A note from the author to online readers:

This story is the other side, or other half, of a story I wrote many years ago, called “Camp Uncle Goat” also available here, thanks to Johnie. Since there is much background in that story, readers may find this new story easier to understand if they read the other one first. The section headings here refer to the locale and to Goat’s age. He is always four years older than his nephew Lyn. Enjoy, and thank you for reading my stories. As Beethoven once wrote: “From the heart, to the heart.”

Nora just stood there, as tears welled up in her eyes, while Lyn’s grandmother hurled abuse upon her. Grandmother’s torrents of grieving shouts and moans over the death of her youngest son had already torn decorum assunder, but now she broke the bounds of propriety with her foul and groundless insults.

“Get that whore out of here!”

“Mother, please,” Lyn’s father held Grandmother, his mother, trying to calm her. A funeral parlor attendant handed Grandmother fresh Kleenex as another attendant quickly picked up the used balls of Kleenex that Grandmother angrily tossed on the floor.

“That bitch killed my baby!” Grandmother continued her rain of abuse, “he never was a junkie till he met her!” Lyn knew that was not true. “She killed him! If you don’t get her the hell out of here, I’ll kill her myself right here and now!”

Aunt Edie made loud moans of grief from the front row seats across from Uncle Goat’s open coffin. Aunt Edie, Grandmother’s youngest sister, could never stand Grandmother getting more attention, and always raised the decibels of her own complaints in the company of her sister. She had been greiving quietly until Nora arrived.

Lyn’s father wrapped his arms about Grandmother, turning her away from the coffin. “Let her have a minute to pay her respects, then she’ll go.”

“ Respects!” Grandmother shouted, “that whore doesn’t deserve respects! Tried to get knocked up, whore?” Grandmother shouted over her shoulder, “You would’ve ended up with an abortion, just like that spic whore in the Bronx! Didn’t know about her, did you? He had hundreds of them. Fucked ’em and dumped ’em, just like my first husband did to me!”

Nora stepped up to the coffin, fingertips feeling the wooden box, and then lightly touching the waxen folded hands of Uncle Goat. Lyn watched from across the room, wondering if Nora thought as he did, that this was hardly Goat at all, like he had never lived inside this form, this Madame Tussaud’s wax figure, like some monstrous golem that had not yet been brought to life.

Jonny sat across the aisle near the large floral displays, eyes reddened but not crying, staring ahead towards Nora, but appearing to be in a trance, not seeing Nora at all. The black sheep of his family, for marrying outside his faith, neither his sister or brother, nor any of his nieces or nephews came to the viewing. Still Goat would be laid to rest in the morning, in accordance with Jewish law.

“Oh, oh!” Aunt Edie cried out, wailing into her Kleenex, “oh! The travesty!”

Lyn thought his great-aunt did not even understand English, the stupid kraut. It was she and her sister that made the travesty of Goat’s funeral, not Nora, yet it was somehow sadly appropriate that Goat’s tragic life should end with this travesty.

Nora turned then, and rushed out of the room, passing Lyn without a word or a glance. Lyn followed her with only his eyes at first, but then stepped into the hall as Nora exited the front door of the Funeral Home. He followed her out onto the brick steps and the cool damp autumn air. The drizzling misty rain had ended, but remained evident.

Nora leaned on the black iron handrail, looked over her shoulder at Lyn, then slid into and down the rail, collapsing to the bricks below. The traffic light turned red and the cars stopped, then it turned green and the cars went again, and it turned amber, red and green, then amber, red and green again. The black asphalt appeared blacker from the rain, and as cars drove upon it, a gray mist aroused by black tires blossomed and fell back to the asphalt returning to blackness. Nora faced the street and spoke perhaps as much to the anonymous traffic or to God as to Lyn, “You know I woulda married him, if he only asked.”

Lyn sat next to Nora on the damp brick steps. She turned to look at him, then faced the street again. “I don’t care if she hates my guts… she hated him, too.” Nora turned to face Lyn for a moment, as if to guage his reaction to what she said. “You know I ain’t lying. She told him she should have aborted him, that he was a mistake, he never should have been born… that she only let Jonny fuck her ’cause she got drunk… she said shit like that all the time. She really fucked him up.”

“I know,” Lyn agreed.

Riding down Pennyfield Avenue, Lyn exclaimed from the back seat, “We’re almost there, right?”

“Aah shut the hell up!” Lyn’s father seemed to hate these obligatory weekend visits to Grandmother and Jonny.

“Oh honey, he’s only eight,” Lyn’s mother said, “don’t yell at him like that!” She turned toward the back seat of the Buick, “Yes honey, Fort Schuyler is right down the end of this road.”

Lyn hugged his Silly Bunny, what he called his Silly Bunny. He knew he was too old to need a stuffed toy to sleep with and hug, but he loved this bunny. It did not look like a real rabbit, or like Bugs Bunny either. It was more like halfway between the two. It was all his, his Silly Bunny.

The green Buick slowed for the little phone booth sized gatekeepers shelter in the middle of the road. The cadet inside stuck his white gloved hand out. Probably recognizing the green Buick, the cadet’s white hand passed them through with a circulating motion.

Passing the Officer’s Club on the right they could see that the Maritime Academy training ship Empire State was in port, meaning that Jonny was home, but he often worked late and ate at the officer’s mess. On the left was the Parade Ground ending at the first street of officer’s housing, but they drove past to the second street on the left, because the driveways were in back, with the kitchens, pantries and servant’s quarters. Upstairs over the kitchen, in what were once the servant’s rooms in Grandmother’s home, was a tiny bedroom with it’s own bath, hall with closet, and private stairway leading down to the kitchen. This now served as Uncle Goat’s apartment. Goat could come and go unseen and unheard, which suited Grandmother perfectly.

“Leave that damned rabbit in the car,” father said as they got out, “we’re going home tonight.”

“We are?” Lyn looked at his mother when he asked this, being used to often staying over because of late night drinking by the adults.

“Yes, your father has to fix those loose bricks on the front steps tomorrow,” mother agreed.

“Before the damned mailman breaks his neck and sues my ass!” father said. They went in the unlocked back door, through the pantry into the kitchen, and started down the hall to the dining room. “Stop!” Lyn’s father halted him. He pointed to the narrow back stairway that led to Goat’s room. “Go see your uncle. You know your grandmother doesn’t like to see kids too early in the day.” His mother carressed his neck and gently pushed him away.

Lyn clumped each foot loudly on each step going up, adding a spoken phrase for each, “or too late in the day, or too early in the evening, or too late in the evening, or too early in the morning, or too late in the morning, or in the house, or out in the yard, or on the Parade Ground, or on the pier, or on the ship, or in the car, or on the subway!”

“What the hell is all that noise!” Goat shouted as Lyn turned the corner and descended two steps into Goat’s suite.

“It’s me. We’re here.” Lyn mumbled, entering Goat’s room.

“Get the hell out! You’re fuckin’ up my reverie.” Goat was serious, but Lyn just put his hand on his hip and stared at his twelve year old uncle, who wore only his BVD’s. “I’m not kidding, this is all wrong. Go back out and go down three steps, and when I say, come back in and say ‘Hello uncle, we have arrived,’ and be happy about it! Go ahead! Come back when I say!” Reluctantly, Lyn went up the two steps, turned the corner, and descended three stairs. He waited. Finally Goat said, “OK!”

Back up the three stairs, around the corner, descending the two steps and passing Goat’s bathroom, Lyn entered his uncle’s bedroom. “Hello uncle, we have arrived,” Lyn recited his line with more sarcasm than happiness, but Goat seemed to love it.

“Why it’s Lyn, my favorite nephew! Come in and sit down! You’ll have to sit on the bed, since I am sitting in the chair, but the bed should still be warm. I lay there quite recently, masturbating!”

Lyn sat on the bed, in a spot that indeed still felt warm, and could not decide if that was pleasant or yucky, since he was not quite sure of what masturbating was, but he thought he knew. “What’s a reverie?”

“That is the great way you feel after you masturbate until orgasm.”

“What’s an orgasm?”

Goat took a deep breath, leaning forward in his chair, and peered over into his trash can. He reached in and pulled out an almost clear, wet looking balloony thing that seemed to have traces of some cloudy goo inside of it. “This, dear nephew, is a rubber, filled with my orgasm. It’s what makes babies in girls, if you stick it in ’em.” He waved and waggled it about in front of Lyn, tittering, “Do you want to taste it?”

“You’re disgusting!”

“How’d you get here?” Lyn asked.

