Page 113 - What They Did to the Kid

What They Did to the Kid 101

“We lost ours.” Kenny cupped his hand to his ear. “Like I’m
waiting.”
“In my glove compartment, Kenny.” Mike fished his keys from
his swimming trunks.
“Finally we got the friggin’ keys,” Rip said. “You want like some
of this smoke?”
“I don’t smoke your kind of cigarettes.” Mike punched a slow-
motion punch onto Rip’s big shoulder, turning him away. We stood
alone. “You heard the news, Ryan?” He faced me square. “Dick
Dempsey quit. He’s not going back to Misery come September.”
“He would have told me.”
“Swear to God,” Mike said.
“He would have written me.”
“Lock called me long distance last week.”
“Lock telephoned you?”
“I meant to drop you a postcard.”
Dempsey couldn’t have decided to quit without telling me. “He
tells me everything.”
“Nobody tells everything,” Mike said. “Lock knew a month
ago.”
“Lock knew? You knew? Dempsey knew?”
Mike shoved me. “Ryan, you’re famous for not knowing
everything.”
“Get out!” I pushed him back.
“You can’t be told everything.” He pushed me again. “You’re a
confessor.” Smoke from his cigarette streamed from his nose.
“You’re kidding me!” I pushed him harder.
“Don’t kid yourself.” He caught my head in a hammer lock and
blew a halo of smoke around us.
“Misery loves secrets,” I said, breaking free of his hold. “Maybe
he’s taking a medical leave. He had inner-ear trouble all last year.”
Mike shook his head. Our horseplay evaporated. “Stop,” he
said. “Dempsey quit. Absolutely quit.” He stamped out his cigarette
in the sand.
Quit was an even more threatening word than shipped. Quit was
something a boy did to himself.
“You can’t quit a vocation.”

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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