They studied the boxes of cereal. In the old rusted cart their cartons had begun to defrost, water condensing on the cardboard in the warm air.
I can’t see how that’d be any good, Luther said. Can you?
I don’t want none of that, Betty said.
No ma’am.
It wouldn’t taste the same.
It wouldn’t taste the same in a hundert years, Luther said.
They went on and picked up a plastic jug of milk and two dozen eggs in the next aisle and came to the bakery and took three loaves of the cheap white bread, and at last came to the front of the store and lined up behind the register, waiting for their turn. Luther pulled a magazine from the rack in front of them and looked at pictures of half-naked women in the glossy pages.
Who you looking at? Betty said. You better keep your eyes saved for me. She took the magazine out of his hands and put it back. I’m your wife.
They’s too skinny anyhow, he said. Not enough meat on them for what I like. He pinched Betty’s hip.
You better stop that too, she said, and smiled at him and looked away.
The checkout lane cleared and they began to set their groceries on the belt and Luther bent over and lifted up the cases of pop with a grunt.
The woman at the register was working briskly. How’re you folks doing today? she said.
We’re doing pretty good, Luther said. You?
I’m still above ground, the woman said. Every day above ground is a good day, isn’t it.
Yes ma’am. I believe you got that right.
We’re doing pretty good, Betty said, except for that cereal we couldn’t find.
Didn’t we have any?
No ma’am, said Luther. You’re all out.
Well. I’m sorry.
When their charges were totaled Betty took the booklets of food stamps from her purse and handed them to Luther and Luther presented them to the woman. Behind them a man with cans of beans and stew and a carton of cigarettes in his cart stood watching them. The clerk tore out the stamps and rang up and slipped the stamps under the tray in the register and made the last dollar’s change in actual coins. The boy in the green apron sacked their groceries and loaded them back in the cart.
You have a good day, Luther said, and they pushed out through the electric door onto the sidewalk.
The man behind them shook his head at the checkout woman. Would you look at that. They’re eating better than you and me and they’re on food stamps.
Oh, let them be, the woman said. Are they hurting you?
They’re eating a steak dinner and I’m eating beans. That’s hurting me.
But would you want to be them?
I’m not saying that.
What are you saying?
I’m not saying that.
On the sidewalk Luther and Betty started back toward the east side of Holt with their grocery cart. It was hotter now, the sun risen higher in the blue sky. They kept to the shade under the trees and once or twice in every block they stopped to rest, and then shoved on, homeward.
6
THEY WERE COLLECTED IN A CIRCLE ON THE PLAYGROUND when he came out at noon recess. Even from a distance he could see they were from his own grade, with a few of the younger ones from the lower grades there too, gathered inside the chain-link fence beyond the end of the school building. Now and then one of them hollered something brief and excited, and he went down to see what it was about.
Two little boys from the first grade were facing each other across five feet of red gravel, and the older boys were trying to make them fight, saying things, goading them. One boy they taunted more than the other, the one whose lank brown hair appeared as if it had been cut by someone barbering with his eyes shut. He knew who it was — his classmate Joy Rae’s little brother — and inside the ring he looked ragged and scared. His outsized shirt was buttoned to his chin and had holes at the elbows, and his jeans had a purple tint as though someone had washed them together with something red. He seemed ready to cry.
One of the boys next to DJ was yelling at him: Go ahead. Why won’t you fight?
He’s a chickenshit, a boy across the ring hollered. That’s why. He flapped his arms and crowed and hopped up and down. The kids next to him hooted.
The other boy in the ring was somewhat bigger, a blond boy in jeans and red shirt.
Go on. Hit him, Lonnie.
They don’t want to fight, DJ said. Let them go.
Stay out of this. The boy next to him stepped out and shoved the blond boy forward, and he swung and hit Joy Rae’s brother on the side of the face and then stepped back to see what he’d done and her brother put his hand up to his cheek.
Don’t, Joy Rae’s brother said. He spoke very softly.
Hit him again. You better hit him.
He doesn’t want to fight, DJ said. He’s had enough.
No he hasn’t. Shut up.
The boy shoved the blond boy again, and he hit her brother and grabbed him around the neck and they went down in the gravel. The blond boy rolled over on top of him, their faces close to each other, and hit him in the face and throat, and her brother tried to cover his face with his hands. His eyes looked frightened and his nose was bleeding. He began to wail.
Then the circle was broken by a girl rushing into the ring, Joy Rae, in a blue dress too short for her. You’re hurting him, she cried. Stop it. She ran over and pulled the blond boy off her brother, but the first big boy, the loudmouthed one, shoved her and she tripped over the little boys and fell on her hands and knees in the gravel. One knee was cut but she jumped up and pulled at the blond boy crying: Let go, you little son of a bitch.
The big loudmouthed boy grabbed her and this time hurled her backward into the ring of onlookers, and two boys grabbed her by the arms.
She twisted and kicked at them. Let go of me, she screamed.
DJ stepped into the ring and pulled the blond boy off and stood her brother on his feet. He was crying hard now and his face was smeared with blood. The ringleader grabbed DJ by the arm. What do you think you’re doing, asshole?
He’s had enough.
I’m not done with him yet.
Then a boy cried: Oh shit. Here comes Mrs. Harris.
The sixth-grade teacher came striding into the circle. What’s this? she said. What’s going on here?
The boys and girls began to walk off fast with their heads down.
Every one of you come back here, she called. Come back here.
But they all went on, some of them running now. The two boys holding Joy Rae let her go and sprinted off as Joy Rae hurried over to her brother.
What’s this about? the teacher said. She put her arm around the little boy and lifted his chin to see in his face. Are you all right? Talk to me. She wiped at the blood with a handkerchief. His eyes were red and there were bruises starting on his cheeks and forehead and the front of his shirt was ripped open. What’s this about? She turned to DJ. Do you know?
No, he said.
Who started it?
I don’t know.
You don’t know, or you’re not telling me?
He shrugged.
Well, you’re not helping anybody by not telling.
I know who it was, Joy Rae said, and named the big boy who’d been out in the ring.
He’s in very serious trouble then, the teacher said.
She led Joy Rae and her brother into the school building, but DJ lingered on the playground until the bell rang.
AFTER SCHOOL HE WAS WALKING HOME THROUGH THE park next to the railroad tracks when two boys appeared from behind the rusted WWII tank that served as a monument. They rushed up at him across the newly mown grass. How come you told old lady Harris on me? the big loudmouthed boy said.