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Show Ferguson Lives Butch and Fenn Stories 24 2 At home, my father wants to know why I don't spend more time around our house. Why am I always down at Butch*s? I say I do spend a lot of time around our house, which is true: I sleep here in a basement made to light and order by my father's own hands; I occasionally play or sleep out in our backyard which is squared by the mower every Friday, no weed in sight, and I love to return after being torn and spun upside-down by the events of this summer to the neat, safe, and clear world of my own home. So, as a conciliation, I ask my parents if the guys can sleep out at our house tonight. My mother says yes, but my father is only half glad since he hasn't a full appreciation for sleeping out. It doesn't seem to be why he provided this house, so I could sleep outside of it. It is something, however, that I will be sleeping in our yard. But how can I tell my mother and father across the dinner table where my two little brothers sit that Butch is dangerous in a way I do not understand; that he hates and would like to kill his-father;-that he-even calls his father by his first name, Budd; and that in a basement overgrown with foul junk, we are trying to discover the laws that make the world work, we are trying to make up a world. And that I love his backyard, a lethal vacant lot full of hidden holes, most of which we dug. It is all a jungle. Finally, I say to my father: "Butch's pet alligator died. He's pretty upset." "Ferguson?" my brother Bob says. "Ferguson died?" |
