Serpentine, Volume 3, Number 2, Spring 1999

Gemini

by Michael Burns

June, 1950

Johnny Labalm spooned the last of the cereal from his bowl. There was no fresh milk in the house. He had to mix canned milk and water, and a half box of confectioner’s sugar, to keep himself from gagging on the canned milk.   He heard Charlotte Toney at the screen door before he saw her; heard the rustle of her skirt, the clang of her bracelets.

       "Whatcha doin’, Johnny Labalm? Can I come in?" She came in without waiting for his permission. Johnny felt his face get hot the way it did whenever Charlotte was around. "I take three baths a day, Johnny Labalm. I bet you don’t take that many baths in a week."

       "Do too." He’d be surprised if he ended up in the tub three times in three months.

       "Where your daddy, Johnny Labalm? Your mama?"

       "He’s working and my mother’s out for a walk with my brothers."

       Charlotte came into the kitchen, one hand on her hip. She traced her finger along the edge of the table until she was standing in front of Johnny. Then she placed her fists on her hips and struck one of her movie star poses. Charlotte was spoiled rotten, the way he was supposed to have been spoiled rotten by his grandmother. She was allowed to go to the movies anytime she felt like it, and she felt like it all the time. She could have all the candy she wanted, all the clothes.

       "I’m gorgeous, Johnny Labalm. Like chocolate fudge. Don’t you think so?" She stroked her bare arm, wiggling her fingers all the way up the length of it.  "Bet you’d like to have a taste of chocolate fudge, wouldn’t you, Johnny Labalm?"

       He picked up his bowl and spoon without answering, and carried them to the sink, his scalp crawling, and his neck on fire.

       "Tell the truth. You think I’m gorgeous." Charlotte sashayed around the kitchen, jangling her bracelets, holding the hem of her orange and black taffeta skirt above the tops of her white socks and black patent leather shoes. Her hair was done in pigtails, tied with pink ribbons. She smiled at him when their eyes met, in this wild, scary way he’d never seen anyone smile before in his life. Charlotte was only the second Negro he’d ever laid eyes on. Her dad, Satch, the landlord, had been the first.

       "Your daddy not working. He out on a bender is where he at." Johnny’s stepfather hadn’t been heard from in over a week, which was just fine with Johnny. There was no money, and no food in the house to speak of, but Bill Scanlon was gone, and whenever he was gone Johnny felt better about life. How Charlotte knew that he was on another bender was anybody’s guess. She knew a great many things she had no business knowing. It didn’t take Johnny long to figure out that she must be some kind of witch. She was right about him thinking that she was gorgeous. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, more beautiful than anyone he could think of in Vermont where he came from. He was also scared of Charlotte. She confused him, made him feel every which way. When she wasn’t around he missed her. When she was around, he wished that she’d go away, and when she was gone he found himself wishing she were back. She knew everything about him, seemed even to know what he was thinking.

       "I want you and your mama to come to my birthday party on Sunday, you hear me, Johnny Labalm? We havin’ chicken and mashed potatoes, and collard greens, and for dessert there’s gonna be ice cream and birthday cake. I’m gonna be tin on Sunday."

       And I’m going to be gold on Wednesday, Johnny said to himself before he remembered Charlotte could read minds.

       "You better be there or my daddy won’t let you watch no more stupit baseball on the television."

       "I’ll have to ask my mother, for crying out loud."

       "You all just better be there." Charlotte left, nose in the air, hands on her hips. She let the screen door slam behind her.

       Satch had invited him over to watch the Braves take on the Dodgers tonight. In fact, he hadn’t missed watching a televised Braves’ game with Satch in the two weeks he’d been living here.

       On the warm, Sunday morning his mother and stepfather had been moving in what little furniture they owned, Satch had paid them a call. He was dressed for church in a brown pinstriped suit. As warm as it was, he had on a long brown overcoat and a big hat, the brim of which all but covered his watery eyes. He wore a pair of brown and white wing tips with little perforations in the tops. He walked with a half strut half shuffle, one shoulder lower than the other.

       Satch had pulled Johnny aside in the kitchen, draped his long arm across Johnny’s thin shoulders and whispered, "I can tell you a man who like baseball. Am I right?" All Johnny could do was nod, a little in awe and a little in fear of this strange brown man. "And I bet you a Braves fan too." Johnny nodded again even though he was a loyal Yankees rooter. He could learn to like the Braves if it meant being Satch’s friend. "How ‘bout you come round my place tonight. We get the women out the house so we can have some QT. We watch the Braves scalp the Pirates. Whatch you say to that?"

       He had gone to Satch’s that night, and every night a game was televised after that. Bill Scanlon would say to his mother as Johnny was about to leave to go over to Satch’s, "Johnny joining the jigaboos again tonight?" and laugh in a way that made Johnny want to kill him. His stepfather didn’t seem at all pleased to have a Negro for a landlord.

       Johnny’s mother and his two half brothers, Keith, four, and Billy junior, five, came in from their walk. Johnny hadn’t set foot out the front door in all the time they’d been there. He wouldn’t admit to anyone, not even to his mother, that he was scared of the neighborhood kids who rode their bikes up and down the street all day long and half the night. He’d watched them from the curtainless living room window, had even learned some of their names, dangerous names like Jima Frecarsi, Primo Donini, Paul Beady, and the Daggett brothers. When he went over to watch a game with Satch he used the back door.

