 
A Time for Poncey, And other Stories out of Skullbone

By Craig Davis

Published by St.Celibart Press at Smashwords

23 Castlerock Cv. Jackson TN 38305

Copyright © 2012 Harry Craig Davis

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-0-9829567-5-5

Davis, Craig, **A Time for Poncey, And other Stories out of Skullbone**

StCelibartPress@yahoo.com

www.StCelibart.com

Stories from this collection have appeared in Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure, The April Reader and St. Celibart. Some can also be heard at the podcast "Letters from Shadowland" -  http://www.stcelibart.com/StCelibart/Podcast/Archive.html

A touch of the unusual can revolutionize our perspectives of the world. "A Time for Poncey – And other Stories out of Skullbone" is a collection of short fiction from Craig Davis, touching on the nature of Southern Gothic culture and exploring our world through a metaphysical lens, providing strange humor and thought equally. "A Time for Poncey" is a strong pick for short fiction collections.

– Midwest Book Review

As Poncey says in the first story, "I have to count." However, Poncey doesn't have to count – or maybe in terms of the government census, he both counts and doesn't count. Read and enjoy Craig Davis' riffs with Poncey, that is La Pontchartrain S. Muldoon, as he travels the road of vanity and illumination.

– Walton Padelford, Ph.D., _Bonhoeffer and Business Ethics_

"A Time For Poncey" written by Craig Davis, is a masterpiece of Southern Gothic writing. Regardless of whether you have grown up in the South or in the North; you will enjoy these stories and wish to read them again and again. Mr. Davis' honest portrayal of Southern life across the years, and the unique characters that inhabit these stories, will inspire warm feelings of nostalgia; uproarious laughter; heartfelt introspection; and spiritual insight that make this work an entertaining read for absolutely everyone. "What's a Poncey?" you may ask. Poncey will be your next favorite book.... make time for it.

– Jim Wilhelm, _Ten Tales of Terror and Other Cheap Thrills_

Craig Davis is winner of The April Reader Best Fiction prize and the Talent Among Us prize.

Many thanks to those who have read these stories and offered their counsel, suggestions and support: Nick Brown, Brian and Cindy Denker, Connor Johnson, Stephen Kennedy, Walton Padelford, Jim Wilhelm and the Tuesday Night Readings and Libations Society.

For Kathryn and Mary

Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.

Table of Stories

1. You Can't Count What Isn't There

2. He Who Toils Leaves All to Fools

3. A Time for Poncey

4. Remember a Cord of Three Strands

5. It's Best Just to Listen

6. That Child Will Find More Rest

7. A Bad Woman Is Worse Than Death

8. I Saw the Wicked Buried

9. Madness Is In Their Hearts

10. A Few Dead Flies

11. The Wonderful Moments of Youth

12. The End Of the Matter

A Time for Poncey – And other Stories out of Skullbone

By Craig Davis

**You Can't Count What Isn't There**

Some days it just doesn't pay to be alive. For instance, one time Judas just plain refused to do what Poncey told him, so Poncey had to beat him. He beat his ears back, to the point where finally Judas would follow orders. This result turned out bad enough for Judas. But then later he sat on Poncey's lap – while Poncey was trying to read – and emptied his bladder. From that moment on Poncey suspected that the world would always have the last laugh on him, no matter how much smarter he was.

Judas was Poncey's mongrel dog. As a puppy he was called Sparky, but in time Poncey came to realize the son of a bitch needed a more appropriate name.

Poncey Muldoon stood around like a typical doughy, barrel-chested youth of pure but indistinct European descent, heavy enough to be strong, but light enough to play defense for his high school football team, during a bad stretch. He held his body solidly, walking with something of a swagger and hanging his arms loosely to his sides, elbows out and the backs of his hands always rotated forward. Early in life his hair was a rusty blond, but what color it was now nobody could say for sure, since a number of years ago he had taken to wearing a beaten-up baseball cap all the time. Poncey's mother's maiden name was LaFayette – pronounced La- _Fay_ -yet – and she fancied herself of French stock. "You gotta remember the people you're from," she would often say. "You gotta remember who you belong to. If you're not sure of that, you can never be sure where you'll end up." She well remembered her childhood in New Orleans – her family having fought with Jackson against the British – and as a result a story arose that she had actually named her son La Pontchartrain, but fortunately for him only "Poncey" stuck, if indeed that was the case. On the other hand, his father's forebears had arrived in the area long ago and for one reason or another had failed to bring along their history. Poncey's father was an old railroad man who spent most of his time pining after steam locomotives.

"Them 4-2-2 engines, now there was a beautiful sight," he'd say. "Them engines looked like a whale, spoutin' their smoke, and the engineer'd give a blast on the steam, and it was like knowin' you was alive for the first time ever."

"Well, you wouldn't've been alive long," Poncey would explain, deeply versed in the history and development of mass transit in the United States. "That smoke was why nobody could breathe. Diesel engines are cleaner, they're quiet an' don't kill everybody."

Poncey had attended community college for two years, which was more than anyone else in his family could say, and that gave him a natural advantage when talking.

"I'd give a pretty to see one of them ol' 4-2-2s runnin' again. Don't give a flip 'bout no diesel engine."

"Well, it don't matter what you give, they're all diesel now anyway. Might as well face it."

Poncey had lived all his life in the tiny Tennessee town of Skullbone. Nestled under groves of sassafras and sweetgum, surrounded by small patches of cotton rows, the little community seemed to survive within a Medieval novel. Skullbone was shrouded in mystery, being both the capital and the entirety of the Kingdom of Skullbonia. Nobody ever figured out quite what this meant, but the state said it was so, and everybody went about their business quietly and tried not to let it become an issue.

Before the war the area was best known for its strawberry crops, led by gentleman farmer Will Butler. He favored the name Stillwater for the little town that had sprung up by his fields, but most of the populace had already taken to calling it Skullbone, after the bare-knuckle boxing matches that drew crowds from far and wide every Monday night. Joe Smith – then the richest businessman outside of Jackson, what with his mercantile, smithy and livery services – was the leading voice on the Skullbone side of the argument, and he was easily able to persuade the incorporation committee. This loss so vexed Butler that he took to trying to run down Smith in the streets with his horse and carriage, but his aim was so bad he never succeeded. Smith endured this petulance for a while, but eventually the inconvenience became such that once he had the opportunity, he stuck a pistol in Butler's' mouth and pulled the trigger. After awhile stories spread that the feud had nothing to do with the town's name at all, but rather that Butler was running a still, and Smith planned to turn him in, but the first version is more colorful. Now most of the strawberries come from Mexico.

Some decades later a gubernatorial decree set the area apart – the Kingdom of Skullbonia – by virtue of its history of the boxing, as well as hillbilly musicales and other knavery – and not, in a blatant breach of convention, because of any political fooling around. This alone naturally set people on edge – Skullbonia just was, for no good reason, it sat there taking up space. At least that's the way Poncey thought of it.

Obviously, what with his advanced education, not even the nebulous borders of Skullbone could contain Poncey's fortunes, and now as an accomplished adult he tested his horizons in the nearby town of Rutherford – pronounced Relaferd. As a child he had often visited there, tagging along on otherwise pointless shopping trips, and the long lines of traffic lights and dingy businesses never failed to inspire awe and excitement in him. Back then it seemed to him filled with wonder – signs ablaze with color, display windows stocked with bizarre machinery and mannequins decked out in hunting gear – sights more dazzling than what any reasonable boy could ever aspire to attain. But now Poncey raised his ambitions to a new level, in a way expecting to cash in that old inspiration, and prepared to benevolently impose himself upon Rutherford's little people. He believed his grand store of knowledge would open doors to great career opportunities in Rutherford, and eventually the government believed it too, and hired him on to watch over the Davy Crockett Replica Cabin (and Mother's Gravesite).

The structure was pure Americana, massive timbers stacked upon each other with rough-hewn precision. A clean rail fence separated the grounds from the parking lot, neatly defining the centuries. Old-growth trees extended their branches like a protective deity over the wooden roof, leaves waving welcome in the gentle breezes, and Poncey imagined himself living ruggedly independent on the old frontier. He saw to his duties well – sit and wait, dust, police the area, sit and wait, shoo off children from the school next door. Visitors who wanted a tour after regular hours had to call him special, and he would decide when they could come. He pretty much memorized the two-room cabin and its contents. In his heart he felt like close friends with the mounted animals – in some way testaments to Davy's hunting skills – the rocking chairs, the stone fireplaces. His greatest affinity, however, was to Davy's deceased mother, Rebecca, buried on the property under a proper headstone that listed her date of death as "about 1834."

"He was a Congressman," Poncey reasoned to himself. "Never mind that he lived in a log cabin – he was a Congressman. How can they not know when his mother died?" In his mind, this uncertainty was a gross affront to the eminence of learning.

"What you mutterin' 'bout?" Poncey's father said.

"Now, Davy's grave is another thing," Poncey continued, more loudly. "No tellin' if he's got a grave or not. But his mother, she was right here where we sit, right here where she's buried, even right now today. How could they not know when she died?"

"Son, what does that matter now?"

"It matters that we know the facts."

"It don't matter what all you know," his father rose to leave. "There's still always ample opportunity to be stupid."

Poncey took it upon himself to learn every detail he could dig up about Crockett and his kin. He checked out all the books he could find in the community college library and filled his head with all sorts of legend and trivia. He absorbed all the new and revolutionary theories hatched by experts set on dissecting the Crockett clan, those lives really witnessed only by the depths of the wilderness. He even sneaked out the first edition of Davy's autobiography from its display in the cabin, flipping delicately through the flaking pages for clues. The book's unschooled words flailed at the nearly two-century passage of time like a dull blade against a buttonwood, but Poncey fought through the bramble to make sense of it. Still Rebecca remained elusive, a ghost in the wind. Davy himself had little to say about her, except that since he was reasonably sure that he'd been born, then it would figure that he also had a mother. He only allowed that he loved her dearly, and that she was old and Irish. Poncey felt personally betrayed by fickle history.

"Everybody knew Davy Crockett. He was a hero already, before he ran for Congress. How could they not know when his mother died?"

In spite of this nagging frustration, Poncey prospered at the cabin, nodding hello and goodbye to visitors, chasing off schoolchildren, sitting and waiting. But, just when things look like they'll never change, that's when they choose to whirl around into a new direction. One spring after hard times had hit the country, the government spent eight hundred billion dollars to preserve Poncey's job, but the next year it did not, and he found himself no longer engaged to protect the legacy of the Crockett name. Deep down he still believed he was smart enough, in spite of Davy's mother. Deep down he clung to the belief that the government had made a great mistake letting go someone of his abundant knowledge.

So Poncey, disgusted and disconsolate, was looking at the job listings in a relatively recent newspaper when Judas did his number on him. After throwing the dog across the room and changing pants, Poncey took up the paper again, and his eye fell upon the article about a census of all U.S. residents. He quickly checked his calendar, and indeed the nation's decennial inventory was due to come around again. The government had mailed out forms, the paper warned, and held every recipient responsible for filling them out and sending them back. Poncey's eyes lit at the notion: For the first time, he would fill out his own census form. In years past he'd been no more than a cipher within his father's house; this time around, he would be recognized at last as an individual. The old man could now wheeze about steam locomotives on his own, officially. Poncey glanced back down at the story. Whenever a form was not returned, it said, a census worker would be sent to the address for a personal interview.

Poncey's appearance genuinely glowed. A census taker would come – a government worker. He let his hands fall to his lap, bunching the paper into a damp and crumpled mess, and stared into the future. Possibilities danced in his head, flashing images from a silent movie, much too fast to keep up with. Opportunity beckoned him to redeem his bad fortune, and Poncey was not about to let it pass. Once and for all he could prove to himself and everyone in charge that, as highly educated as he was, the government should never have allowed him to slip away. Some government worker, one with a job, soon would come face to face with his superior, and boy, would Poncey let him have it.

His first step was easy – Poncey watched for his census form, then didn't send it back. The second step he was used to: sit and wait.

Sure enough, after a handful of rude warning letters, the cheap doorbell to his worn apartment went off with a sound like a spoon against a frying pan. Poncey had a feeling this was his official visit, since nobody had ever come to his home before. This guy's going to pay the price, he thought, this guy'd better watch his step if he knows what's good for him.

He opened the door to a young woman.

"Hi, I'm LaTarika. I'm from the United States Census Bureau," she smiled as she quoted her introductory materials. "Are you – La Pontchartrain S. Muldoon?"

"Poncey," he stumbled. "Just Poncey."

"May I come in?"

Poncey didn't know what to say, so he stared stupidly, but did manage to stumble aside so she could enter. The dingy place didn't offer much to look at – a couple of ratty chairs and a wobbly coffee table with fake wood veneer. Judas scurried behind the couch, from whence arose muffled growling and an acrid odor. The walls stood bare except for smudges of dirt and a framed picture that had probably been clipped from a magazine. The hallway led back to a dusky bedroom, past the compact kitchen off to one side – complete with a pile of dishes rising out of the sink to peek over the bar-style counter.

Poncey looked around his surroundings nervously. He hadn't counted on a woman; not that she posed any intellectual threat to him, but she threatened him in every other way. Not since the seventh grade had he trusted a girl of any sort besides his mother, and he wasn't all that sure about her. Not since the time "Jazzy" Luray accompanied him to a movie. Her name was really Jacine, but she'd earned the nickname Jazzy by age ten; even as a naïve youth Poncey was suspicious when she agreed to try dating with him. But for some reason she did; anxiety over the impending date drove him to toss and turn sleeplessly the whole night before. After yawning through their burger and shake at the Diner, he fell fully asleep in the flickering theater light.

Jazzy was not one to let such an opportunity escape. As Poncey snored through the battle scenes, she applied a generous layer of rouge and lipstick to his face, accented by subtle eye shadow. She roused him gently as the closing credits rolled, to his eyes appearing never more pleased to be in anyone's company. Even the townsfolk they encountered on the walk home seemed more friendly toward him than any time before. People who had never given him a second glance just beamed upon crossing his path that night. When he dropped her off at home, Jazzy agreed that she'd happily go out again anytime and do the very same thing with him all over again. Poncey was so encouraged, he brazenly kissed her cheek, then stared with horror at the bright red lip prints he'd left on her grinning mug.

Poncey hid in his room the rest of that weekend. He was too sick to go to school on Monday, but eventually his mother rooted him out of bed and sent him to his doom. "You'll not learn anything if you don't go to school," she told him, but Poncey knew she was wrong – he'd learned plenty already. For years classmates called him "Glamour Boy," or "Poncettia," or just plain "Bozo," and he still saw Jazzy's mocking glee in every woman's eyes.

The census taker carefully surveyed the room and gingerly moved a couple of wrinkled t-shirts so she wouldn't have to sit on them, then settled stiffly into one of the chairs.

"I'm here because you failed to send in your census form," she informed him.

"I know," Poncey replied. He was off to a good start.

"So you did receive your form in the mail?"

"I didn't send it back. I wanted to get a government worker."

"Okay," she drew the word out. "I'll just ask you a few simple questions. You are La Pontchartrain S. Muldoon?"

"Poncette – uh, Poncey."

"All right, then, Poncey."

"I worked for the government myself."

"We'll just be filling out the short form, so there's no need for that information," the woman replied politely, pretending to study her paperwork. She was tightly plump, like a sausage, and had little lap upon which to brace her clipboard, so she held it out slightly. Bronze dreadlocks fell to her shoulders and over her eyes, stray hairs catching lightly on mascara-encrusted lashes. Her face glowed with youth and enthusiasm for serving the public, and she couldn't wait to get out of Poncey's apartment. She had never visited Skullbone before and had never thought she would, and she wasn't sure why anyone would want to count what was there. Unfortunately, people who lived in interesting places like Memphis or Nashville seemed to know how to mail in their forms, and the people she had to track down personally all seemed to live in wide spots in the road like this one.

"I went to the community college," Poncey offered.

"Really? I'm going to state right now. Actually, I'm taking this semester off to work. Got to make some money, you know? But I'm going back."

Poncey shifted uncomfortably. A hacking cough came from behind the couch. "I finished. I've been finished. I worked for the government."

"Yes. Now, how many live here?"

"How many what?"

"Residents. How many residents live in this apartment."

"Me. It's just me an' Judas, but he's a dog. He doesn't count."

"No."

"I worked at Davy Crockett's house, in Rutherford."

"Do you own this apartment?"

"It's his cabin, but it's only a replica, most of it. It's the last house he lived in," Poncey was full of formidable information, but not at all the kind the census taker was looking for. He let fly. "His mother's buried out there, headstone an' ever'thing. She died circa 1834. 'Circa' means nearabouts."

"Yes, I know. Do you own this apartment or rent?"

"I rent for now. But I've got my eye on a house, soon as I get back to work. It'll be a big house. Davy Crockett's house was just a two-room cabin."

"That's very interesting," the woman intoned. "What's your telephone number?"

"Hain't got nam," he sputtered. Apparently this girl had an attention problem. "There's all sorts of things in that cabin. Ya been there? Animals an' things. Did you know that he was a Congressman?"

"Yes, I think I had heard that."

"He was elected, but then he lost. So he says, 'Tennessee's gone to hell, I'm goin' to Texas,' an' he goes an' gets himself killed at the Alamo." Poncey began to enjoy himself, and he rocked back a little in his chair. "He says, 'You all go to hell, I'm goin' to Texas,' " he laughed.

"Sex?" the woman asked.

"What?" Poncey's voice cracked. He came to a sudden stop and moved his hands about uselessly.

"Male, right?" she smiled. "I'll put down male."

"Yes," Poncey tried to sound confident. He regained his composure enough to attempt the high ground again. "He's buried somewhere out there. At the Alamo. But I expect his grave's harder to find than his mother's."

"Probably. Age and date of birth?"

"His mother's grave is out by the cabin. Doesn't even say for sure when she died, only 'about 1834.' He was in Congress, but nobody even knows when his mother died." Poncey paused to let this notion sink in. He felt that his teaching was going to waste on this girl. She needed to appreciate that he was every bit as good as her – he lost his job because of a fluke, not because he didn't have skills like hers.

"Age and date of birth, please." Her eyes began to take on a dead look.

"They don't know. They can only guess."

"Your age and date of birth," she said sullenly.

His gaze darted about as he tried to think of something to cover his mistake. Instead he just told her: age and date of birth. Hoping to sound trustworthy, he added, "They don't match up because I haven't had my birthday yet. The math will work out better after October."

"Yes, I can see it hasn't passed yet this year."

Poncey realized she could figure out his age herself, and he panicked. He felt the visit slipping through his fingers, and he hadn't made his point at all.

"I worked for the government. I wasn't fired – they just stopped payin' for my job. It wasn't my fault they dropped my job."

"I'm sure that's true. Are you of Hispanic, Spanish or Latino origin?"

"French. My mother's French." Poncey looked defeated.

"No Hispanic background?"

"My pap coulda been, but he won't say. He never talks 'bout that. He only talks 'bout trains."

"So I can put down Caucasian?"

Poncey knew that meant white, so he nodded. "I didn't send my form back on purpose. I wanted to talk to a government worker. I wasn't counting on a girl. I could still be a government worker, but they stopped payin' for my job."

The woman looked at him now with even less patience. "Do you sometimes stay someplace other than this apartment?"

"Sometimes with Mam and Pap. But they don't count me on their form any more. I count by myself now. That's how I knew you'd come out, if I didn't send in my form. I wanted to see a government worker."

"Well, you're just lucky I came all the way out here, then," she scolded, gathering up her belongings. "We don't always try to find single-dweller homes that have not seen fit to comply with the law."

"What? You don't look for folks?"

"The government isn't obliged to hunt down people like you."

Poncey sat there, stunned. "You do have to. Ever'body has to count. I have to count."

"Oh, we know what to expect. The computers automatically count the people we don't get forms from."

"What?"

"The Census Bureau doesn't need to see you to count you."

"But you're supposed to find ever'body. This isn't 1830."

"No, honey, we don't have to find everyone," she batted her lashes matter-of-factly. "The office makes its numbers whether we see somebody at each address or not. The bureau knows who exists regardless of whether they're here, or there, or nowhere."

Poncey stared, his purpose completely lost now. "You can't count what isn't there."

She stood up. "You were counted last time on your father's form. Social Security knows you're still around. You were on payroll, for goodness sake. Our computer models know to expect you. They know where people are supposed to be. The statistics see you even if nobody else can. You're no more real than the marks on this paper."

She waved the forms before his face, then neatly into her attaché. Poncey could feel time running short, but his swirling thoughts were too jumbled now for him to take hold of one. He had wanted to show he could out-think any person the government could throw at him, but now he was under siege by a computer as well.

"Why'd you even come out here, then? If computers figure that I'm here anyway, why'd you show up?"

"It's a job. I want to get paid, and the government wants to pay me. It makes them look good. You should know that – you worked for the government yourself, before they dropped you, remember? A job sitting in a cabin! But we like to get paid, don't we?"

The woman moved toward the door, and Poncey could only lamely follow after her. All his schemes through the months of waiting faded into futility, and he would never have the chance to prove his worth again. His confusion gave way to the distaste he'd felt before she arrived and threw him off with her gender – but now it focused even more on those who used to employ him. A new thing stuck to the inside of his skull: He was no more than a blip on a hard drive. The government never did know what a bundle of scholarship and talent he was; it never knew him at all. It wouldn't care if he lived or died, he'd be just a number either way.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go now," the woman told him as she let herself out. "I've got to find some place called Sweet Lips. You have a wonderful day, you hear?" and she disappeared beyond the closing door.

"Thank you," he said without irony. His mind was elsewhere.

As the days passed, the encounter ripened and fermented in Poncey's brain, its torment only serving to infuriate him more. "I know I'm smarter than all them fools up at the capital, and their blame computers too!" he fumed. I've got to prove it, he thought, I've got to show them. Only one thing could rectify his sad situation – the injustice of it all drove him to apply to get his job back, and what do you know if they didn't find just enough money in the new budget to re-hire him. A letter arrived instructing him to reclaim his post at the Davy Crockett Replica Cabin (and Mother's Grave) at the beginning of the new year, kind of a Christmas present from a government that openly acknowledged neither Christ nor Poncey. Maybe they'd learned their lesson after all. Poncey carefully filled out all the employment forms and dropped them in the mail.

So on an unusually sultry day for January, Poncey arrived at the cabin to re-establish his value to the U.S. government, to show them once and for all the great contribution he had to offer the world. Again he took up his calling to dust, sit and wait, and open the door to visitors who called in special. He lovingly surveyed his surroundings, happily studying the stuffed animals and quilts draped over crude furniture, making sure everything sat correctly in place. Outside it looked like rain. Poncey felt like a European baron in a rustic castle, no doubt how Davy felt himself long ago. His sight lit upon the aging autobiography.

Late in the morning he heard hollow pounding on the porch out front. He recognized the sound all right – the rowdy kids from the school next door – but why would they need chasing so early in the day? School wasn't due to let out for another three or four hours.

"Hey, you kids, get offa there!" he burst from the cabin door. "What are you doin' here? Why aren't you in school where you belong?"

"Got out early," an escaping boy shouted back. "Let us out on account a' the weather. Look!" And he pointed behind Poncey and over the horizon.

For the first time Poncey noticed the heavy veil of black clouds milling about overhead. The sky below seemed to hang suspended, glowing a sickly, luminescent green. Trees stood at uneasy attention, wavering as though they were about to faint. The siren mounted upon the school's roof slowly revved into a mournful wail.

"Look out!" the boy yelled.

Poncey ducked his head and vaulted off the porch, running to the relative shelter of the brick school building. A slowly turning section of cloud picked up speed. Poncey watched as a twisting finger reached down and touched the cabin's roof, sending shingles exploding into every direction. He heard the sound of one of his father's locomotives screaming through the neighborhood, although he could not see it, nor any tracks. The tornado flexed its shoulders and lifted the huge logs of the cabin fully off the ground, tossing them end over end in a titanic game of mumblety-peg. Items from the cabin danced into the sky like escaping ballerinas, some laid carefully upon the soft grass while others were sucked into oblivion. Once more Poncey's eye caught Davy's autobiography, its pages flapping like a bird in flight, driven by the wind into a wild chase. The storm shimmied like a woman over the site, grinding its hips in a terrible demonstration of allure and judgment. It passed across the street, furiously ripped a chain-link fence from the ground and flailed it like a ribbon, and finally retreated once more into the billowing atmosphere.

Poncey stood silent in the pattering rain, gaunt like a mourner at a funeral, and gazed at the remains of the cabin. All the twister had left was the final resting place of Rebecca Crockett, still buried there for nobody knew how long.

**He Who Toils Leaves All To Fools**

Two kinds of people drive convertibles, Poncey thought, older men and younger women, and the women always had fathers who paid for it. Jazzy Luray's father was a dentist, so when she sped through town with her hair in the wind, Poncey was sure she had daddy to thank. He was at his usual stool in the Diner and saw her through the window, squealing and lifting a bottle of some sort, a friend in the passenger side. Such a silly girl shouldn't drive, he thought, and certainly shouldn't have such a car, a low-slung roadster of deep purple. He turned back toward the counter as the roaring automobile faded into memory, and his fork poked at his plate aimlessly. She's a brat who doesn't know what's good for her, he thought. He could show her, except she's just too silly to know.

Poncey thought about another such time he'd seen her, when he spied her years ago pouring some suspect liquid into a pop bottle. Way too clever to be fooled, he was sure she'd gotten her hands on some liquor and was disguising it – quite a feat for someone underage, in a dry county and so silly to boot. Not to be outdone, he determined he'd get some booze for himself, and show her. The trick would be to pull it off and make sure no one knew, particularly not Rev. Fletcher nor anyone else at First Church. With no car himself, he'd jumped on his bicycle and pedaled all the way to the next county, to the package store conveniently located just over the line. Poncey had figured out a plan to keep his age from coming up, even though he was a big kid and could pass for older than his fifteen years. But he was so out of breath as he entered the store, he completely forgot to wink at the clerk – to cast the knowing look that would say he and the clerk had a connection, that he could trust Poncey implicitly. With such a pact, he wouldn't have to prove he was old enough to buy the liquor, which he couldn't. If he had remembered to look at the clerk, he'd have noticed his hands in the air and the masked man pointing the gun.

Poncey carefully chose a bottle of something he'd never heard of and turned toward the counter, his heart finally settling down in his chest. Instantly it jumped back into action and into his throat as he finally saw the robbery in progress, and the bottle slipped out of his hand. The percussive crash sounded like a shot itself, and both the gunman and clerk jerked their attention toward Poncey. He stood like a guilty schoolboy for a moment, then whooped and made a break for the next aisle. Running like a doughboy, he kept his head low while he navigated the maze of shelves. A bullet whizzed by, and a giant plate-glass window just beyond Poncey burst into a million shards. He vaulted through the resulting exit and leapt to his bike, pounding away at the pedals as the clerk laid the distracted thief low with a baseball bat.

No, Jazzy had always been nothing but trouble to Poncey.

Skullbone was abuzz the next day about the anonymous hero who had thwarted a desperate hoodlum in the next county. Nobody knew who he was or where he'd gone, but he might well have saved the clerk's life, they said. Poncey was beside himself at the gushing praise, knowing that never in this world or any other could he admit he'd been buying himself a bottle, hero or not. I swear, that Jazzy, he thought, she is a thorn in my side. If he tried to use this event to enlarge his reputation, he would succeed only in shooting it full of holes. All the talk at the Diner was about the unknown protector of all things good – albeit a liquor store – and all he could do was sit and listen.

"Poncey Muldoon!"

He jumped to attention, and his fork clanked against the plate. "Huh?" he asked.

"Honey, I thought you'd left us," said Mavis, the waitress, from behind the counter. Some years before she had made the poor calculation of marrying Rafe Davis, so Mavis Blipnil had become Mavis Davis and an ongoing source of cheap jokes in Skullbone. "I was sayin', that Jazzy sure is a mighty perky sight in that ragtop, ain't she?"

"She's got no right to a car like that."

"Oo, honey lamb, you ain't a tad jealous, are you?"

"No, I couldn't care less. She's just too silly to have a car like that, that's all."

"Well, young girls tend to be silly sometimes. Sometimes men just turn 'em silly."

Poncey looked up, hoping for some sign that she was talking about him, but she wasn't. Mavis had spent too many years thinking only about herself to change the subject now, he thought. Sometimes she didn't even make sure she had pie on hand in the afternoon, after how many years now of him coming in for pie, that's how much she thought of him. Jazzy was even worse. The idea of it turned him yet more disgruntled.

"Some men, that's all there is to it," Mavis talked to herself, wiping the counter.

She'd grown up just outside Skullbone, her grandparents being self-made farmers, hardscrabble folk who'd raised themselves from migrant farm work to actual land-owners. Over the years they had traveled the railroad from south to north, all over the region, following the warmth as the season turned toward planting, then back again for the harvest. They'd lived on a string through good times and bad until finally they'd saved enough to buy some foreclosed land there in West Tennessee; one day they jumped off a railroad car and bought the land right there. They had no experience raising cotton, as most farmers did in the Midsouth, but instead became the only farmstead thereabouts to put in field corn. The crop required tender loving care in the thick clay, and after several seasons of plowing under corn stover for mulch, the land began to produce a bounty.

A daughter was born, and the family carried on. She was married, became Mavis' mother, was orphaned and then widowed when the Viet Cong ambushed Lt. Blipnil's squad on patrol. Over the years the responsibility of the farm grew and the poor woman's capacity to oversee it diminished; the careful land management fell to the wayside in spite of a grand hoard of corncobs, and as a result the crops began to suffer. So a perfect storm raged at just the time that Rafe Davis showed up.

Mavis had a pretty smile, and Rafe looked like a huge teddy bear to her. He captured her heart easily, and her mom's as well, what with his ability to heft a 100-pound bag of seed with each hand. But once the cow was in the barn, so to speak, Rafe showed that he didn't know how to go about the milking. He displayed no talent with the crops either, and a strong back alone could not save the failing farm. Old Mrs. Blipnil died of a broken heart, Mavis sold off all the land but the patch including the house and barn, and she and Rafe made a new start by buying the town's little greasy spoon. But Rafe proved to be no more deft in a building than in a field; in fact, his hulking form barely fit into the place at all. Over the next few years he broke enough plates, moods and wind to get himself banished forever, from business and bed; eventually he and Mavis were content to throw in the towel, cash their check and call it a day. Mavis got everything, and Rafe moved to Tunica, where last word was he made a nice living as a professional poker player.

"Tell you the truth, I'd say you're just a tad jealous," she told Poncey.

Mavis Blipnil had been a petit slip of a girl, but the Diner had turned Mavis Davis into a dumpling, a round ball of flab. She arose from behind her counter like an ancient stone idol, shrouded in smoke from a nub of cigarette that Poncey could just barely see pinched between her flaccid lips. She'd turned herself into a mess and couldn't be trusted to have a good opinion. Besides, he wasn't even sure if she was talking about him anymore.

"I'm not jealous of anyone. It just doesn't seem fair she's got that car and I don't have one at all."

"Well, that's just life, ain't it, honeybun? Some folks got, and some ain't. It comes easy to some in spite of theirselves."

Poncey thought back to the precious time and labor, to say nothing of money, he had invested at community college, and how little that had panned out so far. He refused to understand Mavis' point. Jazzy knew she could never pull off an accomplishment equal to his education, and secretly she'd gladly give up her convertible and anything else to do what he'd done, Poncey was sure. She just used carefree gaiety as a cover-up.

"Findin' your way in this world is like stumblin' 'round in the dark, for some folks," Mavis went on. "Most folks just end up runnin' into the door. I'm just glad I got somethin' – at lease I got this here diner."

"I'll get more than this, someday. Just makin' a livin' isn't good enough for me." Poncey ran his finger around the rim of his coffee mug, a soulless hunk of stoneware, heavy and white, sides straight up and down and round.

"Sugar, what you doin' now? Seems like you'd be happy just to work steady. Ain't nuttin' wrong with makin' a livin'. All those folks who kill theirselves buildin' somethin' up, they just lose it in the end. Somethin' comes up that just ruins it. No, ain't nuttin' wrong with just makin' a livin'."

Poncey had no time for this prattle – Mavis was a colossal treasure trove of working-class sour grapes. However, he didn't know how to hijack the conversation. "I'm gettin' awful tired of gettin' around on a bicycle," he said, his voice flat.

"You big show off," Mavis laughed. "Big talk on a bike. I know where you can get a car right away, honey pot. I can get you a car."

Poncey thought Mavis had lost her mind right there in front of him. The pressures of running the Diner had finally gotten to her – she looked like she was going to pop. This is what he deserved for hanging out there so much, to see her go crazy right before his eyes.

"You're tryin' to trick me. What car?"

"Gramps' old Model T. Been sittin' out in my barn since 1940. You're welcome to it."

She was trying to trick him, Poncey thought, but such a lame trick made him want to take up her offer, like a dare. Obviously, the car wouldn't run, but if he could fix it up somehow, it'd show her to fool with him. Zeke Breather, owner of the junkyard, could help with parts and know-how; his father knew a few things about engines as well. Wouldn't that be a hoot, to drive up to the Diner in Mavis' own car, tossed at him as a joke? That really would drive her crazy, Poncey thought. Even Jazzy would have to notice that.

"Maybe I'll go down there and take a look at it," Poncey said.

"You're welcome to it, sugar bowl. If you can get it out."

"Oh, I may just look at it. I didn't say I wanted it," Poncey tried to cover his bases, so in any case she couldn't say she'd suckered him.

"You just go on down there an' help yourself to anything you find. I'm sure that fine vehicle will knock your eyes out."

As Poncey pedaled down the time-worn road – once traveled by an unending parade of tourists, before Hwy. 22 drew all traffic away – he wondered what Mavis meant by that last remark. She's too dumb to triple-cross me, he thought, with visions of a sparkling antique automobile revolving in his mind. Was she betting he wouldn't go to the barn and discover that she'd hoarded a mint-condition museum piece all these years? So what if it was a Model T, a car like that would set him apart in Skullbone, touring through town in its deep black gloss. Mavis couldn't be pulling a trick like that, he thought. Could she?

He pulled up to the barn, a grand old structure apparently held up only by air pressure. One side of the roof was large and swept low, extending down to roughly shoulder-height from the ground. That side still proudly displayed, in gigantic faded letters, "See 7 States from Rock City," the grand work of some sign painter forgotten to history. At the top stood a rusted rooster, preening as it proclaimed a west wind at the moment. Poncey stood and stared for a while, losing his sense of purpose, feeling like he had stepped into the grit of history. These things once meant something to someone, he thought. But not anymore, he thought, and trudged toward the barn door.

A fairy tale wrote itself in Poncey's mind, as he prepared to be dazzled by a pristine jewel just within the dilapidated door. No, he thought, and tried to uproot the notion from his head, this car is going to be a disaster. But what if Mavis had counted on him thinking that, safe in knowing he'd never believe her offer? Mavis would never in a million years think of that, he thought, this car was going to be a disaster.

He yanked the door open and peered into the darkness, broken only by sharp slices of sunlight sifted by the slats. Among the scattered debris, he finally focused upon his quest.

Disaster – definitely disaster. Worse than he imagined.

The only surface of the Model T not covered by several decades of dirt were the holes rusted-through. The only part of the tires not rotted were the few inches flattened too deep into the ground to see. The only sign that life had once existed at all there was the hood folded up from the side to reveal a gaping wound which once held the engine. Poncey stood silently, too cynical to be disappointed, too snookered to feel vindicated. After a few minutes of filling his eyes, he sat upon the running board to think, and crashed to the earthen floor.

If I could pick up this thing and shake it, he thought, every single piece would fall off. If he ever did get this heap on the road, the wind would blow it apart. If he were to look at it too hard, it would clatter to the ground, he thought. And then he thought of something else: He could strip the car down to the chassis with no effort at all. Then he might have something to work with – the steering wheel was still in place; the rims were still round. He might have something indeed.

Poncey found a crowbar and a mallet concealed within the rubble, and lay into the Tin Lizzie. Sure enough, the thing capitulated into a heap that looked like a pile of leaves. The doors came off in his hand, and the parts that once were rubber crumbled to dust. Brass fittings long ago had been scavenged, and Poncey removed lesser attachments with ease. In only a couple hours he had reduced the American classic to what looked like an odd box spring with wheels. After clearing a path to the door, he tucked a stout timber under the back and levered the vehicle into motion. The axles complained bitterly with squeaking cries, like a giant awakened from an enchantment. Poncey groaned and strained as he inched the frame forward, until at last it broke into the full sunlight.

Hands on hips, Poncey surveyed his work and knew he was onto something big. He stood at the cusp of inventing something new, something that would turn Skullbone upside down. Poncey would roam the streets in a towering sail car, harnessing the mighty rushing wind, combining the old and new to propel his brainchild. After much struggle, he wedged a platform of heavy lumber solidly within the skeletal frame, producing a deck of sorts, sturdy enough to support a mast reaching into the heavens. Poncey would become lord of all the elements, chasing the wind along West Tennessee roads and across open fields, mocking his poor, gasoline-encumbered fellow travelers. The Flivver's brake handle was bolted securely to the chassis; a simple wooden contraption attached, pressing against the wheel rim, and the car would stop on a dime. Poncey squared his shoulders, proud to finally reveal the greatness of his mental agility, to show the world its future.

"Avast!" he cried to the plodding traffic, gripping the steering wheel and balancing against his own rollicking momentum. He felt a spray of dust in his face as the Bon Homme Poncey pitched and rolled over the landscape. The storm whipped at Poncey's baseball cap, but could not tear it loose. A siren wailed like a tempest to his stern, giving chase to the fleet vessel. Blue lights flashed through the mist, and slowly the patrol car eased up to Poncey's port side. "Prepare for boarding!" a cop called through a bullhorn, and Poncey threw back his head in laughter. One hand on the wheel, the other entwined within the line, Poncey pulled the sail fully into the wind, and it filled and billowed like a rolling thunderstorm. The swift craft left its pursuing foes in a wake of dirt and gravel, lifting upon its suspension as it gaily lilted into the horizon and eternal liberty.

Poncey had already bought several cans of WD-40 to loosen the steering when he learned that, in order to move the car even a little, the sail would have to be four stories tall.

Comfortable within a patch of grass, Poncey lay outside the barn trying to imagine a mast twice the height of the roof. He'd suddenly come to appreciate every low-hanging tree branch and electrical wire in town, angling to take hold of his passing invention. The clouds drifted by as light and fluffy as his plans had proven to be. Mavis caused all this, he said to himself, she thought she'd gotten the better of him, but he'd find a way to show her. His eye again lit upon the rooster-crested weather vane.

"I'll get somethin' out of this deal," he said to himself. "Mavis said I could have anything I found out here, and I'm gonna take that weather vane."

Poncey did not possess the greatest athletic skill, but he did have good feet. Back in high school, the football coach had let him play defense because he said he had "good feet;" Poncey had realized then that it had always been true. At an early age he'd discovered a talent for picking up items with his toes, when he was too busy to bend down, and once he'd come to grips with the tedium of school, he found his teachers tolerated him drumming his toes in boredom more so than his fingers.

As children always seek some advantage over their mates, in those days Poncey also used his good feet to dominate the playground slide. The preferred slide of all the kids was a giant steel structure, tall and smooth and shining – and hot as blazes in the summer. The slanting surface was particularly wide and featured rails along the sides tall enough to grasp. Decorum called for each child to ride down in turn, then run around to wait for the ladder again; sometimes they would number in the dozens, tightly packed in line, waiting interminably. But Poncey learned that the angle of the slide was no challenge for his feet, and he could run back up the incline, first with the help of the rails and eventually completely freestyle. As soon as his shoes hit the hole worn into the dirt at the bottom, he'd turn and scurry back to the top, each metallic footfall pealing across the playground, time after time.

Poncey's talent didn't set well with the other children, of course, particularly whoever had the next turn. A storm of protest arose every time he pulled this trick, but the person most upset – stuck at the top of the ladder, just wanting an opportunity to sit and slide – he was in no position to find the teacher and tattle. Finally the day came when none other than Jazzy was the victim behind him in line. This would be delicious – Poncey sat for a significant amount of time at the top, talking to her over his shoulder.

"I like the view up here," he told her. "It's better than the monkey bars."

"You're a monkey all right. Hurry up and slide, biscuit boy."

"I'll go when I'm ready. I'm thinkin' 'bout sump'm right now."

"Hope you're not thinkin' 'bout runnin' back up the slide."

"Maybe. I'll let you know."

"I wouldn't do that if I was you."

"Well, you're not me."

"Just slide."

And so it went until finally Poncey did decide to slide, quickly depositing himself upon the ground, ready to climb back in a flash. He spun around just in time to see Jazzy hurtling toward him head first, her fists stretched out before her like Superman in flight. She caught him solidly on both knee caps, and since his knees did not bend in that direction, he spilled backwards with an agonizing bellow. Jazzy stood over Poncey's wallowing body, as he squawked and held his knees, then signaled the next child to slide on down on top of him. He rolled to safety and swore vengeance.

So Poncey did not have good knees. But he did have good feet, and the low roof of the barn was not so different from the slide. It comprised three distinct sections, the top short and steep, the middle longer and much steeper, and the lower broad and nearly level. He cast off his shoes, heaved his bulk up to the bottom gable and said to himself, this is a piece of cake. For the first time Poncey saw the words "Lookout Mt.," part of the Rock City sign that couldn't be seen from the ground.

Poncey became intimately familiar with that sign as he scaled the most vertical surface. He came eye-to-eye with the "Rock City" part as he began his ascent, his hands seeking out the best places to grip within the worn wood as his toes clawed at its grain. His face pressed tightly against the "7 States at" while he took a short breather, his grasp growing increasingly strained and tenuous. He gazed longingly at the "See" part – painted on the roof's top section – like the tape at the end of a footrace, an objective at the top of his summit. He crept ever higher, his fleshy stomach clinging to the surface.

