Ironman by Chris Crutcher Page A

them knows. Even Hudgie’s attention is drawn.
    â€œRules the same?”
    â€œWhat’s gettin’ under your saddle, Elvis?”
    â€œNobody talks outside of here. Shit that’s said here, stays here?”
    Nak nods, his eyes meeting Elvis’s. “Yes.” He turns his attention to the group as a whole. “I’ll say it agin,” he says. “Nothin’ much gets me riled, I think you all know that. But if I hear any of you talkin’ about whathappens here to anyone who ain’t here, you’re gonna have a load o’ me to deal with. Everbody okay with that?”
    That’s how he commands all that power, Bo thinks. He lays back until something’s really important, then he comes on full blast.
    Nak’s request is met with quiet unanimity.
    His gaze drifts back to Elvis. “That’s good enough?”
    â€œI guess,” Elvis says. “Has to be. ’Cept I don’t trust Brewster.”
    Bo’s face instantly flushes.
    â€œAnd why is that?” Nak asks.
    â€œHe ain’t one of us. Look at him. Look at his clothes. Hell, look at his face. He ain’t one of us.”
    Shelly’s head snaps up, her look combative. “You haven’t talked since you came here, Elvis. You don’t get to decide who’s one of us and who isn’t.”
    â€œMaybe I do and maybe I don’t,” Elvis says calmly, “but no matter who decides, you are and Brewster ain’t. Them fancy jock clothes don’t fool me, sweetheart, you been through some shit. You ain’t makin’ all them muscles for looks.”
    â€œKeep talking, and I’ll try them out on you,” Shelly says.
    Nak interrupts. “Whoa, whoa. You can head over tothe OK Corral when we’re done here. Meantime, let’s get on with it. You ain’t talkin’ outsidea here, are you, Bo?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s good enough for me. Go ahead, Elvis. Tell us about the bullet.”
    Elvis’s eyes narrow at Bo. “I’m warnin’ you, Brewster.”
    â€œHe’s good, Elvis. Tell us about the bullet.”
    â€œIt was the one my old lady killed herself with. She was Dad’s first wife. He’s been through three more.”
    Dead silence.
    â€œI didn’t know your mother committed suicide, Elvis,” Nak says after a moment. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
    Elvis shakes his head quickly. “No matter. Happened a long time ago, before we moved here. Four years.”
    Gazes fall to the floor as Elvis glances yet again around the room, with the exception of Hudgie’s, which is wide-eyed frozen on Elvis’s face. Elvis catches it, is seemingly unnerved, suddenly hesitant.
    Nak reads his mind. “We’re all in it now, Elvis. Go on ahead. Tell us about your mother. Tell us about the bullet.”
    â€œCame in a box,” Elvis says finally. “All wrapped up nice in paper an’ ribbons. There was a card. We was at the dinner table, me an’ my little brother and sisteran’ my old man. He opened the box ’cause it didn’t say who it was from; couldn’ta known what was in it. There was all this tissue paper an’ cotton, an’ right in the middle was this bullet, been spent. So Dad says, ‘What the hell?’ an’ opens the card. His eyes like to pop out of his head while he’s readin’ it, then he looks over my head an’ out the window—looks scared like I ain’t never seen him—an’ he reads it again. Then he jumps up an’ runs to his room. Knocks a pan off the stove an’ kicks over a lamp on his way. Gets on his coat an’ he’s gone.”
    Shuja says, “So how long he gone for? Mussa been one dyn-o-mite epistle.”
    â€œNever come back,” Elvis says, and takes a deep breath. “My goddamn little sister an’ brother start bawlin’, an’ I tell ’em to shut the hell up