grew beyond his own expectations. He knew the difference between Pseudochirops cupreus and Didelphis marsupialis, to say nothing of Didelphis virginiana. He knew the tricks of “playing possum,” and how to tell it from actual death. The animal’s musk glands disgusted him; the limits of its prehensile tail – too weak to actually suspend the beast from a branch – disappointed him. No point about the possum existed that he did not know or have an opinion about.
“The problem with understanding possum reproduction,” Poncey told his horrified parents over dinner, “is that most people can’t visualize a bifurcated penis.” His mother dropped her fork. “But the male possum’s organ is far superior to other species. Men surely would be filled with envy if they only knew. Of course, it requires a bifurcated vagina.” Poncey’s mother hastily left the table, but he remained, calmly buttering his bread. “Did you know possum sperm join in pairs before fertilization?”
Poncey knew he had a remarkable achievement on his hands, a gift he must share with the world. So he wrote a theme, an homage that turned the pitiful late marsupial into an epic allegory of great poetry and erudition. In order to get school credit, he compared possums’ habit of hiding under houses to the homeless Mole People in New York City and turned the paper in to his social studies teacher. On the cover appeared the grand portrait of the late road kill.
Well, the paper certainly made quite a stir at school, so much so that Poncey almost began enjoying himself. Finally the attention he deserved was coming his way, he thought; he even heard girls giggling as he passed in the hallway. He wished he had collected the carcass to have it stuffed. Poncey was so taken with his paper’s notoriety, he began a campaign to read it aloud at Skullbone Harvest Festival Day. Every fall the high school hosted an evening showcase of its most distinguished students to close out the festival. The selection committee was made up of senior staff members, led by an ancient throwback to one-room schools, Mrs. Rose.
A forty-year veteran of teaching the same English Lit curriculum, Mrs. Rose lived in the necessity of denial. For her, everything was wonderful except for whatever happened to be going on at the present moment. As soon as it was passed, it was forgotten – or wonderful. Year after year she fought the same battles with uncooperative and incapable students, every spring struggling over whom she could conscientiously pass. Her red-bejeweled cat-eye glasses underscored the frown lines engraved upon her forehead by wear and tear. Snow-white hair piled high upon her head, hardly distinguishable from the powdery hue of her face, no more than an apparition arising from a distant mist until the flamboyant shock of her lipstick made a person realize he was looking at a human being. A hopeful – if not resigned – smile made constant display of evenly gapped teeth. Her greatest goal at any given time was to avoid whatever disaster seemed to be looming closest.
She edged backwards into her classroom when she saw Poncey approaching in the hall.
“Miz Rose!” he called. The door began to shut.
“Miz Rose!” His bulk was too great for her.
“Yes? Oh! Poncey!”
“Miz Rose, I need to talk to you.”
“Well, bless your heart,” she sighed.
“Can I read my paper at Festival?” he awkwardly peered off in some different direction.
“Well, Poncey, it certainly is a fine paper. I’m so glad you know all that you know – why, you could be a teacher here, just like a teacher. I’ll bring it up to the other committee members.” She patted his doughy arm reassuringly.
“They said to ask you.”
“They did?”
“Yeah – yes’m, I talked to them already. They all said to ask you.”
She quietly cursed the day she was born. “Well, Poncey, it certainly is a fine paper. We’ll see if we can find a time for you.”
“Thanks, Miz Rose,” Poncey replied brightly.
“Well, thank you, Poncey.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, Poncey, you run along now.”
“Okay, Miz Rose.” And he did. Mrs. Rose breathed a sigh of wonderful relief.
So she organized the lineup of presenters for Harvest Festival Day – including Poncey – put in place a decorating committee, had programs printed up for the assembly that night, and everything was arranged. But one thing Mrs. Rose did not count on was it being an election year. Since election day very closely followed Harvest Festival Day, politicians often found it necessary to demonstrate their down-home roots by attending the festivities. This year it was the governor himself who had enraged the rural folks and announced a hasty trip to Skullbone to mend fences at their celebration. Poncey knew that his presentation at Festival could be the high point of his life, and perhaps of all Skullbone’s history. The committee knew that the governor must never be subjected to an ode to a dead possum.
The evenings were falling earlier each day, and the outside lights already glowed that day as a crowd began to assemble in the high school cafetorium, a cost-conscious combination of lunchroom and auditorium. Life had drained from the leaves, revealing their true colors. Shadows hung like bunting on the building, and decorations of golds and browns carried on the theme of waning nature. A row of folding chairs with the state flag standing at either end, directly in front of the stage, gave silent testimony to the expected presence of the governor. Voices buzzed across the room in anticipation of the honored guest and what Skullbone had to show him that night.
