The German by Lee Thomas Read Free Book Online Page A

chair, I let him. He says nothing but rapidly shoves his prick back into his shorts and yanks up his trousers, and in a minute he is dressed and then he is gone.
    His visit frustrates me, reminding me enough of nights in Munich to spark nostalgic longing. But it is only the mechanics that remind me. None of the men in this place bring joy or passion or warmth. There is no union. They accomplish pleasure but it resonates with torment – doubt, regret, and guilt. This thing that brings them such misery is the thing that once gave me greatest peace, and I wonder how two men can perceive the same act so differently. Perhaps it is the difference between digging in the garden to plant a beautiful tree and digging one’s own grave.
    I pour a glass of whiskey and carry it into the living room, where I dress. Presentable, I switch the lamp back on and carry my drink to the porch. There I sit and listen to the night – frogs, a cricket, a car rumbling many streets away. Across the street, my neighbor Tim and his fat friend are visible through the window of his house. They are alone as Tim’s mother works a swing shift at the factory and will not be home for hours. The two boys sit on the sofa talking, perhaps listening to the radio. I turn away and look to the west. At the lake’s edge, someone moves, merely a smudge of shadow against the plum-colored surface. Likely a lover sneaking away – though not my lover. Many people meet at the lake after sunset. They kiss behind the shelter of trees, seeking warmth and forgetfulness.
    And again my thoughts drift, remembering a hole, deep and dark, with water pooling at the bottom like blood in an open wound.
     
     

Four: Tim Randall
     
    The news about Harold Ashton upset Ma. She’d spent the entire afternoon on the phone exclaiming and protesting the information pouring in from her friends all over town. She even considered calling into the factory and taking the night off to stay home to a keep a watchful eye. Bum’s parents didn’t seem to have the sense to be worried about him, which was okay by me. My mother called Mrs. Craddick and the fuzzy-brained woman was just fine with Bum spending the night at our house, so long as he got home first thing in the morning to help her with chores in the yard. Only slightly comforted that I wouldn’t be in the house alone, my mother grabbed her hat and handbag, then she checked the locks on the back door and all of the windows before hurrying out to the factory for her shift.
    We messed around in the house until suppertime, and then I fixed Bum and me beef sandwiches and glasses of milk. We wolfed those down before heading to the backyard to play war with sticks, but we quickly tired of the game and ended up sitting on the back steps talking about Harold Ashton and speculating on his killer. With the limited information at our disposal – because my mother had given no details, not even mentioning the note the rest of the city was already talking about – we imagined a number of horrific fates for the older boy (though granted, none as horrific as what had really happened to him).
    When it started getting dark we went inside and turned on the radio and settled in for the week’s installment of The Adventures of the Thin Man . The show never did much for me but Bum liked the way Nick and Nora Charles spoke, the sounds of their voices, so even if the mysteries weren’t particularly exciting, he looked forward to the show. I fidgeted throughout, asking questions about the story and the characters and the stuff I was too bored to follow.
    Full dark had settled by the time the announcer insisted we tune in next week for the next exciting episode, and I muttered, “No, thank you.”
    “You’re being uncouth,” Bum said, doing a terrible impression of Nick Charles.
    “So’s your butt,” I said.
    “What’s on now?”
    “You know, it’s dark,” I said, ignoring his question and looking at the window as if to prove my point. Across the