ÿþ<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> <html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> <head> <title> Poetry and Prose from In Posse Review</title> <meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html" charset="utf-8" /> <meta name="author" content="In Posse Review, http://www.webdelsol.com" /> <link rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="19_a_style.css" /> </head> <body> <center> <br /> <table border="0" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"> <tr> <td valign="top" width="35px"> <p> <img src="insposse.gif" width="30px" height="187px" alt=" " /><br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;<br />&nbsp;</p> </td> <td valign="top" width="15px" bgcolor="#0f0000">&nbsp;</td> <td width="15px">&nbsp;</td> <td align="left" valign="top" width="400px"> <h1>Trumpet</h1> <h2>John Repp</h2> <p> "How you play this thing?" The colored kid peered into the bell of the trumpet. "This look too fat to blow into, but the other end too skinny. You show me?" </p> <p> "Sure, give it here." Ed turned his hands palms up and forced himself to smile. His grandmother always said honey caught more bees than vinegar. </p> <p> The kid ignored the offer, turning the horn this way and that, fiddling with the keys, working each spit valve a few times. The case lay open behind him on the wet grass, straight mute crushed like a soup can on the sidewalk, cup mute in pieces by the curb, bottles of slide lube and brass polish and valve oil kicked into the gutter. Ed reached for the horn, and the kid pulled it back. "Naw, that's not how it go." </p> <p> Ed looked the kid in the eye. His father said if you didn't look away, you'd be all right. Show fear and you're dead. "If you keep it, how can I show you?" </p> <p> The kid held the trumpet like a baseball bat, mimed rapping home plate, set up in a coiled stance and let go a slow-motion swing. His face betrayed no emotion, his voice no inflection. "You think I'm a dipshit?" </p> <p> "Come on, I know you're not stupid. You asked me to teach you how to play, that's all." Calm. He had to stay calm and friendly. "Hey, what's your name? I'm Ed Randall." He held out his hand. </p> <p> The kid looked at the hand, then brought the trumpet close to his face and resumed his examination. Ed wiped the hand on his trouser leg and folded his arms. If he stayed cool, things would start to go his way. After all, his father said colored kids got an early start making life miserable for everybody, so they made it look easy. It's all in how you're trained. Monkey see, monkey do. You just have to stand your ground and wait them out. </p> <p> The kid worked the valves, then unscrewed the cap at the bottom of each and gazed inside. Replacing the caps, he ran his hands over the brass, untwisted the mouthpiece, squinted into the tube end, twisted it back in. He levered the spit valve nearest the bell, brought the horn to his nose, took a breath and shook his head. "Whoo. Nasty." Holding the trumpet at arm's length, he glanced at Ed, then back at the horn. "This a piece of shit." </p> <p> Ed said nothing. He was rock and this creep was scissors. </p> <p> Turning to leave, the kid said, "I guess it <em>my</em> piece of shit now." </p> <p> "No, come on, what do you want?" Ed felt a sob quivering up from his belly, then realized his whole body was trembling. He took a few deep breaths, slow and easy, hoping it looked as if he were barely controlling himself, the dumb-ass not thrown in the street with his arms ripped off only because Ed was better than that, a boxer, not a fighter, was that how it went? Did it matter how it went? None of the advice he carted around had worked so far, had it? His father wasn't there to help, his mother and grandmother weren't there, and why wasn't anybody on the street? Couldn't somebody driving by see he was in trouble? All he wanted was to get to Big Charlie's, have a Coke, maybe spread cheese on a pizza or two, then go home&#151;no, that wasn't all. He wanted his horn, and not just because he was late or because his father would kill him if he found out he'd let it out of his sight, never mind letting somebody steal it. The trumpet was <em>his</em>, and he wanted it back. </p> <p> The kid stood just out of reach, eyelids half-closed, hands lazily moving over the horn. "You show me how to play?" </p> <p> "Come on, give it here. I have to go." Ed took a step forward and the kid stepped back. Maybe he could make like he was giving up, then spin, go for the knees and bash the creep's stupid head on the cement. </p> <p> "Where we going?" </p> <p> "Come on. I need it." Ed took another step, then two more, the kid impassive, his