Remember a Cord of Three Strands
The summer of Alderaan Lars’ tenth birthday began as a trial certainly sent by some demonic fiend. For all his life that he could remember, he’d lived quite happily there in Pleasanton, Iowa, with his Mah and Pah within a prairie paradise. In every direction he looked, corn fields stretched out, offering an endless treasure of hideaways, imaginations and adventures. There in his extended backyard he had conquered the Old West, fought three world wars and sailed green and yellow oceans, and he’d only just aged into double digits. Over the years he had discovered and thwarted aliens planning to attack the capital (Des Moines). He had hunted the dreaded field elephant as it mowed down the corn in its wrath, only barely able to peek over the stalks at their full height. He had gone swimming with dolphins just under the seas’ tasseled surface. There in Iowa, the winds blew gently in summer and howled in winter; snows regularly interrupted school days, and rains seldom ruined vacations. It was, he reckoned, the most ideal life a boy could have; who cared that he was the only black child in town.
At age seven he hijacked the family pickup and drove like a maniac around the harvested fields, working the accelerator with a broom handle. At eight he climbed out his bedroom window in the middle of the night, shimmied down a tree and led a few of the neighbor’s milk cows to his teacher’s house – liberally fertilizing her flower beds – just because he liked her. When he was nine he climbed the water tower and painted, on the top where only small-plane pilots could see, “last stop for gas.” Iowa was his domain, and no other place on Earth could ever be quite so pleasant for Alderaan as his home in Pleasanton. But just because she needed a break, at age ten his Mah told him he’d be spending the summer some four hundred miles away with his second cousin twice-removed, Alberta Pickler.
“Mah, why do I have to go off somewhere all summer?” he wailed at the news. “They’re about to pour the cement floor for the new co-op!”
“Yah, well, that’s exactly why you’re going. I shudder to think what you’ve got in mind for that cement. I don’t want the whole Farm Bureau at my front door.”
“Ahh, Mah. I promise I won’t do anything.”
“Don’t you lie to me, not with Jesus and all His angels listening. You’re going to your cousin’s, and that’s that.”
Alderaan didn’t know why Jesus had to get involved, and wandered out onto the porch. He found a stick long enough to whip at the grass while he sat on the top step. In the distance, far beyond the corn, the California Zephyr called to him. If he left now, he’d miss Ethanol Days, with its tractor pulls, seed-spitting round-robin, and all the other pastimes farmers use to entertain themselves while they watch their crops grow. He would miss endless games of Wiffle ball in the sun and bingo under the shade. No fresh-squeezed lemonade, no late-night bonfires, no annual Bassett Waddle, for surely those things exist only in Iowa, he thought. Alderaan moved to the bottom step and drew in the silky soft dust with his toe, sure he could think of a way to change his Mah’s mind. But before he knew it, the City of New Orleans pulled up in the pitch black of Newbern, Tennessee, where his cousin Alberta picked him up and drove him to Skullbone.
So Alderaan was in no great spirits as he kicked moodily against the broken sidewalk in front of Alberta’s house and noticed ten-year-old Poncey S. Muldoon coming up the way with his dog, Sparky.
“That your dog?”
“Yeah, what’d you think? I got him on my leash.”
“Yah, that’s what I thought. What kind of dog is it? Bulldog? A poodle?”
“He’s a mutt, mostly rat terrier – emphasis on the rat.”
“More of a ‘poochle,’ then.”
“Yeah, I guess. Name’s Sparky. You new here?”
“Yah, I’m staying here with my cousin.”
“Alberta Pickler’s your cousin?”
“Yah, that’s what I said.”
Poncey stood there. “When’re you leavin’?”
“I’m going to be here all summer.”
Poncey looked down at Sparky, scratching lamely at the mites in his ears. “Well,” he offered, not particularly wanting to be friendly. “What’s your name?”
“Alderaan Lars. What’s yours?”
