Guillermo Rosales - Leapfrog and Other Stories

Amid the laughter, they all wagged condemning fingers.

“Today, we avenge our stained honor,” Bones said.

So they bought eggs and peas at the corner store.

Núñez the Spaniard filled the bags and asked, amazed,

“Who is the party for? Why do you want so much?”

Without getting any response.

Later, they made the trek to Aunt Dorita’s house, assigning positions beforehand. When they were already on her block, Agar heard the keys of her piano and Poupett’s broken voice singing “ Quiéreme Mucho .”

“The two of them together.,” Bones said, rubbing his hands together. “One aims and the other shoots.”

And the shooting began. Eggs and peas. They all heard Poupett’s voice go up a key while the shots increased in intensity. “ Quiéreme Mucho ,” as the eggs went crashing on the walls.

They were bombarding the house for a long while, and in the end had to stop for lack of further projectiles.

Then only Poupett’s voice remained. Poupett’s hoarse voice singing “ Quiéreme Mucho ,” and Aunt Dorita’s piano in somber accompaniment.

Agar had fired hidden in the bushes. He would have died of shame if Aunt Dorita had discovered him amid the West Side Boys, with his pockets full of eggs and the peashooter under his arm. But Aunt Dorita didn’t come out. Not even later, when the projectiles ran out and the insults began. At the top of their lungs, the West Side Boys vituperated against Poupett and Aunt Dorita. They expected them to come out and respond, but they only heard the piano and could see through the blinds their shadows lengthened by the flame of an oil lamp. The screams died out. Amid the music, the West Side Boys fell discouraged to the sidewalk.

“Let’s get going,” Bones ordered. They began their silent retreat through the rosemary. And that’s how they left: beaten down, dissatisfied, disconcerted. Listening to Aunt Dorita’s piano slowly grow quieter as they got deeper into the rosemary, along with Poupett’s already tired voice, singing “ Quiéreme Mucho ” as if it were now a requiem.

That’s how it went. He remembered it now as the mare went up in flames and they sat in the circle, with the sun beating down on their shaved heads. The fire was languishing.

Agar took the bottle of olive oil and got up. He sensed from one minute to the next, that the West Side Boys would begin to play rough. Jokingly at first, hard and serious later.

“At one, Leapfrog!” Kiko Palacios yelled suddenly, jumping over his head.

“I’m first!” Bones yelled before anyone else. He looked for a stone that was small enough to fit in his fist without being noticeable and crossed his arms to confuse things: Where do I have it?

The stone went around, alternating from hand to hand. The one who had it in the end had to be the mule and allow himself to be jumped over.

“Leapfrog” had once been played very nicely.

Mr. Hubert said that in his time, they had played it at school, and that even seminarians lifted their soutaines to jump. Then it was no more than simply leaping over a hunched-over kid’s back, singing out the number of each leap. But with time, the West Side Boys had turned it into a macabre and painful game.

“Do you know how they play Leapfrog in the Santa Ana neighborhood?” Tin Marbán said that day. And then he explained the game just as they had all played it since.

The stone went through all of the hands until it reached Agar. When he looked back, he confirmed there was no one else left. So, he would be the mule and would withstand the leaps, hiding his head well between his shoulders, because Bones had already warned very loudly: “The head’s for the Devil! And if my foot runs into your head, it’s not my fault.”

“At one, leapfrog!” Bones yelled, jumping over him and delivering a tremendous kick to his behind.

“At two, my shoe!” Kiko Ribs yelled, saying, “Gong!” and letting a big stone fall on his back.

“At three, my coffee!” Tin Marbán yelled, spitting a mouthful of water on Agar’s neck that ran down his shirt to his underwear.

“At four, hit the floor!” Kiko Palacios said, digging his nails into his bony shoulder blades.

“At five, I’ll dive!” Lefty yelled, pinching his back hard.

“At six, breadsticks!” Speedy said. And since breadsticks don’t cause any pain, he threw a handful of mud on Agar’s clean shirt.

“At seven, the razor’s edge!” Liborio yelled, smacking his sides with the back of his hands.

Agar sinks his head. He lowers his back. He clenches his buttocks. He remembers Grandma Hazel the day she went by the circle of West Side Boys, stayed watching them play for a moment, and then said: “Children. why do you hate each other?”

“We’re just playing!” they all exclaimed.

“No, no. You want to destroy each other. Do any of you know what a lung is? A lung is a very delicate things. As is the brain. A small nothing that can break at the slightest blow.”

You spit on the grass. Your lungs hurt terribly and you thought you would spit a reddish drool. But no. White saliva. Thick paste like a horse’s drool.

“At eight, I’ll beat you straight!” Claudio yelled, whacking a spiny branch on his back.

You closed your eyes. You thought that by then, Papa Lorenzo would be looking for you because of the delay. Mama Pepita might have received a visit from Mingo, the corner store vendor, and would have put some money on number eight, saying, “Yesterday, I had a revealing dream: three dead men.”

“Oh yeah?” Papa Lorenzo would say, pretending to pay attention.

“Yes,” Mama Pepita would say. “Three dead men hanging from a guásima tree.”

“So play 888,” Papa Lorenzo would say, reviewing the comic pages.

The kids flew over his back again. They leapt at nine and at ten.

“At eleven, get in on the action!”

“At twelve, an old lady snivels!” And this time, Kiko Ribs coughed on his head and Agar felt the kid’s saliva in his ear.

“At thirteen, a midget can be seen!”

“At fourteen, an old man is clean!”

“At fifteen, I’ll get your spleen!”

Agar was worked-up. He was waiting for the last leap to start off a long run after the West Side Boys and grab one of them forcefully and beat any part of his body. Until it became nighttime.

“At sixteen, run from that ox so lean!” Bones yelled, leaping over him without putting his hands on his back.

They ran.

When he got close to Lefty, Agar punched his ears hard. Both rolled around the grass, embracing furiously. Lefty’s hand took hold of his throat and Agar felt blood beating at his temples and his eyes popping out of their sockets. He had the kid’s ear gripped tightly and tried unsuccessfully to get his teeth near it and to sink them into the ear lobe.

“Stop that!” It was Mr. Hubert. He had come with his dogs, certainly because of his wife. He approached with his bulldogs and brusquely separated them.

Lefty and Agar looked at each other with hate for a moment. Huffing, dragging the backs of their wrists across their saliva-filled mouths, muttering indecencies. A minute later, Lefty crouched down and patted one of the dogs’ backs. Agar went over to the bushes and urinated, then went back to the group.

Everything was over.

It was always like that: they beat each other with a blind fury and then forgot about it. Blows in the heat of the moment. Letting it all out in the heat of the moment. Against any face, anybody, anything.

Mr. Hubert looked at them in surprise. He looked around and discovered the mare covered in ash and dry leaves.

“Sons.,” he tried to say. “There are games that are a lot more fun. Less dangerous. The quimbumbia , for example, is a very animated game.”