His foot slipped, and sent a small avalanche skittering below. Sometimes the ice formed so sheer on the surface, it couldn't be seen. Poncey swore at himself for forgetting his ice axe; but, even without cleated shoes, he had faith his good feet would deliver him to the summit. Even on his undeveloped mustache, he could taste the glacier cream forming. To each side of him he looked down upon lesser ice pinnacles, and he paused to set his jaw again toward his lofty goal. A blast of wind ripped at his protective jacket, and he had to turn his face away; icy fog covered his goggles and frosted the inside of his oxygen mask. Inch by inch he proceeded, even the slightest progress still a major onslaught upon nature and history. Stealthily he felt, tucked inside his shirt, the tiny flag he would plant at the very top of the world.

Fingers clinched anything they could find as Poncey dragged his torso over the edge and onto the more accommodating pitch of the top area. He took a moment to lay there like a wet rag; not just anybody could have climbed that roof, he thought. He wondered how many states he could see from his new perch.

Eventually Poncey remembered why he had made the climb. A glance toward the saucy iron rooster sent him into shock: It was nearly as big as him. Wavering slightly in the breeze, it turned just enough to catch the sun, to look at him sideways, revealing rust and pocks left from decades of battling everything nature could throw at it. The proud sentry gazed flatly over its domain, giving no quarter and asking none. Up on his feet, Poncey leaned expertly into the angle of the gable and eased closer in his pursuit of the vane. He could see a bolt secured it to the base; he cursed himself for not bringing any tools – and he sure wasn't going back to get any now. If that forty-foot sail hadn't distracted him, he grumbled, he'd have thought to bring a wrench. The vane's base itself was screwed into the roof's bleached, wooden ridge; Poncey bet he could probably pull those screws out by the roots. The wood feels weak, he thought as he set his feet and tested his grip on the rooster, it'll probably give way.

He was practically kissing the bird as he gave it a mighty heave upward.

Poncey was right about the weak wood. Unfortunately, it didn't give way underneath the weather vane – it gave way beneath his good feet. A slow cracking sound grew into a disastrous crunch, and like a magic trick Poncey disappeared into a hazy cloud. As he felt the roof splinter under him, he thought for sure this was it, and Mavis and Jazzy and everyone else would be sorry they had treated him so badly, if they ever found him. He expected to come down heavily upon a pitchfork or tiller, or some other antique implement of destruction, impaled like a shish kebab. Instead, he was swallowed up by an incredible pile of dry corn cobs, letting loose a choking blast of dust and debris. As he scrambled to escape, crying and coughing and looking like a poorly made-up Halloween ghost, he considered this an even worse way to die.

Poncey sat planted on the edge of the loft, struggling to breathe, his legs dangling, his eyes muddy. He had survived his pillowy salvation, but only barely. The stored cobs reached almost to the roof, nearly filling the space. Poncey picked up one and studied it, wondering what possible use anyone would have for a million of them. The pockets left by missing kernels reminded him a little of the plastic bricks he had played with as a boy, thousands upon thousands of tiny squares and rectangles kept in a jumble inside a tall, round can. He considered the humble cob and thought about how he'd failed to build his sail car, and failed to get the weather vane, in spite of all his brainpower. In his mind he saw Mavis smirking through her cigarette smoke, and coughed slightly. All his learning was no use at all if it didn't set him apart from these other idiots. He thought about the cobs, and the toy bricks, and the barn.

The broken portion of the roof hung in front of his face, exhorting him to 'See'.

Poncey thought about the sign.

What kind of fool would drive to the other end of the state because of a sign painted on a barn, he wondered. Who cares about seeing other states when there are great things to see right in front of your eyes? Things like a sail car. Poncey looked at the cob in his hand. Or things like a grand building made of nothing but corn cobs, he thought.

Poncey's next few weeks were filled with industry; he even became scarce at the Diner. A design had immediately formed in his mind, which any architect would have scoffed at but it reminded Poncey of the Taj Mahal. Straight and solid walls made the uniform corn cobs a perfect construction material. Poncey gleefully tossed great mounds of his chosen medium out of the loft with a coal shovel, leaving only a tiny dent in the stockpile. After scraping out a footprint in the land along the highway, Poncey laid a foundation of cobs reinforced by mud. The expanse of the structure would dwarf the barn, much less the farmhouse. Placing layers of cobs alongside each other – alternating between six parallel, then six perpendicular, like cordwood – he expertly fashioned an edifice square and sturdy. A wet mixture of clay held the cobs together securely as Maizeland, as he began to call his creation, slowly rose from the ground.

Someday soon folks from all over will come, just to see the Maizeland mansion, thought Poncey through his glad whistling. He'll put Rock City to shame.

At first the work hurt his legs and back, as it forced him to crouch low for hours on end. As the walls reached his waist, his back straightened and the fatigue became less, and he designed ways to frame out doors and windows with scrap lumber. Once the structure grew higher than his head, his routine became more complicated: He found a step ladder in the barn, and a shoulder bag to hold cobs, and he used a small board to carry a bit of mud in one hand. Up and down the ladder he went, bending low, reaching high, over and over, then shifting the ladder to begin again, until his muscles cried out for mercy.

Through the nights Poncey lay awake, planning and scheming the next day's work, his legs and arms groaning. His back cramped in the night's rest and stiffened at each new labor in the morning. He never considered giving up, though; such was his fervor for the project. Once he was finished, nobody will even think about Rock City again, he told himself.

Next to Mavis' humble farmstead lay her former fields, still being worked by the wealthy planter who had bought them. Every midday Poncey saw a group of day laborers pass by on the road, heading to lunch, then back again. As Maizeland increased in size, so did the sound of their derision, and the hired help never failed to apply a new insight or insult to Poncey's work. At first he tried to ignore them, but before long he began to dread noontime; these nincompoops, these field hands, couldn't appreciate art or the fine satisfaction of real accomplishment, he thought. He bore with their ridicule until at last he could stand no more, and began a contest of wits with their passing commentary. Only the shortness of their lunch break saved him from exploding in utter frustration.

"There's that boy again," said a tall one, looking like a corn stalk himself. "He's still thinkin' a corn cob is a brick."

"Hate to see him at supper," replied another, "Chewin' on a brick 'stead of a corn cob."

"Hee heee! Chewin' on a brick!"

"Shut up! Get outta here an' get to work – get out there an' make more cobs for me," Poncey retorted. "You cornballs go back out to your cornfield!"

"You don't need no more corn cobs. What you need is at least one lick o' sense."

"You're some kind of corn clown," said a short, stubby one.

"Hee heee! Corn clown!"

"Knock it off!" Poncey said. "You jerks wouldn't know a piece of art if you saw one."

"Pizza fart?"

"Hee heee!"

"You're all idiots! Idiots!" Poncey screamed, almost letting them get to him.

The walls rose a majestic ten feet now, so Poncey decided to place towers at the corners, beginning at the ground again. He spent days building them to wall height on the exterior, a medieval façade, then added an overhanging lip at the top. He liked the effect so much, he thought battlements would make a nice addition. Maizeland had become a thing of beauty, a dusty brown testament to one man's vision and perseverance. As Poncey shoveled more cobs from the loft, he planned an interior wall with towers at each end, and for days the work went on, seasoned by constant jousting with the field hands.

"You call this the Corn Clown Castle?"

"Shut up! It's Maizeland!"

Then one morning when Poncey arrived at his work site, he froze in his tracks. A gaping hole in one wall of Maizeland stared back at him. In horror he studied the breach and the small pile of cobs on the ground directly below, and wondered whom he could blame. A roiling storm arose in his heart as he began the repair and railed silently at whatever brainless vandal had dared attack his masterpiece. Poncey had settled on blaming a raccoon by the time he'd fixed the hole, fuming over the precious hours he'd lost.

But the next morning another hole had appeared, in a different place, and bigger. Poncey cursed the raccoon and angrily patched the area. He tried to devise an animal trap in his mind, but couldn't think beyond making one out of corn cobs. He settled on hoping the varmint would die of natural causes. Hours later, he finally finished and turned his attention to the inside wall.

Then again the next morning there appeared not just a hole, but an entire section of wall that had collapsed. The dislodged cobs had fallen mostly to the inside, and Poncey swore a mighty oath at the sight of them. This repair would take him all day, he thought. New mud had to be mixed, and more cobs torn out to weave in the patchwork, and Poncey's slow simmer grew to a violent boil. This foolishness had gone on long enough; now he was determined to do something about it.

Again that night Poncey was unable to sleep, but no longer because of cheery planning. Instead, he lay on the cold ground, camped out in a little wood lining the road, hiding next to his castle, determined to catch the mystery marauder in the act. His teeth chattered through the night in his sleeping bag, with no light nor fire to give away his presence. Poncey blew hard into his cupped hands against the chill coming off the Channel. Brigades of the Saxon fyrd lay scattered across the land, prepared for the onslaught sure to come. William lurked somewhere nearby, preparing his troops for their attack on the barony. Poncey swore his allegiance to Edward, to defend the castle against the barbarous Normans or die trying. He peered at the towers, trying to make out the huscarls, but the starless night was too deep. Nothing to do but settle in for the long vigil, he thought, to dwell and dream upon those whom he loved, those he would likely never see again. A sea breeze gently drove rolling fog across the encampment. The creeping enemy would be upon him before the morning was even fully lit, likely, arriving like burglars and raining a terror of arrows and shafts upon him. Rumors of cavalry, long lances brandished upon strong horses, vexed his sleep and made him dread waking. Poncey jerked alert from his nodding.

He nervously scanned the wall with binoculars, afraid that he'd slept through the action. Every chirping cricket or hooting owl made his attention jump, thinking that he was about to confront his enemy.

Just as dawn broke he heard a sporadic mumbled noise, gradually drawing closer. The sound of roughhousing, the joking and scuffling of rambunctious friends, slowly separated into distinct voices. He lay silently studying the exchange.

"Nice of him to give us such a handy supply."

"No trouble at all any more."

They were the voices of the field hands.

"Watch it!" the skinny one laughed.

"Cannonball!" yelled the stocky one.

Poncey could see them now in the dim light, shoving each other playfully, talking trash. He gasped as the skinny one lurched into one of Maizeland's towers, sending it slowly leaning, then toppling to the ground. The man rolled in the pile of corn cobs like a bath, lost in hilarity, as the other picked up a few and stuffed them into his pockets.

Holding one up, he gaily proclaimed, "Nature's toilet paper!"

Sitting among the trees, Poncey saw Maizeland for what it was. The barn smiled at him, and the sign offered him its empty advice.

***

Poncey stared at the pew in front of him there in First Church. He more or less heard Rev. Fletcher droning on, "... and the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it...." Poncey had not been out to Maizeland for several days – he didn't have the heart. "...Wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth...." The pastor's voice morphed into Mavis', trilling like a bird in the choir. She easily beat Poncey out of the building as he shuffled down the aisle and into the street.

The bell jingled as he opened the Diner door. Mavis appeared through her veil of smoke. "Hey!" she grumped. "You put a hole in my barn roof! Get out there an' at least put a tarp or sump'm over it!"

Poncey didn't respond, but simply sat upon his stool.

"What you been doin' with yourself, sugarpie? Ain't seen you 'round here for a spell."

Poncey just sighed and shook his head.

"What's eatin' at you now, hon'? You look like you lost your best friend."

Finally Poncey replied, "I'm just tired of it – tired of how the world always just blows me off."

Mavis opened the dessert case. "Well, the world carries its share of scars." She pulled out a plate and set it before Poncey. "It can sure be a hard place. But where else you gonna go? An' besides, a piece a' pie makes a world a' diff'rence, right sugar doodle?"

**A Time for Poncey**

Poncey always figured he could have finished school in half the time required by the district, and perhaps his teachers wished he had. Memories of long, grueling days spent in stifling rooms jumbled together in his head with countless scholastic traumas, all to no apparent effect. For instance, there was the time on the playground when someone passed him a football but failed to tell him about it until the second it arrived at the back of his head. And another time, when he'd helpfully informed his teacher that she'd skipped a classmate's turn to read aloud, when in fact she hadn't, and she made him write "I will pay attention" on the chalkboard five hundred times. He never finished, because his mind wandered. And then who could forget the run-in he had with Jazzy Luray on the playground. She'd butted into a perfectly good argument to point out how could he think he was so smart when he'd put his shirt on backwards that morning. Poncey was so incensed at her – and his shirt – that, as she sashayed away, he forgot himself and kicked her little behind.

"Poncey S. Muldoon!" his teacher, who had been spying, was horrified. "What in the ever-lovin' are you doing? You apologize to Jacine right this instant."

"No! She was stickin' her nose in where it don't belong."

"Doesn't, and that's no excuse for kicking her in the bee-hind. If you think she's being nosy, you know what to do. Now what should you have done instead of kicking her bee-hind?"

"Kick her in the nose?"

"Land sakes no child!! You apologize this minute."

Poncey didn't apologize that minute nor any other, so he spent the afternoon in the principal's office. In the end, all he got for his trouble was a note for his parents to sign. His mother sighed heavily and barely scratched out her shaky signature.

Suffice it to say then that Poncey had little nostalgia for his school years. He still looked back on the whole ordeal as a waste, when all along he could have learned anything he wanted from a book, and as fast as he wanted. The looming brick school building might as well have been a penitentiary, with high-voltage wires running to his desk. Still, one good thing did come of all that trouble, and that was meeting Marlin MacLenoly.

The moment his family had arrived in town he was an oddity, since nobody moves to Skullbone. Almost everyone came to know him as Mack, and when Poncey tried to call him "Macaroni," the melee that followed drew a crowd from blocks away. There's nothing quite so entertaining as seeing two seven-year-old boys have at it. The two had been fast friends ever since. Mack had developed the odd habit, whenever his frustration overwhelmed him, of lifting his shirt and thumping his chest violently with a fist. Sometimes when deep in thought, he'd walk randomly and heedless of the world, slightly crouched, hopping and skipping along the way. He became a local legend as the pre-teen who attempted suicide by swallowing a bottle of pills that turned out to be his mother's estrogen. Whenever anyone brought up the incident afterwards, Mack would only quietly refer to it as "my mistake" – and Poncey brought it up as often as possible, even into high school.

"That's a heck of a mistake to make," Poncey said. "No wonder your voice still hasn't changed."

"It's changed as much as it's gonna," Mack kept his eyes low. "As much as it needs to."

"It's enough to scare the fish." Mack did speak in kind of a high warble, a perfect match to his boney body. "Wanna go fishin'?" Poncey kicked his feet against the weather-pocked curb outside the drug store as the two lounged about on the late summer evening.

"Nah. Fish won't be bitin' now anyhow. Don't you know anything?"

"I've forgotten more in this little finger than you'll ever know," Poncey declared. "Don't want to go fishin' anyway."

"Well, what then?"

"Tell you what – let's sneak on out to Jazzy's house."

"What fer?"

"She's takin' dancin' lessons. I hear she goes out to the deck in back to practice."

"So what?"

"I'll fetch my camera, and maybe we can get some shots of her prancin' around. She'd sure look like a fool, if we posted some of those pictures at school." Poncey was giddy at the idea.

"Maybe she'll even kick her clothes off," Mack's head waggled with possibility.

"You think?" Poncey was suddenly dead serious, agog at the idea.

"No. You're an idiot."

"No I'm not. I knew she wouldn't. But I'm gettin' my camera anyway. Let's go."

Mack groaned as he lurched from his perch on the parking meter and trailed after Poncey. The mission didn't interest him, and before long it would be late, and besides, his feet hurt. He followed along anyway. The Muldoon house – where Poncey kept his camera – was nearby, but Jazzy's family lived quite a distance out into the country. Light from the setting sun clung delicately to the horizon, and cicadas provided a backdrop with their swelling chorus. As the two youths drew closer to the Lurays' home, they left the gravel road and cut through a wooded area that faced the backyard. Poncey and Mack hunkered down in some bramble right at the edge of the trees.

"You see her?"

"No. Get off me."

"I don't see nothin'."

"Well, wait awhile. I hear some music. Maybe she's practicin'."

"Don't sound like dance music. Sounds like someone in the shower."

Poncey scoffed. "A cat in the shower."

"I see someone inside. There, see?"

"Shh! They'll hear you!"

"There! See?"

"I said get offa me!" Poncey shook Mack off his back and sent him tumbling and cursing into a thorn bush. In the tussle neither saw Mr. Luray stare out the window in their direction.

"Shut – up!" Poncey emphasized as he hauled Mack to his feet by one arm.

"Have you seen her? Did she come out?" Mack whispered hoarsely; he didn't really know what he was saying.

"Just sit quiet and watch. Maybe she'll come out." Poncey held on tight to his camera.

"Hey! Maybe that's her!"

A dark figure appeared, framed by the screen door, and hinges screaked as it opened. Mr. Luray's boots pounded upon the wooden deck as he lifted a shotgun to his hip and let go a blast in the direction of the woods.

"Sheeeet!" Mack screeched, a grating falsetto against the hollow boom, and back he stumbled into the briar. Poncey took to his feet like a boy fifty pounds lighter. Mack scrambled upright, leaving bits of clothing and skin in the thorns. Poncey leapt through the low brush, darting between trees like a running back. Something grabbed Mack by the ankle and sent him diving headlong into a mud puddle. Poncey broke from the forest and left it behind as he took the straightest line back to the gravel road. Mack scurried to his feet and limped along afterward, gingerly pulling his muddied clothing free from his wounded arms and legs.

It was back on the road that Poncey saw it. The full moon had come out, peering through the high weeds at its ghastly smile. The pale light gleamed off simple, sharp teeth, revealed within pink lips drawn back in a death masque, beautiful in its mournful horror. A possum lay in the scrubby grass, a victim of some mechanical menace, poised in exquisite pity. Around her lay perhaps a dozen kits, ruined as well either by the car, or by exposure, or by thirst, their sole protector being taken from them. Poncey stared in pious wonder at the sight – the possum's white face looked like an undefiled canvas, a pure, soft background for beady eyes permanently open, and one paw reached out to him in a gesture of grace and petition.

Poncey squatted there enthralled, but Mack was slain. As he limped ever closer, he saw what held Poncey's scrutiny, and joined the vigil, saying only, "Is it playin'?" His face obscured by its brackish mud covering, and sitting in the cover of shadows, Mack appeared to be no more than a pair of eyes gazing from the depths of space. The solemn possum took hold of his soul with its still demonstration. Mack absorbed the possum with his eyes, in perfect empathy with the animal's tragedy. The outrage of the possum's demise sunk deep into his being, a oneness with sudden fright relieved only by death, an unconscious appreciation of eating and drinking and working, all the things of life that never quite seem like life. For a reason he could not name, Mack felt more deeply than he ever had before.

On the other side of the corpse, Poncey admired the possum as if it were a machine of his own making. The kits formed a halo about their mother; so many, Poncey thought this must be a record for possum reproduction. The mechanics of its paw, the fine borders of its fur – in his mind he recorded details he could study now only because of the serenity of death. Suddenly he remembered his camera, and he photographed every angle and view of the animal he could think of. Most carefully he took a portrait of its face and hands, gesturing like a beatific waif. At last leafy shadows engulfed the possum, and the sky grew too dark for Poncey to shoot any more, lit by only lightning bugs. He jostled Mack back to attention from his strange fascination.

"Mack, let's go! Mack?"

"Huh?"

"It's time to go."

"It is time."

Mack's head didn't clear completely until his mother beat him for making such a mess of his clothes. Poncey wandered slowly toward his parents' home, reviewing his digital treasure trove of pictures. All along the way he could not shake that moment when technology, nature and art collided, and questions piled up within his mind. He quietly determined to learn every fact that he could find about possums.

Over time the depth of his knowledge grew beyond his own expectations. He knew the difference between Pseudochirops cupreus and Didelphis marsupialis, to say nothing of Didelphis virginiana. He knew the tricks of "playing possum," and how to tell it from actual death. The animal's musk glands disgusted him; the limits of its prehensile tail – too weak to actually suspend the beast from a branch – disappointed him. No point about the possum existed that he did not know or have an opinion about.

"The problem with understanding possum reproduction," Poncey told his horrified parents over dinner, "is that most people can't visualize a bifurcated penis." His mother dropped her fork. "But the male possum's organ is far superior to other species. Men surely would be filled with envy if they only knew. Of course, it requires a bifurcated vagina." Poncey's mother hastily left the table, but he remained, calmly buttering his bread. "Did you know possum sperm join in pairs before fertilization?"

Poncey knew he had a remarkable achievement on his hands, a gift he must share with the world. So he wrote a theme, an homage that turned the pitiful late marsupial into an epic allegory of great poetry and erudition. In order to get school credit, he compared possums' habit of hiding under houses to the homeless Mole People in New York City and turned the paper in to his social studies teacher. On the cover appeared the grand portrait of the late road kill.

Well, the paper certainly made quite a stir at school, so much so that Poncey almost began enjoying himself. Finally the attention he deserved was coming his way, he thought; he even heard girls giggling as he passed in the hallway. He wished he had collected the carcass to have it stuffed. Poncey was so taken with his paper's notoriety, he began a campaign to read it aloud at Skullbone Harvest Festival Day. Every fall the high school hosted an evening showcase of its most distinguished students to close out the festival. The selection committee was made up of senior staff members, led by an ancient throwback to one-room schools, Mrs. Rose.

A forty-year veteran of teaching the same English Lit curriculum, Mrs. Rose lived in the necessity of denial. For her, everything was wonderful except for whatever happened to be going on at the present moment. As soon as it was passed, it was forgotten – or wonderful. Year after year she fought the same battles with uncooperative and incapable students, every spring struggling over whom she could conscientiously pass. Her red-bejeweled cat-eye glasses underscored the frown lines engraved upon her forehead by wear and tear. Snow-white hair piled high upon her head, hardly distinguishable from the powdery hue of her face, no more than an apparition arising from a distant mist until the flamboyant shock of her lipstick made a person realize he was looking at a human being. A hopeful – if not resigned – smile made constant display of evenly gapped teeth. Her greatest goal at any given time was to avoid whatever disaster seemed to be looming closest.

She edged backwards into her classroom when she saw Poncey approaching in the hall.

"Miz Rose!" he called. The door began to shut.

"Miz Rose!" His bulk was too great for her.

"Yes? Oh! Poncey!"

"Miz Rose, I need to talk to you."

"Well, bless your heart," she sighed.

"Can I read my paper at Festival?" he awkwardly peered off in some different direction.

"Well, Poncey, it certainly is a fine paper. I'm so glad you know all that you know – why, you could be a teacher here, just like a teacher. I'll bring it up to the other committee members." She patted his doughy arm reassuringly.

"They said to ask you."

"They did?"

"Yeah – yes'm, I talked to them already. They all said to ask you."

She quietly cursed the day she was born. "Well, Poncey, it certainly is a fine paper. We'll see if we can find a time for you."

"Thanks, Miz Rose," Poncey replied brightly.

"Well, thank you, Poncey."

"Thank you."

"Yes, Poncey, you run along now."

"Okay, Miz Rose." And he did. Mrs. Rose breathed a sigh of wonderful relief.

So she organized the lineup of presenters for Harvest Festival Day – including Poncey – put in place a decorating committee, had programs printed up for the assembly that night, and everything was arranged. But one thing Mrs. Rose did not count on was it being an election year. Since election day very closely followed Harvest Festival Day, politicians often found it necessary to demonstrate their down-home roots by attending the festivities. This year it was the governor himself who had enraged the rural folks and announced a hasty trip to Skullbone to mend fences at their celebration. Poncey knew that his presentation at Festival could be the high point of his life, and perhaps of all Skullbone's history. The committee knew that the governor must never be subjected to an ode to a dead possum.

The evenings were falling earlier each day, and the outside lights already glowed that day as a crowd began to assemble in the high school cafetorium, a cost-conscious combination of lunchroom and auditorium. Life had drained from the leaves, revealing their true colors. Shadows hung like bunting on the building, and decorations of golds and browns carried on the theme of waning nature. A row of folding chairs with the state flag standing at either end, directly in front of the stage, gave silent testimony to the expected presence of the governor. Voices buzzed across the room in anticipation of the honored guest and what Skullbone had to show him that night.

Indeed he did eventually show up, with a small collection of overly serious aides. One held a clipboard and studiously made check marks on a list of some sort as the governor worked his way into the room. Another talked into a gizmo hanging from his ear. Every man and woman old enough to vote was carefully greeted, hands shaken and backs patted. Every child young enough to not fight back was lifted up and kissed. Time stood still as citizens voiced their concerns over the cotton crop, or the price of diesel, or property disputes with neighbors. The governor promised to look into every single issue, but stressed that he'd be able to only if he served another four years, and slowly made his way to the row of chairs. Finally, his essential business finished, boredom became the only measure of how long he would remain at the Festival extravaganza.

Elementary-school urchins dressed as vegetables – and already yawning – opened the show, perfectly complementing the décor. Their muddled recitation no doubt saluted autumn's bounty, although nobody could really tell, and parents shuffled them quickly off to bed. Like a view into the future, the 4H Club next took the stage with real onions and squash, not to speak of pies, quilts and livestock.

Each blue-ribbon winner took a moment to describe his or her project, with the resulting product on display behind them. As She'rie Scott described her quilting pattern, explaining the stitch she used to join scraps of historic family fabric, the audience began to twitter with laughter. She'rie turned bright red, not realizing that what nobody on stage could see was Billy Canberg's goat nibbling on Mary Wilkinson's sweet corn. This barnyard humor was, of course, all the audience cared about. Some frantic and hilarious gesturing from the crowd finally led Billy to discover his goat's crime and pull the animal away by the rope looped around its neck; Mary stamped her foot and jealously cradled her violated crop.

While all eyes focused on the goat, Howard Moore's chicken had seen its opportunity to build a nest in Lisa Whistle's cherry pie. Its contented clucking drew a terrified cry from Lisa, and she skidded across the slick stage while rushing to the pie's rescue, crashing simultaneously into the table and onto the floor. In the end the pie lay in ruins pan-side-up, Lisa was reduced to a sobbing mess, and the chicken found sanctuary in the rafters overhead. A team of janitors was required to remedy both situations, and the 4H Club filed off stage in utter defeat as the governor sat stolidly, apparently unaware of all that had happened. Waiting in the wings, Poncey thought to himself, "Waste of time."

The Mime Troupe came out next, hoisting themselves on stage with an invisible rope which, as hard as they were pulling upon it, did not appear to be taut. Each member went through a series of gyrations that at another time might have had them committed. Heavy white makeup covered each of their faces, as pale as Mrs. Rose, embellished with various combinations of tears, lashes, hearts, stars, freckles and whatever else they could think of. A tinny recording of jangly piano music played in the background as they went through their paces. One held his hands out flat in front of him and moved them around with a surprised expression, while another incongruously went through ice-skating motions behind him. A girl stood eating fruit that not only appeared out of thin air but was air, carelessly tossing a banana peel to the floor. Another simply strolled among the hubbub. He did not slip on the peel.

After an interminable minute of this, a girl stepped forward to explain and demonstrate each miming skill. Unfortunately, in accordance with the mime code, before she spoke she removed a streak of makeup from her face. Then, after describing what she was about to do, she replaced the makeup before proceeding. Back and forth she went, white then flesh, silent then speaking, until she finally ran out of talent. The audience was as silent as the players, and the governor perceptibly peeked at his watch.

Finally the rope succeeded in pulling the troupe back off stage. Next up, members of the First Aid Club demonstrated their healing skills by applying cardio-pulmonary resuscitation to a mannequin, and – after that treatment had no apparent effect – winding long bandages around its head. After propping it into a chair, one medic opened a door on its abdomen to reveal color-coded, squishy-looking organs. Some of the younger girls in attendance made groaning sounds, and Poncey, already having been delayed by a pastry accident, chanted softly, "Don't throw up. Don't throw up." A quick trip around the digestive system and the correct diagnosis of appendicitis, and the First Aid Club exited without incident.

"Hey Miz Rose."

"Hay is for horses, Poncey."

Poncey glanced at his program just to be sure, and indeed, next in line came the track and field team, after which his paper was scheduled. "You just stand right here by me, Poncey," he heard Mrs. Rose say. That night her lipstick was a milky pink. For the special occasion she had foregone her usual practical nurse's shoes in favor of dressy, black patent leather heels. She wore a crimson dress that pronounced her questionable figure, and over her shoulder, balanced upon her back, hung a huge alligator bag filled with anything a high school student might have forgotten on an important night. Tucked under her arm she held a clipboard laden with papers, and one hand nervously twitched a pen like a watch spring, while the other clutched a red squeeze bottle filled with apple juice. "Stick close to me, and I'll let you know when you can go on stage."

The track team had won the state title the spring before, and now it shambled into place casually sporting letter jackets. Many of the members carried the tools of their trade – discus, shot, hammer – and one still had a spot of white makeup visible behind his ear. Kent Dekker, team captain, shifted his weight uneasily and spoke in that way athletes have of using unrelated clichés. "The only thing that could beat us was ourselves, and the other teams. But we put our uniforms and our game face on, one leg at a time, and neither one let us down. You can wrap up our season in one word – you never know." The crowd applauded politely, and a few people who had been nodding off perked back to attention.

Dekker pulled his hands from his pockets and called for the discus to demonstrate proper form. His shoes squeaked across the floor as he spun around, stopping only in time to tell his listeners that was the moment he normally would throw the thing. Then the javelin thrower showed everyone the proper grip and balance, and thrust the spear toward them like a cheap 3D movie. Meanwhile, Dekker fetched the shot, indicating its obvious weight by the way he hefted it in one hand. The silvery ball nested delicately in his palm; he explained the throwing technique. Again his shoes squeaked, and he brought his body around to face the audience. But he didn't stop as completely as he should, and the ball came out of his hand – a panicked look blazed across his eyes as the shot arched out over the crowd, and people scattered and screamed in its path. It crashed to the ground and exploded with a splash – it was only a balloon ingeniously filled with Jell-O, and a broad smirk spread over Dekker's face. A hysterical teammate handed him another ball, which he demonstrated to all was the real shot.

The track team removed itself from the stage to laughter and scolding, and a janitor reappeared with his mop. The governor remained supremely aloof from the untoward goings-on. Mrs. Rose was beside herself, as was Poncey, and jabbed at Dekker sharply with her pen.

"You trickster!" she huffed. "You little joker! Look at that mess!"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, unable to conceal his smile.

"You think you're funny! We'll just see about this come Monday."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You come and see me first thing in the morning! First thing!" She emphasized the words with pen jabs, and knocked the shot clean out of his hand.

"Oops!"

Poncey stood waiting there for Mrs. Rose to send him on stage. The metal ball dropped directly onto his foot, protected by only a sandal. It caught his big toe with the full force of gravity, and he reacted with a mighty oath and agonized hopping.

"Oh, goodness, Poncey!" Mrs. Rose fretted, but not convincingly. "Goodness! Let's take a look at that toe. Oh my, oh my, I'm so sorry. Good thing the First Aid Club is here!"

Sure enough, the First Aid Club stood nearby and scurried to work. The next presenters, the Fishing Club, went on stage in Poncey's place, and the bandages were removed from the mannequin's head and wrapped securely around Poncey's stricken foot. As he hobbled around, he could hear Clem Taylor prattle on about crickets.

The anglers had brought a collection of rods and a washtub filled with real water to show off their casting skills. But first Clem discussed lures and bait, and what circumstances required which type. For effect he dug a night crawler out of a can of dirt, but reassured the crowd that, for his purposes that night, he would keep it clean, pretend he was going for bream and demonstrate with bread. With the tub at stage right, he struck a pose at the opposite end and prepared to cast his bread upon the water. He proved to be a dead-eye, and all his colleagues as well, as time after time they put their hooks directly into the tub with a plop. The crowd ooh-ed and ah-ed appreciatively, and applauded as a couple of club members flanked the tub to lug it off stage.

Poncey had sufficiently recovered and again stood with Mrs. Rose for his turn. The Fishing Club inched toward the wings, the water in the tub threatening to slosh over with each step. Mrs. Rose kept a suspicious eye on their precarious progress, advancing on her like an army. Just as they arrived she made room for them between her and Poncey, then turned suddenly away and lost control of her clipboard. She somehow bumped the washtub with her giant bag just enough to spill half its contents on Poncey.

"Oh no! Did I do that?" she squealed, and wheeled back around. Poncey stood like a statue with a pigeon on it, staring at her obnoxious presence. "Oh no! Poncey! You're all wet!" Poncey gaped at her and then down at his dripping pants, his arms held low and out from his body as if he were pleading for some divine clemency. "I'm so sorry! Come on, we'll find you something dry to put on. Go on down to the locker room, and I'll send Coach Tebbe to get you something dry. Chess Club, you're going on next, get on out there." And with that she turned her back.

Poncey had a million things to say to her. Instead, he only glared and breathed heavily for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode into the hall. The wet denim clung cold to his skin, making it hard to walk. He knew better than to wait for the coach; he'd go down into the belly of the building and find some clothes in the locker room himself. As he limped along, he could hear Chess Club president Donald Hickey saying something about discovered attack and zwischenzug, and something about a fork, and taking over your opponent's territory. Poncey could play chess, but he had no time for this foolishness, he thought to himself, he had no use for a fork but at the dinner table. What time to play defense and what time to attack, Johnson went on and on, and his voice was lost in the echoes of the hallway. Poncey cared only about getting out of his soaking jeans and back to the assembly to read his paper.

As a member of the football team, Poncey knew how to break into the room. The chain-link barrier around the lockers, meant to add security, proved no obstacle for the emergency key that every player knew about, hidden just within the transom over Coach's office door. Once in his own locker, Poncey took out his uniform pants and socks, leaving his sandals behind. The gauze around his foot was saturated, so he substituted an ACE bandage. At this point he didn't care how ridiculous he looked, as long as he didn't appear to have wet his pants. He half-sprinted and half-hopped back to the cafetorium, imagining the governor squirming in his chair while Donald Hickey discussed castling.

He burst through the double doors leading to the backstage area, and the floor changed to slick hardwood. In his socks, Poncey skidded around a curtain and caught sight of the Chess Club exiting the stage, and of the Dance Club milling around, and of Mrs. Rose wrenching her attention toward him with a shocked look. Poncey tried to get his speed under control, but as he careened forward he lost track of his feet. Mrs. Rose started to yell, "Go! Go! Go! Hit it!" and pushed the startled dancers onstage. Poncey crashed upon his backside at her feet, as she screamed, "Push the button!" Some non-descript dance music cranked up, and there was Jazzy Luray at the front, leading the Dance Club through its routine.

"Poncey!" Mrs. Rose said. "Are you all right? I wasn't expecting you."

"Why are they on?" Poncey replied. "They're the last act!"

"I know," Mrs. Rose looked distant. "I wasn't expecting you. We put the Dance Club on." She took a swig of her apple juice.

"There's still time for me, isn't there?" Poncey tried to gather himself and pretend everything was going as planned. "It's alright, I'll be fine going last – save the best for last, right? There's still time."

"Yes, well," Mrs. Rose fumbled. "Time can be a funny thing."

Poncey didn't know what that meant, so he turned his attention to the dance troupe. He watched Jazzy gyrating and pounding her feet to the music, and nearly forgot all about possums. The music thumped and rattled off the walls, and the governor tried to talk to the aide beside him. Jazzy snapped her head in place to the beat, flailing her ponytail behind her, and gazed into the audience like a cat on the hunt. The room became uncomfortably hot.

At last the song ended, and Jazzy looked toward the wings. She caught hold of Poncey with her eyes and shrilled brightly, "One more time!"

With that the governor abruptly stood up and left the cafetorium, trailing aides behind him. Again the dance team stomped and shook with the vibrating rafters. The rest of the crowd began to shift and murmur, and gradually people made their way to the door.

"Good night everybody!" Jazzy called out happily.

"What's going on?" Poncey demanded, his paper clinched in one hand. "When is it my time to talk?"

"Now, Poncey, it's getting late," Mrs. Rose intoned. "Maybe it would be better to let everyone go home. We have to beat the curfew, you know."

Thoughts were ricocheting in Poncey's mind so fast he didn't even think to mention that there was no curfew. Tight emotions rushed into his sinuses and burned his eyes. "How can you do this? I've missed the governor, and you're not going to let me read my paper at all? That's not fair! You owe it to me! You owe me!"

Mrs. Rose propped her glasses atop her head like a pair of horns. "Calm down, Poncey, calm down. You're paper is still fine work, it's a fine paper. But tonight it's just too late. Best to call it a night, maybe just go out for something to drink and go home. How about it, Poncey? Would you like something to drink?" And she offered him her apple juice with a lame smile.

Poncey raised his arm high, paper in hand, and his mouth hung open as a selection of epithets crossed his mind. The music battered his head relentlessly, tempting his fist to follow suit. He shook his clinched theme weakly, then, like a spell coming over him, he caught sight of the picture of the dead possum next to the face of Mrs. Rose, and saw their white hair and faces, their beady eyes, their thin pink lips, the black gaps between each pearly tooth, their blank stare. They even shared the same gesture of earnest benevolence. At that moment he realized that they were just the same in every way, that the possum's end would be Mrs. Rose's end, and in time his own end as well, and even if he had read his paper, in the long run nobody would care, or even recall the time.

**Remember a Cord of Three Strands**

The summer of Alderaan Lars' tenth birthday began as a trial certainly sent by some demonic fiend. For all his life that he could remember, he'd lived quite happily there in Pleasanton, Iowa, with his Mah and Pah within a prairie paradise. In every direction he looked, corn fields stretched out, offering an endless treasure of hideaways, imaginations and adventures. There in his extended backyard he had conquered the Old West, fought three world wars and sailed green and yellow oceans, and he'd only just aged into double digits. Over the years he had discovered and thwarted aliens planning to attack the capital (Des Moines). He had hunted the dreaded field elephant as it mowed down the corn in its wrath, only barely able to peek over the stalks at their full height. He had gone swimming with dolphins just under the seas' tasseled surface. There in Iowa, the winds blew gently in summer and howled in winter; snows regularly interrupted school days, and rains seldom ruined vacations. It was, he reckoned, the most ideal life a boy could have; who cared that he was the only black child in town.

At age seven he hijacked the family pickup and drove like a maniac around the harvested fields, working the accelerator with a broom handle. At eight he climbed out his bedroom window in the middle of the night, shimmied down a tree and led a few of the neighbor's milk cows to his teacher's house – liberally fertilizing her flower beds – just because he liked her. When he was nine he climbed the water tower and painted, on the top where only small-plane pilots could see, "last stop for gas." Iowa was his domain, and no other place on Earth could ever be quite so pleasant for Alderaan as his home in Pleasanton. But just because she needed a break, at age ten his Mah told him he'd be spending the summer some four hundred miles away with his second cousin twice-removed, Alberta Pickler.

"Mah, why do I have to go off somewhere all summer?" he wailed at the news. "They're about to pour the cement floor for the new co-op!"

"Yah, well, that's exactly why you're going. I shudder to think what you've got in mind for that cement. I don't want the whole Farm Bureau at my front door."

"Ahh, Mah. I promise I won't do anything."

"Don't you lie to me, not with Jesus and all His angels listening. You're going to your cousin's, and that's that."

Alderaan didn't know why Jesus had to get involved, and wandered out onto the porch. He found a stick long enough to whip at the grass while he sat on the top step. In the distance, far beyond the corn, the California Zephyr called to him. If he left now, he'd miss Ethanol Days, with its tractor pulls, seed-spitting round-robin, and all the other pastimes farmers use to entertain themselves while they watch their crops grow. He would miss endless games of Wiffle ball in the sun and bingo under the shade. No fresh-squeezed lemonade, no late-night bonfires, no annual Bassett Waddle, for surely those things exist only in Iowa, he thought. Alderaan moved to the bottom step and drew in the silky soft dust with his toe, sure he could think of a way to change his Mah's mind. But before he knew it, the City of New Orleans pulled up in the pitch black of Newbern, Tennessee, where his cousin Alberta picked him up and drove him to Skullbone.

So Alderaan was in no great spirits as he kicked moodily against the broken sidewalk in front of Alberta's house and noticed ten-year-old Poncey S. Muldoon coming up the way with his dog, Sparky.

"That your dog?"

"Yeah, what'd you think? I got him on my leash."

"Yah, that's what I thought. What kind of dog is it? Bulldog? A poodle?"

"He's a mutt, mostly rat terrier – emphasis on the rat."

"More of a 'poochle,' then."

"Yeah, I guess. Name's Sparky. You new here?"

"Yah, I'm staying here with my cousin."

"Alberta Pickler's your cousin?"

"Yah, that's what I said."

Poncey stood there. "When're you leavin'?"

"I'm going to be here all summer."

Poncey looked down at Sparky, scratching lamely at the mites in his ears. "Well," he offered, not particularly wanting to be friendly. "What's your name?"

"Alderaan Lars. What's yours?"

"Poncey Stonewall Muldoon." No entrenched Southern family is without at least one male child named Stonewall, and it was Poncey's turn. "What the heck kind of name is Alderaan?"

"What kind of name is Poncey?"

Poncey didn't want to explain, so he let it drop. "Where'd you get the name Lars?"

"Some guy a long time ago, he lived in Minnesota but he wanted to own a slave."

"He wanted to own a slave?"

"Yah, some Norwegian named Lars. I guess he was a social climber or something, so he moved to Missouri and bought a person, some super-great grandfather of mine. But it turned out he wasn't in Missouri."

"Why not?" Poncey tried not to look interested, but talk of Minnesota might as well have been about Katmandu to him, so exotic it was. Sparky licked himself.

"He moved to just inside the northern border, to Pleasanton – guess he was lazy, or tired of traveling. But Iowa and Missouri were fighting over where the line was. Missouri thought it should be farther north, and Iowa thought it was more south, and they nearly had a war over it. Some folks crossed over and cut down some honey trees, just to try to start something, so they call it the Honey War."

"You're makin' that up."

"Noh, it's true history."

"How come you to know all this?" Poncey was impressed.

"I read. Anyway, they're my people. I should know about them."

For the first time, Poncey thought there might be something to this reading thing.

"So they finally settled on a border, and that old Lars' farm turned out to really be in Iowa, so he had to let his slave go. My great-grandpah stayed there in Pleasanton, but since he didn't really have a last name, he just took Lars. A lot of freed slaves did that, taking their master's name – or whatever job they did, they might take that."