“Poncey Stonewall Muldoon.” No entrenched Southern family is without at least one male child named Stonewall, and it was Poncey’s turn. “What the heck kind of name is Alderaan?”
“What kind of name is Poncey?”
Poncey didn’t want to explain, so he let it drop. “Where’d you get the name Lars?”
“Some guy a long time ago, he lived in Minnesota but he wanted to own a slave.”
“He wanted to own a slave?”
“Yah, some Norwegian named Lars. I guess he was a social climber or something, so he moved to Missouri and bought a person, some super-great grandfather of mine. But it turned out he wasn’t in Missouri.”
“Why not?” Poncey tried not to look interested, but talk of Minnesota might as well have been about Katmandu to him, so exotic it was. Sparky licked himself.
“He moved to just inside the northern border, to Pleasanton – guess he was lazy, or tired of traveling. But Iowa and Missouri were fighting over where the line was. Missouri thought it should be farther north, and Iowa thought it was more south, and they nearly had a war over it. Some folks crossed over and cut down some honey trees, just to try to start something, so they call it the Honey War.”
“You’re makin’ that up.”
“Noh, it’s true history.”
“How come you to know all this?” Poncey was impressed.
“I read. Anyway, they’re my people. I should know about them.”
For the first time, Poncey thought there might be something to this reading thing.
“So they finally settled on a border, and that old Lars’ farm turned out to really be in Iowa, so he had to let his slave go. My great-grandpah stayed there in Pleasanton, but since he didn’t really have a last name, he just took Lars. A lot of freed slaves did that, taking their master’s name – or whatever job they did, they might take that.”
Poncey fell silent, and Sparky dragged his hindquarters across the ground.
“Your dog’s a freak,” observed Alderaan.
“Yeah, I think there’s somethin’ wrong in his brain,” Poncey said. He wanted to show this new kid he knew a thing or two as well. “I think doe-mestication messed ’im up. Dogs should be huntin’ us, so turnin’ ’em into pets really messed ’em up.”
“Yah, I suppose. You see how one of his ears droops? That’s from domestication.”
Poncey blew out his breath – how did this kid know that? He changed the subject. “Say, wanna go down to the store? Me an’ Sparky are goin’ there now.”
“Yah, I suppose.”
“It’s a general store an’ a junkyard. I let Sparky run around in the fenced area while I do my mam’s shoppin’. It’s Zeke Breather’s store – you’ll like him.”
So the two walked along the way, Sparky leading on his taut leash. They talked about this and that, Poncey bringing points of interest in town to Alderaan’s attention, and Alderaan nodding thoughtfully. Oblivious, they stopped when Sparky found a leathery toad – a veteran of automobile tires and the withering sun – and had to roll on it, until they realized just what he was doing and made him keep moving. He picked up the late toad to bring along.
“Yah, I’d say something freaky weird is going on with Sparky.”
“I’m thinkin’ of namin’ ’im somethin’ else. It’s plain ‘Sparky’ just doesn’t fit ’im, but I don’t know what’s better yet – hey, there’s Mack!”
Making his way toward them on an adjacent street was Marlin MacLenoly, his head bowed and body bent into a question mark. The joints of his elbows and knees jutted out, and his skin clung to his bones for dear life; his head looked like a round sucker on top of his thin body. He held his fists out in front of him, and took a couple steps, then jumped a little as if playing hopscotch. Mack was lost inside his head somewhe
re, and Poncey let him nearly run into them before saying anything.
“Hey, Mack, this here’s a new kid in town, Alderaan Lars. He’s visiting Miz Alberta.”
“Alderaan?” Mack’s face brightened, as though he hadn’t heard such a grand thing in a buzzard’s age. “Like the planet?”
“Yah, afraid so,” Alderaan looked a little put upon.
“That is so cool! ’Zit your real name?”