       Keith was crying. He had been denied candy, and all he ever seemed to want was candy. There was no money for food, let alone candy, but of course he couldn’t understand this. Billy junior, fed up with his brother’s crying, pushed him down on the bare living room floor, which only made him cry harder. Johnny’s mother cuffed Billy behind the head and threatened to put him to bed. This got Billy crying, too. She was always threatening to put one of them to bed, even Johnny, though he was almost eleven and grown up. Her "little man" when her husband was on a bender. "If you don’t stop crying you’ll go to bed," she would say, or "If you don’t eat your liver you’ll go to bed," or "If you can’t mind better than that you’ll just have to go to bed." "If you don’t go to bed you’ll have to go to bed," Johnny wouldn’t be surprised to hear her say.

       It seemed it was always Billy who got cuffed, spanked, banged around. Johnny had even smacked Billy once or twice himself, and felt awful afterwards. When he was sick and hungover, sometimes Bill Scanlon would hit Billy so hard Johnny was afraid he’d kill the poor kid. And this made Johnny want to kill his stepfather. If Sister Marie knew what murderous thoughts filled his head she’d change her mind fast about her little saint.

       "A man came by looking for him while you were out," Johnny told his mother in the kitchen. She sighed, lit a cigarette, and prepared to start another crossword puzzle. Whenever Bill Scanlon went on one of his benders she’d do crossword puzzles day and night.

       "Who?" she asked, squinting through smoke.

       "Who do you think? A guy from the restaurant. He said if he didn’t show up for his shift tomorrow they’d have to let him go."

       Bill Scanlon’s current job was working the short-order grill at Howard Johnson’s. His real ambition was to be a professional boxer, which was why they had moved so close to Boston.

       "What did you tell him?"

       "That he was in bed, sick."

       "He should have some pay coming. You’ll have to go down for it in the morning."

       "Shit. Why do I always have to be the one?"

       "How would you like Sister Marie to hear you talk like that?"

       "I just don’t see why it always has to be me who has to go and beg for his pay. I hate it. Why can’t you do it for once?"

       "Johnny, don’t argue." His mother looked like hell, tired and worn out, pale and thin. Her hair was dull and hung limply down the back of her neck. Johnny got his tennis ball and went outside. He forgot about the screen door and it slammed behind him.

       "And when was the last time you went to Mass?" his mother shouted. "Sister Marie would be real proud of you, young man."

       Johnny threw the tennis ball against the back steps with all his might. It sailed over his head way out into home run territory, and rolled into the tall marsh grass by the edge of the water. He retrieved it and came back to find Charlotte sitting on her back steps admiring herself in a plastic hand mirror. She was licking a Sugar Daddy.

       "What kinda stupit game you playin’, Johnny Labalm? I never see nothin’ like it. All the time throwin’ that stupit ball at them stupit steps."

       "This is a good chance for you to mind your own stupid business," Johnny said, using one of his stepfather’s favorite expressions. "Don’t you have to take a bath or something?" With a runner on first, he pitched from the stretch to Carl Furillo. He was Johnny Sain. He hurled a fastball. It bounced off the step in a high arc to deep centerfield. He chased it to the edge of the marsh grass and gathered it in.

       "Ain’t you somethin’ special, Johnny Labalm. Good at catchin’ tennis balls but you won’t catch him goin’ out in the street. No sir."

       "Why don’t you shut up."

       "I know all about how you scared of them boys out there, Johnny Labalm. There ain’t no use makin’ believe you not. You scared of Jima Frecarsi, and Primo, and all them kids. You a big scaredy cat is what you are."

       He was so mad he could barely think. "And you’re a..." He couldn't find the word that expressed his anger.

       "Go ahead, Johnny Labalm, don’t be bashful. Say it. Come on, Johnny Labalm," she taunted, "I bet you can say nigger good as the rest a them."

       "You jigaboo!" He knew instantly that it was a terrible thing to say, if for no other reason than Bill Scanlon used the word to mean something hateful. But he’d said it, and he couldn’t get the words back.

       Charlotte laughed. "That the best you can do, Johnny Labalm? You tryin’ to hurt my feelin’s? You somethin’. You want a taste of my Sugar Daddy?"

       "I didn’t mean to call you that, Charlotte," Johnny said, sitting down beside her on the steps.

       "Hah." She offered him the Sugar Daddy, already glistening from where she’d been licking it. He reached for it and she pulled it away. "Don’t be grabbin’ it. I’ll hold it. You can have a lick is all."

       Awkwardly, he ran his tongue along the edge of the candy, barely able to get the taste of it before she pulled it away again.

       "That’s enough, Johnny Labalm. You such a pig!" She smelled perfumed; probably just stepped out of one of her three baths a day. They sat and looked out on the cove. Charlotte was quiet. Johnny had never known her to go so long without saying anything.

       "I’m really sorry I called you that name, Charlotte. I didn’t mean it."

       On the horizon they could see the big green drawbridge. In the morning it was sometimes cloaked in mist and fog, like something mysterious right out of the movies.

       "You know what’s on the other side of that bridge, Johnny Labalm?"

       "Yes." They’d had to cross the bridge in Curly’s Buick from wherever his sister lived near the ocean. It had been exciting. They had to stop for a ship to pass under the bridge. The middle of the thing just lifted up. On the other side was a small village with nothing much to see: a little general store, post-office, gas station, and a statue of a soldier of the Revolutionary War, that was all.

       "You do not! Don’t be lyin’ to me, Johnny Labalm!"

       "I’m telling you, I’ve been over there. So don’t call me a liar."

