The Wanton Troopers (15 page)

“Now, we'll all stand up and sing — and we'll smile as we sing, and sing good and loud, because —”

The rest of Mrs. Cranston's words were lost in the noise of the children getting to their feet. With a great sigh of relief, Kevin felt Av release his leg.

Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling,

Calling, O sinner, come home!

Come home! Come home!

Ye who are wearrry, come hommmme!

The wistful, melancholy tune of the hymn brought tears to Kevin's eyes. THWACK! Av's garter bit him beneath the chin.

A little giddy with their sudden release from restraint, yet subdued by the atmosphere of the church and the presence of their teachers, the children chattered in throaty whispers as they pushed each other toward the door. Hoping to elude Av, Kevin loped down the steps and out of the doors.

“Don't yuh know it ain't nice tuh run when yer leavin' the church, Key-von?”

Av grasped his collar. The boys nearby rocked on their heels and laughed. This was an old game and one they never found wearisome.

Kevin blinked. The knuckles of the hand clutching his Sunday School papers whitened.

“I wasn't runnin',” he mumbled inanely.

Av steered him around the corner of the church, past burdocks and thistles. The others followed, grinning like the cats in a motion picture cartoon.

“What yuh doin', Key-von, callin' me a liar?”

“No, I ain't callin' yuh a liar, Av.”

Almost tenderly, Av led him into the graveyard. They crossed it and halted beside a barn that had once, long ago, sheltered the horses of those who drove buggies to church. The building was now abandoned, odorous with decay.

“Yuh gonna say yer sorry fer callin' me a liar, Key-von?”

He pushed Kevin against the barn wall and leered into his face. Kevin felt the sharp edges of the shingles against his back.

“Answer a man when he speaks tuh yuh, Key-von.”

“Gosh, no, I didn't call yuh a liar, Av.”

“Don't yuh tell me what yuh did or didn't do, sonny. I say yuh called me a liar. And I say yer gonna apologize.”

“I'm sorry I called yuh a liar, then,” Kevin said dully.

For no reason that Kevin could understand, the other boys laughed. They formed a half-circle behind Av, dancing with eagerness, their lips drawn back from their teeth. Illogically, Kevin noticed the pigeons at the other end of the graveyard: silver and steel-blue, their heads bobbing as though they pecked at grain, falling like invisible manna from the air.

Av giggled. “Yuh know somethin', Key-von? I think yer a snotty-nosed little pimp. Don't yuh think that's jist about what yuh are, Key-von?”

“You tell 'im, Av,” Alton Stacey yelled.

Kevin noticed that an empty rum bottle lay on the grave nearest the road. No doubt a drunken automobile driver had thrown it there during the night. Or perhaps some mourner had brought rum instead of flowers? He tried to concentrate on other things — things like the weathervane on the church roof — anything that would take his mind away from his tormenters.

“Don't yuh agree that yer a snotty-nosed little pimp, Key-von?”

Av shook him, banging the back of his head against the wall.

“Don't yuh agree with me, Key-von?”

“Yeah,” Kevin moaned.

The boys howled.

“Say it, Key-von. Say it!”

“Say what?”

“Say: Key-von O'Brien is a snotty-nosed little pimp.”

Kevin took a deep breath. He concentrated desperately on the jittery, mud-coloured sparrows near the windowless rear wall of the church. From the other end of the world, the steps of the church, he heard Mrs. Cranston and another teacher laughing.

“Say it!” the boys whooped. “Say it!”

Humiliation was like a bottomless well.

“Kevin O'Brien is a snotty-nosed pimp,” Kevin repeated.

Some of the boys laughed so hard they threw themselves on the ground. The universe reverberated with laughter.

Av licked his lips. The hands, gripping Kevin's shoulders, were moist with sweat.

“Say: Key-von O'Brien is a stinkin' stuck-up lantern-jawed bastard.”

“Kevin O'Brien is a stinkin' stuck-up lantern-jawed bastard.”

“Say: Key-von O'Brien's mother still has tuh change his dirty didies.”

“Kevin O'Brien's mother still has to change his dirty didies.”

He gave the responses quickly, almost eagerly, wanting to hasten this liturgy of humiliation to its end.

“Say: Key-von O'Brien ain't never been weaned yet.”

“Kevin O'Brien ain't never been weaned yet.”

The boys whooped, their eyes bright and pitiless.

“Put yer thumb in yer mouth, baby.”