“A bus. No, two busses. You know you look like him? Real pretty.” Nora lit a cigarette. Lyn didn’t say anything. Normally, he would object to any such characterization as “pretty” or “cute” or anything else he equated with being effeminate or girlish. Too close. But he couldn’t argue with Nora, not here in front of the Funeral Home, not now. She meant no harm, and she was probably the only person who really loved Goat. And who was he to even try to judge the quality of their affections? He who had never had anyone, not even a really close friend, except for a very short time in Junior High. “ I didn’t mean nothin’ by that, you just look more like Goat’s brother than your father does.” It was true, Lyn knew he and Goat looked quite similar, with their blond hair and slender swimmer builds. Goat was a bit more broad shouldered and masculine, but they both roughly fit in a mold somewhere between James Dean and the perfect poster boy for the Hitler Youth.

“I woulda married him, if he only asked,” Nora repeated, “we coulda lived with my mom. Her and me make enough money at the diner. But no, he had to keep goin’ back to that bitch, beggin’ for money she never gave him. An allowance! Like he was still in high school.”

“What, a bus from Goshen to Manhattan, then another from Manhattan to here?” Lyn asked, and Nora nodded yes. “What a pain in the ass,” Lyn mumbled, “transportation really sucks around here.”

Nora flicked her cigarette butt into the street, where it shortly got run over. “All roads lead to Rome,” she said.

“The Big Apple,” Lyn added.

“Sin City,” Nora added, too.

The regular Republicans had won the primaries in Orange County, and had booked the banquet room of the Eureka House for the celebration. Lyn had to go down the cellar repeatedly to bring up more cases of liqour, because the two bartenders were so busy. This last case was Piper Champagne, and Lyn was quite winded and his arms ached. His father had taken several days off work to help Jonny out, and they arranged with the school for Lyn to go on this short “family trip” with them. Lyn would almost rather be at school, except that he had no friends this year, since Bobby had moved away. Lyn waited and waited for Bobby to write him with his address, but all summer long it never came. Now that it was September and school had started, Lyn hoped that Bobby would be back from camp and settling in to his schooling with the Metropolitan Opera Children’s Chorus. Maybe now he would remember Lyn, and find the time to write him. He slid the case of champagne under the bar’s sink, and stepped out from behind, leaning on the bar with one foot up on the brass rail. “Can I have a Coke?” he asked the nearest bartender.

“Sure and you may, young master Lyn!” The newest bartender, Kevin was recently over from Ireland, and had a bandage on the finger he had mangled the other night in the ice cube crusher. Even with the one finger in stitches wrapped in gauze, he managed to handle the glassware, beer taps and bottles. Pressing the button on the nozzle at the end of a chrome plated flexible hose, Kevin filled a clean glass with Coke, placing it down in front of Lyn. “There ya go darlin’.”

“Thanks.”

Kevin leaned over toward Lyn, “Get a load of Jonny, down the end there. He’s arguing with them Republicans, talking about how great the New Deal was and all.” Lyn could see that Jonny’s eyes were sparkling, and he had a grin on his face. “He’s laughing it up arguing, obviously thinking the Republican gents are laughing in their hearts, but they ain’t laughing.” Kevin then went off to wait on paying customers, leaving Lyn to observe Jonny. It was true, Lyn thought maybe it had something to do with being Jewish or Russian, but Jonny loved to argue. It was an intellectual sport, like gambling or chess. He goaded and laughed, parried like a swashbuckler without a sword, and would even play devil’s advocate if he had to. These Republicans were perfect for his game, since Jonny was a Democrat, but it probably wasn’t too good for business to ridicule and jest with your customers.

As he was about to finish his Coke, Lyn’s mother walked over and said, “You shouldn’t stand at the bar, you’re only fourteen and it doesn’t look right. Jonny could loose his license. Take that in the kitchen.”

“I’m done anyway,” Lyn said, looking at his mother. She looked real pretty in her Suzie Wong dress. He knew his father liked her in the Suzie Wong dress, black, silky and tight, with the slit in the skirt that went all the way up her leg, and a flash of red silk lining that caught your eye. When they came home after a late night out, and his mother had worn the Suzie Wong dress, Lyn could hear them from his bedroom, hear their bedsprings creak, and their headboard bang against the wall. He knew what they were doing, and he covered his ears, wishing he was asleep. And yet he felt happy for them, glad that they still made each other’s body feel good. He knew it must be so much better with another person, that masturbating wasn’t enough. If it was enough, he wouldn’t feel so lonely all the time, because he masturbated a lot. He should have let Bobby. He should have let Bobby.

“Well you know the waitresses have their hands full when it’s this busy, they can’t take orders, serve and clear tables, and then bus trays, too. Why don’t you give them a hand?”

“I was! But Dad told me to get three cases from the cellar for the bar! He gave me a list, and they were heavy! My arms were getting weak! I just stopped for a minute,” Lyn complained.

“I know, you’re doing a good job honey,” his mother put an arm around his shoulder and whispered in his ear, “it’ll build up your muscles, make you even more masculine!”

“Psshhh!” Lyn grinned, but said no more. He knew he wasn’t masculine, just a skinny, wimpy adolescent with a prettyboy face. He turned his face to the floor as he stepped toward the pantry door. Who would want him, now that Bobby was gone? Who would want him, anyway? As he pushed the door to the pantry open, he looked back at his smiling mother and said, “You look real pretty tonight, Mom.” She winked at him.

Nora stood up, brushing the seat of her black skirt with her palms, straightening and flattening the now damp fabric. “You better stand up, too,” she said, “your butt’s getting wet like mine.”

“I don’t mind,” Lyn said rising, “but it is getting a little chilly. Want to go inside?”

“Not in there with her, but maybe just in the hall,” Nora agreed, “just to warm up a little. I better catch a bus pretty soon, though.”

Lyn held the door open, and Nora stepped inside and immediately turned right, into a smaller hallway with a long space for a coat rod with hangers. This demi-closet provided privacy, so that anyone coming out of the viewing where Goat was laid out would still not see them. A window gave them the same view of the intersection they had seen from the steps outside. A bus turned right at the intersection, stopped at a shelter, then headed south toward the highway and eventually to New York City. “Shit, I guess that was my bus. How often do they run?” Nora asked.

“Every hour,” Lyn answered, looking at his watch. “Three twenty, so probably about four fifteen would be good.”

Nora hung her pocketbook over a hanger that held a black leather jacket. “I shoulda put this on before, when I went outside…” she explained, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I’ll hang with you,” Lyn said, sitting back against the windowsill, “it’s better than going back in there.”

“You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but… I mean, I know you’re gay and all, but… I mean, with you looking like his little brother… and you must know he liked you, right?”

“I guess,” Lyn replied, but he knew she wanted to say more, she was trying to ask him something. “What… what is it, Nora?”

“Do you think I could get a hug?”

“Sure,” Lyn said, standing and holding his arms open. Nora wrapped her arms about him and squeezed so tight, Lyn was surprised by the intensity of her fervor, but tried to return it, hugging her tight as she nuzzled her face into his neck. Lyn could feel her tears beneath his ear, and he hugged her more, and it was okay, he knew it wasn’t sexual, it was just so touching and beyond, physically feeling her trembling grief and sorrow. It was so much more than he expected , yet simply and beautifully human.

“Go on, take it!” Goat shouted, holding out a switchblade knife whose blade was certainly longer than the width of a man’s palm, and certainly illegal. This was no Boy Scout jacknife, probably a streetfight weapon with it’s automatic action, opening from a press of the button on the handle. Goat insisted, “It’s just mumbletypeg, try it!”

“Somebody could get hurt,” Lyn insisted, “like me!” He was sure that Goat could throw and probably even fight with that knife, just as he surely could not.

“I thought you were in Cub Scouts!” Goat cracked, “Don’t you have a knife?”

“Yeah…” Lyn agreed, “but the blade isn’t long and pointy like that… it isn’t even as long as the width of my palm… and anyway, it has a corkscrew and a leather punch and a can opener and a bottle opener.”

“Whatta ya need a corkscrew for,” Goat laughed, “do Cub Scouts drink wine?” Goat’s laughing was hearty, but he folded the blade in, slipping the knife into his jeans pocket. “I know, let’s go in the bunkers. You can be my prisoner!”

“I don’t want to go in there,” Lyn tried to find some excuse, he was tired of being a prisoner or a slave, “it’s too dark in there.” This was true, the gun emplacements had long since been removed from the bunkers, and the small openings the barrels poked out of were either sealed or grown over. All that remained were a narrow brick lined passageway and the chamber it led into, where each gun had been.

“Brilliant! You’re right! We can get candles and matches, we got some in the pantry! Come on!”

“Only if I can be the Mummy, and you be the archeology guy,” Lyn insisted.

“Cool! Okay!” Goat ran down the hill towards his house, and Lyn followed, running after him. In the pantry, Goat found a thick white candle and a box of wooden matches, not the cardboard ones Lyn’s father used to light the barbecue, but the kind cowboys lit cigarettes with in the movies or on TV, like Grandmother’s favorites Gunsmoke and Have Gun Will Travel Richard Boone as Palladin.