Poncey fell silent, and Sparky dragged his hindquarters across the ground.

"Your dog's a freak," observed Alderaan.

"Yeah, I think there's somethin' wrong in his brain," Poncey said. He wanted to show this new kid he knew a thing or two as well. "I think doe-mestication messed 'im up. Dogs should be huntin' us, so turnin' 'em into pets really messed 'em up."

"Yah, I suppose. You see how one of his ears droops? That's from domestication."

Poncey blew out his breath – how did this kid know that? He changed the subject. "Say, wanna go down to the store? Me an' Sparky are goin' there now."

"Yah, I suppose."

"It's a general store an' a junkyard. I let Sparky run around in the fenced area while I do my mam's shoppin'. It's Zeke Breather's store – you'll like him."

So the two walked along the way, Sparky leading on his taut leash. They talked about this and that, Poncey bringing points of interest in town to Alderaan's attention, and Alderaan nodding thoughtfully. Oblivious, they stopped when Sparky found a leathery toad – a veteran of automobile tires and the withering sun – and had to roll on it, until they realized just what he was doing and made him keep moving. He picked up the late toad to bring along.

"Yah, I'd say something freaky weird is going on with Sparky."

"I'm thinkin' of namin' 'im somethin' else. It's plain 'Sparky' just doesn't fit 'im, but I don't know what's better yet – hey, there's Mack!"

Making his way toward them on an adjacent street was Marlin MacLenoly, his head bowed and body bent into a question mark. The joints of his elbows and knees jutted out, and his skin clung to his bones for dear life; his head looked like a round sucker on top of his thin body. He held his fists out in front of him, and took a couple steps, then jumped a little as if playing hopscotch. Mack was lost inside his head somewhere, and Poncey let him nearly run into them before saying anything.

"Hey, Mack, this here's a new kid in town, Alderaan Lars. He's visiting Miz Alberta."

"Alderaan?" Mack's face brightened, as though he hadn't heard such a grand thing in a buzzard's age. "Like the planet?"

"Yah, afraid so," Alderaan looked a little put upon.

"That is so cool! 'Zit your real name?"

"Yah, my Mah was ready to have me, and she didn't have a name yet. So she was lying in her hospital bed, she was all alone there, waiting for me, and on TV was 'Star Wars.' She couldn't believe there was a character named Lars – she'd never heard that name on anyone but her family – so she decides to take a name from the movie, and she liked the sound of 'Alderaan.' So I got stuck with it."

"That is so cool!" Mack exulted.

"He wouldn't tell me that," Poncey muttered.

"Well, I got used to it."

Sparky had lain down next to Alderaan's foot, and at this point the boys realized the dog had chewed his shoelace into several short lengths. "Hey!" he yelled, and jerked his foot out of the way, and Sparky looked into his eyes and wagged his tail. "Keep that mutt away from me!" Alderaan instructed Poncey.

"Dumb dog!" Poncey scolded. Sparky wagged at him.

"We're goin' down to Zeke's," Poncey told Mack. "I've got a list from my mam. Want to go along?"

"Sure," said Mack, and so he did.

At Zeke Breather General Store and Junkyard, an ancient brick building fronted a huge field piled high with all kinds of discarded treasure, wrapped within a chain-link fence. The weather-worn porch welcomed customers with homey touches like rocking chairs and barrels with checker boards, all made in China. But Zeke was genuine, and he could dig up nearly anything a customer might want, or if not, at least spin him a yarn to keep his trip from being a complete waste. His temples and usual growth of whiskers were peppered with gray, his hair a mess of short curls under a dilapidated hat. During the summer months he often stretched only a sleeveless undershirt over his chest and roundish belly, and that was how the boys found him this day. As usual, his pickup – an old Diamond T monstrosity that refused to die – was parked in front of the store, and his giant dog sat sublimely in the bed.

A yellow mess of unrelated genes, the dog answered to Boneapart. Zeke took a lot of ribbing about this, seeing as how the mutt was much bigger than Napoleon had ever been, but he insisted "Boneapart" had nothing to do with history. Zeke claimed the name celebrated the dog's ability to ruin bones, and to prove the point he spelled it wrong. But Boneapart's real defining characteristic was that he tolerated anything Zeke wanted to do to him. This particular day he was wearing an old-fashioned beanie, the propeller spinning slowly in the soft breeze.

"There's your domestication," said Alderaan as the three recovered from their hilarity. "That proud wolf has sold his soul."

"Ol' Zeke's crazy," Poncey snickered. "There's no end to what he'll do to humiliate that dog." Sparky danced and barked like a jester, but Boneapart maintained a dignified disinterest. A hornet flew threatening circles around his head, its hind legs dragging in the air like an extra-terrestrial ghost.

Poncey released Sparky into the vast adventureland of the junkyard and set about his duties in the store. Alderaan and Mack wandered in with him, and Zeke managed to sell them each a candy bar. Mack picked up a comic book as well.

"You fellas be sure to come back. Pleasure to meet you, Al'dron," Zeke waved from behind his counter. "Anytime at all ya'll wanna come in an' chat, you jus' come on in."

"Thanks" and "okay," they all said, and walked around to the back. They leaned against the fence, and Poncey whistled for Sparky in a warbling kind of way.

"That stupid dog never will come when he's called," Poncey grumped.

"Sparrrr-keyyyyyy!" Mack yelled.

Nothing happened, so Alderaan stuck both pinky fingers into the corners of his mouth and let out a shrill blast that made the other two jump. Sparky quickly appeared trotting around the shell of a Nash Metropolitan.

"Must've been at the far end when he heard me," Poncey groused as he attached the leash. "What in the world is that smell?"

"Smells like rotten fish, maybe mixed with vomit," Mack noted.

"Oh, man, Sparky found some gingko fruit. If there's sump'm disgustin' to roll in within a mile of that dog, you can bet he will find it. I swear, you are the most disgustin' idiot dog I know." Sparky whined.

"What's that over there?" Alderaan swung his finger up towards the store's back wall.

On the ground by the building lay a small square of concrete producing a skinny metal pipe, about a foot sticking up beyond the surface. Directly overhead hung a beaten-up porcelain basin dislodged from the wall, cocked at a precarious angle, a hole at the back left empty by the single fixture that once had filled it. Above it on the wall, in fading paint, appeared the stenciled word "colored."

"Used to be a water fountain there," Poncey said carelessly. "Black folks used to have their own water fountains. They called black folks 'colored' back then."

"What?"

"Long time ago 'round here black folks couldn't use just any water fountain like everyone else," Poncey said, happy to finally know something that Alderaan didn't. "The store wouldn't serve 'em, so they'd come 'round back here to get a drink – had diff'rent bathrooms, too."

"Other stuff, too," Mack offered.

"They called those laws Jim Crow," Poncey showed off his knowledge. But he added, "I don't remember why."

"How long ago?" Alderaan demanded.

"I dunno," Poncey looked surprised. "Twenty years – fifty, maybe? I'm not sure."

"Zeke do all that?"

"Naw, it was long before Zeke bought the store."

"What gives them the right?" Alderaan heaved with emotion, but it wasn't anger.

"It ain't that way any more," Poncey tried to calm him down, and shifted the bag of groceries in his arm. "They changed all that long time ago."

"That doesn't make it all right," Alderaan retorted. "It's just plain wrong – go around back to get a drink. People got noh right to put other folks down like that. The world belongs to everyone here, and nobody can shut anyone out! It's just not right." A tear rolled down his cheek as he glared at the sign.

"Come on, it was a long time ago. Things ain't that way any more," Poncey couldn't think of anything else he could say.

"Yeah, c'mon, man," Mack added. "It's all right. I'll let you read my comic."

"It isn't all right. All those people, told what they can and can't do, can't even get a drink of water where they want – it's like slavery still, like keeping them in prison."

"Well, things're different now. Those folks changed the law. Why're you gettin' so worked up about it now?"

"They're my people. It doesn't matter how long ago it happened. I have to care about my people."

"Well, look, it's over now, and my dog stinks," Poncey scowled at Sparky to impress his point upon Alderaan. "I gotta get him home an' wash him down."

"All right. But it's just wrong."

Alderaan remained sullen on the road back into town. Mack's nose was buried in his comic book, so Poncey was left to his thoughts. He decided he would learn everything about animal domestication and show Alderaan just who he was dealing with. Eventually Mack pulled out his candy bar and began mindlessly munching on it. Sparky stopped to sniff every tree and mailbox along the way. Alderaan kept his head low; Poncey wished he knew what Alderaan was thinking, imagining it to be something simple and foolish that he already knew. Mack began to hum an advertising jingle as he stopped to skip for a step. Sparky was yapping uncontrollably at something behind them.

"Which one a' y'all messed his pants?" came a snide voice.

The three boys awoke from their respective daydreams and turned to see Bobby Roach, nearly ten years older than them and not shy about taking advantage of it. His body was thoroughly too old for bullying, but his mind had been left back. A lit cigarette dangled from his dry lips, and he'd left the top of his shirt unbuttoned so it would fit in spite of being one or two sizes too small. He had on faded jeans, shredded at the knees and ankles, and wore heavy boots. His blond hair hung in long bangs, and he twitched his head sideways to keep his eyes clear. Short and stocky, he typically kept his thumbs hooked in his belt loops when he wasn't using them to stick someone in the eye.

"Ya'll smell like you been honey dippin'," he said.

"What's that?" Alderaan asked innocently.

Poncey and Mack knew that they had to play this encounter carefully; if Bobby decided they were too much a waste of his time, they could walk away feeling like kings. Or he could leave them in bloody shambles. So far his mood remained a mystery.

"It's Sparky," Poncey said warily.

"Don't you know nothin'?" Bobby directed his attention at Alderaan.

"Yah, but I don't know what you said." Alderaan seemed distracted and not aware of the desperate situation.

"You ain't from aroun' here, are you?" Bobby stuck his chin out at Alderaan. He took a threatening tone.

"He's visiting, Bobby," Poncey felt the situation reeling out of control. "Leave him alone."

"Hey Bobby," said Mack.

"Then he better learn fast who runs these streets," Bobby gave notice, striking a pose he'd seen once in a biker movie. "Now, which one of you girls messed her pants? I say it's you."

"Noh, not me."

Poncey knew by now all was lost, and their only hope was to contain the damage.

"If I say it was you, it was you, squirt. Am I right? I want to hear you say I'm right – you had better not get on my bad side."

"Which side is that?" Alderaan asked.

"You tryin' to get smart with me, boy?"

"Hey Bobby," said Mack

"Leave him alone, Bobby. I got to get these groceries home," Poncey tried again.

"Yeah, my mom will kill me if I'm late," Mack added.

"Go on home then, punk. I got biz'ness with little Diddy here."

"Noh, not me. I have to go home too."

"You'll go when I say so," Bobby glared. "Now, did you mess your pants or not?"

"I told you," Poncey broke in. "That smell is Sparky. We've got to go now an' give him a bath." Sparky had nervously run circles around Poncey, wrapping his legs with the leash.

"No it ain't, it's little Diddy here. I want him to say he messed his pants."

"Noh, not me."

"Hey Bobby," said Mack.

"Shut up!" Bobby suddenly took notice of Mack and popped him in the side of the head with the heel of his hand. Mack went down like a bundle of straw, flinging away his comic book but managing to hold onto the stump of his candy bar. His boney frame hit the road hard in a crumpled heap, and he came up crying.

"Hey!" Poncey yelled.

"You shut up too!" And Bobby shoved him as well. With his feet tangled by the leash, Poncey fell flat, hopelessly juggled his bag of groceries before they went flying. Sparky pulled and bit desperately at his restraint until it broke free of Poncey's legs, and then he took to the hills as fast as he could. "You Judas!" Poncey thought as he scrambled to gather his packages.

Bobby loomed over Mack. "You cry like a girl. Give me that." He wrenched the remains of Mack's candy bar from his hand.

"Hey, th- th- that's mine!" Mack struck at his own chest.

"Go ahead and cry, spaz."

"Give it back," Alderaan said in the same voice as at the wall.

"What?" Bobby retorted. "What if I don't? What're you gonna do, Diddy?"

"Here. Take mine." Bobby unconsciously opened his hand as Alderaan reached out, in one motion switching his still-wrapped candy bar for Mack's. He quickly stooped to pick up a couple of items for Poncey's sack, then heaved the blubbering Mack off the ground by one arm.

"Come on. Walk away. Heads high."

Bobby focused on the candy in his hand at first, then noticed the three leaving but did not know how to react. "I'm gonna be watchin' for you!" he yelled at last, and waited awkwardly.

After that day the boys were thick as crawdads in mud. Every morning one or the other could be seen waiting outside another's house, and every evening they would all straggle back from a day's adventure, exhausted, covered with dirt or sweat or both, thoroughly satisfied. Sometimes Poncey wanted to strangle Alderaan, and sometimes he wanted to hoist him on his shoulders. Mack seemed to just want to sit at his feet. For Alderaan's part, he forgot about what he was missing in Iowa, and learned all the intricacies of Skullbone society. He found that there were strawberry jamborees and blues festivals, and he learned he could fight pirates and fly to the moon just as well from softly rolling hills as from a corn field. And every now and then he returned to the general store – always by the long way, designed to avoid another run-in with Bobby Roach – to study and contemplate the wall, and what people will do to each other.

"Turns out I was right," Poncey informed him.

"About what this time?"

" 'Bout doe-mestication. It makes an animal's brain smaller. I looked it up."

"That's definitely what happened to Sparky."

"Judas."

"Yah, Judas."

"I always knew he was crazy. Now I know why."

"It's all domestication. That's also why he's got that piebald color."

"Huh? Uh – yeah."

"Where's he goin' now?" Mack observed.

"What? Oh, man, he chewed through his leash!" Poncey groaned. "Judas! Get back here! Get back here, you damn dog!" he screamed.

"Out, damned Spot!" Alderaan called after him, glad to see him go. "Oh, well, maybe he won't come back."

"Come on, help me chase 'im."

Judas had a good three- or four-block head start on them, bound for out of town. The boys lurched into motion and chugged along, keeping the tiny black-and-white pooch in sight as best they could. Sometimes they would just glimpse him as they turned a corner, then again at the next corner, as if he was waiting on them. Once Judas had cleared the town limits he made a bee-line for the outlying woods. Breath was coming hard for Poncey and his mates, but they kept at it, Mack lagging behind despite his lanky limbs churning like a windmill. Judas headed straight into the trees, where he could no longer be seen, but fortunately he followed a dirt trail cutting through the clusters of oak and hickory, sassafras and dogwood and soft pine.

"Judas!" Poncey yelled just for good measure as he entered the wood.

"He's not coming now," Alderaan bent over to rest, setting his hands upon his knees. At least they were in shade now. Mack finally caught up.

"I know. It can't hurt, though."

The boys began a slow walk along the trail, keeping an eye open for Judas but not having much hope of seeing him. As the trees loomed thicker around them, their minds wandered to more interesting things than finding a dumb dog.

"That dumb dog is lost," Poncey said.

"I got lost in here once," Mack offered. "Right after me an' Ma moved. I ran in here, and it took 'em two days to find me."

"Why'd you do that?" Alderaan asked.

"Dunno. Felt like I was all alone, might as well be alone."

"Yah? Well, stick with us. Don't get lost again."

"Oh, I'll stick with you all right."

"My Pap says there used to be a bunch of train robbers who hid out in these woods," Poncey said, randomly hitting a stick against nearby trees.

"Noh kidding?" Alderaan picked up a stick too.

"Yeah, some guy named 'Rastus Birger. He ran a still back in here, an' had a gambling joint, typical small-time hood. Folks say he ran this town, an' he even had the police on the take. Pap tol' me he would steal a car, then after a reward was offered this one officer would mysteriously find it, every time, an' he'd split the money with Birger."

"Sounds like a good system."

"He was bad news – kept ever'body pretty scared, what with killin's an' threats. Crazy. People will do anything. Finally robbed a freight train, an' they hung him."

"How do you know?"

"Pap says his pap was on the train they robbed. Birger's gang piled logs on the track and lit 'em, to make the engineer stop. My gran'pap was conductor on the train – Birger waived a gun under his nose. Had a bandanna 'round his face, just like the movies, but gran'pap knew it was him."

"How?"

" 'His murderous eyes,' he said. That's what he tol' pap."

"His murderous eyes!" Mack repeated in a spooky voice.

"That wouldn't hold up in court, I don't think," Alderaan said.

"Naw," added Mack.

"Oh, gran'pap didn't testify in court. He wasn't stupid. But they hung Birger anyway. Last public hangin' in these parts."

"Aw, I don't b'lieve all that," Mack scoffed.

"Why not?" Poncey said. "It's true."

" 'Cause I know you. 'Sides, folks make up stuff all the time to make 'em look big. Wouldn't anybody remember your gran'pa at all if he hadn'ta made up that story."

"He didn't make it up!" Poncey insisted.

"Nobody gonna remember him anyway," Mack went on. "Once their gran'kids are dead, pretty much ever'body's forgotten."

"Well, he didn't make it up, anyhow."

"I heard a story about a robber once," Alderaan said. "Little kid about our age. He was an orphan, and the only way for him to survive was to become a thief. He ended up meeting the king's daughter, and before he knew it he was king himself."

"Really?" Mack asked.

"Yah, that's the story. I don't know if it really happened."

"Could've," Mack said matter-of-factly.

"Seems far-fetched to me," Poncey said.

"Well," Alderaan admitted. "It was centuries ago. And he was helped by a genii. He had a genii in an old lamp."

"Oh, well, good grief!" Poncey blustered.

"Could've happened!" Mack insisted.

"You believe that story? 'Bout a genii?" Poncey was thunderstruck.

"Who knows? That long ago, maybe there were geniis," Mack reasoned. "Just because you don't unnerstand somethin' don't mean it ain't real."

"I'm not goin' to believe somethin' I can't figure out in my brain."

"Well, I believe it. Alderaan knows it, so there must be somethin' to it."

"Either way, that kid is remembered today," Alderaan said. "His name was Aladdin."

"You won't believe my gran'pap, but you'll believe in Aladdin," Poncey snarled at Mack.

"Well – it's Alderaan," Mack replied.

"Figures," Poncey growled. "The only way anyone's remembered is if they're a piece of fiction."

They fell silent for a moment until Alderaan wondered out loud if there was any part of the still left. Poncey felt things turning back his way and was about to say he'd already looked, but then the strangled, coughing yip of a fox arose from nearby. Immediately, excited barking answered.

"That's Judas!" Poncey whispered hoarsely. Crunching lightly through the bramble, the three boys crept closer to where the racket seemed to come from.

Slowly their heads arose over the bushy undergrowth, like a spectre, and they saw Judas, his hindquarters toward them, facing off against the fox. His ears and tail stood alert, and he danced upon his toes as he growled and barked. The fox crouched warily, not knowing whether to fight or flee, until he caught sight of the human faces and quickly slinked off. To Poncey's surprise, Judas did not take off after him, but instead quietly turned away. His front end disappeared into a grassy depression.

"What's goin' on?" Mack asked.

"Let's see," Alderaan led them into the small clearing.

Poncey grabbed the broken piece of Judas' leash before the dog could think, if such a thing was possible, and tied together the loose ends. Judas didn't budge, and the boys discovered he was tenderly, busily licking a litter of tiny rabbits.

"You idiot dog," Poncey said. "What are you doin' now?"

"I bet that fox got their ma," Mack said, cradling one of the kits.

"Yah, noh doubt. But what's Judas doing with them?"

"This mutt is so messed up. He thinks he's a rabbit now," Poncey shook his head.

"Maybe he is crazy – maybe he isn't," Alderaan mulled. "Hard to say."

"Help me get these bunnies home," Mack said.

Judas stood happily wagging his tail, until suddenly a puzzled look crept into his eye and his sides started to heave. His lungs began to convulse, and his rib cage worked like a bellows for a long moment until he had hacked up a huge furball.

"Oh, gross," Poncey moaned.

"That's what you get from licking rabbits," Alderaan considered the mess. "You know," he said, "we never did get even with that Bobby Roach fellow."

Poncey, Mack and Alderaan sauntered along the street that led to Breather General Store and Junkyard. They craned their necks looking for something, or someone. All three took special care to walk slowly, and talked loudly, so they might be noticed. Poncey had both hands in his pockets, and whistled shrilly when he couldn't think of anything to say. Alderaan was mightily impressed with how the weather that day reminded him of Iowa, and said so. Mack conspicuously carried an opened candy wrapper, which held a dog's furball meticulously dipped in a melted chocolate bar.

They finally decided to just stop and wait, and fighting the temptation to give up, successfully lured Bobby Roach out of hiding.

"Hey!" he barked. "I thought I warned you guys!"

"Please don't take my chocolate bar!" said Mack.

"We don't want any trouble. We're just out for a walk," Alderaan said.

"Where's your dog?" Bobby asked.

"He stayed at home."

"He's smarter'n you, then," Bobby smirked. "I told you to stay off my streets. Now you're gonna pay."

"This ain't your street. It's public property," Poncey said.

"It's mine as far as you're concerned. Now how'm I gonna teach you that?"

"You could take my chocolate bar."

"Hey, we just forgot," Alderaan offered. "We're going to The Diner, and we forgot. Sorry."

"Sorry doesn't cut it, Diddy. You're the one I want. I'm gonna teach you a lesson."

"I like to learn."

"Me too!" added Poncey. He knew this might hurt, but he didn't care that much – justice would prevail.

Bobby was puzzled by their attitude. Their last skirmish had ended this same way, leaving him feeling empty and unfulfilled. He decided to take the offensive. "So what – you gonna cry again? You gonna start cryin'?"

"Not yet," said Alderaan. "Maybe later."

"Then let me help you," and he raised a fist.

"Hey Bobby!" said Mack.

"You again? Don't you ever shut up, MacSpaz?" and Mack hit the ground again. This time he made a one-point landing on his backside, and tried to fake some tears. "Please don't take my candy bar! I just opened it!"

"Give it over!" Bobby ordered, and snatched it from his hand.

"I'm gettin' out of here!" Poncey yelled, and all three took off running in different directions. They left Bobby behind with his trophy, in a daze from another baffling encounter, but at least not empty-handed. Even blocks away they could hear his roar of disgust. Each made his way to their rendezvous at Breather's Store separately, racked with laughter until they lay wasted upon the ground. They knew they'd pay a price somehow for their victory today, but it would be worth it. Boneapart sat watching dispassionately, baby booties on his front feet.

Eventually they recovered sufficiently to stand again, and Mack and Poncey went into the store to tell Zeke – this story was too good not to share. Alderaan went around back again, to contemplate the sign and mankind's state. But what he saw shook him to his shoes, more so than any dust-up with danger or bullying ever could.

A dark patch of fresh paint covered the old sign, obliterating the letters, never to be seen or read again. Alderaan stared dumbfounded for a moment before racing into the store amid the peals of laughter.

"What happened?" he demanded, breaking into Zeke's animated glee. His eyes shot outrage. The smile froze on Zeke's face, mismatched with the shocked look in his eye. "What happened to the 'colored' sign?" Alderaan fumed.

"Why, I painted over it, son. Your cousin asked me to."

"My cousin Alberta?"

"Yes, sir, young fella. Seems it upset you so, she wanted me to get rid of it. Said ever' time you saw it, you couldn't stop talkin' 'bout it, and it worried her sump'm awful. It was from a bad time – I thought nobody cared no more."

"Nobody cared?! We have to care! Covering it up doesn't fix the past, it just makes the future worse! How will they remember?"

"Well, she just thought it was too much of a reminder. She thought paintin' it over would make it easier on ever'one."

"Noh, noh, this is worse! The memories might be bad, but this is even worse! You've wiped out their history! Who will know now? Who will learn? Who will remember their suffering?"

The summer shadows grew long, and when Alderaan Lars went home to Pleasanton, Iowa, he promised to come back to his friends Poncey and Mack in Skullbone. They still wait for his return.

**It's Best Just to Listen**

Poncey found himself in one of his unemployed periods. The greatest asset he had to offer, his thinking power, still had not found a niche to fill in Skullbone.

Ever since the year he'd sold ice cream from a car that looked like a miniature carousel, he'd hated working with his hands. For generations the Muldoons had toiled either under a broiling sun or over a scorching fire, and Poncey had spent that summer in a sauna surrounded by frozen treats. Not that selling ice cream was particularly hard labor, but making financial deals with five-year-olds had left an impression upon him. Counting pennies, then waiting for tots to collect however many they lacked, clearly had put his vast abilities to colossal waste. In Poncey's mind, just about every other job would as well.

But, appetites being what they are, Poncey's stomach was about to overrule his mind. After a couple of years living off the largesse of those who do work, the unemployment checks ran out, and the idle life left him empty in more ways than one. Poncey surrendered himself to the lure of a steady paycheck. He set out upon the sidewalks of Main Street there in Skullbone – where even grass found a way to break through and prosper – walking from door to door, humbly offering himself to every business owner along the way. But the theater had already let go of one ticket-taker and doubled up another as an usher. The drugstore already had a jerk for the soda fountain. Snodgrass' Hardware Store used only teen-aged family members and was full-up with unpaid labor.

Poncey wandered into Ryan's "Stones" Jewelry and Wedding Planners.

"Can I help you today, son?" the heavy-set man behind the counter greeted him. Mr. Ryan polished the glass case carefully as he gave Poncey a wary eye; he knew him well. "Got a sale on engagement rings."

"I thought maybe you might be lookin' for some help here." Poncey rubbed a finger on the counter, leaving a smudge.

"Why, what do you think you know about the jool'ry business, Muldoooon?" Mr. Ryan stretched out the final syllable for effect, as he liked to do. "That ain't somethin' you can learn outta one of your books."

"I know that a diamond is the hardest substance you can find," Poncey offered.

"Well, that's fine and good, Muldoooon, but how's that gonna help you make a sale when a young man figures out he's gonna be payin' on a ring for two years? What're you gonna tell him – 'A diamond's hard, and so's life'? You gotta be able to make a man see past the future. Sales is an art and a sci'nce. If you gonna work here, you gotta take a man by the hand and lead him where he doesn't want to go. You have to sweet talk him into marchin' without lettin' on you got a bayonet to his back. We run a full-service, no-holds-barred intro-duction to married life."

"One could cut that glass there," Poncey stammered.

"What? A bayonet?"

"No, a diamond." Poncey wasn't letting go.

"Son, you're missin' the point. You need to stop your blather an' listen – sometimes it's best just to listen. I don't care if you know every diamond by name. You gotta know how to handle 'em when you got 'em. If you don't know how to sell jool'ry, you ain't no help to me. You know how to change a batt'ry in a watch?"

"Take the back off?"

"No, you sell 'em a new watch. It's cheaper. Ain't nobody wearin' a watch anymore anyway, son. Everything they got has a clock in it, and a camera too – nobody needs a watch no more. Don't you know anything 'bout jool'ry, son? Anything 'bout sales? A real salesman would sell 'em a watch anyway. But I don't think you know anything 'bout it, Muldoooon."

Poncey tried to think of an answer, but all he could come up with was, "The pink ones are hardest to find," and he turned on his heel and headed for the exit.

"Well, easy or hard, you ain't ready to sell one – you come on back when you're ready to buy one, Muldoooon," Mr. Ryan elbowed his clerk. "Haw! Haw! When you're ready to pick out a ring – when you find you a girl. The pink ones are hardest to find! Haw! Haw!" The door shut with a firm clunk.

The funeral home wasn't hiring either.

Poncey ended up slumped over the counter at the Diner. Mavis Davis leaned in sympathetically on one roly-poly elbow. "What's the matter now, honey lamb?" she intoned.

"Nothin'. Don't you have any pie?"

"Flat out this time of day, sugar. Have to come back later. Surely that ain't what's eatin' at you, is it?"

"Mehhh," Poncey groaned. "Just can't catch a break, that's all. Nothin' new. You don't know anyone givin' out jobs, do you?"

"Unemployment checks run out, huh?"

Poncey played pokey-finger with the ice in his glass of water.

"No, ain't heard nothin'," Mavis continued. "I'll keep my ears open, though, hon'. What choo lookin' for?"

"I'm not picky," Poncey lied. "I'd do anything. I tried every store up and down Main."

"Shoot, I coulda told you that was no good. It's like death row along this street. You gonna have to branch out if you're gonna find a job. What kinda work you want?"

"What I want is gettin' paid to think. That's what I'm good at. But until I can get someone to see that, I'll take just about anything."

"You afraid of sweatin'?"

"I'm not afraid of anything." Poncey got his back up – he wasn't afraid, he was just philosophically opposed. He hoped Mavis didn't have anything in mind. His amazing string of being wrong just kept going.

"Well, I've been wantin' to put a garden out back of the Diner here. Give my customers fresh salad, and save some money at the grocer, you know? I'd pay you to bust up the back, sugar pie, I sure would."

The Diner had been built decades earlier on the front end of a rectangular patch of concrete. Mavis and her ex-husband had bought it from the original owner's grandson so long ago, Poncey could not even remember, and after the divorce Mavis changed its name from "Food" to "Diner," a symbol of her new beginnings. The building before that, for which the slab had been poured, started out as a bottling company for a brewery that went out of business during Prohibition. But the first structure upon the lot was a beautiful antebellum home, resplendent with gingerbread and onion domes, but so dilapidated after an infestation and then years of standing empty that the town had paid to have it pulled down, board by board.

That house had once been Skullbone's showplace, the home of its first banker, Randall Vickers III. He had a handsome family – three statuesque daughters – and extravagant wealth, and he spared no effort to use one to serve the other. His riches funded lavish parties with which to exhibit the daughters, who attracted only the best prospective husbands and bank patrons. The homestead featured a grand three-story collection of verandas, gables and turrets, with three out buildings for servants, slaves and animals. But as time passed Vickers' patrons began muffled talk about unsettling goings-on at the bank, and then as if to underscore their worries, $20,000 in gold coins was stolen in a brazen safe-cracking. An explosion of nitroglycerine ripped through the silence early one morning, and dazed witnesses reported seeing a dark figure in a cape escaping on horseback down an alley near the bank. Whoever it was disappeared into the night and into legend, for neither he nor the coins ever surfaced again.

Vickers' fortunes seemed to have fallen into a bottomless pit, as officials began their investigation into the bank books – they even posted an officer to snoop around in his home. But then those hot-headed South Carolinians threw him a bone by firing on Ft. Sumter. Apparently old man Vickers knew when the getting was good, and he used the distraction to slip out and move his family north. The house stood vigil until not quite a year later, when Confederate troops under Gen. P. G. T. Beauregard happened through on their way to Shiloh. Soldiers awaiting orders filled the fine rooms with their lust for fleeting life and uncouth ways. Working girls from all over found business booming there, and the outhouse was quickly overwhelmed. One unsavory element after another multiplied into a thoroughly unwholesome situation. A good dose of fleas and lice left behind by the doomed troops that April proved to be the last straw, and the good townsfolk decided to just board up all the house's doors and windows and walk around it in a wide circle.

There the Vickers estate stood, a literal shell of its former self, through the end of the war and well into Reconstruction, a fitting symbol of that ill-titled program. Rumors arose that one of the daughters had surreptitiously returned, witnessed poking around the ruins one day with distracted interest, but nobody could say for sure; supposedly, the old man had gone crazy, moaning about cruel fate and the lost gold. Finally the town council condemned the property, and filed away the bill for the demolition just in case Vickers ever showed up again.

By the time the Gilded Age arrived, commercial enterprises of all kinds had encroached upon and pushed out the grand old residential area. Fat, whiskered men with watch chains from Blat Beer arrived from some big northern city, plying Skullbone's leadership to let them build a bottling plant on the empty lot, and the city fathers were only too glad to oblige. Unfortunately, since no Vickers heir had ever returned to lay claim to the land, nobody was sure how to legally sell it. The council finally agreed to let Blat Beer pay the old debt for tearing down the house, and then to encourage everyone not to think about it anymore. A great concrete slab was laid, covering over all evidence of the grand old home.

The plant prospered for a time, but things never last in Skullbone. An unlikely alliance of do-gooders – holiness believers and humanist progressives – succeeded in outlawing evil by banning alcohol. Blat Beer suddenly found itself without a product, and switched to an item the owners knew would always have a market: player-piano rolls for silent movie theaters. But this new venture was packaged in boxes, not bottles, and Blat no longer needed the Skullbone plant. The building continued to serve the drinking public, however, and when revenuers learned that local gangsters were coordinating the moonshine trade in the place, they persuaded the company to secure it with boards and locks upon the doors and windows. The little plot of land seemed to carry a curse.

And so it was that while social upheaval could not end Blat Enterprises' story, doom nonetheless was in the air. In 1927 "The Jazz Singer" had the company playing the blues once again, but the crash of '29 was its real swan song. Blat went bankrupt, the owners jumped out of windows, and the former bottling plant fell into the hands of a series of receivers, each also going bankrupt in turn. By 1933, again nobody was sure who owned it, and officials offered a new deal to any taker willing to start a business there. To help out, the town again tore down the past shambles to make room for new.

Ray Harris, an old Navy man with experience in the galley, knew an opportunity when he saw it and offered to buy the front section of the slab, facing Main Street. Skullbone's power brokers jumped at Ray's offer – taking his money but laying it aside in trust like a lost and found, held in case the plot's rightful owner might ever claim it – and he parked a trailer there that eventually grew into the little eatery. One-penny coffee was its mainstay, so even patrons with nothing but the shirts on their backs spread the word about "Food," and a Skullbone landmark was born. The concrete out back remained exposed, with no known owner, right up to the present moment, and nobody objected to the greasy spoon using the crumbling space at its convenience.

That concrete was where Mavis wanted her garden.

"You're not gonna to let a little sweat stop you, are you, sweetie pie?"

Poncey hung his head over the counter. Inside, dread trembled before the prospect of hard labor; certainly he could figure some way to think himself out of this fix. How could Poncey give up on living his schemes? Had he fallen so far, to submit to mere grunt work? In the desperation of the moment, he saw no alternative. Until some brilliant employer recognized the utter ability that his mind might one day exert, he was stuck with exercising his muscle.

"Go run down to Snodgrass Hardware and get you a pick. I'll go take a look outside and tell you what I want."

It had been years since anyone had told Poncey to "run down" to anywhere, but he was just too depressed to take the insult now. By the time he'd sloughed back to the Diner, Mavis was out back, fists on hips, in her imagination seeing a garden the likes of Eden. She pointed and talked and talked and pointed, and he stared at the ground and grunted surrender, until finally she disappeared and he was left with his pick, the grinning sun and the shame of it all.

Poncey focused his attack at one of the larger cracks, where crabgrass had led nature's constant assault upon civilization. He tapped away at it like a confused woodpecker. The pick frowned in the air as Poncey drew it back over his head. Tiny chips of cement and sand danced around his shoes each time he brought the blade down, powered by all the force of his frustration. What in the world am I doing here, he thought, I should be in a high-rise office somewhere watching someone else do this out my window, but no here I am stuck like a convict on a chain gang. Perspiration began to tickle his scalp before streaming down his forehead and stinging his eyes. He could feel his wet shirt clinging uncomfortably to his back and restricting the movement of his shoulders. Quietly he cursed under his breath with each sharp report of the pick against the slab. The sun ticked across the sky.

A hollow, metallic clunk broke the monotony he'd come to rely upon. Poncey had enlarged the original crack into a small pit of dust and gravel, and his last blow had plunged the pick through this scree and into a soft area below. He nearly fell over when the pick didn't stop when he expected. As he wrestled it out of the tangle of rock, clay and what looked like rotting wood, his interest was caught by a flat object underneath – that isn't pavement, Poncey said to himself, and it isn't dirt either. Finally something remotely interesting to think about. He reckoned at first Mavis must have buried something there, and then knew she couldn't have. Poncey's fingers eagerly scooped out the spilling rubble as he peered at the smoothness. It was something man-made, all right, something metal. Flat but not uniform, the object was mostly a blue-black color but with a little bit of ill-defined decoration to catch the light. Should he tell Mavis about it, or maybe wait until he knew what it was? His fingertips caressed this mysterious item, caught in deep thought, wondering not what it was or how it got there, but how hard it might be to get it out.

"You doin' all right, sugar? You want some lemonade?"

Mavis' twang might as well have been a rifle shot, and Poncey yelped slightly in surprise.

"What you doin'? Find somethin'?"

"No thanks," Poncey stumbled. "I don't want anything. To drink just now." Mavis' lemonade was actually corn syrup and didn't taste that good anyway. "Just takin' a little rest – I'm getting' right back to work," and he readied his pick as if to take a swing.

Mavis gave him a sideways look. "All right, then. You let me know if you need somethin'," and she retreated to the cool of the Diner.

As a precaution, Poncey looked about casually to check for other spies, then took up his work again with new vigor. Ever since he'd read about some fellow digging up a mastodon tooth, he'd wanted to discover something – he didn't care what. He'd studied everything he could find about the ancient beasts, and he knew this thing wasn't any part of a mastodon – unless one of them had learned how to work metal – but it might be something just as impressive. The pick, working the air and ground now with the methodical precision of an oil derrick, imposed its will upon the mostly unimpressed concrete. The hole grew slowly, excruciatingly so, to reveal ever more of the flat surface. Poncey found himself brushing away the shards with more frequency, such was his bursting curiosity. A crude flowered decoration was clearly embossed on the object's surface, a dark patina deep in the folds. As he picked out more blackened splinters of soft wood, Poncey told himself that someone had placed the thing there for a reason.

The ordeal continued for more than an hour as he hammered away, but his zeal to claim the find never waned. Poncey felt so hot he nearly took off his baseball cap to wipe his brow. He thought back to the time as a barefoot boy, the first day his father took him along as he went to work at the railroad yard. The engines and his dad towered over him, and the sleek silver rails seemed to reach into an eternal horizon. In his juvenile mind he thought perhaps he was in a circus, with the trapeze suspended by great taut ropes, and the shining high wire stretching for miles. Applause thundered in his ears as he stepped delicately out upon the rope. Suddenly a scream ripped through the air as the artist slipped off the wire, danced along the ground in agony, crying over his feet seared by the rail super-heated under the afternoon sun. As he hopped about and wailed, his father remarked how if that was the worst thing that ever happened to him, he'd sure live a charmed life. Poncey hated the rail yard that day, and his father stood not so tall afterwards. Now he vented that old hatred with his pick. He punished the concrete for hiding his prize. How he hated the heat. He did not notice the swallowtail that landed upon his back, gently fanning its wings.

Finally enough of the slab was broken away for Poncey to behold a box, about twice the size of a tissue carton, and clearly quite old. An archaic lock, the type that takes a skeleton key, kept the lid shut tight. Poncey, crouched low, again looked carefully over each shoulder. A few well-aimed chips squared off corners in the concrete, and the container slid out of its hideaway; it weighed more than it should have. It was a heavy weight, as if the box were solid. Poncey clumsily tucked it under his shirt with one hand and scurried away like a gothic hunchback, his pick dangling from the other hand. He carefully avoided the Diner's windows, and didn't stop until he'd found a favorite nook within the tight brick walls of Finger Alley.

Squatting low, Poncey took a moment to simply admire his discovery. He fingered the lock and tested it one more time, and sure enough it wouldn't budge. Then he took up his pick and applied a number of careful blows until at last the mechanism tore away. He fully expected to hear an angelic chorus as he lifted the lid.

Inside were stacks of glowing gold coins, packed snugly, waiting quietly. Poncey let loose with a rebel yell.

"What choo got there?" a drawling voice said.

Poncey shot up straight – he knew that voice. Of all the people in Skullbone, only Marlin MacLenoly would be hiding out in a dank alley just for the pleasure. Poncey could only barely make out Mack's boney form, hidden neatly within the shadows of a small doorway. He was Poncey's best friend.

"I'm rich!" Poncey exulted.

"Looks like," said the laconic voice. Really only Mack's long nose was visible. "What choo gonna do with all that?"

"Dunno. Don't you get any ideas."

"Phssh – what do I care 'bout it? Nothin' but trouble. It's yours – what choo gonna do with it?" Mack tried harder to peer inside the box, but not very much.

Poncey closed the lid and folded his hands over the treasure chest. "I don't know," he mulled. "Stop workin', that's for sure. Never work in the heat again." His world had abruptly turned upside down: Brainwork had left him a pauper, and hard labor had gained him riches. Only time and intense concentration would make all this fit into his presumptions – fortunately, he had just the mind to do it. Heaven clearly was smiling upon him, and he knew now he could accomplish anything.

"Gonna buy somethin'?"

"I don't know. What is there to buy?"

"I'd get me – a truck I guess. With chrome rims. How much you 'spect is in there?"

"Sheesh, who knows? This isn't just gold, this is old coins. Collectors will go crazy for these things."

"S'pose they're real?"

"Of course they're real!" Poncey couldn't believe the inference. He reopened the box and stared at the coins. "Of course they're real. Who'd hide 'em if they were fake?"

"Well. Just wonderin'. What choo gonna buy with 'em?"

The question lay flat in Poncey's brain – it wasn't the point at all. The coins represented liberty to him, they represented a ticket to opportunity. Just their very presence gave him status he'd never known before – why, he might never have to buy anything again. People now would give him what he wanted, just to gain his favor, if he worked it right. He remembered his morning of wandering from door to door, one rejection after another. "Spendin' 'em isn't the thing to do," he intoned. "What I'm gonna do is invest these riches and make 'em grow. Then I'll never have to work again, and folks will have to come to me."

As Poncey considered his new fortune, he suddenly realized he still crouched like a rat in a damp alley. He looked at Mack, who returned a stupid grin. A poverty of shame crept over him, and again he worried who might be watching, and then Poncey thought of something he could buy, and right away. He packed up his box and stood manfully before Mack, letting his pick fall to the ground. "I'm goin' to spread the news. There's a new big man in Skullbone now. Time to let everybody know." With that he strode from the alley, ready to spread some cash around in exchange for respect.

"What choo gonna do that for? You'd best keep quiet 'bout this," Mack called after him, but didn't leave his dark perch. "That boy don't ever listen."