backward steps timed perfectly, the dance reminding Ed of the clowns that summer on the Steel Pier. Even when the one clown got so mad he chased the mirror-clown off the stage and up the aisle, he may as well have been running after himself. </p> <p> Ed stopped, fixing the kid in a cold stare, his face smooth as polished stone. This had to end. He had to get to Big Charlie's or his mother would go crazy. But he had to do the right thing because this kid was no regular bully. Regular bullies came with a band of followers and didn't say much. They tripped you or punched you in the back of the head, and they always wanted money and laughed as they walked away counting it. Regular bullies could be avoided if you weren't as dumb as they were, but this creep seemed like nothing special coming down the sidewalk ten minutes or ten hours or ten years ago, Ed walking to his uncle's pizza shop as he did every Thursday after his music lesson, feeling grown-up, sure of where he was going and where he'd come from, then boom, the case was out of his hands and thrown down, everything inside stomped or kicked away, the trumpet cradled in the kid's hands. </p> <p> "You keep saying  come on,' but we never go nowhere. You want to go someplace with me?" </p> <p> "Forget it. Keep it. I'm leaving." Ed shrugged and half-turned away, then spun around and lunged toward the kid's waist. Hopping clear, the kid snatched his right wrist and twisted, Ed stumbling and yelping, free hand groping the air as he slid to his knees. Right hand around the base of the bell, the kid held the trumpet at arm's length. "Come on," Ed said. "Let go, OK?" </p> <p> "OK," the kid said, and dropped the horn on the sidewalk. Bent toward his aching wrist, Ed lifted his head to look the kid in the face, pain jetting up his arm the second their eyes met. He curled on his left side, torqued so hard he could almost lean back on the kid's legs. He begged him to stop, which he did, stopped turning the wrist any further, at least, Ed panting and drenched with sweat, smack down on the sidewalk with his arm straight up as if he were champion of something, cars whooshing by, the trumpet half on the grass, dented, dull gleam off the bell, business end kinked halfway to the valves. </p> <p> "You ask nice and I stop," the kid said. Ed looked at the hand locked around his wrist, gray-brown except for the pink in the palm. His cheek brushed the kid's pants, shiny green things, the kind worn by boys who stood apart at recess, arms folded, one leg wrapped around the other, no kickball or tag for them. He wore spic-boots, too, scuffed near the points, worn down on the outsides of the heels. "You don't ask nice, I pull your fucking arm out the socket," the kid said, tugging hard. </p> <p> "Ow! What do you want me to say? Please, come on, take the trumpet! Take it!" </p> <p> The kid dropped Ed's arm, said "I don't want your skanky horn," turned, and bopped away. </p> <br><br> <p> As soon as the kid turned the corner onto Third, Ed slid off the sidewalk and lay back on the grass, resting his head on his good hand, the other limp and throbbing on his stomach. His mother and everything else could wait for him to rest a minute. Nothing had worked, but he'd fought for his rights and he hadn't cried, the only cost a sore wrist and a banged-up trumpet, both of which could be fixed without anyone knowing a thing. </p> <p> For now, he didn't care who saw him or what they thought, not that he ever saw anyone walking down Park this time of day, which seemed more strange the more he thought about it&#151;not the absence of people, but his parents letting him be anywhere help would be hard to find, especially here, the neighborhood his father referred to as The Bad Part or The Colored Section or Niggerville, depending mostly on how things had gone at work. If a packer called off and he had to spend the graveyard shift at the end of a conveyor shoving glassware in cartons instead of being the best damned foreman in the plant, The Bad Part was Niggerville, where somehow all injustice got born and got worse by the day, so bad the Communist school board sent Ed to school there and Jack and Molly soon enough, so bad their house might as well helicopter over and plop down, the kids and the wife so lazy and spoiled they'd fit right in, hang the laundry out on the porch, yell and scream all day long, at which point his mother would glare at him and say, "Enough, Mike. The children don't have to hear that crap," and they'd end up in the bedroom yelling about right and wrong and making things better or worse and who gives a shit about Martin Luther King and what about the pastor's sermon after the children died in that