Leaving the pantry, they passed the green Buick, and Goat noticed the stuffed toy inside. He stopped and opened the car door, retrieving the rabbit.

“This yours?” Goat asked.

“Yeah, leave him in the car!”

“He can be your lackey, mummies can’t talk. Remember? Here, bring him. You can hold him.”

Lyn took Silly Bunny, and Goat began to run, with candle and matches, across the street and up the hill toward the bunkers. Lyn ran after him, reluctantly carrying his little friend. He knew it was wrong. What if he dropped him on bare earth, he could get dirty. Or he could put him down and forget to bring him in, maybe lose him forever.

“Go in the bunker,” Goat said, “and I’ll go in and find you.”

“Light the candle first, it’s too dark in there.”

“It’s too windy,” Goat complained, “c’mon, it’s still light enough to see till after ya turn the corner.” They proceeded down the narrow brick-lined passage, and Goat held out the candle. “Here, hold it and I’ll light it.” Lyn held the candle and Goat withdrew a wooden match from the box, closed the box, and struck the match against the flinty side of the box. The match nearly exploded with a brilliant flare, and Goat lit the candle.

“Cool matches,” Lyn observed.

“Little boys shouldn’t play with matches,” Goat cracked. Taking the lit candle in hand, he followed the passageway around the corner into the gun room. At about Goat’s shoulder height, the bricks formed a ledge, like there might be a window there if it were not underground. He set the candle on this ledge and it lit the dark brick walled room with an orange-hued glow. Goat played with the matchbox, and suddenly he struck a match that flared like fireworks flying across the room and bursting upon the far wall. It was both frightening and thrilling at the same time.

“Neat,” Lyn admired.

“Here, you do it,” Goat handed him the matchbox. Lyn carefully withdrew a match, closed the box, and struck it upon the flinty side panel. When it flared, he threw it across the room, but it went out in a little puff of smoke long before the extinguished matchstick clicked against the far wall and dropped to the ground.

“No, no no,” Goat complained. “Get another match out. Ya gotta do it all at once.” Lyn started to hand his uncle the match he had taken out. “No, you hold that. Just pretend I’m holding a match.” He took the box. “Look, ya hold the match here, ready to strike it, then strike and throw all at once, with one motion. Whoosh! Like that, see, whoosh!” Lyn took the box that Goat handed him, and tried the way Goat demonstrated. Whoosh! and he jetted the flaring stick against the far wall, and it continued to flare even after bouncing off and hitting the ground.

“There! See, you could do it!” Goat took the matchbox and fired off a couple more while Lyn just watched. Just as he was about to fire one off, he turned toward Lyn, and the flaring fireworks came straight at his leg. Lyn jumped and the matchstick just missed his jeans.

“What’d ya do that for?!” Lyn shouted.

“You missed it, that’s the idea!” Goat laughed, holding out the matchbox, “Here, your turn! Try to hit me!” Lyn took the box, and fired one off at Goat. He dodged it. “Do it again!” he gleefully yelled. Lyn flung another fireball, and Goat whacked it away with the back of his hand. “don’t stop till you hit me!” Lyn noticed that Goat usually jumped to the left, so he fired one slightly to the left, and it hit Goat on his powder blue searsucker shirt, still flaring for a second or two as Goat smacked at it, laughing, “Aah! Ya got me!” He laughed more, “holy shit! You burned a hole in my shirt! Cool! My mother’ll be pissed if she sees this!”

“Did ya get burned?” Lyn was a bit scared, although Goat still laughed.

“It don’t hurt,” Goat giggled, unbuttoning his shirt and looking at his flat belly, “I don’t see nothing in this light, you look.” He insisted, “C’mon, tell me if there’s a red spot!”

Lyn crouched down to inspect his uncle’s belly, but Goat pushed his hips forward suddenly, his belly poking Lyn’s nose. Lyn stood up rubbing his nose and smiling, since it didn’t really hurt, but still he said, “What’d ya do that for?!”

“Hey, wanna see my hair?”

“What hair?” Lyn asked, but he needn’t have, since Goat was unsnapping and unzipping his jeans. He pushed his BVD’s down just to where his dick was still covered. Lyn looked, saying, “You ain’t got no hair there!”

“Yes I do! Ya gotta look closer.”

“No way!”

“I won’t bump your nose, I promise!”

“You’ll whip your dick out!”

“I won’t, I promise!”

So Lyn squatted in front of Goat and looked at his pubic area. He saw a couple of tiny hairs, more like peach fuzz. “That’s not much,” he said.

“Hey, next time you come up to Fort Schuyler, I’ll have a big bush there, you’ll see!” Goat bragged, “You saw that rubber, when it gets creamy like that, it means you can make babies! I bet yours is clear like spit!”

“I don’t do that,” Lyn objected.

“You never jerked off?! C’mon, drop your pants, I’ll show you how.”

“No thanks!”

“Hey, I’m offering you a freebie,” Goat waited, then added, “okay, your loss.” He turned to face the wall, saying, “I gotta pee.” With that comment, he pushed his jeans and BVD’s down, and Lyn could see his bare ass, smooth and white as a baby, at least that’s what grown-ups called smooth skin like Goat’s butt and his own, which looked pretty much the same. Lyn thought that boys had skin that was even smoother and silkier than babies. He had seen a baby’s ass when his mother watched the Swann’s little girl, and had to change her diaper. For some reason, Lyn liked to look at boys asses almost as much as at their crotches, maybe more. Only when nobody noticed, of course. Goat was taking his time, and still no sound of piss. Then his hips jerked forward and back, and Lyn knew he was squirting his cream stuff on the wall. Finally Goat began wiping his shirt tail in his crotch, probably cleaning the sticky stuff off, until he moaned, “Ooo, ooo, ahh!!” as the sound of piss splattered against the brick wall beneath the candle. He pulled his jeans up and zipped them, turning to face Lyn again. “Man! I really had to pee, but I got a boner!”

Goat stared at his nephew, and asked, “You gotta pee?”

“No.”

Goat stepped into the middle of the large room and turned about, gazing at the darkness above them. He turned and looked at Lyn like he was waiting for something. “Alright,” he said, “I gotta say an incantation to bring this mummy to life!” He stepped over to the wall ledge holding the candle, withdrawing four matchsticks from the box and placing them on either side of the candle. Next, he picked up the candle, pouring a tiny puddle of wax by each matchstick, standing each stick in the wax and blowing on it until it would stand on it’s own, two matchsticks on each side of the centered candle. With a fifth match, he then lit the four standing matches, and the room became much brighter. “Dona eis vita aeturnum, sim saalaah bim, shalom adonai.” Lyn recognized Goat’s incantation as a curious mixture of Latin, perhaps incorrect, mummy movie Egyptian, and maybe Hebrew. Goat turned toward Lyn, saying, “You will do my bidding, creature!”

“No, he won’t,” Lyn responded, holding up Silly Bunny, as if it were he doing the talking, “he only listens to me!”

“Why should I listen to you, lackey?!”

“I am the Guardian of the Pharoah’s Antiquities. I will guide him to the tomb of his princess. There is much gold there, and jewels. You have men, camels and wagons, which I lack. I have the knowledge of the Tomb of Princess Ahnkhin, which both you and the Prince lack. Working together will benefit us both, alone we are nothing.”

“Whoa, lackey, I never invited no Prince!” Goat complained, but Lyn shook Silly Bunny and spoke his words.

“May I introduce Prince Ahnkh, whom you have awakened with your incantation.”

“You mean the mummy?”

“Yes, sahib, the mummy.”

“Where’d you get this shit from? I don’t remember any movie like that. I bet you’re just making this shit up!”

“So?” Lyn replied.

“You must be a genius, or an idiot savant or something!” Goat laughed. He slapped his knee, and looked at Lyn. “You’re almost as smart as me!” He stepped closer to Lyn. “But not quite. Your brain and body are puny next to me!” He grabbed Silly Bunny and walked across the room to the solitary glow of the candle, the matchsticks having burnt out. “Why do I need you lackey?” Goat pulled the switchblade from his pocket. “I have already discovered the tomb of the princess, but have not told the Egyptian authorities! I will supply the mummy with tanna leaves and he will do my bidding. All the treasure will be mine, and I shall return to England and live like a king!”

“Goat! Give him back! You said I could hold him!”

Goat depressed the little button on the handle and the blade snapped out. “Die, lackey!” Goat said. He held the point to Silly Bunny’s crotch. Lyn raced across to Goat and leapt toward his toy, but twelve year old Goat was a good foot taller than eight year old Lyn, and could always keep Silly Bunny beyond his reach.

“Goat!” Lyn complained as Goat pressed the point into the crotch and slit up the belly of the toy to it’s neck. Lyn screamed, “No!”

