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down, grabbed two fist-sized chunks of concrete, and stuffed them into his front pockets, just for good
luck. Jake thought he was being silly but didn’t object.
A block farther up, the business district (such as it was) came to an abrupt end. I saw an elderly
woman hurrying along and glancing nervously at the boys, who were now a little farther up on the
other side of Main. She was wearing a kerchief and what looked like a respirator—the kind of thing
people with COPD or advanced emphysema use.
“Ma’am, do you know if the library—”
“Leave me alone!” Her eyes were large and scared. The moon shone briefly through a rift in the
clouds, and I saw that her face was covered with sores. The one below her right eye appeared to have
eaten right down to the bone. “I have a paper that says I can be out, it’s got a Council stamp, so leave
me alone! I’m going to see my sister! Those boys are bad enough, and soon they’ll start their wilding.
If you touch me, I’ll buzz my beezer and a constable will come!”
I somehow doubted that.
“Ma’am, I just want to know if the library is still—”
“It’s been closed for years and all the books are gone! They have Hate Meetings there now. Leave
me alone, I say, or I’ll buzz for a constable!”
She scuttled away, looking back over her shoulder every few seconds to make sure I wasn’t coming
after her. I let her put enough distance between us to make her feel comfy, then continued up Main
Street. My knee was recovering a bit from my stair-climbing exertions in the Book Depository, but I
was still limping, and would be for some time to come. Lights burned behind drawn curtains in a few
houses, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t produced by Central Maine Power. Those were Coleman
lanterns and in some cases kerosene lamps. Most of the houses were dark. Some were charred wrecks.
There was a Nazi swastika on one of the wrecks and the words JEW RAT spray-painted on another.
Those boys are bad enough and soon they’ll start their wilding.
And . . . had she really said Hate Meetings?
In front of one of the few houses that looked in good shape—it was a mansion compared to most of
them—I saw a long hitching rail, like in a western movie. And actual horses had been tied up there.
When the sky lightened in another of those diffuse spasms, I could see horsepucky pats, some of them
fresh. The driveway was gated. The moon had gone in again, so I couldn’t read the sign on the iron
slats, but I didn’t need to read it to know it said KEEP OUT.
Now, from up ahead, I heard someone enunciate a single word: “Cunt!”
It didn’t sound young, like one of the wild boys, and it was coming from my side of the street
rather than theirs. The guy sounded pissed off. He also sounded like he might be talking to himself. I
walked toward his voice.
“Mother-fucker!” the voice cried, exasperated. “Shit-ass!”
He was maybe a block up. Before I got there, I heard a loud metallic bonk and the male voice cried:
“Get on with you! Goddam little wetnosed sonsabitches! Get on with you before I pull my pistol!”
Mocking laughter greeted this. It was the pot-smoking wild boys, and the voice that replied
certainly belonged to the one who had mooned me. “Only pistol you got is the one in your pants, and I
bet it’s got a mighty limp barrel!”
More laughter. It was followed by a high metallic spannng sound.
“You fucks, you broke one of my spokes!” When the man yelled at them again, his voice was tinged
with reluctant fear. “Nah, nah, stay on your own goddam side!”
The clouds rifted. The moon peeked through. By its chancy light I saw an old man in a wheelchair.
He was halfway across one of the streets intersecting Main—Goddard, if the name hadn’t changed.
One of his wheels had gotten stuck in a pothole, causing the chair to cant drunkenly to the left. The
boys were crossing toward him. The kid who had told me to fuck off was holding a slingshot with a