Indeed he did eventually show up, with a small collection of overly serious aides. One held a clipboard and studiously made check marks on a list of some sort as the governor worked his way into the room. Another talked into a gizmo hanging from his ear. Every man and woman old enough to vote was carefully greeted, hands shaken and backs patted. Every child young enough to not fight back was lifted up and kissed. Time stood still as citizens voiced their concerns over the cotton crop, or the price of diesel, or property disputes with neighbors. The governor promised to look into every single issue, but stressed that he’d be able to only if he served another four years, and slowly made his way to the row of chairs. Finally, his essential business finished, boredom became the only measure of how long he would remain at the Festival extravaganza.
Elementary-school urchins dressed as vegetables – and already yawning – opened the show, perfectly complementing the décor. Their muddled recitation no doubt saluted autumn’s bounty, although
nobody could really tell, and parents shuffled them quickly off to bed. Like a view into the future, the 4H Club next took the stage with real onions and squash, not to speak of pies, quilts and livestock.
Each blue-ribbon winner took a moment to describe his or her project, with the resulting product on display behind them. As She’rie Scott described her quilting pattern, explaining the stitch she used to join scraps of historic family fabric, the audience began to twitter with laughter. She’rie turned bright red, not realizing that what nobody on stage could see was Billy Canberg’s goat nibbling on Mary Wilkinson’s sweet corn. This barnyard humor was, of course, all the audience cared about. Some frantic and hilarious gesturing from the crowd finally led Billy to discover his goat’s crime and pull the animal away by the rope looped around its neck; Mary stamped her foot and jealously cradled her violated crop.
While all eyes focused on the goat, Howard Moore’s chicken had seen its opportunity to build a nest in Lisa Whistle’s cherry pie. Its contented clucking drew a terrified cry from Lisa, and she skidded across the slick stage while rushing to the pie’s rescue, crashing simultaneously into the table and onto the floor. In the end the pie lay in ruins pan-side-up, Lisa was reduced to a sobbing mess, and the chicken found sanctuary in the rafters overhead. A team of janitors was required to remedy both situations, and the 4H Club filed off stage in utter defeat as the governor sat stolidly, apparently unaware of all that had happened. Waiting in the wings, Poncey thought to himself, “Waste of time.”
The Mime Troupe came out next, hoisting themselves on stage with an invisible rope which, as hard as they were pulling upon it, did not appear to be taut. Each member went through a series of gyrations that at another time might have had them committed. Heavy white makeup covered each of their faces, as pale as Mrs. Rose, embellished with various combinations of tears, lashes, hearts, stars, freckles and whatever else they could think of. A tinny recording of jangly piano music played in the background as they went through their paces. One held his hands out flat in front of him and moved them around with a surprised expression, while another incongruously went through ice-skating motions behind him. A girl stood eating fruit that not only appeared out of thin air but was air, carelessly tossing a banana peel to the floor. Another simply strolled among the hubbub. He did not slip on the peel.
After an interminable minute of this, a girl stepped forward to explain and demonstrate each miming skill. Unfortunately, in accordance with the mime code, before she spoke she removed a streak of makeup from her face. Then, after describing what she was about to do, she replaced the makeup before proceeding. Back and forth she went, white then flesh, silent then speaking, until she finally ran out of talent. The audience was as silent as the players, and the governor perceptibly peeked at his watch.
Finally the rope succeeded in pulling the troupe back off stage. Next up, members of the First Aid Club demonstrated their healing skills by applying cardio-pulmonary resuscitation to a mannequin, and – after that treatment had no apparent effect – winding long bandages around its head. After propping it into a chair, one medic opened a door on its abdomen to reveal color-coded, squishy-looking organs. Some of the younger girls in attendance made groaning sounds, and Poncey, already having been delayed by a pastry accident, chanted softly, “Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.” A quick trip around the digestive system and the correct diagnosis of appendicitis, and the First Aid Club exited without incident.
“Hey Miz Rose.”
“Hay is for horses, Poncey.”
Poncey glanced at his program just to be sure, and indeed, next in line came the track and field team, after which his paper was scheduled. “You just stand right here by me, Poncey,” he heard Mrs. Rose say. That night her lipstick was a milky pink. For the special occasion she had foregone her usual practical nurse’s shoes in favor of dressy, black patent leather heels. She wore a crimson dress that pronounced her questionable figure, and over her shoulder, balanced upon her back, hung a huge alligator bag filled with anything a high school student might have forgotten on an important night. Tucked under her arm she held a clipboard laden with papers, and one hand nervously twitched a pen like a watch spring, while the other clutched a red squeeze bottle filled with apple juice. “Stick close to me, and I’ll let you know when you can go on stage.”
