She thrust Blaze out of her way and ran outside. Mr. Bowie appeared in one of the many shed doors, his scrawny face long with surprise. He strode to Blaze and grabbed him by one shoulder. 'What happened?'
'Randy's dead,' Blaze said stolidly. 'He jumped me and I did him down.'
'You wait,' Hubert Bowie said, and went after his wife.
Blaze took off his red and black jacket and sat down on the stool in the corner. Snow melted off his boots and made a puddle. He didn't care. The heat from the woodstove made his face throb. He chopped the wood. He didn't care.
Bowie had to lead his wife back inside, because she had her apron over her face. She was sobbing loudly. The high pitch of her voice made her sound like a sewing machine.
'Go out into the shed,' Bowie told him.
Blaze opened the door. Bowie helped him through it with the toe of his boot. Blaze fell down the two steps into the dooryard, got up, and went into the shed. There were tools in there - axes, hammers, a lathe, an emery wheel, a planer, a sander, other things he didn't know the names of. There were auto parts and boxes of old magazines. And a snow shovel with a wide aluminum scoop. His shovel. Blaze looked at it, and something about the shovel brought his hate of the Bowies to completion, finished it off. They received a hundred and sixty dollars a month for keeping him and he did their chores. He ate badly. He had eaten better at HH. It wasn't fair.
Hubert Bowie opened the door to the shed and stepped in. 'I'm going to whip you now,' he said.
'That dog jumped me. He was going for my throat.'
'Don't say no more. You're only making it worse for yourself.'
Every spring, Bowie bred one of his cows with Franklin Marstellar's bull, Freddy. On the wall of the shed was a walking-halter he called a 'love-halter' and a nosepiece. Bowie took it from its peg and held it by the nosepiece, fingers curled through the lattices. The heavy leather straps held down.
'Bend over that work bench.'
'Randy went for my throat. I'm telling you it was him or me.'
'Bend over that work bench.'
Blaze hesitated, but he did not think. Thinking was a long process for him. Instead he consulted the tickings of instinct.
It wasn't time yet.
He bent over the work bench. It was a long hard whipping, but he didn't cry. He did that later, in his room.
The girl he'd fallen in love with was a seventh-grader at Cumberland A School named Marjorie Thurlow. She had yellow hair and blue eyes and no breasts. She had a sweet smile that made the corners of her eyes turn up. On the playground, Blaze followed her with his own eyes. She made him feel empty in the pit of his stomach, but in a way that was good. He imagined himself carrying her books and protecting her from outlaws. These thoughts always made his face burn.
One day not long after the incident of Randy and the whipping, the District Nurse came to school to give immunization boosters. The children had been given release forms the week before; those parents who wanted their children to have the shots had signed them. Now, the children with signed forms queued up in a nervous line leading into the cloakroom. Blaze was one of these. Bowie had called up George Henderson, who was on the schoolboard, and asked if the shots cost money. They didn't, so Bowie signed.
Margie Thurlow was also in line. She looked very pale. Blaze felt bad for her. He wished he could go back and hold her hand. The thought made his face burn. He bent his head and shuffled his feet.
Blaze was first in line. When the nurse beckoned him into the cloakroom, he took off his red- and black-checked jacket and unbuttoned the sleeve of his shirt. The nurse took the needle out of a kind of cooker, looked at his slip, then said: 'Better unbutton the other sleeve too, big boy. You're down for both.'
'Will it hurt?' Blaze said, unbuttoning the other sleeve.
'Only for a second.'
'Okay,' Blaze said, and let her shoot the needle from the cooker into his left arm.
'Right. Now the other arm and you're done.'
Blaze turned the other way. She shot some more stuff from another needle into his right arm. Then he left the cloakroom, went back to his desk, and began to puzzle out a story in his Scholastic Scholastic.
When Margie came out, there were tears in her eyes and more on her face, but she wasn't sobbing. Blaze felt proud of her. When she passed his desk on her way to the door (seventh-graders were in another room), he gave her a smile. And she smiled back. Blaze folded that smile, put it away, and kept it for years.
At recess, just as Blaze was coming out the door to the playground, Margie ran inside past him, sobbing. He turned to look after her, then walked slowly into the playground, brow creased, face unhappy. He came to Peter Lavoie, batting the tetherball on its post with one mittened hand, and asked if Peter knew what had happened to Margie.