Like a robot, Kevin thrust his thumb into his mouth. He vowed that when they let him go, he would find a rope and hang himself.

“Now say: Key-von O'Brien's mother is the biggest old whore in Lockhartville.”

There was a moment of silence. Even Av seemed a little shocked by what he had said.

Then: “Make 'im say it, Av! Make 'im say it!”

“Ever'body knows it's true! Make him say it!”

“Make 'im say it, Av! Make 'im say it!”

At this instant, Kevin's mind was engulfed by a great cataract of light. For a moment, he believed that a falling star had landed in the churchyard, almost at his feet. Then the darkness surged up around him and the earth under his feet rocked like a teeter-totter. With a wail of despair, he tore himself free of his impotence and struck Av's Adam's apple with all the strength in his fist.

Clutching his throat and gurgling, Av fell back. He stared at Kevin in disbelief.

“Why, yuh little bastard,” he said. “Why, yuh little bastard.”

“Don't you say anythin' about my mother,” Kevin croaked through dead dry lips.

Av stepped forward. “I said once she was a whore and I'n say it again, Key-von. Yuh wanta try and stop me?”

Accustomed to Kevin's stupified meekness, Av half-turned his head and winked at Alton Stacey. As he did so, Kevin lunged forward and kicked — Av roared in pain and rage. “Fight fair, damn yuh, yuh yeller little bastard!”

Almost casually, he drove his fist into Kevin's face. Pain rose like sheets of searing red-gold flame, blinding him. He fell to his knees and, as he fell, Av kicked him in the chest.

“Come on, give it tuh 'im, Av!”

“Come on, Av!”

“Paste the yeller little bastard, Av!”

In his conscious mind, Kevin believed that anyone in the world, no matter how weak, could thrash him. He believed, as he had always believed, that he was an anemic poltroon. But that didn't matter now. All that mattered was that he strike out until, at last, he was downed and killed. Av would kill him — he was certain of that. And he wanted to die. He babbled meaningless syllables through froth-dampened lips.

As he staggered to his feet, Av struck him again. Again he fell. The other boy was stronger than he, tougher, the winner of a hundred schoolyard battles. Rising, Kevin aimed a kick at Av's groin. Av caught his ankle and sent him spinning —

He did not know how many times Av knocked him down. But each time he staggered to his feet, his mouth full of the jungle-taste of blood, and each time he leapt upon Av, butting, striking, kicking, scratching, and biting. From a great distance, he heard a boy yelling, “God, looka that crazy look he's got on his mug!” But his fists, feet, and teeth found Av's body. Av's cheek might have been clawed by a cat and blood trickled from his nostrils.

Av pounded him to his knees and brought both fists down on his neck. Again, Kevin dragged himself to his feet. He was weeping now, howling, the tears blinding him, but once more he fell upon Av.

“Give it tuh the sonovabitch, Av!”

“Let 'im have it, Av!”

And now Kevin was so frenzied with insanity that some of the boys fell back. He did not attempt to guard his face or body. Even had he been sane, he would not have known how. Not one of Av's blows missed — and each time Av struck, Kevin went to the ground.

Time and again, Av knocked Kevin to his knees or sent him sprawling on his back. The skin was torn from his palms, blood gushed from his nostrils and dribbled from his mouth. All his consciousness was permeated with pain.

But he got up. And Av, whose injuries were comparatively slight, was baffled. In one of the flashes of awareness that cut like lightning across the blind madness of his frenzy, Kevin saw in Av's eyes the slow darkening of fear. The small spark of reason still flickering in his mind recognized this fear and was amazed by it. But the murderous, insane part of his mind did not care. Prone on his belly in the grass, he grabbed Av's ankles, tripping him. Av fell and, like a cat, Kevin leapt upon him.

They rolled in the dirt, wrestling. Wrenching his hands free, Kevin seized Av's throat. Av struck out at his face, kneed his belly, grasped his wrists, and tried to jerk his hands away. But Kevin would not let go. He choked Av until the boy's face reddened, until his eyes became as weird as those of a trapped and dying animal, until he ceased to struggle but only stirred weakly, his arms and legs trembling spasmodically.

“Git up, Av! Git up and paste him!”

Then, unbelieving, Kevin heard this, “Give it tuh 'im, Kev! Make 'im say he's had enough.”

