least ten pounds, and financed his mail-order muscles by clerking for a week at a fireworks stand. After that it was only a matter of following instructions and faithful calisthenics.
Aaron’s wrists and ankles were still girl-slender, but his agility was superhuman. Watching Charlie try to pin his friend in a good-natured wrestling match was, as Coleman Hardin put it, “. . . like shoveling fleas with a pitchfork.”
For a moment after their handshake, neither boy spoke. Then Charlie began, “That guy is really lucky. If I ever get mad at him, boy . . .” and trailed off.
Aaron gave a quick nod of agreement followed by a slow negative headshake, which Charlie understood perfectly: agreement, then irritation. All he said was, “What a momzer,” and then loped off down the tree-shaded avenue. Charlie accepted that while Aaron’s dad was lenient on some points, for some reason he wanted Aaron at home by sundown on Fridays.
Charlie trotted home constructing great towers of retribution for Jackie Rhett that always crumbled when Charlie struck them with blunt reality. Jackie was a fact of nature that defied all Sunday-school logic; he was social Darwinism in the raw. Mean-spirited, pudgy, quick-tempered, badly raised, by all rights Jackie should have been a pushover. Yet Jackie pushed everything else over with regularity. Jackie could hit harder, bear more pain, add a column of figures quicker, and catch more sun perch than any of his classmates.
Charlie never thought about the likelihood that in a taller, tapered form and without the touch of acne, Jackie might have been the class hero. What Charlie did consider was that most likely he would fall asleep that night replaying his inglorious retreat from the older boy.
But Charlie was wrong. His last thoughts that night were that he’d give a nickel to know what a momzer was.
CHAPTER 2:
FUNDS FOR A SATURDAY
Charlie waked to the distant music of plates clattering in the kitchen, and seconds later he was underfoot there. Five days a week during the school year he emerged from his room as if drugged and might not struggle fully awake until midmorning recess. On the sixth day he was atingle at the first flutter of his eyelids. His mother had only to murmur, “Charlie,” for him to materialize at the breakfast table. Since the age of ten he had graduated to shoes and something that might pass for a T-shirt. When younger, often barefoot and shirtless, Charlie had been formally dressed for Saturday.
Coleman Hardin, already in the alcove called a “breakfast nook,” crinkled a smile over his coffee cup toward his son. Then as Charlie slid into the bench opposite, his father placed the cup in its saucer with surgical precision.
Charlie knew the signs. So far he had heard only one word: his name. Yet a huge amount of communication had passed through the little family. His mother had nodded her welcome and smiled toward the alcove table as she forked strips of bacon onto a paper napkin. A good sign, and her pretty, fine-boned features were defined by lipstick and an obvious touch of rouge, which meant she was ready to confront whatever the world might hold.
And Charlie’s dad had smiled, usually another good sign—but he wore his old khaki work clothes, a bad sign. He hadn’t fixed Charlie with that flinty arctic eye feared by all sons, but his smile was not entirely convincing and he had taken special care with his cup, as though it was half-full of nitroglycerine. His fair hair had been combed but was now mussed, a clear sign that he had already engaged in some undisclosed work. Before breakfast. And Charlie’s dad would stroll over hot coals sooner than do manual labor before breakfast.
Now the elder Hardin lowered his head, eyeing Charlie in the manner of a man peering over invisible bifocals. Even before his father spoke, Charlie was fidgeting. “Very good job on that mesquite, Charlie.”
Understanding and shame crossed the boy’s face. He bit his lip and
Aaron’s wrists and ankles were still girl-slender, but his agility was superhuman. Watching Charlie try to pin his friend in a good-natured wrestling match was, as Coleman Hardin put it, “. . . like shoveling fleas with a pitchfork.”
For a moment after their handshake, neither boy spoke. Then Charlie began, “That guy is really lucky. If I ever get mad at him, boy . . .” and trailed off.
Aaron gave a quick nod of agreement followed by a slow negative headshake, which Charlie understood perfectly: agreement, then irritation. All he said was, “What a momzer,” and then loped off down the tree-shaded avenue. Charlie accepted that while Aaron’s dad was lenient on some points, for some reason he wanted Aaron at home by sundown on Fridays.
Charlie trotted home constructing great towers of retribution for Jackie Rhett that always crumbled when Charlie struck them with blunt reality. Jackie was a fact of nature that defied all Sunday-school logic; he was social Darwinism in the raw. Mean-spirited, pudgy, quick-tempered, badly raised, by all rights Jackie should have been a pushover. Yet Jackie pushed everything else over with regularity. Jackie could hit harder, bear more pain, add a column of figures quicker, and catch more sun perch than any of his classmates.
Charlie never thought about the likelihood that in a taller, tapered form and without the touch of acne, Jackie might have been the class hero. What Charlie did consider was that most likely he would fall asleep that night replaying his inglorious retreat from the older boy.
But Charlie was wrong. His last thoughts that night were that he’d give a nickel to know what a momzer was.
CHAPTER 2:
FUNDS FOR A SATURDAY
Charlie waked to the distant music of plates clattering in the kitchen, and seconds later he was underfoot there. Five days a week during the school year he emerged from his room as if drugged and might not struggle fully awake until midmorning recess. On the sixth day he was atingle at the first flutter of his eyelids. His mother had only to murmur, “Charlie,” for him to materialize at the breakfast table. Since the age of ten he had graduated to shoes and something that might pass for a T-shirt. When younger, often barefoot and shirtless, Charlie had been formally dressed for Saturday.
Coleman Hardin, already in the alcove called a “breakfast nook,” crinkled a smile over his coffee cup toward his son. Then as Charlie slid into the bench opposite, his father placed the cup in its saucer with surgical precision.
Charlie knew the signs. So far he had heard only one word: his name. Yet a huge amount of communication had passed through the little family. His mother had nodded her welcome and smiled toward the alcove table as she forked strips of bacon onto a paper napkin. A good sign, and her pretty, fine-boned features were defined by lipstick and an obvious touch of rouge, which meant she was ready to confront whatever the world might hold.
And Charlie’s dad had smiled, usually another good sign—but he wore his old khaki work clothes, a bad sign. He hadn’t fixed Charlie with that flinty arctic eye feared by all sons, but his smile was not entirely convincing and he had taken special care with his cup, as though it was half-full of nitroglycerine. His fair hair had been combed but was now mussed, a clear sign that he had already engaged in some undisclosed work. Before breakfast. And Charlie’s dad would stroll over hot coals sooner than do manual labor before breakfast.
Now the elder Hardin lowered his head, eyeing Charlie in the manner of a man peering over invisible bifocals. Even before his father spoke, Charlie was fidgeting. “Very good job on that mesquite, Charlie.”
Understanding and shame crossed the boy’s face. He bit his lip and
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