The track team had won the state title the spring before, and now it shambled into place casually sporting letter jackets. Many of the members carried the tools of their trade – discus, shot, hammer – and one still had a spot of white makeup visible behind his ear. Kent Dekker, team captain, shifted his weight uneasily and spoke in that way athletes have of using unrelated clichés. “The only thing that could beat us was ourselves, and the other teams. But we put our uniforms and our game face on, one leg at a time, and neither one let us down. You can wrap up our season in one word – you never know.” The crowd applauded politely, and a few people who had been nodding off perked back to attention.
Dekker pulled his hands from his pockets and called for the discus to demonstrate proper form. His shoes squeaked across the floor as he spun around, stopping only in time to tell his listeners that was the moment he normally would throw the thing. Then the javelin thrower showed everyone the proper grip and balance, and thrust the spear toward them like a cheap 3D movie. Meanwhile, Dekker fetched the shot, indicating its obvious weight by the way he hefted it in one hand. The silvery ball nested delicately in his palm; he explained the throwing technique. Again his shoes squeaked, and he brought his body around to face the audience. But he didn’t stop as completely as he should, and the ball came out of his hand – a panicked look blazed across his eyes as the shot arched out over the crowd, and people scattered and screamed in its path. It crashed to the ground and exploded with a splash – it was only a balloon ingeniously filled with Jell-O, and a broad smirk spread over Dekker’s face. A hysterical teammate handed him another ball, which he demonstrated to all was the real shot.
The track team removed itself from the stage to laughter and scolding, and a janitor reappeared with his mop. The governor remained supremely aloof from the untoward goings-on. Mrs. Rose was beside herself, as was Poncey, and jabbed at Dekker sharply with her pen.
“You trickster!” she huffed. “You little joker! Look at that mess!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, unable to conceal his smile.
“You think you’re funny! We’ll just see about this come Monday.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You come and see me first thing in the morning! First thing!” She emphasized the words with pen jabs, and knocked the shot clean out of his hand.
“Oops!”
Poncey stood waiting there for Mrs. Rose to send him on stage. The metal ball dropped directly onto his foot, protected by only a sandal. It caught his big toe with the full force of gravity, and he reacted with a mighty oath and agonized hopping.
“Oh, goodness, Poncey!” Mrs. Rose fretted, but not convincingly. “Goodness! Let’s take a look at that toe. Oh my, oh my, I’m so sorry. Good thing the First Aid Club is here!”
Sure enough, the First Aid Club stood nearby and scurried to work. The next presenters, the Fishing Club, went on stage in Poncey’s place, and the bandages were removed from the mannequin’s head and wrapped securely around Poncey’s stricken foot. As he hobbled around, he could hear Clem Taylor prattle on about crickets.
The anglers had brought a collection of rods and a washtub filled with real water to show off their casting skills. But first Clem discussed lures and bait, and what circumstances required which type. For effect he dug a night crawler out of a can of dirt, but reassured the crowd that, for his purposes that night, he would keep it clean, pretend he was going for bream and demonstrate with bread. With the tub at stage right, he struck a pose at the opposite end and prepared to cast his bread upon the water. He proved to be a dead-eye, and all his colleagues as well, as time after time they put their hooks directly into the tub with a plop. T
he crowd ooh-ed and ah-ed appreciatively, and applauded as a couple of club members flanked the tub to lug it off stage.
Poncey had sufficiently recovered and again stood with Mrs. Rose for his turn. The Fishing Club inched toward the wings, the water in the tub threatening to slosh over with each step. Mrs. Rose kept a suspicious eye on their precarious progress, advancing on her like an army. Just as they arrived she made room for them between her and Poncey, then turned suddenly away and lost control of her clipboard. She somehow bumped the washtub with her giant bag just enough to spill half its contents on Poncey.
“Oh no! Did I do that?” she squealed, and wheeled back around. Poncey stood like a statue with a pigeon on it, staring at her obnoxious presence. “Oh no! Poncey! You’re all wet!” Poncey gaped at her and then down at his dripping pants, his arms held low and out from his body as if he were pleading for some divine clemency. “I’m so sorry! Come on, we’ll find you something dry to put on. Go on down to the locker room, and I’ll send Coach Tebbe to get you something dry. Chess Club, you’re going on next, get on out there.” And with that she turned her back.
