it.
“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.
“Gonna mount it,” Tom said instantly. “You know, like a deer head? Tack it to some stained wood, something real classy, maybe hang it up in the barn? Then make up a sign, put it out on the road. Maybe put some advertisements in the paper in Monroeville. Course, I’ll have to clean up the barn. That ought to take a while. It’s so hot in there, there’s no ventilation. You guys ever want to make a couple bucks, you let me know. I got some pitchforks, you can clear out all that hay for me, huh?”
Tom’s voice was prouder now, and though he spoke at the boys, his voice was aimed at the teenagers. After a moment, he kicked at a clump of weeds. “I got to get something from this,” he murmured. “It’s unusual. It’s great. Nobody out there’s seen anything like it, I bet.”
Fifteen minutes were spent staring at the thing and pointing out its various attributes. Tom drifted toward the barn, where six or seven mangy cats nuzzled his ankles. Willie moved away and sat alone in the shadow of the silo. Reggie gravitated to the teenagers and began speaking to them in an artificially lowered voice. James alone remained hunched over the Monster, knees shaking, forehead pinched, back smarting. He tried to imagine this thing alive, its brittle bones lashed with muscle and covered with fur or scales or feathers, or some combination of all three, but as hard as he tried he could not do it. The Monster seemed like something that had always been dead, something stillborn into an apple box,packed unceremoniously into a crate, and suffocated in an attic for a hundred years. There was no life here.
When it came time to go, James had to call Reggie five or six times before Reggie rolled his eyes at the teenagers and nodded goodbye. He bumped shoulders with James as they joined in step at the mouth of the path.
James felt like someone should say something. “I don’t know what kind of thing has teeth like that,” he offered.
“Or wings like that,” Willie added.
“You guys aren’t going to believe this,” said Reggie, his voice popping with the electricity that teenagers always provided him. “You know what they’re planning to do? The big kids? You’ll never guess what they’re planning to do.”
James did not look at him and did not answer. He prayed for Willie to stay quiet too.
“What?” asked Willie.
Reggie licked his lips and left them glistening with saliva.
“They’re going to steal it.”
James prayed for silence.
“Really?” asked Willie.
“Yeah,” said Reggie. “But guess who’s going to steal it first.”
Cut Down
T he next day, the boys decided to build a pulley system to get Willie up into the tree house, but were distracted by a dog that kept pacing around the trees behind the house. It watched them with black eyes and pawed the dirt, feigning approach before returning to shadow.
Willie disappeared inside and came back with binoculars and reported to the boys that the dog was fat. Reggie wrenched away the lens and planted it to his own eyes. “You can’t use these with one hand,” he muttered as he searched for the dog, found it, then adjusted some rings on the eyepieces.
“It’s going to have puppies,” he said.
They returned to work. Their tools included a hammer, a nest of nails, a length of rope, and a red metal pulley that Reggie had miraculously plucked from a trash can just down the street. Reggie did not usually poke through people’s trash—like most boys, he preferred the epic solitude of the junkyard—but for reasons unknown he was compelled to lift that lid, and when he held up the rusty metal gear, James knew just what to do with it.
“There’s a branch just above the roof,” said James. “You can’t see it, but I know it’s there.”
So he and Reggie scrambled up the steps, then up the side of the tree house itself, impressing themselves with their climbing abilities, then challenging each
“What are you going to do with it?” he asked.
“Gonna mount it,” Tom said instantly. “You know, like a deer head? Tack it to some stained wood, something real classy, maybe hang it up in the barn? Then make up a sign, put it out on the road. Maybe put some advertisements in the paper in Monroeville. Course, I’ll have to clean up the barn. That ought to take a while. It’s so hot in there, there’s no ventilation. You guys ever want to make a couple bucks, you let me know. I got some pitchforks, you can clear out all that hay for me, huh?”
Tom’s voice was prouder now, and though he spoke at the boys, his voice was aimed at the teenagers. After a moment, he kicked at a clump of weeds. “I got to get something from this,” he murmured. “It’s unusual. It’s great. Nobody out there’s seen anything like it, I bet.”
Fifteen minutes were spent staring at the thing and pointing out its various attributes. Tom drifted toward the barn, where six or seven mangy cats nuzzled his ankles. Willie moved away and sat alone in the shadow of the silo. Reggie gravitated to the teenagers and began speaking to them in an artificially lowered voice. James alone remained hunched over the Monster, knees shaking, forehead pinched, back smarting. He tried to imagine this thing alive, its brittle bones lashed with muscle and covered with fur or scales or feathers, or some combination of all three, but as hard as he tried he could not do it. The Monster seemed like something that had always been dead, something stillborn into an apple box,packed unceremoniously into a crate, and suffocated in an attic for a hundred years. There was no life here.
When it came time to go, James had to call Reggie five or six times before Reggie rolled his eyes at the teenagers and nodded goodbye. He bumped shoulders with James as they joined in step at the mouth of the path.
James felt like someone should say something. “I don’t know what kind of thing has teeth like that,” he offered.
“Or wings like that,” Willie added.
“You guys aren’t going to believe this,” said Reggie, his voice popping with the electricity that teenagers always provided him. “You know what they’re planning to do? The big kids? You’ll never guess what they’re planning to do.”
James did not look at him and did not answer. He prayed for Willie to stay quiet too.
“What?” asked Willie.
Reggie licked his lips and left them glistening with saliva.
“They’re going to steal it.”
James prayed for silence.
“Really?” asked Willie.
“Yeah,” said Reggie. “But guess who’s going to steal it first.”
Cut Down
T he next day, the boys decided to build a pulley system to get Willie up into the tree house, but were distracted by a dog that kept pacing around the trees behind the house. It watched them with black eyes and pawed the dirt, feigning approach before returning to shadow.
Willie disappeared inside and came back with binoculars and reported to the boys that the dog was fat. Reggie wrenched away the lens and planted it to his own eyes. “You can’t use these with one hand,” he muttered as he searched for the dog, found it, then adjusted some rings on the eyepieces.
“It’s going to have puppies,” he said.
They returned to work. Their tools included a hammer, a nest of nails, a length of rope, and a red metal pulley that Reggie had miraculously plucked from a trash can just down the street. Reggie did not usually poke through people’s trash—like most boys, he preferred the epic solitude of the junkyard—but for reasons unknown he was compelled to lift that lid, and when he held up the rusty metal gear, James knew just what to do with it.
“There’s a branch just above the roof,” said James. “You can’t see it, but I know it’s there.”
So he and Reggie scrambled up the steps, then up the side of the tree house itself, impressing themselves with their climbing abilities, then challenging each
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