CHAPTER 1
The Plans
Like many people, my friend Herb had his demons, but what set him apart was that he kept them in a pen in his back yard. One night after dinner when we'd finished dessert and everyone at the table leaned back and felt the meal settle, he invited us to come out and take a look.
"Oh, they're not interested," his wife Marjorie told him. She smiled at Nancy and me. "Are you sure you don't want some more apple crumble?"
We shook our heads.
"Stuffed," I protested.
"They might want to see them," said Herb. "Not that I'm insisting. I constructed the pen myself. It's my own design. What do you think?"
"Oh, we could ..." said Nancy. She eyed me across the table. I knew that she wasn't keen on the idea because she started work early the next morning. We had a long drive ahead of us back to North Platte. But I was intrigued. "Sure, why not?" I told them.
So, with a scraping of chairs, we got up from the table. Dicky, a skinny boy with butterscotch hair, trotted in from the living room. He'd been excused from his supper long ago in order to listen to "The Shadow." Now he seemed excited. "You're going to see them? I'm coming too." He ran ahead and flung open the screen door.
Outside it was dusk, daylight was dwindling, and the only sound was a low thruhum thruhum of cicadas. The air felt cool and smelled of growing green. As we moved across their patio and onto the grass, stars were beginning to appear above trees and the lip of the horizon. Dicky reached the pen first, his fingers curling in the chainlink.
In this light you could still see them scrabble and dart across packed dirt. They were very quick. Approaching the pen, Nancy took my arm and giggled. She was nervous, I could tell. Suddenly, so was I — yet at the same time I wanted to press closer and get a better look.
"Crazy, eh?" said Dicky, and shook the wires, rattling as much as he could.
"I don't know what he sees in them," said Marjorie, folding her arms in front of her. "I would never keep mine that way."
Herb had fallen back from the rest of us and now approached with his hands in his pockets. On the way he noticed a baseball in the grass, and paused to kick it toward the hedge where no one would trip on it.
"Come on, Dad," Dicky urged, "show them. Go ahead!"
The boy stepped aside for his father. Herb cleared his throat, then bent forward and spoke in a low, steady voice. "This is where you end up," he murmured, and activity in the pen increased, there was more scuffling. "This is as far as you go. We're safe now, aren't we?"
The scuffling intensified, and there was something plaintive in Herb's question, a pleading note, unlike anything I'd heard over dinner. Maybe it was the way he said "we." Earlier this evening, "we" had referred to everyone at the table as we'd passed around plates of food and spoken of property prices and promotions for soil conservation agents. Herb and I worked in the same field and had roomed together in college. We went way back.
"This is a good place to raise a family," he and Marjorie had agreed. "Dicky likes it here, too. Did he show you his ant farm?" Now Herb spoke toward the wire, "Do you miss me? Do you?"
He was answered with a shriek. This startled me, and I reeled back. Nancy recoiled, too. In the pen they ran faster and faster till they were just gray flickers, and Herb's beseeching voice was drowned out by little screams rising into the night sky.
Dicky ran alongside the wires, his feet moving in a jerky dance. Marjorie shook her head and clapped her hands over her ears. She mouthed words but it was impossible to make out what she was saying: it was like speaking into a wind. I nodded and pretended to understand while Nancy pulled at my arm. She wanted to leave. I think we were both unnerved.
Now Herb moved away from the wire and the noise level went down instantly. He turned to us with a sad, twisted smile. "So. There we go."
"Well, Herb," I replied. "That sure is, uh — something!" I didn't know whether to comfort or congratulate him.
The fighting in the pen slackened and Herb called over his shoulder: "I'm leaving you now."
This stirred them up again — in fact, it seemed to provoke and madden them. Once more it was impossible to speak, such was the vociferation. Dicky dropped to his knees beside the pen, laughing, while on the other side of the wire they whirled and screamed. Dicky picked up a stick and began to poke it into the cage.
When Herb saw this, he swiftly stepped forward and grabbed the boy by the arm and jerked him to his feet, gave him a shake. He pulled him away toward the house. He scolded, "What's the big idea? That's not nice."
"I was only playing. It didn't hurt anything."
"Son, you shouldn't tease them," Herb said, patting him on the shoulder. "You'll see. You'll have your own someday."
Nancy and Marjorie hurried across the patio. Suddenly, all was silent again, except for the thruhum thruhum of cicadas. Herb released Dicky, and then leaned in close to me, and said softly: "If you want, I can send you the plans."
Quality Time
Behold, a certain disciple was there, named Timotheus ... Him would Paul have to go forth with him; and took and circumcised him ...
Acts 16: 1, 3
He couldn't block the sound. Sctick, sctick, sctick. Yesterday was the first time he'd heard the copper edge on silica stone. Paul surely knew that he was listening. Perhaps it was a test.
Last night, lying on his mat, he was awakened by the same sound. He kicked and gasped and opened his eyes in the darkness, his heart pounding.
But no.