church fire and you said yourself the maintenance foreman is a good man and what matters are the lessons you've got to learn or the world runs over you like a bulldozer. </p> <p> Some time before the school year began, his mother had won some sort of victory, at least when it came to Ed's whereabouts on Thursday afternoons. Warning only that he was not to dawdle after his music lesson and not to wander off down this street or that, she had set the weekly routine: walk three blocks down Park to the Boulevard, turn right two blocks to Pear, go into Big Charlie's and wait. For two months now, he'd gone to school in The Bad Part, walked five blocks through The Bad Part&#151;two of them on the Boulevard no less, the site of half the crimes dispatched over his father's police scanner&#151;and eaten a slice of pizza in The Bad Part whenever his mother was late. </p> <p> With luck, she'd be late today. He sat up, cradling the bad hand on his lap. He flexed the fingers and slowly bent and straightened the wrist, wincing at the pain that knifed up his arm. Everything worked, it looked all right, and it would have to hurt a whole lot more for him to tell anyone. He'd gotten his horn back, and there was no way he was going to risk giving up lesson day, his day, no school bus to ride, no Jack to look out for, on his own a little while to take in everything he could without brother or sister or parents there to interfere. The creep was another story, but Ed hadn't seen him before, so maybe he'd never see him again. Maybe he'd already gotten what he wanted. Maybe he was sitting in his slum living room right now telling his eight brothers and sisters he'd found a white sucker they could torture the next time he was stupid enough to show up in their neighborhood. Ed took a deep breath and blew it out. Whatever the truth, he had a week to figure something out. </p> <p> He looked around. Across the street, a man hurried past, cradling a bag of groceries in the crook of his arm. A semi roared by, making a wind that rustled the ragged hedge to Ed's right, so thick and high he couldn't see the house behind it. He stood up and took a few more deep breaths, flexing his wrist and fingers hard against the pain, telling himself he was all right, he could move everything, nothing was swelled up. </p> <p> By the time he'd brushed himself off, tucked his shirt back in, wedged the trumpet in its case and started walking toward Big Charlie's, the 4:00 horn at the glass plant had gone off, his mother frantic somewhere, maybe screaming at Big Charlie, the customers giving one another looks, his uncle throwing his arms out, saying "Jeezoo Pete, Francine, keep it down. I got a business to run." She'd done things like that more than once. He walked fast, passing groups of men carrying lunch buckets, their jackets thrown over their shoulders. One stopped, bent to light a cigarette, and glanced at him as he sped by, almost trotting now. </p> <p> Half a block from the Boulevard, he saw their black Chevy emerge from behind Heinrich's Hardware and creep into the intersection, shift traffic keeping his mother from making the turn. He caught another glimpse between passing cars&#151;his sister half out the back window banging her tiny fists on the door, his mother trying to push her back in with one hand as she lay on the horn with the other. He was about to yell, but the light changed and she made the left, the car bucking and lurching through the intersection, its front end lifting as she straightened around and gave it the gas. As she thundered past, she saw him, screamed "Eddie!" and hurled the car into a U-turn, veering to the curb, gravel spitting from underneath the tires. She leaned over, pushed open the passenger door and hollered, "Where the hell have you been? I've been driving all over this goddamned neighborhood looking for you!" </p> <p> Putting an expression on his face he hoped looked puzzled yet happy-go-lucky, he waved to Molly and strolled to the car, bending down to smile at his mother. "Hi, Ma. Sorry I'm late." He climbed in, arranged the trumpet between the two of them and yanked the door shut with his injured hand, wincing and grunting as he did so. </p> <p> "What's the matter?" Flushed, goggle-eyed, she peered at him, reached the back of her hand to his forehead. Molly bounced in the back seat, sing-songing his name, clapping her hands in time. </p> <p> "Nothing's the matter, Ma. Mr. Perchaska kept me late, that's all, and I guess I walked a little slow." </p> <p> "Cut the shit, Molly!" She whipped around and smacked the girl on the arm. Whimpering, Molly sidled out of range and drew her legs up to her chest. "A little slow? You're almost