'Glen hit her in the shot,' Peter Lavoie said. He demonstrated on a passing boy, balling his fist and hitting the kid three times fast, whap-whap-whap. whap-whap-whap. Blaze watched this, frowning. The nurse had lied. Both of his arms now hurt badly from the shots. The large muscles felt stiff and bruised. It was hard to even bend them without wincing. And Margie was a girl. He looked around for Glen. Blaze watched this, frowning. The nurse had lied. Both of his arms now hurt badly from the shots. The large muscles felt stiff and bruised. It was hard to even bend them without wincing. And Margie was a girl. He looked around for Glen.
Glen Hardy was a huge eighth-grader, the kind that will play football, then run to fat. He had red hair that he combed back from his forehead in big waves. His father was a farmer on the west end of town, and Glen's arms were slabs of muscle.
Somebody threw Blaze the keepaway ball. He dropped it on the ground without looking at it and started for Glen Hardy.
'Oh boy,' Peter Lavoie said. 'Blaze is goin after Glen!'
This news traveled quickly. Groups of boys began to move with studied casualness toward where Glen and some of the older boys were playing a clumsy, troll-like version of kickball. Glen was pitching. He rolled the ball quick and hard, making it bounce and skitter on the frozen ground.
Mrs. Foster, who had playground duty that day, was on the other side of the building, monitoring the little ones on the swings. She would not be a factor, at least not at first.
Glen looked up and saw Blaze coming. He dropped the kickball. He put his hands on his hips. Both teams collapsed to form a semicircle around him and behind him. They were all seventh- and eighth-graders. None were as big as Blaze. Only Glen was bigger.
The fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-graders were grouped loosely behind Blaze. They shuffled, adjusted their belts, pulled self-consciously at their mittens, and mumbled to each other. The boys on both sides wore expressions of absurd casualness. The fight had not been called yet.
'What do you want, fucknuts?' Glen Hardy asked. His voice was phlegmy. It was the voice of a young god with a winter cold.
'Why did you hit Margie Thurlow in the shot?' Blaze asked.
'I felt like it.'
'Okay,' Blaze said, and waded in.
Glen hit him twice in the face - whap-whap whap-whap - before he even got close, and blood began to pour out of Blaze's nose. Then Glen backed away, wanting to keep the advantage of his reach. People were yelling. - before he even got close, and blood began to pour out of Blaze's nose. Then Glen backed away, wanting to keep the advantage of his reach. People were yelling.
Blaze shook his head. Drops of blood flew, splattering the snow on either side and in front of him.
Glen was grinning. 'State kid,' he said. 'State kid, shit-for-brains state kid.' He hit Blaze in the middle of Blaze's dented forehead and his grin faltered as pain exploded up his arm. Blaze's forehead was very hard, dented or not.
For a moment he forgot to back up and Blaze shot his fist out. He didn't use his body; he just used his arm like a piston. His knuckles connected with Glen's mouth. Glen screamed as his lips burst against his teeth and began to bleed. The yelling intensified.
Glen tasted his own blood and forgot about backing up. He forgot about taunting the ugly kid with the busted forehead. He just waded in, swinging roundhouse punches from port and starboard.
Blaze set his feet and met him. Faintly, from far away, he heard the shouts and exhortations of his classmates. They reminded him of the yapping Collies in the dogpen on the day he realized that Randy wasn't going to sheer off.
Glen got in at least three good blows, and Blaze's head rocked with them. He gasped, inhaling blood. He heard ringing in his ears. His own fist shot out again, and he felt the jolt all the way up to his shoulder. All at once the blood on Glen's mouth was spread on his chin and cheeks, too. Glen spat out a tooth. Blaze struck again, in the same place. Glen howled. He sounded like a little kid with his fingers caught in a door. He stopped swinging. His mouth was a ruin. Mrs. Foster was running toward them. Her skirt was flying, her knees were pumping, and she was blowing her little silver whistle.