Poncey's chest kind of puffed out as he paraded back to Main Street, the dingus no longer stashed away, but rather presented at arms' length like a grand idol. Too early for the dinner hour, Poncey knew no fit audience would be found at the Diner, and besides, he still didn't want to face Mavis, so he headed to the next best place. Sure enough, the usual motley crew and a couple extras were gathered at Clip Joint Barber Shop, ripe for some news. Jip, the barber, was holding court, an undersized pair of scissors permanently attached to his fat fingers, flailing about with all the gusto of his opinions. The whole town was sure one day he would kill somebody. Ronnie and Donnie Galloway, retired brothers, spent all their time at the shop, and there they sat in one corner, while Bob Roach lounged in the second barber chair and complained about not being allowed to smoke. All the old fogies were there, along with Rev. Fletcher, lanky and gray in his wisdom. Little Andy Jackson was getting a trim, sitting upon a board set on the chair's arms. He squirmed and peeked around at Jip to see if he was going to get in trouble before his mother came back to fetch him, but Jip was snipping away without really looking. Mr. Bancroft from the credit union had his face deep inside a magazine, trying to appear above the conversation as he waited his turn. Poncey looked down on this crowd; after all, he'd attended community college.

"Dang, Poncey, what you got there?" Ronnie said first.

"This is the greatest thing you have ever seen," Poncey replied, with suitable modesty. He sat among the crowd with one leg crossed as if it didn't care, and balanced the box on his knee.

"No so far it ain't," said Donnie. "What is it?"

"This, friends, is a treasure I found. I found it, I read all about it in a bunch of old books, an' I figured out where it was, an' dug it up."

"Looks like a rusty box to me. Old, too. It mighta been worth somethin' if you hadn't beaten it open there," Donnie scoffed.

"It's a treasure, I tell you. You haven't seen it, but I have. You've never laid your eyes on anything like this, not here in Skullbone, not anywhere."

"The hell you say."

"Ronnie, the child here – " Rev. Fletcher began.

"I do say. Believe me, I'm rich – richer than you ever thought of. You wanna see or not?" Poncey smirked, knowing he could string along these fellows as much as he wanted – but he didn't want to. The faster he pulled this trigger, the sooner he'd get his due reverence. Still, he couldn't resist forcing his friends to beg. "All right then, prepare to be dazzled."

"Hell, Poncey, you're rich!"

"Ronnie!"

Mr. Bancroft finally looked up from his magazine. Bob Roach peered sullenly from a distance.

"I told you. I told you so," Poncey beamed.

Jip nearly dropped his scissors. "What you gonna do with all that, Poncey?"

"I don't have to do anything with it," Poncey had finally come up with an answer. "With all this money, it just is, and I just am."

"What the h – uh, what did you just say?" Ronnie nearly blurted.

"That's a lot of money, Poncey," Rev. Fletcher said. "Who does it belong to?"

"Why, me. Who do you think? I told you I found it myself."

"People don't just leave gold coins lying around. These have to belong to someone. Where did you get them?"

"I found 'em. I dug 'em up," Poncey could feel that creeping sensation that something must be amiss again.

"Come on, now, Poncey, where are you going to dig up something like this?" Rev. Fletcher tried to be comforting as he worked to extract a confession.

"Out back of the Diner," Poncey felt like he was in third grade. He indicated the general direction with his thumb. Immediately he regretted offering so much information.

"Who'd bury gold coins behind the Diner?" Bob Roach wondered. "Mavis hasn't got that kind of money. Least not that I've ever seen."

"Could be Spanish doubloons – could be a pirate treasure," Poncey offered. He was desperate to retake command of the situation, and stop feeling like he'd shaken the machine until a candy bar dropped out.

"Yeah, lots of pirates sailed their booties up the Obion River," said Jip with a dangerous wave of his hand.

Poncey blushed and decided to ignore the remark. "Or could be ducats."

"Those are double eagles," Mr. Bancroft broke in, looking over Donnie's shoulder. "Pre-war, by the dates. They must've been buried quite a while."

"I found them fair and square, out behind the Diner, an' everybody knows nobody owns that land. They're mine." Poncey closed the box lid to press his point. He hadn't taken the treasure from anybody, he'd earned them; no, even better, he hadn't earned the coins, God had given them to him. God Himself had placed the box there in ages past just so Poncey would find it one day. What God had given him, let no man tear it and his hands asunder. Not only that, but God had placed Rev. Fletcher in the barber shop that very moment. Poncey knew what he could do – he'd pay God back. He'd help God out, to prove how right He'd been, singling him out to find the money.

"They're mine, to do with whatever I want," Poncey announced, and then turned to The Rev. "Maybe I'll give some to the church. Would that be all right with you, Rev. Fletcher? Don't you think that would make God happy?"

The minister smiled and stroked his chin.

"How 'bout a new Sunday School wing, Rev? I could give you enough for that right here. Be happy to." If God wasn't pleased with this gesture, Poncey thought, then He couldn't be pleased.

"Well, that would be just fine, Poncey, except for one problem: Who would we name it after?"

Poncey really hadn't thought about that, but he was glad to now. "Well, I guess – of course, it's sort of traditional – you'd probably name it – ." Poncey glanced around at each set of hard eyes as he tried to decide the best way to work his name in. Finally he just said, "How 'bout if I give a nice donation right now, Rev? How much would you like?"

"You just think about it awhile, Poncey," the Rev. said. "And Lord bless you with all this." Rev. Fletcher was careful never to tell anyone "good luck;" he didn't believe in luck.

"How does a lunkhead like that fall into such money," Bob Roach muttered.

"I wouldn't be handing cash out already, Poncey," Jip butted in. "Once the mayor finds out about it, the city's gonna want its share."

It seemed to Poncey like the whole crowd was trying to stand between him and God. Certainly the Deity was worthy of a payoff in the matter. "Look, the city doesn't own it. They don't own that land, and that's where I found the box."

"I bet they could find a way to own that land. You know a good lawyer?"

Poncey didn't even know a bad lawyer, and a sour pit began to churn in his stomach. Here he was trying to do something good, and now comes talk of getting lawyers involved. People just try to control me too much, he thought, especially now that they had their sights on his coins. Once they get a little glint of gold in their eye, he thought, people come up with all sorts of crazy ideas – funny how money changes folks, he thought. He just needed to teach them to have some respect. He resolved to keep these morons on the right track.

"The city doesn't own that land, it's spent a hundred years tryin' to wash its hands of it. I found this free and clear, and I can give away all of it if I want. Here God, take this." He held up a coin between finger and thumb and reached toward Rev. Fletcher.

Rev. Fletcher laughed slightly and demurred.

"I'm tellin' you Poncey, this is gonna get out, and when it does the mayor's gonna be on it like mud on a turtle," Jip warned. "They'll take every cent you got, then give you a certificate of 'preciation."

"Oh, he's right," said Ronnie. "An' ever' one of your friends is gonna be after you with their hands out. You got any friends?"

"I'm your friend, Poncey," Donnie grinned.

Poncey was about to respond when the door swung open with a creak. Little Andy Jackson's mother walked in, her arms laden with domestic loot, and as Jip shooed him off the chair, the boy excitedly rattled at his mom: "That man's got a big box of money! Look, Ma, that man's got a big box of money! Ma! Ma!"

Thoroughly put-upon, Andy's mother nearly dropped her packages as she tried to fish a $10 bill from her purse and gather her frantic child. Mrs. Jackson might as well have been Mary Todd Lincoln in Atlanta, and she hastened to escape from the male enclave. She pushed the hair from her forehead with the back of a hand and gave Poncey a stern look to show she didn't understand what was going on, but she didn't approve in any case. "Stay away from that Poncey Muldoon," she said in a harsh whisper. "We'll talk about it when your father gets home." The door creaked again but could not drown out Andy, now singing, "A big box of money, a big box of money!"

The crowd stared at the scene as it disappeared past the display window. "Yeah, I'd keep this quiet if I was you," Ronnie said.

"Son, what you need is a safety deposit box," said Mr. Bancroft.

"Keep all that money safe for the city treasury."

"An' the church – you know you promised. Then the gov'ment can take the other ninety percent."

"Maybe you'll have jus' enough left to pay for that bank vault."

"Look, fellas, I've got to go," said Bob Roach, lurching out of his chair. "You let me know how this comes out. It sure beats me how you lucked into this, Poncey. You'll be a real inspiration to everyone," he said, his eyes sharp with a slight leer. As Roach left, Poncey suddenly remembered he worked at the radio station.

"He's right, people should know who I am now," he said testily. "But luck had nothin' to do with it. You people treat this like a big joke. You have no idea about the great things I'll be doin' from now on."

"Seriously, Poncey, this kind of money can turn a man's head," Rev. Fletcher said. "Whatever you do, think it over first. Don't listen to just anyone. Lots of folks would talk you into foolishness."

"Don't worry, Rev, I don't plan on listenin' to anybody," Poncey said without thinking.

"Lots of folks would jus' plain take it from you," Jip noted.

"Poncey, you be sure to come by the credit union in the morning," Mr. Bancroft patted his arm. "We'll talk."

"I don't need any bank. I've got my own plans."

"Plans change, boy," said Ronnie. "All it takes is one guy with a gun to change all the great plans you've got."

"What guy? You maybe?" Poncey sneered.

"How 'bout me?" Donnie said.

"How 'bout Bob? He sure left here in a hurry," Ronnie joked.

"Who all's seen that box, Poncey, 'sides us?" Jip asked. "You sure no one was watchin' you? All sorts of windows an' rooftops got a great view of the Diner."

"I don't know, an' I don't care who might've seen. If anyone was watchin' me, then they know it's mine. I don't care if they saw me." Poncey was putting up quite a brave front.

"Well, Poncey, the funny thing 'bout bein' a barber is, you get to know a lot of scalps. I know who's got a scar here, or a lump there, an' usually how they got 'em. I kin tell you, they've all been for a lot less than a box of gold. Know that white spot of hair on Harlan Planters? 'Cause of a scar – brother pistol-whipped him with a cap gun as a kid. Maybe no mugger did see you, but what if somebody knew the box was there, maybe plannin' to dig it up himself? How you think he'd feel now?"

Jip hit him hard with that awful thought. Poncey began to realize that coming to this place had been a mistake. These buffoons didn't seem to understand what had happened to him, not even Rev. Fletcher. Now they were filling him with doubts. The gold coins did not represent just a windfall: Time and place had cooperated to choose him for this privilege. God had given him a great gift and responsibility. This knowledge alone was greater riches than the gold, Poncey thought, and now he must bear it all his life, it would change his life, he told himself. He was above decisions like bank vaults and petty purchases now; he had become a philanthropist, a little god doling out grace to the worthy and unworthy alike. God had given him all sorts of Very Important Work to do. This crowd would never be able to grasp that simple fact. "Who was planning to dig it up," indeed. God made sure the right man found the treasure, and He would protect it. Poncey wearily gathered his box to himself and headed for the door.

"I have to go," he croaked. Then randomly, "Not even close!"

"Watch out for Bob," he heard behind him.

But as he padded down the sidewalk, the words rang in his ears: "Somebody knew the box was there." He could feel a multitude of eyes upon him. A confusion arose within him about what he wanted, about how he felt. Perhaps even God was watching him now, waiting to see what he would do. He began to suspect everyone. Certainly nobody from Skullbone knew about the box, probably, he thought, or they'd have gotten it and moved away. But what about outsiders? Perhaps someone passing through town had hidden it there somehow, to retrieve later, or had discovered it through research. Yes – brainwork, like deciphering an ancient map, maybe someone really had read about it in a book. How could I be so stupid, Poncey thought. Only pure brainwork could trip him up now, and the irony chilled him to the bone.

Now Poncey swore at himself; he was letting the fools persuade him. Rev. Fletcher was right, they were talking him into senselessness. He wasn't afraid, he had nothing and no one to be afraid of. He braced himself, he went so far as to say out loud, "I'm rich," and looked around sharply; sure enough, he didn't see anyone within earshot. He tried it again, bolder, "I'm rich! I found the gold coins!" A sudden flash of movement caught the corner of his eye and set his heart racing – by the time he'd turned to look, they were gone. He sprinted to his building and hid in his apartment.

Poncey paced and sat, his breath came hard as he sorted his thoughts. That was it, he thought all that evening, someone had found an old document, sure enough, or a musty diary, no doubt written in code, and traced the coins down to the very spot behind the Diner. That person was busy securing ownership with an army of lawyers, he was making sure he would keep the treasure he'd worked for. What Poncey had found by grace would be taken from him by law. He stared across his living room and envisioned a team of men in three-piece suits at his door with a writ ordering him to hand over the gold. And the city loomed over him as well – the mayor and council would conspire to take his dear metal box, they would find some way to claim the riches. He imagined the argument: Why let one man keep such a fortune when everyone in town should benefit? Stand and deliver! What hope had he against that appeal? I'm not going back to hard labor, he vowed, the coins are mine.

Poncey lay inert and sweaty in his bed. God had singled him out, He had smiled upon him with benevolent menace, delivering this wonderful, burdensome gift. Perhaps he should have given Rev. Fletcher a pile of coins right there in the Clip Joint. He knew he'd have to start reading the law, to prepare for the legal onslaught, but where to start? He gazed into the dark, his throat so dry he couldn't swallow. A silhouette hovered over him, shrouding him in its craggy arms and boney fingers, and vultures came to rest upon it. He realized he hadn't even counted the coins, and he carefully stacked one upon another until they towered over his head, and he lost count and tried to start over, and the coins cascaded down and rolled into cracks in the wall. He dug and dug but could not get them out. The top coin of the stack had hung in the sky, and now Poncey could tell it was the moon, full and shining, but he could barely see by the pale light. The shadow folded over him, and he thought he shouldn't sleep. He thought he would just hide the money, return it to secrecy, and leave it to heirs who existed only in fantasy. Judas, his dog, crouched upon the box and growled fiercely every time Poncey tried to draw near, and his eyes glowed like daylight through the gauzy curtains. He whimpered, and his legs scurried sideways against the bare floor in his own troubled dreams. Poncey slowly sat up in the clammy bed, his head throbbing, knowing even in his fatigue that he had to do something.

He pondered his choices over some quick coffee, swerving between what seemed best for him and what he thought God probably wanted. Judas danced and yipped at the door as he approached, but grouchy Poncey swept him aside with one leg – the dog hadn't waited to go outside, so he could just stay in a while longer. God would show him what to do, he thought as he left and the door latched behind him, God would direct him in the right way. Poncey turned toward the stairwell with purpose, sorting his thoughts in his mind until a sudden burst of stars knocked them right out. For a second he was asleep again, just ready to get up off the floor. Then he felt gravity sitting on his head. Poncey raised his eyes only long enough to see a dark figure in a long, flowing coat floating away, something square tucked under his arm, running away into the shadow of escape.

***

Poncey perched once again upon his Diner stool, disconsolate with his pie. He had come to lying in a pool of saliva, a large lump on the back of his head and a smaller one on the front. Slowly he'd peeled his cheek from the tile and sat in a daze, legs stretched out in front of him, every part of him aching. All at once he'd realized in a panic his box of treasure, his box of treasure was nowhere to be found, his box of treasure was gone. Every possibility that had danced elusively within his imagination a moment before now boiled down to old, comfortable habits. He headed to the Diner.

"I was rich, Mavis, and now every cent is gone. I didn't know what to do with it, it felt like it was goin' to kill me, but I sure do want it back now."

"Yessir, sweetie, I heard all about it yesterday. Ever'one in town did."

"It doesn't make sense – I was happy, then I was afraid, then I was miserable, and now I'm even more miserable."

"That's the way of life, sugar. You think you got it, then it's gone. But, at least there's always pie, right?"

Poncey felt like any moment his head would lose its balance, and his eyes focused somewhere beyond his plate as he poked at the pastry with his fork. "I was poor, I was rich, now I'm poor again, and either way I don't know what to do. I guess I'll just finish breakin' up that concrete for you. At least I've still got a job."

"What, didn't you see, hon? After word got out 'bout them coins, ever'body in town came out lookin' for more!"

Poncey glanced up, silent and sullen. Mavis poured herself a cup of coffee, steam veiling her like an oracle along with the smoke of her cigarette.

"Didn't find nothin', but they sure got that ce-ment busted up. No job left for you to do."

Mavis let the information soak in.

"Yessir, sweetie, I had ever'body in Skullbone workin' for l'il' ol' me. 'Cept for one fella who was rich, an' one who was gonna be."

**That Child Will Find More Rest**

A scream ripped through the comic book store, and Dixie Muldoon raced out the door as best she could in her trim, knee-length dress. Poncey stood locked in place for a moment, until he realized the time to leave had urgently arrived, and he only barely made it into the car before she peeled out of the parking lot.

These were not sounds or actions likely to arise from Poncey's mother. She was a Southern lady of the traditional type, meaning she carried herself with more refinement than she really had. Though a Baby Boomer, her breeding rested firmly in her mother's generation: While others were protesting war and injustice, she had attended finishing school; while others burned their bras and elbowed their way into offices and careers, she married a working man twice her age; while others wore jeans and t-shirts – the more ragged the better – she studied the fashion magazines and felt uncomfortable in anything less than a dress and pumps. Poncey occasionally found old snapshots of her hidden in obscure drawers around the house, and made great fun of the outdated, faddish clothes and hair. "Today's cream is tomorrow's cheese," she would say. By this time not even her fashion sense could hide the facts of middle age, and she came across as a sharp-dressed sack of potatoes.

Her Louisiana upbringing had filled her with the superficial gentility of a Southern culture wracked with guilt and change, with a dash of French Quarter thrown in for spice. That was her saving grace, and if she'd had her way, Dixie would have been more Gallic than Southern. She liked to point out that "Dixie" was itself a French name; of course, nobody believed her, but they smiled and nodded anyway as they took another finger sandwich. She was torn by nightmares of her ancestry: Her mother spun romantic tales of distant parents, aunts and uncles in the courts of the Dauphin, tales of chivalry and tragedy. Meanwhile, her father declared he was of "pirate-American" descent. She hardly knew what to expect.

But for all her pretension, the Illinois Central railroad still ran through New Orleans, and Dixie could not stifle her wanderlust. Her youth then was poured out in the futile molding of a crusty husband just home from the rail yards, and the chateau de famille she built sat in the remote town of Skullbone, far from the big city's quaint mix of propriety and hedonism. As though in defiance, she quickly posted a bronze plaque by their front door proclaiming "La maison de Muldoon dans l'Os de Crâne," and refused to give up the dreams inspired by her mother's magazines. She always pictured herself slender and fit, leaning lightly against a plush couch in a modern living room. Indeed, her furniture had been modern at one time, and she did lean, but not lightly.

A difficult pregnancy and a day of tortured labor had delivered to her a boy, a son, upon whom she bequeathed all the heritage she could muster up. Over the years La Pontchartrain Stonewall Muldoon struck her as a thick, clumsy child, as if he had a piece missing, never much interested in all that she held dear: the music, the gaiety, the beautiful meaning suspended just beyond her fingertips. She had invested a lot in his name, and not even that stuck. So she felt somewhat a sense of relief when the boy, in his thirteenth year, showed an unexpected fascination with Elvis Presley. Not that she had approved of Elvis, but she'd gotten used to him over time, and thought he represented at least finally a normal pursuit for the boy.

Poncey himself couldn't remember whether he'd heard a song on the radio, or seen a picture in a book, or something else, but his first encounter with Elvis definitely struck something deep within him. Whether inspired by the flamboyant hair, or playful snarl, or penetrating eyes, it mattered little, for the whole of Elvis grabbed him by his imagination. Immediately he determined to learn everything about the iconic singer. Poncey supposed himself and Presley to be kindred spirits, and he looked for every small detail that they might share, any link he might have to the legend that had been Elvis. When he discovered that the Presley family had moved to Memphis when Elvis was thirteen – his very own age at that moment – he knew not only that he shared an inevitable destiny with the man, but also that he himself teetered on the brink of a new greatness.

Throwing himself into his studies, Poncey mined the details of Elvis' boyhood in East Tupelo, his attachment to family, his disconnect with peers. He followed his history into the projects of Memphis, surrounded by the rollicking culture of the black community, officially separate but burned into the young man's soul. Poncey dug into Elvis' secretive pursuit of music and his introduction to Sun Studios. The path continued, for both Elvis and Poncey, right into the gilded world of Graceland, and Poncey began an incessant attack upon his mother to make a pilgrimage with him to the shrine.

"If you took me, you could go shoppin' at the big mall," he pointed out. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Child, I got no time for such things," she said in her slightly Cajun accent. "What I need I can get right here. Don't need no trip all the way to Memphis."

"We could go down to the river. That'd be just like back in New Orleans, wouldn't it, Mam? Watchin' the riverboat downtown would be just like goin' back home for you."

"That's no riverboat, child, that paddlewheel just drags in the water. Not no riverboat. Memphis in't never gonna be any N'ahlins."

"Come on – it might be educational for me. You could even make me go to a museum somewheres if you want to."

"Lord, how you worry me, child. Let me be, an' we'll see."

Poncey knew then the deal was done, and sure enough one Saturday when his father had to work anyway, he and his mom piled into the car and hit the road. Poncey chose the solitude of the back seat, making his mother sit alone with her thoughts in front. As the tires hummed along the highway, he idly watched decrepit fences fly by, great stretches of pasture land pan as though they were projected upon a movie screen, and electric wires rise and fall fluidly between weather-worn poles. He nestled into the dingy upholstery, his eyes just peeking through the bottom of his window.

Arching over the gentle horizon first came the slick, black hair piled high, one curl hanging down, followed by the expressive brow. Poncey lifted himself slightly, enough to prop his chin on the car door. His breath fogged the glass, only briefly against the balmy afternoon. As I-40 passed below, a production line manufacturing miles, the billboard's huge likeness of Elvis arose like an oracle. His eyes locked with Poncey's, and the sign said it best: "Come see me at Graceland." Something behind the image, behind the commanding, sultry eyes, beckoned him to a spiritual liaison. The giant irises blazed an ocean blue, the pupils deep and knowing, and the billboard blew past like a comet. "Come," he said to Poncey, "follow me." Poncey gave silent assent, mouthing the word "yes" as he nodded in the back seat like a bobble-head.

The street in front of Graceland reminded him of the midway at the fair, the mansion and gates to one side, a strip of Elvis-themed shops to the other. The sun's spotlight gleaming off her like a great candle, the sleek Lisa Marie drew her own veneration from a section of the milling people. Huge crowds brought traffic to a standstill, and Poncey spotted at least a dozen Elvis facsimiles, at various levels of credibility. A nearby pack of clearly German tourists spoke excitedly – for Elvis success was very easy to make, they said, like fish in a barrel you have just made shoot of. A line to the grand house stretched down the drive and onto the sidewalk; Poncey and his mother headed to the stores.

Before him lay an embarrassment of kitsch riches: A belt buckle shaped like Elvis' sunglasses, perhaps a hundred different Elvis costumes, an American flag held by a patriotic Elvis, a cookie jar that revealed its treasure if you beheaded Elvis. "Evahthing in here 'cept for Mr. Bingle," his mother remarked. Poncey wandered about in the abundance of adoring celebration and wondered what Elvis would look like on a crucifix. Somehow, among the novelties Poncey found a thick biography on sale, Elvis: More Than Just a Hound Dog, and laid it before the cashier.

Overcome with awe and hunger, he and his mom took refuge in a café, where Poncey ordered the peanut butter and banana sandwich, but found he could not swallow the mush without first dousing it with "Burnin' Love" hot sauce.

The line into Graceland awaited, and finally Poncey and his mother gave in to its call. Tinny strains of "Return to Sender" echoed over the grounds as the waiting adherents slowly climbed the hill, past the graffitied stone wall, past the gates, past the wooded lawn. At long last the mansion's gleaming white portico loomed over them like temple courts. Later, Poncey could not recall any part of the interior except the gold lamé suit. The dazzling outfit looked to him like the raiment of an ancient king, radiating glory and authority. It grasped his eyes and impressed itself upon his brain, so that its image haunted everything he looked at afterwards, as though he had been staring at the sun. Each thread shone like an individual star in a thick celestial soup. The suit itself wore an aura that may have been Elvis' own spirit, and Poncey stood before it in a reverential trance. At length his mother had to take him by the arm and lead him pensively back to the tour.

Unexpectedly, Poncey found himself in the daylight's glare. The pack of tourists paused within the Meditation Garden, and the fountain blurbled its musical comforts. A statue of Christ stood in the background, peeking over shoulders as the crowd gazed upon the various graves of the royal family, carrying home in their minds that day visions of the ruin of what was and might have been. Poncey left his book in the back of the car.

Afterwards, Poncey was convinced of what he called an "undeniable fate" he shared with Elvis. All that was left to him was to search it out, a pursuit that took a number of abortive directions. First he began to comb his hair to mimic Elvis' rich pompadour, crowning his head with a reckless flair. But the reddish hue of the coif put his schoolmates more in mind of Woody Woodpecker, and they never failed to let him know. So Poncey took to wearing a baseball cap all the time until everyone forgot about it. Next he took up karate, just like Elvis, but failing this time to make the case that lessons would be educational, he was left to learn the ancient art on his own. He dug up a library book and did some reading, and early practice runs on rotten sticks went well. But after nearly fracturing a toe trying to break a two-by-four, he gave it up. Then Poncey considered collecting badges, as Elvis did, and hobbled down to the office of Constable Crapo, the town police force. He realized on the way that he'd never actually seen Crapo's police badge, and as it turned out Crapo didn't have one for himself, much less Poncey, so that hobby ended abruptly. Indeed, Poncey tried on for size almost everything he could connect with Elvis except the one thing that mattered: music.

Finally, Poncey found his true fellowship with Elvis in the comics. The "funny books," as Elvis had called them, once provided a rare collegial bond for the awkward boy and his schoolmates growing up, and now also for Poncey; the world of fantasy offered the two a perfect link across time. As a typical youngster, Poncey already owned a few comics, and had no trouble digging up a dollar here or there to buy more upon every trip to Breather's General Store. Soon a stack leaned precariously against his bedroom wall, and Dixie sighed and shook her head wearily every time she tried to clean around it.

But, of course, Poncey couldn't leave it at that. He decided to learn everything there was to know about comic books. He researched the back stories of all the main heroes, he traced the long and tortuous falls of all the villains, he explored the similarities of all the cities protected by supernatural guardians. He steeped himself in the clear-cut superheroes of the Golden Age, through the horror comics that nearly destroyed America's youth in the 1950s, and into the dark warriors of a later generation. He learned the histories of the different publishers, their triumphs and downfalls, their different genres and how they rose and fell in public favor. Poncey studied the nuances of graphic presentation and story-telling, the use of light and shadow, of color and white space. He read up on the careers and innovations of all the greats in the art form – Eisner, Lee, Edlund.

Before long Poncey felt drawn to join their ranks, and he began work on his own creation. He took mild-mannered Elvis Presley as his reluctant hero, applying to him the secret alter-ego Sockabilly – overalls-clad, two-fisted, syncopated defender of the down-trodden – to fight for the Southern way. Sockabilly pitched constant battle with his arch-nemesis The Square, out to conquer the world with old-fashioned values. Poncey's drawing skills lacked a certain panache, so making one character a simple geometric shape seemed to him like a good idea, and The Square was born. Humble Sockabilly, a.k.a. Elvis, born in poverty but raised into power and righteousness, regularly defeated the evil designs of his foe, who in turn consistently honored his vow to return and once again wreak vengeance on the unsuspecting city. Sockabilly powered his way through story after story, one book after another, as Dixie looked on and worried.

"Hey, Mam, come an' look at my comic! Lookit this panel here!"

"Poncey! You need to stop that doodlin' and get outside a spell!"

"Aw, Mam, I don't wanna right now. I'm workin' on my books!" Poncey said, totally distracted by his muse.

"This hobby a' yours is takin' over your life," she wrung her hands in her apron.

"I need some more markers, Mam – can we go to Rutherford an' get some? Breather's hain't got nam."

"You're whilin' away your whole life with that foolishness! Never known a boy to keep his head buried in books so much, an' silly comic books at that! Can't you find somethin' else to burn all that time you got on your hands?"

"I like this, Mam. Elvis loved comics, an' I don't wanna do nothin' else. I can't deny my undeniable fate. When can we go?"

She sighed heavily. "Stop worryin' me so. Why don't you go on outside an' look up your strange li'l' friend? He's prob'ly got somethin' ya'll could do."

Dixie had never before suggested that Poncey find his "strange li'l' friend," meaning Marlin MacLenoly, not for any reason. Personally, he made her skin crawl a little. But she was feeling desperate about her son's obsession.

This time was possibly not the best for her to begin throwing the two together, either, because "Mack," as everyone knew him, had a more abiding love for comics than even Poncey, not driven by any agenda but simply for their sublime art and justice. Mack could pick up any comic he found and seem to deliberately drift into its world, as if he transferred himself bodily into the drawings themselves. He took such a single-minded approach, even Poncey himself had to shake his head, but more than once Mack proved he could not be swayed, neither for love nor lust. As an experiment, one time Poncey tried to distract him with some magazines filled with naked women – the old kind, when black rectangles blocked out the models' eyes – which he'd found tucked away in a hayloft where he didn't belong. To Poncey, the rectangles made the women's eyes their most desirable part, but Mack didn't care at all. He was busy reading the Flash.

"You're disgustin'. What you gonna do next – get you summa these x-ray vision glasses?" Mack flaunted the comic's advertisement at Poncey.

"Shut up. Those things are fake anyway."

"A friend of my cousin's has some. He said they really work."

"Your cousin, or the friend?"

Mack thought a second. "I don't know. You wouldn't catch me even tryin' 'em."

"Whatsa matter? Scared of what you might see? What a goober!"

"I don't care what women got. They can jus' keep it to theirselves, for all a' me." Mack turned red just not talking about it.

"You're jus' a little pantywaist, ain't you? You've never seen anything, I'll bet!"

"I seen plenty, enough to let it alone. I was happier before I knew – I used to never think about it, didn't even know to think it, and then I seen, and I started to think about it all the time. I couldn't stop. I was happier before."

"Really?" Poncey almost believed him. "How come you were to see?"

"Oh, my ma, she's always – she tole me."

"But ain't you interested at all? Don't you think it's kinda fascinatin'?"

"Fascinatin' is another word for chains a-clankin'."

"So you don't ever want a girl, or a wife?"

Mack turned silently back to his comic book. He preferred to absorb himself in a world of the obviously unattainable – things draped in possibility always just disappointed him. Poncey stared at him with an apathetic empathy – Mack's got no appreciation of what mattered in the world, he thought. Poncey entered into a daydream of events, him and Mack patrolling Skullbone, combing the alleys and back streets for miscreants. Mack, accustomed to the dirty underbelly of the town, knows his way around the gritty lair of wickedness. There in the shadows, a scuffle and muffled scream arise, and Poncey spots an armed goon accosting a girl as helpless as she is buxom. Mack can do no more than point, while Poncey wheels into action. He goes for the gun first, wrenching it from the attacker's hand and sending it clattering to the concrete. The jarring impact sends a shot flying with a sudden explosion, and Mack is hit! Poncey lands a quick punch to the throat, rendering the malefactor impotent, but falling to his knees just within reach of the hot, eager pistol. As the crook groans and stretches painfully for the piece, Poncey nonchalantly kicks it skittering down the sidewalk, the girl hanging upon his shoulder, and Mack can do nothing but watch from a distance. Yes, that's just how it would happen.

"Whatcha readin'?" Poncey consented to change the subject.

"The Flash. My pa was the Flash," Mack said.

"Shut up!" Poncey reasoned.

"Well, everyone called him The Flash. He played a lot of sports, an' the fans started to call him The Flash. He ran fast."

"I thought he worked in the circus."

"No. What? Oh! That was later."

"Fast, huh? Sure they didn't call him 'Flash' for some other reason?"
"Nope, that was it," Mack drawled. "He was fastest man on the Harvard team. He set a record for touchdowns scored on kick returns."

"No kiddin'? How come I never heard of him?"

"Oh, well, one day he was walkin' to class an' saw a buildin' on fire. He got there afore anybody else, an' when he saw a mother with two babies screamin' out a winda, he ran up an' grabbed 'em. Carried down the babies like two footballs first, then ran up an' got the woman. But on the way down with her, he got injured an' couldn't play no more. His shirt burned off, but he didn't let the woman go."

"So after that did they start callin' him the Human Torch?" Poncey smirked.

"No. An' he didn't get burned, just his shirt did. But he broke his arm. He stopped to take off his jeans an' wrapped 'em 'round the arm, then carried the woman the rest of the way down. She'd fainted an' all from the smoke an' him takin' off his pants. Later, he told the medical college all about it, an' they turned aroun' an' invented the soft cast for broken arms an' stuff. My pa didn't get a penny out of it."

"Your pap did all that?"

"Tha's right. My ol' pa."

The ancestral fortress of Sockabilly's father, Ver-Non, lord of a distant planet, had been infiltrated by The Square. There he installed a division of minions, mind-numbed automatons appointed to impose his law upon the masses. He sat within the inner rooms of the palace, violating the mysterious meditations of ages past with his evil scheming.

Sockabilly threw a table across the room. "How dare you pollute these hallowed halls?"

"I run things here now," The Square scowled.

"I'm here to pass out teddy bears and kick some booty, and I'm all out of bears," a smeared Sockabilly retorted. Poncey needed a new eraser.

"What right do you have here? I'm the ruler of this castle!"

"I'll teach you to respect my father's fortress!"

"My army of peons will soon defeat you, then you'll have to obey my every command!"

"When I'm done with you, you'll be rockin' my jailhouse!"

Sockabilly jumped into action, flinging his guitar like a polo mallet. He caught The Square squarely on one corner, sending him twirling through the ceiling and well out of the story. The super Elvis then made quick work of the robotic soldiers with his scuffling, bare-knuckled, bare-footed fighting.

"I've cleared out that pack of thieves, my father."

"Your father will have a fit seein' you drawin' that foofaraw," his mother said.

"Aw, Pap don't care," said Poncey. "He don't care 'bout nothin' but his trains."

"Well, I'll jus' bring it up to him when he gets home. Maybe I'll get him to care."

"Hey, Mam, when you goin' to Jackson next? Can we go to Comics.Comic?"

The worst possible thing had happened to Dixie – Poncey had discovered a store selling nothing but comic books – the newest, the oldest, the most obscure. There he could find ancient issues, maybe even the same comics Elvis himself had read. The name was pronounced "comics dot comic," a misleading nod to the Internet, seeing as how the store didn't have even the merest attempt at a website. Dixie didn't know much about the Internet, but she soon learned to regret Comics.Comic's lack of presence there. As it was, every time Poncey needed to bathe in the store's inventory, Dixie was compelled to drive him all the way to Jackson. Books of all types packed the shop's bins and glass cases, rare issues sporting fancy prices lined the walls, and clerks were always ready for a deep discussion about the comparative powers of Aquaman and the Submariner. At this time, Poncey could not have found a more blissful and abundant oasis, and going there was like returning to forbidden fruit.

"Don't you need to go to Jackson, Mam?" Poncey would say.

"No, I don't," Dixie would reply.

"But I want to go! I wanna go see the books at Comics.Comic."

"I know that's what you're about. But I don't need to be makin' that trip right now. An' the radio's talkin' 'bout rain."

"Come on, Mam! Please? Why can't we go?"

"Now, Poncey, I tole you, I don't have time for that foolishness. Don't nag at me so!"

"You never want to do anything! You just think it's foolish 'cause I like it!"

"Don't I always give in to you, Poncey? Don't you always get your way?"

"No! I never get my way! I bet you wish I was dead! You wish you had some other kid!"

"Oh, Poncey, don't say that," she seemed truly bruised. "You worry me like a puppy with a rag! Don't worry me so!"

So every time Dixie would make the trip to Jackson, and every time Poncey passed the trip by reading a little more of the biography. He began to see Elvis as more mythic than real, the son born into poverty but who rose to become king. As an entertainer, he gave his life to the fans, sacrificed any normal private life to pour out his heart in the form of song, spilling over the stage and into the masses, spent upon the people's passions. His fans encircled the world, like millions of children to the shining star, pure in his white jumpsuit, each one sharing in their father's glory. Poncey remembered his special connection, the favored son, and believed that his time had arrived. He now determined to somehow claim the immense success that Elvis once gained and then left behind; but also, the more he read and learned about Elvis, the more strange and separated he seemed. Poncey must now possess his destiny, he thought, he must do that thing to attain the shared spirit of wonders glorifying both master and disciple, or it might slip away. But what would Elvis do?

Each time his mom agreed to take him and gratefully let him off at Comics.Comic, Poncey spent long, happy hours browsing through the lesser titles, and he pitched his head backwards to genuflect upon the prizes hanging on the walls. Many of the titles and covers shocked his recognition as famous issues he'd read about. Silent within the heroes' tabernacle, graven images of grand warriors surrounded Poncey, bedecked in silver and gold, descended from Valhalla to intervene in the affairs of mortals, graciously receiving the veneration he offered. In another section he would grin at the truly comic comics, the "funny books," and in another gawk at the horror covers like a driver passing a wreck on the highway. The prices of these rare artifacts were as frightening as the drawings.

There in one spectral moment Poncey realized the wonder to be – another seed sprouted and took root within him. The stack of comics in his room had grown, now towering over his head, but even in their multitude, at that moment his plebeian collection of modern work suddenly reeked of contempt. The weight of history now fell upon Poncey, and he felt a piercing desire to own a bit of it. He scanned the wall, the covers and the price tags, balancing interest with reasonable investment, until finally settling on one particular magazine. Between "Weird Crime," featuring a dagger-wielding baboon, on one side and the warty hag in dancehall dress on "Old West Witchcraft" to the other, an image from a 1950s issue of "Crypt-Ick" reached through his eyes and took hold of his brain. The little white label read "$75," which Poncey thought on a good day he might be able to get past his parents. This humble comic, slightly worn by years but still glorious, became his grail, the cherished relic that would redeem his whole collection.

Through the night hours he schemed. On his bedroom wall he spied the spot where his treasure would hang. He planned who among his friends would be allowed entrance, and who would be denied. A sparkling gold frame would be appropriate, perhaps a box frame with a door like a safe, so Poncey could remove the treasure for special occasions. Poncey devised any number of ways to get the money, ways to bend the opposition he would surely face from his mam. The campaign would require perseverance and finesse.

"Mam, you know there's only one thing I want."

"Lord, what is it now?"

"Just one thing. It's a copy of 'Crypt-Ick.' It's older'n you."

"Thanks. An' what in the worl' is that?"

"An old comic, Mam, whatta ya think?"

"Lord, Poncey, I never know what ta think."

"Can I buy it?"

"If you got the money, I suppose."

"Well, that's just it, Mam, I don't quite have it all. Can you help me out?"

"How much you talkin' 'bout?"

This was the point Poncey had hoped with utter futility to avoid. "Well, I don't have that much, personally. The book is seventy-five dollars."

"Semty-five dollahs?! Lan', child, what in the worl' are you thinkin'? You think I've got that kinda money for anything, much less a funny book?"

"You could take it outta my 'lowance."

"You don't get no 'lowance, Poncey."

"Well, you could start me one."

"Now, what kinda sense does that make? An' don't say I could pay you for your chores, neither. You live here, an' your chores is what you owe the house."

"But there's nothin' else I can do to make money for myself!"

"You'll just have to think a' somethin'."

"Just give me the money."

"No, Poncey, I can't spend no semty-five dollahs on a funny book."

"Yes!" Poncey's face flushed.

"No."

"It's not fair!"

"Fair? Child, who's to say what's fair? You live a long life or short, you still only die in the end, an' don't even get to enjoy your funeral. Ain't nothin' fair."

"I don't care! I want that comic!"

"I'm sorry, Poncey, you'll just have to figure a way to earn that money yourself, or do without."

"I can't earn that much! You just hate me, that's all."

"Poncey – "

"An' I hate you! I wish I was dead! I wish I was never born!"

"Poncey, you tear my heart out. You torment me to no end. You never give me a minute's peace, even from your crib you've given me not a minute's peace."

Eventually Poncey's mom found herself back in the car, back on the road to Jackson. The issue of "Crypt-Ick" would be an advance on Poncey's birthday, and Christmas, and perhaps something else as well.

The tires ground the gravel as she pulled into the parking lot, which was once mostly asphalt. Poncey popped out of the back seat and ran inside, while his mom sat defeated behind the wheel. Sullen as a man going to the gallows, she gathered her things into a worn purse, swung the door open gently and heaved herself out. As the door closed with a clunk, Dixie scanned the horizon as if looking for escape, as if actually entering Comics.Comic would be more surrender than she could bear. With a sigh, her high heels clicked toward the store.

Inside, Poncey's back was framed by a long glass counter and a salesperson, who had already pulled down the book, and she could tell her son was enraptured by whatever it was he held, though she couldn't see it. Dixie glanced around in disbelief at her surroundings as she approached the counter. Looking down she was bluntly confronted by the comic book's cover, as Poncey held it up into her face. She let out a slight squawk – low and startled, because she had no breath – but followed up with a full-bodied, piercing shriek as if some Aztec priest was presenting her own beating heart before her. She sprinted from the store and leapt back into the car.

From the cover grinned the image of a child, perhaps an infant, rising out of a fresh grave, its eyes wide and bright but hollow, baby-blue but malevolent. Clumps of dirt covered the face, smudged with blood and brains, flesh hanging loose from gashes and decay. The cherubic smile revealed bare gums fitted with metallic fangs, and pudgy arms outstretched entreating for hellish embrace.

Poncey stood stunned for a moment, and heard the car crank up, gunning fiercely. Finally realizing he was being left, he flung the book back on the counter and exited without a good-bye. Fairly jumping through the car window, he gathered himself in the back seat as his mom raced out of the parking lot, and settled in to sort out the disaster.

Never had anything caused such a reaction from Poncey's mother, at least not in his memory. All his hard work was ruined, he thought; he would just have to figure out something to do next. His mom sped down the highway, sending the car reeling around curves like she had never done before, and Poncey decided that just for safety's sake he'd better keep quiet for now. He'd just been handed a major defeat, but he was confident he could think of a way to recover. He just needed to lay low and take his time.