       Charlotte laughed. "You not only a liar, Johnny Labalm, you an amazin’ liar. Just amazin’." He wasn’t eager to get into an argument with Charlotte.

       "So what’s on the other side, then? You tell me."

       "Hah. Wouldn’t you like to know?"

       "I don’t care."

       "You do too, Johnny Labalm."

       "No I don’t."

       "Hollywood."

       "You mean Hollywood where the movie stars live?"

       "That’s right. That’s where I gonna go when I grow up. I gonna be a star, like Rhonda Fleming." For someone as smart as Charlotte she could act pretty dumb when she wanted to, Johnny thought. He knew it would be a big mistake to remind her that Hollywood was in California, clear across the United States, and not on the other side of the big green bridge. His aunt and uncle had moved to California a few years ago. They wrote once that they’d actually met Bing Crosby in a restaurant in Hollywood. Bill Scanlon laughed when he read the letter; his mother said something about how pathetic her brother-in-law was. But Johnny had wanted to believe them, and he couldn’t wait for the day when he’d be old enough to travel out there for a visit. Sometimes he dreamed of going out there to live. Permanently. "Don’t be lyin’ to me no more, Johnny Labalm. You hear me?"

       "I hear you." Charlotte’s fat older sister, Beatrice, called her inside to pick up her room. Johnny sat on the Toneys’ back steps alone, bouncing his ball between his feet on the step. He felt confused and desolate.

       That evening in Satch’s living room, Johnny got comfortable in the overstuffed chair he always sat in for games. The window shades were drawn. The room’s only light came from the round-screened television set. Satch lay on the sofa, one of Mrs. Toney’s run nylon stockings on his head, a glass of beer on the floor by his side. The National Anthem was coming to a close. Johnny’s insides were fluttering with excitement.

       "Hey!" Satch yelled up the stairs, "We tryin’ to watch a ball game down here. God damn!"

       Upstairs, Mrs. Toney was supposed to be showing Charlotte how to sew on the new electric machine. Johnny could hear Beatrice giggling up there, too. The machine interfered with television reception.

       Satch’s television was the first Johnny had ever seen. For all he knew, in Vermont there was only radio. He could watch television all night. As far as he was concerned it was better than the movies. It made him sick to think that he’d never have one of his own.

       Satch’s living room was filled with furniture the way his living room was empty. Johnny felt comfortable here, right at home. The only bad part about coming over here was having to leave.

       Satch rubbed his big hands together. "We gonna win big tonight, Johnny," he said, "Oooooeeee! I can feel a big win coming on!" Erskine was on the mound for the Dodgers, Spahn for the Braves. The announcer predicted a pitcher’s duel. Spahn mowed the Dodgers down in order in the top of the first. In the Braves’ half of the inning Sam Jethroe, the fastest man in baseball, beat out an infield grounder for a single.

       "Lookit that nigger run!" Satch shouted. Johnny held his breath in surprise.

       Walker Cooper brought Jethroe home with a double, and it was looking good for the Boston Braves. They held onto the one run lead until the eighth when Duke Snider belted a two-run homer. The Braves left the bases loaded in the ninth and the Bums from Brooklyn trotted off the field with the win.

       Toward the last innings of the game Charlotte had come downstairs in a white terrycloth bathrobe, her hair wrapped turban fashion in a white towel. She seemed almost to glow in the semi-darkness. She made Satch sit up and hold her in his lap. Johnny tried to concentrate on the game but he found it hard to ignore Charlotte whose fragrance filled the room. He may as well have been invisible for all the attention she paid him. She put her face in her father’s chest while he rubbed her back with one huge hand.

       "Damn!" Satch said, shaking his stocking head, "What we gotta do to win a game? We keep playin’ this kinda ball we never catch them Phillies."

       Johnny felt empty and let down at the prospect of going home. He was also worried that Charlotte would tell her father what he had called her this afternoon. He never knew from one minute to the next what to expect from her.

       "Johnny Labalm’s daddy on a bender. You know that?" Charlotte said into her father’s chest. Satch reached over and turned on the lamp on the end table beside the sofa. The sudden appearance of so much light made Johnny squint.

       Satch held his daughter at arm’s length and looked hard at her. "That any way to be talkin’, little girl?" To Johnny he said, "This one got some kind of mouth on her. Now, you tell Johnny you sorry for your mouth."

       Charlotte turned to Johnny and scowled at him from her father’s lap.

       "You better not be late for my birthday party on Sunday, Johnny Labalm. You hear me?" Satch slapped her on her rear end, but not hard.

       Johnny thanked Satch for letting him watch the game and started for the back door.

       Satch said, "Don’t forget, the Phillies in town tomorrow night."

       "I mean it, Johnny Labalm," Charlotte added, "You better be at my party, or else."

       His mother was at the kitchen table, working on a crossword puzzle. She looked angry. He heard voices in the other room; his stepfather was back. Johnny felt suddenly sick to his stomach.

       "When did he get back?"

       "About an hour ago, and he wants to see you." His mother didn’t look at him.

       "What for?"

       "How should I know? You’ll have to go in and find out for yourself."

       "Who else is in there?"

       "His very good friends, Curly, and Mr. Peacock. Such refined gentlemen." His mother bore down hard with her pencil. She looked even thinner and more tired than she had this afternoon. She hadn’t changed her dress in about a week.

       "Is he mad at me, or what?"

