Some of the prisoners came in with their valuables poked far up their asses in small chamois bags (and how often their valuables turned out not to be valuable at allphotographs, locks of hair, fake jewelry), often pushed up with sticks until they were past the point where even the long fingers of the trusty they had called StinkyThumbs could reach. One woman, he remembered, had had a small diamond, flawed, it turned out, really not valuable at allbut it had been in her family for six generations, passed from mother to eldest daughter (or so she said, but of course she was a Jew and all of them lied). She swallowed it before entering Patin. When it came out in her waste, she swallowed it again. She kept doing this, although eventually the diamond began to cut her insides and she bled. There had been other ruses, although most only involved petty items such as a hoard of tobacco or a hairribbon or two. It didnt matter. In the room Dussander used for prisoner interrogations there was a hot plate and a homely kitchen table covered with a red checked cloth much like the one in his own kitchen. There was always a pot of lamb stew bubbling mellowly away on that hotplate. When contraband was suspected (and when was it not?) a member of the suspected clique would be brought to that room. Dussander would stand them by the hotplate, where the rich fumes from the stew wafted. Gently, he would ask them Who. Who is hiding gold? Who is hiding jewelry? Who has tobacco? Who gave the Givenet woman the pill for her baby? Who? The stew was never specifically promised; but always the aroma eventually loosened their tongues. Of course, a truncheon would have done the same, or a gunbarrel jammed into their filthy crotches, but the stew was ... was elegant. Yes. Kittykitty, Dussander called. The cats ears cocked forward. It halfrose, then halfremembered some longago kick, or perhaps a match that had burned its whiskers, and it settled back on its haunches. But soon it would move. He had found a way of propitiating his nightmare. It was, in a way, no more than wearing the SS uniform . . . but raised to a greater power. Dussander was pleased with himself, only sorry that he had never thought of it before. He supposed he had the boy to thank for this new method of quieting himself, for showing him that the key to the pasts terrors was not in rejection but in contemplation and even something like a friends embrace. It was true that before the boys unexpected arrival last summer he hadnt had any bad dreams for a long time, but he believed now that he had come to a cowards terms with his past. He had been forced to give up a part of himself. Now he had reclaimed it. Kittykitty, called Dussander, and a smile broke on his face, a kindly smile, a reassuring smile, the smile of all old men who have somehow come through the cruel courses of life to a safe place, still relatively intact, and with at least some wisdom. The tom rose from its haunches, hesitated only a moment longer, and then trotted across the remainder of the back yard with lithe grace. It mounted the steps, gave Dussander a final mistrustful look, laying back its chewed and scabby ears; then it began to drink the milk. Nice milk, Dussander said, pulling on the Playtex rubber gloves that had lain in his lap all the while. Nice milk for a nice kitty. He had bought these gloves in the supermarket. He had stood in the express lane, and older women had looked at him approvingly, even speculatively. The gloves were advertised on TV. They had cuffs. They were so flexible you could pick up a dime while you were wearing them. He stroked the cats back with one green finger and talked to it soothingly. Its back began to arch with the rhythm of his strokes. Just before the bowl was empty, he seized the cat. It came electrically alive in his clenching hands, twisting and jerking, clawing at the rubber. Its body lashed limberly back and forth, and Dussander had no doubt that if its teeth or claws got into him, it would come off the winner. It was an old campaigner. It takes one to know one, Dussander thought, grinning. Holding the cat prudently away from his body, the painful grin stamped on his face, Dussander pushed the back door open with his foot and went into the kitchen. The cat yowled and twisted and ripped at the rubber gloves. Its feral, triangular head flashed down and fastened on one green thumb. Nasty kitty, Dussander said reproachfully. The oven door stood open. Dussander threw the cat inside. Its claws made a ripping, prickly sound as they disengaged from the gloves. Dussander slammed the oven door shut with one knee, provoking a painful twinge from his arthritis. Yet he continued to grin. Breathing hard, nearly panting, he propped himself against the stove for a moment, his head hanging down. It was a gas stove. He rarely used it for anything fancier than TV dinners and killing stray cats. Faintly, rising up through the gas burners, he could hear the cat scratching and yowling to be let out. Dussander twisted the oven dial over to 500. There was an audible pop! as the oven pilotlight lit two double rows of hissing gas. The cat stopped yowling and began to scream. It sounded . . . yes . . . almost like a young boy. A young boy in terrible pain. The thought made Dussander smile even more broadly. His heart thundered in his chest. The cat scratched and whirled madly in the oven, still screaming. Soon, a hot, furry, burning smell began to seep out of the oven and into the room. He scraped the remains of the cat out of the oven half an hour later, using a barbecue fork he had acquired for two dollars and ninetyeight cents at the Grants in the shopping center a mile away. The cats roasted carcass went into an empty flour sack. He took the sack down cellar. The cellar floor had never been cemented. Shortly, Dussander came back up. He sprayed the kitchen with Glade until it reeked of artificial pine scent. He opened all the windows. He washed the barbecue fork and hung it up on the pegboard. Then he sat down to wait and see if the boy would come. He smiled and smiled. Todd did come, about five minutes after Dussander had given up on him for the afternoon. He was wearing a warmup jacket with his school colors on it; he was also wearing a San Diego Padres baseball cap. He carried his schoolbooks under his arm. Yuckaducka, he said, coming into the kitchen and wrinkling his nose. Whats that smell? Its awful. I tried the oven, Dussander said, lighting a cigarette. Im afraid I burned my supper. I had to throw it out. One day later that month the boy came much earlier than usual, long before school usually let out. Dussander was sitting in the kitchen, drinking Ancient Age bourbon from a chipped and discolored cup that had the words HERES YER CAWFEE MAW, HAW! HAW! HAW! written around the rim. He had his rocker out in the kitchen now and he was just drinking and rocking, rocking and drinking, bumping his slippers on the faded linoleum. He was pleasantly high. There had been no more bad dreams at all until just last night. Not since the tomcat with the chewed ears. Last nights had been particularly horrible, though. That could not be denied. They had dragged him down after he had gotten halfway up the hill, and they had begun to do unspeakable things to him before he was able to wake himself up. Yet, after his initial thrashing return to the world of real things, he had been confident. He could end the dreams whenever he wished. Perhaps a cat would not be enough this time. But there was always the dog pound. Yes. Always the pound. Todd came abruptly into the kitchen, his face pale and shiny and strained. He had lost weight, all right, Dussander thought. And there was a queer white look in his eyes that Dussander did not like at all. Youre going to help me, Todd said suddenly and defiantly. Really? Dussander said mildly, but sudden apprehension leaped inside of him. He didnt let his face change as Todd slammed his books down on the table with a sudden, vicious overhand stroke. One of them spunskated across the oilcloth and landed in a tent on the floor by Dussanders foot. Yes, youre fuckingA right! Todd said shrilly. You better believe it! Because this is your fault! All your fault! Hectic spots of red mounted into his cheeks. But youre going to have to help me get out of it, because Ive got the goods on you! Ive got you right where I want you! Ill help you in any way I can, Dussander said quietly. He saw that he had folded his hands neatly in front of himself without even thinking about itjust as he had once done. He leaned forward in the rocker until his chin was directly over his folded handsas he had once done. His face was calm and friendly and enquiring; none of his growing apprehension showed. Sitting just so, he could almost imagine a pot of lamb stew simmering on the stove behind him. Tell me what the trouble is. This is the fucking trouble, Todd said viciously, and threw a folder at Dussander. It bounced off his chest and landed in his lap, and he was momentarily surprised by the heat of the anger which leaped up in him; the urge to rise and backhand the boy smartly. Instead, he kept the mild expression on his face. It was the boys schoolcard, he saw, although the school seemed to be at ridiculous pains to hide the fact. Instead of a schoolcard, or a Grade Report, it was called a Quarterly Progress Report. He grunted at that, and opened the card. A typed halfsheet of paper fell out. Dussander put it aside for later examination and turned his attention to the boys grades first. You seem to have fallen on the rocks, my boy, Dussander said, not without some pleasure. The boy had passed only English and American History. Every other grade was an F. Its not my fault, Todd hissed venomously. Its your fault. All those stories. I have nightmares about them, do you know that? I sit down and open my books and I start thinking about whatever you told me that day and the next thing I know, my mothers telling me its time to go to bed. Well, thats not my fault! It isnt! You hear me? It isnt! I hear you very well, Dussander said, and read the typed note that had been tucked into Todds card. