Blunt Darts

that Stephen was involved with Blakey in any way, with or without consent?”
    “No. I mean Stephen is not exactly average, but he's not abnormal. At least, not that way. I don’t mean Ithink that... that that is abnormal, you know, if that’s what an adult, two adults, I mean, decide to do, but...”
    “Okay. Assuming Stephen left involuntarily, he could have been taken to a place none of us would ever guess or stumble on. So let’s assume that Stephen’s on his own. We don’t know where he went, but we have to start somewhere. So how would he get where he’s going?”
    “Hitchhiking,” said Val as she squeaked open the Styrofoam chest. “John, I’m sorry, but I’m starving. Can we start just a little bit early?” I didn’t like her voice when it wheedled.
    “Yes, we can start,” I said, “but hitchhiking, at least toward his destination, isn’t likely. He’s smart enough to fear he’d be remembered and recognized. He might have hitchhiked away from here, though, and toward some other form of transportation.”
    “Like a bus station?” She unwrinkled some aluminum foil.
    “Good thought, but they’ve been checked, apparently competently.” I sat up.
    Val said, “Just let me toss these away so they won’t blow, and then we can dig in.” She trotted off with some paper toward a trash basket. I noticed that the Dallas Cowboys were headed back toward us. As they approached Valerie, Big Boy made some remark that sounded like, “Hey, hey, school is out, boys.” Val shook her head and trotted back to the blanket. The boys whooped a little at her distinctly feminine gait.
    ‘I just so hate people like that,” she said as she reached into the cooler.
    “Can you think of any type of transportation Stephen might try to use?” I asked.
    She cut a hunk of cheese and passed it and some gourmet crackers over to me. I reached over and Poured the wine. I had my head down as she angered. “No, not really. Of course, he—Hey!”
    I looked up to catch part of a rooster-tail of sand in y wine and all over the cheese.
    “Sorry, lovers, but that pass was in the fourth quarter, and we needed it to keep our drive alive,” said Big Boy over his shoulder as he loped away from us.
    I raised my voice so it would crack. “You fellows ought to have some respect for others, you know.” I “Oh, I have lots of respect for Miss Jacobs, pop,” he yelled, his pals hooting. I noticed Big Boy was wearing jean cut-offs held up by an old belt. Off to our right, the old man was sputtering again.
    Val was looking at me oddly, the way you react when someone you’ve so far liked shows some weakness or failing, like dropping a racist remark.
    “Sorry about the cheese,” I said as I brushed it off.
    “Oh, that’s okay, John,” she said uncertainly, dropping her eyes a little and fussing with the crackers.
    “By the way,” I said, “do you have a hairbrush in that bag of yours?”
    She looked up. “A what?”
    “A hairbrush.”
    She turned awkwardly for it without taking her eyes off me. “Yes, yes I do.” She dipped into her bag and produced a big blue plastic one with a thick handle and a broad working end.
    “Thanks,” I said, and slid it between two folds in the blanket. “Now, can you think of any form of transportation Stephen might favor?”
    She tried to refocus her thoughts. “No. No.”
    I heard some thudding behind me and, sure enough, my imitation of the all-American wimp was drawing the all-American schmuck inexorably back toward us-He did a stop-and-go turnaround, which again showered the elderly couple. He then came chugging at us full tilt, following the wobbly arc of the ball, his face turned back over his shoulder.
    Val, believing, reasonably, that she had to try take charge of the situation, rolled up onto her knees and yelled, “Hey, watch out!”
    Big Boy did nothing to show that he heard her. He was about twenty feet from us. I figured he would glance once at us to orient himself and then plant his left leg, the one closest to us, just outside our blanket in order to (1) turn sharply to receive the pass and (2) inundate us with another tidal wave of sand. I waited and then did what every schoolyard kid knows how to do.
    I stuck out my foot.
    Big Boy’s left foot landed just before my outstretched calf. As he pivoted on that foot to redirect his momentum, the sand flew all over me. As he stepped off, though, my lower leg was a bar to his left leg, and he toppled. He hit the sand