The room was still. There was no sound. Wait — he detected a faint, shallow wheeze from the nearby mat where Paul lay.
His teacher slept.
* * *
Morning came.
* * *
Sctick, sctick, sctick. This time it wasn't a dream. Timothy looked up from his text, unable to concentrate.
He pictured Paul in the next room, his bald head shiny as if oiled by the sunlight streaming in the window. Bent over his task, immersed.
* * *
Should he be grateful? Only a week ago, they'd paused under a laurel tree and spoken of the journey before them. (Two more hours of light? Three?) They drank cool swallows of water and inspected the horizon. While resting, Paul shifted the subject to Zipporah, wife of Moses, daughter of Jethro, who had used only a sharp stone to circumcise her son.
"She did what she had to do. She was no fool."
A smile played upon his lips. It was almost teasing. A joke? Yes, Timothy knew the text, too. It could not be unwritten. It was.
But for Paul the law also foresaw a personal solicitude. He wanted to reassure Timothy. It would be easier in his hands.
Use a stone? Of course not! His teacher loved him, had always been good to him. There was every reason for trust. Their relationship with the law was of a greater beauty. When David had cut off the foreskins of two hundred Philistines, it was a different time, riven by vengeance.
Paul spoke of something else altogether. A new vision.
Sctick, sctick, sctick.
* * *
Timothy remembered his father, an uncircumcised Greek, taking him by the hand when he was a child and leading him into a sun-glinted river. His father's penis was a ropy, floppy thing, protruding from a pair of fleshy apricots. It seemed so different from the nubby digit between Timothy's legs that he pointed and peed through every day, cradling in his fingers. His penis was a mere caterpillar. But maybe it was only a matter of time. Timothy would grow like his father, too. One day he would be tall, his arms thick and strong, and hair would sprout on his face.
His father's grinning white teeth shone out of his beard.
"Come here," he said.
His father bent and grabbed Timothy under his arms. He lifted Timothy to eye level. Behind him was the sky with moving flecks of passing birds.
"Ready?" he asked.
"For what?"
His father rocked back, then forward, heaving him through the air.
Timothy yelped, and then he smacked the water and plunged, thrashing and wriggling. It was frightful to leave the earth and be immersed in something else, an unchosen element. Terrible! He rolled and kicked, but he couldn't escape. He clawed but couldn't grip. He hugged but everything slid away. Oh, it was hopeless!
Then big arms seized him and lifted him out into the air. He could hear his father laughing. Timothy sputtered and gasped.
"It's all right," his father said. "You're just fine."
* * *
A voice came from the next room.
"Timothy. Come here."
* * *
When he uncovered himself, Paul acted busy and did not look down.
"Come closer to the window."
Timothy obeyed and positioned himself in the light. Paul put a hand on Timothy's shoulder.
"Bring your foreskin forward. Son, I won't hurt you."
Numbly Timothy reached for his penis. He grasped but it was in retreat, as if he'd stepped into a cold sea. Paul waited. Timothy was aware of his left leg trembling and he shifted to put more weight on this leg, to stop the shaking. He pinched the end of his penis, squeezing the skin upward as much as he could. Now Paul looked down.
"Yes. That's good."
Paul blessed him and gave thanks, and at the same time he lowered his hand to Timothy's wrist, helping him maintain his grip. Then his other hand reached under the linen on the table and Timothy saw a flash of the two-edged knife.
"Take a breath. You don't have to be silent. It's all right."
Timothy obeyed. He inhaled deeply and waited. Now Paul pinched with him. Timothy stared at the globe of Paul's head, the discrete bumps there. The blade felt cold.
Then suddenly everything went hot. Liquid leaked between his fingers. He screamed and reeled back. Paul waved towards the open window.
"Keep pressing!" Paul encouraged. "Press!"
Now Timothy was lying on the floor, the ceiling shimmering and floating.
"It's finished," Paul said, his voice blurry, distant. "You're fine. It's all right. But you can't let up. Press."
In a grainy corner of vision Timothy saw a bird in the sun eating something off the ground. But how could he be outside? He was still in the room. Paul put an arm around his shoulder, encouraging, coaxing, praying. Then vision rushed outside again.
I am eaten by fowls, he thought. This is only the beginning.
Bald Romeo
I.
A lacerated, bald Romeo. Jesus with a beer gut.
II.
Oh, why so chary, chary, chary?
III.
My own dog cheated me at cards. Junior lit the match at my feet.
Goodness Like a Fetter
Richie was home now, recently out of jail for beating up a clown. Aggravated assault. And there was Grandpa Will and Grandpa Willy Jr., Lynne and the baby Liz, with the Yellow Dog. The room was heated by a woodstove, flames licking around a sooty grate. "What about me?" Richie said. "You all just going to sit there?" The iron door of the woodstove whined softly when Grandpa Willy Jr. swung it open to toss in another log; the fire cracked and spat. Grandpa Willy Jr. dropped the log and jerked back, but not fast enough: sparks hissed through the air and found his trousers and the backs of his blue-veined hands. He slapped the backs of his hands, wincing, and shook his trouser legs. He was a small man with red weathered cheeks, a high nasal voice:
"Crazy stuff, that willow wood!"