“Yah, my Mah was ready to have me, and she didn’t have a name yet. So she was lying in her hospital bed, she was all alone there, waiting for me, and on TV was ‘Star Wars.’ She couldn’t believe there was a character named Lars – she’d never heard that name on anyone but her family – so she decides to take a name from the movie, and she liked the sound of ‘Alderaan.’ So I got stuck with it.”
“That is so cool!” Mack exulted.
“He wouldn’t tell me that,” Poncey muttered.
“Well, I got used to it.”
Sparky had lain down next to Alderaan’s foot, and at this point the boys realized the dog had chewed his shoelace into several short lengths. “Hey!” he yelled, and jerked his foot out of the way, and Sparky looked into his eyes and wagged his tail. “Keep that mutt away from me!” Alderaan instructed Poncey.
“Dumb dog!” Poncey scolded. Sparky wagged at him.
“We’re goin’ down to Zeke’s,” Poncey told Mack. “I’ve got a list from my mam. Want to go along?”
“Sure,” said Mack, and so he did.
At Zeke Breather General Store and Junkyard, an ancient brick building fronted a huge field piled high with all kinds of discarded treasure, wrapped within a chain-link fence. The weather-worn porch welcomed customers with homey touches like rocking chairs and barrels with checker boards, all made in China. But Zeke was genuine, and he could dig up nearly anything a customer might want, or if not, at least spin him a yarn to keep his trip from being a complete waste. His temples and usual growth of whiskers were peppered with gray, his hair a mess of short curls under a dilapidated hat. During the summer months he often stretched only a sleeveless undershirt over his chest and roundish belly, and that was how the boys found him this day. As usual, his pickup – an old Diamond T monstrosity that refused to die – was parked in front of the store, and his giant dog sat sublimely in the bed.
A yellow mess of unrelated genes, the dog answered to Boneapart. Zeke took a lot of ribbing about this, seeing as how the mutt was much bigger than Napoleon had ever been, but he insisted “Boneapart” had nothing to do with history. Zeke claimed the name celebrated the dog’s ability to ruin bones, and to prove the point he spelled it wrong. But Boneapart’s real defining characteristic was that he tolerated anything Zeke wanted to do to him. This particular day he was wearing an old-fashioned beanie, the propeller spinning slowly in the soft breeze.
“There’s your domestication,” said Alderaan as the three recovered from their hilarity. “That proud wolf has sold his soul.”
“Ol’ Zeke’s crazy,” Poncey snickered. “There’s no end to what he’ll do to humiliate that dog.” Sparky danced and barked like a jester, but Boneapart maintained a dignified disinterest. A hornet flew threatening circles around his head, its hind legs dragging in the air like an extra-terrestrial ghost.
Poncey released Sparky into the vast adventureland of the junkyard and set about his duties in the store. Alderaan and Mack wandered in with him, and Zeke managed to sell them each a candy bar. Mack picked up a comic book as well.
“You fellas be sure to come back. Pleasure to meet you, Al’dron,” Zeke waved from behind his counter. “Anytime at all ya’ll wanna come in an’ chat, you jus’ come on in.”
“Thanks” and “okay,” they all said, and walked around to the back. They leaned against the fence, and Poncey whistled for Sparky in a warbling kind of way.
“That stupid dog never will come when he’s called,” Poncey grumped.
“Sparrrr-keyyyyyy!” Mack yelled.
Nothing happened, so Alderaan stuck both pinky fingers into the corners of his mouth and let out a shrill blast that made the other two jump. Sparky quickly appeared trotting around the shell of a Nash Metropolitan.
“Must’ve been at the far end when he heard me,” Poncey groused as he attached the leash. “What in the world is that smell?”
“Smells like rotten fish, maybe mixed with vomit,” Mack noted.
“Oh, man, Sparky found some gingko fruit. If there’s sump’m disgustin’ to roll in within a mile of that dog, you can bet he will find it. I swear, you are the most disgustin’ idiot dog I know.” Sparky whined.
