Boys Life

earth.
    I accepted my plaque from Mayor Swope. When I sat down, people around me clapped me on the back, and I could tell by the way my mom and dad smiled that they were proud of me. I didn’t mind that my name was misspelled on the plaque. I knew who I was.
    The second-place winner, by Mr. Terrence Hosmer, was about a farmer trying to outsmart a flock of ravens after his corn crop. The first-place winner, by Mrs. Ada Yearby, concerned the midnight kneeling down of the animals at the birth of Jesus Christ. Then Mayor Swope thanked everyone for coming and said that we could all go home. On the way out, Davy Ray, Johnny, and Ben swarmed around me, and I believe I got more attention than even Mrs. Yearby. The Demon’s mother waddled up to congratulate me, and she looked at my mother with her broad, mustached face and said, “You know, Brenda’s birthday party is next Saturday and Brenda sure would like your boy to be there. You know, I wrote that poem for Brenda, ’cause she’s a real sensitive child. Would your boy come to Brenda’s birthday party? He don’t have to bring no present or nothin’.”
    Mom looked at me for a cue. I saw the Demon, standing with her father across the room. The Demon waved at me and sniggered. Davy Ray elbowed me in the ribs; he didn’t know how close he was to getting killed. I said, “Gee, Mrs. Sutley, I think I might have some chores to do at home on Saturday. Don’t I, Mom?”
    Mom, God love her, was quick. “Yes, you sure do! You’ve got to cut the grass and help your father paint the porch.”
    “Huh?” Dad said.
    “It’s got to be done,” Mom told him. “Saturday’s the only day we can all work on it together.”
    “And maybe I can get some guys to help,” I offered, which made my buddies find wings on their feet.
    “Well, if you wanna come to Brenda’s party, she sure would like it. She’s havin’ her relatives over and all.” Mrs. Sutley gave me a defeated smile. She knew. Then she returned to the Demon and said something to her and the Demon gave me that exact same smile. I felt like a heel on a dung-stained boot. But I couldn’t encourage the Demon, I just couldn’t! It was inhuman to ask me to. And oh brother, I could just imagine what the Demon’s relatives must be like! That group would make the Munsters appear lovely.
    We were almost out the door when a quiet voice spoke: “Tom? Tom Mackenson?”
    My dad stopped and turned around.
    He was in the presence of the Lady.
    She was smaller than I remembered. She barely stood to my father’s shoulders. But there was a strength in her that ten men couldn’t have matched; you could see the force of life in her as you can see it in a weathered tree that has bent before the winds of countless storms. She had approached us without Mr. Damaronde or the Moon Man, who stood waiting at a distance.
    “Hello again,” Mom said. The Lady nodded at her. My dad wore the expression of a man trapped in a dark closet with a tarantula. His eyes were skittering around, searching for a way out, but he was too much of a gentleman to be rude to her.
    “Tom Mackenson,” she repeated. “You and your wife sure have raised a talented boy.”
    “I… we… we’ve done our best, thank you.”
    “And such a good speaker,” the Lady went on. She smiled at me. “You’ve done well,” she said.
    “Thank you, ma’am.”
    “How’s that bicycle doin’?”
    “Fine. I named it ‘Rocket.’”
    “That’s a nice name.”
    “Yes ma’am. And…” Tell her, I decided. “And it’s got an eyeball in the headlight.”
    Her brows lifted, ever so slightly. “Is that a fact?”
    “Cory!” Dad scolded. “Don’t make up such things!”
    “Seems to me,” the Lady said, “a boy’s bicycle needs to see where it’s goin’. Needs to see whether there’s a clear road or trouble ahead. Seems to me a boy’s bicycle needs some horse in it, and some deer, and maybe even a touch of rep-tile. For cleverness, don’t you know?”
    “Yes ma’am,” I agreed. She knew Rocket, all right.
    “That was kind of you to give Cory a bike,” Dad said to her. “I’m not one to accept charity, but-”
    “Oh, it wasn’t charity, Mr. Mackenson. It was repayment for a good deed. Mrs. Mackenson, is there anythin’ at your house that Mr. Lightfoot needs to fix?”
    “No, I think everythin’s workin’ just fine.”
    “Well,” she said, and she stared at my father. “You never know when things are likely to suffer a