Lyn stopped jumping and Goat withdrew the blade from Silly Bunny, folding it into the handle, secreting it away in his jeans. “The lackey is dead,” Goat somberly announced.

“You fucking asshole! Give him to me!” Lyn took Silly Bunny, holding him gently and carefully so no stuffing would fall out of the wound, and walked out of the bunker down the long narrow brick lined passage toward daylight. He walked briskly down the hill and Goat ran after him, quickly keeping pace alongside Lyn.

“Don’t rat me out,” he begged, scurrying alongside his nephew, “c’mon, man, don’t rat me out! Your father’ll beat the shit out outta me, and so will my mother!” He ran ahead, turning so he could walk backwards to face Lyn, but not really blocking him. He skipped along backwards, begging, “Don’t rat me out! I can fix it better than new, I promise! C’mon man! When we get back to the house, we’ll go right up to my room, and I can fix it. Okay? Right up to my room, okay?” When they came to the screen door, and entered the pantry, Goat put his arm around Lyn’s shoulders and hugged him, saying, “C’mon, I’ll fix it up better than new.” They went up the back stairs.

Goat took the toy and did his stitching in silence. Lyn just stared at the floor, thinking. Wondering why he was such a sissy, to even care so much about a toy, to be led around and pushed around by Goat and other boys, even boys his own age. Because he was a sissy. Why are some boys sissies? What’s wrong with being a sissy? Why do all boys have to be the same?

“There!” Goat exclaimed, “better than new!” He handed Lyn the plush toy. Lyn saw that he had used black thread, and it looked ugly.

“Black thread.”

Riding in the Buick late that night, Lyn saw lights in the distance reflecting on water. On either side there were lights far away reflecting, and Lyn felt like the road floated on water. It made him queasy to feel floating, lost in darkness, a completely different route from the one they took that morning. He closed his eyes and the car floated forward. Eventually, he felt the car turn right, then left, then right again. Opening his eyes as the car turned into their driveway, Lyn realized they were home. As his father removed the key from the Buick’s ignition, Lyn grabbed Silly Bunny and raced into the unlocked house to his room. He set Silly Bunny on his student-sized desk and undressed. Getting into his pajamas, he could not help seeing Silly Bunny on the desk, not in his bed, where he should be. It made Lyn feel like crying, but he fought back those tears. He crawled into bed and under the topsheet, when his door opened. His mother softly came to his bedside and gently sat on the edge.

“Are you still upset over your bunny?” she asked. He could not respond, fighting back tears harder than before. He turned his face to the wall. “Where is he?” his mother asked.

“On my desk… he looks like Frankenstein.”

She stood up, and when she sat down again, she whispered a giggling admission. “This does look like a Frankenstein stitch-up,” and running her fingers through his blond hair, asked, “do you want me to fix it, I can fix him up right now?”

His mother’s kindness and love choked him up even more, and he could hardly turn to face her. He just wished he could keep facing the wall, and keep her warm fingers tousling his hair until he fell asleep, but he had to respond. He turned to face her and simply nodded yes, while pressing his tremulous lips together so tightly to hold off those tears. When she stood and left his room, Lyn felt such relief that his mother would not have to see her sissy son cry like a baby, that the feeling, the urge to cry, went away.

He thought about how it never would have happened if he wasn’t such a sissy. If he stood up to his uncle, like a man, or like a real boy should. If only he had been tougher, he could have saved his friend from being stabbed. He knew it was only a stuffed toy, but he always considered him a friend. All the tears, secrets and confidences invested in Silly Bunny, how could he not be a real friend?

He continued to castigate himself for some time, and could not fall asleep. He had hoped he would be sleeping when his mother returned, he knew she would come back and not postpone her stitchery. He still stared at the ceiling as she entered his room once more. Sitting again upon the edge of his bed, she placed Silly Bunny near Lyn’s face.

“There, how’s that?” she asked.

He turned toward her and propped himself up on one elbow, picking up Silly Bunny with the other hand. He had watched his mother once when she repaired the pillow on the living room couch, the pillow with no zipper, seeming to sew from the inside, so that when she nearly finished, pulling the stitching very tight and making a small knot in the two threads that stuck out, all she had to do was poke those threads and their knot inside with a blunt darning needle, and fluffing the pillow, make the tear and the repair magically disappear. That is what she had done to Silly Bunny, too. He found the repair with his fingers, indeed it hardly appeared visible, but Lyn knew that Silly Bunny was dead. His father wanted him dead, and even his mother wanted what his father wanted – a more masculine son, capable of standing up to bullies. But she also loved him as he was, unlike his father, and that knowledge made him need to cry so much more. He knew he should say something, except that his voice would break and the tears would come. So he turned his face to the wall again, and creaked in his sorrowful, cracking, tear producing treble, “Thanks, Mom.”

“Everything will be fine in the morning,” his mother assured him, running her warm fingers through his blond hair yet again. Eventually she stood, and leaving his room, repeated once more, “everything will be fine in the morning.”

Lyn knew in his heart however, that this would forever be the day that Silly Bunny died. He reached his hand up to the corner of the bed, where his dead friend rested, caressing the cozy fur, then pushing slowly, until he heard the soft thud of Silly Bunny hitting the floor. No more would he sleep with his friend, no more would he cry into the gentle blue plush fur, or confide his sorrows and secrets to his friend. His friend was dead, he deserved no friend. He had let his friend down with moral cowardice, and now he should grow up to become the boy his father wanted him to be. He would not have the courage to bury Silly Bunny in the back yard, nor to put him out in the trash. Instead, Lyn would bury him at the bottom of the big drawer in his desk, never to be slept with again. He knew it was what had to be done, but it made him cry so much, he would cry himself to sleep that night. His wimpy little boy heart ached and ached, and he cried and cried and cried.

There was a long thin metal cover beneath the windowsill that radiated heat. Nora and Lyn both sat back, or leaned their backsides, against the windowsill, warming their damp butts. For a few minutes they were both silent. Then Lyn remembered he had gotten paid for the research he did Tuesdays and Thursdays. He had money in his wallet.

“Hey, I got some money,” Lyn offered, “why don’t I call you a cab?”

“Cabs are fucking expensive, man,” Nora replied, “and anyway, I already called out at the diner for tonight. I’m in no hurry.”

“Remember that time the three of us took the bus from Goshen to the city, when Goat was doing his research for that book on Napoleon?” Lyn recalled, “That damn bus kept turning into every little hick town between Goshen and Manhattan!”

“That’s the one,” Nora agreed, then asked, “whatever happened to that book? All them yellow lined pads?”

“My father said Grandmother cleaned his room, dusted and made the bed and all, like he was coming back. Everything’s probably right where he left it,” Lynn surmised.

“I wish I could lay in his bed right now, and smell him in it, and fall asleep for twenty years.”

Lyn delivered the first bus tray with no problem, although it felt very heavy — the waitresses kept piling more dishes on it despite it being full. The second tray was another matter altogether. Apparently everyone at one table ate only half their meals, causing the plates to stack quite unevenly, and everything piled on above those became more precarious as the mound of porcelain, glasses and stainless steel flatware laced with napkins and food remnants got higher. The fact that his arms still ached from the liquor cases helped nothing, but he got the tray up.

With his right hand squarely beneath the center of the thirty-six inch wide tray, one edge on his shoulder and his left hand guiding the front edge of the tray, Lyn made his way between tables, through the righthand swinging door to the pantry, and through the pantry to begin the descent of four stairs down to the kitchen and Lou, the dishwasher. It was those damned stairs. The tray began to lean forward, and Lyn knew that he had to get to the stainless steel counter by the dishwasher in a hurry, or the dishes would slide forward, too, and the whole tray would crash to the floor. Racing ahead, he tried to maintain the angle the bus tray had assumed, and just made sliding the aluminum tray onto the counter as the dishes leapt ahead. They made an awful crashing noise, although only a few glasses appeared to break. Lyn started to pick out the broken pieces, but Lou stopped him.

“I’ll get that,” Lou said, “I don’t want you getting cut. Go on, get outta here before they all fly in here to see what the big noise was about.”

Lou’s advice came too late, for Lyn’s father burst through the door from the bar with Kevin right behind him. His father stood atop the four steps looking down at the kitchen imperiously in his black tuxedo, playing the part of maitre d’ tonight, as usual.

“Whatta ya come to work drunk, Lou?” Lyn’s father shouted.

“I ain’t had a drink in sixteen months,” Lou grumbled.

“It was me, Dad,” Lyn admitted, climbing the four steps, “the tray started to tilt just as I was putting it down, and a couple glasses got broke.”

“Just a couple glasses, huh?” came the sarsastic retort as Lyn’s father had unleashed his right fist, which squarely landed a boxing blow to Lyn’s left ear.