“What’s that over there?” Alderaan swung his finger up towards the store’s back wall.
On the ground by the building lay a small square of concrete producing a skinny metal pipe, about a foot sticking up beyond the surface. Directly overhead hung a beaten-up porcelain basin dislodged from the wall, cocked at a precarious angle, a hole at the back left empty by the single fixture that once had filled it. Above it on the wall, in fading paint, appeared the stenciled word “colored.”
“Used to be a water fountain there,” Poncey said carelessly. “Black folks used to have their own water fountains. They called black folks ‘colored’ back then.”
“What?”
“Long time ago ’round here black folks couldn’t use just any water fountain like everyone else,” Poncey said, happy to finally know something that Alderaan didn’t. “The store wouldn’t serve ’em, so they’d come ’round back here to get a drink – had diff’rent bathrooms, too.”
“Other stuff, too,” Mack offered.
“They called those laws Jim Crow,” Poncey showed off his knowledge. But he added, “I don’t remember why.”
“How long ago?” Alderaan demanded.
“I dunno,” Poncey looked surprised. “Twenty years – fifty, maybe? I’m not sure.”
“Zeke do all that?”
“Naw, it was long before Zeke bought the store.”
“What gives them the right?” Alderaan heaved with emotion, but it wasn’t anger.
“It ain’t that way any more,” Poncey tried to calm him down, and shifted the bag of groceries in his arm. “They changed all that long time ago.”
“That doesn’t make it all right,” Alderaan retorted. “It’s just plain wrong – go around back to get a drink. People got noh right to put other folks down like that. The world belongs to everyone here, and nobody can shut anyone out! It’s just not right.” A tear rolled down his cheek as he glared at the sign.
“Come on, it was a long time ago. Things ain’t that way any more,” Poncey couldn’t think of anything else he could say.
“Yeah, c’mon, man,” Mack added. “It’s all right. I’ll let you read my comic.”
“It isn’t all right. All those people, told what they can and can’t do, can’t even get a drink of water where they want – it’s like slavery still, like keeping them in prison.”
“Well, things’re different now. Those folks changed the law. Why’re you gettin’ so worked up about it now?”
“They’re my people. It doesn’t matter how long ago it happened. I have to care about my people.”
“Well, look, it’s over now, and my dog stinks,” Poncey scowled at Sparky to impress his point upon Alderaan. “I gotta get him home an’ wash him down.”
“All right. But it’s just wrong.”
Alderaan remained sullen on the road back into town. Mack’s nose was buried in his comic book, so Poncey was left to his thoughts. He decided he would learn everything about animal domestication and show Alderaan just who he was dealing with. Eventually Mack pulled out his candy bar and began mindlessly munching on it. Sparky stopped to sniff every tree and mailbox along the way. Alderaan kept his head low; Poncey wished he knew what Alderaan was thinking, imagining it to be something simple and foolish that he already knew. Mack began to hum an advertising jingle as he stopped to skip for a step. Sparky was yapping uncontrollably at something
behind them.
“Which one a’ y’all messed his pants?” came a snide voice.
The three boys awoke from their respective daydreams and turned to see Bobby Roach, nearly ten years older than them and not shy about taking advantage of it. His body was thoroughly too old for bullying, but his mind had been left back. A lit cigarette dangled from his dry lips, and he’d left the top of his shirt unbuttoned so it would fit in spite of being one or two sizes too small. He had on faded jeans, shredded at the knees and ankles, and wore heavy boots. His blond hair hung in long bangs, and he twitched his head sideways to keep his eyes clear. Short and stocky, he typically kept his thumbs hooked in his belt loops when he wasn’t using them to stick someone in the eye.
“Ya’ll smell like you been honey dippin’,” he said.
“What’s that?” Alderaan asked innocently.
Poncey and Mack knew that they had to play this encounter carefully; if Bobby decided they were too much a waste of his time, they could walk away feeling like kings. Or he could leave them in bloody shambles. So far his mood remained a mystery.
