You are in the bathroom, sitting quietly in darkness on the edge of the cold white bath behind the shower curtain, and you are listening on the radio, quietly, to the stoning of Four-Eyes Harrison. You know your Dad will give you the strap if he catches you, but he’s outside in the yard watching the screen and you’re pretty sure you’ve got another twenty minutes before it’s time he has to answer a call of nature, after which – well, you’re not sure. It should be over, that’s what they are saying on the radio. Harrison’s got a weak neck, thin shoulders, and they don’t expect he’ll stand more than eight rocks.
Anyhow, it’s worth the risk; you can’t go to school in the morning and say you didn’t at least hear it. Fat Bobby, he’ll be watching in his bedroom, taping it. He’ll know it inside out, and the minute you open your mouth, he’ll ask what you thought about the thrower in the blue shirt. You’ll say he was okay, and Fat Bobby will turn his face ugly and pin you down, sitting on your chest while the others kick dirt over you for lying. If your damn uncle wasn’t here, you could watch it on the telly, but he’s keeping himself company in the lounge and if he so much as smells you, he’ll call your old man and you’ll be strapped.
Your uncle served with Four-Eyes Harrison - that’s what he says anyhow. That’s why he’s alone in the lounge while the rest watch it on the screen outside. He says Harrison couldn’t have done it, he wasn’t that sort, but nobody believes him. Your Dad thinks he’s going for celebrity, how he knows the killer of those six skinned girls, but your uncle’s a quiet man who doesn’t speak unless necessary. With the radio down, you hear the sizzle of burning meat on the barbecue outside, the heavy smoke blown in on the autumn breeze, and every so often your Dad says something like "That goddamn mother fucker," and there’s the musical crunch of a beer can being crushed in his fist. Every so often he belches, loudly, his head raised to the stars you can see like pricks of light through the glass, and every so often you crouch back down behind the shower curtain and hold your breath, radio pinned to your ear so hard you can feel parts of your skin being forced through the holes in the speaker cover.
They’re marching Harrison out –you wish the announcer would slow down, he’s talking a thousand words a minute, and you want the image – the blue robes, the shackles, the sandy pit awaiting him and the rock throwers above, loosening up, stretching lean muscle. But then you hear someone clumping their way through the back of the house and you’re out from the shower curtain, leaving it flailing around like a drunken ghost, and with the radio in your hand you’re through the hallway and up the stairs. You hear your father’s laughter followed by the jet blast of an almighty piss. Safe, you pin the radio back to your ear and listen.
They’re ready, the announcer says. Harrison on his feet, bouncing slowly, waiting for the first throw – surely no chance against these twelve all-state champions.
"Bastards!" is the shout from the lounge. Somehow, you are drawn down two stairs, quietly along the hallway. Your uncle, his face lit up by the bright flashes of the screen, has his fists to his face, a glass of whisky by his feet. "Come on," he whispers. "Come on, Davey. Dance, damn you, dance." You remember the name Davey Harrison, and then, from the yard, a cheer bursts from your father’s throat, drowning out the others and your uncle’s whispering. In the rage of the cheer, you can hear the strap, the sound it makes through the air, that whistle before the white heat and the burn and the pain rising to your choked-up throat.
You find yourself at your uncle’s side, and he’s got his arm around you. Harrison is lying prone, his face bloody. His spectacles are mangled as though twisted. His left eye is missing, and the rocks rain down.
Your uncle’s crying. "Get to bed, son," he says, shaking as he holds you. "I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Got it?"
You’ve got it. You’re up the stairs with the lights out, and that’s where you lie, listening to the laughter from the yard outside, your father’s slurring voice and the sound of cans being flattened under his boot.
You don’t want to talk about it tomorrow, and Fat Bobby be damned. All you want to do is close your eyes and not see Four-Eyes Harrison with his eye hanging out, nor the tumble of sharp grey rocks, or, worst of all, standing over you with the belt taut between his hands, your drunken idiot father swaying backward, leaning forward.
You don’t want to see any of those things, and you do the only thing you can. You stay awake, and think about your uncle.
Anyhow, it’s worth the risk; you can’t go to school in the morning and say you didn’t at least hear it. Fat Bobby, he’ll be watching in his bedroom, taping it. He’ll know it inside out, and the minute you open your mouth, he’ll ask what you thought about the thrower in the blue shirt. You’ll say he was okay, and Fat Bobby will turn his face ugly and pin you down, sitting on your chest while the others kick dirt over you for lying. If your damn uncle wasn’t here, you could watch it on the telly, but he’s keeping himself company in the lounge and if he so much as smells you, he’ll call your old man and you’ll be strapped.
Your uncle served with Four-Eyes Harrison - that’s what he says anyhow. That’s why he’s alone in the lounge while the rest watch it on the screen outside. He says Harrison couldn’t have done it, he wasn’t that sort, but nobody believes him. Your Dad thinks he’s going for celebrity, how he knows the killer of those six skinned girls, but your uncle’s a quiet man who doesn’t speak unless necessary. With the radio down, you hear the sizzle of burning meat on the barbecue outside, the heavy smoke blown in on the autumn breeze, and every so often your Dad says something like "That goddamn mother fucker," and there’s the musical crunch of a beer can being crushed in his fist. Every so often he belches, loudly, his head raised to the stars you can see like pricks of light through the glass, and every so often you crouch back down behind the shower curtain and hold your breath, radio pinned to your ear so hard you can feel parts of your skin being forced through the holes in the speaker cover.
They’re marching Harrison out –you wish the announcer would slow down, he’s talking a thousand words a minute, and you want the image – the blue robes, the shackles, the sandy pit awaiting him and the rock throwers above, loosening up, stretching lean muscle. But then you hear someone clumping their way through the back of the house and you’re out from the shower curtain, leaving it flailing around like a drunken ghost, and with the radio in your hand you’re through the hallway and up the stairs. You hear your father’s laughter followed by the jet blast of an almighty piss. Safe, you pin the radio back to your ear and listen.
They’re ready, the announcer says. Harrison on his feet, bouncing slowly, waiting for the first throw – surely no chance against these twelve all-state champions.
"Bastards!" is the shout from the lounge. Somehow, you are drawn down two stairs, quietly along the hallway. Your uncle, his face lit up by the bright flashes of the screen, has his fists to his face, a glass of whisky by his feet. "Come on," he whispers. "Come on, Davey. Dance, damn you, dance." You remember the name Davey Harrison, and then, from the yard, a cheer bursts from your father’s throat, drowning out the others and your uncle’s whispering. In the rage of the cheer, you can hear the strap, the sound it makes through the air, that whistle before the white heat and the burn and the pain rising to your choked-up throat.
You find yourself at your uncle’s side, and he’s got his arm around you. Harrison is lying prone, his face bloody. His spectacles are mangled as though twisted. His left eye is missing, and the rocks rain down.
Your uncle’s crying. "Get to bed, son," he says, shaking as he holds you. "I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Got it?"
You’ve got it. You’re up the stairs with the lights out, and that’s where you lie, listening to the laughter from the yard outside, your father’s slurring voice and the sound of cans being flattened under his boot.
You don’t want to talk about it tomorrow, and Fat Bobby be damned. All you want to do is close your eyes and not see Four-Eyes Harrison with his eye hanging out, nor the tumble of sharp grey rocks, or, worst of all, standing over you with the belt taut between his hands, your drunken idiot father swaying backward, leaning forward.
You don’t want to see any of those things, and you do the only thing you can. You stay awake, and think about your uncle.
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