Plainsong (Plainsong #1)(71)

Now, Beckman said, talking to Guthrie. Tell him in front of us what this is about. What do you say happened?

Guthrie spoke directly to the boy. His voice sounded strained and tight. You finally went too far, didn’t you. You’ve hurt my two boys now. You and that Murphy kid. Last night you took them out in the country and scared them and then you figured it would be smart to pull their pants off and leave them out there to walk home. They’re just little boys. They’re just nine and ten years old. They didn’t do anything to you. They told me about it. You’re just a coward, aren’t you. You have something against me, then you come see me about it. But you leave my boys out of it.

What’s all this? Beckman said. What’s he talking about? Do you know anything about this?

I don’t know what he’s talking about, the boy said. I don’t have any idea what the hell he’s saying. He’s full of shit, as usual. I don’t even know his little kids.

Yeah you do, Guthrie said. He was barely able to speak now. His voice sounded tight even to himself, scarcely within his control. You’re lying again. You know exactly what I’m talking about.

I don’t know his kids! the boy said. I wouldn’t know em if they was standing right here in front of me. He’s always making trouble for me. Get him out of here.

Goddamn you, Guthrie said. You’re lying again. Then it was past talking. Guthrie rushed the boy and grabbed his shirt at the neck. You sorry son of a bitch. You leave my boys alone. He slammed the boy back against the front wall of the house, his fists up under his chin. If you ever touch my kids again . . .

But Beckman was in it now too. He grabbed Guthrie’s arms. Let him go, he was hollering. Let him go.

I’m warning you, Guthrie said, shouting, his voice still awkward and strained, his face inches away from the boy’s. Goddamn you. He rocked the boy’s head back against the house wall, the boy’s eyes flaring in alarm and surprise and anger, his chin tilted up above Guthrie’s fist, his head canted back; he was pulled up onto his toes, his hands scrabbling at Guthrie’s wrists.

Let go, goddamn it! Beckman yelled. His wife was slapping at Guthrie from the back, clawing at his jacket, screeching something unintelligible, not even words, just a high-pitched furious noise. Beckman was still jerking at Guthrie’s arms, then he stopped and drew back and hit Guthrie at the side of the face and Guthrie went over sideways, pulling the boy with him. Guthrie’s glasses hung crookedly from his face. Beckman bent over and swung again, hitting him above the ear.

Next door the Fraisers were watching. Mrs. Fraiser went running into the house to call the police, and her husband came hurrying across the yard between the two houses. Here now, he called. Here, you men, stop this.

Guthrie rose up and shoved the boy away, and Beckman came at him again, swinging wildly, and Guthrie ducked under his arm and hit him in the throat at the open neck of his white shirt. Beckman fell back choking. His wife screamed and tried to help him but he pushed her away. The boy rushed Guthrie from the side, his head lowered, and tackled him backward. They hit the porch rail and Guthrie felt something pop in his side, then they dropped down, the boy on top of him.

Guthrie fought with the boy on the floorboards and Beckman, recovered now, came once more and leaned over his son and found an opening and hit Guthrie in the face. Guthrie released the boy, then father and son worked on him together, punishing him, while he tried to roll over. When they stopped, Mrs. Beckman rushed forward and kicked him in the back. Guthrie rolled toward her and when she drew back to kick again he caught her foot, and she sat down violently on the porch boards, her dress flung up onto her thighs, and she sat just screaming until her husband lifted under her arms and raised her to her feet and told her to shut up. She sobered and straightened her dress. Guthrie got onto his knees, then stood. His face was smeared with the blood that ran from his nose and there was a cut over his eye. The chest pocket of his jacket was torn open, flapping like a tongue. He stood panting. One eye was already swelling shut and his side hurt where he’d hit the rail. He looked around for his glasses but couldn’t find them.

You men, Fraiser said. Here now. This isn’t the way.

Guthrie, you better get out of here, Beckman said. I’m telling you.

You son of a bitch, Guthrie panted.

You better go on. We’ll take you again.

You tell that boy . . .

I’m not telling him a goddamn thing. You leave him alone.

Guthrie looked at him. You tell him he better never touch my boys again. I’m telling all of you that now.

Wait, Fraiser said. Listen, you men.

Out in the street Bud Sealy suddenly pulled up in the blue sheriff’s car and got out in a hurry, the door swinging open, and he came hustling toward the house. He was a heavy red-faced man with a hard stomach. What’s going on here? he said. This don’t look like no Sunday school church meeting to me. He stepped onto the porch and looked at them. What’s all this? Who’s going to tell me?

Guthrie here attacked my boy, Beckman said. Come right to the house this morning raising hell, claiming some bullshit story about his kids. He called my boy outside and attacked him. But we fixed him.

That right, Tom? Is that what happened?

Guthrie didn’t answer. He was still looking at the Beckmans. Don’t you ever touch them again, he said. This is the one time I’m going to tell you.

Do I have to listen to this? Beckman said to the sheriff. This is my house. I don’t have to listen to this shit on my own front porch.