“It’s Sparky,” Poncey said warily.
“Don’t you know nothin’?” Bobby directed his attention at Alderaan.
“Yah, but I don’t know what you said.” Alderaan seemed distracted and not aware of the desperate situation.
“You ain’t from aroun’ here, are you?” Bobby stuck his chin out at Alderaan. He took a threatening tone.
“He’s visiting, Bobby,” Poncey felt the situation reeling out of control. “Leave him alone.”
“Hey Bobby,” said Mack.
“Then he better learn fast who runs these streets,” Bobby gave notice, striking a pose he’d seen once in a biker movie. “Now, which one of you girls messed her pants? I say it’s you.”
“Noh, not me.”
Poncey knew by now all was lost, and their only hope was to contain the damage.
“If I say it was you, it was you, squirt. Am I right? I want to hear you say I’m right – you had better not get on my bad side.”
“Which side is that?” Alderaan asked.
“You tryin’ to get smart with me, boy?”
“Hey Bobby,” said Mack
“Leave him alone, Bobby. I got to get these groceries home,” Poncey tried again.
“Yeah, my mom will kill me if I’m late,” Mack added.
“Go on home then, punk. I got biz’ness with little Diddy here.”
“Noh, not me. I have to go home too.”
“You’ll go when I say so,” Bobby glared. “Now, did you mess your pants or not?”
“I told you,” Poncey broke in. “That smell is Sparky. We’ve got to go now an’ give him a bath.” Sparky had nervously run circles around Poncey, wrapping his legs with the leash.
“No it ain’t, it’s little Diddy here. I want him to say he messed his pants.”
“Noh, not me.”
“Hey Bobby,” said Mack.
“Shut up!” Bobby suddenly took notice of Mack and popped him in the side of the head with the heel of his hand. Mack went down like a bundle of straw, flinging away his comic book but managing to hold onto the stump of his candy bar. His boney frame hit the road hard in a crumpled heap, and he came up crying.
“Hey!” Poncey yelled.
“You shut up too!” And Bobby shoved him as well. With his feet tangled by the leash, Poncey fell flat, hopelessly juggled his bag of groceries before they went flying. Sparky pulled and bit desperately at his restraint until it broke free of Poncey’s legs, and then he took to the hills as fast as he could. “You Judas!” Poncey thought as he scrambled to gather his packages.
Bobby loomed over Mack. “You cry like a girl. Give me that.” He wrenched the remains of Mack’s candy bar from his hand.
“Hey, th- th- that’s mine!” Mack struck at his own chest.
“Go ahead and cry, spaz.”
“Give it back,” Alderaan said in the same voice as at the wall.
“What?” Bobby retorted. “What if I don’t? What’re you gonna do, Diddy?”
“Here. Take mine.” Bobby unconsciously opened his hand as Alderaan reached out, in one motion switching his still-wrapped candy bar for Mack’s. He quickly stooped to pick up a couple of items for Poncey’s sack, then heaved the blubbering Mack off the ground by one arm.
“Come on. Walk away. Heads high.”
Bobby focused on the candy in his hand at first, then noticed the three leaving but did not know how to react. “I’m gonna be watchin’ for you!” he yelled at last, and waited awkwardly.
After that day the boys were thick as crawdads in mud. Every morning one or the other could be seen waiting outside another’s house, and every evening they would all straggle back from a day’s adventure, exhausted, covered with dirt or sweat or both, thoroughly satisfied. Sometimes Poncey wanted to strangle Alderaan, and sometimes he wanted to hoist him on his shoulders. Mack seemed to just want to sit at his feet. For Alderaan’s part, he forgot about what he was missing in Iowa, and learned all the intricacies of Skullbone society. He found that there were strawberry jamborees and blues festivals, and he learned he could fight pirates and fly to the moon just as well from softly rolling hills as from a corn field. And every now and then he returned to the general store – always by the long way, designed to avoid another run-in with Bobby Roach – to study and contemplate the wall, and what people will do to each other.
