The Waste Lands (Page 69)

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She began to turn away.

“Give it back, why don’t you?” the younger boy—Jake’s boy—said softly. The old boy held out the newspaper tube. The girl snatched it from him, and even from his place thirty feet farther down the street, Jake heard it rip. “You’re a turd, Henry Dean!” she cried. “A real turd!” “Hey, what’s the big deal?” Henry sounded genuinely injured. “It was just a joke. Besides, it only ripped in one place—you can still read it, for Chrissake. Lighten up a little, why don’tcha?”

And that was right, too, Jake thought. Guys like this Henry always pushed even the most unfunny joke two steps too far … then looked wounded and misunderstood when someone yelled at them. And it was always Wassa matter? and it was Can’tcha take a joke? and it was Why don’tcha lighten up a little? What are you doing with him, kid? Jake wondered. If you’re on my side, what are you doing with a jerk like that?

But as the younger lad turned around and they started to walk down the street again, Jake knew. The old boy’s features were heavier, and his complexion was badly pitted with acne, but otherwise the resemblance was striking. The two boys were brothers.

JAKE TURNED AWAY AND began to idle up the sidewalk ahead of the two boys. He reached into his breast pocket with a shaky hand, pulled out his father’s sunglasses, and managed to fumble them onto his face. Voices swelled behind him, as if someone was gradually turning up the volume on a radio.

“You shouldn’t have ranked on her that bad, Henry. It was mean.” “She loves it, Eddie.” Henry’s voice was complacent, worldly-wise. “When you get a little older, you’ll understand.”

“She was cryin.”

“Prob’ly got the rag on,” Henry said in a philosophical tone. They were very close now. Jake shrank against the side of the build-ing. His head was down, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans. He didn’t know why it seemed so vitally important that he not be noticed, but it did. Henry didn’t matter, one way or the other, but— The younger one, isn’t supposed to remember me, he thought. I don’t know why, exactly, but he’s not.

They passed him without so much as a glance, the one Henry had called Eddie walking on the outside, dribbling the basketball along the gutter. “You gotta admit she looked funny,” Henry was saying. “Ole Be-Bop Maryanne, jumpin for her newspaper. Woof! Woof!”

Eddie looked up at his brother with an expression that wanted to be reproachful . . . and then he gave up and dissolved into laughter. Jake saw the unconditional love in that upturned face and guessed that Eddie would forgive a lot in his big brother before giving it up as a bad job. “So are we going?” Eddie asked now. “You said we could. After school.” “I said maybe. I dunno if I wanna walk all the way over there. Mom’ll be home, by now, too. Maybe we just oughtta forget it. Go upstairs and watch some tube.” They were now ten feet ahead of Jake and pulling away. “Ah, come on! You said!”

Beyond the building the two boys were currently passing was a chainlink fence with an open gate in it. Beyond it, Jake saw, was the playground of which he had dreamed last night … a version of it, any-way. It wasn’t surrounded by trees, and there was no odd subway kiosk with diagonal slashes of yellow and black across the front, but the cracked concrete was the same. So were the faded yellow foul lines.

“Well . . . maybe. I dunno.” Jake realized Henry was teasing again. Eddie didn’t, though; he was too anxious about wherever it was he wanted to go. “Let’s shoot some hoops while I think it over.” He stole the ball from his younger brother, dribbled clumsily onto the playground, and went for a lay-up that hit high on the backboard and bounced back without even touching the rim of the hoop. Henry was good at stealing newspapers from teenage girls, Jake thought, but on the basketball court he sucked the big one.

Eddie walked in through the gate, unbuttoned his corduroy pants, and slipped them down. Beneath them were the faded madras shorts he had been wearing in Jake’s dream.

“Oh, is he wearing his shortie panties?” Henry said. “Ain’t they cuuute?” He waited until his brother balanced himself on one leg to pull off his cords, then flung the basketball at him. Eddie managed to bat it away, probably saving himself a bloody nose, but he lost his balance and fell clumsily to the concrete. He didn’t cut himself, but he could have done so, Jake saw; a great deal of broken glass glittered in the sun along the chainlink. “Come on, Henry, quit it,” he said, but with no real reproach. Jake guessed I Henry had been pulling shit like this on him so long that Eddie only noticed it when Henry pulled it on someone else—someone like the blonde ticket-seller. “Turn on, Henwy, twit it.”

Eddie got to his feet and trotted out onto the court. The ball had struck the chainlink fence and bounced back to Henry. Henry now tried to dribble past his younger brother. Eddie’s hand went out, lightning-quick but oddly delicate, and stole the ball. He easily ducked under Henry’s outstretched, flailing arm and went for the basket. Henry dogged him, frowning thunderously, but he might as well have been taking a nap. Eddie went up, knees bent, feet neatly cocked, and laid the ball in. Henry grabbed it and dribbled out to the stripe. Shouldn’t have done that, Eddie, Jake thought. He was standing just beyond the place where the fence ended, watching the two boys. This seemed safe enough, at least for the moment. He was wearing his dad’s sunglasses, and the two boys were so involved in what they were doing that they wouldn’t have noticed if President Carter had strolled up to watch. Jake doubted if Henry knew who President Carter was, anyway.

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