So in bitter silence he took up his book again, the biography of Elvis, and opened to the last chapter. Disconsolately flipping pages, he read about the final days, the devouring addictions, the solitary consumption. Concerts transformed into incoherent ramblings, and Elvis' world reduced to his room and then his head, and finally to the bathroom floor. He died helpless and alone in the bowels of Graceland, a grotesque caricature of humanity removed from paradise. Elvis had not conquered the world, the world had chewed him up and spit him out. The world had mastered him on its own terms. Poncey unexpectedly felt the link to him dissolve to nothingness, no desire left to emulate, no more devotion. The king was dead. Long live the king.

The car swerved on sudden turns, and Poncey realized his mom was not taking the way home. He cast his book aside and peered through the window, seeing a winding, rolling lane ahead, surrounded by green fields and tall woods. More grassy weeds than road, the narrow path barely kept hold of the tires as Dixie sent the car careening along. After only a mile or so, she turned off the road and into a secluded cemetery. Dixie pulled to a heaving halt and burst from the car in as big a hurry as she'd entered it.

"What in the ever-lovin' are we doin' here," Poncey muttered to himself. He watched his mother march away, and followed after her more out of duty than his mild curiosity. In the distance he saw her drop to her knees. Though the grass still glistened wet with rain – the grounds soaked and muddy – still she rocked gently in the muck with no apparent concern for her soiled clothing. As Poncey drew nearer, he saw the gravestone arise beyond her shoulders, cut with the name "Jesse Muldoon." Directly below appeared the word "Stillborn."

He heard her whispering with the breeze, "Lord, child, how you tore my heart those thirteen years past. But how I find more rest with you now."

**A Bad Woman Is Worse Than Death**

Juby had been sent by God, or Satan, nobody knew which. He brought the Apocalypse to town with him in his black Studebaker station wagon, painted with exhortations and Scripture verses: "Repent!" "The Lord Cometh!" "Narrow is the Path!" and "Rev. 22:20," – as if someone on the road might look up Scripture while driving. Through an old bullhorn mounted on the roof, Juby broadcast prophecies and damnations as he traveled, one hand on the wheel, one hand with the microphone. Strapped to the car's side just above the windows, a long sword glinted in the sunlight, complete with tassel that trailed in Juby's wake.

"The day of the Lord is at hand!" he screamed from the sidewalk. "Sinners! You better get right with God, 'cause hell awaits!" He made a wide gesture in the general direction of Rev. Fletcher as his voice tremored heavenward. "The mighty jaws of hell await to swallow you up into its fiery, burnin' gullet! You got a sin problem, folks – you ever told a lie, you're a liar! You ever stole a pencil from work, you're a thief! The heart burns with sin! Repent, you sinners, an' turn to the Lord God Almighty for mercy!"

Nobody in town really cared much for Juby. His righteous haranguing even got on the nerves of the ladies of First Church, though many of them would stand among his audience nodding occasional agreement. But it was the sword that really got him in trouble, and when the town council decided to confiscate it as a dangerous weapon, he was obliged to attend a hearing, and justify why they should give it back. There in front of the council building, Poncey and Juby's paths crossed.

"Repent! Repent! Seek mercy from the Lord, or He will deliver justice!" Juby crowed at the crowd. The council members had received his petition to regain his public hazard, then quickly exited, climbing into their pickup trucks with the shotguns in the racks. They kept a wary eye on him over their shoulders. "He's coming! He is coming! Will you be ready? Or will He catch you in your sin, drowning in your sinful ways! The fiery tongues of hell await! Satan's licking and smacking his lips, waiting to taste your hatred, and your greed, and your lust! The lust of tender flesh is hell's snare!"

Juby threw his index finger at Poncey. "Elijah! Many were the women in the land! Unto only one was Elijah sent, a foreign woman! Elijah served that woman, and she served Elijah!"

The spring sun had just begun to warm the land after months of cold and damp, and Poncey had things on his mind more important than deciphering a madman. Dr. Luray had hired him to clean leaves out of his gutters, and Poncey hoped to get a look at his daughter, Jazzy. Jazzy spent that winter away at the Lurays' condo on the Gulf coast, and she'd just returned. The idea of Jazzy in a bikini was more than Poncey could take, and he wanted to give her ample opportunity to say how much she'd missed him all winter. Poncey left the town square and headed toward the Lurays' split-level.

The day before leaving, Jazzy had thrown a party for her friends in the botanical gardens of City Park. The typically girlish bill of fare included desserts, salad and finger sandwiches, set up under a tent, with games scheduled in case conversation ran thin. Poncey got wind of it, and hung around casually at the periphery long enough to be noticed. The girls laughed and waved him over to get something to eat, and prepared him an especially manful salad. A few mouthfuls in, and Poncey realized he was eating mostly flower petals, gathered from the garden path. He spewed the bitter herbs across the table to hysterical, squealing laughter, before loping off to retch at the water fountains. Even doubled over, Poncey was convinced Jazzy would be thinking about him all the time she was gone.

So he broke away from the excitement in town and set off for the Lurays' house out in the county. Jazzy would be eager to see him, he thought, but he'd play it cool and let her stew about it awhile before acknowledging her. He pulled his bike up to the garage and found the ladder Dr. Luray said would be there. His scheme was to begin with the porch roof, knowing that Jazzy's bedroom window overlooked it. He would work on that gutter as long as it took for her to go to her room and look out the window.

Luck smiled upon Poncey. The lithe shadow moving across the curtains testified that Jazzy was in her room when he arrived. He made the requisite amount of clunking around with the ladder, the best he could do to get her attention short of ringing the doorbell. Standing waist high over the gutter, Poncey craned his neck to see into the window, jerked his attention back to work when he thought he saw movement, then craned his neck again. He imagined Jazzy looking through her clothes closet. He puttered around with the leaves to no real purpose, casually keeping one eye on the window. Yes, there it was again – a shadow sashayed delicately, and a light went out. He shook his head, sure that Jazzy had left and taken his hopes with her, and went back to his work. So he was surprised to hear the window rising, and he looked up to catch Jazzy's big eyes gazing at him. She smiled brightly and motioned him closer.

Poncey cleared his throat, climbed the last few rungs of the ladder and stepped onto the roof. Jazzy's eyes never moved off him, and her cheeks beamed at the corners of her smile. Poncey walked gingerly toward her window, and she produced a bottle of motor oil with the top removed. Poncey's balance wavered slightly, and Jazzy poured the oil out under his feet, her face aglow. After a very short dance, he tumbled off the roof and out of her sight. He landed face first in the Lurays' flower bed, lush with hoochie coochie and naked ladies, which added a sweet bouquet to the fragrance of manure. Poncey lay there in a state of shocked contemplation. Jazzy sure was making it hard.

"That pretty much figures," Mack MacLenoly noted when Poncey told him. "Women – there just ain't never any tellin' what's in their heads. Can't ever guess, 'specially the pretty ones. An' the bad ones – whoo! A bad woman is worse than death itself."

"Oh, what do you know about it?" Poncey scowled.

"Nothin'."

Poncey decided the time had come to give up on Jazzy, or at least teach her to stop taking him for granted. He'd already spent a few days trying to convince himself of this and hadn't made any real progress when the big news hit town. It started as just a wave of rumor spread by Bob Roach, but since he worked at the radio station, folks figured he must know what he was talking about. Sure enough, the official announcement eventually came, and Roach's bragging helped with the promotion.

Between engagements in Memphis and Nashville, the Southland Sirens were squeezing in a performance at Skullbone Music Park. Molly and Milly Ellis, sisters, and Blaze Bloom had become one of the hottest country acts going, a trio of multi-talented musicians and singers. Known for their tight harmonies, the Southland Sirens also gained fame for passing around instruments like a match in a foxhole: For one song they'd play guitar, mandolin and fiddle; for the next dobro, guitar and banjo; then fiddle, mandolin and guitar; then piano, fiddle and guitar; then bass, dobro and piano; then mandolin, banjo and bass; then guitar, mandolin and fiddle. Their fans filled every stadium they booked, so scheduling the little outdoor amphitheater at Skullbone came as a surprise to everyone. But their publicist had always cunningly focused on the girls' down-home roots, the salt-of-the-earth values that fed their bond with the fans; no doubt the planned stopover in tiny Skullbone proved the sincerity of that good ol', country-folk kinship.

Still, Poncey gave them no thought. Indeed, what with the commotion caused by Juby, Bob Roach and now the Southland Sirens, he found any kind of thinking difficult. While the rest of the town was atwitter about the upcoming concert, Poncey remained detached, as he sought a way to overcome Jazzy. Any idea or event that did not bring him to this end would be treated as nothing more than a petty distraction. Only by chance did he find himself back in the town square when the parade honoring the arrival of the Southland Sirens dragged through.

Skullbone was not the most sophisticated place; town officials were not about to let an excuse for a parade slip by.

In fact, at first the crowd milling along the street didn't even catch Poncey's eye. While traipsing down the sidewalk deep in thought, he bumped into an equally focused collection of outlaw types stretching their necks toward the distant end of Main Street. They cursed his boneheaded stupor and piqued his curiosity.

"What's all this?" he asked.

"It's th' Sigh-reens, ya dumb-butt!" one replied.

So he joined their little group. He did not believe anything existed in Skullbone that deserved such attention, except his own concerns, and indeed the first thing he saw – a collection of ragtag boys – seemed to confirm his opinion. Are these people crazy? he wondered as he watched the little ragamuffin group, split between a few walking backwards and others miming an exaggerated march.

Following the boys was a man Poncey thought he recognized but couldn't place, picking his teeth with a jack knife, strolling along like this was his daily constitutional. He waved genially and tipped his ragged fedora, and Poncey got the idea that he was really one of the boys, even though he was old enough to be father to one or all of them. Nobody else seemed to be paying him any mind; he threw a wink in Poncey's direction. Poncey thought maybe the fellow was just leaving town, and good riddance, and nearly turned to leave himself.

Then he caught sight of Kent Dekker, and he knew something was up. Kent grew up a favorite in town because of his athletic talents, and he parlayed that into a kind of jugheaded charm. Always making a fool joke of everything, Poncey thought. He saw through all that; the townsfolk might be struck brainless, like a little girl, whenever Kent came around, Poncey thought, but he saw through it. Right out of school Kent had volunteered for the Army, and had immediately gone off to war and gotten his leg blown off. Months of rehab at Walter Reed followed, until at last he'd returned to Skullbone. Now here he was, walking along on a prosthesis that looked like a ski from outer space, holding an American flag as big as he was, high on a long pike. Some things never change, Poncey thought, knowing that if town officials put Kent in front of a thing, they thought it was important.

Behind him came Juby in his station wagon, still missing the sword. The crowd yelled insults and ridicule at him, and since Poncey thought he probably had broken into the parade line, he joined in. Juby's loud speaker blared in full throat, so he couldn't hear the abuse anyway. "Repent! The claws of hell reach out to you! Repent, and turn from the lusts of your eyes!"

Trailing behind the car came the high school band's drum majorette, marching by with her dipsy-doodle walk in the shortest skirt possible. Fascinated, Poncey couldn't understand why she was in long sleeves and practically nothing else. She pranced along, unaware that she'd been separated from her band by two carloads of tourists, just passing through town and mistakenly turning into the parade route. They made the best of it, rolling down their windows to wave at admirers until the opportunity finally arose to return to their trip.

After the leaderless band passed, Poncey could see Ronnie and Donnie Galloway ambling down the street. Each one wore a sandwich board saying "Eat at The Diner," as though any single person in Skullbone still had never heard of the place. Ronnie and Donnie were both about 80 years old, and advancing their advertising slowly before the crowd's eyes came naturally to them. Rev. Fletcher followed, waving good naturedly and giving the church's stamp of approval to the concert, in case anyone was wondering.

"Spraggin' " Ranger came along next, dressed like a chandelier. He sat upon one of his grand champion Tennessee Walkers, this one named Peggy, trained to kick her fetlocks high with each "running walk" step. "Spraggin' " was a colorful character from somewhere out West; he'd earned his nickname as a gold miner, after holding up a collapsing mine roof upon the strength of his back alone. That singular claim certainly invited doubt if not outright dispute, but his raw ability to spot prime horseflesh was no bull. Peggy was the third nag he'd taken to the Walking Horse title; today she was decked out just like him, wearing more silver bling than a hip hop act. Her saddle alone must have weighed a hundred pounds, but Peggy went through her paces as though she had not a trouble in the world, nor any burden upon her back.

Behind her marched Lisa Whistle, after a fashion, representing The Literary Society of Bath and Aquitaine, her nose buried deep inside a book to show her contempt for the parade and its purpose. She'd been forced to participate, as president of The Society, and considered the whole event a farce celebrating unaccomplished and unworthy women, tools of a male-dominated society. Only some suffering artist truly merited such recognition, some bleeding genius acquainted with the night, a true poet, she thought, so she publicly demonstrated her disdain for this display. Unfortunately, she didn't fully appreciate that she was walking behind Peggy, and planted her foot directly in one of the filly's contributions.

Ringing in his arrival with an oversized bell, T.C. Smith, the school principal, passed by Poncey next, decked out in full Dickensian regalia. West Tennessee has its share of Civil War re-enactors, but Mr. Smith was the only school re-enactor there or possibly anywhere else, and he loved to dress as Dickens' Mr. Bumble. His long, heavy coat buttoned tightly about his middle – separating a flamboyant tie affixed to his neck above, and conspicuous knickers below – and what looked like Gen. Jackson's hat from the battle of New Orleans topped his head. Mr. Smith swung his bell like Death with his scythe, and pointed accusations at primary pupils – "I have come out myself to take you back into the workhouse!" – who had been given a half-day off school but now worried that he might not be joking.

Mr. Bancroft of the credit union followed, his eyes strangely focused beyond the people lining the street. Poncey could tell he was admiring his image in the storefront windows as he passed. He's probably happy he's behind Smith, Poncey thought, anybody'd look good following that mess. Poncey caught Mr. Bancroft's eye in his reflection from across the street, and Mr. Bancroft turned red, huffed and cleared his throat as he jerked his coat taut by the bottom and turned his stare straight forward. This amused Mr. Ryan, walking along with him as one of Skullbone's many business titans, and he smiled as he polished his pocket watch. He held it to his ear to make sure it not only looked like it was running, but sounded like it too.

A slight breach of protocol occurred next as Otis Bender, who in a different age would have been called the town drunk, fell off the curb and stumbled into the parade. Otis had never been particularly lucky, and his fortunes were not changing now; as he struggled to regather himself, he tumbled directly into Constable Crapo's hands. Finally something worth watching, Poncey thought, chuckling as Crapo battled Otis for possession of his wrists. Crapo looked like a bug with pincers as he tried to get handcuffs on Otis, who evasively waved his arms over his head in a jurisprudent game of keep-away. Constable Crapo finally collared this desperate character, but the larger goal of getting him out of sight failed, since the jailhouse was at the end of the parade route anyway. So together they marched away, the crowd cheering, Constable Crapo acknowledging the accolades for the both of them.

Once that excitement settled down, the rest of the business community reclaimed its place in the spotlight. Smart suits and stained coveralls marched shoulder to shoulder. Mavis came by in her waitress uniform – clearly short of breath from the walk, but still calling out "Hi honey!" and "Hey sweetie pie!" – and held up a serving tray with a sign reading "Come see me at The Diner," for those who had missed Ronnie and Donnie earlier. All the leading financial minds of greater metro Skullbone giddily displayed their support for the community and reminded the community to come by and spend a buck.

A dog wandered onto the street, holding its snout high into the air then low upon the ground, trying to find its way. Its eyes were swollen and clouded, beset by glaucoma, and it crouched nervously as noises of the parade erupted all around. The mayor approached along the route, strutting with his head pitched backwards. The dog crossed into the middle of the parade, then back toward the curb, then out again. The mayor swung his cane jauntily, nothing more than an ornament. The dog found something interesting on the pavement, and gave it the full attention of its nose. The mayor's stride caught the poor beast fully under its ribcage, and the mutt flipped upon its back, legs kicking in the air, as the mayor rolled over it like an acrobat. The army of shopkeepers rushed to His Honor's aid, and Poncey whooped in approval. The blind dog skulked to safety in solitude.

Winding down Skullbone's celebration of itself were a couple of men stripped to the waist, pantomiming a bare-knuckle boxing match. These skullboners heralded the root of the fame, if not notoriety, of the town's earliest days, and put in mind Skullbone's other foundational tradition, the playing of music. The crowd could feel the electric presence of its honored guests, the Southland Sirens. A tractor crept closer, belching diesel smoke and anticipation, gingerly pulling a cotton wagon. Poncey could not help himself, but joined the townsfolk on his toes to catch a glimpse of the legendary singers. But what he saw instead was his friend Mack, on the far side of the street with his back to the festivities, deep in conversation with a busy-looking man. Poncey knew every person Mack knew, and this man was not one of them. The stranger handed Mack an envelope and patted him on the shoulder, then slinked away, trailing mystery behind him.

Then the cotton wagon moved in and blocked Poncey's view, and the lovely Southland Sirens within arrested his attention. He couldn't decide if they looked like royalty or prisoners. Fluffy bits of cotton clung to the wagon's wire sides, and the women waved and flitted about like birds in a cage. The tractor ground to a halt, and the Southland Sirens took up their instruments. Two brunettes and a blonde, Poncey did not know which one was who, but skin-tight costumes attested to their fine qualities, and his interest spiked. They broke into a song, something about trains and prison and heartbreak, the blonde taking the lead. She looked at Poncey – directly at him – her golden mane lifted wistfully by the breeze, framing a face bronze with the sun, her pure white eyes and teeth gleaming like stars, a gaze blue like the sky, clear and crisp, her features smooth and soft and warm, and she sang deep into the essence of his very being. He glanced away embarrassed, but she would not let go. His eyes returned to hers, and they made a pact across the distance, a bond that nobody else could ever understand. At that very moment, Poncey fell in love.

The song ended, and one of the girls – not the goddess – yelled, "See ya'll tonight at Skullbone Music Park!" and the wagon inched away. Poncey stood stunned as the crowd dissipated, until a hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he awoke from his enchantment.

"Hey, lookit what I got!" Mack exulted.

"What's that?" Poncey stared at the envelope.

"Back stage pass! The Southland Sirens' concert manager just gave it to me!"

"A pass? How'd you get that?"

"Won it off the radio – called in an' won it. I never been lucky before!"

"You get to meet them?"

"After the show, I'm goin' back stage an' meet 'em all!"

"I didn't know 'bout that!" Poncey sputtered. "It's not fair! I didn't know about it!"

"You should pay more 'tention!" Mack advised.

The two drifted away from the scene, Poncey slain and forlorn, Mack jumping and hopping in his eccentric way. "You should share that with me," Poncey muttered.

"How'm I gonna share it? Give you half, so only my legs can get in? That's stupid!"

"Then you should give it to me. It's not fair, 'cause I didn't know about it!" Poncey laid on the guilt every way he could think of, but Mack would not be moved. Poncey did not leave off his grousing until Mack reached home and escaped.

The sun spent not a thought on the great approaching event nor on Poncey's poetic angst, and began its descent in its own good time. Meanwhile, a huge audience gathered at the amphitheater on the outskirts of town. The dusky sky set the tone for what promised to be a night of expectation and discovery. Poncey and Mack arrived early to pick a spot on the grass, and Poncey made sure they'd be sitting within direct eyesight of the performers. As darkness claimed the day, lights surrounding the park glowed to life, and mosquitoes swarmed around a feast of victims. A local garage band stumbled through its opening act, an embarrassing display well worth their meager pay, making the headliners sound all the better. A vernal tingle filled Poncey, and colored spotlights swung across the stage as if scanning a coastline, searching for the warmth of hearth and home that every far-flung man longs for. The folks began a slow, impatient clapping that spread across the lawn, joined by a swelling chorus of spring peepers, and a few shrewd fans blew air horns. Poncey fidgeted, and the envelope stuck out of Mack's back pocket.

"Get on with it! Sow-thlan' Sigh-rens!" he chanted.

The spotlights went dark, casting each person into utter blindness, raising every other sense to heights they'd never before known, and the band struck up a sudden excited rhythm.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" said the loudspeaker.

"Who came in?" Mack whispered to Poncey.

"Shut up!" he replied, and craned his neck.

The spotlights flashed back on, and there on stage stood the work of art, his own Aphrodite, massaging her violin with single-minded passion. Her body heaved with the intensity of her playing, her eyes blazing an ardorous pledge with her fingers, like a welder's torch, as they caressed cries of ecstasy from her instrument. The bow stroked vigorously, bragging no end to its stamina, drawing through the strings and back again, coaxing from them more than they knew of themselves, and its joyful songs coupled in harmony with the guitar and mandolin. She bent into her playing, passion driven by the rhythm and tones themselves.

"She's amazing," Poncey said in a trance. He felt like he'd been nailed to the ground. "She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. She's – beyond description."

"Yeah, they're great," Mack offered.

Dressed in deep blue jeans and form-fitting blouses barely able to tame their breasts, the girls switched instruments to go into their second number. Brunette No. 1 said something about Skullbone and the next song, but Poncey was too enthralled to hear. His eyes fastened to those of his love, spiritually trying to mesmerize her attention, but she never looked his way. His heart broke in two, and each half beat yet all the more ardently.

Brunette No. 2 took her turn singing lead, and Poncey's yellow-haired dream took up the guitar. She focused her attention on her band mate, turning her back to the audience. At first disappointed, Poncey soon grew to appreciate the new perspective on his love and her rolling, silken motion, kneading the pounding beat as she strummed along. His gratification swirled together with a growing frustration.

"How much you want for that pass?" he croaked at Mack. "I'll pay you for it! I've got to have that pass!"

"Are you kiddin'? I'm not givin' this up to nobody."

"You don't care 'bout anyone but yourself! Don't be such a selfish pig!"

"I ain't selfish. I won it, an' I deserve it. It ain't for sale to no-body."

Poncey growled under his breath, and his chest fluttered, like he was about to go into palpitations.

The concert progressed, and song after song drove Poncey's temperature higher. The blonde's every new display of raw talent, every indication of animal appetite, hit him like a speeding locomotive, and his yearning for this flowing fountain of all things desirable stoked its fire hotter still. At length the band began to slow down the energy, and the muse sat at the piano, facing directly toward Poncey's place in the crowd. A sedate intro followed, all lights fading to darkness except one upon her angelic face, and the strains of a heartfelt ballad arose. Her hair glistened, highlighting the deep tan of her skin, bringing out the chill blue of her eyes, and finally she drank in Poncey with her gaze. She etched her crooning words upon his heart, every note woven in his ears like a binding fabric. Poncey forgot where he was and floated into a world of clouds and fluff, unable to feel the ground, a suspended existence where time swept away and each present second lasted forever. And then it was over.

"You want sumpthin' to eat?"

Poncey heard the applause. What had happened?

"I'm goin' to the concessions – you want anything?" Mack repeated.

"Uh, no," Poncey said. "Er, yeah, sure, get me a sweet tea." He fished out a five-dollar bill and handed it to Mack. "Keep the change."

"No kiddin'?" Mack said as he turned to leave. "Be back."

Poncey pulled the envelope from Mack's pocket.

Relocating next to the stage, Poncey could see the mysterious man from the parade standing in the wings, keeping one eye on the performers and one on his watch. This town deserved one encore, then he'd set the roadies to work tearing down the equipment. The Southland Sirens waved and left the stage to a swelling thunder of applause, like waves crashing against massive rocks, and the man sent them back on. Poncey's love cast a glance at him before bouncing back into position. The song was a rousing anthem to hedonism, to celebration that ran through the night and into the morning, and to starving bodies slaked with satisfaction. The girls glowed with sweat and enthusiasm as they blew kisses and skipped offstage with benedictions of "Peace on Earth!" and "God bless!"

"What a bumpkin-burg!" a brunette gurgled as she sqeezed water from a bottle into her ready mouth.

Poncey sidled up to the man and timidly produced his backstage pass.

"How'd you get this? Where's that other fella?" he asked.

"He couldn't make it," Poncey said. "He gave it to me."

"I don't know," the man considered him carefully. "The other guy checked out. But I ain't got time to get background on you. You some kinda freak?"

"I'm all right," Poncey gushed. "Mack's my best friend – the other guy. Ask anyone."

"Well. I'm gonna have security keep an eye on you."

"This the big winner?" the same brunette asked. "Hey there, big fella, you're a big ol' hoss, aren't you?"

"I guess." Poncey didn't know what to say, and suddenly he felt fatter.

"You come with me," she said with a wink to her manager, pulling Poncey by the hand. "We can handle him. Come meet the girls."

A swirl of activity enveloped Poncey, and he was led through a milling labyrinth of stars, crew members and hangers-on. Without knowing how, he found himself backed up to a heavy curtain, faced down by the three stunning women.

"You are a big one," said the second brunette. "You that big all over?"

"Huh?" Poncey managed.

"What's your name, sugar?" the blonde said, touching his arm.

"Puh – ."

"What?" she laughed.

"Poncey. Poncey Muldoon."

"Well, what say we get out of here, Puh. We've got a motel room out by the highway, just long enough to wind down while the guys pack the buses. Wanna come out and help us relax?"

"Well – ." He looked around aimlessly.

"Please?" Poncey's one true love said. "Wouldn't you like to party with me?"

The room was on the second floor of the Drive Inn, a standard room but with a balcony overlooking the pool. The clerk had brought in an extra-large ice chest, full to the top, along with a few sandwiches and a cart stocked with every alcoholic drink Poncey could think of, and some he couldn't: beer, wine, brandy, ale, absinthe, arrack, gin, mescal, port, rum, schnapps, tequila, vodka, whisky, scotch, rye, bourbon, sake, mead, jenever, grappa, horilka, akvavit, rakia and poitín. He sat down on the edge of a bed.

"I like mine straight up," said the blonde. "How about you?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, and took the glass.

"What's your name again?" one asked. "Lance Boy?"

"Poncey. Poncey Muldoon," he said.

"Let me get a look at you, Lance Boy. Just what made you get so big?"

"I eat a lot. I played football in high school – I led the team in sacks one year." Poncey tried to make himself taller, though he was sitting.

"Oo, high school football," said a brunette.

"Not the track team? I wanted to hear about your lance. Lance Boy," said the blonde.

"Have a sandwich, Lance Boy. And I'll freshen up your drink."

Poncey took back his glass, and noticed the three watching him expectantly. He took a hard breath and slammed the drink down.

"Now you're talking!" said the other brunette. "I knew you had it in you. Hand me back that glass."

"I wanted to tell you shumthin'," he said to the blonde.

"What? You can tell me anything." She sat next to him on the bed and leaned her body in close. "But after you tell me that, I'm going to ask you to tell me something else, Lance Boy."

"What?"

"Oh, no, you first. You started this." Her coy teeth bit at her lower lip.

"Well," he gulped. "Maybe later."

"Here," she suggested. "Have another drink. That'll help you sort your thoughts. Someone turn on some music. I wanna dance."

A computer was hooked up to speakers, and the curvaceous blonde began a slow sway to the melody. The song was not the kind the band played, more of a sensuous jazz, and Poncey began to think of all the pieces the band hadn't done that night. Home on the Range, Shine On Harvest Moon, Take Me Out to the Ball Game, Star Spangled Banner, Jive Talkin', Girl You Know It's True, I'm An Old Cow Hand, Tie a Yellow Ribbon, The Yellow Rose of Texas, Eating Goober Peas, Hang On Sloopy, Muskrat Love, My Love, Endless Love, At Last, Alone. Try as he might, Poncey could not concentrate on the dancing girl.

"You okay, honey?" a brunette asked as she took his glass. "You're not fading out on us, are you? You still feeling perky?"

"Is the bear a Pope?" he replied as he took it back.

"You don't look so good, not bushy-tailed like you were before," she continued in his ear. "What can we do to perk you back up?"

The song had changed into a hard-pounding rockabilly throwback. The blonde ground her hips as Poncey tried to focus. "I tell you what," she told him. "I'm getting' a tad warm in here," and she pulled open a blouse button.

"Whoo boy."

"I think you found something," said a brunette, scrutinizing Poncey. "You found just what he needs."

"Hey, you can't out-fool me," Poncey said. "You're tryin' to drunk me."

"Oh, no, Lance Boy."

" 'Course not."

"Well, shumthin's happ'nin'," he said.

"And I want to know what!" the blonde set her hands on Poncey's thighs and leaned her cleavage in close. "Now what were you going to tell me?"

"Well –"

"You can tell me. I won't tell anyone else," she cooed.

"Well – you're awful pretty," he stammered.

"Why, thank you so much. You're pretty awful yourself, honey."

"Aw, I think ol' Lance Boy has got a crush," said the other brunette.

"I think so," said the blonde, straddling Poncey's knees as she straightened up, setting her hands on her hips and thrusting her shoulders back. "The question is, what are we gonna do 'bout it?"

Poncey's head whirled about on his neck. All he could see was the goddess' blouse, a blue plaid that matched her eyes. But how could her eyes be plaid, he thought, and he ran through all the colors her eyes could be if only he could remember. Brown, hazel, blue, green, grey, violet, red, orange, yellow, purple, forest green, lime green, blue gray, bittersweet, burgundy, burnt sienna, pink, cerulean, tangerine, copper, peach. None of them looked good on her. In fact, nothing about her looked particularly good anymore. Not even the ceiling looked very good.

"I don't feel so great," he mumbled.

"You don't look so great, either," she smiled matter-of-factly.

Poncey started with a chill, his eyes opening to a confused darkness. Little sparkles of light faded in and out of focus as he tried to blink awake. He lay stretched out on a chaise longue under the sky, his arms stretched out to each side. His hands waved through the air limply, landing on his chest, and discovering that he had no shirt. His eyes became clearer, and he realized he was on the motel room's balcony, but when he tried to lift his head, a violent pounding erupted and he had to give up. As he lay there groaning, his hands told him he had no pants, either. They recognized the feel of terry cloth, just below his waist, and he pulled a washcloth with the motel logo up to his eyes. Pinned to the cloth was a blurry note: "Sorry, but we thought a towel would be overkill."

Poncey lurched to his side, and saw through the sliding glass door that the room was dark and abandoned. He rolled off the chair in a crouch, screwed up all his fortitude and crawled to the door, only to find it securely locked. This isn't supposed to be locked, he thought, that's just dangerous, and he considered for a second jumping through the glass bodily. Wondering what time it was, he scanned the view of the pool and saw nobody about. He looked toward the door again, and decided no. Hooking one leg over the balcony's iron fence, he drew a deep breath and tumbled over into a bed of tiger lilies, snapdragons and Venus flytraps.

The darkness had that queer quality, more early than late, as if it knew that it soon would burn away. Three miles from town, Poncey had no choice but to start walking and hope to beat the sunrise. "Please let me get home, just let me get home," he prayed, beginning to jog. "Just get me home somehow," and his brain rolled around inside his skull. He headed out onto the road, nervously keeping an eye over his shoulder in case somebody approached. His skin pimpled with the cold of an early spring night, and he clutched his washcloth for dear life.

Onward he trudged, until he spotted a couple of dim lights bouncing along the road ahead of him. He cautiously skittered into the bramble along the highway, but it gave him poor cover and little desire to embrace it. Peering into the horizon, he knew the lights were a car coming nearer, and he ducked low as he could. A chill ran through him, only partly from the cool. The moon did not illuminate the vehicle, but its light did gleam off a long, thin object. Black as the night itself, Juby was coming, complete with sword – the one person crazy enough not to think Poncey was crazy. He felt Juby's eyes staring.

"John, what has happened to your camel's hair? Cast off with the comforts of the world!" Juby yelled out his window. Town officials had returned his sword with strict orders to take it and himself out of Skullbone for good. "I've shaken the dust of this town off my feet! Will you join me?"

"No, I've got to get home!" Poncey said from the underbrush. "Will you give me a ride?"

"I've escaped the city, like Sodom and Gomorrah! They refuse to repent! Do not look back, like that woman of Lot!"

"I've got to go home! I'm about to die out here! Please give me a ride!"

"Well, John, we all have a calling to fulfill. All right – get in, but I must be gone before morning! They cannot find me there!"

Poncey climbed in, and Juby eyed him carefully as he turned the car around. "Women can be a fountain of temptation, John, but seldom will they slake your throat. No wisdom in losing your head over one."

***

Poncey shuffled quietly into the Diner and slid onto his usual stool. Mack, hanging around the edges of a nearby conversation, looked up and blurted, "Hey, I been waitin' for you. What happened to you last night?"

Poncey didn't look at him. "Nothin'." He had spent the night with international celebrities, and he could never speak a word about it. His mouth felt like it was carpeted.

"I couldn't find you anywheres. I lost my pass somewheres, an' you coulda helped me look for it. I didn't get to meet them girls at all – I never get any breaks! An' I was totin' aroun' your cup of swee' tea ever'where. Where'd you go?"

Poncey didn't respond. Thank God that's over with, was his only thought.

Mack settled in beside him. "Yeah, my pass must've dropped outa my pocket somewheres – dad blame it! I looked ever'where for that thing! Guess I had no right to it after all."

Poncey wheeled around on the stool to leave. Jazzy sat with some friends in a booth across the aisle. Mavis had set each table with red roses from the garden out back, standing in water glasses, and Jazzy tickled the fleshy petals with her fingertips. She cast her big eyes and a smile Poncey's way.

Poncey hesitated, and sat slumped like a ragdoll.

Nothing good can come of this, he thought as he heaved himself to his feet and walked toward her. But at least it's the poison I'm used to.

**I Saw the Wicked Buried**

The sudden cloudburst caught everyone off guard – a real gully-washer. Poncey was caught driving along a winding gravel road, and the wipers on Zeke Breather's pickup simply turned the rain into a smear of mud. On top of that, Poncey could tell he was going too fast, even though the truck's speedometer was broken. Peering through the gunk on the windshield, he could not see the oncoming car in time to get out of the way. Rocks spewed in every direction as each driver desperately wrestled with his steering wheel. Badly outweighed by the creaking old truck, the sleek, shiny car swerved off the road and into a ditch. As Poncey crouched low in the seat, he watched the irate driver in his mirror, shaking his fist at the fleeing truck, the tailgate veiled by cascading water but still legible, "Zeke Breather General Store and Junkyard."

The deluge wetted the hot pavement only to sear off again as steam, replenishing the humid shroud even as the rain still fell, promptly turning the fresh respite into a sauna. Indeed, sticky summer heat is the one thing that West Tennessee is known for. That, and the pork ribs. And music, but mostly the heat. A humidity hangs in the air that no breeze can cut through, combining with the temperature to suck the life out of a man, and the will to live. Some folks swear the red Southern clay they tread upon would be fine sand if it weren't for the humidity. A simple walk in the sun can leave clothes soaked and dripping even as the body inside boils; something like a lobster in seersucker. Heat waves come to rest over the area, pushing daytime temperatures well into three digits, and leaving overnight lows at a snappy 80˚ Fahrenheit. That summer was no exception; Skullbone broiled for weeks without rain, and the town was as dry as its name.

Wispy white clouds lightly brushed the sky. Poncey and Mack walked a footpath, barely there within the matted grass. Blue as a jay, the stunning depth of the sky disguised its emptiness with empty beauty. The sun ruled the day, with none to challenge its dominance; its beams bore down mercilessly on the two as they made their way, barefoot and dragging ragged towels. Woods loomed near at hand, with not a leaf stirring on the breathless afternoon. The only escape from the moist air was to double down, and so the friends headed for still waters, the abandoned pond at Oopsie's Trough.

In Skullbone, besides the Diner, the only place to eat is home. For a short time, though, the brave entrepreneur "Oopsie" Brooks had tried to fill that void. Oopsie had been a clumsy child and came by his nickname honestly. As an adult, he proved just as adept at business; fortunately, he came from old money and could afford endless false starts. At eight years old, on just such a day as this, he'd set up the obligatory lemonade stand, sinking all his money into the cheapest drink mix he could find. But he prepared the whole sugary batch at once – thirteen of his mother's glass pitchers, all in a row – and one unfortunate bump of the table not only spilled his entire supply, but also broke every single pitcher. He followed that disaster with Antenn-Ex, a service that de-installed television antennas, which nobody wanted; Brooks Books, publisher of personal diaries, Christian testimonies and poetry about cats; and Finger Lickin', a restaurant with nothing but chicken strips on the menu, which failed under legal threat from an international conglomerate. At least the business world was taking notice of Oopsie.

Then he came up with Oopsie's Trough, a buffet restaurant set within a rustic barn. He built the structure outside of town, deep in the woods where a small pond lay. The buffet, or trough, was filled with such delicacies as fried chicken, pulled pork and pineapple hush puppies (because Oopsie figured fruit was healthy even deep fried). To enhance the appeal of his place, Oopsie invested in exotic animals to keep on the grounds – an American bison, elk, peacocks, llamas, even a zebra. At first diners came in droves, and Oopsie proudly congratulated himself, but he had begun by offering bargain prices and was afraid to raise them. Nothing about a buffet encourages moderation, so he found his customers literally eating all his profits – he had to think of some way to cut costs. Eventually some clever children noticed the buffalo was gone and Oopsie was down to one llama, though none of their parents paid it much mind. But when the zebra disappeared, the crowds quickly fizzled: Oopsie's Trough had served its last course and stood deserted.

Soon afterward Oopsie relocated to Frog Jump and opened Traffic Cone, a combination gas station and frozen custard stand, attracting tourists by setting up a headstone for fugitive hijacker D.B. Cooper. The likelihood that Frog Jump was the man's final resting place was doubtful, considering he had jumped from a airliner somewhere over Oregon, but the idea suited the town's name.

Anyway, the driveway to the Trough had overgrown into no more than the footpath now taken by Poncey and Mack, still leading to Skullbone's one place to get neck-deep in cool water. The pond had been ruled off-limits for swimming, deemed too dangerous, but the taboo only lured Poncey and Mack with romantic ideas of civil resistance. Besides, they'd risk anything just to get away from everyone in town for awhile. Constable Crapo, the town's unofficial police force, occasionally patrolled the place, so Poncey and Mack kept a sharp eye out as they walked. One other time when they had stolen the pond's forbidden pleasures, the sound of a siren spooked them out of the water. Naked and wet, they had crouched in the surrounding bushes, warily watching for Constable Crapo to appear. Tortured by mosquitoes, they finally crept back into the water, only to be alerted out again by the siren. Back and forth they went, until finally they realized the sound was the cry of a peacock still haunting the trees, one of the last refugees from the defunct restaurant. So they no longer trusted their ears.

"Everyone knows Cooper bailed out way far from here," Poncey told Mack. "Nobody believes he's buried in Frog Jump."

"Who cares? If it works for Oopsie, who cares?" Mack replied. He walked in a curious lope, his upper body hung like an awning over his knobby knees.

"I care. Facts are important. If he was goin' to make somethin' up, he should have figured out somethin' believable. People are so stupid."

"People are crazy," Mack said.

Heat radiated in the air, even off the grassland. Small clouds of gnats swarmed, twisting and swirling in the air, while cicadas droned in the distance. The pond came into view where the glade bordered the copse; the barn looked weathered but none the worse. Sweat was pouring off the two young men as they neared the dappling water. As their angle improved upon its surface, one spot of blue stood out with dazzling brilliance. Poncey pointed it out to Mack, and Mack pointed it out to Poncey, and drawing closer they saw the blue that was too bright to be water met with brown to rich to be dirt. Next to it appeared to be a pile of long, feathery grass dried stiff and pale.

"That's one of the peacocks!" Poncey exclaimed.

"Think it's dead?" Mack said.

"Could be. I used to chase those things around here, never could get close to one. If it lets us get near, it must be dead."

"Let's see."

The bird did not move a muscle as the two crept near, stalking like cats. Its neck arched gracefully backward, the head and elegant crown caught in motion, poised like a ballerina. Poncey and Mack's careful approach grew increasingly cavalier to match the peacock's apparent disinterest. Soon they stood over the unfortunate bird, staring in awed silence. Its upward eye was open and bright, the mouth hanging open, and the breeze lightly ruffled its feathers.

"That's one dead bird," Mack said at last, sorrowfully.

"Don't you know anything?" Poncey scoffed. "Look at its tongue. See it moving? Its panting. The thing's just overheated."

"Dang."

"Heat stroke or somethin'."

They hovered over the peacock silently for a moment more. Bronze glistened in the merciless sun.

"Let's get it out of here, Poncey," said Mack softly. "It's like a king, like a fallen warrior. Let's get it out of the heat, and it'll get better." He went to his knees beside the stricken icon, gazing with mournful compassion. The bird's crest lay at ease, a perfect, simple crown to all its finery. Unconscious memories flooded back to Mack, images from the first fairy tale he ever saw animated on a TV screen, the hero resplendent and regal, utterly enveloping his imagination. In his childish way, he had fashioned his own crown, and breastplate, out of paper grocery sacks, and nailed together two thin strips of wood to make a sword. The glory of gallant royalty had swallowed up his life. He pored over every book he found, history and fiction, but never did much reading – he focused on the illustrations, the exquisite portrayals of sovereign elegance. He wondered at two-dimensional pharaohs, bug-eyed Charlemagne, pale and expressionless Hapsburgs. Peter the Great thrilled him, mounted high on a rearing steed; Louis XVI seemed always ready to laugh at something; the kind eyes of Vlad III contradicted his menacing mustache. Mack even mined the pages of his mother's old gift Bible – filled with pastel visions of ancient Canaan, purely 1950s kitsch – finding in the Gospels a humble king, royalty veiled in mystery.

Perhaps no character engrossed him more than Eustache Dauger, the man in the iron mask. A brother, perhaps, of the sitting king, tragically hidden in horrible mechanical guise, shut away behind stone walls, denied not just the grand eminence to which his heart soared, but also mere esprit d'humanité. Mack could see into the prisoner's mind, as he stared through his mask and through his window, a man somehow outside of his own time and place, forced into an existence where he could never belong. The engraving in the book told Mack more than the printed words ever could, that the human condition testified to an unknown enemy and an unspeakable aspiration, that injustice could never win nor could it ever be defeated, and that he could offer Dauger only the shared, painful empathy of a trapped soul.

