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Show Carlson Ferguson Lives 2 I find all of Butch*s men in the back ditch, the bottlecaps arranged as they were three days ago when we had dirt clod war. After searching everywhere I can, even checking in the wheeless brown Studebaker on cinderblocks in the driveway which is Budd's treasure, I sit in the weeds to wait. They give off the wet, dusty smell of late June nearly choking me. I'll have to tell Butch about it; we could do an experiment. Fenn comes into the backyard. I see him fall in a hole. He stays down a long time and then climbs back up. He should wear his glasses. He disappears again and gets back up this time with hiB bat. The blind slugger. Fenn is so skinny his elbows seem like knots in a new rope. He can bend his arm back at the elbows further than anyone I've ever seen. Butch did some measurements on that to work on Fenn's hitting leverage, but nothing came of it. Fenn can't hit the ball in the first place, but he has an amazing swing. I watch Fenn run the water and drink from the hose. Then, nonchalantly, he turns the hose on Tiny. Standing there with the hose, Fenn runs water in the hole. He watches to see if Tiny is going to drown in his sleep as the hole fills with water. Fenn is bored; I've seen it before. The water runs and runs. The hole must be full, but I can't see. Finally, I rise from the weeds, leaving an indentation, and walk over to Fenn. He doesn't see me until I punch his shoulder, so he turns the hose right in my face for a good flashing second, and he says, "Butch?" |