       "When have you ever known your father to be mad when he’s drinking?" It burned him up to hear his mother refer to Bill Scanlon as his father. Someday he might even find the guts to tell her so. It was true that his stepfather was a lot easier to get along with when he was drunk. Drunk, he was generous with his loose change, laughed a lot, and if he were just drunk enough he’d hold Keith and Billy, one on each knee, and croon "You’re Daddy’s Little Boys," and Johnny would feel like throwing up. Sober, he was always cross. Everything he said or did frightened Johnny, and Billy had even more reason to be afraid of him. For some reason, Scanlon didn’t get after Keith as much. Probably because he was the youngest, or his father’s favorite. Bill Scanlon had never laid a hand on Johnny except when they put on the gloves, and now it dawned on him why his stepfather wanted to see him.

       "I don’t feel good. Can’t I just go to bed? I think I have to throw up."

       "Talk to him first, then you can go to bed." He didn’t know why she couldn’t tell his stepfather herself that he was sick. She could do this one thing for her "little man," after everything he did for her. Now that her "big man" was back everything would be different. It was always the same.

       Bill Scanlon, Curly, and Mr. Peacock were in the living room, passing around a bottle of whiskey.

       "Johnny boy," Bill Scanlon said, "come over here. Where you been?"

       "Watching the game with Satch." Scanlon gathered Johnny to his chest, and raked his whiskered chin across his face. His stepfather smelled of hair oil, whiskey, and sweat. It was a manly odor, not at all disagreeable. He wanted very badly to be a man himself, though not a man like Bill Scanlon.

       "My boy’s taken a shine to the shines," Scanlon said, which got a big laugh from his friends. His mother referred to Curly and Mr. Peacock as Bill Scanlon’s "flunkies." Scanlon was their hero, and they were his sparring partners. Because he’d had a few bouts in carnivals and smokers for which he’d been paid, Scanlon was a big shot in their eyes.

       Curly had black, heavily pomaded hair that practically took the curl out of it. He was pale, with lots of angry looking boils on the back of his neck. Mr. Peacock was tall; he wore his hair in a big pompadour and long sideburns. He had a thin mustache over his crooked mouth, and a long, slack jaw that Bill Scanlon loved to throw right hooks at in the ring. Every so often Scanlon would take it in his head to train. He’d get up early, for him, skip rope for five minutes, do ten minutes road work behind Curly’s rusty Buick, put on the gloves with Mr. Peacock for two or three short rounds down at the gym. But he was never in good enough shape to last beyond the second round. The only time Johnny had ever seen him in the ring was at a carnival in Groveton, Vermont. The ring had collapsed on him twenty seconds into the first round. Scanlon, up to his knees in canvas, took three or four good punches to the head before the referee got around to stopping the fight. He hadn’t been able to continue, and had to forfeit. The loss had been such a blow to his pride that he took off on a three-week bender.

       Scanlon pressed a half-dollar into Johnny’s palm and whispered, "Go get the gloves, Johnny. The sixteen-ouncers." Johnny sighed and went upstairs for the big gloves that smelled of leather and sweat. Curly helped Johnny on with his gloves. They came all the way to his elbows.

       "Tight enough?" Curly asked him, tying the laces.

       "Yeah."

       "Listen. Do like I tell you. Keep the left in his face, and when you see an opening use the combination I showed you. Bam, bam, bam." Curly threw three punches into the air, left, right, left. Mr. Peacock acted as Scanlon’s second. He made a show of cautioning his man against Johnny’s right hand. Johnny didn’t much enjoy being made fun of by some flunky. Scanlon got on his knees, put both gloves up in front of his face, and tucked his elbows in tight against his mid-section in mock defense. Angered, Johnny moved in quickly and swung a haymaker with the heavy glove at his stepfather’s right ear. Scanlon took the blow on his glove, went through a few head feints, and flicked out a left jab that was so quick Johnny didn’t see it coming. The next thing he knew he was sitting on the floor, his eyes out of focus. He felt something warm in his nose, and pretty soon blood trickled over his lip into his mouth and splashed on his glove. He could see the shadowy outlines of Curly, Mr. Peacock, and Scanlon standing over him, laughing. Johnny got to his feet and lunged at Scanlon, both heavy-gloved hands flailing. Scanlon caught him in his arms, wiped the blood from his nose and mouth with the thumb of his glove.

       "You O.K., champ?" Scanlon laughed.

       "That’s enough," Johnny’s mother said, coming into the room, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, "let him go to bed. He’s not feeling good."

       "I’m all right," Johnny said. He wasn’t ready to stop now.

       "Go to bed, Johnny."

       "For crying out loud, I’m O.K." But his mother was firm, and he went upstairs to bed.

       Johnny shared a bedroom with his two half-brothers. Billy was a bed-wetter, Keith a mouth-breather. The room smelled heavily of pee. One thin wall separated their room from his mother’s and Scanlon’s. He wondered if they’d go at it tonight the way they usually did when his stepfather came back from benders. He only hoped he would be able to get to sleep before they got going.

       He lay in bed listening to Keith’s rhythmic breathing. He could hear the muffled voices of the men downstairs, every now and then punctuated with bursts of laughter. He felt an ache begin to grow in his chest; the room seemed to close in on him, the walls pulsing. He felt as though he were suffocating. He sat up in bed, breathing rapidly. Billy stirred in his bed, muttered something incoherent in his sleep. No light came through the room’s single window. Tonight Johnny was afraid of the dark. There was only an overhead light in the room. If he turned it on he would awaken Keith and Billy; if he got up there was nowhere to go but back downstairs.

