Boys Life

around town in his birthday suit was nothing new for Vernon Thaxter. He did it all the time, once the weather started warming up. You didn’t see him very much in late autumn or winter, though. When he first appeared in spring, it was always a start; by July nobody gave him a second glance; by October the falling leaves were more interesting. Then it came spring again, and there was Vernon Thaxter with his private parts on public display.
    You might wonder why Sheriff Amory didn’t stand up right then and there and haul Vernon off to jail for indecent exposure. The reason he did not was because of Moorwood Thaxter, Vernon ’s father. Moorwood Thaxter owned the bank. He also owned Green Meadows Dairy and the Zephyr Real Estate Company. Just about every house in Zephyr was mortgaged through Moorwood Thaxter’s bank. He owned the land the Lyric theater stood on, and the land where this courthouse had been built. He owned every crack in Merchants Street. He owned the shotgun shacks of Bruton, and his own twenty-eight-room mansion at the height of Temple Street. The fear of Moorwood Thaxter, who was in his seventies and rarely seen, was what kept Sheriff Amory in his seat and had kept forty-year-old Vernon naked on the streets of my hometown. It had been this way as long as I remembered.
    Mom told me that Vernon used to be all right, but he’d written a book and gone to New York with it and a year later he was back home wandering around nude and nutty.
    “Gentlemen and ladies,” Vernon began. “And children, too, of course.” He reached out his frail arms and grasped the podium’s edges. “We have here a very serious situation.”
    “Momma!” the Demon suddenly squalled. “I can see that feller’s dingdo-”
    A hand with hairy knuckles clamped over her mouth. I guess the elder Thaxter owned their house, too.
    “A very serious situation,” Vernon repeated, oblivious to everything but his own voice. “Daddy sent me here with a message. He says he expects the people of this town to show true brotherhood and Christian values in this time of trouble. Mr. Vandercamp Senior, sir?”
    “Yes, Vernon?” the old man answered.
    “Will you kindly keep a record of the names of those able-bodied and good-thinking men who borrow digging utensils from you for the purpose of helping the residents of Bruton? My daddy would appreciate it.”
    “Be glad to,” Mr. Vandercamp Senior said; he was rich, but not rich enough to say no to Moorwood Thaxter.
    “Thank you. That way my daddy can have a list at hand when interest rates go up, as they are bound to do in this unsettled age. My daddy has always felt that those men-and women-who aren’t loath to work for their neighbors are deserving of extra considerations.” He smiled, gazing out at his audience. “Anyone else have anything to say?”
    No one did. It’s kind of difficult to talk to a naked man about anything but why he won’t wear clothes, and nobody would dare bring up such a sensitive subject.
    “I think our mission is clear, then,” Vernon said. “Good luck to all.” He thanked Mayor Swope for letting him speak, and then he stepped down from the podium and walked out of the chamber the way he’d come. The Red Sea parted for him again, and closed at his back.
    For a minute or so everybody sat in silence; maybe we were waiting to make sure Vernon Thaxter was out of earshot. Then somebody started laughing and somebody else picked it up, and the Demon started screaming with laughter and jumping up and down, but other people were hollering for the laughers to shut up and the whole place was like a merry glimpse of hell. “Settle down! Settle down, everybody!” Mayor Swope was yelling, and Chief Marchette stood up and bellowed like a foghorn for quiet.
    “It’s damn blackmail!” Mr. Moultry was on his feet again. “Nothin’ but damn blackmail!” A few others agreed with him, but Dad was one of the men who stood up and told Mr. Moultry to shut his mouth and pay attention to the fire chief.
    This is how it got sorted out: Chief Marchette said that everybody who wanted to work should get on over to Bruton, where the river flowed against the edge of town on its way to the gargoyle bridge, and he’d have some volunteers load the shovels, pickaxes, and other stuff into a truck at Mr. Vandercamp’s hardware store. The power of Moorwood Thaxter was never more evident when Chief Marchette finished his instructions: everybody went to Bruton, even Mr.