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bowden, This note is to suggest that we have a group conference concerning Todds second and thirdquarter grades. In light of Todds previous good work in this school, his current grades suggest a specific problem which may be affecting his academic performance in a deleterious way. Such a problem can often be solved by a frank and open discussion. I should point out that although Todd has passed the halfyear, his final grades may be failing in some cases unless his work improves radically in the fourth quarter. Failing grades would entail summer school to avoid being kept back and causing a major scheduling problem. I must also note that Todd is in the college division, and that his work so far this year is far below college acceptance levels. It is also below the level of academic ability assumed by the SAT tests. Please be assured that I am ready to work out a mutually convenient time for us to meet. In a case such as this, earlier is usually better. Sincerely yours, Edward French Who is this Edward French? Dussander asked, slipping the note back inside the card (part of him still marvelled at the American love of jargon; such a rolling missive to inform the parents that their son was flunking out!) and then refolding his hands. His premonition of disaster was stronger than ever, but he refused to give in to it. A year before, he would have done; a year ago he had been ready for disaster. Now he was not, but it seemed that the cursed boy had brought it to him anyway. Is he your headmaster? Rubber Ed? Hell, no. Hes the guidance counsellor. Guidance counsellor? What is that? You can figure it out, Todd said. He was nearly hysterical. You read the goddam note! He walked rapidly around the room, shooting sharp, quick glances at Dussander. Well, Im not going to let any of this shit go down. Im just not. Im not going to any summer school. My dad and mom are going to Hawaii this summer and Im going with them. He pointed at the card on the table. Do you know what my dad will do if he sees that? Dussander shook his head. Hell get everything out of me. Everything. Hell know it was you. It couldnt be anything else, because nothing else has changed. Hell poke and pry and hell get it all out of me. And then ... then Ill ... Ill be in dutch. He stared at Dussander resentfully. Theyll watch me. Hell, they might make me see a doctor, I dont know. How should I know? But Im not getting in dutch. And Im not going to any fucking summer school. Or to the reformatory, Dussander said. He said it very quietly. Todd stopped circling the room. His face became very still. His cheeks and forehead, already pale, became even whiter. He stared at Dussander, and had to try twice before he could speak. What? What did you just say? My dear boy, Dussander said, assuming an air of great patience, for the last five minutes I have listened to you pule and whine, and what all your puling and whining comes down to is this. You are in trouble. You might be found out. You might find yourself in adverse circumstances. Seeing that he had the boys complete attentionat lastDussander sipped reflectively from his cup. My boy, he went on, that is a very dangerous attitude for you to have. And dangerous for me. The potential harm is much greater for me. You worry about your schoolcard. Pah! This for your schoolcard. He flicked it off the table and onto the floor with one yellow finger. I am worried about my life! Todd did not reply; he simply went on looking at Dussander with that whiteeyed, slightly crazed stare. The Israelis will not scruple at the fact that I am seventysix. The deathpenalty is still very much in favor over there, you know, especially when the man in the dock is a Nazi war criminal associated with the camps. Youre a U.S. citizen, Todd said. America wouldnt let them take you. I read up on that. I You read, but you dont listen! I am not a U.S. citizen! My papers came from la cosa nostra. I would be deported, and Mossad agents would be waiting for me wherever I deplaned. I wish they would hang you, Todd muttered, curling his hands into fists and staring down at them. I was crazy to get mixed up with you in the first place. No doubt, Dussander said, and smiled thinly. But you are mixed up with me. We must live in the present, boy, not in the past of Ishouldhavenevers. You must realize that your fate and my own are now inextricably entwined. If you blow the horn on me, as your saying goes, do you think I will hesitate to blow the horn on you? Seven hundred thousand died at Patin. To the world at large I am a criminal, a monster, even the butcher your scandalrags would have me. You are an accessory to all of that, my boy. You have criminal knowledge of an illegal alien, but you have not reported it. And if I am caught, I will tell the world all about you. When the reporters put their microphones in my face, it will be your name Ill repeat over and over again. Todd Bowden, yes, that is his name . . . how long? Almost a year. He wanted to know everything ... all the gooshy parts. Thats how he put it, yes All the gooshy parts.   Todds breath had stopped. His skin appeared transparent. Dussander smiled at him. He sipped bourbon. I think they will put you in jail. They may call it a reformatory, or a correctional facilitythere may be a fancy name for it, like this Quarterly Progress Report his lip curledbut no matter what they call it, there will be bars on the windows. Todd wet his lips. Id call you a liar. Id tell them I just found out. Theyd believe me, not you. You just better remember that. Dussanders thin smile remained. I thought you told me your father would get it all out of you. Todd spoke slowly, as a person speaks when realization and verbalization occur simultaneously. Maybe not. Maybe not this time. This isnt just breaking a window with a rock. Dussander winced inwardly. He suspected that the boys judgment was rightwith so much at stake, he might indeed be able to convince his father. After all, when faced with such an unpleasant truth, what parent would not want to be convinced ? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But how are you going to explain all those books you had to read to me because poor Mr. Denker is halfblind? My eyes are not what they were, but I can still read fine print with my spectacles. I can prove it. Id say you fooled me! Will you? And what reason will you be able to give for my fooling? For ... for friendship. Because you were lonely. That, Dussander reflected, was just close enough to the truth to be believable. And once, in the beginning, the boy might have been able to bring it off. But now he was ragged; now he was coming apart in strings like a coat that has reached the end of its useful service. If a child shot off his cap pistol across the street, this boy would jump into the air and scream like a girl. Your schoolcard will also support my side of it, Dussander said. It was not Robinson Crusoe that caused your grades to fall down so badly, my boy, was it? Shut up, why dont you? Just shut up about it! No, Dussander said. I wont shut up about it. He lit a cigarette, scratching the wooden match alight on the gas oven door. Not until I make you see the simple truth. We are in this together, sink or swim. He looked at Todd through the raftering smoke, not smiling, his old, lined face reptilian. I will drag you down, boy. I promise you that. If anything comes out, everything will come out. That is my promise to you. Todd stared at him sullenly and didnt reply. Now, Dussander said briskly, with the air of a man who has put a necessary unpleasantness behind him, the question is, what are we going to do about this situation? Have you any ideas? This will fix the report card, Todd said, and took a new bottle of ink eradicator from his jacket pocket. About that fucking letter, I dont know. Dussander looked at the ink eradicator approvingly. He had falsified a few reports of his own in his time. When the quotas had gone up to the point of fantasy . . . and far, far beyond. And . . . more like the situation they were now inthere had been the matter of the invoices . . . those which enumerated the spoils of war. Each week he would check the boxes of valuables, all of them to be sent back to Berlin in special traincars that were like big safes on wheels. On the side of each box was a manila envelope, and inside the envelope there had been a verified invoice of that boxs contents. So many rings, necklaces, chokers, so many grams of gold. Dussander, however, had had his own box of valuablesnot very valuable valuables, but not insignificant, either. Jades. Tourmalines. Opals. A few flawed pearls. Industrial diamonds. And when he saw an item invoiced for Berlin that caught his eye or seemed a good investment, he would remove it, replace it with an item from his own box, and use ink eradicator on the invoice, changing their item for his. He had developed into a fairly expert forger . . . a talent that had come in handy more than once after the war was over. Good, he told Todd. As for this other matter . . . Dussander began to rock again, sipping from his cup. Todd pulled a chair up to the table and began to go to work on his report card, which he had picked up from the floor without a word. Dussanders outward calm had had its effect on him and now he worked silently, his head bent studiously over the card, like any American boy who has set out to do the best by God job he can, whether that job be planting corn, pitching a nohitter in the Little League World Series, or forging grades on his report card. Dussander looked at the nape of his neck, lightly tanned and cleanly exposed between the fall of his hair and the round neck of his teeshirt. His eyes drifted from there to the top counter drawer where he kept the butcher knives. One quick thrusthe knew where to put itand the boys spinal cord would be severed. His lips would be sealed forever. Dussander smiled regretfully. There would be questions asked if the boy disappeared. Too many of them. Some directed at him. Even if there was no letter with a friend, close scrutiny was something he could not afford. Too bad. This man French, he said, tapping the letter. Does he know your parents in a social way? Him? Todd edged the word with contempt. My mom and dad dont go anywhere that he could even get in. Has he ever met them in his professional capacity? Has he ever had conferences with them before? No. Ive always been near the top of my classes. Until now. So what does he know about them? Dussander said, looking dreamily into his cup, which was now nearly empty. Oh, he knows about you. He no doubt has all the records on you that he can use. Back to the fights you had in the kindergarten play yard. But what does he know about them? Todd put his pen and the small bottle of ink eradicator away. Well, he knows their names. Of course. And their ages. He knows were all Methodists. You dont have to fill that line out, but my folks always do. We dont go much, but hed know thats what we are. He must know what my dad does for a living; thats on the forms, too. All that stuff they have to fill out every year. And Im pretty sure thats all. Would he know if your parents were having troubles at home? Whats that supposed to mean? Dussander tossed off the last of the bourbon in his cup. Squabbles. Fights. Your father sleeping on the couch. Your mother drinking too much. His eyes gleamed. A divorce brewing. Indignantly, Todd said Theres nothing like that going on! No way! I never said there was. But just think, boy. Suppose that things at your house were going to hell in a streetcar, as the saying is. Todd only looked at him, frowning. You would be worried about them, Dussander said. Very worried. You would lose your appetite. You would sleep poorly. Saddest of all, your schoolwork would suffer. True? Very sad for the children, when there are troubles in the home. Understanding dawned in the boys eyesunderstanding and something like dumb gratitude. Dussander was gratified. Yes, it is an unhappy situation when a family totters on the edge of destruction, Dussander said grandly, pouring more bourbon. He was getting quite drunk. The daytime television dramas, they make this absolutely clear. There is acrimony. Backbiting and lies. Most of all, there is pain. Pain, my boy. You have no idea of the hell your parents are going through. They are so swallowed up by their own troubles that they have little time for the problems of their own son. His problems seem minor compared to theirs, hein? Someday, when the scars have begun to heal, they will no doubt take a fuller interest in him once again. But now the only concession they can make is to send the boys kindly grandfather to Mr. French. Todds eyes had been gradually brightening to a glow that was nearly fervid. Might work, he was muttering. Might, yeah, might work, might He broke off suddenly. His eyes darkened again. No, it wont. You dont look like me, not even a little bit. Rubber Ed will never believe it. Himmel! Gott im Himmel! Dussander cried, getting to his feet, crossing the kitchen (a bit unsteadily), opening the cellar door, and pulling out a fresh bottle of Ancient Age. He spun off the cap and poured liberally. For a smart boy, you are such a Dummkopf. When do grandfathers ever look like their grandsons? Huh? I got white hair. Do you have white hair? Approaching the table again, he reached out with surprising quickness, snatched an abundant handful of Todds blonde hair, and pulled briskly. Cut it out! Todd snapped, but he smiled a little. Besides, Dussander said, settling back into his rocker, you have yellow hair and blue eyes. My eyes are blue, and before my hair turned