He knows it's trouble when the cards containing questions--Sports: What
boxer was called the Winnetka Widgeon? Geography: What is the per minute
charge to call the International Date Line?--leap from their maroon box and
scatter like quail chicks flushed in the woods.|
He knows he should pursue them--everyone else is, knocking over the host's
thousand-dollar lamps and fifteen-hundred-dollar vase, cracking skulls on
the five-thousand-dollar coffee table made of marble so thick it took four
weightlifters to hump it in.
But he recalls a field, color of katydids, the Easter he was four. Other
kids scattered like quail (big enough to knock him down), then returned,
baskets heaped with red and blue and golden eggs, while he limped back with
what Daddy called "deer droppings" . . .
Question cards by now have broken through the ring of propriety that guards
the hosts' bedroom.
How many affairs have you had?
Do you thrash or lie still when you masturbate?
Candidly assess your partner's genitals?
Players groan, knocked senseless by the one-two of Embarrassment and Truth.
He watches the game board's butterfly-wings open and close, open and close,
each stroke blowing him farther from the center circle where the winners stand.