Blaze's arm hurt real bad where the nurse had shot him, and his fist hurt, and his head hurt, but he struck out again, desperately hard, with a hand that felt numb and dead. It was the same hand he had used on Randy, and he struck as hard as he had that day in the pen. The blow caught Glen flush on the point of the chin. It made an audible snap snap sound that silenced the other children. Glen stood slackly, his eyes rolled up to whites. Then his knees unhinged and he collapsed in a heap. sound that silenced the other children. Glen stood slackly, his eyes rolled up to whites. Then his knees unhinged and he collapsed in a heap.
I killed him, Blaze thought. Oh Jeez, I killed him like Randy.
But then Glen began to stir around and mutter in the back of his throat, like people do in their sleep. And Mrs. Foster was screaming at Blaze to go inside. As he went, Blaze heard her telling Peter Lavoie to go to the office and get the First Aid kit, to run. run.
He was sent from school. Suspended. They stopped the bleeding of his nose with an ice-pack, put a Band-Aid on his ear, and then sent him to walk the four miles back to the dog-farm. He got a little way down the road, then remembered his bag lunch. Mrs. Bowie always sent him with a slice of peanut-butter-bread folded over and an apple. It wasn't much, but it would be a long walk, and as John Cheltzman said, something beat nothing every day of the week.
They wouldn't let him in when he came back, but Margie Thurlow brought it out to him. Her eyes were still red from crying. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn't know how. Blaze knew how that felt and smiled at her to show it was all right. She smiled back. One of his eyes was swelled almost shut, so he looked at her with the other one.
When he got to the edge of the schoolyard, he looked back to see her some more, but she was gone.
'Go out t'shed,' Bowie said.
'No.'
Bowie's eyes widened. He shook his head a little, as if to clear it. 'What did you say?'
'You shouldn't want to whip me.'
'I'll be the judge of that. Get out in that shed.'
'No.'
Bowie advanced on him. Blaze backed up two feet and then balled up his swollen fist. He set his feet. Bowie stopped. He had seen Randy. Randy's neck had been broken like a cedar branch after a hard freeze.
'Go up to your room, you stupid sonofabitch,' he said.
Blaze went. He sat on the side of his bed. From there he could hear Bowie hollering into the telephone. He figured he knew who Bowie was hollering at.
He didn't care. He didn't care. But when he thought of Margie Thurlow, he cared. When he thought of Margie he wanted to cry, the way he sometimes wanted to cry when he saw one bird sitting all by itself on a telephone wire. He didn't. He read Oliver Twist Oliver Twist instead. He knew it by heart; he could even say the words he didn't know. Outside, the dogs yapped. They were hungry. It was their feeding time. No one called him to feed them, though he would have, if asked. instead. He knew it by heart; he could even say the words he didn't know. Outside, the dogs yapped. They were hungry. It was their feeding time. No one called him to feed them, though he would have, if asked.
He read Oliver Twist Oliver Twist until the station wagon from HH came for him. The Law was driving. His eyes were red with fury. His mouth was nothing but a stitch between his chin and his nose. The Bowies stood together in the long shadows of a January dusk and watched them drive off. until the station wagon from HH came for him. The Law was driving. His eyes were red with fury. His mouth was nothing but a stitch between his chin and his nose. The Bowies stood together in the long shadows of a January dusk and watched them drive off.
When they got to Hetton House, Blaze felt an awful sense of familiarity fall over him. It felt like a wet shirt. He had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. Three months and nothing had changed. HH was the same pile of red and everlasting shit-brick. The same windows threw the same yellow light onto the ground outside, only now the ground was covered with snow. In the spring the snow would be gone but the light would be the same.
In his office, The Law produced The Paddle. Blaze could have taken it away from him, but he was tired of fighting. And he guessed there was always someone bigger, with a bigger paddle.
After The Law had finished exercising his arm, Blaze was sent to the common bedroom in Fuller Hall. John Cheltzman was standing by the door. One of his eyes was a slit of swelling purple flesh.
'Yo, Blaze,' he said.
'Yo, Johnny. Where's your specs?'
'Busted,' he said. Then cried: 'Blaze, they broke my glasses! Now I can't read anything!'
Blaze thought about this. He was sad to be here, but it meant a lot to find Johnny waiting. 'We'll fix em.' An idea struck him. 'Or we'll get shovel-chores in town after the next storm and save for new ones.'
'Could we do that, do you think?'