Poncey had a million things to say to her. Instead, he only glared and breathed heavily for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode into the hall. The wet denim clung cold to his skin, making it hard to walk. He knew better than to wait for the coach; he’d go down into the belly of the building and find some clothes in the locker room himself. As he limped along, he could hear Chess Club president Donald Hickey saying something about discovered attack and zwischenzug, and something about a fork, and taking over your opponent’s territory. Poncey could play chess, but he had no time for this foolishness, he thought to himself, he had no use for a fork but at the dinner table. What time to play defense and what time to attack, Johnson went on and on, and his voice was lost in the echoes of the hallway. Poncey cared only about getting out of his soaking jeans and back to the assembly to read his paper.
As a member of the football team, Poncey knew how to break into the room. The chain-link barrier around the lockers, meant to add security, proved no obstacle for the emergency key that every player knew about, hidden just within the transom over Coach’s office door. Once in his own locker, Poncey took out his uniform pants and socks, leaving his sandals behind. The gauze around his foot was saturated, so he substituted an ACE bandage. At this point he didn’t care how ridiculous he looked, as long as he didn’t appear to have wet his pants. He half-sprinted and half-hopped back to the cafetorium, imagining the governor squirming in his chair while Donald Hickey discussed castling.
He burst through the double doors leading to the backstage area, and the floor changed to slick hardwood. In his socks, Poncey skidded around a curtain and caught sight of the Chess Club exiting the stage, and of the Dance Club milling around, and of Mrs. Rose wrenching her attention toward him with a shocked look. Poncey tried to get his speed under control, but as he careened forward he lost track of his feet. Mrs. Rose started to yell, “Go! Go! Go! Hit it!” and pushed the startled dancers onstage. Poncey crashed upon his backside at her feet, as she screamed, “Push the button!” Some non-descript dance music cranked up, and there was Jazzy Luray at the front, leading the Dance Club through its routine.
“Poncey!” Mrs. Rose said. “Are you all right? I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Why are they on?” Poncey replied. “They’re the last act!”
“I know,” Mrs. Rose looked distant. “I wasn’t expecting you. We put the Dance Club on.” She took a swig of her apple juice.
“There’s still time for me, isn’t there?” Poncey tried to gather himself and pretend everything was going as planned. “It’s alright, I’ll be fine going last – save the best for last, right? There’s still time.”
“Yes, well,” Mrs. Rose fumbled. “Time can be a funny thing.”
Poncey didn’t know what that meant, so he turned his attention to the dance troupe. He watched Jazzy gyrating and pounding her feet to the music, and nearly forgot all about possums. The music thumped and rattled off the walls, and the governor tried to talk to the aide beside him. Jazzy snapped her head in place to the beat, flailing her ponytail behind her, and gazed into the audience like a cat on the hunt. The room became uncomfortably hot.
At last the song ended, and Jazzy looked toward the wings. She caught hold of Poncey with her eyes and shrilled brightly, “One more time!”
With that the governor abruptly stood up and left the cafetorium, trailing aides behind him. Again the dance team stomped and shook with the vibrating rafters. The rest of the crowd began to shift and murmur, and gradually people made their way to the door.
“Good night everybody!” Jazzy called out happily.
“What’s going on?” Poncey demanded, his paper clinched in one hand. “When is it my time to talk?”
“Now, Poncey, it’s getting late,” Mrs. Rose intoned. “Maybe it would be better to let everyone go home. We have to beat the curfew, you know.”
Thoughts were ricocheting in Poncey’s mind so fast he didn’t even think to mention that there was no curfew. Tight emotions rushed into his sinuses and burned his eyes. “How can you do this? I’ve missed the governor, and you’re not going to let me read my paper at all? That’s not fair! You owe it to me! You owe me!”
Mrs. Rose propped her glasses atop her head like a pair of horns. “Calm down, Poncey, calm down. You’re paper is still fine work, it’s a fine paper. But tonight it’s just too late. Best to call it a night, maybe just go out for something to drink and go home. How about it, Poncey? Would you like something to drink?” And she offered him her apple juice with a lame smile.
Poncey raised his arm high, paper in hand, and his mouth hung open as a selection of epithets crossed his mind. The music battered his head relentlessly, tempting his fist to follow suit. He shook his clinched theme weakly, then, like a spell coming over him, he caught sight of the picture of the dead possum next to the face of Mrs. Rose, and saw their white hair and faces, their beady eyes, their thin pink lips, the black gaps between each pearly tooth, their blank stare. They even shared the same gesture of earnest benevolence. At that moment he realized that they were just the same in every way, that the possum’s end would be Mrs. Rose’s end, and in time his own end as well, and even if he had read his paper, in the long run nobody would care, or even recall the time.