       "Jesus," he said under his breath, and thought about Sister Marie and the people he’d left behind in Groveton. Thinking about Groveton only made him feel worse.

       Scanlon and his mother had practically kidnapped him. He’d been on an overnight camping trip on Crow Hill with his Boy Scout troop. Early next morning he came down the hill to find Scanlon and his mother waiting for him in Curly’s Buick. The trunk was half open, tied down with clothesline rope, and contained all their belongings except for furniture. Keith and Billy were in the back seat with his mother, Scanlon up front with Curly. Johnny wasn’t given a chance to say goodbye to any of his friends. He rode in silence for what seemed like hours and hours. They arrived at Curly’s sister’s place, somewhere near the ocean, in the middle of the night. A week or so later they moved into Satch’s duplex.

       He awoke to dawn’s gray light, and listened. Keith’s breathing was all he could hear. The street outside was quiet. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. Neither could he remember any of the usual sounds from the next room. He felt a little better in the light of day, but only a little. He remembered that he was expected to go after his stepfather’s pay at Howard Johnson’s. It made no difference that Scanlon was back; Johnny would still have to go after it. He didn’t have any idea how to get to Howard Johnson’s. He could be sure his mother would give him directions. He’d be beaten up by the neighborhood kids. He couldn’t bring himself to tell his mother that he was afraid because she would only tell Scanlon, and Scanlon would think he was a coward.

       Unable to lie in bed a moment longer, out of fear and restlessness, Johnny got up and dressed quietly so as not to wake up Keith and Billy, and tiptoed downstairs.

       Bill Scanlon lay naked on the sofa, asleep on his side, both hands tucked between his knees, which were drawn up close to his chest. Johnny hurried into the kitchen to find his mother bent over another crossword puzzle, still wearing the same dress she’d had on all week. She had a cigarette in her mouth, and had to tilt her head and squint through the smoke.

       "You’re up early," she said to Johnny without more than a glance at him.

       "Who can sleep in that room?" His mother didn’t answer. He was never so totally ignored than when she was involved with her crossword puzzles. There were times when he would have liked to snatch one away from her and tear it up.

       In the refrigerator were three bottles of beer, an open package of American cheese, a quart-size paper container of Bill Scanlon’s spaghetti which he seemed always to bring back with him from benders, and a can of evaporated milk. Johnny slammed the door shut.

       "What’s eating you?" his mother said.

       "What’s eating me is there’s nothing to eat."

       "There’s a little cereal in the cupboard. Leave some for the kids."

       "There’s no milk."

       "Didn’t you see the can in the refrigerator?"

       "I hate canned milk."

       "Then you’ll have to do without until we get your father’s check." Inside his head Johnny screamed, he’s not my father! Who was his father? God only knew. And who was this woman he called his mother? He’d been living with her and her husband for over two years and she was just as much a stranger now as when he first came to live with her. He wondered what his grandmother was doing now, whether she missed him. He was sure that she did, as much as he missed her. That was the one thing in his crummy life of which he could be absolutely certain.

       "I don’t even know where Howard Johnson’s is. Why can’t you go get his damned pay? Why can’t he go himself?"

       "He’s going to see if they’ll let him come back to work today, so you can stop worrying."

       "Charlotte invited us to her birthday party on Sunday. Can we go?"

       "All of us?"

       "Well, she said you and me but I guess she meant all of us. I can ask her."

       "We’ll have to see what your father says. You know how he feels about those people." The only thing Bill Scanlon seemed to have against the Toneys was that they were colored. And yet he never put up a real fuss whenever Johnny asked to go over to watch a game with Satch. The worst he would do was make some joke about him coming back a shade darker, rub his head and say, "just checking for kinks." But there was no telling how he’d react just after returning from a bender. Johnny had the feeling that he wouldn’t be sharing in Charlotte Toney’s birthday celebration. What Charlotte would have in store for him if he didn’t show up for her party was just one more thing to worry about.

       "I’m going outside." Johnny got his ball and started for the back door.

       "When are you going to make some friends in the neighborhood?" his mother asked. It would be nice if she’d look at him once and a while when she talked to him.

       "Satch is my friend."

       "I mean people your own age, Johnny. We’ve been living here I don’t know how long, and you haven’t gone anywhere except the back yard. Are you planning to wait until school starts before you get acquainted with kids?"

       If I have to, Johnny thought.

       "I’ll be in the back yard." He left before his mother could ask any more questions.

       Early morning fog was burning off; mist was rising off the water and the little island out in the cove, where in the late afternoon he would see the neighborhood kids playing stickball. The drawbridge was just visible through the fog. He couldn’t get over how hardheaded Charlotte could be when she made up her mind. It was probably her sister Beatrice who filled her head with all the nonsense about Hollywood, probably because she was jealous of how pretty Charlotte was compared to ugly old Beatrice.

       Johnny threw some warm-up pitches in preparation for a replay of last night’s game. He would see to it that things would be different today. One thing about this game he’d invented: he was in control of the outcome, even if it was a little like cheating at solitaire. Who was to know, or care? He played hard for about an hour. For all he knew Charlotte could have been watching him from her back steps the whole time, so absorbed was he in the game. Her presence startled him in any case.

       Today she had on a white blouse, a full black skirt and white shoes. She made believe he didn’t exist. He was all sweaty and dusty from playing hard, and didn’t want to get too near her. And under the circumstances he didn’t feel like getting onto the subject of her birthday party either.

