LITMIR.BIZ

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again, in the grip of wonder, as though he had encountered a magical being, Howie said, “Where did you come from? What’re you doing here?”

      “Is this your roof then? Am I trespassing?”

      “Not my roof,” Howie said.

      “Well, so I guess we’re both trespassing.”

      “I guess we are.”

      Even though the man was sitting, Howie could see that he was tall, maybe six and a half feet, as thin as a scarecrow but strong. Huge hands. Bony wrists like the cumbersome joints of old machines. Long arms. His shoulder blades weren’t formed properly, straining against his khaki shirt, so he looked hunchbacked.

      “Don’t be afraid,” the man repeated. “My name’s Alton Turner Blackwood. I wouldn’t tell a person my name if I meant him any harm.”

      After a hesitation, Howie half surprised himself when he turned his head to fully face Mr. Blackwood and took off his baseball cap. “Don’t you be afraid, either.”

      Mr. Blackwood studied the left side of Howie’s face, noticed his three-fingered left hand and stared at that a moment, and then said, “Listen here, boy—if there was such a thing as a world-cup scare-’em contest with seven judges, I’d beat you seven votes to nothing.”

      “Maybe five to two,” Howie said.

      “You’re either flattering yourself something terrible or being polite to me. It would be seven to zero, and don’t you insult my intelligence by trying to argue the point. I’m going to do for you my ultimate freak-’em-out face, and then you tell me honestly whether you’d get a single vote.”

      Mr. Blackwood’s scariest face was a big grin, and it proved to be such a fearsome sight that Howie gasped and shrank back a step. His reaction made Mr. Blackwood laugh, and that laughing face looked even more terrible than the grin.

      Although the man’s laughter was an ugly sound, like the gasp and gurgle of a half-plugged drain, his good-natured self-mockery made Kim appealing.

      After a moment, Howie smiled and said, “All right, you win. I wouldn’t get a single vote.”

      “So you’re an honest boy, after all. I knew you were, and good for you.”

      Howie put on his cap again and went to the crenellation that was two away from the one where Mr. Blackwood sat, which left seven or eight feet between them.

      “What’s your name then?” Mr. Blackwood asked.

      “Howie. Howie Dugley. My middle name’s Mabry, but I never use it. That’s asking for trouble. What’re you doing up here?”

      With a gesture, Mr. Blackwood indicated the street below. “Just watching the parade.”

      “There’s no parade.”

      “There’s always a parade, Howie. When it’s something you can’t ever join but only watch, then it’s a parade.”

      Howie stared down at the street, down there where people were just being people, unaware that they were watched and envied, and then he looked at Mr. Blackwood again. “What happened to you?”

      “Birth happened to me. Birth defects. I came into the world like this. Birth and death—it’s hard to say which is worse. Of course when I came into the world, I wasn’t so big as I am now, but even uglier in my infant form, so they say. I’m guessing... with you, it was fire of some kind.”

      “Some kind,” Howie acknowledged.

      “When did it happen?”

      “I was five. Almost six years ago.”

      “You must’ve had a few surgeries.”

      “Eleven. The last was two years ago.”

      “I’m sorry—I mean, how it must have hurt.”

      Howie shrugged as if the pain hadn’t been anything even though for a while it had been everything. “It wasn’t your fault.”

      Mr. Blackwood shook his head sympathetically. “Well, medicine, you know—they’re always making progress. Someday, they’ll be able to do a lot better by you.”

      The longer Howie listened to the rough voice, the less it seemed like that of a movie monster and the more it sounded like the voice of a cartoon bear or something.

      “You had surgeries?” Howie asked.

      “Nope. Don’t want any, either. I’ve got a thing about knives.”

      “You’re scared of being cut on?”

      “Not scared,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I just have this thing about knives. You come up here often?”

      Howie shrugged. “Sometimes.”

      “Why?”

      “To watch Maple Street. The people down there. You know.”

      “The parade,” said Mr. Blackwood. “Boy, you’ve got a fine half of your face, and the other half won’t ever scare anyone. There’s a place for you in the parade.”

      Howie disagreed. “People stare.”

      “Stare back at them, they’ll stop.”

      “I don’t like what I see when I stare back.”

      “What do you see?” When Howie didn’t reply, Mr. Blackwood said, “You see pity, and you don’t like being pitied. Don’t let pride keep you out of the parade, Howie. You don’t want a lonely life.”

      “They call me names. Sometimes they push and shove and trip me. They laugh.”

      “That would be other kids,” Mr. Blackwood said.

      “Mostly, I guess.”

      “Listen, a lot of cruel kids grow out of their cruelty. A few don’t. You can’t let the few decide what your life will be like.”

      Only Howie’s mother had ever talked to him like this, and for some reason the same words didn’t mean as much coming from her as they did when they came from Mr. Blackwood.

      “Why haven’t I ever seen you before?” Howie asked.

      “I only came to town last night. Just sort of blew here on the breeze, you might say. Found the basement window that isn’t locked. Camped out downstairs on the ground floor near the back door. I’ll be leaving maybe tomorrow night.”

      “What’re you here for?”

      “For a place to be,” said Mr. Blackwood. “It’s a place between two other places, that’s all. I never stay long anywhere.”

      “What do you do? For work. What’s your work?”

      “I drift. It’s my job and my pleasure. Always moving on, seeing what I can of the world.”

      Surprised, Howie said, “You get paid to drift?”

      “It pays. I get everything I want.” Mr. Blackwood licked his lips, as if he’d just thought of something sweet. “What about you—have you lived here all your life?”

      “Except when I went away for surgery at the burn center.”

      “You live nearby?”

      “Two blocks east on Wyatt Street. Are you a hobo?”

      “Some people think so. But I’m something else. You have any sisters? Brothers or sisters?”

      “Just Corrine.”

      “Is she older than you?”

      “A lot, yeah. She’s sixteen.”

      “That’s a nice age for a girl,” Mr. Blackwood said.

      “Is it? Why is it nicer than any other age?”

      Mr.

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