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Show Chick Sales 15 Herman closes his eyes to find shelter from his father's wrath gone awry, to go to his pool under the willow tree. It won't be long, he thinks, and he can sell papers. "Gifts for you, mother dear. Glass shoes for your feet. A flower for your hair. And mother," he w i l l say in his bow t ie and shiny shoes, "here's a big box. I rolled i t here on my wagon all the way from the train station almost by myself. Jack helped me, a l i t t l e ." "A big box for me?" "See what i t says on the side, Mother? It starts with a W." "Herman," his father shakes his shoulder. "Didn't you hear me?" He is yelling. He slaps the prodding stick into Herman's open hands, closes the boy's fingers around the wood, and the three traipse back into the road, onto the path toward Ben's. When they open the door, they see steam rising from barrels of livers, lungs and hearts. Ben has been at work early. He walks toward them holding a braided whip. "In the chute," he says. As the bull enters the passageway, Ben whips him along the narrowing until the animal is nose to nose with a wall. The concrete in front, the closing gate behind, two sides compress the b u l l . Ben tears off his shirt, big shoulders shiny even in the blurred morning light. "Watch, l i t t l e boy." He laughs from his belly. Herman noses into his father's belt buckle, into pant pleats. "Herman!" Alf pushes him up toward the concrete platform. |