an hour late, young man. What have you been up to? And where are your books?" </p> <p> "No homework. The teachers have a training day tomorrow." </p> <p> "A training day? That's rich. That Bond you like so much needs about a hundred of those. Perchaska, too. Four teachers in that dump plus those art and music idiots and they don't add up to any one of the teachers I had." She pulled the car into traffic, riding the clutch, pumping the gas between gears, railing at his teachers, their fat paychecks, personal habits about which she had information on good authority, the taxes that ground all the good people down, the help Big Charlie hired and couldn't keep because of sheer stupidity, and speaking of that, what about Margaret and the other secretaries she worked with, sloppiness and lack of responsibility all around, Margaret with all that red hair she was so proud of and not the brains God gave a cat. No one knew the meaning of responsibility anymore, never mind courtesy, never mind self-respect or honesty or determination. </p> <p> He was in luck. Some days she would have ground through him the way she ground through the gears, but today, not finding him where he was supposed to be had loosed the horde of enemies all decent people had to fight just to stay even. By sitting there and nodding at the right times, mouthing the yes's and no's and uh-huh's required, he slipped to safety like a spy, keeping his hurt hand limp on his lap, planning repairs to the battered horn, the old car rumbling and rattling them home. </p> <BR><BR> <p> Two days later, a rainy Saturday morning, Ed sat on the edge of his bed, the trumpet braced between his legs. The tools he'd smuggled from his father's workbench lay to his left on the rumpled sheet. Chin cupped in his hands, Jack lay on his own bed across the attic room. "They'll find out," he said. "They always find out." </p> <p> "Not if you shut up they won't." His wrist still tender, Ed gingerly picked up the pliers and fitted the jaws above the kink in the mouthpiece tubing. Even if Jack didn't shut up, it would be all right, but why chance it? As far as his brother knew, he'd dropped the trumpet during his lesson. He doubted anyone cared about or even remembered the mutes and the other stuff that rattled around in the case. They paid the junk man for the horn, so that's the only thing that mattered. </p> <p> "I won't tell. I won't have to. All they have to do is look at it." </p> <p> "So what? It's all beat up anyway. If I get it so the mouthpiece goes in straight, it'll be OK. Dad only paid twenty dollars for it." Jack put on his "if you say so" smirk and fell silent. They both knew that any dollars were too many if certain boys didn't take good care of things. </p> <p> Ed squeezed the pliers and exerted gentle pressure. Nothing. Both parents reminded him constantly not to drop the instrument because brass was a soft metal, a long way from steel. To show him, his father had once grabbed a piece of scrap tubing from his workbench and kinked it with a tug of his wrists. </p> <p> This brass didn't seem soft, though. Emboldened, he wedged the bell more firmly under his thighs, held the valve casing tight in his left hand, fitted the pliers, and put steady leverage on the tubing, which moved smoothly toward true, the kink opening as it did so. This would work, it really would work. </p> <p> Ed sighted down the tubing, took up the pliers, and applied more leverage until everything lined up. He picked up the screwdriver and slid the blade down the tubing, twisting and levering until only a couple of small dents remained. Satisfied he'd done what he could, he set the mouthpiece, raised the horn to his lips and blatted his way up the C-scale and down again. "Good job, huh, twit?" </p> <p> Jack grimaced. "Yeah. Great. You win." Hands clapped over his ears, he left the room, Ed plodding out "Three Blind Mice," convinced the horn had never sounded better. </p> <p> The following Thursday, Ed stood with Jinx Gianelli in the school basement practicing quarter-notes&#151;four C's, four D's, four E's, on up the scale and down again, over and over. If they kept good time and didn't foul up too many notes, Mr. Perchaska had promised they'd try "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," its speed and mix of notes a test of lip and tempo. Every week, he reminded them that goals were good, especially ones that asked more of you than you already knew. Practicing every day made it possible to do things you didn't know you could do. </p> <p> Not only had Ed practiced every day that week, he'd tried "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and every other song in their book, had spent so