| OCR Text |
Show Car Baseball Butch and Fenn Stories 44 "Come get the ball out of Tiny's mouth." "No." "You want me to pound you?" "No." "Then get the tennis ball from Tiny." "No." Butch looks up at us with a searing, tooth-fusing glare; he wishes either of us had sisters. He cannot believe that on the face of this planet he is the only one of all of us who would have a sister. I can see his jaw bulge with the pressure of his malice. Sitting in the mealy dirt of the side yard with her brother batting her around liberally with a hefty weed stalk, Karen seems the perfect martyr. She will not cry. A passerby could mistake this mayhem for bathing: Butch whops her shoulder with the root-clod of the weed and a shower of dirt falls around both of them. "Tennis ball!" "No." There is no way I can confirm this by her expression because her face is lost in the dirt cloud, but: she sounds bored. Clump, clump, clump; Butch taps his sister. "Hey, Butch," Fenn says from behind me. "Hey, Butch." And he lifts the saliva-coated black tennis ball over his head. "Hey, Tiny left it." |
