out of your ass and listen to something besides your own useless guitar, you’d know that this could be the end of the world starting right here on our farm. We could be so rich we’d never have to milk another cow again.”
“If the world comes to an end, we won’t have to, anyway, we won’t need money. Besides, we’re not supposed to lay up treasure on earth.”
“I’d love to have me a little car like Frenchie Grellier drives,” Junior grumbled. “It’d be great to rub those golden Grellier noses in our shit for a change.”
The remark reminded Robbie again of sitting squashed behind Lara, the smell of her hair, the softness of her skin at the nape of her neck. If Junior had a little sports car, he and Eddie Burton would ride around in it, terrorizing the county. Not that they didn’t already, on Junior’s bike.
“Chip bought the car with the money he made working last year’s harvest. Do you know that Mr. Grellier pays him for his time in the field at harvest? Can you imagine Dad paying us to do the milking?”
“If Soapweed’s calf is this special heifer the Jews need, we’ll be able to hire two men to do the milking for us,” Junior gloated.
All that day at school, Robbie thought of Soapweed’s calf, alone in her special pen behind the barns, crying for company. Then he thought of buying his own sports car, of Lara Grellier sitting next to him. They’d be parked out back of Clinton Lake, with the top down. He’d be playing a song to her, a love song. Her lips parted, eyes glowing at him, her blouse unbuttoned so he could see her breasts. He drew a picture of them in his Spanish notebook, small, firm, the nipples little raspberries.
When the bell rang, he saw her in the hall, laughing with Melanie Derwint and Kimberly Ropes. The trio passed him as if he weren’t there, so they didn’t notice the blush that turned his dark skin to mahogany.
When he and Junior got home a little after three, Pastor Nabo was already there, pacing restlessly around the front room, the room they opened up only when company came. Myra had lit the oil heater, so that the room was warm but smelled greasy.
Robbie went upstairs to change into the blue-striped shirt Nanny had ironed. The sleeves were already too short, but she wouldn’t buy him another shirt until next year. Arnie would never pay him for his work on the farm; he and Myra thought the Fifth Commandment was the cornerstone of Christian faith. More than not committing adultery or murder, you must honor your father and grandmother.
Robbie studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. If he rolled up his sleeves, the shirt wouldn’t make him look so much like a chimp, his too-long arms swinging at his sides.
He went to the landing and peered over the banister. Junior was sucking up to Pastor Nabo, calling him sir and laughing heartily at something the pastor had said. “Yes, sir, Pastor, I suck dick,” Robbie muttered. He pulled a grimy notepad from his back pocket and sat on the top step.
Love your neighbor
As you love yourself.
Jesus taught us this.
Jesus taught us this.
I love my neighbor.
Her hair is like bronze,
Soft bronze,
Living bronze,
It moves in the breeze,
Shines in the sun.
I love my neighbor.
Her breasts are like—
Like what? Like little ice-cream sundaes with cherries on top? He’d never seen any girl’s breasts, just snuck looks in a magazine when he was out on his own in a place where no one could possibly tell on him. Lara’s breasts weren’t like that, not those huge, gross mounds of flesh in the photographs. Hers were small and white. When she wore a tank top to school, he could see the soft shape through the fabric, so small his hand would completely cover them.
I love my neighbor, but she doesn’t know I exist, and if she does think about me she imagines I’m the same kind of jerk as my brother. He put the notepad back into his pocket and went downstairs before his grandmother sent Junior up to find
“If the world comes to an end, we won’t have to, anyway, we won’t need money. Besides, we’re not supposed to lay up treasure on earth.”
“I’d love to have me a little car like Frenchie Grellier drives,” Junior grumbled. “It’d be great to rub those golden Grellier noses in our shit for a change.”
The remark reminded Robbie again of sitting squashed behind Lara, the smell of her hair, the softness of her skin at the nape of her neck. If Junior had a little sports car, he and Eddie Burton would ride around in it, terrorizing the county. Not that they didn’t already, on Junior’s bike.
“Chip bought the car with the money he made working last year’s harvest. Do you know that Mr. Grellier pays him for his time in the field at harvest? Can you imagine Dad paying us to do the milking?”
“If Soapweed’s calf is this special heifer the Jews need, we’ll be able to hire two men to do the milking for us,” Junior gloated.
All that day at school, Robbie thought of Soapweed’s calf, alone in her special pen behind the barns, crying for company. Then he thought of buying his own sports car, of Lara Grellier sitting next to him. They’d be parked out back of Clinton Lake, with the top down. He’d be playing a song to her, a love song. Her lips parted, eyes glowing at him, her blouse unbuttoned so he could see her breasts. He drew a picture of them in his Spanish notebook, small, firm, the nipples little raspberries.
When the bell rang, he saw her in the hall, laughing with Melanie Derwint and Kimberly Ropes. The trio passed him as if he weren’t there, so they didn’t notice the blush that turned his dark skin to mahogany.
When he and Junior got home a little after three, Pastor Nabo was already there, pacing restlessly around the front room, the room they opened up only when company came. Myra had lit the oil heater, so that the room was warm but smelled greasy.
Robbie went upstairs to change into the blue-striped shirt Nanny had ironed. The sleeves were already too short, but she wouldn’t buy him another shirt until next year. Arnie would never pay him for his work on the farm; he and Myra thought the Fifth Commandment was the cornerstone of Christian faith. More than not committing adultery or murder, you must honor your father and grandmother.
Robbie studied his reflection in the bathroom mirror. If he rolled up his sleeves, the shirt wouldn’t make him look so much like a chimp, his too-long arms swinging at his sides.
He went to the landing and peered over the banister. Junior was sucking up to Pastor Nabo, calling him sir and laughing heartily at something the pastor had said. “Yes, sir, Pastor, I suck dick,” Robbie muttered. He pulled a grimy notepad from his back pocket and sat on the top step.
Love your neighbor
As you love yourself.
Jesus taught us this.
Jesus taught us this.
I love my neighbor.
Her hair is like bronze,
Soft bronze,
Living bronze,
It moves in the breeze,
Shines in the sun.
I love my neighbor.
Her breasts are like—
Like what? Like little ice-cream sundaes with cherries on top? He’d never seen any girl’s breasts, just snuck looks in a magazine when he was out on his own in a place where no one could possibly tell on him. Lara’s breasts weren’t like that, not those huge, gross mounds of flesh in the photographs. Hers were small and white. When she wore a tank top to school, he could see the soft shape through the fabric, so small his hand would completely cover them.
I love my neighbor, but she doesn’t know I exist, and if she does think about me she imagines I’m the same kind of jerk as my brother. He put the notepad back into his pocket and went downstairs before his grandmother sent Junior up to find
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