white, it was yellow. You can tell me your whole family history. Your aunts and uncles. The people your father works with. Your mothers little hobbies. I will remember. I will study and remember. Two days later it will all be forgotten againthese days my memory is like a cloth bag filled with waterbut I will remember for long enough. He smiled grimly. In my time I have stayed ahead of Wiesenthal and pulled the wool over the eyes of Himmler himself. If I cannot fool one American public school teacher, I will pull my windingshroud around me and crawl down into my grave. Maybe, Todd said slowly, and Dussander could see he had already accepted it. His eyes were luminous with relief. Nosurely! Dussander cried. He began to cackle with laughter, the rocking chair squeaking back and forth. Todd looked at him, puzzled and a little frightened, but after a bit he began to laugh, too. In Dussanders kitchen they laughed and laughed, Dussander by the open window where the warm California breeze wafted in, and Todd rocked back on the rear legs of his kitchen chair, so that its back rested against the oven door, the white enamel of which was crisscrossed by the dark, charredlooking streaks made by Dussanders wooden matches as he struck them alight. Rubber Ed French (his nickname, Todd had explained to Dussander, referred to the rubbers he always wore over his sneakers during wet weather) was a slight man who made an affectation of always wearing Keds to school. It was a touch of informality which he thought would endear him to the one hundred and six children between the ages of twelve and fourteen who made up his counselling load. He had five pairs of Keds, ranging in color from Fast Track Blue to Screaming Yellow Zonkers, totally unaware that behind his back he was known not only as Rubber Ed but as Sneaker Pete and The Ked Man, as in The Ked Man Cometh. He had been known as Pucker in college, and he would have been most humiliated of all to learn that even that shameful fact had somehow gotten out. He rarely wore ties, preferring turtleneck sweaters. He had been wearing these ever since the midsixties, when David McCallum had popularized them in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. In his college days his classmates had been known to spy him crossing the quad and remark, Here comes Pucker in his U.N.C.L.E. sweater. He had majored in Educational Psychology, and he privately considered himself to be the only good guidance counsellor he had ever met. He had real rapport with his kids. He could get right down to it with them; he could rap with them and be silently sympathetic if they had to do some shouting and kick out the jams. He could get into their hangups because he understood what a bummer it was to be thirteen when someone was doing a number on your head and you couldnt get your shit together. The thing was, he had a damned hard time remembering what it had been like to be thirteen himself. He supposed that was the ultimate price you had to pay for growing up in the fifties. That, and travelling into the brave new world of the sixties nicknamed Pucker. Now, as Todd Bowdens grandfather came into his office, closing the pebbledglass door firmly behind him, Rubber Ed stood up respectfully but was careful not to come around his desk to greet the old man. He was aware of his sneakers. Sometimes the oldtimers didnt understand that the sneakers were a psychological aid with kids who had teacher hangupswhich was to say that some of the older folks couldnt get behind a guidance counsellor in Keds. This is one finelooking dude, Rubber Ed thought. His white hair was carefully brushed back. His threepiece suit was spotlessly clean. His dovegray tie was impeccably knotted. In his left hand he held a furled black umbrella (outside, a light drizzle had been falling since the weekend) in a manner that was almost military. A few years ago Rubber Ed and his wife had gone on a Dorothy Sayers jag, reading everything by that estimable lady that they could lay their hands upon. It occurred to him now that this was her brainchild, Lord Peter Wimsey, to the life. It was Wimsey at seventyfive, years after both Bunter and Harriet Vane had passed on to their rewards. He made a mental note to tell Sondra about this when he got home. Mr. Bowden, he said respectfully, and offered his hand. A pleasure, Bowden said, and shook it. Rubber Ed was careful not to put on the firm and uncompromising pressure he applied to the hands of the fathers he saw; it was obvious from the gingerly way the old boy offered it that he had arthritis. A pleasure, Mr. French, Bowden repeated, and took a seat, carefully pulling up the knees of his trousers. He propped the umbrella between his feet and leaned on it, looking like an elderly, extremely urbane vulture that had come in to roost in Rubber Ed Frenchs office. He had the slightest touch of an accent, Rubber Ed thought, but it wasnt the clipped intonation of the British upper class, as Wimseys would have been; it was broader, more European. Anyway, the resemblance to Todd was quite striking. Especially through the nose and eyes. Im glad you could come, Rubber Ed told him, resuming his own seat, although in these cases the students mother or father This was the opening gambit, of course. Almost ten years of experience in the counselling business had convinced him that when an aunt or an uncle or a grandparent showed up for a conference, it usually meant trouble at homethe sort of trouble that invariably turned out to be the root of the problem. To Rubber Ed, this came as a relief. Domestic problems were bad, but for a boy of Todds intelligence, a heavy drug trip would have been much, much worse. Yes, of course, Bowden said, managing to look both sorrowful and angry at the same time. My son and his wife asked me if I could come and talk this sorry business over with you, Mr. French. Todd is a good boy, believe me. This trouble with his school marks is only temporary. Well, we all hope so, dont we, Mr. Bowden? Smoke if you like. Its supposed to be offlimits on school property, but Ill never tell. Thank you. Mr. Bowden took a halfcrushed package of Camel cigarettes from his inner pocket, put one of the last two zigzagging smokes in his mouth, found a Diamond BlueTip match, scratched it on the heel of one black shoe, and lit up. He coughed an old mans dank cough over the first drag, shook the match out, and put the blackened stump into the ashtray Rubber Ed had produced. Rubber Ed watched this ritual, which seemed almost as formal as the old mans shoes, with frank fascination. Where to begin, Bowden said, his distressed face looking at Rubber Ed through a swirling raft of cigarette smoke. Well, Rubber Ed said kindly, the very fact that youre here instead of Todds parents tells me something, you know. Yes, I suppose it does. Very well. He folded his hands. The Camel protruded from between the second and third fingers of his right. He straightened his back and lifted his chin. There was something almost Prussian in his mental coming to terms, Rubber Ed thought, something that made him think of all those war movies hed seen as a kid. My son and my daughterinlaw are having troubles in their home, Bowden said, biting off each word precisely. Rather bad troubles, I should think. His eyes, old but amazingly bright, watched as Rubber Ed opened the folder centered in front of him on the desk blotter. There were sheets of paper inside, but not many. And you feel that these troubles are affecting Todds academic performance? Bowden leaned forward perhaps six inches. His blue eyes never left Rubber Eds brown ones. There was a heavily charged pause, and then Bowden said The mother drinks. He resumed his former ramrodstraight position. Oh, Rubber Ed said. Yes, Bowden replied, nodding grimly. The boy has told me that he has come home on two occasions and has found her sprawled out on the kitchen table.


He knows how my son feels about her drinking problem, and so the boy has put dinner in the oven himself on these occasions, and has gotten her to drink enough black coffee so she will at least be awake when Richard comes home. Thats bad, Rubber Ed said, although he had heard worsemothers with heroin habits, fathers who had abruptly taken it into their heads to start banging their daughters . . . or their sons. Has Mrs. Bowden thought about getting professional help for her problem? The boy has tried to persuade her that would be the best course. She is much ashamed, I think. If she was given a little time . . . He made a gesture with his cigarette that left a dissolving smokering in the air. You understand? Yes, of course. Rubber Ed nodded, privately admiring the gesture that had produced the smokering. Your son . . . Todds father . . . He is not without blame, Bowden said harshly. The hours he works, the meals he has missed, the nights when he must leave suddenly . . . I tell you, Mr. French, he is more married to his job than he is to Monica. I was raised to believe that a mans family came before everything. Was it not the same for you? It sure was, Rubber Ed responded heartily. His father had been a night watchman for a large Los Angeles department store and he had really only seen his pop on weekends and vacations. That is another side of the problem, Bowden said. Rubber Ed nodded and thought for a moment. What about your other son, Mr. Bowden? Uh ... He looked down at the folder. Harold. Todds uncle. Harry and Deborah are in Minnesota now, Bowden said, quite truthfully. He has a position there at the University medical school. It would be quite difficult for him to leave, and very unfair to ask him. His face took on a righteous cast. Harry and his wife are quite happily married. I see. Rubber Ed looked at the file again for a moment and then closed it. Mr. Bowden, I appreciate your frankness. Ill be just as frank with you. Thank you, Bowden said stiffly. We cant do as much for our students in the counselling area as we would like. There are six counsellors here, and were each carrying a load of over a hundred students. My newest colleague, Hepburn, has a hundred and fifteen. At this age, in our society, all children need help. Of course. Bowden mashed his cigarette brutally into the ashtray and folded his hands once more. Sometimes bad problems get by us. Home environment and drugs are the two most common. At least Todd isnt mixed up with speed or mescaline or PCP. God forbid. Sometimes, Rubber Ed went on, theres simply nothing we can do. Its depressing, but its a fact of life. Usually the ones that are first to get spit out of the machine were running here are the class troublemakers, the sullen, uncommunicative kids, the ones who refuse to even try. They are simply warm bodies waiting for the system to buck them up through the grades or waiting to get old enough so they can quit without their parents permission and join the Army or get a job at the SpeedyBoy Carwash or marry their boyfriends. You understand? Im being blunt. Our system is, as they say, not all its cracked up to be. I appreciate your frankness. But it hurts when you see the machine starting to mash up someone like Todd. He ran out a ninetytwo average for last years work, and that puts him in the ninetyfifth percentile. His English averages are even better. He shows a flair for writing, and thats something special in a generation of kids that think culture begins in front of the TV and ends in the neighborhood movie theater. I was talking to the woman who had Todd in Comp last year. She said Todd passed in the finest termpaper shed seen in twenty years of teaching. It was on the German deathcamps during World War Two. She gave him the only Aplus shes ever given a composition student. I have read it, Bowden said. It is very fine. He has also demonstrated aboveaverage ability in the life sciences and social sciences, and while hes not going to be one of the great math whizzes of the century, all the