“Ow!” Lyn winced with pain.

“Nothin here’s free, ya know! Those glasses cost money! If ya can’t do the job, just quit!”

“Why don’t you take it out of my magnificent salary?! I do quit!” With that comment, Lyn turned away from his father, who stepped after him, raising his fist again. This time, however, Kevin caught the paternal fist by the wrist.

“That’s a mighty arm ya got there,” Kevin told Lyn’s father, “but your opponent doesn’t seem to be in the same weight class, if ya catch my meaning.” The entire body of Lyn’s father paused full of tension, but after a second or two, seemed to relax, letting that arm fall to his side.

“If no one needs a drink, why pay for two bartenders?”

“I was just going in to check on that,” Kevin said, pushing open the right swinging door, “are ya coming then?” He held the door to the bar open for Lyn’s father to follow.

“Don’t be a wise ass,” father admonished Kevin, shaking back his shoulders as if he could rid himself of the tension in the pantry.

“Wherever me wisdom is located, I’m glad to have it!” Kevin replied, as Lyn’s father followed him into the bar.

Lyn continued through the pantry toward the big dining room, which he then quickly passed through as tears began to sting his eyes. The pain in his ear intensified — he now realized that the way he perceived the world was no longer stereophonic, but monophonic, and he felt embarrassed to be seen by diners, although they were strangers, with tears in his eyes. He proceeded across the hall to his own little motel room. That was it, he quit, he no longer would work for free at the Eureka House. He didn’t even want to ever come back to Goshen.

“Whatta they got a pay phone over there?” Nora asked, as Lyn returned to the coat closet area and sidled next to her, warming his butt again on the heat panel.

“No, just a regular phone on a desk,” Lyn answered.

“So?”

“The cab’ll be here in about five minutes. I got enough. He’ll take you right to Goshen, to your house.”

“You’re such a sweet kid,” Nora wrapped her arm over his shoulder, “you’re sure you can afford it?”

“I’d probably just blow it on records and concert tickets and Cokes and pizza,” Lyn admitted. Nora laughed and leaned her head on Lyn’s shoulder, her eyes glistening with fresh tears.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Nora admitted, “I kinda thought you would be like a brother-in-law, and I’d get to know you better, ya know, after we were married and shit.”

Lyn pulled her tight to his side and gently smiled at Nora. He couldn’t say anything that would be right. He knew she would find sombody else someday, get married, have a family. Now just wasn’t the right time to say it. He also knew that it would be a long time before either of them forgot Goat, and he could not say that either. Somehow, just looking into Nora’s eyes told him she knew he was inarticulate just now, and she was, too. Each understood the other’s kindness and sorrow, and it was enough.

A horn honked outside the window, and they both jumped up. “The cab,” Lyn said racing over to hold the door open, so the cabbie would know they heard him and were coming. Nora put her jacket on and grabbed her purse.

Lyn went to the driver’s window to pay the cabbie. He gave him the agreed upon fifty dollars plus a ten dollar tip. It was all he had, his entire wage for the last two weeks from his part-time job doing deed searches. He raced around to the rear passenger side door, to bid goodbye to Nora. With the door still open, Nora arched her back and presented her face with closed eyes. So Lyn kissed her on the lips, a passionate kiss, a long kiss, but not an erotic kiss. They both knew it was the goodbye kiss. Lyn closed the door and Nora placed her right palm against the window. Lyn placed his left hand over hers on the outside, and with his right hand he tapped the front window. The cab slowly pulled away.

Lyn went in the Funeral Home, but stood out in the hall. It wasn’t long before his father came out.

“Phew! All them flowers and cigarettes! A man could choke to death,” his father complained. “Did Nora leave?”

“Yeah, I got her a cab.”

“What, to Goshen?” his father asked, as Lyn nodded yes. “That’s gotta be expensive, could she afford it?”

“I paid.”

“Jeez, how much did that set you back?” He regarded his son with a look of amazement and amusement.

“Sixty bucks.”

“You have anything left for lunch this week?”

“No,” Lyn mumbled, and his father laughed.

“Anything for a girl!” He shook Lyn’s shoulder, “Anything for the right girl! Huh?” He shook his son’s shoulder again, adding, “Lyn, you surprise me. You acted like a real man there. Just sixteen and already a man! I’m proud of you.” He pulled out his wallet and peeled off four twenties, shoving them in Lyn’s hand.

“Thanks, dad!”

“Hey, I gotta go back in there, it’s gonna be late. They’ll probably have to throw my mother out! But you can wait out here. You know Ray and Leah, from the Elks? They’re leaving soon. They’ll give you a ride home, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Hey, there’s a Coke machine over there, you got any change?”

“No,” Lyn admitted.

“Here,” his father laughed, reaching in his pocket again, fingering his change to count out enough for a Coke, but finally handing it all to Lyn, saying, “fuck it, take it all! Don’t wait up for us, and hang your monkey suit up, we gotta wear ’em again in the morning.” He stepped toward the door of the viewing room, turning back one more time. “I am proud of you, Lyn. See you in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

Nobody ever had breakfast. They all just woke up, washed their faces, and wandered around until hunger made them round up a sandwich and a Coke or beer. Then in the afternoon, before the Eureka House opened for business, they each had their job to do.

Lyn relented, he would bus trays for a while tonight, but not retrieve liquor from the basement. It was going to be slower tonight anyway, no election celebrations. He brought Bill outside, down to the edge of the property where the farmer’s cornfield began, and Bill took a shit there. He walked Bill back up into the yard and attached the leash to the corkscrew stake already screwed in there. Bill whelped and struggled against the leash until Lyn raised his arm straight up in the air, firmly commanding, “Bill, sit!”

Uttering the word sit, Lyn had lowered his arm to half-mast, and Bill understood. He sat and stopped whining. Lyn turned back and walked in through the bar. After fixing himself a sandwich in the abandoned kitchen, he took his plate and sat at the bar. Taking one of Kevin’s clean glasses, he poured himself a Coke from the chrome nozzled hose.

He had no hearing on the left side from the ear boxing last night. It was still sore, too, so he felt rather sorry for himself and acted moody when his mother walked into the bar. She had on tan slacks and a flowery blouse, and looked very summery, despite it being after Labor Day.

“How do you feel, honey?” she asked.

“My ear hurts,” Lyn sulkily admitted, “and I can’t hear anything on that side.”

“Your father feels bad about that, he told me last night he feels bad about that,” his mother insisted.

“Really?” Lyn wondered aloud.

“Yes, really, and if it still hurts or you can’t hear right when we get home, I’m taking you to the doctor,” she added, “anyway, we’re going home tomorrow morning.”

“We are?” Lyn was surprised. “I thought we were staying through the weekend.”

“You know your father has been trying to get Jonny to talk about the deal he promised him?” his mother explained, “well last night they finally had it out. Here your father was hoping for fifty-fifty, but after the place opened and we saw what a good night’s take could be, your father and I realized that sixty-forty or even seventy-thirty would be enough. More than your father makes now. But Jonny wouldn’t have it, he kept making his stupid jokes, evading any serious discussion, while your father got more and more frustrated and angry, and your grandmother was swearing like a sailor as usual at Jonny. Still nothing. He seems to think this place is a goldmine, and the money is going to flow into his pocket without any work. He has no appreciation for the work your father has done to get this place rebuilt, or any of the work he’s still doing every day. And you! Working yourself sore while his son, your uncle, does nothing around here but eat and sleep!”

“We were going to move up here?” Lyn asked.

“If Jonny gave your father a fair deal. I mean look at all the plumbing that the vandals ripped out. All that copper pipe totally gone. Your father replaced all the plumbing in the entire place! The kitchen, the bar, your grandmother’s apartment upstairs and the kitchen up there, and six bathrooms! Not to mention all the wiring that was ripped out all over the place! And the Republicans! Jonny insulted so many of them last night, that several said they’ll never come back. Your father got them to hold their victory party here, and he could get them back. But Jonny never will. He hasn’t even met a single local Democrat to get them up here either. Your father could do that, too. You know he has just as many Democrat friends as Republicans, and they all know he’s a Goldwater Republican!”

“So we’re leaving tomorrow?”

“That’s right. They have a couple of large reservations for tonight, otherwise we would leave today.” Lyn’s mother picked up the empty sandwich plate. “Why don’t you go outside and fool around. At least you get one more day to play hooky, and it’s a beautiful sunny day. I’ll wash these dishes, you enjoy yourself the best you can, okay honey?”

“Okay, I already walked Bill,” Lyn pointed out, to reassure his mother that he did not neglect his duties.

“Oh, good,” his mother answered, “where is Bill?”

“He’s outside, tied to the stake!” Lyn enthusiastically announced, and observing Bill through the bar’s large plate glass window, added, “I think he’s sleeping.”