       "Hello, Charlotte," he said with utmost caution. Charlotte didn’t answer. She studied the sky, which by now was blue and cloudless. Johnny bounced his ball against the steps a few times showing a little indifference of his own, but his insides were jumping. He had made up his mind to go back in the house when Charlotte said,

       "I see your daddy back from his bender, Johnny Labalm. He can come to my birthday party too if he want to. And your little brothers too, I don’t care. We got plenty of food."

       "I don’t know if we can come."

       "You all better come."

       "Or else what?"

       "You find out. Don’t worry." Johnny imagined that she would tell Satch that he’d called her a jigaboo and that would be the end of watching ball games on television for him. He threw the ball hard at the steps. It went wild against his screen door, and caromed off onto the back porch. Charlotte found this funny.

       "You just amazin’, Johnny Labalm. Come over here," she ordered, patting the step beside her. "This minute!" Johnny obeyed. "Whew! My God, Johnny Labalm, how you stink!" Johnny got up to leave, feeling himself grow hot all over. "Where you think you goin’? I didn’t tell you you could leave."

       "I don’t need you to tell me what to do, you..." Nigger was in his mind and almost out of his mouth. He caught himself in time.

       "What you gonna say, Johnny Labalm?" Charlotte said with that awful smile of hers. "Huh? What you want to say? I know what you want to say?"

       "You do not."

       "You too stupit for words, Johnny Labalm." He’d never been called stupid so much. In school he was always the best in his class. Stupid was not a word he was used to hearing applied to himself. And if she was so damned smart how come she hadn’t figured out that Bill Scanlon wasn’t his father? Something kept him from telling her himself. "You want a popsicle, Johnny Labalm? I bet you do. Why don’t I get you a nice rootbeer popsicle. That make you feel better, Johnny Labalm?" It drove him crazy her calling him Johnny Labalm all the time. She went inside and came back with two halves of a rootbeer popsicle.

       "You want it you gonna have to come over here and get it." He didn’t like the way he allowed himself to be ordered around by her, but here he was, back on the steps beside her, accepting her offer of a popsicle. Something told him that there would be a price to pay. They sucked on their popsicles for a while without saying anything. Then Charlotte, without any warning, announced that she was a Gemini in a way that made her sound superior to him.

       "What’s that?" Johnny said.

       "That’s where I was born, stupit. Colored kids born in June all come from Gemini. Beatrice tell me that." Beatrice again, Johnny thought. No end to the nonsense she could fill her sister’s head with. He wondered where white kids born in June came from. He always thought he was born in Groveton, Vermont. Now he wasn’t so sure.

       "So where is it?" Johnny asked. Before Charlotte could reply, Beatrice was at the back door.

       "Charlotte. Mama wants you to go to the store for her."

       "All right." Charlotte loved to go to the store. It gave her a chance to show off her clothes. And she wasn’t afraid of the neighborhood kids, no matter what kinds of names they called her. "Want to come to the store with me, Johnny Labalm?" she taunted. He was still smarting from being called stupid, and the idea of going out into the street made him feel faint. But there was Charlotte, a rootbeer popsicle in her hand, and a smirk on her face.

       "Sure. Why not?"

       "You sure, Johnny Labalm?" she said, frowning.

       "Yeah, I’m sure."

       And just like that he found himself out in the street for the first time since he’d moved here. He was very conscious of his heartbeat. It was midmorning, already hot and muggy. The street shimmered in the heat. There was no sign of any of the neighborhood kids, but he knew they were around. Charlotte told him the grocery store was only about a five-minute walk. As they walked along the hot sidewalk Johnny began to feel better.

       Three bikes lay on their sides in front of the store. He recognized those bikes, and if it weren’t for Charlotte he would have turned around and run home. It was too late for running in any case. The boys came out of the store and spotted Johnny and Charlotte. Johnny recognized Jima Frecarsi, Primo Donini, and one of the Daggett brothers whose first name he didn’t know.

       "Look at this," said Primo Donini, "a tar baby and a pecker head." The three of them stood side by side blocking the entrance to the store. Charlotte wasn’t fazed; she put her fists on her hips and leaned towards them.

       "You just stand out the way so we can get in. You hear? You want me to get my daddy after you?"

       "Who’s this, Charlotte, your new boyfriend?" said Jima Frecarsi. He measured Johnny top to bottom with his eyes. Daggett broke away from the others and walked slowly behind Johnny. Primo Donini was looking at him in a way that made Johnny feel cold in spite of the heat. He began to tremble. Sweat broke out on his lip and forehead, under his arms. He was sure the boys could see his fear. Charlotte started to say something. Jima Frecarsi told her to shut up.

       "Who are you, kid?" said Primo Donini. He was big and beefy with a wide, red face, and not much of a neck. His arms were thick and dirty, dimpled near the elbows. In fact, all three of them were a lot bigger than Johnny.

       "My name’s Jack Labalm. I just moved here a couple weeks ago."

       "What’s this Jack business?" Charlotte said. "You such a liar, Johnny Labalm."

       "Who asked you, Aunt Jemima?" Jima Frecarsi said.