notes I have indicate that hes given it the good old college try ... until this year. Until this year. Thats the whole story, in a nutshell. Yes. I hate like hell to see Todd go down the tubes this way, Mr. Bowden. And summer school . . . well, I said Id be frank. Summer school often does a boy like Todd more harm than good. Your usual junior high school summer session is a zoo. All the monkeys and the laughing hyenas are in attendance, plus a full complement of dodo birds. Bad company for a boy like Todd. Certainly. So lets get to the bottom line, shall we? I suggest a series of appointments for Mr. and Mrs. Bowden at the Counselling Center downtown. Everything in confidence, of course. The man in charge down there, Harry Ackerman, is a good friend of mine. And I dont think Todd should go to them with the idea; I think you should. Rubber Ed smiled widely. Maybe we can get everybody back on track by June. Its not impossible. But Bowden looked positively alarmed by this idea. I believe they might resent the boy if I took that proposal to them now, he said. Things are very delicate. They could go either way. The boy has promised me he will work harder in his studies. He is very alarmed at this drop in his marks. He smiled thinly, a smile Ed French could not quite interpret. More alarmed than you know. But And they would resent me, Bowden pressed on quickly. God knows they would. Monica already regards me as something of a meddler. I try not to be, but you see the situation. I feel that things are best left alone . . . for now. Ive had a great deal of experience in these matters, Rubber Ed told Bowden. He folded his hands on Todds file and looked at the old man earnestly. I really think counselling is in order here. Youll understand that my interest in the marital problems your son and daughterinlaw are having begins and ends with the effect theyre having on Todd . . . and right now, theyre having quite an effect. Let me make a counterproposal, Bowden said. You have, I believe, a system of warning parents of poor grades? Yes, Rubber Ed agreed cautiously. Interpretation of Progress cardsIOP cards. The kids, of course, call them Flunk Cards. They only get them if their grade in a given course falls below seventyeight. In other words, we give out IOP cards to kids who are pulling a D or an F in a given course. Very good, Bowden said. Then what I suggest is this if the boy gets one of those cards . . . even onehe held up one gnarled fingerI will approach my son and his wife about your counselling. I will go further. He pronounced it furdah. If the boy receives one of your Flunk Cards in April We give them out in May, actually. Yes? If he receives one then, I guarantee that they will accept the counselling proposal. They are worried about their son, Mr. French. But now they are so wrapped up in their own problem that . . . He shrugged. I understand. So let us give them that long to solve their own problems. Pulling ones self up by ones own shoelaces . . . that is the American way, is it not? Yes, I guess it is, Rubber Ed told him after a moments thought . . . and after a quick glance at the clock, which told him he had another appointment in five minutes. Ill accept that. He stood, and Bowden stood with him. They shook hands again, Rubber Ed being carefully mindful of the old partys arthritis. But in all fairness, I ought to tell you that very few students can pull out of an eighteenweek tailspin in just four weeks of classes. Theres a huge amount of ground to be made upa huge amount. I suspect youll have to come through on your guarantee, Mr. Bowden. Bowden offered his thin, disconcerting smile again. Do you? was all he said. Something had troubled Rubber Ed through the entire interview, and he put his finger on it during lunch in the cafeteria, more than an hour after Lord Peter had left, umbrella once again neatly tucked under his arm. He and Todds grandfather had talked for fifteen minutes at least, probably closer to twenty, and Ed didnt think the old man had once referred to his grandson by name. Todd pedaled breathlessly up Dussanders walk and parked his bike on its kickstand. School had let out only fifteen minutes before. He took the front steps at one jump, used his doorkey, and hurried down the hall to the sunlit kitchen. His face was a mixture of hopeful sunshine and gloomy clouds. He stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, his stomach and his vocal cords knotted, watching Dussander as he rocked with his cupful of bourbon in his lap. He was still dressed in his best, although he had pulled his tie down two inches and loosened the top button of his shirt. He looked at Todd expressionlessly, his lizardlike eyes at halfmast. Well? Todd finally managed. Dussander left him hanging a moment longer, a moment that seemed at least ten years long to Todd. Then, deliberately, Dussander set his cup on the table next to his bottle of Ancient Age and said The fool believed everything. Todd let out his pentup breath in a whooping gust of relief. Before he could draw another breath in, Dussander added He wanted your poor, troubled parents to attend counselling sessions downtown with a friend of his. He was really quite insistent. Jesus! Did you . . . what did you . . . how did you handle it? I thought quickly, Dussander replied. Like the little girl in the Saki story, invention on short notice is one of my strong points. I promised him your parents would go in for such counselling if you received even one Flunk Card when they are given in May. The blood fell out of Todds face. You did what? he nearly screamed. Ive already flunked two algebra quizzes and a history test since the marking period started! He advanced into the room, his pale face now growing shiny with breaking sweat. There was a French quiz this afternoon and I flunked that, too ... I know I did. All I could think about was that goddamned Rubber Ed and whether or not you were taking care of him. You took care of him, all right, he finished bitterly. Not get one Flunk Card? Ill probably get five or six. It was the best I could do without arousing suspicions, Dussander said. This French, fool that he is, is only doing his job. Now you will do yours. Whats that supposed to mean? Todds face was ugly and thunderous, his voice truculent. You will work. In the next four weeks you will work harder than you have ever worked in your life. Furthermore, on Monday you will go to each of your instructors and apologize to them for your poor showing thus far. You will Its impossible, Todd said. You dont get it, man. Its impossible. Im at least five weeks behind in science and history. In algebra its more like ten. Nevertheless, Dussander said. He poured more bourbon. You think youre pretty smart, dont you? Todd shouted at him. Well, I dont take orders from you. The days when you gave orders are long over. Do you get it? He lowered his voice abruptly. The most lethal thing youve got around the house these days is a Shell NoPest Strip. Youre nothing but a brokendown old man who farts rotten eggs if he eats a taco. I bet you even pee in your bed. Listen to me, snotnose, Dussander said quietly. Todds head jerked angrily around at that. Before today, Dussander said carefully, it was possible, just barely possible, that you could have denounced me and come out clean yourself. I dont believe you would have been up to the job with your nerves in their present state, but never mind that. It would have been technically possible. But now things have changed. Today I impersonated your grandfather, one Victor Bowden. No one can have the slightest doubt that I did it with . . . how is the word? ... your connivance. If it comes out now, boy, you will look blacker than ever. And you will have no defense. I took care of that today. I wish You wish! You wish! Dussander roared. Never mind your wishes, your wishes make me sick, your wishes are no more than little piles of dogshit in the gutter! All I want from you is to know if you understand the situation we are in! I understand it, Todd muttered. His fists had been tightly clenched while Dussander shouted at himhe was not used to being shouted at. Now he opened his hands and dully observed that he had dug bleeding halfmoons into his palms. The cuts would have been worse, he supposed, but in the last four months or so he had taken up biting his nails. Good. Then you will make your sweet apologies, and you will study. In your free time at school you will study. During your lunch hours you will study. After school you will come here and study, and on your weekends you will come here and do more of the same. Not here, Todd said quickly. At home. No. At home you will dawdle and daydream as you have all along. If you are here I can stand over you if I have to and watch you. I can protect my own interests in this matter. I can quiz you. I can listen to your lessons. If I dont want to come here, you cant make me. Dussander drank. That is true. Things will then go on as they have. You will fail. This guidance person, French, will expect me to make good on my promise. When I dont, he will call your parents. They will find out that kindly Mr. Denker impersonated your grandfather at your request. They will find out about the altered grades. They Oh, shut up. Ill come. Youre already here. Begin with algebra. No way! Its Friday afternoon! You study every afternoon now, Dussander said softly. Begin with algebra. Todd stared at himonly for a moment before dropping his eyes and fumbling his algebra text out of his bookbagand Dussander saw murder in the boys eyes. Not figurative murder; literal murder. It had been years since he had seen that dark, burning, speculative glance, but one never forgot it. He supposed he would have seen it in his own eyes if there had been a mirror at hand on the day he had looked at the white and defenseless nape of the boys neck. I must protect myself, he thought with some amazement. One underestimates at ones own risk. He drank his bourbon and rocked and watched the boy study. It was nearly five oclock when Todd biked home. He felt washed out, hoteyed, drained, impotently angry. Every time his eyes had wandered from the printed pagefrom the maddening, incomprehensible, fucking stupid world of sets, subsets, ordered pairs, and Cartesian coordinatesDussanders sharp old mans voice had spoken. Otherwise he had remained completely silent . . . except for the maddening bump of his slippers on the floor and the squeak of the rocker. He sat there like a vulture waiting for its prey to expire. Why had he ever gotten into this? How had he gotten into it? This was a mess, a terrible mess. He had picked up some ground this afternoonsome of the set theory that had stumped him so badly just before the Christmas break had fallen into place with an almost audible clickbut it was impossible to think he could pick up enough to scrape through next weeks algebra test with even a D. It was four weeks until the end of the world. On the comer he saw a bluejay lying on the sidewalk, its beak slowly opening and closing. It was trying vainly to get onto its birdyfeet and hop away. One of its wings had been crushed, and Todd supposed a passing car had hit it and flipped it up onto the sidewalk like a tiddlywink. One of its beady eyes stared up at him. Todd looked at it for a long time, holding the grips of his bikes apehanger handlebars lightly. Some of the warmth had gone out of the day and the air felt almost chilly. He supposed his friends had spent the afternoon goofing off down at the Babe Ruth diamond on Walnut Street, maybe playing a little scrub, more likely playing pepper or threefliessixgrounders or rollybat. It was the time of year when you started working your way up to baseball. There was some talk about getting up their own sandlot team this year to compete in the informal city league; there were dads enough willing to shlepp them around to games. Todd, of course, would