“Turns out I was right,” Poncey informed him.
“About what this time?”
“ ’Bout doe-mestication. It makes an animal’s brain smaller. I looked it up.”
“That’s definitely what happened to Sparky.”
“Judas.”
“Yah, Judas.”
“I always knew he was crazy. Now I know why.”
“It’s all domestication. That’s also why he’s got that piebald color.”
“Huh? Uh – yeah.”
“Where’s he goin’ now?” Mack observed.
“What? Oh, man, he chewed through his leash!” Poncey groaned. “Judas! Get back here! Get back here, you damn dog!” he screamed.
“Out, damned Spot!” Alderaan called after him, glad to see him go. “Oh, well, maybe he won’t come back.”
“Come on, help me chase ’im.”
Judas had a good three- or four-block head start on them, bound for out of town. The boys lurched into motion and chugged along, keeping the tiny black-and-white pooch in sight as best they could. Sometimes they would just glimpse him as they turned a corner, then again at the next corner, as if he was waiting on them. Once Judas had cleared the town limits he made a bee-line for the outlying woods. Breath was coming hard for Poncey and his mates, but they kept at it, Mack lagging behind despite his lanky limbs churning like a windmill. Judas headed straight into the trees, where he could no longer be seen, but fortunately he followed a dirt trail cutting through the clusters of oak and hickory, sassafras and dogwood and soft pine.
“Judas!” Poncey yelled just for good measure as he entered the wood.
“He’s not coming now,” Alderaan bent over to rest, setting his hands upon his knees. At least they were in shade now. Mack finally caught up.
“I know. It can’t hurt, though.”
The boys began a slow walk along the trail, keeping an eye open for Judas but not having much hope of seeing him. As the trees loomed thicker around them, their minds wandered to more interesting things than finding a dumb dog.
“That dumb dog is lost,” Poncey said.
“I got lost in here once,” Mack offered. “Right after me an’ Ma moved. I ran in here, and it took ’em two days to find me.”
“Why’d you do that?” Alderaan asked.
“Dunno. Felt like I was all alone, might as well be alone.”
“Yah? Well, stick with us. Don’t get lost again.”
“Oh, I’ll stick with you all right.”
“My Pap says there used to be a bunch of train robbers who hid o
ut in these woods,” Poncey said, randomly hitting a stick against nearby trees.
“Noh kidding?” Alderaan picked up a stick too.
“Yeah, some guy named ’Rastus Birger. He ran a still back in here, an’ had a gambling joint, typical small-time hood. Folks say he ran this town, an’ he even had the police on the take. Pap tol’ me he would steal a car, then after a reward was offered this one officer would mysteriously find it, every time, an’ he’d split the money with Birger.”
“Sounds like a good system.”
“He was bad news – kept ever’body pretty scared, what with killin’s an’ threats. Crazy. People will do anything. Finally robbed a freight train, an’ they hung him.”
“How do you know?”
“Pap says his pap was on the train they robbed. Birger’s gang piled logs on the track and lit ’em, to make the engineer stop. My gran’pap was conductor on the train – Birger waived a gun under his nose. Had a bandanna ’round his face, just like the movies, but gran’pap knew it was him.”
“How?”
“ ‘His murderous eyes,’ he said. That’s what he tol’ pap.”
“His murderous eyes!” Mack repeated in a spooky voice.
“That wouldn’t hold up in court, I don’t think,” Alderaan said.
“Naw,” added Mack.
“Oh, gran’pap didn’t testify in court. He wasn’t stupid. But they hung Birger anyway. Last public hangin’ in these parts.”
“Aw, I don’t b’lieve all that,” Mack scoffed.
“Why not?” Poncey said. “It’s true.”