But at this moment his thoughts turned upon Solomon, watching a flotilla upon waters not unlike the pond, though much greater. Solomon himself waited upon the peacocks, part of his menagerie departing the ships of Tarshish, and in that painting Mack had seen the proud bird take the measure of his proud master. Here he saw its descendant, no less worthy of a place in royal courts, no less deserving of life and privilege. If this fowl could represent that venerable bird, then Mack could put on the image of Solomon, and take this suffering creature into his care. "Let's get this peacock outta here. I'll take it home."

"Well, throw it over your shoulder and go then," Poncey scoffed. "I came here for a swim."

"That'll hafta wait," Mack insisted. "You can't treat a peacock like a plucked turkey. We can make a stretcher for it with our towels. We'll hafta carry it out on a stretcher." He spoke in mellow tones, like a priest on a battlefield.

"I said, I'm goin' for a swim," Poncey replied, and to prove the point threw his towel over Mack's head and dived into the pond. He came up sputtering, shaking water off his head and baseball cap, which never budged an inch. Once he'd cleared his eyes he found Mack working with two long sticks, folding the towels around them and over each other, making his litter.

"Oh, good grief," Poncey thought, and began to wade out. "Look, you have to use one towel for the bottom, and fold both sides up over your poles. That's the only way to maintain tension with the top towel. Don't you know anything?"

"Careful," Mack said as they gingerly laid the peacock in place. "Rajah is suffering, he needs tender care."

"Rajah?"

"He is a king, I'm gonna call him Rajah," Mack said.

"Hail Rajah, king of birds!" Poncey mocked. "Hail, king of Skullbonia! Ruler of all bird brains!" But he did pick up his end of the stretcher. All the way back he wondered, "Why am I doin' this?"

Mack lived in the old section of town in a worn little house his mother had left when she died. Its age was already evident, and Mack's natural indifference toward upkeep had not served it well, inside or out. The paint was gray, the wood was gray, and the simple concrete stoop was gray. The windows were too thick with dirt to see through to the color of the interior. But Mack owned his home, and this would be Rajah's new kingdom.

"Here," Poncey groused as he let the stretcher drop. "I always thought someday I'd end up givin' you the bird, so here you go."

"Careful! Get him inside – he's still passed out."

"You're gonna take that thing inside your house?"

"It's cool in there. This heat'll kill 'im."

"That's stupid. Peacocks have to be outside. They can't sleep unless they're in trees." Poncey made that up on the spur of the moment, but he swore to find some real fact that would force Mack not to keep the huge fowl in his house.

"Nuh-uh."

"Fine, take it inside. Don't blame me if you get mites."

"It's just for tonight. Just till he gets better." Mack tenderly stroked his new friend, and compelled Poncey to help bring Rajah in. The elegant bird did get better, alert and drinking that evening from Mack's favorite bowl, and the next evening as well, and indefinitely after that. The sun continued its brutal scrutiny through the day, and the neighbors kept watch at night, their faces stern with disapproval and startled at each scream pealing from the grungy house.

"This place looks worse than ever," Poncey sniffed during a visit. "Is that bird poop over there?"

"Maybe," Mack said. "It's hard to keep up with it all."

"His majesty is doing better, it looks like. Isn't it about time you kicked him out?"

"I'm afraid he'll take off. 'Sides, it's still blazin' outside. I don't mind him bein' in here."

Rajah had adopted a position roosting upon the back of Mack's couch. He turned continually, exercising his long train and wings to keep balance, ably preventing any human from sitting there. His cocked eye sized up Poncey with expert acumen.

"What do you feed this canary?"

"He likes tater peelin's. He caught a mouse the other day – good as havin' a cat around."

"Yeah, a 15-pound, psychotic cat that flies. You can feed it a turd, too, if you want. It'll take it." Poncey had found his key fact.

"You're disgustin'."

"This poop-cock is disgustin'. I'm warnin' you, if you don't get rid of it, you're not gonna see me 'round here any more."

"Suit yourself," Mack said. Being alone was nothing new to him. Besides, he didn't believe the threat.

"I will," and Poncey held the door open for a moment, tempting Rajah with the great outdoors, before letting it slam behind him. But he wasn't about to cut loose from Mack; he had no other friend as close, and the opportunity to harass him about the bird was too ripe. Poncey researched as much information about peafowl as he could find, determined to beat Mack over the head with it.

"You know, you could be stuck with this thing here for 20 years," Poncey offered, leaning back in his chair. Rajah spread his wings and slowly turned around on his roost. "These things can live that long, you know."

"Naw, I didn't know that," Mack said, as Poncey had counted on. "He's so pretty. He's the most prettiest, yes he is." Mack knelt on the floor and leaned into the bird, his narrow nose looking like a mirror image of Rajah's beak.

"Please," Poncey groaned. "Its brain is the size of a grape, you know."

"Naw, I didn't know that," Mack repeated numbly. Rajah spread his train, filling the room with eyes and color, appearing like the Spirit of God. The bird let out a call, its species' familiar crescendo drawing all attention to itself, splitting the air like an arrow.

"Holy cattle!" Poncey clapped his hands over his ears. "How can you stand that?"

"You're beautiful, beautiful," Mack crooned. "What a beautiful tail."

"It's not a tail, doofus. That plume grows out of his back, and it's called a train. He's trying to attract a mate, so I wouldn't get too close if I were you," Poncey informed his friend.

Mack genuflected before the peacock, gazing upon its splendid image with single-minded wonder and longing. Rajah's garbage awaited him now in a cut glass bowl, slightly rotted and adding a vague pungency to the house. The white spots on the floor had increased, and loose feathers danced daintily along the baseboards, lifted upon breezes too slight to feel. The peacock's radiant beauty reflected in Mack's eyes, and he believed he had finally found what made life worth living. He felt that he could see into the bird's spirit.

Poncey picked a downy feather off his stubbly mustache. "Ugh! This stupid thing is molting all over me!"

"He's not stupid – that's just a bird's nature," Mack said. "It's what birds do."

Poncey began to hate the bird. Somewhere inside its empty head, he was sure, Rajah designed to take over Mack's will. He thought maybe Mack had finally met his intellectual soul mate. Poncey did not understand Mack's attachment to such a silly pursuit, with nothing of practical value; he knew everything there was to know about peacocks, and one of those things was they weren't all that great. As he mulled through his thoughts, he could feel his teeth grinding, and told himself he had to save Mack. If he could get him separated from that stupid bird, Mack would come to his right mind and be his old friend again.

"Oh, man, it smells worse than a pigsty in here," he exclaimed.

"Really? I don't smell nothin'," Mack replied. Rajah had taken to roosting upon whichever piece of furniture Mack settled into, flapping and turning, forcing Mack to relocate, where the routine repeated. Sometimes Mack just leaned against a wall. The bird's spurs had left long scratches on his neck and cheeks, and the upholstery looked a little shredded as well. Rajah flicked his head toward Poncey and screamed mightily. Poncey could feel the beast trying to impose its desire upon him; he could see Rajah's plans to make of him a dim-witted subject, just as he had done with Mack.

"Yeah, this is one of those flyin' pigs people are always talkin' about. All those impossible things are happening now, because this pig flies."

"Rajah ain't no pig, he's beautiful," Mack stepped away from his wall until the bird snapped its head in his direction, then he meekly edged back.

"He's your lord and master. The thing controls you."

"Nuh-uh. That would be stupid," Mack protested.

"Yeah, well, you've been known to do some stupid things. How many folks do you know who try to OD on estrogen?"

"Well – that was my mistake," he said quietly.

"Your mistake, sure," Poncey mocked. "You'd do it again, if you thought this bird wanted you to. No telling what you think this pin cushion tells you."

"Oh, shut up. It don't tell me anything." Poncey's onslaught left Mack clearly embarrassed.

"Look, I know more than you about it, and somethin' bad is bound to happen if you don't get rid of this thing."

"Nothing bad's gonna happen," Mack sounded like he was wavering. "Is it?"

As though it understood, Rajah rose up on his wings and flew at Mack, attempting to come to rest upon his shoulder. Feathers swirled high into the air, and the peacock knocked lamps and picture frames to the ground. Mack ducked in surprise, and took one of the spurs dangerously close to an eye. Rajah veered off toward the couch, as Mack went to the floor – he touched gingerly at the blood trickling down his face, kneeling in broken glass.

"See? I warned you," Poncey said. "Worse than that's gonna happen, too – that bird's just not right in the head."

"Oh, that's just a peacock's nature," mumbled Mack as he shuffled toward the bathroom. "It's just what peacocks do."

Mack's attitude even after this incident was so idiotic that Poncey could not stand to witness it any longer. "You are a danger to yourself and others. If you don't do somethin' about that menace, somebody else will."

Sure enough, in a couple days Constable Crapo came visiting to Mack's house. The stifling humidity and drought had kept him in a foul mood for weeks, in no humor for foolishness. He pulled his floppy police hat from his head and stared at the sun, lonely in its cloudless sky, as he pounded on the door with his fist and bellowed, "MacL'noly! Open up! Po-leece!" He almost never got to do such a thing. A scraped and bedraggled Mack appeared and asked what he wanted.

"Got a report here 'bout you got some kinda giant bird or buzzard or sump'm in dere? Got a order to take a look 'round your prop'ty and 'valuate de sitch'ation."

Crapo got as far as the doorframe when he saw the mess inside – the feathers, guano, vegetable remains lying about, furniture tattered and askew – and Rajah presiding over it all. "You got a sitch'ation here." The bird hopped sideways along the couch like a crazed parrot. "Dey tol' me it was some kinda over-growed chicken. Dis here's a sitch'ation. You steal dis here bird, son?"

"Uh, no."

"You got a license or an'thang? You got a receipt?"

"No?" Mack was more puzzled than intimidated, but intimidated nonetheless.

"Look, MacL'noly, dis ain't a good sitch'ation. We gettin' complaints 'bout dis big bird you got here, 'bout de noise, an' de healt' hazard. An' dis here's a hazard you got goin'."

"What?"

"We can't have folks livin' like dis here. Bad for de whole commun'ty. You givin' Skullbone a bad name wid dis house, livin' like dis here. You gonna get sick from dis here an' cause a ep'demic 'round here. Don't you unnerstan' dat?"

"I guess."

"You got two choices – either I take dis t'ing offa you right now, or you get a cage or sump'm to keep it in. What's it gonna be?"

"What would you do with him?" Mack's voice trembled.

"Well, we ain't got facil'ties for a bird dis size down at de jail. We'd prob'ly just hafta do him in."

"Do him in?" Mack gulped.

"Yep. Birdshot, prob'ly."

"I won't let you." Mack's eyes dilated, and his voice trembled even more. "This is my house and my Rajah. I saved him."

"Well, den, my advice to you is run down to de junkyahd and find yo'self sump'm ta cage him in wid. We can't have folks livin' wid livestock in deir houses. Dis here's a bad sitch'ation. Gotta take care of dis here right now."

"Okay, I'll do that," Mack said non-committally.

"I be checkin' back on you, MacL'noly," Crapo eyed him sternly. "I gonna get dat bird outta here someway. We gonna take care of dis sitch'ation right now."

Mack decided he'd best take this threat seriously, so, after making a final offering of breakfast oats and mealy apples, he set off on foot to Zeke Breather General Store and Junkyard. He took the threat so seriously, in fact, that he imagined Crapo breaking into his house while he was gone and blasting away at Rajah with a shotgun. So he took the peacock with him, a tether secured around one leg, wrestling to keep the mighty bird on his arm all the way. By the time he got to the junkyard, he felt like he'd been in a boxing match against a set of knives inside an oven while marching on Moscow. He set Rajah down on the tailgate of Zeke's pickup and tightly tied the tether to its bumper.

Watching carefully was Boneapart, Zeke's disinterested dog, sitting benignly in the front of the truck bed. Boneapart was part yellow mutt and part pony, from the looks of him. Today he had goggles strapped over his eyes, panting and reviewing his domain with utmost dignity. He gave Rajah a careless look and cast his attention elsewhere. Mack yelled across to Zeke – leaning his chair backwards against the front of his store, fanning himself lazily with his hat – that he was going into the junkyard.

Mack wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he headed toward the section where he knew Zeke kept boards and metal scraps. He was sure he could find some lumber, and he hoped some hurricane fencing or chicken wire might be lying around too. Underneath an old Sinclair sign he found a roll of wire, which he carried back to the gate, and he was just picking up a few stray two-by-fours when he heard a horrid screech and Zeke yelling at the top of his lungs. Mack's arms dropped their load, and his wiry legs made a break for the truck.

The first thing he saw was Boneapart, sitting without a care in the world. His red, ugly maw was dotted by a mockery of glinting blue and bronze feathers. Zeke stood at his truck's tailgate, holding Rajah's tether with one hand at just about shoulder height, staring downward. Finally Mack's eyes fell upon his fears, focusing upon the same point as Zeke's gaze, Rajah dangling by one foot just above the ground. Zeke's other hand rested upon his hip, and he slowly shook his head.

Mack let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a squeal, and collapsed to his knees at the mangled peacock. Zeke lowered the bird to the ground delicately, and Rajah's head came to rest at a grotesque angle over his back. Mack gathered the fallen demigod into his arms, cradling the broken body in a protective caress, rocking slightly with quiet whimpers of grief. Zeke lay a hand on his back, and Boneapart panted. Not a single defined thought went through Mack's head, such was his heartbreak, and all he could speak was mourning. His world had come to a halt: The one thing that had inhabited his home and life since his mother, was also taken from him. The beauty had passed.

"I'm sure sorry, Mack," Zeke began. "It just happened so fast. I was watchin' the bird from over in my chair, an' then somethin' just happened. It stretched out its wings, an' Boneapart lunged at it, just lunged at its throat. Then he walked back an' sat down. That was it – it was all over 'fore I even knew it."

Mack rocked and sobbed, his face buried in a mess of bloodied feathers.

"I'm sorry, Mack. Boneapart's not a bad dog. but he is a dog. An' that's just a dog's nature."

Mack heaved in spasms, but managed to draw to his feet. He gingerly cupped Rajah's head in his hand, holding the bird like a partner in a tango. The long plumes hung at painful angles, catching upon the ground and the truck, testifying to the utter death of the languid victim. A hole opened up within Mack's chest, surging with violated accusation and self pity. He had trouble lifting his head as his heart swung from sorrow to resignation and back. He stared emptily at his expired love, his eyes as dull as the bird's. Zeke felt so bad, he let Mack use his truck to take Rajah and a few boards back home.

"Well, what will you do now?" Poncey asked.

"Gonna bury 'im," Mack said, slumped against a tree and gazing at Rajah, still in the truck bed, from a distance. "Then I got nothin' to do."

"Where you gonna plant him?"

"Out back, I guess. It don't matter. Nothin' matters."

Poncey could not take his eyes off his friend. "I'll help you dig."

"Sure. You take the truck back to Zeke, okay? He wants it back quick."

"Okay. But first I'll help you dig."

The two struggled against the hard ground with ragged shovels until they had a hole deep enough to accommodate Rajah. Mack secured him inside a plastic garbage bag, after taking a few feathers from his train. They covered him up, and Mack nailed the boards together to fashion a crude marker. He pounded it into the grave, decorated with the feathers, as Poncey excused himself to go to the bathroom. Rummaging through the medicine cabinet, occasionally glancing at his friend through the window, Poncey didn't find any pills he thought looked dangerous. As he left the house, he saw Mack painting something on the boards, too busy to notice the dark cloud blowing in. "I'll be right back," Poncey yelled, jumping into the truck and taking off in a hurry for the General Store and Junkyard. "Don't do anything."

On his way the bottom dropped out. Poncey bore down anyway, and churned along the road through the downpour. He knew the way well. Then suddenly he saw the dark spot ahead, and realized it was a car, a car he'd never seen before. Poncey wrenched his steering wheel, his tires spitting gravel angrily, and the other vehicle spat back as it careened away; all he could hear was his own cursing. He checked his mirror warily, seeing only a shadowy figure climbing onto the road, flailing at the rain. Off he sped for Zeke Breather's, leaving the wreckage in his past.

Poncey sat in the general store, waiting for the cloudburst to subside, talking with Zeke but not really listening. He was thinking about his accident, the trouble he had caused that other driver who would never figure out it was him. All that man would ever know about it was the name on the back of the truck, "Zeke Breather," and if he ever came by the general store he'd recognize that name. That enraged, muddied driver would let Zeke have it then, never knowing he was completely wrong, and Zeke would have no idea what the guy was yammering about. The very thought of it almost made Poncey burst out laughing. Zeke stopped talking and gave him a puzzled look.

"Somethin' funny?"

Poncey shook his head and drew his hand over his grin.

Once the rain had stopped, Poncey cut off Zeke's story about how the distributor from Jackson had tried to give him crushed boxes of saltines and sprinted back to Mack's house. It was a pretty far piece, so Poncey had slowed to a walk by the time he arrived. He found Mack soaked to the skin, still squatting at the mound of fresh earth, staring at the grave marker. Whatever he had painted there had been washed clean away.

Poncey gazed at his friend for a moment, thinking him a pitiable sight but still glad to find he'd come to no harm. His mood now was too good to join in mourning for a bird he'd hated anyway. He put a hand on Mack's shoulder. "Come on. Let's go down to the Diner – I'll buy you a cup. It'll warm you." The late rain still steamed from Mack's asphalt driveway.

Poncey and Mack settled into their counter stools, and Mavis served up the coffee and pie. Mack's hangdog expression hadn't changed since Poncey first saw him against the tree, and he sat mumbling, still dripping wet.

"He wasn't a bad peacock. Sure, he caused some trouble, but he wasn't bad. He didn't deserve this. Rajah was just doin' what a peacock does. Now he's dead."

Poncey still couldn't stop chuckling about his near-miss on the road, and about Zeke, and the poor sap standing in the rain next to his car stuck in the ditch, and what a laugh Poncey might get out of it one day. He shared a delicious secret with the one person capable of appreciating it – himself. Even sitting next to his stunned friend, he could not help a kind of elation at what he'd gotten away with. He had left a trail of destruction that still had to play out in its entirety, and nobody could pin anything on him. Life was good.

"Never mind all that," he told Mack in gregarious humor. "At least you've always got pie, right?"

**Madness Is In Their Hearts**

The long night stretched out dark fingers, a voracious spectre taking hold of the struggling daylight. A distant train whistled its triune call through the blackness. The days had dwindled to their shortest span, and glistening frost in the mornings did little to gladden the gray. The crisp fragrance of chill air sharpened all the townsfolk's senses. Poncey sighed, and he could see his breath in his apartment.

Poncey glared at the ceiling. He had little reason to crawl out from under his covers. No job called him, and no prospects encouraged him to care. So he vented his silent rage upon the ceiling. He recalled a time as a small boy when he lay on his back in his bed, admiring a toy ring upon his finger, a trinket he'd won at the state fair. Then the ceiling had interrupted his bliss by dropping a piece of grit into his eye, as if giving notice that he should never expect to be happy. Poncey looked away.

The new day stared at him like a blank piece of paper. At that moment Poncey knew where he was; once he stepped out of bed, he wouldn't know. A broad day promising only distracted ambitions mocked him already. He lurched to his side and yanked the covers up over his shoulder. He hated lying there awake, but he hated more the idea of getting up with nowhere to go and nothing to do. Nobody cared if he slept or awoke; nobody required or even desired his time and presence. He listened to the clock in the living room mark the quarter hour with its cheap electronic chime. This day offered no more direction for him than a map of the ocean floor.

Mavis knew where she'd be that day, Poncey thought, toiling away at the Diner as usual. Ol' man Ryan and Snodgrass, and Jip the barber, busied themselves in their stores as well, as did an army of people with jobs at all the little businesses lining Main Street. Poncey knew too where his father was, at the rail yards, as he had been every day since he was sixteen. Each morning at five he arrived there for a full days' work, sometimes even when he was supposed to be off. By this time, almost half his day was done already. But he'd probably stay late – listening to the musical clank of the couplings, watching the rails bend under the weight of the behemoth locomotives then rising again as if nothing had happened – hanging out with both workers and loiterers in the yard set aside for discarded box cars. His love for the railroad would keep him happily engaged till the day's cold dusk crept into his bones. Poncey even knew where Mack would be, tucked somewhere inside a hidden sanctuary, a refuge never even noticed by most everyone else. Poncey longed for work, or inspiration, or something that would end his wandering, and he lay in a bed of bitter frustration at the injustice of his forced leisure.

At length he could no longer deny the day, and angrily swung his feet over the edge of the grimy mattress. Both landed squarely on Judas' tail, faithfully lounging on the floor, and the dog's piercing squeal shocked Poncey's attention into surprising clarity. Judas whipped around and snapped at his ankles, and in a panic wet the floor – it seemed like the thing to do – even as Poncey rolled clumsily back and to the side, then finally off the bed altogether. Judas skittered away from his tumbling hulk, and Poncey lay like a beached whale next to the puddle. Judas whined, scratching at the front door with a pensive look. Poncey thought if he didn't do something quick to lance this futile infection, he would bust.

He thrust open the door of his apartment building, and Judas dragged him out by the leash. Poncey stumbled down the steps and nearly tripped over a pair of legs splayed across the walk, toes pointed skyward. The ragged trousers barely clung to the man's waistline, a rotund belly rising proudly between his belt and stained shirt. A threadbare jacket gathered under his arms, and a wrinkled tie finished off the ensemble, leading Poncey's eyes to the bedraggled face of Otis Bender, the town's most consistent drinker, lying halfway beneath the hedge. His nose bore a tinge of frost. Somewhat cradled in one arm was his jar, just a swallow of clear liquid still rolling slightly in its gentle curve, rocked by each torpid breath. Otis was never seen without his jar, usually more empty than not. A yeasty alcohol smell had Judas dancing away, whimpering at his restraint, and Poncey's brain felt like it had been hit by a rum muffin. He gazed upon the rumpled man, nestled comfortably on the scrabbly grass, serene upon the brick he used as a pillow.

Even Otis has a place to go, Poncey thought. He's got an early start at his job, too, he thought, and wondered if Otis had lain down in the shrubbery at the same time his father had gone to the rail yards, as though they were changing shifts. Poncey wondered where Otis got the money for his 'shine, and where he got the 'shine in the first place. Supply always meets demand, even in a dry county, he thought; there needs to be some demand for me. Poncey's disgust arose in his throat – I need something so bad it's killing me, I've got to have something – and he thought about giving Bender a swift kick just for spite. A siren wailed urgently from the direction of the highway.

I hate this town, Poncey thought, and he was sure nobody had ever hated his own town more than he hated Skullbone. He dragged Judas past every tree and hydrant as he bulled his way down Main Street. A fierce focus burned from his eyes, as if hoping to find something in front of him despite looking at nothing. An image of one of his father's beloved steam locomotives, glowing red with heat, entered his head and worked its way down into his legs and tenacious stride. He almost didn't hear the voice from the heavens.

"What's buggin' you?"

Poncey stopped like he'd walked into a wall and blankly stared ahead. His mouth hung open for a moment as he wondered how foolish he might look if he asked the voice something.

"Just what's buggin' you down there, Poncey?"

"Who's that?" he ventured. The familiar tones sounded too country-fried for evil, but the TV evangelists always talked about Satan's deceitful ways, and that made Poncey nervous. That's all he needed today, a demonic trick. It crossed his mind that he might be going crazy. But seeing Judas gratefully sniff around the weeds at the foot of a stop sign comforted him with its reality. Perhaps he was about to receive an intervention. Poncey shaded his eyes against the sun and scanned the sky for the voice's source. He could not deny his disappointment when he spotted a faded pair of red sneakers peaking over the edge of the nearest building, an abandoned general store.

Nando Jones was a Jewish merchant who had built a little retail empire over the decades with the cheapest junk he could find. Originally Chaim Liebovitz, in the days of Jim Crow he catered to the black community in Memphis because nobody else would, and chose a professional name his customers could pronounce and remember. Nando's business plan bore no real fondness for his patrons, but allowed that their cash was the same color as anyone's. He learned that community's unique desires and needs, and made a small fortune providing for them. Nando Jones Sundries grew so successful that the old man built stores in select small towns all around West Tennessee. Though his inventory was the worst money could buy, he wanted his stores to project class, so they all featured a garish Victorian-style sign propped upon the roof, adorned with pronounced cornices and gracefully curving flourishes. Unfortunately, in Skullbone the store had floundered, and by now the building had stood vacant for decades, too large for any other business to fill. The sign still proudly declared the original owner, and within one of the decorations – lilting like a huge wood shaving – the stringy body of Mack MacLenoly lay wedged, like a supine gargoyle. He had claimed squatter's rights to the building as one of his bizarre hideaways.

"What're you doin' up there?"

"Watchin' you. You're draggin' Judas aroun' like he's one a' them stuffed dogs."

"I wish he was stuffed."

"Well, better to pull aroun' a dead dog than gettin' chased by a lion, I guess. What's eatin' at you?"

"Come go to the Diner with me."

Mack slid down a gutter spout. Together they sauntered the last few blocks to the Diner as Poncey vented his frustration. After twisting Judas' leash around an expired parking meter, Poncey struggled with the Diner's door for a moment before getting it open, and scowled at the merry jingling as the bell announced them.

"Sorry, sweetie. Been meanin' to get that latch fixed," Mavis Davis said from behind the counter.

"Only in Skullbone would you find a doorknob like that," Poncey snarled, mounting his stool.

"What's buggin' you, sugarpie?"

"He's ticked," Mack offered.

"I didn't even tell you about Otis yet," Poncey groused. "I nearly broke a leg tripping over him this morning. Took his beauty rest in my front yard last night."

"Asleep with his jar?"

"That's right. Cuddlin' with it like a wife."

"It's like he's married to drinkin'," said Mack. "It's like that's his job."

"That's just what I said," Poncey grunted. "It's the thing that keeps him goin', an' it'll keep him goin', right up until it lays him in his grave. Otis knows exactly what he's about every day and every night."

"But not 'zactly where he'll be sleepin'."

"A bed's a bed, even if it's a flower bed," winked Mavis through a haze of cigarette smoke, and poured coffee.

Poncey gruffly returned to the subject at hand: "How come Otis wastes his life an' comes out so fat an' happy? Where's he get off bein' so content? He pours out his whole life into that jar of his, an' he's not sorry about it one bit. He's happy with just havin' nothin', an' I can't catch a break no matter how hard I try."

"How hard you been tryin'?"

"Shut up. You got no room to talk, squirreled away on rooftops all day long! I got important stuff to do, an' if I don't get to soon, I'm gonna snap!"

"I got great things to do, too, honeypot. I serve up the best pie in the territory!" Mavis chimed in with an enticing smile.

"Yeah, right!" Poncey made a point of not asking for any. "An' what do you get paid for it? A couple bucks? I'm serious – I got great things in me, an' I'm gonna be paid for it, an' paid well. If nobody else gets it, if they're too stupid to see, then it's their tough luck. If they're not payin', they're getting' nothin' good from me!"

"So it ain't worth doin' if you ain't paid a lot?" Mavis planted a fist on her hip.

"Damn straight."

"Otis don't get paid. He just does his thing for the love of it," Mack noted.

"That's right. It's offensive, to me an' to everyone. An' if I can't do what I want an' get appreciated, then I feel like I'm gonna hafta do some offending around here!"

"Might hafta do that for free, like Otis," Mack said.

"If you wanna get paid so bad, whyn't you get a job at the rail yard, sweet pea?" Mavis turned back to her own work. "Bet your dad could fix you up."

"Oh, no!" Poncey laughed in ridicule. "That may be good enough for him, but not me! Pap may be happy stuck in that daily grind, but it's not for me! I need more than pushing around a giant toy train to attain my potential."

"Well, you seem to have it all figured out 'cept for what's buggin' you an' how to fix it an' what to do after that," Mavis blew a hard stream of smoke.

"I'll figure it out, don't you worry."

"You be sure to tell me, baby cakes."

"I'll do that."

"Ain't you gonna buy anything?"

"I'll have eggs an' toast," Mack said.

"Comin' right up, honeychile. I sure 'preciate you buyin' my toast. I'll hafta charge you extra, 'cause it's the best toast in the land."

Mack snickered at that, and Poncey turned his back to the prattling. Mavis continued.

"Yessir, folks come from miles aroun' to get my toast. An' it's no wonder, what with all the skill that goes into makin' it. Best toast anywhere. Funny thing 'bout folks, sugar, is some of 'em like their toast light, an' others like it dark, an' some even likes it medium. It takes a worl' a' skill to get toast jus' right. An' then butter – whooee! No tellin' what kinda butter an' stuff folks like on their toast. Jelly an' jam an marmalade – we ain't got marmalade! Some of 'em even take it plain! Plain an' dry as dust. Why is that, Mack? What is it 'bout folks make 'em all like their toast differ'nt?"

"I don't know nothin' 'bout that. If you wanna know, you just wait for Poncey, he'll tell you 'ventually."

"What do you mean by that?" Poncey wheeled around to face Mack.

"You're always goin' off gettin' learned up 'bout stuff nobody with a sane thought would ever care 'bout."

"Oh, you're funny. You callin' me insane?"

"Folks're bound to do what they'll do, sane or not. Maybe ever'body got a li'l' madness in their hearts, all of 'em. You, me, Otis. You been talkin' 'bout blowin' up ever since this mornin'."

"Wow, you're a real poet, a philosopher. You don't know anything 'bout it – an' your yappin's 'bout to set me off."

"Well, don't you blow up in here," Mavis said. "Place is mess enough as it is."

"Oh, you're a riot too. A couple comedians."

Other customers toyed lazily with their cold breakfasts and stared at Poncey, and Mavis' mood changed. "Ain't you gonna order anything?"

"I'll have water," Poncey sneered. "And a napkin."

"Water don't cut it, hon, long as you're takin' up space on my stool. Or is that your vengeance on the world? 'Cause if it is, I'm not sure the world noticed."

Poncey knew for sure now that Mavis was mocking him. He thought so before, but now he was sure. "You think I'm all talk, don't you? You think the best I can do is cheat you out of a glass of water? Well, I'll show you!" He spun out of his seat and strode to the door. Mack called after him, "C'mon, don't go 'way mad!" "You just watch, I'll show you," Poncey barked, and wrestled again with the knob. The spastic bell provided a soundtrack to his struggles. The Diner burst into laughter, and he considered kicking the glass out of the door. Finally the latch gave way, and he spilled outside, Mack's plaintive voice echoing after him, "C'mon Poncey!"

Judas had gotten his rope so tangled, he looked like he'd tried to hang himself upon the bent parking meter. Poncey cursed as he tried to untie the whimpering dog, who in turn pulled nervously at the leash to make the job harder. Mavis and Mack, all of them, Poncey thought, they all took him for a fool. Well, he'd show them. He'd have the last laugh, and whatever he decided to do would shock them, and disgust them all, and they'd never stop talking about it. He just had to think of what it would be. Just had to think, to think, and get this damn dog untied. Poncey broke into yanking on the leash uncontrollably until it snapped in two, and Judas headed for the hills. Poncey stood there watching dumbfounded until the dog disappeared around a corner, dragging half a rope, then gave chase. A motorcycle engine blared somewhere well beyond the buildings of downtown Skullbone but still echoing off their façades.

Poncey rounded the building and stood scanning the gravel streets laid before him. The sun had taken the frozen crunch out of the dormant grass growing within the broken pavement. Poncey hung his hands upon his waist and strained his senses for any clue to Judas' trail. A bark might have come from the area of Finger Alley, he thought, and he made a beeline toward the mostly forgotten passage splitting the line of old brick structures. "Judas!" he screamed as he ran into the dark, narrow lane, splashing through potholes that never dried out, until he felt his feet not keeping up with his body. The cobble stones caught him harshly, giving no quarter to his chest and elbows as he crashed. Moaning, he rolled over and looked back where he'd come from; he saw a ragged pair of trouser legs leading to shoes resting upon their heels, toes pointing skyward.

"I know who you ah. You dat Poncey Muldoon – ol' Ransom Muldoon's boy." It was Otis Bender, lying half-in and half-out of a hidden doorway. With him was his jar.

"You! This is the second time I've run into you today!" Poncey growled, rubbing his wounded knees.

"Dere'll be a third time, too, boy. Always come in threes."

"You need to watch out, stop leavin' your legs lyin' around everywhere. My dog come through here?"

"No."

Poncey waited for more, but after an awkward moment, clearly there was no more to say. He gingerly rose to his feet to go after Judas again.

"I known yo' pappy for long time."

"Well, that's good. Don't think he ever mentioned you." He craned his neck, wondering which direction might be best.

"Yep, known him well. He put me here."

Poncey looked back at Otis. "In the alley?"

"Dis jar my home. All I got in de worl'. Only frien' fo years an' years now." He'd clearly been communing with his friend all day.

Poncey decided that finding Judas was a lost cause, but he was still only too happy to use the mutt as an excuse to break away from this conversation.

"You sure you didn't see my dog?"

"Din't say I din't see 'im. See ever'thing. Dat fat woman inside de smoke, seen her. Seen dat boy settin' like a bird in de sky."

All this sounded to Poncey like no more than a crazy man babbling. He thought Otis could say anything in his condition and sound like he believed it. "If you saw my dog, tell me which way he went."

"You don't care 'bout no dog. Runnin' away all de time – dog ain't no good frien' like dis here jar. Dog home by now, anyhow. I know yo' home."

"Yeah, I know, I saw you there this mornin'."

"Know how to get there. I can get to yo' door ennytime I want. Under yo winda."

Otis began to make Poncey's skin crawl, and he wondered how many nights the drunk had spent lolling outside his apartment building. He shuddered a bit and edged away.

"Look, I've gotta go. I've got somethin' to do."

"Yo' sho' do, boy. Got sump'm impo'tant on yo' mind."

"How do you know?" Poncey felt a weird cloak drawing over him, binding his arms, but he couldn't seem to tear away.

"Hoodoo man, boy," Otis never looked at him. "Don't you know? Yo mama come from N'Ahlins – she know all 'bout conjure. Hoodoo man from way back."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"Hoodoo strong, boy. Hoodoo tell you what you wanna know. Hoodoo p'tect yo' health, make you rich. Healthy, wealthy an' wise. All you needs is de words, an' sump'm special." He threw Poncey a glazed-over wink, never really looking, only addressing him in a sideways manner.

"It got you where you are today?" Poncey was skeptical.

"Yessir! Hoodoo done p'tected ol' Otis all his life. Hoodoo an' Rance Muldoon – ol' skinny-ass Rance Muldoon. Knowed him down at de yahds. One day he tryin' to close a boxcar latch, an' it stuck. He doin' chin-ups on dat latch, tryin' to get it down. Hoo-hee! Evah-body laughin' at dat! Too skinny to even move dat latch. He still at de yahds, an' here I sit." Poncey tried to read Otis' face, but could not pull back the mask of shadows and drink. "Ol' hoodoo take care a' me! You lucky you made it all dis time widout de hoodoo. It go all de way back – ol' witch of Endor, she know hoodoo. Ol' Balaam, he know – he know de rootwork. God hisself de greatest hoodoo man of all! Ever'thing His hoodoo, an' ever'thing dat happen fit inside His hoodoo. He give it to Moses, an' Moses write it down. You know Moses' five Bible books, but I bet you don' know books six an' seb'm! Hoodoo books, straight from Moses hisself! Even ol' Nando Jones know 'bout dem! Use ta carry 'em in his sto', right here in Skullbone. Even Skullbone a hoodoo name – pow'ful hoodoo name."

The throaty bay of a coonhound rang from over the horizon. Otis' eyes were cloudy, the whites not much lighter than the deep brown irises. Poncey still massaged his injured elbows, and thought maybe he should have read his Bible more closely. He didn't know anything about what Otis spoke of, and he didn't have time now to study up. "How's it work?" he asked.

"All kindsa ways hoodoo work," Otis rubbed his gnarled fingers together. "You kin make you up some charms, or a doll, an' set it under a plant – rootwork. Den you start dreamin' lucky, or dreamin' de truth. Ennything you wanna know, you kin fine it out wit yo' rootwork. 'Cept 'nless someone move it. Work best wit numba's, lucky numba's for you. Or you kin draw what'choo want – if kin you draw – draw out what'choo want an' hide it away somewheres by moonlight. You gotta say de charm, dough, say de charm over de right herbs, or it ain't gonna come to nuttin'."

Poncey fell into rapt listening, even as his educated mind fought to argue.

"Bes' way is ta git sump'm special, sump'm purs'nal from a individule. Could be a piece a' clothin', or some hair, but best of all is sump'm liquid. Sump'm from the body itself – like maybe blood. You want sump'm, ol' Otis can git it, but you gotta give up sump'm."

Poncey kind of grunted at this, and Otis continued.

"You got sump'm to make water in? That's the bes' an' most easiest way to go. I ain't got nuttin' here but my jar, an' can't have you pissin' in her. Jar's my bes' frien'. But if'n you got sump'm to hold water, dat's a good way. You make yo'self a honey jar spell. You got sump'm?"

Poncey searched himself in a useless way to indicate he didn't.

"Well, dat's okay, we don' hafta have it. But dat would be bes'. We kin fine sump'm on you dat'll work jus' fine. One time I use a single hair from a feller, girl brought it in from his comb, an' afore you know it they's married. 'Nudder time, nuttin' but a paper towel a man dries 'is hands wid'. Brotha wan'ed de juju put on 'im, take away 'is job, an' picks de paper towel outen de garbage. Sho' 'nuff, he gone from dat job in a week. Hoodoo, you don' mess 'round wid it."

Poncey remembered his frustration and desire to ignite upheaval, some kind of conflict that would bestow to the town a taste of his indignation. His opportunity had arrived, he thought, a means to find the perfect outrage had been delivered to him right there in Finger Alley. He squatted into Otis' eye level, and played tentatively with some of the debris on the pavement. Something in the back of his mind begged to walk away, but a red flicker danced from his chest into his throat and spoke for him, "What about me?"

Otis started a kind of chant in a sing-songy voice, "Son, you don't hafta live so rough, I'm gonna fix you up a mojo, oh Lord, so you can strut yo' stuff. Tell you ennything you wanna know, ennything that makes you go."

"What I gotta do?"

"Fust you gots ta show me Mr. Lincoln. Fie-dollah bill gits you started."

Poncey dug out his thin wallet and found a crumpled bill. He held it toward Otis, who pushed both palms out before him and said, "Nossuh! Don' be foldin' dat bill back to yo'self! Dat bill comin' my way. Fold it out tow'ahd me. Da's right. Da's de way." Distant, acrid smoke, harsh and choking, wafted into the alley from an unknown source suffering its final throes.

Confused, Poncey looked at the bill and held it back out with the ends pointed toward Otis. The old man's face brightened as he took the money, muttering under his breath, "Well, looky here, jar." He inspected it back and front, then folded it carefully toward himself and tucked it deep within his shoe.

"What's you wanna know? How to win yo' wife? Dream up some lott'ry numbas?"

"I want to do somethin'. There's somethin' inside me I've gotta do, or it'll bust me wide open. I've just got to know what I've gotta do."

"You at odds wid de worl', boy."

"That's it. The world isn't the place I want it to be."

"You gotta bend de worl' to yo' will. You gotta use de conjure to bend de worl', but you gotta go t'rough de pow'rs. Hoodoo will bend nature to yo' will. It'll bend de angels and God Hisself to work things yo' way. You gotta get you a mojo."

"I want it. I've gotta find out what I can do against the world."

"Gotta give me sump'm purs'nal fust, son. I gotta have sump'm from you to charm up a mojo fer you."

Poncey tried to think of something he had on him that he was willing to give up. None of his clothing could be considered expendable. His pants pockets came up empty. His hands explored deep within his jacket pockets and found an old matchbook, a wrinkled receipt and a Buddy Poppy – nothing particularly personal. Then he discovered a small, hard disk, and produced a button with some tortured thread dangling from its holes. He recognized it as coming from one of his jacket cuffs, never missed after long years out of service. "This do?"

"Dat's fine, jus' fine. Jus' what we need ta c'nect you an' de pow'rs. To bend de angels, we gotta go to de source," and Otis pulled out a pocket New Testament. "Dis got de Psalms in 'er, jus' what we needs to bend de angels yo' way." He opened the little book, and, using a stub of pencil tucked inside his shapeless fedora, wrote something that Poncey couldn't make out on the page. The alley's shadows had closed in on them, but Otis' face seemed to emit an eerie glow. He began to sing again, "You sprinkled hot foot powda', hmmm hmmm, all aroun' my do'h... hmmm hmmm... dere's a hellhoun' on my trail, hellhoun' on my trail..." Poncey felt a creeping sensation along his spine, and tried to blink his eyes clear. The odor of that morning came back to him, but somehow twisted and swirled into something more pungent, and sickening sweet.

Bender stood and turned to face the west, where the sun sank behind the trees and the rail yards lay beyond town, and read, " 'He shall give 'is angels charge concernin' thee, an' in dere han's dey shall bear thee up, les' at any time thou dash thy foot agains' a stone.' Ol' hot foot powda, do thy biddin'! Dash thy foots! Do thy work, hot foot powda! Seek out Ransom Muldoon an' do thy work! Dash 'is foots 'gains' de worl'!"

Bender turned to Poncey and finally made eye contact. "Ha ha! You curse yo' own pappy! Fine'ly I get my revenge, an' curse dat ol' man t'rough his own son! Haaa!"

Poncey stood there, stunned and silent, and he could feel his eyes gaping. "What are you talkin' about?" he croaked.

"Ever since he got me fired, I been wantin' my revenge. Years an' years a waitin', an' fine'ly hoodoo has its way! Dat's fer gettin' me fired! Dat's fer snoopin' 'roun' an' findin' me drunk! He got no 'count to repawt me to de boss! Evah-body drinkin'! 'Why you doin' me this-a way,' I says, an' he say 'Git yo ass outa dese yahds,' he says. I don't fo'get! All dese years I don't fo'get! Now I get you back, Rance Muldoon! Dat's fer stickin' yo' nose where she don' b'long! Hot foot powda burn, burn!