pitch. He had been a Little League pitching star until he had grown out of the Senior Little League division last year. Would have pitched. So what? Hed just have to tell them no. Hed just have to tell them Guys, I got mixed up with this war criminal. I got him right by the balls, and thenhaha, thisll killya, guysthen I found out he was holding my balls as tight as I was holding his. I started having funny dreams and the cold sweats. My grades went to hell and I changed them on my report card so my folks wouldnt find out and now Ive got to hit the books really hard for the first time in my life. Im not afraid of getting grounded, though. Im afraid of going to the reformatory. And thats why I cant play any sandlot with you guys this year. You see how it is, guys. A thin smile, much like Dussanders and not at all like his former broad grin, touched his lips. There was no sunshine in it; it was a shady smile. There was no fun in it; no confidence. It merely said You see how it is, guys. He rolled his bike forward over the jay with exquisite slowness, hearing the newspaper crackle of its feathers and the crunch of its small hollow bones as they fractured inside it. He reversed, rolling over it again. It was still twitching. He rolled over it again, a single bloody feather stuck to his front tire, revolving up and down, up and down. By then the bird had stopped moving, the bird had kicked the bucket, the bird had punched out, the bird had gone to that great aviary in the sky, but Todd kept going forwards and backwards across its mashed body just the same. He did it for almost five minutes, and that thin smile never left his face. You see how it is, guys. 10 April, 1975. The old man stood halfway down the compounds aisle, smiling broadly, as Dave Klingerman walked up to meet him. The frenzied barking that filled the air didnt seem to bother him in the slightest, or the smells of fur and urine, or the hundred different strays yapping and howling in their cages, dashing back and forth, leaping against the mesh. Klingerman pegged the old guy as a doglover right off the bat. His smile was sweet and pleasant. He offered Dave a swollen, arthritisbunched hand carefully, and Klingerman shook it in the same spirit. Hello, sir! he said, speaking up. Noisy as hell, isnt it? I dont mind, the old man said. Not at all. My name is Arthur Denker. Klingerman. Dave Klingerman. I am pleased to meet you, sir. I read in the paperI could not believe itthat you give dogs away here. Perhaps I misunderstood. In fact I think I must have misunderstood. No, we give em away, all right, Dave said. If we cant, we have to destroy em. Sixty days, thats what the State gives us. Shame. Come on in the office here. Quieter. Smells better, too. In the office, Dave heard a story that was familiar (but nonetheless affecting) Arthur Denker was in his seventies. He had come to California when his wife died. He was not rich, but he tended what he did have with great care. He was lonely. His only friend was the boy who sometimes came to his house and read to him. In Germany he had owned a beautiful Saint Bernard. Now, in Santo Donato, he had a house with a goodsized back yard. The yard was fenced. And he had read in the paper . . . would it be possible that he could . . . Well, we dont have any Bernards, Dave said. They go fast because theyre so good with kids Oh, I understand. I didnt mean that but I do have a halfgrown shepherd pup. How would that be? Mr. Denkers eyes grew bright, as if he might be on the verge of tears. Perfect, he said. That would be perfect. The dog itself is free, but there are a few other charges. Distemper and rabies shots. A city dog license. All of it goes about twentyfive bucks for most people, but the State pays half if youre over sixtyfivepart of the California Golden Ager program. Golden Ager . . . is that what I am? Mr. Denker said, and laughed. For just a momentit was sillyDave felt a kind of chill. Uh ... I guess so, sir. It is very reasonable. Sure, we think so. The same dog would cost you a hundred and twentyfive dollars in a pet shop. But people go to those places instead of here. They are paying for a set of papers, of course, not the dog. Dave shook his head. If they only understood how many fine animals are abandoned every year. And if you cant find a suitable home for them within sixty days, they are destroyed? We put them to sleep, yes. Put them to . . . ? Im sorry, my English Its a city ordinance, Dave said. Cant have dogpacks running the streets. You shoot them. No, we give them gas. Its very humane. They dont feel a thing. No, Mr. Denker said. I am sure they dont. Todds seat in Beginning Algebra was four desks down in the second row. He sat there, trying to keep his face expressionless, as Mr. Storrman passed back the exams. But his ragged fingernails were digging into his palms again, and his entire body seemed to be running with a slow and caustic sweat. Dont get your hopes up. Dont be such a goddam chump. Theres no way you could have passed. You know you didnt pass. Nevertheless, he could not completely squash the foolish hope. It had been the first algebra exam in weeks that looked as if it had been written in something other than Greek. He was sure that in his nervousness (nervousness? no, call it what it had really been outright terror) he had not done that well, but maybe . . . well, if it had been anyone else but Storrman, who had a Yale padlock for a heart . . . STOP IT! he commanded himself, and for a moment, a coldly horrible moment, he was positive he had screamed those two words aloud in the classroom. You flunked, you know you did, not a thing in the world is going to change it. Storrman handed him his paper expressionlessly and moved on. Todd laid it face down on his initialscarred desk. For a moment he didnt think he possessed sufficient will to even turn it over and know. At last he flipped it with such convulsive suddenness that the exam sheet tore. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he stared at it. His heart seemed to stop for a moment. The number 83 was written in a circle at the top of the sheet. Below it was a lettergrade C. Below the lettergrade was a brief notation Good improvement! I think Im twice as relieved as you should be. Check errors carefully At least three of them are arithmetical rather than conceptual. His heartbeat began again, at tripletime. Relief washed over him, but it was not coolit was hot and complicated and strange. He closed his eyes, not hearing the class as it buzzed over the exam and began the preordained fight for an extra point here or there. Todd saw redness behind his eyes. It pulsed like flowing blood with the rhythm of his heartbeat. In that instant he hated Dussander more than he ever had before. His hands snapped shut into fists and he only wished, wished, wished, that Dussanders scrawny chicken neck could have been between them. Dick and Monica Bowden had twin beds, separated by a nightstand with a pretty imitation Tiffany lamp standing on it. Their room was done in genuine redwood, and the walls were comfortably lined with books. Across the room, nestled between two ivory bookends (bull elephants on their hind legs) was a round Sony TV. Dick was watching Johnny Carson with the earplug in while Monica read the new Michael Crichton that had come from the book club that day. Dick? She put a bookmark (THIS IS WHERE I FELL ASLEEP, it said) into the Crichton and closed it. On the TV, Buddy Hackett had just broken everyone up. Dick smiled. Dick? she said more loudly. He pulled the earplug out. What? Do you think Todds all right? He looked at her for a moment, frowning, then shook his head a little. Je ne comprends pas, chrie. His limping French was a joke between them. His father had sent him an extra two hundred dollars to hire a tutor when he was flunking French. He had gotten Monica Darrow, picking her name at random from the cards tacked up on the Union bulletin board. By Christmas she had been wearing his pin . . . and he had managed a C in French. Well . . . hes lost weight. He looks a little scrawny, sure, Dick said. He put the TV earplug in his lap, where it emitted tiny squawking sounds. Hes growing up, Monica. So soon? she asked uneasily. He laughed. So soon. I shot up seven inches as a teenagerfrom a fivefootsix shrimp at twelve to the beautiful sixfootone mass of muscle you see before you today. My mother said that when I was fourteen you could hear me growing in the night  Good thing not all of you grew that much. Its all in how you use it. Want to use it tonight? The wench grows bold, Dick Bowden said, and threw the earplug across the room. After, as he was drifting off to sleep Dick, hes having bad dreams, too. Nightmares? he muttered. Nightmares. Ive heard him moaning in his sleep two or three times when Ive gone down to use the bathroom in the night. I didnt want to wake him up. Its silly, but my grandmother used to say you could drive a person insane if you woke them up in the middle of a bad dream. She was the Polack, wasnt she? The Polack, yeah, the Polack. Nice talk! You know what I mean. Why dont you just use the upstairs john? He had put it in himself two years ago. You know the flush always wakes you up, she said. So dont flush it. Dick, thats nasty. He sighed. Sometimes when I go in, hes sweating. And the sheets are damp. He grinned in the dark. I bet. Whats that . . . oh. She slapped him lightly. Thats nasty, too. Besides, hes only thirteen. Fourteen next month. Hes not too young. A little precocious, maybe, but not too young. How old were you? Fourteen or fifteen. I dont remember exactly. But I remember I woke up thinking Id died and gone to heaven. But you were older than Todd is now. All that stuffs happening younger. It must be the milk . . . or the fluoride. Do you know they have sanitary napkin dispensers in all the girls rooms of the school we built in Jackson Park last year? And thats a grammar school. Now your average sixthgrader is only eleven. How old were you when you started? I dont remember, she said. All I know is Todds dreams dont sound like . . . like he died and went to heaven. Have you asked him about them? Once. About six weeks ago. You were off playing golf with that horrible Ernie Jacobs. That horrible Ernie Jacobs is going to make me a full partner by 1977, if he doesnt screw himself to death with that highyellow secretary of his before then. Besides, he always pays the greens fees. What did Todd say? That he didnt remember. But a sort of ... shadow crossed his face. I think he did remember. Monica, I dont remember everything from my dear dead youth, but one thing I do remember is that wet dreams are not always pleasant. In fact, they can be downright unpleasant. How can that be? Guilt. All kinds of guilt. Some of it maybe all the way from babyhood, when it was made very clear to him that wetting the bed was wrong. Then theres the sex thing. Who knows what brings a wet dream on? Copping a feel on the bus? Looking up a girls skirt in study hall? I dont know. The only one I can really remember was going off the high board at the YMCA pool on coed day and losing my trunks when I hit the water. You got off on that? she asked, giggling a little. Yeah. So if the kid doesnt want to talk to you about his John Thomas problems, dont force him. We did our damn best to raise him without all those needless guilts. You cant escape them. He brings them home from school like the colds he used to pick up in the first grade. From his friends, or the way his teachers mince around certain subjects. He probably got it from my dad, too. Dont touch it in the night, Todd, or your handsll grow hair and youll go blind and youll start to lose your memory, and after awhile your thing will turn black and rot off. So be careful, Todd.  