Nobody's Fool

appeared, took in the situation at a glance and smiled unpleasantly at her husband, Peter, who had that moment emerged from the den, where the baby started to cry. Now ringed by speechless adults, Wacker continued to bump and hoot and squirt along the floor, impossible to ignore, impossible to take seriously.
    Robert Halsey took all this in from the living room and made no attempt to get up from his chair. By his own calculations, seconded bynumerous physicians, he had no more than three months to live, and he studied the cluster of humans in the next room with detached, almost clinical interest. Both sexes and the spectrum of ages were represented, and the old man managed to take in each person efficiently—his unhappy daughter, Vera, and her long-suffering husband, his crippled ex-son-in-law, Sully, the little boy’s father, Peter, and his large, graceless, sad wife, and the boy himself, his great-grandson, little dick in hand, so full of life and energy. Robert Halsey took them all in, felt affection for one and all, but concluded then and there that even if his next breath of pure oxygen proved to be his last, he wouldn’t trade places with any of these people, and so he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep, riddles still unanswered, mysteries still unsolved.
    When Wacker bolted from the bathroom, his brother Will closed the door behind him and locked it. He wasn’t afraid of getting spanked. His father never spanked him hard. Nor was he afraid of the humiliation attendant upon what he’d done. His young life was full of embarrassment, all of which he shouldered with adult resignation. What he was afraid of was his little brother, who had made no promises of amnesty and who would not honor them if he had. Wacker was a boy without honor, a boy born to terrorize other boys, even bigger ones. Will was deeply afraid of Wacker’s fearlessness, which, combined with the little boy’s long memory, made him a formidable adversary. His parents understood none of this, Will knew. They were simply disgusted with Will’s cowardice. “You’re bigger than he is, for Christ sake,” his father always said. “He’s a half-pint. You’re a full pint. Are you going to go through life tattling and running to Mommy and Daddy? It’s”—his father took a while to locate the right word—“unnatural,” he finally said.
    In Will’s opinion it was Wacker who was unnatural. It was unnatural the way his brother’s eyes narrowed when he contemplated a new act of terror, the way those narrowed eyes focused on Will to let him know that once he’d perfected whatever he was concocting, Will would derive its full benefit. Also, Wacker’s lack of fear was unnatural. He wasn’t afraid of anything, even Grandpa Sully, who looked like a murderer on TV, all limping and grinning and covered with dirt. Will himself liked his grandfather, even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to. Grandpa Sully had at least
tried
to scare Wacker yesterday, warning him not to whack his bad knee again. How was he to know that nothing scared Wacker, whose attackon Grandpa yesterday signaled to Will that his little brother had reached a new plateau of courage and malice? He had actually attacked and hurt a grown-up. That Wacker truly inflicted pain was one of the things Will had never been able to convince his father, who seemed to think Wacker was too small to really hurt anyone. Will knew better. Pain was Wacker’s business. He gave it to you like a present. You’ll like this, the expression on his face always said.
    Until recently Wacker’s favorite act of terror had been the twisting pinch, administered from behind. Wacker had learned somehow that the loose skin on the underside of the arm, just above the elbow, was especially tender, and he always waited until Will’s back was turned before sneaking up and locking on with thumb and forefinger. Wacker was still perfecting the twist-pinch maneuver that sent Will high onto his tiptoes, howling in pain. The injuries that Wacker inflicted never had a chance to heal either, because he always returned to the same spot, where the broken blood vessels and flesh were still tender. And lately Wacker had shown indications of branching out. At the dinner table he’d catch Will’s eye and show him the sharp tines of his fork.
    Anymore, Will thought of little except keeping Wacker in front of him and in