“Well I’m sure he’ll wake up as soon as you walk out that door!”

“Yeah,” Lyn said, pushing the screen door open, “he already hears me!”

“See you later, honey.”

“Bye, mom,” Lyn called back over his shoulder, turning his attention to the boxer dog whose head bobbed in equal but opposite response to his own stubby tail wagging, still too lazy to get up on all fours, making him resemble a car toy figure with a sprung head shaking with the bumps in the road. “Hey, Bill, remember me?” Bill finally jumped up and strained at the leash, until Lyn entered the circle defined by the radius of the leash. Bill could now stand on hind legs and place his front paws on Lyn’s chest, but his joyous snorting and sneezing was not quite done. Lyn recognized the happy but twisted expression on the lovably ugly dog face, and knew Bill was about to sneeze. He dropped the dog paws just in time. As Bill’s paws hit the dirt, he sneezed. “Whadja think, you were gonna sneeze in my face? You silly dog!” Lyn laughed. He observed the circle of worn grass and bare dirt created by the length of Bill’s leash. “You silly dog,” he laughed again, but realized that people were on a leash, too. Cruel circumstance, the limits of one’s talent, the constraints of laws and societal expectations. All these were chains, leashes. Sometimes our own timidity or muddled thinking shortened our leash, but we all lived in a circle defined by the radius of our leash. Who dared to step out of the circle? Suddenly Lyn heard the sound of a stuck window opening abruptly. He looked up to the second floor apartments over the banquet room, where Grandmother, Jonny and Goat lived. Out of the kitchen window, wearing blue jeans and a tank top, Goat clambered onto the flat roof of the attached single-story bar. He walked over to the edge and jumped into the tall grass.

“Hey Lyn, what’s up?”

“Jeez, ya coulda used the stairs!” Lyn exclaimed, half in wonderment.

“Nah, I wanted to catch you before I had to split,” Goat explained, “I have to catch the bus into the city to get some stuff to sell, then Nora and me have her apartment while her mother works the late shift tonight.”

“Doesn’t Nora work there too?” Lyn asked.

“She’s off,” Goat explained, “she’s coming with me, and then tonight… we got the bed ’til two in the morning!”

“So what’s up?”

“Well, I heard all the yelling last night, about the non-existant partnership, you guys doing all this work for nothing,” Goat lowered his volume, “and about your father giving you a cauliflower ear. Then I heard both your folks say you were leaving tomorrow.”

“They talked about me?”

“He feels bad about punching you,” Goat testified, “he wouldn’t feel bad if he punched me, but he does about you. Does it still hurt?”

“Yes, and I’m deaf in that ear.”

“I got something for you,” Goat whispered, “something to share with you.”

“What?” Lyn wondered, thinking possibly of some ointment.

“Not here,” his uncle insisted, “let’s go down by the old swimming pool.”

“Will it make my ear stop hurting?” Lyn asked as Goat wrapped his arm over Lyn’s shoulder.

“Maybe,” Goat surmised, beginning their long walk past the motel wing and across about a hundred yards to where the junk and debris filled pool had been built in the fifties, “it’ll make you feel good, so you forget about your sore ear.”

They reached the pool and sat upon an old oak that had been blown over in a storm. Its roots were exposed and it had mostly died, but a couple branches still had green leaves in a valiant effort to survive and gather energy from the sun. Goat pulled a wrinkled cigarette from his pocket.

“You ever smoke reefer?” Goat grinned conspiritorially.

“No.”

“You tried regular cigarettes?”

“Once,” Lyn admitted, “but it tasted terrible and made me cough.”

“Well at least you inhaled then, not like some girlies who try to look cool, and suck a mouthful in and blow it right out. Anyway, reefer don’t taste bad like that, but you gotta inhale way deep and hold it there, even if you feel like coughing, just hold it. I’ll show ya.” Goat held the unlit joint to his lips and breathed in deeply, holding his breath for several seconds, half a minute or more, finally exhaling. “And part your lips a little and take some regular air in too, at least at first. Then you won’t feel so much like coughing. And this is primo stuff, whatever I bring back tonight won’t be this good. Your ear won’t be feeling no pain, I bet. You ready? You gonna do it?” Lyn nodded assent and Goat lit the joint with a Bic. He took his deep drag and handed it to Lyn.

Lyn took his drag and slightly parted his lips, to moderate the intensity of the smoke. Goat was right, it didn’t taste so bad, but still Lyn felt a tickling in his throat, a wanna cough feel, but he held it, handing the reefer stick back to Goat. It exchanged hands a few times, and on Lyn’s third toke, he took in all smoke, not parting his lips to mellow it with air. The stronger smoke brought back the tickling wanna cough feel, but Lyn held it in.

So it went, back and forth, until only a tiny piece remained, which Goat snuffed out, pinching the glowing ember between his tough masculine fingertips. He placed the roach, as he called it, into what should have been the change purse in his wallet, but now it had a new purpose. Lyn knew all the words, the vocabulary was out there. You couldn’t go to junior high and not know it.

“When do we start to feel high?” Lyn asked. They both leaned back against branches that stuck up from the oak’s recumbent trunk.

“Fuck you,” Goat laughed, “you’re high already! I bet your ear ain’t feeling no pain.”

Lyn slowly and gently glid his left palm over his left cheek, his fingertips slipping through his wispy boyish blond sideburn, then back over his ear ever so tenderly. He smiled broadly, languorously turning his face and almost sleepy looking eyes toward his uncle, exhaling his words breathily, “It don’t hurt!”

“Ha!” Goat laughed, leaning his head back, looking straight up into the clear blue sky. He returned his gaze to Lyn, who still stared at him with half sleepy eyes and a Cheshire Cat grin. Goat asked, “Can you hear outta it?”

Lyn lingered over his response, eventually saying, “What?”

“Can you hear outta it?” Goat more loudly inquired again.

Lyn grinned even more broadly, “What?”

“Oh, aaah,” Goat cackled, “very funny, you bitch! Very funny, just yank my chain!” He jumped up, standing in front of Lyn. He held his hand out, rubbing his fingers together. “Can you hear that?”

“Yup!”

Goat moved his rubbing fingers right next to Lyn’s right ear. “Can you hear that?”

“Yup!”

Now Goat tried Lyn’s left ear. “Can you hear that?”

“Nope!” Lyn gleamed with his happy grin. Goat jumped back about a foot and spread his arms out like Jesus on the cross.

“C’mon, stand up,” Goat chuckled, arms and legs slightly bent now, like a goalie in front of a soccer net.

Rising, Lyn winningly whined, “What for?” his silly grin still on his face.

“I gotta kiss it, make it better.”

“Noooo,” Lyn bayed, twisting his body like a licorice stick, howling his response as a haunted coyote. Still he giggled, turning back to face Goat. Goat tapped the shoulder of Lyn’s short sleeved shirt, then tapped the other shoulder with his left, then poked Lyn’s chest, his ribs, his belly, his shoulder again. Lyn joined the game, feinting left, then right, but he had already decided to lose this game, to see where it was going. He had smoked the marijuana and stepped outside the circle. He was ready to break the chain. At last Goat simply grabbed Lyn, wrapping his arms about his willowy nephew, but Lyn had one more ploy. He dropped to the bed of brown oak leaves below them, and Goat was left standing with his empty arms in a hoop, like a netless basketball rim on an abandoned playground. Goat quickly fell on top of Lyn, pinning his shoulders, his hips on Lyn’s hips, his belly on Lyn’s belly. The brown leaves rustled and crackled as Lyn spread his arms like an angel, like a butterfly. Goat slid his palms down Lyn’s bare arms, pinning his insect by the wrists, bringing his chest against Lyn’s. Lowering his face the final inches, Goat kissed Lyn, not on the ear, but on the lips. He kissed and tongued, sucking Lyn’s pouty red lower lip into his mouth and licking his white teeth. Their tongues touched. Goat jumped up. He stood over Lyn. He turned in circles, running his fingers through his hair.

“Holy Shit!” Goat exclaimed, “you got the power! You got the voodoo in you, man! I got a boner, and you do too! Holy shit! I was right, you are gay. Huh? Tell me I’m right, huh?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So nothin’, man,” Goat paced and stepped in circles, “you got a boyfriend? You doin’ it with some guy?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t,” Lyn moped, coming down.

“Bullshit!” Goat disagreed, “you got the power, man. You got the voodoo! I ain’t never been with a boy, never wanted to, ’specially no fourteen year old jailbait! You got me hard, man. You got the power! You are oversexed!”

“You, too!” Lyn finally smiled again. Goat laughed with Lyn, both amazed at their own bodies and feel good arousal. Each thought he knew what the other was thinking, and they both laughed.