Dick Bowden! Your dad would never He wouldnt. Hell, he did. Just like your Polack grandmother told you that waking somebody up in the middle of a nightmare might drive them nuts. He also told me to always wipe off the ring of a public toilet before I sat on it so I wouldnt get other peoples germs. I guess that was his way of saying syphilis. I bet your grandmother laid that one on you, too. No, my mother, she said absently. And she told me to always flush. Which is why I go downstairs. It still wakes me up, Dick mumbled. What? Nothing. This time he had actually drifted halfway over the threshold of sleep when she spoke his name again. What? he asked, a little impatiently. You dont suppose . . . oh, never mind. Go back to sleep. No, go on, finish. Im awake again. I dont suppose what? That old man. Mr. Denker. You dont think Todds seeing too much of him, do you? Maybe hes . . . oh, I dont know ... filling Todd up with a lot of stories. The real heavy horrors, Dick said. The day the Essen Motor Works dropped below quota. He snickered. It was just an idea, she said, a little stiffly. The covers rustled as she turned over on her side. Sorry I bothered you. He put a hand on her bare shoulder. Ill tell you something, babe, he said, and stopped for a moment, thinking carefully, choosing his words. Ive been worried about Todd, too, sometimes. Not the same things youve been worried about, but worried is worried, right? She turned back to him. About what? Well, I grew up a lot different than hes growing up. My dad had the store. Vic the Grocer, everyone called him. He had a book where he kept the names of the people who owed him, and how much they owed. You know what he called it? No. Dick rarely talked about his boyhood; she had always thought it was because he hadnt enjoyed it. She listened carefully now. He called it the Left Hand Book. He said the right hand was business, but the right hand should never know what the left hand was doing. He said if the right hand did know, it would probably grab a meatcleaver and chop the left hand right off. You never told me that. Well, I didnt like the old man very much when we first got married, and the truth is I still spend a lot of time not liking him. I couldnt understand why I had to wear pants from the Goodwill box while Mrs. Mazursky could get a ham on credit with that same old story about how her husband was going back to work next week. The only work that fucking wino Bill Mazursky ever had was holding onto a twelvecent bottle of musky so it wouldnt fly away. All I ever wanted in those days was to get out of the neighborhood and away from my old mans life. So I made grades and played sports I didnt really like and got a scholarship at UCLA. And I made damn sure I stayed in the top ten per cent of my classes because the only Left Hand Book the colleges kept in those days was for the GIs that fought the war. My dad sent me money for my textbooks, but the only other money I ever took from him was the time I wrote home in a panic because I was flunking funnybook French. I met you. And I found out later from Mr. Halleck down the block that my dad put a lien on his car to scare up that two hundred bucks. And now Ive got you, and weve got Todd. Ive always thought he was a damned fine boy, and Ive tried to make sure hes always had everything he ever needed . . . anything that would help him grow into a fine man. I used to laugh at that old wheeze about a man wanting his son to be better than he was, but as I get older it seems less funny and more true. I never want Todd to have to wear pants from a Goodwill box because some winos wife got a ham on credit. You understand? Yes, of course I do, she said quietly. Then, about ten years ago, just before my old man finally got tired of fighting off the urban renewal guys and retired, he had a minor stroke. He was in the hospital for ten days. And the people from the neighborhood, the guineas and the krauts, even some of the jigs that started to move in around 1955 or so ... they paid his bill. Every fucking cent. I couldnt believe it. They kept the store open, too.


Fiona Castellano got four or five of her friends who were out of work to come in on shifts. When my old man got back, the books balanced out to the cent. Wow, she said, very softly. You know what he said to me? My old man? That hed always been afraid of getting oldof being scared and hurting and all by himself. Of having to go into the hospital and not being able to make ends meet anymore. Of dying. He said that after the stroke he wasnt scared anymore. He said he thought he could die well. You mean die happy, Pap? I asked him. No, he said. I dont think anyone dies happy, Dickie. He always called me Dickie, still does, and thats another thing I guess Ill never be able to like. He said he didnt think anyone died happy, but you could die well. That impressed me. He was silent for a long, thoughtful time. The last five or six years Ive been able to get some perspective on my old man. Maybe because hes down there in San Remo and out of my hair. I started thinking that maybe the Left Hand Book wasnt such a bad idea. That was when I started to worry about Todd. I kept wanting to tell him about how there was maybe something more to life than me being able to take all of you to Hawaii for a month or being able to buy Todd pants that dont smell like the mothballs they used to put in the Goodwill box. I could never figure out how to tell him those things. But I think maybe he knows. And it takes a load off my mind. Reading to Mr. Denker, you mean? Yes. Hes not getting anything for that. Denker cant pay him. Heres this old guy, thousands of miles from any friends or relatives that might still be living, heres this guy thats everything my father was afraid of. And theres Todd. I never thought of it just like that. Have you noticed the way Todd gets when you talk to him about that old man? He gets very quiet. Sure. He gets tonguetied and embarrassed, like he was doing something nasty. Just like my pop used to when someone tried to thank him for laying some credit on them. Were Todds right hand, thats all. You and me and all the restthe house, the skitrips to Tahoe, the Thunderbird in the garage, his color TV. All his right hand. And he doesnt want us to see what his left hand is up to. You dont think hes seeing too much of Denker, then? Honey, look at his grades! If they were falling off, Id be the first one to say Hey, enough is enough, already, dont go overboard. His grades are the first place trouble would show up. And how have they been? As good as ever, after that first slip. So what are we talking about? Listen, Ive got a conference at nine, babe. If I dont get some sleep, Im going to be sloppy. Sure, go to sleep, she said indulgently, and as he turned over, she kissed him lightly on one shoulderblade. I love you. Love you too, he said comfortably, and closed his eyes. Everythings fine, Monica. You worry too much. I know I do. Goodnight. They slept. Stop looking out the window, Dussander said. There is nothing out there to interest you. Todd looked at him sullenly. His history text was open on the table, showing a color plate of Teddy Roosevelt cresting San Juan Hill. Helpless Cubans were falling away from the hooves of Teddys horse. Teddy was grinning a wide American grin, the grin of a man who knew that God was in His heaven and everything was bully. Todd Bowden was not grinning. You like being a slavedriver, dont you? he asked. I like being a free man, Dussander said. Study. Suck my cock. As a boy, Dussander said, I would have had my mouth washed out with lye soap for saying such a thing. Times change. Do they? Dussander sipped his bourbon. Study. Todd stared at Dussander. Youre nothing but a goddamned rummy. You know that? Study. Shut up! Todd slammed his book shut. It made a riflecrack sound in Dussanders kitchen. I can never catch up, anyway. Not in time for the test. Theres fifty pages of this shit left, all the way up to World War One. Ill make a crib in Study Hall Two tomorrow. Harshly, Dussander said You will do no such thing! Why not? Whos going to stop me? You? Boy, you are still having a hard time comprehending the stakes we play for. Do you think I enjoy keeping your snivelling brat nose in your books? His voice rose, whipsawing, demanding, commanding. Do you think I enjoy listening to your tantrums, your kindergarten swears? Suck my cock,  Dussander mimicked savagely in a high, falsetto voice that made Todd flush darkly.  Suck my cock, so what, who cares, Ill do it tomorrow, suck my cock! Well, you like it! Todd shouted back. Yeah, you like it! The only time you dont feel like a zombie is when youre on my back! So give me a fucking break! If you are caught with one of these cribbing papers, what do you think will happen? Who will be told first? Todd looked at his hands with their ragged, bitten fingernails and said nothing. Who? Jesus, you know. Rubber Ed. Then my folks, I guess. Dussander nodded. Me, I guess that too. Study. Put your cribbing paper in your head, where it belongs. I hate you, Todd said dully. I really do. But he opened his book again and Teddy Roosevelt grinned up at him, Teddy galloping into the twentieth century with his saber in his hand, Cubans falling back in disarray before himpossibly before the force of his fierce American grin. Dussander began to rock again. He held his teacup of bourbon in his hands. Thats a good boy, he said, almost tenderly. Todd had his first wet dream on the last night of April, and he awoke to the sound of rain whispering secretly through the leaves and branches of the tree outside his window. In the dream, he had been in one of the Patin laboratories. He was standing at the end of a long, low table. A lush young girl of amazing beauty had been secured to this table with clamps. Dussander was assisting him. Dussander wore a white butchers apron and nothing else. When he pivoted to turn on the monitoring equipment, Todd could see Dussanders scrawny buttocks grinding at each other like misshapen white stones. He handed something to Todd, something he recognized immediately, although he had never actually seen one. It was a dildo. The tip of it was polished metal, winking in the light of the overhead fluorescents like heartless chrome. The dildo was hollow. Snaking out of it was a black electrical cord that ended in a red rubber bulb. Go ahead, Dussander said. The Fuehrer says its all right. He says its your reward for studying. Todd looked down at himself and saw that he was naked. His small penis was fully erect, jutting plumply up at an angle from the thin peachdown of his pubic hair. He slipped the dildo on. The fit was tight but there was some sort of lubricant in there. The friction was pleasant. No; it was more than pleasant. It was delightful. He looked down at the girl and felt a strange shift in his thoughts ... as if they had slipped into a perfect groove. Suddenly all things seemed right. Doors had been opened. He would go through them. He took the red rubber bulb in his left hand, put his knees on the table, and paused for just a moment, gauging the angle while his Norsemans prick made its own angle up and out from his slight boys body. Dimly, far off, he could hear Dussander reciting Test run eightyfour. Electricity, sexual stimulus, metabolism. Based on the Thyssen theories of negative reinforcement. Subject is a young Jewish girl, approximately sixteen years of age, no scars, no identifying marks, no known disabilities She cried out when the tip of the dildo touched her. Todd found the cry pleasant, as he did her fruitless struggles to free herself, or, lacking that, to at least bring her legs together. This is what they cant show in those magazines about the war, he thought, but its there, just the same. He thrust forward suddenly, parting her with no grace. She shrieked like a fireball. After her initial thrashings and efforts to expel him, she lay perfectly still, enduring. The lubricated interior of the dildo pulled and slid against Todds engorgement. Delightful. Heavenly. His ringers