feeling quite—what’s the word? I’m sure Tony here would know. What’s the word I’m not quite feeling, Tony?”
Anthony closed his eyes and fought for breath.
“Mollified!” Marty shouted, and Anthony’s eyes flew open again. “I’m not quite mollified.” He started laughing. “Mollified. Like Molly, get it? Like Moll?” He laughed some more, looked at me like I should be getting the joke. I offered a weak smile, which was all I could muster; I wasn’t getting it. “Molly. The gangster’s Moll. You know, kid,” and Marty stopped right in front of the tree, hands on hips and dagger dangling from one hand, “I don’t think I’ll call you Tony ever again. I know you don’t like it. So I’m going to mollify you.” He threw his head back and barked out one more guffaw. “From now on, you’re Moll. You’re my bitch, kid.”
Marty moved forward again, dagger pointing upward now, directly under Anthony’s nose. “Tell me that suits you. Go on. But don’t nod, or you might lose a nostril.”
Anthony’s eyes were crossing so hard they must have hurt, trying to see the point of that dagger. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t say anything, was my guess. Marty tilted the blade so that it was pointing toward the tip of Anthony’s nose now, but he pulled his hand away about a foot.
“Come on, Moll. Say that suits you.” He started moving the blade forward.
Anthony’s squeal started again, and just before the blade point would have met skin he whimpered, “Okay.”
Marty pulled the blade back an inch. “Okay, what? Come on, you little faggot, tell me it suits you. Tell me you liked having a guy’s dagger so close to yours. Tell me you got hard because you’re queer. Say that’s why I can call you Moll.”
Anthony was struggling to oblige him, I think, but he couldn’t quite decide what words to start with. I got up and moved over to them.
“Anthony, just nod if it’s okay for Marty to call you Moll.” Anthony’s eyes veered over to mine, and he nodded. “Nod that it’s because you’re queer.” I couldn’t let the kid off too easy, or Marty would keep at him. He nodded again.
Marty said, “Nod because you’re my bitch, faggot.”
Anthony squeezed his eyes shut and, once more, nodded.
Slowly Marty lowered his arm and slid the dagger back into its sheath. He punched my arm and said, “C’mon, Paul. Let’s get outta here. This kid is pathetic.” He moved toward the car.
“But…he’s still tied up. And we have to take him home.”
Marty was standing beside the open driver’s door. He pounded a fist on the roof. “Leave him!” he shouted at me.
There was this tense moment when we stared at each other over the car roof, and then he pounded it once more, got in, roared the engine to life, and gunned it, shooting gravel in all directions. I watched until I couldn’t see the car anymore, just dust hanging in the air over the dirt road. Then I turned to the tree.
Anthony’s head was hanging down, and he was sobbing quietly. He knew the worst was over, but he also knew his life was going to be hell from now on. I didn’t know what to say, so I just worked at the knots, cursing Marty for disappearing with the knife. And the car. How the hell were we going to get back? And Anthony’s books were in the back of Marty’s car. Come to that, so were mine.
When he was free of the ropes Anthony glared at me, still crying, and ran off down the road. I guess I didn’t blame him, but I’d been thinking we ought to work together to figure out the best way to get home. On the other hand, I sure as hell didn’t know what to say to him.
I picked up the ropes, my math book, the pen, and the pad of paper we’d been using, and walked down the road until I found enough scrub along the side to shove all but my book into a spot where they’d be hard to see. A lot of the plants were the kind with dark, dusky green, flat leaves that smell sort of sweet and sort of sour when you touch them. I think it’s called sweet fern, but I’ve never liked it, and now I stunk of it all up my arms.
Five minutes later I heard an engine coming up behind me. I turned and saw a light blue pickup, some guy who looked like a farmer behind the wheel. He slowed down when he came alongside me. There was a dog in the truck bed.
“Need a ride, kid?”
Hadn’t I just offered a ride to Anthony? I almost said no, but I really didn’t want to walk all the way home. Plus, the guy looked harmless. “Thanks,” I said as I slid onto the seat and pulled the door shut.
“What’re you doin’ out this way, and on foot?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Horsing around with a friend. Wheelies, you know. But he got pissed about something and took off.”
The guy nodded, like he’d probably done stuff like that himself. Then he jerked his chin toward the road ahead and said, “That your friend, by any chance?”
I looked up the road, and there was Anthony, shuffling along, head hanging down. Christ, I was thinking; don’t stop! Please don’t stop! All I said was, “My friend drove off in his car.”
“His shirt’s ripped.” The driver pulled a little ahead of Anthony, who didn’t even look up. The farmer stopped the truck, got out, and went over to him. “You okay, kid? Need a lift?”
Anthony’s head came up to look at the driver, then he turned to look at the truck and saw me. He shook his head violently and shoved past the guy.
“Hey! Kid!”
Anthony started running, but he stayed on the road. The guy got back in the truck, pulled forward so he was a ways ahead of Anthony, and got out again. I turned to watch as he took Anthony’s shoulders in his hands, shook him a little, and finally threw an arm around his shoulders, propelling him toward the truck. Anthony looked as though he was trying like hell not to cry.
I was sure neither of us wanted to sit on this seat, thighs touching, after what had happened. After what I’d done. I got out. “I’ll ride in the back,” I said, knowing that there was a distinct possibility that Anthony would spill his guts to the farmer. I hopped into the bed and got as comfortable as I could on a burlap bag full of something, across from the dog, a Border collie, who was tied to a heavy piece of equipment.
The guy shut the passenger side door after Anthony climbed in, and then he leaned his arms on the side of the truck bed next to the dog, staring at me. “What’s going on?”
It was Marty who got me into this mess. This isn’t really my problem. “The kid’s a jerk,” I said, wondering even as I said it where I thought this was going to get me. “We were just teaching him a lesson. We didn’t hurt him. He’s fine.” The guy stared at me until I had to drop my gaze. I felt heat flowing up my neck and into my face.
“Where do you live?” After I told him he said, “We’re taking this kid home, and then we’re taking you home. After that, you’re on your own.” He walked around the back of the truck to get to the driver’s side, but before he opened his door he said to me, “You’re a bully, you know that, kid? You can’t sink much lower than that.”
We bounced along the dirt road until the guy turned onto paved surface. There was another ten minutes, maybe, to Anthony’s house. So I was stuck back here until then. And maybe I wouldn’t even get into the cab after we dropped the kid off.
Then again, it would get me away from this dog. He kept staring at me. It was like he was saying, “Are you proud of yourself, you big, big boy?” I tried waving a hand in his face, but he barely flinched and just kept staring. In case you don’t know, Border collies are about the most intelligent dogs there are. There’s a joke that goes, How many Border collies does it take to change a lightbulb, and the answer is one, but he won’t get to it until he’s checked to make sure the wiring in the house is up to spec. Dad’s joke.
It was my Dad who told me about Border collies. And German shepherds.