under the big black sun: a fable
It was already night in the park. Of late the greenery had diminished to a dryer, less vivid shade—what went for the beginning of fall in Louisiana. Though there was no hint of coolness yet, the boy was snug inside his letter jacket. The girl wore a short jean skirt. They were sitting on a bench, hours after the last bus had run.
"I need to be asleep. I got practice."
"It's only nine o' clock."
"I get up at four on practice days."
"You don't ever go to sleep before midnight."
The park was quiet. Everything was black except for the street lights and the tennis court lights and the lights on the other side of the levee, where the river was.
"My mom keeps looking for my pads, checking the garbage."
"Put ketchup on 'em."
"It doesn't look right when it dries. It's not the same color when they dry out."
"Red koolaid. Brown koolaid."
"But I think she gets them out and smells them too. I think I caught her."
"I told you. I can get the money. It's going to take a month. That's all."
"But that's a month. It'll grow."
"I'm horny."
"Where my problem started."
"It's not like it matters now anyway. The worst thing has already happened."
"Not in the car, okay."
The boy leans in to her, orchestrating her hands. The bench is twenty feet off the street in the grassy area, They hear a whirring noise. After looking up, the bicycle has already passed.
"That's freaky. It looked like that guy who raped and killed the old lady minister."
"He's in jail. I hope they put him in the electric chair. That was my preacher."
"You go to church?"
"You know that. You went with me one time."
"Uh-uh. That must have been some other girl you love to the bottom of your heart."
"Whatever."
"Can we move?"
They get up and walk across the grass to a baseball field, a lean-to over the visitor's bench. The girl prepares matter-of-factly, semi-hidden from the street. Grunts of known caliber issue. Large expanses of mown grass sweep to all sides of the minimal shelter.
"Ooopsy—" and the sudden sensation of mild clomping having ceased. "Oh, I'm really sorry, I thought you lost something, y'all were looking for it, I was just going to help, I'll just scoot on out of here, I'm sorry."
"What do you think you want?" The boy is up, wet and unclothed from the waist down, jacket still on, like some bizarre manifestation of a mythological creature, half this, that. The girl crouched on hands and knees.
"I was, I just thought you lost something—"
"More like you thought you lost your mind. You so desperate to see a little pussy you got to watch somebody else doing it?"
By now the girl is standing also, wet, as if a bucket of water had been thrown on both of them."It is him. My god. Get him out of here!"
The boy rushes Mac in a tackle; Mac falls helpless beneath. "Why'd they let him out of jail—aint one poor old woman enough?"
"He probly busted out."
"Get up! Get up!"
Mac waits, shakily rises, only to be tackled again. The boy keeps driving him into the ground. The sound of dry snaps, though Mac is generally quiet, unprotesting.
The boy rises, kicks Mac harshly and repeatedly with bare feet. The girl comes over, intensely curious, hands slowly covering herself.
The boy places his foot on Mac's neck. Mac looks up, almost curious.
"It's a good thing you got him before he did something to me."
Mac is not getting much breath now.
"You could kick the rest of it out of him by yourself."
As if cued, she steps lightly on Mac's abdomen. "He feels gooey."
"What do you think would happen if I just let him up?"
"He'd do it to somebody else. That's all."
The boy presses harder upon Mac's neck. Mac seems to be attempting to subdue his own arms.
"Look at him. He makes me sick."
The girl gazes down upon Mac, the way a child watches a maimed frog.
There was another, drier snap, and a shudder seemed to go through Mac.
"Good. I'm glad that's over."
"Ain't you going to thank me?"
"Put your pants on. You look ridiculous standing out here like that."
"You're welcome."
They begin to dress. Mac lies perfectly still on the grass, eyes cast toward the stars.
"OK. Here it is. We were out here. I walked over to the tennis court bathroom. When I came out the retard was raping you. I ran back and saved you."
"Simple."
"Yeah, but there's more."
"OK."
"Nobody's going to care when they scrape his baby out of you. It's the perfect excuse."
"How convenient."
"Take it or leave it."
"Drive me home. I feel all sticky."
"I think you ought to be the one to make the call."
Some three hours later there was movement on the ground. Twitches, like neurons firing upon the impulse of ancient memory.Then larger movements—an elbow straining to get right, a droop of the chin. Swallowing. Slowly, very slowly, Mac rose to a sitting position. The motions sounded off with fireworks in his ears. Snaps, joints flexing like teeth grinding, an unimaginable effort.
The body erect, forward like a car with bad alignment, veering left and right, tangentially in the direction of his bike. Mac went forth.