"Oh, you smah't boy, you an' yo' starin' at me! I sprinkle de hot foot powda all ovah yo' po'ch dis mawnin'. How come you t'ink you ta come 'roun' to dis alley? Hot foot powda do it! Now I cast its mojo on ol' Ransom! Bad mojo gonna fall on 'im, bad mojo! De angels bend 'gains' 'im, all de worl' bend 'gains' 'im now! 'Cause a you, boy, 'cause a you an' yo' desires! Hoodoo do it, hoodoo do it! Hee hee!" The old man danced a wobbly jig, gleeful even in its lunacy.

"You!" Poncey's shock gave way to rage. A righteous outrage exploded within him, against himself, the incredible foolishness of being caught up in such a charade, and against Bender. "You old fool! You stupid old goat! You're nothin' but a lyin' old idiot! You're a thief and a crook and a liar!" he screamed at the silhouette that Bender had become. Poncey burst from the alley with no thought of retrieving his money, and Bender's laughter cackled behind, "Oh, you kin run. But de conjure, she always come in threes."

Poncey's arms punched wildly at the air as he half-ran down Main Street. How could he be so stupid, so gullible? He growled and screamed as he shook his fist at himself, at God, at the world. The street lights gleamed half-heartedly in the early evening, and a killdeer's lonesome cry tore at the dusk from her fleeting retreat. Now Poncey knew for sure he would burst at the seams, if he could not vent his frustrations somehow. A black intent led him by the roiling within his chest, drawn into an unknown deep. The heart in him beat like the marching of an oncoming army, bent upon pillage. Hatred for everything within his grasp, and for that unknown essence persistent in eluding him, set him like flint to exact mayhem upon this town and upon this night.

Then he got his idea, what he had waited for all through his troubled day. He would rest until dark had fully fallen, until the townsfolk had turned in and slipped away senseless to life itself. Then he'd draw them out again in awful amazement.

A sensation of calm and even goodwill came over Poncey with the settling of his mission. He sauntered along the city streets and felt a kinship with the stark branches of trees darkly cast against the sky, pointing heavenward with accusing fingers. Skullbone had taken on the silence of winter, with only glimmers of warmth peeking from windows, hidden deep within solitary homes, only the ghosts of the hearths within escaping through chimneys. Poncey zipped his jacket all the way to his chin, and his hunched back bore witness to the chill, but also to his resolve to finish the task he had set. With slow assurance his feet walked his route, until at length crossing a line of railroad tracks.

With no moon nor streetlights to compete, the stars shone against the night with brilliant precision. Poncey measured his steps upon the ties as he followed the track. He knew no trains ran this time of night, but still he entertained thoughts of facing down an onrushing locomotive. Humming quietly, he laid his plan out in his mind, working out details, anticipating complications. Soon he was coming up on the rail yards – there he would seek out the same sublime fulfillment that his father had enjoyed for decades.

Poncey stealthily moved from trees to outbuildings to signals, careful to hide from the small night crew. He worked his meandering way to the lot for discarded boxcars, and as he went acquired a collection of greasy rags and small scraps of wood. In the back of the lot he eased open the door of a tool shed and sneaked inside. He settled upon the frozen ground, and leaning against a wall, he waited, as the minutes stretched beyond their limits, bringing along the full depths of the night.

A sudden jump, and he awoke. How much time has passed? he thought. He'd set his heart on midnight, and now he didn't know what time it was. No matter. Nothing could stop him now from delivering his wrath upon the world's injustice. He carefully stuck his head out the door and saw only stillness in the yard.

Poncey crept underneath the first boxcar at the furthest reaches of the lot. He jammed the old rags and kindling into the gaps between the car's steel carriage and wooden floor. One, two – finally the third vaguely damp match struck, and he set a little yellow flame to the rags, dangling as if from a giant Molotov cocktail. For a moment Poncey merely gazed, facing the growing reality of his will, then ran in a crouch from the car. He withdrew into remote shadows, able to watch the fire take hold and grow; but still he could not be seen within the darkness.

For some ten minutes the car sat without event, only wisps of intermittent smoke seeping through the doors. Then with a belch flames shot out of a vent in the roof. Within seconds the parched car erupted into a glaring blaze, leaping dozens of feet overhead, grand as leviathan breaking from the sea. Sparks flew upward like heavenly bodies scattered into a spiraling primordial creation, and Poncey looked upon his work.

The blaze now quickly arrested the attention of the night crew. Together they strained to move other boxcars out of harm's way, and ordered each other about aimlessly with much yelling and gesturing. One phoned Constable Crapo, who in turn stirred up Skullbone's volunteer fire brigade, but by the time firefighters arrived the car was fully aflame. Along with them came a crowd, those who could be roused from their cozy houses, and the billowing inferno grew into the biggest show to hit town all year. Poncey had finally acquired the food his soul hungered for, and he stood mesmerized.

A voice from the murky dark startled him. "Anybody look inside that thing?" Mack stood close behind Poncey.

"What? I don't know. Why?"

"Well, sometimes Otis spends the night inside those things. Keeps 'im warm."

Poncey's eyes returned to blankly stare at the angry fire, roaring like a crazed animal, and his face burned hot. Flames whipped and writhed, dancing skyward in insane prayer to God, demanding answer. The oily smoke raged against the crisp air, only to disintegrate into the blackness of the night, and the flickering light revealed a new confusion and realization in Poncey's countenance. Fears and ambitions tangled together in his mind until he no longer knew what to desire, what there was in the world – good or ill, or that born of whatever twisted conspiracy is struck between the two – worth the price of his heart. The self-absorbed furies within him, and the willful satisfaction he'd finally achieved, sank into a slow panic of guilt and terror – his terrible designs came to something, and they came to nothing, the madness of sin. Abruptly he turned to Mack, "I gotta go."

With that Poncey ran home, and looked in on his father, blissfully asleep.

**A Few Dead Flies**

A small boat sat in the middle of the lake, alone and still, and the sail hung limp.

The summer heat had turned spring's flowers into husks of fleeting memory, marking a full year since Poncey had worked a steady job. A string of dead-end endeavors had left him penniless and bitter – painting house numbers on curbsides, selling Christmas wreathes made of bubble wrap, planning fishing trips to the creek for non-existent tourists. His entrepreneurial spirit proved far beyond the hoi polloi of Skullbone; these lunkheads wouldn't know a good deal if it bit their toes, he thought. He had even schemed to lurk about at intersections, ready to wash windshields for unwilling drivers, until he remembered the town had no stop lights, and cars are difficult to wash when they aren't stationary.

Poncey wasn't opposed to making a living, but he did bristle at having to try.

So it burned him to the bone when he had to set his aspirations to menial labor. However, after much thought, he finally lit upon an idea that would at least conserve his own effort. His business course at community college had taught him to know a good idea when it hit him.

He knocked upon the door of Mack's house, the one his mother had left when she passed on to her reward.

Poncey had been to the house a thousand times, going back to the day the MacLenolys had moved to town, when Mack had him over for peanut butter crackers and minor first aid after a small tiff. Poncey had seen Mack's mom a thousand times as well, but he'd never gotten to know her. She was given to sudden tempers, fiery episodes of exploding chaos, and she kept him always teetering on the brink of alarm.

"Open!" a voice called from a back room.

Poncey wandered in as he was accustomed to. The house looked like it hadn't been cleaned for three years, the floor – the few bits visible from through the clutter – spattered with varying shades of brown and white. Dust bunnies tumbled lazily under the couch upon the movement of the door. The shelves and all their what-not looked dull and fuzzy.

"Hey, when was the last time you dusted in here?" Poncey asked once he'd found Mack sitting on his bed, looking through an old book. As his best friend, Poncey never let escape an opportunity to give Mack grief.

"I dunno."

"What a slob. This place isn't fit for a dog. I can see my footprints in the dust! Don't you know dust is mostly your own dead skin cells?"

"Well, then, I guess that's me all over," Mack murmured, burying his gaze deep within the dingy pages.

"Say, what're you doin' this summer?"

"I dunno. What choo gonna do?"

"I got a great idea – a way to make lots of money. But I need you to be my partner."

Mack finally lifted his eyes, directing a forlorn look toward Poncey. "What choo want from me this time?"

"I've got this great idea. We can do landscaping – lots of folks need that. There'd be no end to lawns and hedges and stuff to work on."

"Yeah, I guess that sounds 'bout right."

"Sure, an' I'd spend all my time linin' up customers. I'd start with all the business owners, 'cause they've got the money anyway, an' we can do their homes an' the beds around their stores an' stuff. We'd put up signs sayin' 'Muldoon Lawn Service,' then everyone would see what good work we do, an' word would spread, an' I'd start callin' other folks, an' before you know it we'd have all sorts of jobs to do. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"I tell you, this could be somethin' big. It could be the biggest landscapin' comp'ny around here, an' eventually I'll open up branches all over. Maybe even all the way to Jackson – maybe to Memphis. This idea's so big, no tellin' where it might lead. An' I'm lettin' you in on the ground floor."

"Yeah, well – what choo want me to do?"

"Well, like I say, I'd be linin' up clients all day, an' you would be out at the jobs."

" 'Zat mean what I think it means?"

"What's that?" Poncey played innocent.

"I'd be doin' all the work?"

"Just the easy work. I'd be doin' all the callin', diggin' up new business."

"An' I'll be diggin' all the dirt. No thanks."

But Poncey came prepared for this resistance. "Come on, what else've you got to do? Sit here in the dark?"

"I got plenty to do 'thout breakin' my back out in the sun."

"Like what, exactly?"

"Well – somethin' always comes up."

"Right. You mean somethin' like sittin' on your bed till suppertime? You know you never do nothin' unless I make you. Am I right?"

"Man –" Mack began to whine.

"You know I'm right. If it wasn't for me, you'd sit here in the dark all day, pickin' your nose. Well, this is what's come up – a chance to make some real dough, if you're not too stupid to take it. You should be thankin' me, gettin' you out in some sunlight an' fresh air. But no, you just moan an' cry 'bout havin' to sweat a little bit."

"I'm not cryin', so lay off." Mack wrenched his shoulders toward Poncey, but never left his perch on the bed.

"Oh, go ahead and cry. Won't be the first time I've seen it – I'm used to it. If you're gonna act like a snot-nosed kid, maybe I don't want you workin' with me. Maybe I don't want a blubberin' little baby hangin' 'round with me. Can't be seen with you like this."

"I ain't blubberin'. 'Sides, you're my friend, you can't just dump me." Mack's voice sank almost to a whisper.

"I'm not sure I wanna be seen with you. It'd be bad for business, goin' around with a guy who wouldn't even work with me. Am I right? Am I right?" Poncey insisted.

"Yeah, sure, whatever! You're always right!"

"Then're you gonna get on board? Join my team? Or are you gonna sit there on your lazy butt?"

"All right, all right – just leave me alone!" Poncey's last question struck a familiar chord with Mack, for he'd often heard his mother ask the same thing, although she usually added the phrase "like your father." The truth was, Mack didn't know his father, so the comparison didn't help him any. But as he grew up, he used this lack of information to make up a succession of wonderful lies to explore the depths of his unknown fraternal genes.

"My pa is an acrobat in the circus, a trapeze artist, an' he travels all over the world. He invented the triple MacLenoly, named after hisself. He swings high into the air, an' lets hisself go, spinnin' and twirlin' through the sky 'til down he comes an' lands on the back of an elephant. He can do that 'cause he's got what they call 'lazy backside.' Dudn't hurt him a bit. They only let him do the trick once, though, 'cause it scared the elephant so much when he landed, the beast panicked an' ran into the crowd rippin' up bleachers an' stuff. My dad, he was ridin' him like a bull, an' he steered that elephant right out of the circus tent. Saved ever'body there. They gave him a medal for it, then tole him never to do it again."

Mack didn't even have the trouble of keeping up with his tall tales. His mother never spent more than a few months in any one town before both of them would pack up and move along. As soon as the neighborhood children were getting to know his stories well enough to grow skeptical, Mack's mother would pull up stakes and move on to some other city, and he was free to start over. As a result his mom became the only real point of stability in his life. Mack was never sure why they moved so much, but he took complete advantage of every new audience.

"My dad's a jet pilot. He got his training flyin' spy missions over China, but once they figured out it was him, he had to quit. Then he took a job with a secret airline that flies only billionaires with secret identities to their secret missions. The Chinese hunted him down, fine'ly, and planted bombs in all four jets of his plane. There he was, 10,000 feet in the air, an' all his engines exploded. He shifted all the passengers and cargo to the tail section, an' brought that jet down like a glider. Landed it in Great Salt Lake, and it jes' floated and bobbed on the surface like a cork. Saved ever'one on board. They gave him a medal."

As long as Mack could remember, it had always been him and his mom, together through thick and thin. The traveling, or something, lay heavy on his mother, though, and turbulent moods would swell within like thunderheads. She said things to him in those years that he still wondered about now, what she might have meant – words of accusation and blame, casting fault at him for events and issues his child's mind couldn't even grasp – and apparently Mack had inherited all his father's poor characteristics before he lit out, and none of his good ones. Though to go by Mrs. MacLenoly, the man didn't have any of those to share. So Mack made up some.

"My pa invented travel cups. He's a travelin' salesman, out on the road, an' he got tired of spillin' coffee on himself. So he made up a metal cap to snap onto a paper cup – he was takin' metal shop at technical school at the time. But, he gave his idea to this guy he was drivin' 'round with, some guy who sold milk shake machines. He was about to buy a restaurant chain, an' my dad felt sorry for 'im, so he gave away his idea. Never got a thing out of it. But he made an 'A' in the class."

The relative reality of his father's grand achievements fluctuated in Mack's mind with each new fantasy, but the constant in his life remained his mother, and nothing persuaded her opinion. Sometimes a man would appear – not his father – and an explosion of happiness would overtake his mom. After a few days Mack inevitably would make some mistake, or some random thing would happen, and she would push him away, as though his part was done, and she'd disappear into the evening with the man. Left to fend for himself, Mack would usually wrap himself in several blankets and watch television and eat cold cereal in the dark. Sometimes his mom would still be gone in the morning when he wandered into her bedroom. Then one night sure as death itself she would return home in tears, swinging her purse at the lamps and throwing invective at him. "Why didn't you help me? You only care about yourself, an' never think of what I want! You tol' him, didn't you? You got between him and me on purpose! You ruin ever'thing!" Then they would move again. "See what you've done?" her voice growled.

Mack still remembered, as a small child, sitting on a zebra suspended upon a heavy spring, bobbing back and forth in a city park, scanning the cool greenery. Spotting a stranger who had what he recalled as "a soft eye," he toddled over to inform him, "My mom doesn't like little boys," then turned to walk back to her side. He bore the responsibility for causing all their turmoil, and so also for somehow cobbling together peace in their home. If only he could figure out the right thing to do in any given situation, he could end the sadness. He made himself the only hope for his mother's happiness, and in return her presence was permanence for him, a strong foundation and a strong wind, and trouble came to feel like a familiar comfort. Mack found ways to deflect the words, and he took to carrying around a copy of The House at Pooh Corner, spending long hours imagining himself within the drawings.

Finally they landed in Skullbone, the tiniest town they'd ever lived in or conceived of. There Mack's mom seemed to find her level, but storm clouds still loomed always on the horizon, threatening to break over his head at any moment. He never lost hope of doing something – he had no idea what – that would put her mind at ease. Something that would soothe her heart, and fill her with a peace that could overcome whatever other hurt he caused. On that day they would exist together on a different plane, another world with the sky always blue, the land always green with life, the fragrance of warm cookies heavy in the air. Then he would be able to rest too, without worry of conflict, in a place where he belonged, accepted without condition. Gentle arms would take him up and soothe away all the doubts and fears of his past, all the anxieties of an ambivalent future. Then the sound of a slamming door would explode through the house and rock Mack out of his reverie.

So the fantastic possibilities he built around both his mother and father came to nothing. But over the years they had given him an affinity for stories that seemed impossible to believe. He could never quite knit together dreams and reality into a satisfactory covering. Though still she accused his dreams, in the time since his mother's death, Mack had experienced a haunting emptiness that always begged for filling.

"So are you gonna do it or what?" Poncey persisted.

"Yeah, yeah, just leave me alone." Mack felt at home.

Poncey soon found that his end of the deal was more difficult than he'd expected. He'd never realized that virtually none of the businesses in Skullbone had even a single bush planted out front. In his door-to-door calls he went so far as to suggest the storefronts needed some greenery, and he'd be happy to put some in, and everyone said they'd think about it, using just that tone of voice that meant they planned to forget as soon as he left. Even Mavis Davis down at the Diner had lost interest in her garden, and had put down black plastic over the bare earth. Poncey fumed at his difficulty; meanwhile, Mack cooled his heels. Finally Rev. Fletcher at First Church took pity on Poncey, and told him he could clear out some brush in the back lot.

First Church was the oldest church in town, so old that it didn't even have to declare a denomination – it was just First Church. It had started as a little clapboard building when the region was still wilderness, but once that structure burned down, as they all did eventually back then, the congregation rebuilt it in stone. That fact alone made it the most glorious building in all of Skullbone, even though it was no bigger than a couple of double-wide trailers. As well, the little old-world chapel sat upon spacious grounds, including an ancient cemetery, a worn out playground, and a grassy spot in between. Beyond those improvements lay a heavily wooded parcel of land. Taken together, it served as the community's most proud, quaint and inviting locale.

Every year about that time First Church sponsored a chicken barbecue. The church even had a special sign for the event, ridiculously big, with a painted image of a smiling chicken dressed in an apron and chef's hat. At her feet several yellow chicks with skimmers and canes danced in a line. In her wing the hen held up a sweating glass of iced tea – couldn't very well have a chicken brandishing a plate of drumsticks, certainly not at church. Each year Constable Crapo would haul his giant barrel grill onto the parking lot and spend the afternoon getting broiled from top to bottom, by sun and white-hot charcoal, preparing chicken halves for a hungry population. He used a mop to apply sauce to the unfortunate birds – like a lazy janitor dipping it into a bucket of the red goo, then swabbing it over the meat – then with a dangerously short pair of tongs tried to turn the pieces, sweating and cursing and apologizing over the blazing fire. The show itself was better than pro 'rasslin', folks said, and they came from miles around to attend. Rev. Fletcher liked to say the church budget ran on a chicken wing and a prayer.

Though many customers simply picked up their dinners – complete with beans, coleslaw, cracklin' bread and sweet tea – others came to stay and watch, something like dinner theater, so First Church set up picnic tables on the grassy area. But bordering that space was the wide swath of woods, and Rev. Fletcher decided the messy bramble that had taken over within the trees needed to go; therefore, he considered Poncey's solicitation a confluence of events. Poncey considered the job a lucky break, and told Mack to get the work finished before people began to arrive for their chicken.

As chief executive, Poncey planned to arrive at church with a sign just before the crowd appeared, ready to talk up his new business. Also, he hoped that Mack would be long gone by then, so he'd face no pressure to help out. He would spend a glorious afternoon drumming up new clients and eating. But as he climbed the long drive late that morning, the thing that dominated his eye was Rev. Fletcher, standing with his fists on his hips, shrouded by a billowing cloud of chickeny smoke.

"It's about time you showed up," he said, obviously miffed even in his pastoral way. "I expected this work done by now."

"What? I'm here for my chicken."

"Your chicken can wait, Poncey. We agreed you'd get the work done this morning, and you've only just gotten here. So that's what you'll be doing this afternoon."

"What? Didn't Mack finish it already?" Poncey sputtered, looking beyond the reverend to see that the woods had not been touched.

"I don't know anything about Marlin. All I know is that you promised to have all that brush out by now. Now find yourself some tools from the storage shed and get to work."

"But Mack was supposed to do all this! I'm just here for chicken!"

"Get to work, Poncey. And don't disturb the folks who'll be trying to eat."

"But – "

Constable Crapo, laboring away and listening carefully, leaned closer, still bent from hovering over his grill. "Dis sitch'ation we got here is what choo call breach o' contrack. You want me to run you in or sump'm'? Or you gonna do what Rev'ernd says?" He glared at Poncey from under grimy brows, waggling his tongs for emphasis.

"But – " Poncey glanced at the sizzling chicken.

" 'If any will not work, neither should he eat,' " said Rev. Fletcher.

Poncey turned desperate. "But Rev, I don't think God's callin' me to this work."

"Poncey, sometimes God's just going to use us the way He wants, like the jawbone of an ass."

Poncey could tell Rev. Fletcher planned to just out-Scripture him. He was stuck.

Rummaging through the shed, Poncey found a hatchet and thought about using it on Mack. I can't believe he'd do me wrong this way, he thought, I can't believe he's such a miserable friend. He threw his tools into a wheelbarrow and grabbed a garden rake. That jerk had better have a broken leg or something, Poncey fumed, and even so he should have dragged himself out here and lived up to his word. Wheeling toward the woods, he took a corner too sharply and dumped his load on the ground, tripped over the rake and drove one wheelbarrow handle into his gut. Spitting and howling, he beat the wheelbarrow with the rake and swore, "You bleatin' jack-ass of a mother –," and just at that moment caught sight of the growing crowd of picnickers, staring at him with round eyes. He sullenly picked up the shambles and slinked away.

"Always a good show here," Constable Crapo remarked.

The sun's angle bore down on the face of the woods. Poncey tried to work within the shade of the trees, but the tangle of branches blocked him from swinging the hatchet, so he had to switch to the open heat. He ripped away at the bramble like the Grim Reaper, swinging wildly with his hatchet and temper, until at last his hand was a raw, throbbing mess. He finally stalked back to the shed and found a pair of gloves, grumbling a stream of curses. Poncey tore at the ground with the rake, trying to pull some of the undergrowth out by the roots, but only managed to strain his back. He flailed with the hatchet, but the bushes were just springy enough to frustrate any real cutting. Perspiration dribbled down his forehead and stung his eyes.

Dammit, dammit, dammit, he thought with each blow. He considered how great a revenge he could visit upon Mack and still get away with. A turkey buzzard wheeled overhead, watching and listening. He's ruining my whole day, Poncey thought, he's left me to do all this work, and the chicken is going to be cold and dry by the time I get it. Bang, the hatchet came down. I never thought I'd be stuck doing this, he thought, why can't I just get paid to think, why can't I think of a job just thinking? He looked at the blade and saw it notched and rounded, and wondered if he could sharpen it without that blowing up in his face as well. The drudgery of it all began to make ideas swim about within his mind, fluid and unformed. I hope Mack is enjoying this afternoon, he grumbled, I hope he likes his time off, because he's going to pay for it.

Mack was not enjoying his afternoon. His morning had been focused on a screwdriver and a bottle of wine he'd found stowed in his mother's buffet. Every now and then he stumbled upon some such remnant of her tucked away in the house's dark corners. The jug lay upon its side under a loose tangle of table cloths, and would have stayed there indefinitely except for Mack's need to find the perfect hideaway for his Social Security card – he'd suddenly become obsessed with identity theft. Apparently his mom had discovered this hiding place before him. Unable to find a corkscrew, he'd taken up the first tool at hand and began removing the sponge-like cork bit by bit. Poking and twisting, then blowing out the crumbs, he gradually dug ever-deeper into the bottle's mouth.

At last the seal gave way, and its remains fell into the drink. Mack tried a swig and found it full-bodied but astringent. The red blood of the grape shot from the bottle as he lowered it, spouting into his nose and making him chortle as he swallowed. Another try confirmed the wine to be fat and mature, and Mack sat with his legs out and back to the wall, well situated to deeply explore its vintage. His attention became so enthralled with this treasure, he forgot all about his responsibilities, as well as his identity.

An hour found him on his back, the bottle lying nearby, just a hint of dregs left. Mack snored fitfully as a fly crawled across his face.

Poncey's eyes and ears had become the focus of a buzzing swarm of mosquitoes. He dropped his tools and slapped vigorously at his head and neck, speckling himself with tiny spots of blood. Prim ladies and little girls both looked up from their paper plates to smile at his gyrations. Poncey grunted and growled as he did battle with the flying menace, and flicked off the carnage in disgust. That's all I'll have to show for all this, Poncey thought, a few dead flies – as if I didn't have enough spoiling this day. I'll get Mack for this, he won't forget what he's done to me. He'll be one more fly I'll swat.

Poncey grimaced and again swung the hatchet. Branches reached out in a twisted gesture, catching upon anything they could touch, grasping for survival in the bracken. Kudzu draped itself within and over the undergrowth, a spongy coat of mail fending off every whack of the hatchet. The rake caught on every root and tangled in every vine. After two hours Poncey, pouring with sweat, had hauled out just one full wheelbarrow of brushwood. For the life of him, Poncey could not understand why he was there. He was the boss, he cursed to himself, and Mack the peon; he would get even if it killed him. In the corner of his eye he could see Rev. Fletcher observing.

Poncey imagined what he could do that would hurt Mack most, something that would make Mack afraid of ever crossing him again. He thought of all the rotten things he had done and said before, the innocent cruelties of growing up, and they all seemed laughable in their triviality. He wanted to think of one thing, that one thing that would teach Mack a lesson for the rest of his life, teach Mack to respect him and take him seriously. Something that would burn deep into his soul, like a steaming, stinking brand glowing red with pain.

He stomped deeper into the wood, his mind concentrating upon his foul mood. The slick leaves and mud underneath sent his foot sliding, and Poncey felt himself going down. Wrenching forward to regain his balance, his ankle caught hold of a clump of kudzu that sent him headlong into a shallow ravine. He landed heavily upon his back and felt the wind burst from his lungs. His head lay in the lowest part of the depression, and his chest heaved and convulsed in a panic as it tried to suck in oxygen. Dappled light burned through the murky gloom high above, and he rolled his head to one side. Within his daze his eyes focused on a bright spot of fleshy white. A confused snake reared its head and showed him its gaping mouth; Poncey could clearly see its slitted eye gleaming at him. Another lazily arched across his torso, while a third twisted upon itself like an extension of the prickly bramble, a reptilian smile etching its face. The breathless Poncey struggled to express his hysteria, finally forcing out a bellow in a voice he'd never heard before, and he felt hot moisture fill his pants.

Sounding like a cawing crow, Poncey rolled away from the snakes and sprang to his feet. Throwing his knees high as he ran, he churned up the little embankment and burst from the woods like a nightmare. He tripped over the wheelbarrow on his way out and did a perfect somersault to land on his feet and continue on. A little girl screamed as Poncey tore past the picnic tables, and he joined with her on his way past the grill, through Rev. Fletcher's shocked gaze and down the driveway. He had one thing on his mind: find Mack.

"Always a good show," Crapo said.

Serpents curled around his neck in a macabre dance and crawled out of his nose, and he thought he felt them pulsing through his veins. Mack awoke with a spastic snort. Banging his head on the floor, a stabbing pain ruptured within and without. He thought he might have died, or that perhaps he was dying, or he wished he were dead. He slowly worked his way up on one elbow, and looked upon his lover lying beside him, drained. The woman's face on the wine label smiled a taunt, an accusation at him. Suddenly it came to him: He was supposed to have cleared the church's wooded lot that morning. After some struggle, he got to his feet and stumbled out the door, walking a wandering trail toward First Church.

The sun had already begun to call it a day when he reached downtown. Though his vision still didn't cut through the blur, he recognized the threatening silhouette coming toward him. Tall and stout, it seemed to be walking as if it were wet. And it was approaching quickly. Mack stopped and considered turning back.

"Don't you run from me!" yelled the figure.

Mack ran.

Poncey overtook him easily, and grabbed him by the back of the collar. Mack hung in the air like a laboratory skeleton for a moment before slipping halfway out of his shirt, his feet back on the ground, his arms angled upward by his sleeves. Poncey turned him around by the shoulder, a massive towering oak facing down Mack's scrawny sapling.

"You nearly got me killed!" Poncey screamed.

"What?" Mack rejoined.

"You skipped out on your job! Rev. Fletcher made me do your job, and I nearly got snakebit! I oughta kick your butt!"

"It was a mistake! I meant to go." Mack supported his head with both hands.

"What's that smell? You stink like – like rotten fruit."

"You stink too. What'd you do?"

"Shut up," Poncey shook Mack. "We're talkin' 'bout you, not me."

"I don't feel too good." Mack's eyes glazed over dangerously. His body heaved, and he threw up a little on Poncey's shoe.

"Hey! You're drunk!" Poncey declared with horror, and tried too late to dance out of the way. "Watch what you're doin'! You got yourself wasted, 'stead of doin' your job! I could kill you!"

"Do me a favor."

"You disgust me. I can't count on you for nothin', after I find a way for you to make good money, too! You leave me holdin' the bag, an' then puke on me to boot?! What a colossal jerk you are!"

"You mad at me?"

"What? What do you think? You skip out on your work, I have to do it, I get all messed up out in the woods, then I nearly get snakebit, an' you wonder if I'm mad? What do you think?" Poncey tried to wipe the top of his shoe on his already-ruined pants.

Mack smiled slightly. "That's what I thought."

"I swore I'd make you pay while I was out hackin' away at that brush. I swore all the way over here, I was gonna make you pay for this!"

"What choo gonna do?"

"I don't know. I oughta beat the snot outa you, but I can't stand to look at you right now." Poncey almost sounded like he was calming down, but he pushed Mack away violently for emphasis.

"I didn't mean to skip work. I couldn't help it."

"Couldn't help it? What's that mean? Someone force you to get dead-from-the-neck-up drunk? You think I'm gonna fall for that lame excuse?"

"No."

"Look, you work for me, and I'm not gonna put up with this kinda mess! You stabbed me in the back today, an' I ain't gonna stand for it! An' let me tell you somethin' else – you think Rev. Fletcher's gonna like it when he hears you got yourself plastered? On the day you were supposed to work at the church?"

"You gonna tell him?"

"I'm not gonna have to – this is gonna get all 'round town on its own. You know how it is here. An' I ain't gonna try to keep it quiet!"

"Well, I guess that's what I deserve, anyway," Mack's despondent moan took some of the wind out of Poncey's sails.

"You bet you deserve it," he said, defiant against his better nature.

"Can we go now?"

"What?"

"Are you finished? Can we go somewhere?"

"No way."

Mack stood in silence.

Poncey considered the depth of Mack's sin, and what judgment ought to befall him. "No. I've had it with you. I can't trust you to work for me, I can't trust you with anything, an' I don't want to see your face."

"What?"

"I'm done. I don't want to see you anywhere near me!"

"Oh, come on – " Mack said.

"No, forget it! I've had it with you, once and for all!" Poncey stepped away. "I don't want any more to do with you! You just stay away from me from now on!" He turned to leave the way he'd come.

"Poncey, come on! You're my friend!"

"You can forget about that!" Poncey scoffed over his shoulder. "You just keep away from me! If I want to see you, I'll let you know! But don't hold your breath."

The very thing that Mack had most feared was happening to him. The profundity of loss thrust the butt of its hand into his chest again, and he was no better prepared to absorb it now than he was the other times. His lungs felt paralyzed. "Come on, Poncey!" he yelled into the gloaming, but the fading figure gave no reply, and disappeared around the corner of Snodgrass' Hardware. "I have to hold my breath, the way you smell," he groused to himself, his best retort, but it was no comfort.

His head still ached. He slumped onto a wooden bench that lined a store front, his legs a-straddle, their weight resting upon the outsides of his feet. The ground propped up his vacant gaze, which only occasionally rose to investigate some noise or flash of light. The sun continued its sinking verdict upon his day, his muddling through, his life. Add another number to the roll of casualties – another death in his spare community. The things he held dear again showed themselves doomed to an abrupt demise, but the open-endedness of his own life terrified him.

"Well – I got no right to be happy, anyway."

All the businesses had closed for the day, and the sidewalk lay there abandoned, except for Mack. The chicken barbecue would be well over by now, glad and satisfied families going their own ways together for the evening, topping off a fine Saturday, fine fellowship for deserving people. He was left alone to consider the homicide – how he had killed off a merry kinship. Another one gone. The sun cast one more peek over the ragged top of the distant treeline, then slunk away.

Thinking about all he had seen come and go, Mack mulled over the variety of death. What tools one could use, a man might not ever guess – a bottle of wine, a snake, a handful of pills. He looked about him at the possibilities, but he saw nothing, and it made him wonder. Who ever knows what the wind will blow his way? Perhaps nothing. "All my life, I am always dying. Why can't I ever die?"

Mack stood and shuffled about in front of the bench, the pavement now lit only by the dim streetlight directly overhead. He thought back on summers like this one spent collecting lightning bugs in a jar, a lantern that never pays off as well as a boy hopes. The streetlamp might as well be lightning bugs, he thought, and the moths buzzed and bounced into the light that beckons and burns.

He went to the pole and leaned, staring at his worn sneakers. Choosing the right way was the only question. His heart sank into his depths, a dark abyss of sorrows. Part of me is somewhere else, he thought. He asked why he was abandoned, why he was denied the love that he so longed for. With a sigh he knew there was nothing for him to do, nothing anybody could do, and he resigned himself to the designs or whims of the fates. As if contemplating something deeper than thought, he murmured to himself, "Divine suicide."

Two pinpricks of light appeared in the distance.

Mack wondered what Poncey was doing at that moment. Was he thinking about him? He was probably still mad. He thought about his mother, and wondered why she dragged him around to every new city if she disliked him so much. Alone in the dark, he longed for the pain of her attentions. He wondered who his father was. He wondered why love always fails, beauty always dies, and why he always felt like he had a hole in his chest. He noticed the headlights headed into town.

The car was going fast. With the streets empty and no traffic signals to intervene, it would blast right through. Mack's eyes attached to the light, mesmerized by its promise. It cruised along as the highway transformed into Main Street, and Mack stood on the curb, timing his route like an outfielder ready to catch a fly.

He could hear the car now, and it bore down upon him. He and the headlights exchanged stares and became one. He stepped out into the street.

A sudden explosion jarred Mack, shocked him into awareness. The car careened off its path and plowed into the lamppost that he'd just been leaning against. The vehicle met the timber with a blunt percussion of sound, and a jangle of metal and glass burst into the air, pieces of the car skittering across the street. A slow release of steam whistled from under the hood as Mack stood there, frozen by astonished puzzlement.

The driver stumbled from his door, a man in a tie, his neck fat pushed up by his collar, dazed but otherwise unhurt. "Blowout!" he yelled, and looked at his front tire, torn and flat. "That was some kinda damn miracle! Jus' a damn miracle!" he blustered, and gaped at Mack. "What's the matter with you anyway, kid? Steppin' out in front of me like that! You tryin' to get yourself killed?"

Mack shifted uncomfortably. "Uh – sorry," he said. "My – my mistake."

The boat sat upon the still waters, and the air surrounded it on every side, but the wind lifted not a finger.

**The Wonderful Moments of Youth**

Col. Cobb's head was topped by a magnificent shock of white hair, which is just the right word for it. A startling comb of lustrous white, it stood at attention upon his crown. When faced with this marvel of nature, only one thing could lure Poncey's eyes away: the luxurious, European-style mustache the Colonel had cultivated all these years as well, also pure white.

Growing up in the house next door, Poncey could not recall his first encounters with Col. Cobb. His earliest memories grew out of the old gentleman rocking on his porch, teaching him to salute and calling him "soldier." But even before that the Colonel had passed long hours entertaining the tiny lad, squinching his eyes shut, then popping them open with the cry, "Peep eye!" This game never failed to send young Poncey into hysterics. Col. Cobb would grin broadly in return, every wrinkle in his worn face drawing a frame around the glowing smile.

The Colonel spent years as a routine fixture in Poncey's life, a mundane presence like a street lamp or the kitchen table, until one day when the boy found dozens of people and flags and a rostrum with bunting filling the street out front. All of Skullbone had turned out to honor the ancient warrior's one hundredth birthday. Magnificent words and praises arose as Col. Cobb sat before everyone in embarrassed silence, and Poncey was duly impressed by the hotdogs and ice cream. At that moment he realized this old man was somebody different, and he gained a new sense of wonder.

"You're really old," the child informed the elder.

"Yup, life can be long sometimes," he replied. "But death is always longer."

Though he carried a cane – a twisted and knotty length of oak cured black – the Colonel still walked well, only slightly stooped. The way he carried himself even yet reflected the strapping man he had been in his youth. Sharp gray eyes had seen much, peering deep into thoughts and motives, and his tongue never hesitated to make a judgment. Age and arthritis had gnarled his hands, and one usually rested in the other as he sat and considered his world. Most days he wore a button-down shirt and non-descript trousers, and house slippers, all generally some thirty years old, the last clothing that his wife had bought for him.

"My wife died when she was 70," he told Poncey. "We thought we were old then, but she was just a spring chicken. She's been dead now almost as long as we were married." He stared at the street beyond the porch. "I sure miss her."

A slight twist in the alignment of his nose suggested perhaps a boxing match that had gone badly; high cheek bones were chiseled by the sunken flesh below, and supported well-defined bags under his eyes. His eyebrows grew long and adventurous, several hairs looking like they had struck out to explore his forehead. Yellow teeth clamped down on a beaten and burned pipe, a constant presence whether smoke swirled out of the bowl or not. And then there was that shock of hair.

"What turned your hair white?" Poncey asked one day.

"That's the question, Soldier," the Colonel stroked his clean-shaven chin. "Ain't nothin' but life. Ain't nothin' but life do a thing like that to you.

"It mighta even been all the way back in Wilmington. Wilmington, Delaware, that's where I started out, a little tyke like you. Dirt poor, we were, but back then so was everyone. That's just what was expected. Family had a room in a buildin' made of white stone, so as far as we were concerned, we had it made. Whoo-ee, I still remember that stone," he whistled through his teeth. "I'd stand there on the stoop and just caress it, read it like Braille. There's nothin' like the feel of stone – the rough face of it, the points of beauty sparkling in that weathered toughness. It's just dirt made hard over the ages, that's all, the world pressin' down on it, just like a man.

"Don't remember the room that well. Forgot everything 'bout it. But the other room, an' the man in it, him I can't forget, no matter how I've tried. 'Bogey Man' they called him. Alfred Fall – dapper guy, in his bowler an' tie. Just like everyone else. Kidnapped a girl and ate her. One door down the hall.

"Fall, what a piece of work – he liked to write creepy letters to women, threatenin' things and tellin' 'em he had taken their children. After they took him out of that house, he wrote to my mother, claimin' he'd eaten me. Course I was right there, so she didn't believe it. Still, who does such a thing? She couldn't sleep a wink that night. We bugged out of that house fast as she could pack us up.

"Cooked and ate a girl. What a thing for a little boy to know – that's enough to turn anyone's hair white. 'The sorrows of death compassed me, an' the floods of ungodly men made me afraid.' I don't think I ever looked at the world the same again, even then." He glanced around the bland homes of his neighbors. "You never know what's goin' on in someone else's house."

Rain poured off the eave of the porch roof.

Col. Cobb gripped one arm of his rocker tightly and shifted his weight. He grimaced, and his chair and joints creaked in complaint.

"It's not that I have anything 'gainst the rain," he grumbled. "I've just seen enough without it fallin' today.

"We bumped around with no roots a little while. Mama, she kept us alive on just beans an' popcorn, some days. We'd live outa tents or cabins – I couldn'ta been a happier boy, campin' every day. She could do anything, my Mama. When we ended up in Dayton, I thought I was in heaven, livin' in the very same town as the Wright brothers. I spent every day starin' up in the sky lookin' for biplanes, expectin' to see one buzzin' 'round, but never did. Did see the storms rollin' in, though, 1913. Gettin' to be a young man by then, 'bout to turn old.

"That rain fell constant, for days, fillin' up the rivers. 'His pavilion round about him was dark waters an' thick clouds of the skies.' Dayton's got four rivers, all four of 'em spreadin' out over the land. Burst the levees, an' the town was twenty feet under water. Then the gas lines busted, an' half the town burnt down. Town's under water, an' it burns down.

"Three hundred fifty dead. Dayton, Ohio. I spent the next three weeks lookin' for my ma. Finally gave up. I still miss her. Whole different world for me after that."

The day lasted exactly as long as the night. Raindrops pattered against autumn leaves, only in death their true colors revealed. Unrelenting showers finally beat them off the limbs and to the ground, creating a brown mush. The wind took a brisk northerly turn, and dusk hung heavily on the horizon. Gray November mourned the onset of nature's burial.

"Heya, Soldier, come here – take a look at this. Found this in a box today. They call this the cro-eeks dee grrr." He opened his hand, holding a faded military ribbon, from it dangling a cross intersected by two swords.

"What's that on it?" Poncey asked.

"That's a palm leaf. It means somethin' – don't remember what. The French pinned this on me in the Great War. Those French, they love medals."

"You were in World War I?"

"War to end all wars, they called it, at least for awhile. They were wrong 'bout that – wrong 'bout a lot of things. You 'member me tellin' you 'bout Dayton? Well, after I lost Ma, I was so mad, I was crazy. Mad at the world, mad at everyone in it – mostly mad at God, for all He'd done to me. Thought He was finished. The war began, and I figured I'd take it out on some Germans. I was crazy, I hated God so much, for everything He'd made me see. I fed on that anger, an' He made me choke on it.

"I was the longest-servin' American in the war. As soon as I heard it started – I wanted to get out of Dayton so much, I ran to Canada to sign up. Lied about my age, lied about my citizenship, an' to be honest, they didn't check that closely. So I served from beginnin' to end. I tell you what, they sent me to France with the other guys, an' that was the biggest mess I ever heard. French an' Italian gibberish, an' even the Limeys and Canucks didn't talk right. They tol' me I sounded funny. But it was the Ozzies that said the craziest stuff – never did figure out what they were talkin' 'bout. What a mess. I don't know how anybody knew what was goin' on, it was such a babblin' mess. But it's where I picked up this," and he stroked the mustache. "Wasn't a complete loss."

Poncey decided to learn everything about World War I, but he couldn't. There was too much to know.

A rush of blackness ascended from the trees, accompanied by an explosion of wings against the air. Hundreds of starlings etched the sky, breaking as one in one direction, then the next, like a foreboding cloud. Col. Cobb started at their sudden flight, and shuddered slightly as they soared overhead and beyond the porch roof.