“Yeah, I guess we’re both crazy! Fuck! I gotta go. I need to fuck Nora real bad, before my balls fall off! Hey, you too, don’t let your balls turn blue! Plenty of leaves all around ya!” Goat began to walk away, but turned around once more. “That’s right, you’re leaving in the morning. Tell you what, I’ll bring you some joints to take back with ya. I’ll be late, so leave your door unlocked. Which room you in anyway?”

“The first one, by the big dining room,” Lyn answered.

“And which one is your folks in?”

“The opposite end. The big room, all the way down here by the door to out here and the pool.”

“Nobody else?”

“Not since Kevin moved out,” Lyn answered.

“That’s right, he said an apartment would simplify his life.”

“Yeah, just me and my parents, with about a hundred feet between us.” Lyn surmised.

“Cool, they won’t never hear me. I’ll see ya, if you’re still awake. Otherwise, see you at Thanksgiving!”

Lyn just stayed there in the oak leaves, his boner now flaccid and forgotten, absorbing the heat of the sun and viewing the yellow, orange and green colors on distant Goshen hills under the early autumn blue sky.

His parents had an early dinner with him after they got into their suitable clothing, Lyn in white shirt, black tie and black trousers, his father in his tux, mother atractive as always. They sat at their table in the bar, Lyn and his mother with Roast Breast of Goose, his father with Rainbow Trout. The rest of the staff could not choose top-price items from the menu, but father said their family could this time, it being their only pay for months of hard work. The first diners arrived ten minutes before scheduled opening at five, and father got up from his trout to seat them. Returning to the bar, he told Kevin, “Bottle of Chardonay, bin nineteen, four glasses.” The Eureka House did not entertain a sommelier position, so Lyn’s father did that, too.

Lyn never let the bus trays get ahead of him, carting them off to the kitchen before they were more than half full. Most tables never turned over that night, Wednesday was a slow night. Even the two big reservation parties only ate once, and as plates were removed from their table, Lyn carted the tray to the kitchen. The waitresses removed the bar glasses when they brought new drinks, for bar glasses were washed in the bar by the bartenders. Only the water goblets and footed parfait glasses got washed with the dishes in the kitchen by Lou. Lyn’s father insisted on it, saying that any glass that ever had milk or dairy in it would forever be soured for beer. No matter how many times a milk glass got washed, it would always make a good beer taste skunky. It was nearly midnight when the second reservation party finally departed, and Lyn brought the last tray, with only a few desert plates, ashtrays and water goblets, into the kitchen. As he set it down near Lou, he announced, “We’re clear! No more customers, no more dishes!”

Lou turned and started to applaud, Don the chef joined him as the waitresses did, too, and one waitress named Helen carried a plate with a large slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie, Lyn’s favorite, with a single lit birthday candle in it. She handed the pie to Lyn and they all began singing, “For he’s a jolly good fellow,” and all applauded again when the song ended with “which nobody can deny.” Lyn was surprised, since it was not his birthday, nevertheless he blew out the candle.

“How about some whipped cream on that pie,” Don offered, and a waitress named Madge with a can of the stuff began squirting a mound of it on the slice of pie after Don had removed the candle. By this time, Lyn’s father and mother had come from the bar into the pantry, to investigate the applause. They were followed by Kevin and Ron, the other bartender, and even Grandmother. Only Jonny was missing, upstairs counting the money, no doubt. All eyes were on Lyn’s father, who raised his hands in front of himself and began loudly and rhythmically clapping. Lyn knew, and perhaps everyone knew, it was father’s way of apologizing for the previous night’s blow. Mother joined the applause, as did Kevin and Ron, Grandmother, and the entire kitchen and wait staff.

One waitress named Helme then dragged over a worn chair to the now cleaned salad prep table, saying, “You sit here, honey! You’re one of us! You’re a worker, and we’re proud to have you in our kitchens!” Lyn, almost as red as the rhubarb, thanked everyone and sat to eat his pie. He couldn’t stop smiling if he wanted to.

Lyn packed up all his clothing, except for his jeans and shirt for tomorrow morning. Then all he would have to do is take the sheets and pillow off the bed and throw everything into the Lincoln’s big trunk. And walk Bill, of course. Bill preferred to sleep by his father’s shoes, so he was down the hall. Lyn got between the sheets in his white no fly bikini briefs. They felt more comfortable, made his ass look sexier, he thought, and his dick and balls looked bigger, too. He would never wear them to school, where he had to change in front of other boys in gym class, but all summer, weekends, and up here in Goshen, he wore what he considered his gay-boy underwear. He left the door unlocked, as Goat had requested. Maybe he would bring the reefer, and Lyn could use it on another boy back home. Like Patrick, if he ever had the balls to talk to Patrick. Then he could smoke the reefer with Patrick, and it would just happen. Like it happened with him and Goat. The giggling, and the kissing. Only Patrick would not run off to his girlfriend, like Goat. No, Patrick would follow him home from school, they would go up to Lyn’s room, smoke more reefer, and kiss and get naked. Lyn fell asleep thinking these thoughts, these dreams.

A bump, a shuffle, a thin shaft of pale blue light from the hall. Lyn knew his door was opened.

“Shit!” came a hoarse whisper, “hey Lyn, you here?” Then Goat giggled, “Tee-hee-hee!” He found a chair by accidentally kicking it, then flopped on it. “Shit, man,” Goat exhaled in his sandpaper whisper, “I gotta tell ya, you put the voodoo in me!”

“Shh!” Lyn warned. Goat took it down a few decibels.

“No, really, when I got to Nora’s, we fucked for a fucking hour, man! For real! We missed the bus! So when I got to the city, we went straight to Sheriden Square, to see if we could find that guy from Boston with the primo stuff. He was there! Like he was standing there for a fucking week! Just waiting for us! We got everything he had, man, and split on the A-train! Then we was making out on the bus, and freakin people out!” Goat seemed to nod off, saying nothing for a few beats. He suddenly drew a breath of air and whispered, “Shit man, you really put the voodoo in me!”

“I wasn’t even there!” Lyn whispered.

“No, man,” Goat hissed, “this morning, before I split, you know, how I kissed ya?”

“So?”

“You pissed, man?”

“I ain’t pissed.”

“You pissed at me, man?”

“I ain’t pissed!” Lyn insisted, “I felt good. My ear stopped hurting.”

“I felt good, too,” Goat admitted, “too good! Both of us getting boners, man, that made me see shit new! Shit don’t just happen that makes ya see shit new! It’s fuckin rare, man! You got the voodoo! Man, even after we got back and was makin up all the baggies and rollin joints and shit, man, I was playin with Nora, you know, but we had to get down to the fuckin Episcopal Coffee House dance shit, ya know, to sell the shit before we got busted with it?”

“Yeah?” Lyn inquired, as all this drug selling detail was new to him.

“Yeah, so that’s when I seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“I seen what’s in me, man. That voodoo you put on me made me see me new. Made me see what’s new, or maybe it was always there, but I ain’t never seen it. You know, down at the Coffee House, all them hippies strummin their acoustics, with their long hair down to their tits and their Neil Young fringe jackets and tight ass jeans.”

“Who?” Lyn grinned.

“Boys!” Goat moaned, “Fuckin boys and their tight ass jeans, man, you put the voodoo in me, and it ain’t never goin away! That’s gotta be my last dance, man! I wanted to fuck one of ’em!”

“Didja?” Lyn chuckled.

“Hell no, we sold our shit and got the hell outta there. I told ya, we had the apartment ’til two. We fucked like bunnies, man, all night! I had to crawl out Nora’s window when her mother got home. I mean, she knows we do it, but like she don’t know, ya know?” Goat ran his fingers through his blond hair. “She wants Nora and me to be married before she officially acknowledges us fucking.”

“You gonna marry Nora?” Lyn asked.

“Maybe, but not now,” Goat responded, “dealin drugs ain’t exactly a career.” He ran his fingers through his hair, both hands at once. “Hey, I got your joints, man, I didn’t forget ya.” He pulled six rolled marijuana cigarettes out of his pocket, placing them on the nightstand. He smiled at Lyn, and Lyn smiled back. They looked in each other’s eyes. Goat laughed, “Shit, man, you’re doin it now.”

“What?” Lyn giggled.

“The voodoo, man,” Goat whispered, “them vibes, you’re doin it now. I bet you’re naked under them sheets!”

“Nah,” Lyn assured him.

“You are! I can feel it!”

“I’m not!” Lyn insisted through his giggles.

“Show me.” Goat waited, smiling.

Lyn remembered earlier, how he had decided to step out of the circle, to break the leash. But Goat left, nothing happened. Now, he decided again to overcome his first inclination to say no. To break the chain. To let it happen. He pulled back the white top sheet covering his belly and everything below, including his gay-boy underwear. He watched Goat’s face, grinning like he was, to see the reaction.