much time playing the horn his father slapped him on the shoulder as they ate dessert one night, saying, "You sound like a regular Harry James, son," his mother nodding and smiling as she poured herself a cup of coffee. Though the noises he made bore little resemblance to what Perchaska could make the horn do, though he drove Jack and Molly outside for however long he practiced, he'd not only fooled his parents, he'd pleased them. </p> <p> He'd pleased himself, too. He made the right sounds, however imperfectly, and Perchaska kept saying he had a good sense of time. He even had a plan for handling the colored kid: when he appeared, Ed would put the trumpet case down, grab the two biggest textbooks in his satchel, and run straight at him, chucking the books as soon as he was in range. If the kid hadn't turned tail by then, Ed would jump on him and go crazy, punching and kicking till he gave in. </p> <p> Now, as he and Jinx trudged through their first try at the song the teacher had promised, Ed felt eager to have the music done, to get outside and teach the creep who was boss. Perchaska tapped the beat on the music stand with a pencil, marking the end of each measure by stomping his foot on the packed earth. Ed tapped his foot in time, wincing at the racket he made and hoping he made less of it than Jinx, whose brand-new horn seemed no help at all. Every so often, Ed glanced toward the teacher's face, but he couldn't see much above the mouth because the ceiling was so low Perchaska had to fit himself between floor joists in order to stand upright. Several times in their weeks together he'd gotten so excited by something in the sounds they made he banged his head, spending the rest of the half-hour wedged into an old desk, tapping, stomping, and sighing. </p> <p> After their fourth time through, Perchaska bent down and said, "OK, guys, that's enough. Eighth notes next week. Practice every day so you build your lip. Otherwise you'll just blat everything." The two boys packed up their instruments and music and followed the teacher up the ancient wooden steps to the front hallway, Ed grabbing the book satchel where he'd left it next to the fire extinguisher. </p> <p> Out in the parking lot, Mrs. Gianelli sat idling her huge, green station wagon. "Eddie!" she called, waving. "Such a warm day for November! Tell your mother I asked for her!" </p> <p> "I will, Mrs. Gianelli." He would, too, the woman one of the few who'd made Francine's "good people" list. </p> <p> "Need a ride?" she asked, pointing to the back door. </p> <p> "No thanks. My mother picks me up at Big Charlie's." </p> <p> "Stay on your toes!" </p> <p> "OK, Mrs. Gianelli. Thanks." </p> <p> As he opened the passenger door, Jinx said, "Randall, I'm so excited we're moving up to eighth notes next week, aren't you?  Three Blind Mice' is history." </p> <p> Ed laughed. "Yeah, I'm ready to faint. See you tomorrow." As Jinx pulled the door shut, Perchaska putted by on his scooter, sport coat flapping, Jinx and his mother waving good-bye as the station wagon lumbered into the street, Ed alone in the lot, stomach buzzing now, the five blocks ahead a journey he suddenly dreaded. </p> <p> Unless he counted the previous week, he'd never been in a fight, let alone started one. The kid was quick and smart, and he knew the territory. He probably had fifty hiding places in the hedges along Park alone. Ed had to stay alert and act fast, according to plan. If he did, at least the kid would have to deal with a different Ed than he had the first time, a guy who meant business, a guy who defended what was his and didn't waste time talking. </p> <p> He picked up the trumpet case and satchel and started down the sidewalk, swiveling his head constantly, determined not to be caught off-guard. The traffic whipped gusts of acrid wind into his face, and he was soon damp with sweat, panting with the effort of lugging everything along. At the corner of Park and Third, he stopped to rest, sitting on the trumpet case, the book satchel open should he need ammunition. </p> <p> Then he spotted the creep coming up Third, not half a block away, smiling no less, smiling and walking that I-don't-have-to-hurry walk. This was it. Ed slid the trumpet case under the mailbox by the curb, snatched two fat books from the satchel and started running, the kid stopped now, arms spread as if he were ready to give Ed a hug. </p> <p> Fatigue gone, huffing like a railroad engine, Ed ran, the books clutched in his pumping fists pulling him along, his feet light, wind full in his face, the sight of his charge obliterating the colored kid's smile. At exactly the right time, in full stride, Ed heaved first one book, then