       "How come we ain’t seen you till now?" Donini asked. Johnny was worried about Daggett. He had disappeared. Primo Donini suddenly rushed him, tipping him over Daggett who was crouched down behind him. Johnny reached out his hands to break his fall and scraped his palms on the gravely sidewalk. The three of them were standing over him, laughing, the way Bill Scanlon, Curly, and Mr. Peacock had laughed at him last night. Charlotte stood speechless, mouth open. Johnny got up slowly, brushing gravel off the seat of his pants. The heels of his hands were cut and bleeding, and smarting like hell. He was trembling, this time with rage. He went for Donini with a looping right, his small fist clenched as tight as he could get it. He caught the surprised Donini flush on the mouth. His eyes opened wide. His hand flew to his mouth. Johnny leaped on him and wrestled him to the ground, getting in two or three good punches to Primo’s fat face before the others got around to pulling him off and flinging him to the sidewalk. They had started kicking at him when a man wearing a white apron came out of the store and drove them off. But not before one of them had gotten off a good one to Johnny’s face. Charlotte had been screaming in her shrill voice. This is what no doubt brought the grocery man out of his store.

       "We’ll be seein’ you, fuck stick," Daggett said as they mounted their bikes and rode off down the street, pumping furiously. Johnny’s face throbbed where he had been kicked, and when he got up he felt a sharp pain in his ribs.

       "You all right, chief?" the store man asked.

       "Yeah. I’m O.K." Charlotte was jabbering a mile a minute. "Take it easy, Charlotte," Johnny said, amazed at himself for how calm he sounded. "Everything’s all right."

       On the walk back home, Charlotte seemed not at all impressed with his performance, his display of physical courage, his bravery in the face of overwhelming odds.

       "If you hadn’t gone fightin’ with that Primo Donini and his friends we’d a been back by now. My mama gonna wonder why we took so long."

       "So why don’t you just tell her what happened?"

       "You nothin’ but a trouble maker, Johnny Labalm. A stupit liar and a trouble maker," Charlotte said, and stalked off ahead of him down the street, confounding him yet again.

       Johnny put a finger gingerly to his face. It was so tender he winced. He could actually feel his left eye closing. If Charlotte’s behavior puzzled him, the things she said and did no longer surprised him. He would have liked a little show of gratitude if not admiration for what he had done. In any case, he would see her tonight when he went over to watch the Phillies’ game with Satch. Satch would be proud of him if Charlotte wasn’t. So would his stepfather for that matter.

       "What in God’s name happened to you?" Johnny’s mother said when he came in the house through the front door for the first time on his own.

       "Just making friends in the neighborhood. Kids my own age." He’d rehearsed that little speech on the walk home.

       "I thought you had more sense," she said, shaking her head. Bill Scanlon was still asleep, bare assed, on the couch. "Come up to the bathroom and let me put some Mercurochrome on that face." He didn’t resist, as much as he hated the sting.

       "I couldn’t help it. I was attacked, and there were three of them, and Charlotte was with me. What was I supposed to do?"

       "The police are going to hear about this, you mark my words. Who are these boys? Do you know their names?"

       "If you call the cops you might as well sign my death warrant." He’d heard that line in a James Cagney movie. And it could very well be true, he thought, remembering Daggett’s parting words. "Anyhow, I don’t know who they were. I’ve never been out in the neighborhood before. Remember?"

       "And it’ll be a long time before you go out in it again. Not until school starts if I have anything to say about it." An hour ago this news would have been music to his ears, but now the idea of being confined to the house and backyard for the rest of the summer had lost its appeal.

       "I doubt if I’ll have any more trouble with those kids. I got one of them pretty good." He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. He had probably not seen the last of Jima Frecarsi, Primo Donini, and Daggett.

       "Why don’t you run a warm bath and soak for a while," his mother said, and left the bathroom. What he really wanted was for his stepfather to see him and ask what had happened. He would like to describe to him the whole scene in careful detail. The sound of Bill Scanlon’s braying snores filled the all but empty house.

       Johnny lingered in the bath so long his fingers started to wrinkle. How Charlotte managed to take three baths a day and look so smooth was more than he could figure. And what a waste of time. His stepfather was no longer on the couch when Johnny came downstairs. His mother told him that Scanlon had gone to try and get his job back at Howard Johnson’s, and if that didn’t work out to at least collect the money owed him. Without even brushing his teeth, Johnny thought with disgust. The question neither Johnny nor his mother dared ask, for different reasons, was would he come back home if he had a pocketful, or take off on another bender?

       A whole afternoon lay ahead of him before it would be time to go over to Satch’s to watch the game. His ribs were so sore from where he’d been kicked that it was hard even for him to breathe. Playing ball in the back yard was out of the question. The radio didn’t work, and there was no television. The only reading material around the house was his stepfather’s Police Gazette magazines. He supposed he could go and look for the library. He wasn’t as much afraid of running into the neighborhood kids now as he was of getting lost.

       Scanlon hadn’t come home by the time Johnny was ready to go next door. His mother was back in her crosswords again.

       "I’m going over to watch the Phillies’ game with Satch. O.K.?"

       "With your face looking like that? You’ll scare those people to death."

       His face was one reason Johnny was eager to get to Satch’s early. His left eye was by now a narrow slit, the skin around it a nice purple. In his condition he might even get a little sympathy from Charlotte.

       He went outside to a vivid sunset, all pinks and purples, and the air deliciously muggy. A perfect night for baseball. He lingered on his back steps for a while to savor the evening, feeling better than he felt since moving away from his home and friends in Vermont. It was early but Satch wouldn’t mind.

       Satch met him at the door as if he were expecting him early. He laid his big hand on Johnny’s shoulder and steered him toward the steps. Johnny sensed that something was wrong just in the way Satch touched him.