“Fuckin bitch!” Goat mumbled, whispering, “where’d ya get that underwear? Ya might as well be naked! I knew it!”

Lyn’s dick pointed up in his briefs, but now he could feel it stiffening. It felt good. He just giggled, and laid his head back into the pillow, all the while gazing fondly at his drunk and stoned uncle. Smiling sweetly, he asked, “You been drinking, too?”

“Hell yes,” Goat laughed, “Johnie Walker’s a friend of mine! And primo smoke too!” He covered his ears with his palms for a moment, then slightly wobbly, he stood. “Fuck, it ain’t no use! I gotta get in bed with you! I gotta get naked with you!”

“Okay.”

“But you gotta say it’s alright, man. You gotta say yes.”

“Okay, yes!”

“Cuz it won’t be right without you saying yes man, I want you to say yes.”

“I said yes.”

Goat kicked off his shoes, pointy leather elfin shoes, then stepped on his toes and pulled his foot out of his socks, one foot and then the other. He dropped his jeans and underwear with one quick swoop, and pulled his tank-top over his head, dropping it on the rest of his clothes. He sat on the edge of the bed and caressed the cool white cotton sheet. “Shit, man,” he complained in a gentle whisper, “I don’t know what I’m doing! I guess we start where we left off.”

“Yeah,” Lyn whispered back, as Goat pulled his legs up onto the bed and laid parallel to Lyn. Touching his nephew’s slender rib cage, fondling up his side into the fourteen year old’s hairless armpit, then over his shoulder, bringing his face to Lyn’s, he kissed him like before. Lyn responded just as before, too, and their tongues touched and they continued to kiss, the baritone and treble moans of ecstasy mingling between heavy breathing. Lyn’s hands slithered over Goat’s more masculine arms, with their bulging biceps, which he petted, and then ran his fingers through Goat’s blond hair. He raised his hips as Goat tugged at his white bikini briefs. Goat got them off.

“Mmm!” Goat moaned, “I gotta go all the way, man, okay? I’m gonna bust! Can I fuck you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slow. Stop me if it hurts or anything.”

“Okay,” Lyn encouraged Goat. Only he knew what he would never tell anyone— that he had practiced on himself with KY jelly and a sawed-off broom handle. He knew how to relax himself, to open up. He wanted this so much.

Goat got between Lyn’s legs and slithered his hands over Lyn’s abdomen and belly, up over his stiffened nipples, then down to his crotch again.

“I got no hair yet,” Lyn admitted.

“You will soon. Don’t worry, you got a nice dick.” Bending Lyn’s knees beside him, Goat grasped the younger boy’s hips and jerked him against his erection. Lyn giggled. Pulling back just a bit, Goat got his sticky dripping cock under Lyn’s balls, and he found the little hole. Lyn opened himself to his uncle’s penis and it slid in. “Oh, Lyn man!” Goat began to pump his dick with in and out motion. Lyn closed his eyes and felt the pleasure. Goat grasped Lyn’s prick and firmly tugged it up and down. The pull of it, the throbbing in Lyn’s dick, was enough to vibrate his own penis buried in his nephew’s slender round boy-ass. Goat’s dick began to throb violently, and both could feel the storm. Lyn ejaculated over his own chest, the furthest squirts reaching his neck. His tightened asshole squeezed every ounce of lust from Goat’s impaling paroxysmal penis. “Oh, Lyn man!” His shrinking dick popped out of Lyn, and he lifted his nephew’s left leg across his chest, turning Lyn on his side. Goat then fell behind Lyn, their bodies spooning like romantic English schoolboys. “You dirty boy!” Goat whispered in Lyn’s left ear, “You dirty boy! I loved it! That was beautiful!” He kissed Lyn on the left ear, and Lyn turned his face to him.

“I heard that!” Lyn breathed without voice, smiling with sleepy eyes. Goat just kissed the back of Lyn’s neck.

“Can I lay here a while?” Goat asked.

“Sure,” Lyn agreed.

“If my dick gets hard again, can I fuck you again?”

“Sure,” Lyn grinned.

“Even if you’re asleep?”

Lyn looked back over his shoulder with his smiling sleepy eyes. “Wake me up!”

They both shortly drifted off to sleep, but Goat woke up with his stiff prick pressing Lyn’s bottom. He gently found the hole and pressed softly and slowly, gradually sliding in. He crossed Lyn’s left arm with his own, feeling Lyn’s chest, abdomen, and stiff dick. “Lyn, you awake?”

“Mmm!”

Goat gently pumped like a piston on a reciprocating engine, all the way in, part the way out, all the way in, part the way out. Neither boy was so quick to ejaculate now, but eventually Lyn came first, his stickiness oozing over Goat’s hand, his anal tightening causing Goat to come. They both just lazed there drifting, but when Goat plopped out, he rolled off the bed, returning with his tank top, wiping his hand on it, cleaning Lyn’s penis and the sticky spot on the sheet in front of him, and wiping the sticky brown streak from Lyn’s ass. He tossed the shirt in the corner and dressed in his jeans and underwear, shoes and socks. Sitting on the edge of the bed again, Goat leaned over and kissed Lyn on the cheek. “Hey man, tonight was beautiful, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Our little secret, right?”

“Right.”

“See ya at Thanksgiving kid, okay?”

“Mmmm,” Lyn agreed, but was nearly asleep again, in fact, he was out before Goat left the room.

Pulling away from the Funeral Home, they were fourth in line. First they waited for the hearse, which captured it’s sad load out of sight. When it pulled out of the bay, the flower car followed it. Grandmother, Jonny and Aunt Edie in the limousine pulled out next. These three vehicles were all black Cadillacs. Father drove his black Lincoln with Mom in the passenger seat and Lyn in back. Ray and Leah in their dark brown Ford LTD brought up the rear, that was all who came for Goat, aside from the Lutheran minister from the only high school that would accept Goat in his senior year. He had to convert from Judaism to go there, but Goat never subscribed to his father’s religion anyway. This minister had said a few words at the Funeral Home, then left to officiate at graveside. By the time the casket was closed and loaded into the hearse, the minister had long since departed for George Washington Cemetary. It drizzled rain lightly, and the minister probably wanted to get this over.

As the motorcade passed from Teaneck to Paramus through red lights with their headlights on, the sun began to shine.

The hearse and flower car pulled in and went to the left, directly to graveside. As the undertakers opened the hearse and placed the casket on the elevator device that would soon lower the casket, the other cars parked alongside the asphalt roadway, and the mourners slowly walked up the grassy space already taken by many graves, all marked with uniform flat inscribed stones. The Lutheran minister awaited them at the head of Goat’s casket, to his left a fresh mound of earth.

Walking up the grassy incline, Lyn felt his left side and the small bulge there, under his black jacket. They all lined up along the casket, Jonny and Grandmother next to the minister, then Aunt Edie, father, mother and Lyn. Ray and Leah stood behind, perhaps out of deference to family. After the undertaker’s assistants finished placing the large floral displays, they left in the hearse and flower car and the minister spoke. The minister’s words were as generic and lifeless as the pile of dirt beside him. All ashes to ashes crap, Lyn felt. Not a word about who Goat was, or the life he lived. The casket lowered into the earth, and the minister picked up a small garden trowel with a fancy handle, and shovelled a spadeful of earth from the pile onto Goat’s box. Jonny forsook the trowel and tossed a handful of earth. Grandmother dropped the flowers she held, tearfully moaning “My baby!” as they landed on the box, then took the little trowel and added her bit of earth. The minister had stepped aside, and Aunt Edie tossed her flowers and earth, then helped Jonny support her sister in walking to the limousine. Father gave the minister an envelope from his jacket pocket. Charon collecting his ferryman’s fee. The minister headed for his silver Mercedes and drove off. Father and mother added flowers and earth over Goat. Mother handed Lyn the shovel, he was the last, Ray and Leah having headed to their Ford.

“C’mon, Lyn,” his father said.

“Give me a sec,” Lyn requested, “I’ll catch up.”

He dropped the trowel into the pile of dirt, and in the distance, about a hundred feet away under an oak tree, Lyn could see two gravediggers waited to close the hole in the earth. He reached for the lump inside his jacket. Last night, after Ray and Leah dropped him off home, he had gone up to the attic and retrieved, from his small student sized desk that he had outgrown, the one thing he wanted to bring this morning. He held out the blue stuffed toy, fingering the plush fur. He let it fall atop the wooden casket strewn with flowers and earth. Picking up the fancy trowel, he added earth over Silly Bunny and Uncle Goat.

“I still love you, Silly Bunny,” he softly said, “I still love you, Uncle Goat.”

It would be a long time before he could find the words for how he felt, before he would write down his memories of his uncle. Before he turned and raced to catch up with his parents, his teenaged heart only allowed him one more word.

“Goodbye.”