I Don't Know How the Story Ends by J.B. Cheaney Page A

hard punch to the ribs. The sound of air bursting from his lungs was so sharp I felt it.
    Sylvie would have charged in, but Sam moved faster. He dropped from the pier and grabbed Danny by the collar band, twisting until the boy gasped for air. “Pretty day, ain’t it? Why don’t you go throw some sticks for your dog—who’s got better manners than you.”
    He punctuated you with a shove, and Danny stumbled on the sand. The boy picked up his cap and crammed it on his head, shifting his glare from Sam to Ranger. “You still owe us one, Mud-face!” Then he hauled up his little brother and marched back toward the arcade, Champ frisking after them with never a backward glance.
    Even Sylvie knew enough to keep her mouth shut. In the silence, busy fingers of ocean foam drummed away from the wooden piles of the dock, leaving them naked in the oozy sand.
    â€œDon’t let those twits get to ya,” Sam said softly.
    â€œI’m not.” Ranger suddenly kicked up a geyser of sand. “What gets to me is a whole day’s work wasted because of that damn dog!”
    â€œOh.” Sam stepped back on the pier and began dismounting the camera. “We might be able to use some of it—you never know. In the meantime, watch your language around the ladies.”
    â€œI’m no lady!” Sylvie sputtered indignantly. As for me, I was glad he noticed.
    â€¢ • •
    Ranger was rather taciturn on the bus. I might have said “sulky,” except for being unsure if it was the insult from Danny or the loss of a good day’s footage that galled him more. When Sylvie finally leaned her damp head against my shoulder and drifted off to sleep, he burst out: “All right, I know you’re wondering. My mother was Indian. As in ‘You’re a better man than I, Gunga Din.’ That’s why the ‘half-breed.’”
    I was about to tell him I already knew that, but he had taken out his wallet and was thumbing through it. “Here’s a picture.”
    Not just a picture. What he thrust at me was none other than Mr. and Mrs. Titus Bell—the first Mrs. Bell that is, a dark petite woman with a shy smile and velvety eyes. Mr. Bell towered over her. With his long face and wide mouth, he reminded me of Tom Mix the cowboy actor.
    â€œI can’t decide who you look like more,” I remarked after a moment.
    â€œThat’s easy—Pa, from the scalp up. Her from the skin out.”
    It was more complicated than that. Ranger was an odd combination. He had his father’s mouth and crinkly hair, but his mother’s small build and melting eyes.
    â€œShe was very beautiful,” I said, handing back the photograph.
    â€œUh-huh.” He tucked it in his wallet. “One of Pa’s exotic imports, like the African drums and Jap prints.”
    â€œWhat a thing to say about your own mother!” I was truly shocked.
    Ranger rubbed his cheek hard, as though trying to lighten the color. “Sorry. It’s just that I don’t remember her at all. Everybody else seems to—and they’ll never let me forget. But I was doing all right until Pa made me go to St. Michael’s Preparatory Academy.”
    â€œDoes he know you get picked on?”
    â€œSure. I’ve told him, and Buzzy’s told him.”
    â€œWhat does he say?”
    â€œHe always throws some Kipling at me: ‘You’ll be a man, my son,’ all that.” Ranger stood up, steadying himself with one hand on the overhead grip and the other hand clutching his jacket lapel. “And then something like, ‘Your mother was a lady of elegance and breeding, and it’s to my sorrow you don’t remember her. But you must learn that those petty slings and arrows can’t make a dent in the inner man.’”
    He stuck his chin out, much to the amusement of the little boy who sat across from us with his mother. Ranger’s imitation was