Boys Life

his skinny arm cocked back.
    Now, this was an interesting situation. I’d been lucky in hitting Gordo’s shoulder; in Nemo’s hand, however, that hard round sphere was a lethal weapon. I had no doubt that Nemo could hit either one of the Branlins right between the eyes and knock their brains out. I had no doubt, either, that he would. Because I saw his eyes magnified behind those glasses. The fury trapped in them, like a distant conflagration, was terrible to behold. He was no longer crying or trembling. With that baseball in his grip, he was the master of the universe. I really think he was ready to kill somebody. Maybe it was the rage at being born a runt, of having a lisp, of attracting bullies like a weak calf makes a predator’s mouth water. Maybe he was full to the gullet with being shoved and taunted. Whatever it was, it was there like a deadly resolve in his eyes.
    Gordo let me go. Lip-ripped and shirt-ripped, I sat in the grass.
    “Look at me shake,” Gotha said silkily as he took a step toward Nemo.
    Gordo fanned out a few paces from his brother. His penis was still hanging out of his jeans. I wondered if that would make a good target. “Throw it, chickenshit,” Gordo said.
    A Branlin was very close to death.
    “Hey, you boys! Hey, there!”
    The voice came across the field at us, from the road that ran along its edge. “Hey, you boys all right?”
    I turned my head, my face as heavy as a bag of stones. Parked on the roadside was a mailman’s truck. The mailman himself was walking toward us, a pith helmet shading his face. He wore shorts with black socks, and sweat stains darkened his blue shirt.
    Like any animals, the Branlins knew the sound of the hinge on a cage’s lid. Without a word to each other, they turned away from the carnage they had created and ran to their bikes. Gordo hurriedly pushed his penis back in and zipped up his fly, then he swung himself up in the seat. Gotha paused to kick Rocket over again; I suppose the temptation to ruin was just too great. Then he got on his bike and the two brothers started pedaling frantically back the way they’d come. “Wait a minute!” the mailman shouted, but the Branlins listened only to their inner demons. They raced across the field, dust swirling up behind them, and then they hit the trails they’d carved through the brushy grass and were gone into the patch of woods that stood beyond. Some ravens screamed in there: scavengers, welcoming their own.
    It was all over but the cleaning up.
    Mr. Gerald Hargison, our mailman who delivered my monthly issue of Famous Monsters magazine in a plain brown envelope, reached me and stopped when he saw my face. “Good God!” he said, which told me it was bad. “ Cory?”
    I nodded. My lower lip felt as big as a goosedown pillow, and my left eye was swelling up.
    “You okay, boy?”
    I didn’t feel like twirling a Hula Hoop, that’s for sure. But I could stand up, and all my teeth were still in their sockets. Davy Ray was all right, too, except his face was a mass of bruises and one of the Branlins had stepped on his fingers. Johnny Wilson, however, had been the hardest hit. Mr. Hargison, who had a fleshy, ruddy-cheeked face and smoked plastic-tipped cheroots when he was walking his route, winced as he helped Johnny sit up. Johnny’s Cherokee hatchet of a nose was broken, no doubt about it. The blood was dark red and thick, and Johnny’s swollen eyes couldn’t hold a focus. “Boy?” Mr. Hargison said to him. “How many fingers am I holdin’ up?” He held up three, right in front of Johnny’s face.
    “Six,” Johnny said.
    “I believe he’s got a-”
    And here was a word that never failed to frighten, giving images of brain-damaged drooling.
    “-concussion. I’m gonna take him to Doc Parrish. Can you two get home?”
    Us two? I saw Davy Ray, but where was Nemo? The ball was lying on the ground next to home plate. The boy with the perfect arm was gone.
    “Those were the Branlin brothers, weren’t they?” Mr. Hargison helped Johnny stand, and he took a handkerchief from his shorts pocket and held it against Johnny’s nostrils. In no time, the white was spotted with blood. “Those fellas need their butts kicked.”
    “You’re gonna be all right, Johnny,” I told him, but Johnny didn’t answer me and he walked rubber-legged as Mr. Hargison led him to the truck. Davy and I stood watching as Mr. Hargison got him in and then went around and started the engine. Johnny leaned back in