Straddling Av, Kevin released his hold on his throat. Methodically, with the terrible impatience of the homicidal insane, he pounded his fallen adversary's face. The head jerked from side to side. But Av did not try to dodge. He lay helpless, moaning, as Kevin beat him. Pausing a moment, Kevin saw a stone lying near Av's head. With a sly, spine-chilling grin, he reached out his hand for it —

“He's had enough, Kev!”

This was Alton Stacey, standing over him. Slowly, the light returned to Kevin's mind. The barn, the grass, the church, the sky emerged from the darkness. He saw the boys, standing silent and awed, looked down at Av's smashed and whimpering face.

Shaking like one naked in an unbearable cold, Kevin got unsteadily to his feet. Dear God, don't let me faint, he prayed. Dear God, don't let me faint.

“He ain't said he's had enough yet, Kev,” one of the bystanders cried eagerly.

“Shut up,” Alton Stacey said. “Jist shut yer mouth.”

Av raised himself to a sitting position and looked around him. Seeing Kevin, he started back in fear.

“Yuh leave me alone,” he whined. “Yuh jist leave me alone.”

“Yuh had enough, Av?” Alton asked.

Av did not answer. Oh, please God, Kevin prayed, I don't want to have to fight him again. Please God. He had sunk back into his old paralysis. Had Av risen now and attacked him, he would have stood with his hands by his sides and taken whatever was meted out to him. For he was not brave. His fury had sprung from a source beyond bravery, a source beyond his understanding. A falling star had struck the earth at his feet — “Yuh had enough, Av?” Alton insisted.

Kevin was amazed by Alton's grin. The girl-faced boy seemed amused by the defeat of his friend. Suddenly, Kevin realized that his school mates did not care who was the tormenter and who the tormented. Had he bullied Av, they would have laughed and wriggled exactly as they had laughed and wriggled when Av had bullied him —

“Hit 'im again fer luck, Kev,” somebody yelled.

“Yuh had enough, Av?”

“Yeah,” Av muttered through thick lips. “Yeah, I've had enough.”

Thank you, God, Kevin prayed silently, thank you.

He looked down at his ruined clothes: at his blazer and shorts, torn, muddy, grass-stained, and bloody. Dismayed, he wondered what his mother would say when she saw his clothes . . .

Eighteen

At recess, next day, Riff Wingate and Harold Winthrop herded Kevin and Av into the woodshed. Riff pinched the muscle of Kevin's arm and whistled in mock admiration. “I hear tell yer one helluva fighter, Key-von,” he snickered.

Kevin grinned sheepishly. A dark, secret part of him was coyly proud of his victory. But he did not like Riff's sneer and the eyes that glinted like sharp pebbles under rippling creek water.

“Yessir, I hear yuh licked the livin' bejaysus outta Avie boy, yesterday. Is that right, Key-von?”

The others — Dink Anthony, Jess Allen, Alton Stacey, and Harold Winthrop — nudged one another and winked. Av Farmer glared at the toes of his sneakers.

“— Is that right, Key-von?”

“I don't know.” Kevin blinked and shuffled his feet in the bark, chips, and sawdust covering the dirt floor. The onlookers seated themselves on the chopping block, on the saw horse, on the tiers of crocodile-barked, dry maple logs.

Riff laughed soundlessly and slapped his thigh. “He don't know! Hear that, fellers! Joe Louis here licked Av half tuh death and he don't even remember doin' it! Man, that Key-von is jist like a grizzly bear!” Riff stepped away from Kevin, shielding his face with his hands and feigning fear. “Say, Avie boy, do
you
happen tuh remember it?”

“He's lucky tuh be alive tuh remember it!” Dink Anthony tittered. At times such as this, Dink, an alder-thin boy in ragged overalls who spent hours jack-knifing obscene symbols into the wood of his desk, alternately giggled and licked his lips like a famished dog.

Av did not look up. “Go tuh hell,” he muttered.

Lazily, Riff reached out and slapped Av's face.

“Hey! Whatja do that fer?”

Riff smiled gently. “I thought mebbe yuh was talkin' tuh me, Avie boy,” he said.

Av massaged his cheek. His eyes were moist and luminous with self-pity.

“I wasn't talkin' tuh you, Riff. I was talkin' tuh Blabbermouth Anthony there,” he complained.

For an instant, Kevin enjoyed Av's pain. He half-hoped Riff would slap him again. Then he felt only pity and shame.

“Now, Key-von, you and Avie boy is gonna fight again,” Riff announced. “Yer gonna show us how yuh beat him yesterday. That okay with you, Key-von?”