       "Come on out here a minute, Johnny. I want to talk at you a bit." Satch’s eyes were forever bloodshot, the whites yellowish and watery. They sat down on the steps. Satch rubbed his hands together. His lips moved as if he were talking under his breath, but no words came out of his mouth.

       "What is it, Satch?" Johnny’s voice was small and squeaky in his throat.

       Satch turned to him so fast he jumped. "What you tryin’ to do to my little girl? What kind of nasty things you been sayin’ to her?"

       "I told her I was sorry," Johnny said. He stared down at his feet, unable to look at Satch, unable to say another thing.

       "You and your friends tryin’ to make my little girl do those things. You should be ashamed of yourself, little boy," Satch said, as much to himself as to Johnny, because he had turned slightly away from Johnny, and was looking off toward the island in the cove. Whatever story Charlotte had concocted to get back at him, Satch had believed it. Whatever Johnny said now would not matter. He wouldn’t have been able to say anything anyway. He felt as if he were strangling. Tears filled his eyes and he was suddenly sobbing out of control.

       "Ain’t gonna do you no good to cry," Satch said, his voice hard and unforgiving. "I won’t let no harm come to my baby. No white trash gonna make my child unhappy."

       "I didn’t do anything," Johnny said between sobs. Where did Satch think he’d got his swollen face, his black eye? From his friends?

       "You best run on home now, Johnny. And maybe you better not come by no more. Everything be better you stay on your own side the house." Satch got up, brushed off the seat of his trousers and went inside, leaving Johnny alone on the steps.

       Johnny sat crying for a long time. When he was finished he got up and brushed off the seat of his pants just as Satch had done, and walked down to the edge of the water. The sun had gone down, and over on the island the neighborhood kids were playing stickball in the dwindling light. He was no longer afraid of them; neither did he have a desire to join them. His chest was tight from all the crying he’d done. He couldn’t go home now because it was too early and his mother would only ask a lot of questions.

       He went out on the street for the second time that day, and retraced the route he had taken with Charlotte to the grocery store. As he walked along the sidewalk, people sitting on their front steps stopped their conversations to stare at him. He must have been quite a sight at that. There was no sign of the boys he’d tussled with this morning. They were probably still out on the island.

       Johnny walked past the grocery store into unfamiliar territory. About a block from the store the street forked. He stayed left and walked another few blocks. Twilight was giving up to early darkness. Bugs were coming out in greater numbers and people were going inside to watch their television programs or listen to the radio. It was still too early to go home but he was beginning to feel the night close in around him, and he hurried back the way he had come. The big trees along the sidewalk took on monstrous shapes. He broke into a jog. He slowed down when he approached the grocery store where streetlights made the trees less menacing.

       He saw what looked like the glow of cigarettes in front of his house. He stopped and strained his eyes; he could make out three separate lighted cigarettes and he knew who they belonged to. Waiting for him, to seek their revenge? At this point he didn’t care. He went on to meet them. One of the cigarettes arced toward the street like a falling star, and by the time he reached his house the boys were gone.

       From the sidewalk he could look into the Toneys’ living room. The whole family was gathered there: Charlotte in her terrycloth bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel, sat in Satch’s lap, and head against his chest. Beatrice was at the ironing board, watching the television, running the iron over a piece of clothing. Mrs. Toney was in the chair he usually sat in, and all he could see was the back of her head. On the television screen Uncle Milty, dressed to the neck in a gorilla costume, carrying the head of it football fashion, was moving his lips and sending the Toney family into fits of laughter. Johnny wondered why Satch wasn’t watching the game. Johnny stood outside for a while and watched the Toneys enjoy the television.

       He went into his house through the front door to find Bill Scanlon asleep on the couch, snoring so loudly the house shook. He was fully clothed and stank of whiskey. His mother was probably in the kitchen with her damned crossword puzzle. He went upstairs without saying good night to his mother.

       ` His half-brother, Billy, was whimpering. Keith was awake too. They slept in bunk beds, Billy on the bottom because of his bed-wetting.

       "What’s the matter with you?" Johnny said to Billy.

       "He wet the bed," said Keith, and daddy’s going to give him a licking in the morning."

       "You don’t have to sound so happy about it," Johnny said. He sat down on the edge of Billy’s bed and put his hand on his half-brother’s damp back.

       "Stop crying, Billy. It’s all right. We won’t let him find out."

       "How?" Billy sobbed, "The bed’s all wet."

       "Come on. Get up and give me a hand." Billy got out of his wet bed. Together they pulled the mattress off and swapped it with the one on Johnny’s bed. "You’ve got to try hard not to pee again tonight. Do you think you can do that?"

       Billy nodded. Johnny made him go to the bathroom just in case. He made Keith promise to keep his mouth shut.

       Johnny spread a blanket over the sodden mattress and lay down, enveloped in the smell of pee. He closed his eyes; the events of the day raced past his eyelids. Thinking about Charlotte only made him angry, and he tried his best to put her and her father out of his mind. From now on he would concentrate on getting back to Vermont, even if he had to run away and take Keith and Billy with him.

       While he was still very wide-awake, the bedroom door opened. His mother appeared in the doorway framed by the light from the hall behind her. A cigarette hung from her mouth. Johnny pretended to be asleep. She stayed in the doorway for a long time, it seemed to him. Then she closed it quietly without coming into the room.

Michael Burns is 59 years old and completed his first novel last spring while on sabbatical from St. Paul's School in Concord, NH where he has been teaching science since 1970. Presently, he is at work on another novel called Where You Are.

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