sunlight. He pushed it back up. “Late morning, to be on the safe side.”
Kenneth looked at McEban to see what he thought of the helmet, but if he was thinking anything at all it didn’t show. Hismother always said, “McEban wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouth full of it.” If she was right, he thought, it worked in her favor.
They dropped off a pair of boots at Burke’s to have them resoled and -heeled, and stayed longer in the bank than was necessary, enjoying the central air. When they felt refreshed, they walked across Bighorn Avenue to the Carnegie Library and stood on the plastic runners that covered the carpet between the bookshelves to argue over their list, whispering about which books might provide the most enjoyment.
Kenneth liked the building’s musty odor, how the sunlight fell in through the high louvered windows, the general effort made for quietude and solemnity. When he was too young to have figured out how the world worked yet, he thought the place an actual annex of heaven. He believed, when he tilted a book down from the shelf, sat cross-legged in the aisle and held it open reverently against his thighs, that he was holding the soul of the man or woman who had written it. He wept when Mr. Simmler, the librarian, told him, “Young sir, your head is in a place where the sun will not shine.” He called all the boys in town “young sir” and the girls “young madam.”
They settled finally on
Smoky, The Adventures of Robin Hood and Artemis Fowl
. Kenneth carried the books up to the circulation desk and stood waiting for Mr. Simmler to finish his game of solitaire, raising up on his toes so he could see the cards. “You can play the red four on the black five,” he said.
Mr. Simmler tilted his head, studying the layout. “So I can.” He played the four over, but now his concentration was broken and he laid the deck aside. “What have you got there?”
Kenneth slid the books up on the counter, and Mr. Simmler took up
The Adventures of Robin Hood
. “All good choices, young sir.” He slipped the date-due cards from the pockets inside the front covers and stamped them. He was wearing a green visor and a bolo tie with four silver aces fanned at his throat, and when he looked over to where they racked the magazines, Kenneth looked too.McEban was leaned against the metal shelving and leafing through a
Popular Mechanics
. “Indeed,” Mr. Simmler said.
When they left the Carnegie it wasn’t late enough to drive home and fix supper, and still hot as the welding shop, so they parked where the Fourth Street Bridge used to be. Bikes were tilted over among the cottonwoods, and they could hear the screams of boys, a dog barking, the laughter of older children. McEban stepped out of the truck and Kenneth worked his swimming trunks out from behind the seat.
“Anybody watching?” he called, and when McEban shook his head he peeled down to his underwear and pulled the trunks on, kneeling on the seat to tie the cord at the waistband. “Mr. Simmler looks like he wishes he was dealing cards in a Western movie.”
McEban smiled from where he stood with a boot up on the front bumper. “As far as I know he’s never worked anywhere but the library.”
Kenneth jumped out, turning his left foot up to get at the bottle cap stuck to his heel. He pried it off and wound up like a big leaguer, pitching it into the trees.
They started slowly toward the creek, Kenneth being careful about the scatter of brown glass, stopping to watch an astonishingly pale fat boy climb to the top of the concrete abutment and launch himself, shrieking, out into the air over the creek. A heartbeat passed and the noise was abruptly choked off, and then a spray of water rose into the sunlight.
“Was that Clyde or Claude?” McEban asked.
“Clyde.”
“How can you tell?”
“Claude’s fatter.”
Across the creek on the far abutment, two high-school girls in bikinis were lounging on towels with a tall boy standing
Kenneth looked at McEban to see what he thought of the helmet, but if he was thinking anything at all it didn’t show. Hismother always said, “McEban wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouth full of it.” If she was right, he thought, it worked in her favor.
They dropped off a pair of boots at Burke’s to have them resoled and -heeled, and stayed longer in the bank than was necessary, enjoying the central air. When they felt refreshed, they walked across Bighorn Avenue to the Carnegie Library and stood on the plastic runners that covered the carpet between the bookshelves to argue over their list, whispering about which books might provide the most enjoyment.
Kenneth liked the building’s musty odor, how the sunlight fell in through the high louvered windows, the general effort made for quietude and solemnity. When he was too young to have figured out how the world worked yet, he thought the place an actual annex of heaven. He believed, when he tilted a book down from the shelf, sat cross-legged in the aisle and held it open reverently against his thighs, that he was holding the soul of the man or woman who had written it. He wept when Mr. Simmler, the librarian, told him, “Young sir, your head is in a place where the sun will not shine.” He called all the boys in town “young sir” and the girls “young madam.”
They settled finally on
Smoky, The Adventures of Robin Hood and Artemis Fowl
. Kenneth carried the books up to the circulation desk and stood waiting for Mr. Simmler to finish his game of solitaire, raising up on his toes so he could see the cards. “You can play the red four on the black five,” he said.
Mr. Simmler tilted his head, studying the layout. “So I can.” He played the four over, but now his concentration was broken and he laid the deck aside. “What have you got there?”
Kenneth slid the books up on the counter, and Mr. Simmler took up
The Adventures of Robin Hood
. “All good choices, young sir.” He slipped the date-due cards from the pockets inside the front covers and stamped them. He was wearing a green visor and a bolo tie with four silver aces fanned at his throat, and when he looked over to where they racked the magazines, Kenneth looked too.McEban was leaned against the metal shelving and leafing through a
Popular Mechanics
. “Indeed,” Mr. Simmler said.
When they left the Carnegie it wasn’t late enough to drive home and fix supper, and still hot as the welding shop, so they parked where the Fourth Street Bridge used to be. Bikes were tilted over among the cottonwoods, and they could hear the screams of boys, a dog barking, the laughter of older children. McEban stepped out of the truck and Kenneth worked his swimming trunks out from behind the seat.
“Anybody watching?” he called, and when McEban shook his head he peeled down to his underwear and pulled the trunks on, kneeling on the seat to tie the cord at the waistband. “Mr. Simmler looks like he wishes he was dealing cards in a Western movie.”
McEban smiled from where he stood with a boot up on the front bumper. “As far as I know he’s never worked anywhere but the library.”
Kenneth jumped out, turning his left foot up to get at the bottle cap stuck to his heel. He pried it off and wound up like a big leaguer, pitching it into the trees.
They started slowly toward the creek, Kenneth being careful about the scatter of brown glass, stopping to watch an astonishingly pale fat boy climb to the top of the concrete abutment and launch himself, shrieking, out into the air over the creek. A heartbeat passed and the noise was abruptly choked off, and then a spray of water rose into the sunlight.
“Was that Clyde or Claude?” McEban asked.
“Clyde.”
“How can you tell?”
“Claude’s fatter.”
Across the creek on the far abutment, two high-school girls in bikinis were lounging on towels with a tall boy standing
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