'Sure. You got to see to help me with my homework, don't you?'
'Sure, Blaze, sure.'
They went inside together.
Chapter 10.
APEX CENTER was a wide place in the road boasting a barber shop, a VFW hall, a hardware store, The Apex Pentecostal Church of the Holy Spirit, a beer-store, and a yellow blinker-light. It was walking distance from the shack, and Blaze went down there the morning after he held up Tim & Janet's Quik-Pik for the second time. His goal was Apex Hardware, a scurgy little independent where he bought an aluminum extension ladder for thirty dollars, plus tax. It had a red tag on it saying PRICED 2 SELL. was a wide place in the road boasting a barber shop, a VFW hall, a hardware store, The Apex Pentecostal Church of the Holy Spirit, a beer-store, and a yellow blinker-light. It was walking distance from the shack, and Blaze went down there the morning after he held up Tim & Janet's Quik-Pik for the second time. His goal was Apex Hardware, a scurgy little independent where he bought an aluminum extension ladder for thirty dollars, plus tax. It had a red tag on it saying PRICED 2 SELL.
He carried it back up the road, tromping stolidly along the plowed shoulder. He looked neither right nor left. It did not occur to him that his purchase might be remembered. George would have thought of it, but George was still away.
The ladder was too long for the trunk or the back seat of the stolen Ford, but it fit when he placed it with one end behind the driver's seat and the other jutting into the front passenger's seat. Once that was taken care of, he went into the house and turned the radio on to WJAB, which played until the sun went down.
'George?'
No answer. He made coffee, drank a cup, and lay down. He fell asleep with the radio on, playing 'Phantom 409.' When he woke up it was dark and the radio was just playing static. It was quarter past seven.
Blaze got up and fixed him some dinner - a bologna sandwich and a can of Dole pineapple chunks. He loved Dole pineapple chunks. He could eat them three times a day and never get his fill. He swallowed the syrup in three long gulps, then looked around. 'George?'
No answer.
He prowled restlessly. He missed the TV. The radio wasn't company at night. If George was here, they could play cribbage. George always beat him because Blaze missed some of the runs and most of the fifteen-twos (they were Arithmetic), but it was fun charging up and down the board. Like being in a hoss-race. And if George didn't want to do that, they could always shuffle four decks of cards together and play War. George would play War half the night, drinking beer and talking about the Republicans and how they fucked the poor. ('Why? I'll tell you why. For the same reason a dog licks his balls - - because they can.' because they can.') But now there was nothing to do. George had showed him a solitaire game, but Blaze couldn't remember how it went. It was way too early to do the kidnapping. He hadn't thought to steal any comic-books or skin mags when he was in that store.
He finally settled down with an old issue of X-Men. George called the X-Men the Homo Core, as if they'd come from an apple, Blaze didn't know why.
He dozed off again at quarter to eight. When he woke up at eleven, he felt muzzy-headed and only halfway in the world. He could go now if he wanted - by the time he got to Ocoma Heights it would be past midnight - but all at once he didn't know if he wanted to. All at once it seemed very frightening. Very complicated. He had to think it over. Make plans. Maybe he could think of a way to get into the house on his own. Look it over. Make like he was from The Public Water-works, or The Lectric Company. Draw out a map.
The empty cradle standing by the stove mocked him.
He fell asleep again and had an uneasy dream of running. He was chasing someone through deserted waterfront streets while seagulls whirled over the piers and warehouses in crying flocks. He didn't know if he was chasing George or John Cheltzman. And when he began to catch up a little and the figure looked back over one shoulder to grin mockingly at him, he saw it was neither one. It was Margie Thurlow.
When he woke, he was still sitting in the chair, still dressed, but the night was over. WJAB was on again. Henson Cargill was singing 'Skip A Rope.'
He got ready to go again the second night, but he didn't go. The day after that he went out and shoveled a long and senseless track toward the woods. He shoveled until he was winded and his mouth tasted like blood.
I'm going tonight, he thought, but the only place he went that night was to the local beer-store, to see if the new comic-books had come in. They had, and Blaze bought three. He fell asleep over the first one after supper, and when he woke it was midnight. He was getting up to go in the bathroom and take a leak - then he'd hit the rack - when George spoke.