the other, the kid throwing his arms up and ducking, one book just missing his shoulder, the second catching him full in the stomach, doubling him over. Then Ed was on him, inside the sweat-stink and fear of him, punching, grunting, yanking at his shirt, ramming his knees into the creep's back, the two rolling onto the grass between sidewalk and curb, the kid huffing and groaning as he flailed his fists and kicked at Ed's knees and groin. </p> <p> Tire-squeal and door-slam and screaming and someone was pulling at him, jerking him upright, shouting his name again and again, his mother wedging herself between him and the kid, screaming for them to stop, holding them apart like a referee, hair wild, dress askew, the kid up, panting, beckoning at Ed, his shirt ripped half open, mouth and chin so bloody he sprayed scarlet droplets as he gasped out curses, Ed nodding yes, oh yes, come and get it, pain in his right eye and both hands and knees, pain all over, but he could zip into the air and dive-bomb the creep if he wanted to, jam him into the cement with one big hand. </p> <p> Then his mother had him by the shoulders, shaking him, saying "Stop, Eddie. Just stop," the kid sitting on the grass now, dabbing at his face with his torn shirt. </p> <p> Ed shook his head, still panting. "OK. It's OK, Ma. He knows what's mine now." He started giggling, pointing toward the hidden horn, a few tears sliding down his cheeks. </p> <p> "I don't know what the hell you're talking about, but I'm going to find out." She straightened her dress, fussed at her hair, and turned to the colored kid. "What's your name?" </p> <p> "<em>Fuck</em> you, lady." </p> <p> She walked over and yanked him to his feet. "What's your <em>name</em>, son?" </p> <p> The kid jerked his arm free. "Clarence my name, and I ain't your son. This fool, this <em>dead </em>fool your son." </p> <p> "I'm the only one making threats, Clarence. Get in the car or I swear I'll finish what Eddie started." Clarence glowered at her, then his face went slack, and he slumped toward the car. "Eddie, get in. Now. We're taking your new friend home to straighten this out." </p> <p> They roared deep into The Bad Part, Francine hunched over the steering wheel, Molly facing backwards in the passenger's seat, training her astonished gaze first on one boy and then the other, till Ed said, "Quit staring, Molly," and their mother, concentration broken, barked at her to sit like a human being. Clarence slouched against one back door giving sullen directions, and Ed slouched against the other, weary, oddly calm, amazed at his battered clothes and aching body, proud of the unforeseen ferocity that had kept the trumpet safe. His father would be proud, too, once he heard the story. This Clarence creep knew Ed Randall was one white kid who couldn't be messed with. </p> <p> At last, they squealed to a stop in front of a two-story brick house, Clarence throwing his door open and racing for the porch, then up the steps and inside, screen door banging behind him. Ed gingerly pulled himself out of the back seat, his mother already halfway to the house, Molly churning her legs to keep up. As Ed caught up with them, he heard loud voices coming from inside. When they reached the door, Francine turned and glared at him. "You speak when it's your turn and only when it's your turn. And both of you&#151;" she tugged hard on Molly's arm&#151; "be polite, no matter what. Get it?" They nodded, Ed brushing at his filthy clothes, wary of what they would find in the house, poised to plot a quick escape. </p> <p> Before they could knock, a tall woman in a dark blue apron appeared behind the screen and glared at each of them in turn, resting her gaze at last on Francine. "Why in the <em>hell </em>does my Clarence look like he's been run over by a truck?" She punched the air with a wooden spoon as she spoke. </p> <p> "I'm very sorry, ma'am," said Francine, pulling Ed in front of her, "but your son and mine got into it over on Third Street&#151;why I don't know&#151;and I thought it best to bring Clarence home right away and talk it over. I'm Francine Randall, this is my daughter, Molly, and this mess is my son, Eddie. I hope he can use your bathroom to get himself cleaned up." </p> <p> The woman stepped onto the porch, slammed the screen door behind her, and bent so close to Francine their foreheads almost touched. "Talk it over? Clean himself up? I've got half a mind to clean <em> you</em> up, lady." </p> <p> Francine stepped back, fussing with her hair. "I know it looks like Clarence got the worst of it, but Eddie's never been in trouble, so your son must have done <em>something</em>. Please, I just want to find out what