Boys Life

through being selfish. I wanted Davy Ray to be all right, of course, and that’s what I prayed for with all my heart, but I would never dream of wishing Rebel’s death-in-life on a force of nature like Davy Ray.
    Johnny Wilson and his mother and father showed up. Johnny’s father, a stoic like his son, spoke quietly to Mr. Callan but showed no emotion. Mrs. Wilson and my mom sat on either side of Mrs. Callan, who couldn’t do much but stare at the floor and say, “He’s a good boy, he’s such a good boy,” over and over again, as if preparing herself to argue with God for Davy Ray’s life.
    Johnny and I didn’t know what to say to each other. This was the worst thing either of us had ever been through. Ben and his parents came in a few minutes after the Wilsons, and then some of Davy Ray’s relatives. The Presbyterian minister took Mr. and Mrs. Callan away with him, for more intimate prayer, I presumed, and Ben, Johnny, and I stood out in the hallway talking about what had happened. “He’s gonna be okay,” Ben said. “My dad says this is a real good hospital.”
    “My dad says Davy Ray was lucky it didn’t kill him right off,” Johnny said. “He says he knew a boy who shot himself in the stomach, and he didn’t last but a couple of hours.”
    I checked my Timex. Davy Ray had been in the operating room for four hours. “He’ll make it,” I told the others. “He’s strong. He’ll make it.”
    Another hour crept slowly past. Night had fallen, and with it a cold mist. Mr. Callan had washed the greasepaint from his face, scrubbed the dirt from beneath his fingernails, and accepted the loan of a green hospital shirt. “That’s my last huntin’ trip,” he said to my father. “I swear to Jesus it is. When Davy Ray gets out of this, we’re strippin’ the gun rack clear to the wood.” He put his hand to his face and choked back a sob. Dad put his arm around Mr. Callan’s shoulder. “Know what he said to me today, Tom? Wasn’t ten minutes before it happened. He said, ‘If we see it, we won’t shoot at it, will we? We’re just out huntin’ deer, aren’t we? We won’t shoot it if we see it.’ You know what he was talkin’ about?”
    Dad shook his head.
    “The thing that ran away from the carnival. Now, what do you think got that in his mind?”
    “I don’t know,” Dad said.
    It hurt me to hear these things.
    A doctor with short-cropped gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses came in. Instantly the Callans were on their feet. “May I speak with both of you outside, please?” he asked. Mom gripped Dad’s hand. I knew, as well, that this was not good news.
    When they returned, Mr. Callan told everyone Davy Ray was out of the operating room. Davy Ray’s condition was guarded, and the night would tell the tale. He thanked everyone for coming and showing their support, and he said we all ought to go home and get some sleep.
    Ben and his parents stayed until ten, and then they left. The Wilsons went home a half-hour later. Gradually, the relatives thinned out. The Presbyterian minister said he would stay as long as they wanted him there. Mrs. Callan grasped my mother’s hand, and asked her not to go just yet. So we waited in that room with the stark white walls as the mist turned to rain, the rain stopped, fog drifted across the windows, and mist returned.
    Past midnight, Mr. Callan went to get a cup of coffee from a machine down the hall. He returned a few minutes later with the gray-haired doctor. “Diane!” he said excitedly. “Diane, he’s come to!”
    They rushed out, their hands linked.
    Ten minutes passed. Then, after what seemed an eternity, Mr. Callan walked back into the waiting room. I have seen cigarette burns with more life than his eyes possessed. “Cory?” he said softly. “Davy Ray wants to see you.”
    I was afraid.
    “Go on, Cory,” my father urged. “It’s all right.”
    I stood up, and I followed Mr. Callan.
    The doctor was standing outside Davy Ray’s room, talking to their minister. They made a grim picture. Mr. Callan opened the door, and I walked in. Mrs. Callan was in there, sitting in a chair beside a bed enveloped by a filmy oxygen tent. Plastic tubing snaked up from the figure that lay under a pale blue sheet and connected with bags full of blood and clear liquid. A machine showed a green dot, blipping slowly on a round black screen. Mrs. Callan saw me and leaned over toward the head under that tent. “Davy Ray? He’s here.”
    I heard the sound