toyed with the rubber bulb in his left hand. Far away, Dussander recited pulse, blood pressure, respiration, alpha waves, beta waves, stroke count. As the climax began to build inside him, Todd became perfectly still and squeezed the bulb. Her eyes, which had been closed, flew open, bulging. Her tongue fluttered in the pink cavity of her mouth. Her arms and legs thrummed. But the real action was in her torso, rising and falling, vibrating, every muscle (oh every muscle every muscle moves tightens closes every) every muscle and the sensation at climax was (ecstasy) oh it was, it was (the end of the world thundering outside) He woke to that sound and the sound of rain. He was huddled on his side in a dark ball, his heart beating at a sprinters pace. His lower belly was covered with a warm, sticky liquid. There was an instant of panicky horror when he feared he might be bleeding to death . . . and then he realized what it really was, and he felt a fainting, nauseated revulsion. Semen. Come. Jizz. Junglejuice. Words from fences and locker rooms and the walls of gas station bathrooms. There was nothing here he wanted. His hands balled helplessly into fists. His dreamclimax recurred to him, pallid now, senseless, frightening. But nerveendings still tingled, retreating slowly from their spikepoint. That final scene, fading now, was disgusting and yet somehow compulsive, like an unsuspecting bite into a piece of tropical fruit which, you realized (a second too late), had only tasted so amazingly sweet because it was rotten. It came to him then. What he would have to do. There was only one way he could get himself back again. He would have to kill Dussander. It was the only way. Games were done; storytime was over. This was survival. Kill him and its all over, he whispered in the darkness, with the rain in the tree outside and semen drying on his belly. Whispering it made it seem realDussander always kept three or four fifths of Ancient Age on a shelf over the steep cellar stairs. He would go to the door, open it (halfcrocked already, more often than not), and go down two steps. Then he would lean out, put one hand on the shelf, and grip the fresh bottle by the neck with his other hand. The cellar floor was not paved, but the dirt was hardpacked and Dussander, with a machinelike efficiency that Todd now thought of as Prussian rather than German, oiled it once every two months to keep bugs from breeding in the dirt. Cement or no cement, old bones break easily. And old men have accidents. The postmortem would show that Mr. Denker had had a skinful of booze when he fell. What happened, Todd? He didnt answer the door so I used the key he gave me. Sometimeshe falls asleep. I went into the kitchen and saw the cellar door was open. I went down the stairs and he ... he... Then, of course, tears. It would work. He would have himself back again. For a long time Todd lay awake in the dark, listening to the thunder retreat westward, out over the Pacific, listening to the secret sound of the rain. He thought he would stay awake the rest of the night, going over it and over it. But he fell asleep only moments later and slept dreamlessly with one fist curled under his chin. He woke on the first of May fully rested for the first time in months. 11 May, 1975. For Todd, that Friday was the longest of his life. He sat in class after class, hearing nothing, waiting only for the last five minutes, when the instructor would take out his or her small pile of Flunk Cards and distribute them. Each time an instructor approached Todds desk with that pile of cards, he grew cold. Each time he or she passed him without stopping, he felt waves of dizziness and semihysteria. Algebra was the worst. Storrman approached... hesitated ... and just as Todd became convinced he was going to pass on, he laid a Flunk Card face down on Todds desk. Todd looked at it coldly, with no feelings at all. Now that it had happened, he was only cold. Well, thats it, he thought. Point, game, set, and match. Unless Dussander can think of something else. And I have my doubts. Without much interest, he turned the Flunk Card over to see by how much he had missed his C. It must have been close, but trust old Stony Storrman not to give anyone a break. He saw that the gradespaces were utterly blankboth the lettergrade space and the numericalgrade space. Written in the COMMENTS section was this message Im sure glad I dont have to give you one of these for REAL! Chas. Storrman. The dizziness came again, more savagely this time, roaring through his head, making it feel like a balloon filled with helium. He gripped the sides of his desk as hard as he could, holding one thought with total obsessive tightness You will not faint, not faint, not faint. Little by little the waves of dizziness passed, and then he had to control an urge to run up the aisle after Storrman, turn him around, and poke his eyes out with the freshly sharpened pencil he held in his hand. And through it all his face remained carefully blank. The only sign that anything at all was going on inside was a mild tic in one eyelid. School let out for the week fifteen minutes later. Todd walked slowly around the building to the bikeracks, his head down, his hands shoved into his pockets, his books tucked into the crook of his right arm, oblivious of the running, shouting students. He tossed the books into his bikebasket, unlocked the Schwinn, and pedaled away. Toward Dussanders house. Today, he thought. Today is your day, old man. And so, Dussander said, pouring bourbon into his cup as Todd entered the kitchen, the accused returns from the dock. How said they, prisoner? He was wearing his bathrobe and a pair of hairy wool socks that climbed halfway up his shins. Socks like that, Todd thought, would be easy to slip in. He glanced at the bottle of Ancient Age Dussanger was currently working. It was down to the last three fingers. No Ds, no Fs, no Flunk Cards, Todd said. Ill still have to change some of my grades in June, but maybe just the averages. Ill be getting all As and Bs this quarter if I keep up my work. Oh, youll keep it up, all right, Dussander said. We will see to it. He drank and then tipped more bourbon into his cup. This calls for a celebration. His speech was slightly blurredhardly enough to be noticeable, but Todd knew the old fuck was as drunk as he ever got. Yes, today. It would have to be today. But he was cool. Celebrate pigshit, he told Dussander. Im afraid the delivery boy hasnt arrived with the beluga and the truffles yet, Dussander said, ignoring him. Help is so unreliable these days. What about a few Ritz crackers and some Velveeta while we wait? Okay, Todd said. What the hell. Dussander stood up (one knee banged the table, making him wince) and crossed to the refrigerator. He got out the cheese, took a knife from the drawer and a plate from the cupboard, and a box of Ritz crackers from the breadbox. All carefully injected with prussic acid, he told Todd as he set the cheese and crackers down on the table. He grinned, and Todd saw that he had left out his false teeth again today. Nevertheless, Todd smiled back. So quiet today! Dussander exclaimed. I would have expected you to turn handsprings all the way up the hall. He emptied the last of the bourbon into his cup, sipped, smacked his lips. I guess Im still numb, Todd said. He bit into a cracker. He had stopped refusing Dussanders food a long time ago. Dussander thought there was a letter with one of Todds friendsthere was not, of course; he had friends, but none he trusted that much. He supposed Dussander had guessed that long ago, but he knew Dussander didnt quite dare put his guess to such an extreme test as murder. What shall we talk about today? Dussander enquired, tossing off the last shot. I give you the day off from studying, hows that? Uh? Uh? When he drank, his accent became thicker. It was an accent Todd had come to hate. Now he felt okay about the accent; he felt okay about everything. He felt very cool all over. He looked at his hands, the hands which would give the push, and they looked just as they always did. They were not trembling; they were cool. I dont care, he said. Anything you want. Shall I tell you about the special soap we made? Our experiments with enforced homosexuality? Or perhaps you would like to hear how I escaped Berlin after I had been foolish enough to go back. That was a close one, I can tell you. He pantomimed shaving one stubby cheek and laughed. Anything, Todd said. Really. He watched Dussander examine the empty bottle and then get up with it in one hand. Dussander took it to the wastebasket and dropped it in. No, none of those, I think, Dussander said. You dont seem to be in the mood. He stood reflectively by the wastebasket for a moment and then crossed the kitchen to the cellar door. His wool socks whispered on the hilly linoleum. I think today I will instead tell you the story of an old man who was afraid. Dussander opened the cellar door. His back was now to the table. Todd stood up quietly. He was afraid, Dussander went on, of a certain young boy who was, in a queer way, his friend. A smart boy. His mother called this boy apt pupil, and the old man had already discovered he was an apt pupil... although perhaps not in the way his mother thought. Dussander fumbled with the oldfashioned electrical switch on the wall, trying to turn it with his bunched and clumsy fingers. Todd walkedalmost glidedacross the linoleum, not stepping on any of the places where it squeaked or creaked. He knew this kitchen as well as his own, now. Maybe better. At first, the boy was not the old mans friend, Dussander said. He managed to turn the switch at last. He descended the first step with a veteran drunks care. At first the old man disliked the boy a great deal. Then he grew to ... to enjoy his company, although there was still a strong element of dislike there. He was looking at the shelf now but still holding the railing. Todd, coolno, now he was coldstepped behind him and calculated the chances of one strong push dislodging Dussanders hold on the railing. He decided to wait until Dussander leaned forward. Part of the old mans enjoyment came from a feeling of equality, Dussander went on thoughtfully. You see, the boy and the old man had each other in mutual deathgrips. Each knew something the other wanted kept secret. And then... ah, then it became apparent to the old man that things were changing. Yes. He was losing his holdsome of it or all of it, depending on how desperate the boy might be, and how clever. It occurred to this old man on one long and sleepless night that it might be well for him to acquire a new hold on the boy. For his own safety. Now Dussander let go of the railing and leaned out over the steep cellar stairs, but Todd remained perfectly still. The bonedeep cold was melting out of him, being replaced by a rosy flush of anger and confusion. As Dussander grasped his fresh bottle, Todd thought viciously that the old man had the stinkiest cellar in town, oil or no oil. It smelled as if something had died down there. So the old man got out of his bed right then. What is sleep to an old man? Very little. And he sat at his small desk, thinking about how cleverly he had enmeshed the boy in the very crimes the boy was holding over his own head. He sat thinking about how hard the boy had worked, how very hard, to bring his school marks back up. And how, when they were back up, he would have no further need for the old man alive. And if the old man were dead, the boy could be free. He turned around now, holding the fresh bottle of Ancient Age by the neck. I heard you, you know, he said, almost gently. From the moment you pushed your chair back and stood up. You are not as quiet as you imagine, boy. At least not yet. Todd said nothing. So! Dussander exclaimed, stepping back into the kitchen and closing the cellar door firmly behind him. The old man wrote everything