happened and make it right." </p> <p> The woman folded her arms and gazed over their heads, the wooden spoon moving in little circles as she thought. "Well, you did bring him home," she said at last. "I guess you'd better come in so we can find out what's what." She held the door open, and they walked into the cleanest, brightest, most fragrant living room Ed had ever experienced, his pain and weariness gone, all thoughts of escape become pangs of hunger. The moist air smelled like baking pies, onions, a tangy spice unknown to him, a roasting hunk of some kind of meat. Framed photographs impeccably arranged on its lid, a gleaming, dark brown piano dominated one wall, two overstuffed armchairs and an immense sofa the others. Matching end tables and lamps, a huge, black coffee table holding neat stacks of books, and two paintings of summer beaches completed the perfection. Ed stood transfixed, ravenous. Why couldn't their house smell this incredibly good? </p> <p> Gesturing toward the sofa, Mrs. Johnson said, "Seeing Clarence like that made me forget my manners, Mrs. Randall. I'm Dorothy Johnson. Please sit down while I fetch him, and then we'll see about getting your son straightened up." Shaking her head, she strode down the hallway at the far end of the room and out of sight. </p> <p> "Mama, I'm hungry," said Molly, hands folded in her lap. </p> <p> "Not now, Molly. Eddie, this better be good." </p> <p> "Ma, look, he&#151;" </p> <p> "Save it till they come back. Under the circumstances, Mrs. Johnson's being very civil to us. Just tell the truth." She ran a hand across her forehead and sighed. "Thank God your father's working days this month." </p> <p> Just then, Clarence and his mother reappeared, Mrs. Johnson pushing her son toward one of the chairs and lowering herself into the other. Washed and changed, his upper lip swelled to twice normal size, Clarence otherwise looked as he had the first day Ed saw him&#151;impassive, loose-limbed, dressed like a playground hood. </p> <p> "All right," said Mrs. Johnson, "I want to get this settled before my husband gets home. So," she nodded at Ed, "tell your side, young man." </p> <p> "He stole my trumpet." </p> <p> "Stole your trumpet?" Francine stared at him, then looked at Clarence. "Hey, that's right. Where is that thing?" </p> <p> "No, not today. It's under the mailbox on Park." </p> <p> "The mailbox on Park?" said Mrs. Johnson. "If it's under a mailbox, how could Clarence have stolen it?" </p> <p> "No, last week he stole it." </p> <p> "Last week ? said Francine. "What do you mean  last week'? You've been playing the damned thing all week!" </p> <p> "No, he stole it, but I got it back and fixed it." </p> <p> "I didn't steal nothing off you," said Clarence. </p> <p> "Speak like a civilized person, Clarence," said Mrs. Johnson. Turning to Francine, she said, "I am sorry. I swear, they turn thirteen, you give them a little slack, let them have clothes everybody's supposedly wearing, and they turn into strangers." <p> "He's lying, Ma," said Clarence. "I'm walking over to help Uncle Johnny like you told me, and this fool comes up and starts talking all big about his horn this, his horn that, so I let him show it to me, and he's so spastic he drops it." </p> <p> "No! You&#151;" </p> <p> "Stop, both of you," said Mrs. Johnson, rising from her chair. "Francine, come into the kitchen so we can talk. Clarence, be a gentleman and show Eddie to the bathroom so he can clean himself up. And Molly, wait right there and I'll bring you a piece of pie and some ice cream." </p> <p> Eyes half-closed, Clarence jerked his head toward the hallway, lip sticking out like an extra tongue. "Down that way, angel food cake." </p> <p> Holding the other boy's gaze as he walked by, Ed turned down the hall, wanting to jump the creep all over again, after which he'd gorge on whatever Mrs. Johnson was cooking. </p> <br><Br> <p> Undressed to his underwear, Ed sat on the toilet seat, using a silver hand mirror to inspect his scratches and bruises, only one of which&#151;the bluish lump over his right eyebrow&#151;would cause his father to notice anything wrong. Of course, his father would think everything about the afternoon except him taking it to Clarence was nothing but wrong. Or maybe not. He wanted what was best for them, and he prided himself on being fair, but it didn't pay to be unrealistic. His father wasn't anything like Uncle Harry, who talked about a "darky invasion," put bars in all the windows, and watched television with a loaded pistol wedged in the seat cushion. Uncle Harry took things way overboard, both his parents said so. </p> <p> Ed wiggled his toes in the dense blue carpet. Who'd have thought