“ ’Cause I know you. ’Sides, folks make up stuff all the time to make ’em look big. Wouldn’t anybody remember your gran’pa at all if he hadn’ta made up that story.”
“He didn’t make it up!” Poncey insisted.
“Nobody gonna remember him anyway,” Mack went on. “Once their gran’kids are dead, pretty much ever’body’s forgotten.”
“Well, he didn’t make it up, anyhow.”
“I heard a story about a robber once,” Alderaan said. “Little kid about our age. He was an orphan, and the only way for him to survive was to become a thief. He ended up meeting the king’s daughter, and before he knew it he was king himself.”
“Really?” Mack asked.
“Yah, that’s the story. I don’t know if it really happened.”
“Could’ve,” Mack said matter-of-factly.
“Seems far-fetched to me,” Poncey said.
“Well,” Alderaan admitted. “It was centuries ago. And he was helped by a genii. He had a genii in an old lamp.”
“Oh, well, good grief!” Poncey blustered.
“Could’ve happened!” Mack insisted.
“You believe that story? ’Bout a genii?” Poncey was thunderstruck.
“Who knows? That long ago, maybe there were geniis,” Mack reasoned. “Just because you don’t unnerstand somethin’ don’t mean it ain’t real.”
“I’m not goin’ to believe somethin’ I can’t figure out in my brain.”
“Well, I believe it. Alderaan knows it, so there must be somethin’ to it.”
“Either way, that kid is remembered today,” Alderaan said. “His name was Aladdin.”
“You won’t believe my gran’pap, but you’ll believe in Aladdin,” Poncey snarled at Mack.
“Well – it’s Alderaan,” Mack replied.
“Figures,” Poncey growled. “The only way anyone’s remembered is if they’re a piece of fiction.”
They fell silent for a moment until Alderaan wondered out loud if there was any part of the still left. Poncey felt things turning back his way and was about to say he’d already looked, but then the strangled, coughing yip of a fox arose from nearby. Immediately, excited barking answered.
“That’s Judas!” Poncey whispered hoarsely. Crunching lightly through the bramble, the three boys crept closer to where the racket seemed to come from.
Slowly their heads arose over the bushy undergrowth, like a spectre, and they saw Judas, his hindquarters toward them, facing off against the fox. His ears and tail stood alert, and he danced upon his toes as he growled and barked. The fox crouched warily, not knowing whether to fight or flee, until he caught sight of the human faces and quickly slinked off. To Poncey’s surprise, Judas did not take off after him, but instead quietly turned away. His front end disappeared into a grassy depression.
“What’s goin’ on?” Mack asked.
“Let’s see,” Alderaan led them into the small clearing.
Poncey grabbed the broken piece of Judas’ leash before the dog could think, if such a thing was possible, and tied together the loose ends. Judas didn’t budge, and the boys discovered he was tenderly, busily licking a litter of tiny rabbits.
“You idiot dog,” Poncey said. “What are you doin’ now?”
“I bet that fox got their ma,” Mack said, cradling one of the kits.
“Yah, noh doubt. But what’s Judas doing with them?”
“This mutt is so messed up. He thinks he’s a rabbit now,” Poncey shook his head.
“Maybe he is crazy – maybe he isn’t,” Alderaan mulled. “Hard to say.”
“Help me get these bunnies home,” Mack said.
Judas stood happily wagging his tail, until suddenly a puzzled look crept into his eye and his sides started to heave. His lungs began to convulse, and his rib cage worked like a bellows for a long moment until he had hacked up a huge furball.
“Oh, gross,” Poncey moaned.
“That’s what you get from licking rabbits,” Alderaan considered the mess. “You know,” he said, “we never did get even with that Bobby Roach fellow.”
