Clinton Rinehart took off his muddy shoes on the back porch and hurried past Momma Rinehart in the kitchen without a word, his eyes downcast, his hair in disarray, his face puffy, and the pocket of his pullover shirt torn.
Momma followed him into his bedroom. He dropped down on the edge of his bed and stooped his shoulders. Momma raised his chin with her hand. She looked into his sad, brown eyes and smiled.
“Bad day at school, Clinton?” she said.
“I got into another fight. Doggone it, Momma, I can’t seem to get those maggots to leave me alone.”
Momma kissed him on the forehead. “We can talk about that later. You git cleaned up for supper, now. Papa will be home any minute.”
“I don’t want no supper. I just want to be by myself.”
Momma patted Clinton on the shoulder. “You’ve got to eat, so do as I say,” she said, then closed his bedroom door behind her and returned to the kitchen.
Clinton grabbed his bag of marbles from his drawer in the bureau and crawled under his bed. He lay on his side with his back against the wall and admired the colors in his favorite shooter.
A few minutes later, Harry opened the bedroom door. “Clinton, you in here?”
“No,” Clinton said from under his bed.
Harry bent down and gawked at Clinton. “What the hell are you doin’ under there?”
“Lookin’ at my marbles and stayin’ out of trouble.”
“You sure are weird sometimes.”
“I ain’t either. I like bein’ under here. It’s quiet and peaceful without any of those maggots up at school lookin’ to pick a fight with me.”
“Why in the hell would you worry about that? You’re big enough to lick any two guys at Hartman and most of the guys at Southwest High School.”
“Yeah, but winnin’ ain’t all that big a deal, especially when the principal and my teacher are always on my back. They blame me for all the fights I git into, and I’m not the one that starts ’em.”
“Well, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you. If I was as big as you, I’d kick butts from here to China if anyone messed with me.”
Clinton crawled out from under the bed and dropped down on the edge of it. “I’ll tell you the honest-to-God’s truth, Harry. The only time I’m glad I’m alive is when Papa takes us fishin’ down on the Osage River, which ain’t often enough to my way of thinkin’.”
“Did you hear about the streetcar wreck up the street?” Harry asked.
“No. What happened?”
Harry told Clinton about the accident and his belief that their brother Mark Allen had caused it by putting rocks on the tracks.
“What does Mark Allen say about it?”
“He denies it, of course, but I don’t believe him.”
“With a brother like you, Mark Allen don’t need no enemies,” Clinton quipped.
Harry slapped Clinton on the back of the head. “Hey!” he said. “You may be bigger than me, but I’m older and bolder than you. So don’t lip off.”
“Tell Harry to go jump in a bucket of crap, Clinton!” Mark Allen yelled from the living room.
“I’ll get a bucket of crap and throw it in your face, dipstick!” Harry yelled back.
“I want you boys to stop it, and I’ll not tell you again,” Momma called out from the kitchen. “Papa’s gonna be home any minute, and so help me God, if you don’t settle down, I’m gonna have him give you a whipping that you won’t soon forget.”
Clinton followed Harry into the dining room. He spotted a magazine on the buffet, picked it up, and thumbed through it.
Harry went into the living room and dropped down on the floor across from Mark Allen and Eddie in front of the radio. He stuck his tongue out at Mark Allen. Then he settled down and listened as Frankie Laine belted out his hit song Mule Train.
The boys' younger sister Fanny Louise strolled into the dining room. She picked up Tom, the family’s gray-and-white tomcat, which had been curling itself around Clinton’s leg, and went into the living room. She sat on the couch, placed Tom on her lap, and stroked his back while tapping her foot to the beat of the music.
Clinton tossed the magazine back onto the buffet, walked past Momma at the sink in the kitchen, and went out onto the back porch. He scraped the mud from his shoes with a stick, wiped them with pieces of newspaper, and put them on.
Outside, lightning flashed, and it started to rain again. Rather than run out to the outhouse on the boardwalk and get wet, Clinton peed through the screen door onto the porch steps. After he tucked himself in and zipped up his pants, he stayed on the porch. He watched the rain and longed for the day when he could leave the neighborhood behind and find himself a cabin on the Osage River, go fishing every day, and never have to be around people again.
Harry and Eddie joined Clinton on the back porch. They peed through the screen door, each one arching his penis so that his stream of pee flowed over the porch steps and splattered with the rain onto the boardwalk that led to the outhouse.
“Mine goes out farther than yours,” Harry said to Eddie. “That’s cause my dick’s bigger than yours and more powerful.”
“No it ain’t,” Eddie said. “It’s cause you’re archin’ yours more than I am mine.”
Harry tucked himself in and zipped up his Levi’s. He smacked Eddie on the shoulder. “Face facts, preacher boy. Like it or not, my dick’s bigger and more powerful than yours, and even though you’re taller, those facts make me more of a man than you.”
Eddie tucked himself in and zipped up his pants. “In your dreams,” he said and moved away from Harry, narrowly avoiding another smack.
“Harry, do you really believe Mark Allen put rocks on the tracks and caused the streetcar accident?” Clinton asked.
“Sure as hell do.”
“I feel sorry for him,” Clinton said.
“I don’t think he did it,” Eddie said. “But like I told him, it may not make any difference if the Lord has chosen him to suffer for a higher purpose.”
“Knock it off, Eddie,” Harry said. “The Lord don’t do shit like that.”
Eddie grimaced.
“Whether Mark Allen is guilty or not, every maggot in the neighborhood is gonna be out for his hide,” Clinton said.
“That’s for damn sure,” Harry said. “And cause we’re his brothers, you better believe we’re gonna be in for it too.”
Eddie nodded in agreement.
“Harry what do you think Papa’ll do to Mark Allen when he finds out about it?” Clinton asked.
“Beat the hell out of him, I hope.”
Harry’s attitude irritated Clinton. It reminded him of the kids at school who got a kick out of him being sent to the principal’s office for detention. “Papa might take Mark Allen’s side,” he said.
Harry shook his head. “I’ll bet he don’t, but we’ll find out soon enough. Papa’s due home any minute.”
All three boys went inside. They joined Fanny Louise in the living room, positioned themselves on the floor in front of the radio, and waited for the sounds of Papa’s footsteps on the front porch.
About the author
Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com.
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