Crow Fair by Thomas McGuane Read Free Book Online

on the music shelf. The GOD MADE ME SPECIAL poster had broken free of its thumbtacks. I didn’t remember so much chaos on Friday—motivational ribbons and certificates, birthday crowns, star badges, alphabet stickers all over the room—but then my mind had been elsewhere.
    Frau Hessler made the rounds of the refrigerator, counted out the snacks in a loud voice, put the removable mop heads back in the closet, gave her own YOUR COMPANY HERE shirt a good stretch, and greeted the first mother at the door. It was on. They came in a wave of noise as Hessler and I checked each other’s faces for the required cheer. I had mine on good but felt like my teeth were drying out. Two mothers asked for the containers of their breast milk to be labeled and were quite abrupt telling me that Post-its would fall off in the fridge. The room was full of children, nearly babies, little boys and girls thematically dressed according to the expectations of their parents, little princesses and tiny cowboys, some still in pajamas. Hessler always seemed to know exactly what to do and began creating order. I dove into the sock-puppet bins, trying to find one that felt right, pawing through the Bible-themed puppets, the monster puppets, the animal puppets. I was fixated on getting one I was comfortable with, since I’d ended up with Saint John the Baptist the previous week, and Hessler rebuked me for failing to come up with relevant Bible quotes. Realizing I was running out of time by Hesslerstandards, I just snatched one randomly and found myself wearing an African American fireman and wiggling the stick that operated the hand holding the hose, all for the sake of a surly four-year-old named Roger. Roger was not amused and after long silence called me poopoo head. I offered up some goofy laughter, and Roger repeated the remark. “In ten years, Roger,” I muttered, “you’ll be sniffing airplane glue from a sandwich bag.” I dropped the fireman on the bench and moved on to nicer children. I made it until time-out, when I left the playhouse for a cigarette. A cold wind stirred the last leaves on the old burr oaks at the corner. Up on the hill, where Grandma’s house stood, the sun was already shining. Mrs. Devlin would be setting out her midmorning tea, and Grandma was sure to feel that things were in perfect order.

By late afternoon, Owen’s parents were usually having their first cocktails. His mother gave hers some thought, looking upon it as a special treat, while his father served himself “a stiff one” in a more matter-of-fact way, his every movement expressing a conviction that he had a right to this stuff, no matter how disagreeable or lugubrious or romantic it might soon make him. He made a special point of not asking permission as he poured, with a workmanlike concentration on not spilling a drop. Owen’s mother held her drink between the tips of her fingers; his father held his in his fist. Owen could see solemnity descend on his father’s brow with the first sip, while his mother often looked apprehensive about the possible hysteria to come. Owen remembered a Saturday night when his father had air-paddled backward, collapsing into the kitchen trash can and terrifying the family boxer, Gertrude. Gertrude had bitten Owen’s father the first time she saw him drunk and now viewed him with a detachment that was similar to Owen’s.
    In any event, the cocktails were Owen’s cue to head for the baseball diamond that the three Kershaw boys and their father had built in the pasture across from their house, with the help of any neighborhood kids who’d wanted to pitch in—clearingbrush, laying out the baselines and boundaries, forming the pitcher’s mound, or driving in the posts for the backstop. Doug, the eldest Kershaw boy, was already an accomplished player, with a Marty Marion infielder’s mitt and a pair of cleats. Terry, the middle son, was focused on developing his paper route and would likely be a millionaire by thirty.