Billie Mosiman - Wireman

Bloomington, Texas

Summer 1960

TEN-YEAR-OLD Nick Ringer walked along the railroad tracks. Sunlight flashed from the worn, glittering metal and brought tears to his eyes. Everything was so bright and dry. The town looked as bleached and pale as Mama’s sheets.

He used a pine branch to sweep a path for his bare feet. Little red stones rolled aside and stickers clung to the sappy needles. Finding an anthill taller than the rail it hugged, Nick stopped and listlessly annihilated the colony until there was nothing left but a small heap of tan dirt.

He might as well go home. There was a chance his brother Daley would play with him now. Being two years younger, Daley liked his comic books more than the lure of aimless wandering, but sometimes when the day cooled he could be talked into improbable adventures.

Nick kicked a tin can, sending it bumping across the dusty street. Daley was dumb. Who needed him?

Passing his neighbor’s house, Nick saw Eileen sitting on the front steps.

“I’ve got two BB guns,” he called. “Wanna go shoot the cows out back?”

“Nah. It’s too hot to shoot cows,” Eileen replied listlessly.

Nick sauntered across the ditch, dragging his branch, and stood before her. She wore butter-yellow shorts and a white cotton top. Her brown legs glistened as if covered by a sheen of silver. Nick squinted, trying to determine if the mirage was real. It wasn’t. Blond hairs created the silvery veil that disappeared beneath the cuff of her shorts.

He straightened up, throwing back his shoulders, and smiled shyly. “Let’s do something.”

“Do what?”

Uh-oh, there she was talking through her nose again.

“I don’t know what, yet. Let’s go see,” Nick said, moving toward the backyard.

Eileen followed him resentfully. She too was bored with the long summer day. Nick Ringer was not her friend, but there was a chance he might find something for them to do together: He was shabbily dressed in chocolate-brown pants that had holes in the knees and a rip in the seat. Eileen studied the rip and the dingy white material of his underwear. She repressed a giggle.

The Texas sun continued to beat down on the two children. Nick sized up the possibilities in Eileen’s backyard and pointed to the metal T-bar of the clothesline. “We’ll swing. You go first.”

Eileen threw back her shoulders and strode past him. There wasn’t a boy in the neighborhood who could outdo her. The T-bar was baby play. Already she had mastered swinging from the top poles of the Garcias’ swing set next door—a heart-stopping maneuver that held her fourteen feet above the ground.

Nick bowled an empty milk carton into a pile of trash, then sat down on the thick grass and crossed his legs. Eileen jumped, caught the left side of the hot bar, and let out a loud whoosh until her hands got used to the heat. She hoisted her legs up through her arms. She dropped, swinging free. She blinked at Nick in his upside-down squat and said, “Ha-ha, this is easy.”

“You do it pretty good. But you’re a tomboy.”

“So what? Lots of girls are tomboys. I can beat you at anything. You’re just an old hobo anyway,” Eileen taunted.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Hobo, hobo. You wear pants with holes in ’em and I can see your panties.”

Nick dropped his gaze and wiped sweat from his forehead. Eileen was bad. She was meaner than a horny toad. He frowned, scooted closer, and almost grabbed her long pigtails.

“Boys don’t wear panties,” he said. “And I don’t have any nice clothes.”

“That’s one sorry excuse.”

“Shut up.” Nick felt like growling.

“That’s what my mom says about your mom. ‘She’s one sorry excuse for a human bean.’ That’s what she says.”

The bushes rattled at the edge of Eileen’s yard and Nick turned to see his brother struggling through.

“What y’all doing?” Daley asked, shading his eyes with one hand as he joined them.

“I’m swinging by my legs, stupid.” Eileen made a face. She felt sweat bunching up behind her knees and their grip on the T-bar was beginning to slip. She reached up, caught the bar with both hands, and dropped to the ground. The world came upright, spinning.

“We could go shoot cows,” Nick suggested. His voice was softer, less defensive now that his brother was present. He was considering either ganging up on Eileen or forgiving her. She was mean but pretty—a terrible combination in a girl.

“I don’t shoot cows, no way. My mama says you only do that ’cause something’s wrong with you. You’re not supposed to hurt things. ” Her clenched fists rested on her waistline and she gave Nick the benefit of her sternest face, the one usually reserved for little kids who didn’t know better.

“You’re lying about what your mama says,” Nick challenged.

Daley backed away from the two older children and waited for the big argument. He noticed the look on Nick’s face and knew it was going to be a wingding if Eileen did not shut up.

“I am not lying, Nick Ringer. My mama did say those things and she’s smart. It’s crazy to hurt things, that’s what it is.”

“Nobody’s crazy.” Nick glanced at Daley for support and saw him shrug his shoulders and shake his head, retreating from the fight.

“Hurting’s crazy and you’re crazy. Everyone says so,” Eileen insisted.

Nick stared hard at her. The sun was so bright behind her back she was in silhouette, her face in shadow.

Indignation brought spots of color to her cheeks. She swung her braids around to the front of her blouse and pulled at them with both hands. She was a scraper—a fierce, hard ten-year-old girl. If he ever tangled with Eileen, he would have to break her arm to make her cry uncle. He began to smile at the thought.

“What’re you laughing at?” Eileen asked. She looked to Daley for confirmation that Nick was crazy and stupid and needed a whipping. “What’s he laughing at?” she asked Daley.

“Maybe I am crazy.” Nick spoke softly, quietly. “Maybe I howl at the moon and eat dead babies.” Eileen shivered. Suddenly she did not want to taunt Nick. She wanted to go indoors and get a glass of Kool-Aid with lots of ice in it.

“Well, Miss Snot, what ya got to say to that?” Nick was pleased at the uncertainty in Eileen’s face. “Don’t I howl at the moon and eat dead babies, Daley?”

Nice and Eileen’s attention focused on Daley, who glanced up from beneath thick brown lashes and made a timid motion with his hand. They could see he was not agreeing with anyone.

“Why don’t you go home, Nick?” Eileen took a step toward her house and stopped. “I can’t play with you. Mama said so. If she looks out the window and sees you here, she’ll run you off.”

“Can’t nobody run me off ’lessen I want to go.”

Eileen squenched her eyes and thought furiously. What would it take to make him leave the yard? “Your feet are always dirty.”

Nick laughed, throwing his head back with dramatic flair.

“Your hair needs cutting and I bet you’ve got lice,” Eileen tried.

Nick stopped laughing and stepped closer, his look menacing.

“I bet you’re retarded.” Eileen knew she was losing ground, but she could not give up. She also knew she was being unduly cruel, but her mouth just kept going.

Nick moved closer. Daley coughed behind a fist and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Now y’all…” he whined.

“I bet your mom’s what they say.” Now Eileen was desperate.

“What do they say?” The tone of Nick’s voice was like a slap.

“That she’s a… a… whore!”