The Yellow Dog, whose muzzle rested on a polished wooden cube, opened big sleepy eyes. The cube was attached with a ribbon to the dog's neck.
"Isn't it warm enough in here already?" asked Lynne. "I'm all in a sweat."
She unbuttoned her blouse and offered a breast to the baby Liz, whose eyes squinched as she began to nurse.
"I did it for Pop," said Grandpa Willy Jr. "Pop is cold. I think he's getting sicker."
Lynne sighed, and Richie crossed his arms in annoyance. Was this his coming-home party? He'd expected them to be more welcoming. He'd pictured himself at the center of a jolly circle, with a glass of hot punch in his hand. Maybe a few balloons? Some music? Was that so much to ask?
Instead, he was treated to the sight of old Grandpa Will, who sat on the edge of the bed with a blanket over his shoulders. He had the same weathered cheeks of his son, but his were rimmed by a dirty yellow beard. A violent shiver ran through him, and he gathered the blanket tighter. When the shiver was over, he scratched his head, smacked his lips and said nothing.
"You can't go around beating people up," said Lynne. "It's that simple."
"The clown started it," said Richie.
"Shush," said Grandpa Willy Jr.
"The clown came up to me and told me I was a fool," said Richie. "Was I supposed to stand for that? It was raining and there was mud everywhere on the ground and mud on the backs of the elephants, too. They were so dusty that when the first drops hit their hides they made little clouds, little puffs. There was something lonesome about that. I mean somebody ought to take care to wash the elephants! Doesn't anybody care anymore? Then it started to pour. I had to get out of there, I left the elephants and stepped under the tent because of the rain, you see, just minding my own business, no different from other people. But then this clown comes up and starts with me. Says I didn't belong there. Says it wasn't my place. This clown, with his purple eyes and painted mouth, talking about place. I told him that I didn't mean any harm, I was just getting out of the rain. You could hear it drumming like crazy on the canvas. It was the kind of sound that creeps inside you. There's something so lonesome about this circus — and what does the clown do? He makes a scene. In front of all those people! It was like he could look into my brain and so he just spits into it. Everyone saw him do it. He wanted to fight. I mean, he might as well've come out and asked me. So I mixed up the colors on his face good."
"I'm cold," said Grandpa Will, shaking his blanket. "I'm cold."
"We know," said Richie. "We're working on it, OK?"
Baby Liz began to cry, her lips a mewling rosebud. The Yellow Dog rose on crooked legs and tottered side-ways across the room, its head and shoulders drooping under the weight of the wooden cube. Lynne jiggled the baby up and down, and the Yellow Dog cocked its head and wagged its tail.
"What's that around Seymour's neck?" Richie asked.
No one answered his question. Grandpa Willy Jr. hoisted another log out of the woodbox and shuffled toward the stove.
"It's full!" said Richie. "For Christ's sake. You're not gonna make any difference."
Grandpa Willy Jr. swung open the door. With a grunt, he heaved the log inside. Sparks rained on the floor and he stamped around him in a jerky chicken dance, putting out the sparks and keeping his balance by grasping his suspenders. Then he tried to close the door. But the log protruded — the door wouldn't shut. He tried to force the door, pushing with both hands, a series of little grunts escaping him. But Grandpa Willy Jr. was too weak. Richie turned away from the sight of him.
"Why?" he moaned.
"Get in there!" Grandpa Willy Jr. stood up straight, lifted a foot, and kicked feebly at the end of the log. "Now-you-get-in-there!" Miraculously the log slid in, and Grandpa Willy Jr. did not fall down. He bent over and swung the stove-door shut, and then turned to them, panting. He rubbed his hands together.
"Heavy stuff," he said. "Hedge."
"Do you have to do everything he says?" Richie asked. "Why, why do you let him order you around?"
"Thank you," said Grandpa Will.
"Don't mention it, Pop," said Grandpa Willy Jr.
From his perch on the edge of the bed, Grandpa Will cleared his throat and began to sing:
Here I raise mine Ebenezer Where my hopes shall always be. Let thy goodness, like a fetter Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
While he sang, Grandpa Willy Jr. loosened the ribbon around the Yellow Dog's neck. He removed the polished wooden cube.
"What is that?" asked Richie.
"So you really don't know?" Richie shook his head.
The cube had a little crank on one side, like a pig's tail. Grandpa Willy Jr. gazed at it fondly. "This is a humdinger. You wanna try it? For all practical purposes, it's a happiness machine."
He handed the humdinger to Richie and then knelt to pat the Yellow Dog on the back, inquiring, "How's the spine, old friend?"
"Huh?" said Richie.
"Go ahead. Try it. Be my guest."