there'd be carpet in the bathroom? And not just any carpet, but a luxurious substance that made you want to lie down and take a nap on it. Were these people rich? Probably not, or they'd have a house five times as large, like the ones along the river where the doctors and lawyers and the people who owned the glass factory and the canning plants lived. No, they weren't rich, but everything in the house seemed solid in a way new to Ed. </p> <p> He got up and ran hot water in the sink, washed and dried his face and hands, and put his clothes back on. As he tied his shoes, he heard the piano&#151;soft chords and high, single notes, then a run of dense, complicated sound, a thunderstorm or a battle, then the high notes again, like delicate raindrops. Mrs. Johnson was playing the piano. Anyone whose kitchen smelled like that could do a thousand other beautiful things, too. </p> <p> When Ed emerged from the hallway, he saw it was Clarence at the piano, his head nodding to the tempo of the gorgeous music. Molly sat at a card table near the kitchen doorway spooning ice cream into her mouth, and the women sat next to one another on the sofa, his mother with a hand on her cheek and Mrs. Johnson with her eyes closed, the hint of a smile on her lips. "Hi, Eddie!" Molly chirped. "I'm eating ice cream!" </p> <p> The music stopped. Clarence turned and looked at Ed, his fat lip strange on his stony face. "Well, now," said Mrs. Johnson. "You look none the worse for wear, though I'd put some ice on that bump when you get home." </p> <p> "Let me take a look at that," said his mother, motioning to the space next to her. </p> <p> "I'm all right, Ma." </p> <p> "Clarence," said Mrs. Johnson. </p> <p> "But he&#151;" </p> <p> "Right now." </p> <p> Clarence slid off the piano stool, walked over to Ed and stuck his hand out, his face betraying the usual lack of emotion. This was the same creep as the one on the street, the same one who'd made the music a minute before, the same one Ed still wanted to pulverize. What would a corny thing like shaking hands do to sort any of that out? </p> <p> "Shake this young man's hand, Eddie," said his mother. "You don't have to be friends, but you don't have to be enemies, either." </p> <p> "And it looks like you have something in common," said Mrs. Johnson. "Music's a powerful thing." </p> <p> Clarence shot his mother a hard stare, the hand still extended. Ed felt an urge to grab it and bring the creep to his knees, but he reached out and gave it a quick shake instead. Clarence said, "OK, Ma?" </p> <p> "OK. Now, go put some more ice on that lip." </p> <p> "Dorothy, I'll get Molly cleaned up and then we have to be going," said Francine. "I appreciate everything." </p> <p> "Things do work out sometimes. You're welcome to come again, if you'd like." </p> <p> "I get off work at three most days. Can I bring Molly?" </p> <p> "This little cupcake? Absolutely." </p> <p> Then they were on the porch, a slight chill in the late fall air, his mother and Mrs. Johnson shaking hands. A man in the next yard stopped raking leaves and stared. An elderly woman passed on the sidewalk, the wheels of her shopping cart squeaking. </p> <p> They climbed in the car and drove off, Molly singing in the back seat, Ed and his mother silent in the front. He gazed at The Bad Part flowing by, certain his father would hear about none of this. They'd tell Molly to keep quiet or no more of Mrs. Johnson's pie, retrieve his horn, and go home, his cleverness and courage a secret he wouldn't even tell Jack, the lump over his eye the result of some imaginary accident. He and Clarence were the only ones who knew the whole truth. He had some details to figure out, but he'd have his mother's help and plenty of time.</p> <br><br> <hr /> <h2>John Repp</h2> <p>John Repp's work has appeared recently in the <em>Redwood Coast Review</em> and <em>Slab</em> (nonfiction); <em>Clare, The King's English, The Gihon River Review,</em> and <em>In Posse</em> No. 18 (fiction); <em>Puerto del Sol, The Journal, Court Green</em> (poetry). Recent collections include <em>The Fertile Crescent</em> (Lyre Prize in Poetry, Cherry Grove Collections, 2004), <em>Gratitude</em> (Cherry Grove Collections, 2005), <em>White Doe</em> (limited-edition chapbook, Mayapple Press, 2004), and <em>Time to Get Some Things Straight</em> (March Street Press, 2005). </p> <br /> <br /> <div id="logo"><em>In Posse:</em> Potentially, might be . . . </div> <p><img src="tedhead.gif" align="right" alt="logo" /></p> <h3><a href="http://webdelsol.com/InPosse/index.htm" align="right"> Return</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; </h3> <br /> <hr /> </td></tr></table></center></body></html>