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Show Throwing the Bread Butch and Fenn Stories 88 hungry, if the snowcone is presented close to his face, to refuse, and Butch twists in disgust. He nearly throws the book on the ground several times, but there are adults everywhere, so he behaves himself. I try: "Hey, it's just ten cents." But he just shakes his head and stares at the game. Fenn's mother also comes to see Fenn's brother pitch. She wears a dress to the games and sits with her arms folded. I always say, "Good evening, Mrs. Fenn," because it means she'll nod and say, "Hello, Lawrence." A moment later, on the top row, Butch nudges me and whispers: "Good evening, Mrs. Fenn," and he moans. It's barely a joke, and becomes less of one as the summer begins to fall away, and I find myself at a few minor league games watching Mrs. Fenn's back and not the game at all. I worry that she might know about the cans and cans of mandarin oranges I have swindled and slurped. I can see her family sitting in their basement during the famine, and she reaches into the closet for a tin of her oranges, and there will be no oranges at all, and I can hear Fenn, that rat, saying my name right to her face. Late in August, we are flopped out on the bleachers watching Fenn practice his new deep tanning technique: stretching. He drapes himself over one of the planks like a rug on a clothesline. "Stretches the skin," he groans up at us. "Better tan." "Real good, Fenn," I say. "We believe you. Now, about that nickel you owe me." |