"Saw those same birds at the Somme. Funny what can set 'em off here, but they'd sit an' peck on the ground through an artillery barrage there. Guess they got used to it, though I never did. Every time I see those birds take off, I get this creepy feelin' that they know somethin' I don't. Somethin' even worse than I recall.

"Soldier, the one thing you'll be happy to remember 'bout your time in the army is your buddies. Sittin' in trenches and shell holes with other men, you're all in the same trouble, it pulls you together, like one body. Even if one man dies, the body survives, 'cause of your buddies. Somehow it gives you hope you'll make it through to the end. Bonds you together like nothin' else. You pick an' choose those wonderful moments of youth, like life itself, fleeting youth that makes a man treasure every breath. Simple boys we were, expectin' sunny picnics, or dances with girls, but thrown together out on the field, we didn't get even the glory the politicians promised; we just got the blood and gore. Youth poured out on death and survival, an' glad to be alive. You take what you can get.

"My gang started out in a barracks, then a bunker, then the trenches. When you fight shoulder-to-shoulder in a trench, movin' a hundred yards forward, then a hundred yards back, you get to know your mates. I would do anything for those guys, give them anything, share my last biscuit with 'em. I remember 'em all – Christy, Lawrence and Winston, Alvin and Buster, Dashiell, and George. George Lawrence Price – never go a day without thinkin' of him.

"Makin' friends is dangerous, Soldier. A shell can wipe every trace of a man off the face of the Earth. I saw a man goin' over the top take a direct hit – nothin' left but boots, I swear, literally nothin' but boots left standin' there twenty feet from me. Hard way to lose a friend. Nothin' a man can do then but keep his face straight. Keep goin', an' count your friends, an' keep faith with the body."

The storm droned, a shroud draped upon the town. A bolt of lightning drew a scar across the sky, top to bottom, and thunder lazily followed in the distance. The Colonel pulled his sweater closer to his throat, and lit his pipe again. "I just don't have much use for the rain. Seen too much of it. Rain changes everything.

"The Germans knew it, the color of that muck. Those gray-green uniforms of theirs melted right into the mud, all that battleground blasted to hell and mixed with rain. You couldn't see 'em, even when the damn rain stopped, they just blended right in. Sometimes one would die tangled in the barbed wire, and you wouldn't even know it was a man until you got right up to him, right up in his eyes."

Suddenly a light blared with a crackle, and the explosion came loud and immediate. Col. Cobb and Poncey both jumped at the thunderclap.

"That was close!" Col. Cobb grinned. "I'd say about a sixteen-incher. I could tell, by war's end, how big a shell had gone off by how much the ground shook. 'The Earth shook and trembled; the foundations also of the hills moved and were shaken, because he was angry.' They fell like hail stones, Soldier, and that pounding went on and on, day and night. Drove some of the boys completely crazy, just plain crazy. The shellin' turned the landscape into one hole after another, made of mud an' filled with water. Wounded soldiers would fall in headfirst for cover, then drown in that putrid swamp. We'd be up to our elbows in water, flesh rotting away underneath, and those wretched guys were drownin'. Sometimes we'd wish for a shell to hit, somethin' to just wipe everything clean."

A scratchy record played through the front window. Col. Cobb had not changed his music for fifty years, and the album showed it. Somewhere between the snaps and pops a piano played lightly, a gentle minuet. The Colonel closed his eyes and seemed to dream, and Poncey's mind wandered to other things he could be doing instead. With his eyes still shut, Col. Cobb whispered, "Amazin' things can be done with a piano, in the right hands. Wonderful things." Poncey, sitting upon the rail, kicked at the thin air and listened. "You ever seen a piano dropped from a building in a cartoon, Soldier?"

"Yeah, guess so."

"Well, that's exactly what it really looks like."

He let it lay there until Poncey was almost afraid to ask. This conversation had never once crossed his mind. Finally he couldn't take it any more.

"How do you know?"

"Saw it happen. All the way from the fourth floor."

Poncey listened.

Col. Cobb opened his eyes. "I wonder if anyone ever played this piece on it," he mused. "Just before the Somme, some of the fellas broke into a collaborator's flat in Albert – they don't say it that way, but it's just plain Albert. That's all it boils down to. The man must have been rich, 'cause he had a heck of a nice piano up there. Rich on his German blood money. Goin' into battle, soldiers don't tend to be generous-minded. They knocked out the walls and windows overlookin' the street, and flung that grand piano out like a drunk from a saloon. The sound it made when it hit, that was somethin', like a whole orchestra, and it raised a cloud of dust like a stampede went through town. The keys flew of into the air, an' strings stuck out everywhere – looked like a porcupine. Everyone cheered. Then they set it afire – had a big schnitzel roast. What a shame. The things that will make folks cheer, they just defy explanation.

"That was in Albert. What a curse, to live in Albert, right on the front line. The people of that town bought houses an' raised families, then hell moved next door. By the end that place was not much more than a collection of rubble. One thing happened early on there that haunted us, put a lot of men in a superstitious confusion. I remember it well, the cathedral – a bombshell hit that cathedral and knocked the steeple over. On the top was a huge Madonna, a statue of Mary holding the Christ child up to the heavens. That statue tipped over, but somehow it hung on at the base. There they were, mother and child face down toward the ground, Mary holding out Jesus so He could see it all, He could see what we were doin', He saw all the bloody atrocity.

"Some of the guys began to think the war would never end as long as that statue was watchin' us, so they started tryin' to shoot it down. Take your pot shots, boys, take aim at God Almighty! But there they stayed, mother and child, observin' everything, judgin' everyone, but not even blinkin' at it. I have to say, I got so I couldn't look at 'em. I wasn't mad no more, just sick. I couldn't bear to look, 'cause I knew what He saw. He never did anything 'bout it, 'cause He knew goin' in. He knew Fall, He knew 'bout that flood, He knew all along.

"Finally it fell. Finally that whole cathedral was reduced to gravel, and the statue stopped accusin' us. The statue stopped, but not Him." Col. Cobb sighed.

He turned suddenly agitated. "J'accuse! That's the only French I learned over there. All the French I needed, in Albert. Saw more than I ever wanted, there in Albert – right on the street, just passin' by the square. This one poor chap, he'd left his post, never meanin' any harm, but guilty as sin anyway. I could hear him blubbering as the firin' squad lined up, an' his commanding officer talkin'. My heart sank – I never heard anything in the trenches like his sobbing. The officer comforted him, tol' him that he was givin' his life for his country just like anyone else. He stood there shakin', his whole body shakin' out of control with fear, an' I heard the officer blame it on the cold mist. There weren't no mist. Some are weak, he says, and the man's sacrifice would make others stronger in doin' their duty. He tells the man he'd sinned, against his king and countrymen, an' the poor blighter nodded. He was spillin' his blood for England, the officer said, just as much as some great patriot. His example would help win the war for jolly ol' England.

"He didn't die like in the movies. He didn't hesitate on his feet an' dramatically drape his body over the ground. He fell like a sack of sticks, a crumpled mess of useless waste. Somethin' wrong with what a country thinks it can take from a man, leave him less than a slaughtered animal. I watched that officer walk away after the volley went off, an' he was the one shakin' then. It wasn't 'cause of no mist, either.

"The things a nation does to buy and sell men's souls. Does He not see?

"What the officer didn't tell the poor guy was, not one of those men's lives left in the ground meant a damn thing.

"More than a million killed at the Somme, more than a million all told. An' for what? A million men traded for five miles of mud – mud and wire and corpses."

The Colonel leaned back in his chair, his temper spent. "Happiness is like a sneeze in this world. But sometimes you'll see somethin' that turns your head. That first Christmas, all the troops called a one-day truce. All the shells stopped fallin', an' guys lit their cigarettes out in the open, not even cuppin' 'em in their hands. Suddenly I could see heads bobbin' up from out of trenches, across no-man's-land, an' voices singin'. Just a few months before I'd wanted to kill 'em so bad – I caught myself joinin' in on 'O Tannenbaum.' Then Jerries came climbin' out of trenches like clowns in a circus, callin' out 'Christus! Christus!' Guys on our side started poppin' out, too, the French an' English, even my own Canadians, an' gathered 'round with 'em. We slapped backs an' passed 'round gifts – nothin' more than a swallow of wine, or a picture from a magazine. But we shook hands and celebrated our Savior. Then the next day, we went back to blowin' each other up.

"Headquarters sure didn't take to that, once they heard. 'Fraternizin'' they called it, an' strictly forbid it from then on. Nations don't know what's in a man, they only know how to use 'em, how to enslave 'em. They wanted us to stay crammed into those trenches. 'The foreigners shall submit themselves unto me; the foreigners shall fade away, and be afraid out of their close places.' Nations always stealin' what doesn't belong to 'em, then sellin' it back at their own price, from Babylon on down."

The Colonel began to look more haggard, and many days patches of white stubble jutted from his chin. Newspapers piled up by his door, ignored even as he shuffled to his rocker in the morning. A sprinkle made puddles glisten with rippling rings, and the sun struggled to break through the light overcast. Col. Cobb tried to warm his hands around the bowl of his pipe, long after the glow had gone out.

"Look here at what I found, Soldier," he said. "I believe this is my wife. I carried this photograph all through the war, before we even got hitched up. See how serious she looks? Folks didn't realize yet they could smile for pictures. I looked at her face every day, memorized it. Then when I got home, I didn't recognize her there in the train station. I didn't remember what she looked like. I remembered her picture, but not what she really looked like."

He set the little frame upon the window sill. Rocking slightly, he scanned the sky hoping for some hint of light; the clouds seemed to gather thicker. An awkward silence grew longer.

"Because it took upwards of a minute to take a picture," Poncey offered.

"What?"

"That's why your wife looks serious, so her expression wouldn't change."

"Yes – yes, that's right," the Colonel stumbled. "But cameras improved by the war. Then folks could smile, if they'd wanted to.

"Amazin' what folks can invent. The main change back then was cars replacin' horses. An' tanks! Those clatterin' junk heaps! They looked like sardine tins, an' they fought about as well. Monsters, awful monsters, while a horse is a thing of beauty. The first one I ever saw was a can with a door on each side. Gunners leaned out the doors and fired away with machine guns. Great idea, but funny how men can turn any idea into a horrible mistake.

"The strategy was to drive 'em over the top of a trench, straddle it an' enfilade down both sides. Like shootin' fish in a barrel. Them machine guns had a crank like a meat grinder, turnin' men into hamburger. Fine plan, if you're on the right trench. But one of our own tanks stopped right over where we were gathered. Those gun barrels turned and turned, round after round pumped into our own troops. I was directly below the beast, right under its belly, beatin' on it with my rifle, screamin' for 'em to stop, screamin' and cursin' them to hell, and me as well, at that moment I'd have rather been in hell itself. The bloody carnage 'round me, men fallin' all over themselves to escape, trippin' over dead mates. Inside the tank the men couldn't hear anything, none of my vain pounding. They didn't stop until they ran out of targets, and only then they realized. Finally they realized. How does a man live with such a thing?"

Col. Cobb took a breath. "Monsters. But a horse is a work of art.

"We tried to bury 'em all in the walls. Like usual, we just tried to bury 'em in the walls – all the room under the floor was filled. Seemed like we could never dig deep enough. Arms and legs – the bodies that still had 'em – never did stay buried, always danglin' out again. One trench had an arm stickin' out, an' we'd pass by and shake its hand, 'G'day, mate!' an' walk on. The things your mind will do to survive. An' the boards under our feet would shift and rock, like we were walkin' over barrels. The bones underneath pushed back against the boards, an' every day we were walkin' on our brothers. Then the rains came again.

"There is no hell worse than the rain. Up to our ankles, up to our knees the water rose, and washed away our walls until empty faces stared out at us. An' the mud seeped up through the floor, washed with putrid flesh, mixed with blood and brains. The horrid smell, I still smell it, it clogged my nose, day and night no way to escape that smell. Where's my pipe? Hand me that lighter, Soldier. An' the rats ran across our faces at night, an' the flies tormented us through the day, an' every single man had dysentery. An' the rain kept fallin', kept fallin' like tears.

"One day a fella brought a kit bag packed with baguettes. He'd been in town, a town called Albert – that ain't the way they say it – and found a baker, and bought up all her loaves. Like a good fella, he was bringin' 'em back to his buddies, but he caught a bullet right at the edge of the trench. He fell forward, an' all the baguettes spilled out among us. He gave his life for a single good deed. We were standing in at least a foot of water, our feet rotting, an' the bread hit it an' floated like little battleships down the trench. 'Then the channels of waters were seen, and the foundations of the world were laid bare at thy rebuke, O Lord.' To a man, every soldier picked a baguette out of the muck as it passed by, an' ate it down, glad to have it. May that man's blessin' to us be returned upon him. For all the waste and decay within that water, every loaf was eaten, an' we were glad to have it.

"We just wanted it to stop. Just wanted a bite of bread not tainted with mud an' guts. All most folks ever want is just to see a moment of grace."

He stared blankly for a while, then turned his attention to the photograph again. "I think that's my wife."

The next time Poncey stopped over, the little picture frame was still on the window ledge. He began to spend less time with the Colonel, being drawn away by teen-age interests, and then even less still. He had nothing left to gain from the old man's fractured memory, and had graduated into work and life, the sense of purpose that stultifies adults. Middle school morphed into high school, and serious avenues of study took the place of a worn out soldier's reminiscing. And Col. Cobb appeared less often upon his porch as the years passed, as well. Occasionally the old man would come up in Poncey's friends' talk, usually as "Col. Cobbweb," and Poncey wasn't particularly shy about joining in the joke.

Random jobs and scattered interests dominated Poncey's time. His focus bounced from girls to nature to football to anything else that came up, anything that might enhance his status. He was baptized into the world's indifference with each attempt at a new aspiration. Each campaign fell into the mire of fleeting opportunity, and his memory of the old days with Col. Cobb faded.

Poncey's best chance to leave a mark on history came on the football field, an important game late in the season. A steady autumn shower drew a curtain across the field, and four points separated the two teams. On defense, Poncey steeled himself to protect the lead. The opponent was ranked first in the state, and Poncey's team was supposed to lose, to not even make a game of it. The final seconds ticked, and Poncey dug his cleats into the mud, determined to defend his ground. He led the squad in sacks that season, and stopping this final play would secure his team's victory.

The quarterback dropped back to pass, and Poncey bounced off a couple of linemen. His feet churned through the muck, splaying water at each step. The ball rose above the quarterback's head, lifted in his hand like a royal orb, and he scrambled to break clear. Poncey's eye met the ball, like the first gaze of two lovers across a room, and they caressed each other with knowing scrutiny. The seconds extended into minutes and years as Poncey slid and skidded toward his target. His outstretched hands grasped for the quarterback's jersey as the saturated ground mocked his cleats. He felt himself falling forward in slow motion, his eye following the arc of the football – and the football staring back – as it left the quarterback's hand. Poncey fell face flat into the mud and did not move as the No. 1 team in the state celebrated a Hail Mary reception, a miraculous comeback victory.

For every victor there is at least one vanquished. Poncey felt like life had led him blindly through its mine field. Still, he remained convinced that one day he would take a grand place in the scheme of things, and set about to serve that purpose by serving only his own ambitions. But Col. Cobb lived just next door, so there were still times when Poncey felt obligated to pay his respects.

The elements had left the little frame dirty and tarnished. The newspaper had been stopped, and a granddaughter, elderly herself, received all the Colonel's mail, so the house looked abandoned. Poncey tapped gently on the storm door, and leaned in close with his ear, trying to detect movement inside. Eventually the interior door swung open, and through the screen a frail face with glistening white hair appeared, but the magnificent mustache had been trimmed to a scruffy stubble by an ambivalent caretaker.

"Hello, Colonel, how are you?"

The Colonel peered at him. "George?" His expression brightened as he gingerly stepped outside.

"George Price! Why are you here? I haven't seen you since your funeral!"

"I'm Poncey."

"I thought I'd never see you again! What a surprise! Never a day goes by that I don't think of you, George. I went to your service all the way up in Canada – since you died in my arms, I thought I might help your family. It was a beautiful service – they gave you full military honors. But your family was too crushed, George, your mother's and sisters' hearts just broke to pieces. They couldn't stay through the service; they couldn't even meet me. I'm sorry, George, I couldn't say anything.

"I remember, George, I've never forgotten that moment. Just two minutes before the Armistice, too. I never understood why that man pulled the trigger.

"Remember walkin' through that Belgian town that mornin', George, remember? Just waitin' for the Armistice, eleven o'clock, an' then you caught the bullet. You were tellin' me 'bout Nova Scotia, how happy you'd be to see the bays an' inlets again, an' then that sniper fired. Hit you right in the heart. Your face just went pale, right in the middle of a word, an' your blood splattered me – for all I had seen, it was your blood stained me most. Why did he pull that trigger, George, with two minutes to go? I never could figure that. Why has the world gone so wrong, George? Is there any place to find hope for this world? 'He hath torn, and he will heal us; he hath smitten, and he will bind us up.'"

Poncey wasn't sure what to make of this, but he felt a part of both his past and his future slip away. After that day he made himself scarce. Word got around eventually that the granddaughter had moved the Colonel into a nursing home in Jackson, and a "for sale" sign appeared shortly in front of the house. When the rains fell Poncey would remember something the Colonel had said at some time or other, and the smell of a pipe always brought him back to that porch. One day that summer his mother drew him aside after church.

"I talked with Edna Muriel today. The doctors say her grandfather is near to death."

"Who?"

"Col. Cobb. You used to be so close to him."

"Is he really?"

"Yes, he's stopped takin' water. She tells me he sleeps 'most all the time now. He may have only a few more days."

"That's too bad."

"Maybe you should go see him – you two used to be so close."

"Maybe."

Poncey timidly edged the door open and crept into the room. The furnishings were spare: a dresser, a chair, a bed. Col. Cobb lay under his sheet, on his side with both knees drawn up, looking bare and frail, the splendor of his white hair and mustache now reduced to a scraggly imitation. Poncey walked lightly around the foot of the bed to better see his old friend; unexpectedly he awoke, and looked up with bright eyes that Poncey recognized. "Oh, hi Soldier," he said in the same way he might have upon his porch years ago, as though he had forgotten to not remember. Within a time and space somewhere between sleep and waking, for a fleeting moment the Colonel dwelt in dream shadows of reality. But then the glaze returned, and he sat up like a shriveled toddler, gazing beyond Poncey in utter silence, before lying back upon his bed and sleeping again for one more week.

**The End of the Matter**

When Poncey heard the news, it froze him solid, smack in the middle of polishing Zeke Breather's old pickup truck for the Junk Bucket 50. A chilled autumn sun had finally broken through days of drizzling rain, and spirits throughout Skullbone lifted in anticipation. The brutal summer had passed, but gray November had not arrived to pull its shroud across the countryside. Treetops, not yet void of leaves, wobbled in the wind high overhead as if they expected to turn fully around. Late cotton still speckled surrounding fields. What once was innocently called Indian summer blessed the land with crisp colors and skies, and all of Skullbone prepared with gladness for Harvest Festival Day.

More so than any other year, expectation ran at a fever pitch, for this was to be the hundredth anniversary of the Festival. It wasn't the one hundredth Festival, because of some years when it was canceled due to world war or just plain forgotten, but records revealed beyond doubt that 100 years ago the first such gathering had been held at a cabin with a still in back. The law showed up that morning and stayed through the afternoon, and a tradition was born. Back then the townsfolk could rustle up not much more than an annual potluck dinner, but over time the steady addition of new diversions had made the Festival the highest day of the year.

The Junk Bucket 50, one of the more recent attractions, had taken a prominent place – the race of unlikely vehicles, requiring fifty laps around the city perimeter, capped off the day's planned events. But the rules were strictly informal, and often the drivers' boredom with the track after a few times around thinned the field to such an extent that the winner was simply the last car still running. This established fact gave Poncey hope, because he was tenacious if nothing else, and he talked Zeke into letting him drive the pickup in the race.

True to form, Poncey had prepared himself well before asking for the truck. He sought out every bit of information about auto racing that he could find, from the history of rum-running to peculiarities of Le Mans. He could wax eloquent on how restrictor plates work, which tracks require them and why. He knew the career stats of every driver from Barney Oldfield to "Awesome Bill from Dawsonville" and back again. He could speak at length – and often did – about the relative safety of any given track surface in different weather conditions.

"That's all well an' good," Zeke drawled, "but it ain't gonna help you win no race wit' this heap. Prob'ly'd be the first race ever won by a Di'mnd T. But you kin take it – if you kin get Boneapart out."

Boneapart, Zeke's huge mutt of a dog, did usually keep residence in the truck's bed. Zeke had the unfortunate habit of putting humiliating accessories on Boneapart, which the dog tolerated with as much dignity as he could muster. Zeke might well have forced Boneapart to participate in the "Arf-Full Dogger" Canine Competition, another Festival highlight, but he had no chance of winning because of this shameful past. Politics ran heavily at the show, and the town's dog fanciers would never give their stamp of approval to such a fool. But it would get him out of the truck, Poncey thought.

"You gonna enter him in the show?" said Poncey.

"Might," said Zeke.

The truth was, Zeke had thought hard about entering Boneapart. More so than any other year, a winning dog at the one hundredth anniversary Festival would bring a world of publicity to Breather's General Store and Junkyard. And with his name painted all over his truck, its entry into the race was a foregone conclusion as well, and Breather simply waited for a driver – any driver – to volunteer. Poncey's designs made a soft landing into Zeke's will.

To be sure, Zeke was no fool, in his stained muscle shirt and single suspender. He hadn't stayed in business against a tidal wave of mega-marts by being stupid. He planned to use the Festival Day shindig to his best advantage by hook or by crook. With that in mind, he rang up a cousin of his who owned a small-time carnival, and a quaint midway made of shiny aluminum arose in the middle of town for the big day. A full array of rickety rides, game booths, corndog stands and other childhood delights lined the entire length of Main Street, flashing lights peeking past their reflections and into the storefronts' plate glass windows. Zeke paid for the amusements – at a discount, certainly – so every ride and game was free for the kiddies, and every mom and pop knew who was their benefactor.

"Young'uns know how to enjoy life. Best to enjoy life while you still kin," he said.

Zeke further pursued his hayseed philanthropy by arranging a job at the carnival for anyone who wanted to earn a little pocket cash. So Mack found a day's work running the merry-go-round. Through the summer his humor seemed to be on the rise, along with his curved posture, as if fortunes had pulled him straight. Poncey noticed that Mack seemed to hop slightly higher than usual as he walked, but still he wasn't in a mood to bridge the gap that had opened between them that spring. Every memory of how Mack had left their business partnership twisting in the wind raised his indignation again, and he swore anew never to trust Mack with anything. Mack seemed not to mind. Poncey thought Mack should beg his pardon first, but from a distance his behavior didn't betray any sense of repentance. I'm not like him, Poncey thought, I'm glad I don't need someone to keep me propped up all the time. He'll come around before you know it, he'll be begging me to be friends with him again.

In truth, Mack had not dwelt upon the matter, though at times he might feel like telling Poncey a thought, or perhaps might see something that stirred up a memory to share. After all, they had always been like two peas in a pod, albeit one a garden pea and the other a black-eyed pea. Whatever – there would be time for catching up. For now, he had abandoned his shadows to test the sun, seeking the camaraderie of the Diner and Clip Joint, returning to First Church, mining the possibilities of content. Mavis went so far as to ask him if he'd found a girl somewhere, which only turned him red. The cause was to remain a mystery, but everyone who cared to notice could see something within him had brightened.

After years of troubled disregard, this year Mack saw Harvest Festival Day with childlike wonder. Not since his first year in Skullbone had he anticipated the celebration with such innocent glee. He saw all the events with a deep superficiality, understanding for once the profound joy of simple pleasure. He even appreciated the high school showcase as a rite of passage for the fresh-faced new generation. Mack thought back to what he might have brought to it in his day, then realized he had nothing, and let it go without regret. But this year's carnival thrilled him most, the promise, the lights and sounds and the sheer fun of it, trailing late into the night. Having a part in the festivities, helping to deal out the merriment while taking part himself, seemed to him the greatest delight any person could want or expect. Maybe he'd even see Poncey there.

For Poncey, the question was not if he'd be there, but how he would handle the accolades of the crowd after his victory in the Junk Bucket race. Scanning the carnival layout, he decided he would take up a position at the midway and let his admirers flock to him. He'd already picked out the particular place: The "Balloon-Buster Dart Throw," which closed out the long row of game booths. The string of amusements butted up to the ride area like a T-intersection, and Poncey expected crowds of children standing in lines, and waiting parents, to swarm around him, celebrating his exploits. He saw himself standing there through the night, casually leaning, coolly discussing strategy and driving technique with his admirers; he never considered that aggravated game players might aim their darts at him.

But Poncey had a motive beyond just general adulation. Through his arrangement with Zeke, he happened to know that Jazzy Luray would be working the dart game. Propping himself against her booth, just around the corner from the players' area, he could expound endlessly on his grand escapades, and Jazzy could do nothing about it. Her silken ears, formed in a delicate arabesque, would be subject to the full recounting of his every turn – every bump, every nuance that led to his momentous victory would regale her attention time after time. Finally he had a way to keep her a captive audience, forced to attend to his accomplishments without destroying him in some way.

So Poncey arose on Harvest Festival morning knowing exactly what he would be doing all day. His clattering coffee canister had nothing to offer, so he squeezed another cup from yesterday's grounds and tossed a piece of cold pizza into Judas' bowl. He sat slumped at the table and stared in disgust as the dog, old and misshapen, nibbled around the mushrooms before dragging the carcass behind the couch to gnaw on the crust. Poncey had thought briefly about entering Judas into the competition for "Arf-Full Dogger," but ultimately decided to spare the townsfolk. Growling emerged along with sounds of unctuous chewing as Poncey left for the bathroom. Generally he shaved maybe twice a week, but today he wanted to look clean in case anyone was taking pictures after the race. He considered himself carefully in the mirror – one side, then the next – and coaxed the last few drops from an ancient bottle of aftershave. " 'Who is that handsome mutt?' they'll say," he thought out loud. Judas sleepily looked up from the couch and belched as Poncey left the apartment.

He headed toward Main Street. Zeke's cousin planned to have the carnival up and running by the lunch hour, and Poncey intended to offer the crewmen pointers as he watched them set up. He propped himself against a streetlight that had seen better days and sucked on a straw; in front of him a group of young boys ran in circles and bumped into each other in that idle excitement that's not sure whether it's happy or just bored. He considered the immature jostling and took heart that he had better things to think about. Zeke was there, conferring with his cousin and giving direction, his stout arms pointing out instructions. Like magnificent toys, the rides were self-contained trailers, pulled in by trucks and unfolded like steel origami. Poncey picked out the carousel, the Tilt-A-Whirl and a kiddie-sized roller coaster, but a few other rides he had never seen before, and they arose filled with alluring possibility. He unconsciously began bumping his shoulder against the post.

The gaming booths went up similarly, sides and fronts neatly bolted together with electric drills, bunting and accessories snapped into place. The sight made Poncey, supported by his pole, glad he didn't have to do it. But the manual expertise of the crew flowed almost automatically, with mechanical precision, each problem newly arising quickly yielding to its remedy, and the carnival was assembled well in time. The growing collection of boys gleefully ran to be first in line for the rides, but Poncey, seeing Mack and Jazzy in the distance getting final instruction from Zeke and his cousin, decided instead to first grab some lunch at the Diner.

As he pushed away his pie plate, sparse of flaky crumbs, the carnival music blared in the distance, and Mavis Davis said, "Why ain't you workin' down there, hon'?"

"I got bigger things to do," Poncey said, smugly mysterious in his eyes and voice.

"You always lookin' for some little job to do," Mavis continued, wiping the counter. "Figgered you'd be down there."

"I'm never lookin' for little jobs – I'm huntin' somethin' big," Poncey corrected her. "I'll be there later. I got somethin' to take care of first, though. Somethin' I'd better go do now." And he slid off the stool and set down a couple of dollars. "Keep it."

"Nickel tip? Thanks so much, sugar. You're just too sweet to me."

The carnival was a whirl of busy-ness as Poncey walked past. He scanned the crowd and attractions, picking out familiar faces and things to look into after the race. Zeke was out of sight and apparently gone. The sun glinted merrily off the revolving rides, and balloons lifted bold primary colors against the sky, blue and bright as a diamond. The gay spirit would only intensify as darkness fell and electric lights burned intricate patterns through the increased gloaming, a glorious dance to herald Poncey's great triumph. His mood was light as he set off for Breather's General Store, and anticipation filled his lungs as he set the days' events into motion.

Sure enough, as he walked up to the store, there was Boneapart sitting in the back of the pickup. Today Zeke had strapped an under-sized saddle on his dog's back, upon which perched a stuffed monkey, wearing a fez, riding like a bronco buster. Boneapart sat panting with a pained look in his eye. Zeke's words of warning came back to Poncey, and he sighed and tried to lure the dog out of his den.

"Boneapart! Get on outta there!" Poncey swept his arm low to indicate that Boneapart should expect to step down from the truck bed.

Boneapart sat staring and panting.

"Boneapart! Come on! I gotta wash this hunk of junk for the race!"

Boneapart looked away, the whole situation becoming just too awkward for him.

"Okay! I'm gettin' the hose! You better watch out, or your monkey's gonna get all messed up," Poncey warned, as if the mutt was going to care. I never once thought I'd ever say that to a dog, he thought. Poncey found a couple of nearly clean rags by the building and turned the water spigot, dragging the spewing hose back to the truck. The shower turned the dirt a dark auburn upon the hood and fenders, then washed it off completely, and he polished the old heap to as much of a finish as it had left. Boneapart didn't move a muscle.

"All right, here she comes," Poncey said, and prepared to spray out the bed. Just at that moment the flow blurbled to a fitful trickle, and then off altogether. What th', Poncey thought, and puzzled at the hose. He looked down its length, checking for kinks, until it led him to Zeke, quietly working at the spigot.

"You kin forget 'bout all that," Zeke said, approaching Poncey.

"I wasn't gonna spray him," Poncey explained, adopting the most innocent face he could muster. "I was gonna get Boneapart out first."

"Jus' forget it. There ain't no reason now. Carnival's canceled. Ever'thing's canceled." Zeke's voice was low and thick.

Poncey stood, too confused to do or say anything.

"Look son – Mack's dead."

"Wha – ?"

"Jus' been on the phone. Mack's been killed. Workin' the carousel. Some kid ridin' let go a' her balloon, an' Mack went after it. Slipped an' fell right into the machinery. It – the merry-go-round broke his neck."

A guffaw escaped from Poncey, but it didn't sound quite right. "What?" was all he could say. Zeke's face didn't change.

"Any damn fool knows to wait 'til the ride's stopped."

Poncey's chest no longer worked, and then it worked too well, spasmodically sucking in air that his lungs didn't want. His knees went limp, delivering him heavily to the ground.

Zeke looked over at nothing across his property. "Even with the amb'lance there, he was gone. Ever'thing's canceled, race and ever'thing. Whole damn thing. Dammit. Any damn fool knows to stop the ride first."

Poncey let out a cry he'd never heard before, a croaking gasp that he had no control over. His mind raced with things he should do next, no one idea ever stopping to take root.

"For a kid's balloon. Sorry, Poncey."

Poncey found himself walking, not through town but around its perimeter, the track of the race, not through town so he wouldn't have to see the remains of the carnival. He walked with his head down, watching his feet, loose shoelaces slapping back and forth, and thinking of all the times he'd traveled these roads with Mack. He tried to remember all the good times they'd shared, all their adventures over the years, but couldn't come up with a single one. He'd felt only a general sense of fullness then, and of loss now. All his yesterdays were like tomorrow, an unwritten blank in his mind, out of his powerless hands.

The sky was still its crystalline blue, and the trees and buildings and cars were just as they'd always been. Still, Poncey had a feeling that his town, his world, was a stranger to him. A fundamental flaw hung in the air, a shroud that kept him from seeing. Flowing over him came a conviction that he didn't belong there, that somewhere else these things didn't happen, and only there would he find his home. Cracks, jagged like lightning in the broken sidewalks beneath his feet, rendered the Earth's random judgment upon the orderly designs that pretend to tame it. They led Poncey to the gray concrete stoop of Mack's house.

He pushed lightly on the front door, which Mack never locked and in fact seldom latched when closed. Poncey thought for a moment that perhaps he would find Mack inside, that it was all a big mistake. The door opened with a squeak, and he stepped inside. The front room was cleaner than he remembered, less clutter strewn about but still colored with the grime of the years. Spots of white still speckled the floor along the walls, though they were mostly worn away in the walking areas. The house always had a quiet to it – at least since Mack's mother had died – but it seemed unnaturally still to Poncey this day.

He glanced around the familiar surroundings as if he'd never seen them before. Some pictures hung crooked, as they had for years; some pieces of bric-a-brac lay on their sides, as they had for years. Poncey now imputed each one with some kind of personality, an extension of the people who had held them. He considered the chair in the corner and imagined Mack's mother sitting there, glaring at some spot on the opposite wall, motioning silently toward Mack's bedroom. So he went.

Walking through the dining room, he noticed upon the table a wine bottle, a woman smiling with benign expectation on the label. A candle was stuck in the bottle's mouth, about half-way burned, and judging from the riverlets of wax trailing down the glass, several candles must have preceded it. Before it lay a Bible – the huge family-type in which generations record important events to pass down – with a smudged white cover. Poncey randomly opened it, and fell upon a handful of newspaper clippings, all recounting unusual deeds obscure people from across time and space had fallen into. Lives saved, great scientific leaps accomplished, beautiful expressions of art achieved. Each was pressed neatly within the holy pages.

Poncey wandered into the bedroom, left in utter disarray that morning and no telling how many before. He looked around aimlessly, not knowing what if anything he was looking for. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, blotting out light from the low autumn sun, and wadded clothing piled high upon the dresser, its drawers pulled and overflowing as well. Finally Poncey's eyes lit on the lamp next to the bed, and he turned it on. There on the bed table lay a badly worn book – The House at Pooh Corner. The cover fell open limply; as he flipped through the pages, many nearly slipped out, and all were stained and crumpled. At the bottom of the last page, in smeared pencil, childish printing spelled out the phrase, "Too much changes. Nothing changes." For the first time in his life, Poncey thought outside of himself.

The heavy sweetness of flowers hit Poncey in the nose as he entered First Church. Insipid organ music played in such a way as not to be heard. Poncey surveyed the sanctuary from the back, not really wanting to go near the casket. He noted that all the pews were packed, except the one in front with the sign "Reserved for family," which stood empty; he gazed over the sea of slumped heads. Poncey never guessed that Mack was so popular, and as he walked up the side aisle, he could see the grief within the impassive and stony faces. Jazzy sat with her parents, downcast and shaking. Poncey had never before seen her desolate, her bright face crestfallen into a tissue, sobbing silently because she could do no better. Would she cry that way for him, he wondered. Maybe she loved Mack, he thought, though certainly he'd never done anything to earn it. He did not begrudge his friend. He slinked into the far end of the front pew.

The singer sang a hymn, Poncey wasn't sure which one, and everyone mumbled through Psalm 23. As the service progressed, Poncey's mind turned to a jumble of other things. Rev. Fletcher began, "Marlin MacLenoly, known to most of you simply as Mack..." Poncey stared at the stained glass and the arcane images within the design. He picked out the points of glinting light within the cut stone exposed around the windows, a spark of life in the stoic old building. Bet I could find out why that stone glistens, he thought, I could find out everything there is to know about it, and it wouldn't do anybody a bit of good. He reflected on the wonders and tragedies the church had seen as it sat and waited for years. Rev. Fletcher's voice faded into the cosmos until Poncey's ears suddenly caught on something he said.

"... Just don't let the world own you.

"Life is known for its love and its brutality, for its unspeakable beauty and its unspeakable horror. It offers music and color and warm cinnamon and faithful dogs, and death. 'If in this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied.'

"Why did Marlin suffer? Why did the Christ choose to suffer? We can study our whole lives long, and we may never discover answers to these questions, those answers that will satisfy our passions. Mystery wraps its arms around the world and our passage through it.

" 'So much is said about wasted lives – but only that man's life is wasted who lived on, so deceived by the joys of life or by its sorrows, that he never became eternally and decisively conscious of himself as spirit, as self, or – what is the same thing – never became aware and in the deepest sense received an impression of the fact that there is a God, and that he, he himself, his self, exists before this God, which gain of this infinite blessing is never attained except through despair.'

"Marlin knew. Many times he told me, even when he first came to me as a youth, before the fullness of the world's weight leaned upon him, he knew. He renewed that belief just this summer.

"Marlin lived many days in despair, a despair that led to ultimate hope.

"Marlin was not absurd. His death was not absurd. What is absurd is this world, a chasing after the wind.

"The end of the matter is this: Love God. He is Marlin's exceeding great reward. All the other things of the world that we consider so important are all just baloney. In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost."

The crowd went out back to bury Mack. The pile of fresh earth welcomed him back into its womb, and Rev. Fletcher said a few more words. Poncey turned away, not hearing nor seeing. If Mack was so close to God, why did He kill him? I'm not one of His favorites, at least it sure doesn't seem like it, Poncey thought, why didn't He kill me instead? If Jesus means to bless our lives, why did He take Mack's away? Maybe that was the blessing, he thought. Maybe Mack's the lucky one. Poncey was sure he would never understand, no matter how much he studied on the matter. Maybe that was the point, he thought.

He wandered through the churchyard under dappled light, filtered by leaves suspended like glorious spectres. The day had turned its face toward the dusk looming just past the horizon. Skullbone seemed to have slowly turned, like a man on a path with a sneaking suspicion he has taken the wrong direction, and Poncey began to recognize his hometown again. He wasn't sure where to go next, but his feet took him to the Diner.

"Here you go, sugar," Mavis had pulled a plate of pie out for him as he walked in.

Poncey sat at his usual stool, and listened to the small group of folks who had also sought solace there. Zeke sat alone in a booth, his gut pinched by the table, and Ronnie and Donnie Galloway were together at the counter. Further down sat Constable Crapo looking at himself in a cup of coffee.

"Jes' a shame, a real shame," said Ronnie.

"A real shame," said Donnie.

"Dat boy was always pullin' some oddball trick," Crapo droned. "Sump'm' bound to hap'm to him 'ventchally."

"Jus' a accident, that's all it was," Zeke said. "Mack never thought nothin' through, just acted on what his heart tol' 'im. Jus' a terrible accident."

"Dere was always some kinda sitch'ation goin' on at 'is house," Crapo insisted. "Always some kinda goin's on dere. I hadda go out dere all de time."

"Well, that may be. But this ain't that way. This is just wrong."

"A real shame," said Ronnie.

"I feel terrible," said Zeke.

Mavis brought him more coffee and patted his shoulder. She tried to say something, but could only sigh. Poncey stared at his pie. The bell hanging above the door rang, and Bob Roach stepped in.

"Hey."

"Hey," everyone replied.

"How was the funeral? I had to work."

"It was a funeral," said Mavis.

"Well, I heard that. Such a weird little guy, you almost knew something bad would happen to him eventually."

"Sump'm' bound to hap'm," Crapo muttered.

"You used to push him 'round good enough," Ronnie pointed out.

"That was all just in fun," Bob Roach said. "Never meant nothing. Such a bizarre way to go, like fate was just waiting for the worst possible moment to take him."

"He wuz some kinda oddball," Crapo groused.

"You jus' be quiet over there," Mavis warned. "Ain't no good in speakin' ill of the dead, no matter who they might be. Gonna be you, someday, honey pie."

"Well, anyway, we put 'im in the ground," Ronnie said.

"Put 'im in the ground," said Donnie.

"Anyt'ing new at de radio station?" Crapo asked, eager to change the subject.

"Well, got a big news bulletin this mornin'. Helluva earthquake hit New Zealand."

"New Zealand? Wherez'at? Canada?"

"It's down by Australia," Poncey said under his breath.

"Yeah, it's way far off," Bob Roach said. "They said it's the biggest earthquake ever to hit a city anywhere. Turned that town into a complete war zone – buildings just laying in heaps."

"Really?" said Ronnie.

"No kiddin'?" said Donnie.

"Nope. Most of the power's out, and the sewer lines busted and contaminated all the water. Hospitals all turned to rubble, and highways and rails are ruined all around, and the airport's closed, so there's no way to get supplies in. Got a wire photo of a footbridge, and it's twisted like a corkscrew."

"Da-yum!" said Crapo.

"You got it. And they're reporting propane fires going off, and sulfur in the air. No direct phone lines left, and all the cell towers are down. Bunch of people left homeless, a bunch of people. That place is going to be a mess for awhile – and no telling how many been killed."

"You gonna order somethin', sweetie?" Mavis hung over Bob Roach.

"Um, no. No thanks."

"Oh," she said shortly. "Well, you gotta wonder what was goin' on in a place like that, for somethin' so terrible to happen to 'em."

"Well, get this," Bob Roach drew himself up as if he were about to finish off a joke. "The name of the city is Christchurch. Christchurch! Just laid flat, nothing but rubble."

The Diner considered it for a moment.

"You'd think with a name like that, God mighta given 'em a break," Poncey said, and laid a five dollar bill next to the untouched pie as he stood. "Or maybe not." He headed through the door, the bell rang merrily, and he walked into the long shadows, Mack's book tucked under his arm.

###

Craig Davis was born and bred in Memphis, Tenn., home of Elvis and pulled pork barbecue, though neither of them ever did him any good. After earning bachelor's and graduate degrees at the University of Missouri, he toiled for 20 years at newspapers, and has spent a lifetime in biblical scholarship. An amateur musician, he was once wrestled to the ground by a set of bagpipes. He has two grown daughters and a dog that refuses to grow up. To keep up with other works by Mr. Davis, please join our Facebook page. Also, please visit http://www.StCelibart.com.

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Other books by Craig Davis:

The Job: Based on a True Story (I Mean, This Is Bound To Have Happened Somewhere)

The Church in the Book of Esther

Feallengod: The Conflict in the Heavenlies

Wars of the Aoten

Christ Crucified Before the Foundation of the World