down, nicht wahr? From first word to last he wrote it down. When he was finally finished it was almost dawn and his hand was singing from the arthritisthe verdammt arthritisbut he felt good for the first times in weeks. He felt safe. He got back into his bed and slept until midafternoon. In fact, if he had slept any longer, he would have missed his favoriteGeneral Hospital. He had regained his rocker now. He sat down, produced a worn jackknife with a yellow ivory handle, and began to cut painstakingly around the seal covering the top of the bourbon bottle. On the following day the old man dressed in his best suit and went down to the bank where he kept his little checking and savings accounts. He spoke to one of the bank officers, who was able to answer all the old mans questions most satisfactorily. He rented a safety deposit box. The bank officer explained to the old man that he would have a key and the bank would have a key. To open the box, both keys would be needed. No one but the old man could use the old mans key without a signed, notarized letter of permission from the old man himself. With one exception. Dussander smiled toothlessly into Todd Bowdens white, set face. That exception is made in the event of the boxholders death, he said. Still looking at Todd, still smiling, Dussander put his jackknife back into the pocket of his robe, unscrewed the cap of the bourbon bottle, and poured a fresh jolt into his cup. What happens then? Todd asked hoarsely. Then the box is opened in the presence of a bank official and a representative of the Internal Revenue Service. The contents of the box are inventoried. In this case they will find only a twelvepage document. Nontaxable... but highly interesting. The fingers of Todds hands crept toward each other and locked tightly. You cant do that, he said in a stunned and unbelieving voice. It was the voice of a person who observes another person walking on the ceiling. You cant... cant do that. My boy, Dussander said kindly, I have. But . . . I ... you . . . His voice suddenly rose to an agonized howl. Youre old! Dont you know that youre old? You could die! You could die anytime! Dussander got up. He went to one of the kitchen cabinets and took down a small glass. This glass had once held jelly. Cartoon characters danced around the rim. Todd recognized them allFred and Wilma Flintstone, Barney and Betty Rubble, Pebbles and BammBamm. He had grown up with them. He watched as Dussander wiped this jellyglass almost ceremonially with a dishtowel. He watched as Dussander set it in front of him. He watched as Dussander poured a finger of bourbon into it. Whats that for? Todd muttered. I dont drink. Drinkings for cheap stewbums like you. Lift your glass, boy. It is a special occasion. Today you drink. Todd looked at him for a long moment, then picked up the glass. Dussander clicked his cheap ceramic cup smartly against it. I make a toast, boylong life! Long life to both of us! Prosit! He tossed his bourbon off at a gulp and then began to laugh. He rocked back and forth, stockinged feet hitting the linoleum, laughing, and Todd thought he had never looked so much like a vulture, a vulture in a bathrobe, a noisome beast of carrion. I hate you, he whispered, and then Dussander began to choke on his own laughter. His face turned a dull brick color; it sounded as if he were coughing, laughing, and strangling, all at the same time. Todd, scared, got up quickly and clapped him on the back until the coughing fit had passed. Danke schn, he said. Drink your drink. It will do you good. Todd drank it. It tasted like very bad coldmedicine and lit a fire in his gut. I cant believe you drink this shit all day, he said, putting the glass back on the table and shuddering. You ought to quit it. Quit drinking and smoking. Your concern for my health is touching, Dussander said. He produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the same bathrobe pocket into which the jackknife had disappeared. And I am equally solicitous of your own welfare, boy. Almost every day I read in the paper where a cyclist has been killed at a busy intersection. You should give it up. You should walk. Or ride the bus, like me. Why dont you go fuck yourself? Todd burst out. My boy, Dussander said, pouring more bourbon and beginning to laugh again, we are fucking each otherdidnt you know that? One day about a week later, Todd was sitting on a disused mail platform down in the old trainyard. He chucked cinders out across the rusty, weedinfested tracks one at a time. Why shouldnt I kill him anyway? Because he was a logical boy, the logical answer came first. No reason at all. Sooner or later Dussander was going to die, and given Dussanders habits, it would probably be sooner. Whether he killed the old man or whether Dussander died of a heart attack in his bathtub, it was all going to come out. At least he could have the pleasure of wringing the old vultures neck. Sooner or laterthat phrase defied logic. Maybe itll be later, Todd thought. Cigarettes or not, booze or not, hes a tough old bastard. Hes lasted this long, so ... so maybe itll be later. From beneath him came a fuzzy snort. Todd jumped to his feet, dropping a handful of cinders he had been holding. That snorting sound came again. He paused, on the verge of running, but the snort didnt recur. Nine hundred yards away, an eightlane freeway swept across the horizon above this weed and junkstrewn culdesac with its deserted buildings, rusty Cyclone fences, and splintery, warped platforms. The cars up on the freeway glistened in the sun like exotic hardshelled beetles. Eight lanes of traffic up there, nothing down here but Todd, a few birds ... and whatever had snorted. Cautiously, he bent down with his hands on his knees and peered under the mail platform. There was a wino lying up in there among the yellow weeds and empty cans and dusty old bottles. It was impossible to tell his age; Todd put him at somewhere between thirty and four hundred. He was wearing a strappy teeshirt that was caked with dried vomit, green pants that were far too big for him, and gray leather workshoes cracked in a hundred places. The cracks gaped like agonized mouths. Todd thought he smelled like Dussanders cellar. The winos redlaced eyes opened slowly and stared at Todd with a bleary lack of wonder. As they did, Todd thought of the Swiss Army knife in his pocket, the Angler model. He had purchased it at a sporting goods store in Redondo Beach almost a year ago. He could hear the clerk that had waited on him in his mind You couldnt pick a better knife than that one, sona knife like that could save your life someday. We sell fifteen hundred Swiss knives every damn year. Fifteen hundred a year. He put his hand in his pocket and gripped the knife. In his minds eye he saw Dussanders jackknife working slowly around the neck of the bourbon bottle, slitting the seal. A moment later he became aware that he had an erection. Cold terror stole into him. The wino swiped a hand over his cracked lips and then licked them with a tongue which nicotine had turned a permanent dismal yellow. Got a dime, kid? Todd looked at him expressionlessly. Gotta get to L.A. Need another dime for the bus. I got a pointment, me. Got a job offertunity. Nice kid like you must have a dime. Maybe you got a quarter. Yessir, you could clean out a damn bluegill with a knife like that... hell, you could clean out a damn marlin with it if you had to. We sell fifteen hundred of those a year. Every sporting goods store and ArmyNavy Surplus in America sells them, and if you decided to use this one to clean out some dirty, shitty old wino, nobody could trace it back to you, absolutely NOBODY. The winos voice dropped; it became a confidential, tenebrous whisper. For a buck Id do you a blowjob, you never had a better. Youd come your brains out, kid, youd Todd pulled his hand out of his pocket. He wasnt sure what was in it until he opened it. Two quarters. Two nickles. A dime. Some pennies. He threw them at the wino and fled. 12 June, 1975. Todd Bowden, now fourteen, came biking up Dussanders walk and parked his bike on the kickstand. The L.A. Times was on the bottom step; he picked it up. He looked at the bell, below which the neat legends ARTHURDENKER and NO SOLICITORS, NO PEDDLERS, NO SALESMEN still kept their places. He didnt bother with the bell now, of course; he had his key. Somewhere close by was the popping, burping sound of a LawnBoy. He looked at Dussanders grass and saw it could use a cutting; he would have to tell the old man to find a boy with a mower. Dussander forgot little things like that more often now. Maybe it was senility; maybe it was just the pickling influence of Ancient Age on his brains. That was an adult thought for a boy of fourteen to have, but such thoughts no longer struck Todd as singular. He had many adult thoughts these days. Most of them were not so great. He let himself in. He had his usual instant of cold terror as he entered the kitchen and saw Dussander slumped slightly sideways in his rocker, the cup on the table, a halfempty bottle of bourbon beside it. A cigarette had burned its entire length down to lacy gray ash in a mayonnaise cover where several other butts had been mashed out. Dussanders mouth hung open. His face was yellow. His big hands dangled limply over the rockers arms. He didnt seem to be breathing. Dussander, he said, a little too harshly. Rise and shine, Dussander. He felt a wave of relief as the old man twitched, blinked, and finally sat up. Is it you? And so early? They let us out early on the last day of school, Todd said. He pointed to the remains of the cigarette in the mayonnaise cover. Someday youll burn down the house doing that. Maybe, Dussander said indifferently. He fumbled out his cigarettes, shot one from the pack (it almost rolled off the edge of the table before Dussander was able to catch it), and at last got it going. A protracted fit of coughing followed, and Todd winced in disgust. When the old man really got going, Todd halfexpected him to start spitting out grayishblack chunks of lungtissue onto the table... and hed probably grin as he did it. At last the coughing eased enough for Dussander to say, What have you got there? Report card. Dussander took it, opened it, and held it away from him at arms length so he could read it. English . . . A. American History... A. Earth Science... Bplus. Your Community and You... A. Primary French... Bminus. Beginning Algebra... B. He put it down. Very good. What is the slang? We have saved your bacon, boy. Will you have to change any of these averages in the last column? French and algebra, but no more than eight or nine points in all. I dont think any of this is ever going to come out. And I guess I owe that to you. Im not proud of it, but its the truth. So, thanks. What a touching speech, Dussander said, and began to cough again. I guess I wont be seeing you around too much from now on, Todd said, and Dussander abruptly stopped coughing. No? he said, politely enough. No, Todd said. Were going to Hawaii for a month starting on June twentyfifth. In September Ill be going to school across town. Its this bussing thing. Oh yes, the Schwarzen, Dussander said, idly watching a fly as it trundled across the red and white check of the oilcloth. For twenty years this country has worried and whined about the Schwarzen. But we know the solution . . . dont we, boy? He smiled toothlessly at Todd and Todd looked down, feeling the old sickening lift and drop in his stomach. Terror, hate, and a desire to do something so awful it could only be fully contemplated in his dreams. Look, I plan to go to college, in case you didnt know, Todd said. I know thats a long time off, but I think about it. I even know what I want to major in. History. Admirable. He who will not learn from the past is Oh, shut up, Todd said. Dussander did so, amiably enough. He knew the boy wasnt done... not yet.