Poncey, Mack and Alderaan sauntered along the street that led to Breather General Store and Junkyard. They craned their necks looking for something, or someone. All three took special care to walk slowly, and talked loudly, so they might be noticed. Poncey had both hands in his pockets, and whistled shrilly when he couldn’t think of anything to say. Alderaan was mightily impressed with how the weather that day reminded him of Iowa, and said so. Mack conspicuously carried an opened candy wrapper, which held a dog’s furball meticulously dipped in a melted chocolate bar.
They finally decided to just stop and wait, and fighting the temptation to give up, successfully lured Bobby Roach out of hiding.
“Hey!” he barked. “I thought I warned you guys!”
“Please don’t take my chocolate bar!” said Mack.
“We don’t want any trouble. We’re just out for a walk,” Alderaan said.
“Where’s your dog?” Bobby asked.
“He stayed at home.”
“He’s smarter’n you, then,” Bobby smirked. “I told you to stay off my streets. Now you’re gonna pay.”
“This ain’t your street. It’s public property,” Poncey said.
“It’s mine as far as you’re concerned. Now how’m I gonna teach you that?”
“You could take my chocolate bar.”
“Hey, we just forgot,” Alderaan offered. “We’re going to The Diner, and we forgot. Sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Diddy. You’re the one I want. I’m gonna teach you a lesson.”
“I like to learn.”
“Me too!” added Poncey. He knew this might hurt, but he didn’t care that much – justice would prevail.
Bobby was puzzled by their attitude. Their last skirmish had ended this same way, leaving him feeling empty and unfulfilled. He decided to take the offensive. “So what – you gonna cry again? You gonna start cryin’?”
“Not yet,” said Alderaan. “Maybe later.”
“Then let me help you,” and he raised a fist.
“Hey Bobby!” said Mack.
“You again? Don’t you ever shut up, MacSpaz?” and Mack hit the ground again. This time he made a one-point landing on his backside, and tried to fake some tears. “Please don’t take my candy bar! I just opened it!”
“Give it over!” Bobby ordered, and snatche
d it from his hand.
“I’m gettin’ out of here!” Poncey yelled, and all three took off running in different directions. They left Bobby behind with his trophy, in a daze from another baffling encounter, but at least not empty-handed. Even blocks away they could hear his roar of disgust. Each made his way to their rendezvous at Breather’s Store separately, racked with laughter until they lay wasted upon the ground. They knew they’d pay a price somehow for their victory today, but it would be worth it. Boneapart sat watching dispassionately, baby booties on his front feet.
Eventually they recovered sufficiently to stand again, and Mack and Poncey went into the store to tell Zeke – this story was too good not to share. Alderaan went around back again, to contemplate the sign and mankind’s state. But what he saw shook him to his shoes, more so than any dust-up with danger or bullying ever could.
A dark patch of fresh paint covered the old sign, obliterating the letters, never to be seen or read again. Alderaan stared dumbfounded for a moment before racing into the store amid the peals of laughter.
“What happened?” he demanded, breaking into Zeke’s animated glee. His eyes shot outrage. The smile froze on Zeke’s face, mismatched with the shocked look in his eye. “What happened to the ‘colored’ sign?” Alderaan fumed.
“Why, I painted over it, son. Your cousin asked me to.”
“My cousin Alberta?”
“Yes, sir, young fella. Seems it upset you so, she wanted me to get rid of it. Said ever’ time you saw it, you couldn’t stop talkin’ ’bout it, and it worried her sump’m awful. It was from a bad time – I thought nobody cared no more.”
“Nobody cared?! We have to care! Covering it up doesn’t fix the past, it just makes the future worse! How will they remember?”
“Well, she just thought it was too much of a reminder. She thought paintin’ it over would make it easier on ever’one.”
“Noh, noh, this is worse! The memories might be bad, but this is even worse! You’ve wiped out their history! Who will know now? Who will learn? Who will remember their suffering?”
The summer shadows grew long, and when Alderaan Lars went home to Pleasanton, Iowa, he promised to come back to his friends Poncey and Mack in Skullbone. They still wait for his return.