fourth quarter, when Rocky's replacement, a slippery junior named Tim LeMaster, ran forty yards for what turned out to be the winning touchdown. When the game ended Coach Whalen cried andled us on a victory parade through the streets of Springdale. Hundreds of people lined the route, cheering us on.
There was a wild celebration that night at Eileen Murphy's. People were drinking grain alcohol mixed with Kool-Aid. The music was louder, the dancing crazier than usual. It was like that picture from the end of World War II: you could grab any girl you wanted and kiss her on the lips. I saw Randy Dudley and Janet Lorenzo making out on the couch. He had his hand inside her sweater. Her black eye had almost healed. In a day or two, I thought, no one would even remember it.
I left around ten and walked across town to Rocky's house. His brother, Chuck, answered the door. The resemblance was striking, even though Chuck had straight hair and a beard streaked with gray. I tried not to stare at the empty shirt sleeve tucked neatly into the pocket of his jeans.
“Is Rocky home?”
Chuck shook his head. “He's at his girlfriend's.”
I headed back to my own neighborhood. Wendy's house was dark, but I saw with relief that Rocky's station wagon was parked out front. I climbed the steps, took a deep breath, and rang the bell, already rehearsing my apology. The door creaked open. Wendy put her finger to her lips before I could speak.
“We're having a seance,” she whispered.
“I didn't mean to interrupt,” I said.
“Don't be silly. We were hoping you'd come.”
A single candle was burning in the middle of the kitchen table. Shadows trembled on Rocky's face as he watched me walk past the refrigerator and sit down across from him. I was nervous at first. I had never taken part in a seance and wasn't sure about the procedure.
It's not that complicated. You hold hands. No one makes a sound. You try not to smile.
A Bill Floyd Xmas
E very December, my father and I went up to the attic and carried down a big cardboard box with the words “NONFLAMMABLE XMAS TREE” printed on all four sides. We opened the box in the living room and removed the paper bags stacked inside. The bags were numbered and contained branches made of green bristle and twisted wire. Off the tree, they looked like something you would use to clean a toilet.
It was easy to build the tree. First we screwed two green dowels together to make a trunk, then stood the trunk upright in a red metal stand. Starting from the bottom and working up, we inserted branch stems into holes drilled in the trunk. After my father set the tree's cactus-shaped crown in place, my mother joined us to hang the ornaments and string the tinsel garlands. We wrapped a glittery cloth around the base, then fastened a blinking angel to the top branch. When we were through,it was hard to believe our tree had come in a box.
This tradition lasted until 1977, my junior year of high school, when I came home from the deli where I worked, and found an immense new tree in the living room. It was bare of ornaments and powerfully sleek, like a green rocket about to blast off through the ceiling. A short distance away, my father sat in his usual spot on the couch, reading the newspaper.
“You could have waited for me,” I said. “I would have helped you put it together.”
He brought the paper slowly away from his face. It took a few seconds for my words to register.
“Nothing to help with.” He got up from the couch. My father wasn't a small man, but he looked small standing next to the tree. He tugged on a branch to demonstrate that it wouldn't detach. “Nope,” he said. “This one's a unit.”
“Where'd you get it?”
“Bill Floyd.”
“Why'd Bill Floyd give you a Christmas tree?”
“His mother passed away this summer. He says he's not in the mood for Christmas.” My father shrugged. “I jumped when he made the offer.”
Just then my mother came down the stairs, a stack of
There was a wild celebration that night at Eileen Murphy's. People were drinking grain alcohol mixed with Kool-Aid. The music was louder, the dancing crazier than usual. It was like that picture from the end of World War II: you could grab any girl you wanted and kiss her on the lips. I saw Randy Dudley and Janet Lorenzo making out on the couch. He had his hand inside her sweater. Her black eye had almost healed. In a day or two, I thought, no one would even remember it.
I left around ten and walked across town to Rocky's house. His brother, Chuck, answered the door. The resemblance was striking, even though Chuck had straight hair and a beard streaked with gray. I tried not to stare at the empty shirt sleeve tucked neatly into the pocket of his jeans.
“Is Rocky home?”
Chuck shook his head. “He's at his girlfriend's.”
I headed back to my own neighborhood. Wendy's house was dark, but I saw with relief that Rocky's station wagon was parked out front. I climbed the steps, took a deep breath, and rang the bell, already rehearsing my apology. The door creaked open. Wendy put her finger to her lips before I could speak.
“We're having a seance,” she whispered.
“I didn't mean to interrupt,” I said.
“Don't be silly. We were hoping you'd come.”
A single candle was burning in the middle of the kitchen table. Shadows trembled on Rocky's face as he watched me walk past the refrigerator and sit down across from him. I was nervous at first. I had never taken part in a seance and wasn't sure about the procedure.
It's not that complicated. You hold hands. No one makes a sound. You try not to smile.
A Bill Floyd Xmas
E very December, my father and I went up to the attic and carried down a big cardboard box with the words “NONFLAMMABLE XMAS TREE” printed on all four sides. We opened the box in the living room and removed the paper bags stacked inside. The bags were numbered and contained branches made of green bristle and twisted wire. Off the tree, they looked like something you would use to clean a toilet.
It was easy to build the tree. First we screwed two green dowels together to make a trunk, then stood the trunk upright in a red metal stand. Starting from the bottom and working up, we inserted branch stems into holes drilled in the trunk. After my father set the tree's cactus-shaped crown in place, my mother joined us to hang the ornaments and string the tinsel garlands. We wrapped a glittery cloth around the base, then fastened a blinking angel to the top branch. When we were through,it was hard to believe our tree had come in a box.
This tradition lasted until 1977, my junior year of high school, when I came home from the deli where I worked, and found an immense new tree in the living room. It was bare of ornaments and powerfully sleek, like a green rocket about to blast off through the ceiling. A short distance away, my father sat in his usual spot on the couch, reading the newspaper.
“You could have waited for me,” I said. “I would have helped you put it together.”
He brought the paper slowly away from his face. It took a few seconds for my words to register.
“Nothing to help with.” He got up from the couch. My father wasn't a small man, but he looked small standing next to the tree. He tugged on a branch to demonstrate that it wouldn't detach. “Nope,” he said. “This one's a unit.”
“Where'd you get it?”
“Bill Floyd.”
“Why'd Bill Floyd give you a Christmas tree?”
“His mother passed away this summer. He says he's not in the mood for Christmas.” My father shrugged. “I jumped when he made the offer.”
Just then my mother came down the stairs, a stack of
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