creekwater, the breeze providing a welcome coolness. That was the best part of the trip.
But here they were home and he’d changed out of his wet swimming trunks, standing on the porch with his backpack leaned against his leg, waiting for McEban to be done talking with Rodney. He shifted his stance, adjusting the basketball against his hip. He’d thought about packing his baseball and glove, but didn’t know how a game of catch would go over in Laramie. He knew he could shoot baskets by himself. He watched the men at the pickup, thinking he might be getting sick, and then he was sure of it.
“I need to see you for a minute,” he called. His voice sounded frail and he cleared his throat.
They turned, staring at him, and he knew for a fact he was the last person he could think of to figure out that this friend of his mother’s was his real dad, and that McEban had always known it.
“I’m sorry,” he said when McEban stepped up beside him.
“For what? Did you set fire to something?” He was trying to make a joke, but it didn’t come out funny.
“I’m getting sick,” the boy told him.
“You were fine a while ago.”
“Now I feel like puking.”
They heard the pickup door open and watched Rodney pull the keys out of the ignition to make the dinging sound stop, then lean back into the shade of the cab.
“I don’t like it either, Kenneth, but this isn’t something we can get away from. He showed me the papers. He showed me where your mother signed.”
The boy looked at where she parked her trailer beside the house, the spot rutted from the tires, the bunchgrass broken and discolored. “You would’ve told me if you knew this was going to happen, right?”
McEban knelt down on a knee in front of him. “I guess maybe not,” he said. “I guess I always thought it might, I just didn’t know when. But I’ll bet this turns out to be fine.”
“Is that what you really think?”
“It’s only for three weeks. I think you can have a good time if you’ll let yourself.”
Kenneth bounced the ball once, then settled it on a porch chair. “I need you to look at something.”
“All right.”
“Inside, I mean.”
McEban followed him into the kitchen and he bent over at the counter, wedging his hands up against the edge like some rough cop had just ordered him to. When they heard the truckdoor slam, Kenneth laid his face against his arm and looked out the screen door. “I hurt my back.”
McEban stared down at his thin back, the T-shirt stained off-center on the right side near his waist. The blood was bright and fresh, dried only at the edges. “Well, Jesus Christ,” he said, carefully pinching the shirt up.
“Is it bad?” the boy asked.
“You sound like you wouldn’t mind if we had to go in to the doctor’s.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Kenneth nodded, his cheek still pressed against his arm. “I didn’t think it was. I could sort of see it with the hand mirror in the bathroom.”
The skin was scraped away behind his right kidney, but it didn’t appear to go deeper. “I’ll bet this hurt like a son of a bitch when you did it.”
“I didn’t feel anything till I got out of the water. That’s two quarters you owe me.”
“I’m going to have to put something on it.”
“You sure?”
“I’ll find something that won’t sting too much.”
McEban went into the bathroom and came back with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a bag of cotton balls, a tube of antibiotic salve, a package of square gauze bandages and tape, all of it cradled up against his chest. When he dabbed at the wound with a peroxide-soaked cotton ball, the boy widened his stance and hung his head between his shoulders. McEban could hear him breathing through his mouth.
“That’s not too bad, is it?”
“It’s okay.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last time I jumped, I came down too close to the concrete. I was showing off.”
“How come you didn’t say anything?” He was
But here they were home and he’d changed out of his wet swimming trunks, standing on the porch with his backpack leaned against his leg, waiting for McEban to be done talking with Rodney. He shifted his stance, adjusting the basketball against his hip. He’d thought about packing his baseball and glove, but didn’t know how a game of catch would go over in Laramie. He knew he could shoot baskets by himself. He watched the men at the pickup, thinking he might be getting sick, and then he was sure of it.
“I need to see you for a minute,” he called. His voice sounded frail and he cleared his throat.
They turned, staring at him, and he knew for a fact he was the last person he could think of to figure out that this friend of his mother’s was his real dad, and that McEban had always known it.
“I’m sorry,” he said when McEban stepped up beside him.
“For what? Did you set fire to something?” He was trying to make a joke, but it didn’t come out funny.
“I’m getting sick,” the boy told him.
“You were fine a while ago.”
“Now I feel like puking.”
They heard the pickup door open and watched Rodney pull the keys out of the ignition to make the dinging sound stop, then lean back into the shade of the cab.
“I don’t like it either, Kenneth, but this isn’t something we can get away from. He showed me the papers. He showed me where your mother signed.”
The boy looked at where she parked her trailer beside the house, the spot rutted from the tires, the bunchgrass broken and discolored. “You would’ve told me if you knew this was going to happen, right?”
McEban knelt down on a knee in front of him. “I guess maybe not,” he said. “I guess I always thought it might, I just didn’t know when. But I’ll bet this turns out to be fine.”
“Is that what you really think?”
“It’s only for three weeks. I think you can have a good time if you’ll let yourself.”
Kenneth bounced the ball once, then settled it on a porch chair. “I need you to look at something.”
“All right.”
“Inside, I mean.”
McEban followed him into the kitchen and he bent over at the counter, wedging his hands up against the edge like some rough cop had just ordered him to. When they heard the truckdoor slam, Kenneth laid his face against his arm and looked out the screen door. “I hurt my back.”
McEban stared down at his thin back, the T-shirt stained off-center on the right side near his waist. The blood was bright and fresh, dried only at the edges. “Well, Jesus Christ,” he said, carefully pinching the shirt up.
“Is it bad?” the boy asked.
“You sound like you wouldn’t mind if we had to go in to the doctor’s.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Kenneth nodded, his cheek still pressed against his arm. “I didn’t think it was. I could sort of see it with the hand mirror in the bathroom.”
The skin was scraped away behind his right kidney, but it didn’t appear to go deeper. “I’ll bet this hurt like a son of a bitch when you did it.”
“I didn’t feel anything till I got out of the water. That’s two quarters you owe me.”
“I’m going to have to put something on it.”
“You sure?”
“I’ll find something that won’t sting too much.”
McEban went into the bathroom and came back with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a bag of cotton balls, a tube of antibiotic salve, a package of square gauze bandages and tape, all of it cradled up against his chest. When he dabbed at the wound with a peroxide-soaked cotton ball, the boy widened his stance and hung his head between his shoulders. McEban could hear him breathing through his mouth.
“That’s not too bad, is it?”
“It’s okay.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last time I jumped, I came down too close to the concrete. I was showing off.”
“How come you didn’t say anything?” He was
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