Seminole Road, just a few long, dusty miles of crushed gravel and potholes, strayed in from the state highway, its destination nothing more meaningful than a dead end. Meandering lazily like the curves of the Yalahalla River, just to the south, it passed by a lonely little drive which lead back in to a slate roofed house built of cedar and stone, an old Southern house on an old Southern road.

Out on the lawn, way up high in a fat magnolia tree, a mockingbird sang stolen notes, while a pair of young blue jays played tag amongst the long beards of Spanish moss draping the live oaks, flashes of blue and gray amongst the deep, green leaves. A child's voice and the sounds of a family just finishing up from their supper spilled out through the open windows of the house and down onto the lawn, mixing naturally with the mockingbird's trill and the heady perfume from the magnolia's draping of enormous, white blossoms.

Suddenly, the screen door burst open, smacking back against the front of the house, and a blonde haired boy flew out and down the porch stairs.

"For heaven's sake, Lee!" a woman's angry voice called out, "Don't slam the door!"

The reverberating bang announced, too late, Lee was already gone.

His arms worked the air, and the wind tickled his ears. Already at a fast clip as he neared the end of the drive, a brand new pair of PF Flyers sneakers flashed red and white, kicking up little puffs of dust with each pounding crunch of the worn, gray gravel.

Entering the road, with a little drop of his shoulder, just as his dad had taught him, the boy cut quickly. The pretend linebacker crouching in the road never even had a chance. Lee's feet sailed through the air as he scored his first touchdown of the evening, leaping across the ditch into the Riley's front yard. The sharp smell of greens and ham hocks lingered in the evening air, third time this week.

Crossing the yard and suddenly spinning, he dodged a dented oil drum nearly full to the top with scummy green water. Just behind the barrel, an abandoned tricycle with a bent wheel seemed to make a go for his ankles, but he scissored it and high stepped by, crossing the edge of the overgrown driveway for his second imaginary touchdown of the evening. Spurred on by the echoing cheers only he could hear, Lee sprinted full speed down a narrow dirt path, splitting the gap between the thick, rambling oleanders choking either side. A minute later he burst out of the shortcut and was back on Seminole Road.

Ahead, a gray and white striped hazard barrier loomed, blocking the path down to the creek below. Head down, the boy approached at a dead run, slowing only at the last moment to leap it sideways, using his right hand to swing up and over. Caught up in his run, Lee didn't look over to the Fuentes place, the last house before Spit creek. But he couldn't miss the wonderful, spicy aroma hanging in the evening air. Old Javier must be coming home tonight.

Arms held high, he leapt out off the embankment just to see how far out he could fly. Leaving his shadow to follow in the dust Lee soared free kicking his feet and hollering out. Coming down and careening, almost out of control, Lee skidded wildly on the crooked path leading down the steep gully to the muddy wash below. Stumbling momentarily near the bottom, he caught himself, swinging his arms 'round for balance. A well-timed jump coupled with his break neck momentum carried him almost clear across the shallow stream to the other side.

Even as Lee began to climb the trail up the other side, the shabby little trickle of water spilling along continued on its way towards the river, but it did take the time to seep over and fill the waffle mark Lee's sneaker had left stamped in the red mud. Spit Creek ran through town emptying into the Yalahalla River just below the falls, about a mile further south. Most always the creek ran nearly dry, just thorn bushes, chipped rocks, and here and there a busted washer or spent tire lurking down in the milkweeds. But high up in some of the brush, higher than a casual passerby might think possible, pieces of trash, like dirty little warning flags remained, hard reminders that Spit Creek might sometimes be more than it might appear.

Working hard, Lee came up out of the gully. Turning right as soon as he hit the broken asphalt of Arbuckle Ave., he quickly regained speed, the white rubber soles of his fancy, new sneakers smacking the pavement. Cutting and dodging, he ran easily, weaving in and out just for fun between the parked cars spaced along the curb.

Suddenly, Lee peeled off, keeping over to the far left side of the street. Slowing warily, he cautiously approached the overgrown dandelions and drooping sunflowers, which made up the Leroy's front yard. He knew full well that old Mr. Leroy's mongrel, Sticker, was a Houdini when it came to slipping his collar, and to run past this place was to go looking for trouble.

Easing off and taking his time, Lee caught his breath, enjoying the cool tickle of the sweat rolling down his ribs. While running, he never felt the heat, just the cool blast of the air whipping past; but when he slowed down and walked the heat washed out, and that too was a special feeling all its own. Breathing heavily, yet alert for any movement, Lee was ready in a heartbeat to jump for the safety of Mrs. Barton's picket fence, which ran alongside the buckled sidewalk. All the while he maintained a sharp eye out on a dark hole under the Leroy's porch; the hard brown dirt below was furrowed by telltale rows of deep claw marks.

The house right next to the Leroy's was unoccupied, had been for some time. In passing, for a moment, Lee's let his attention be drawn into the empty front room windows. From out here on the sidewalk he could see clear through a couple of the rooms in the vacant house and out through the windows in back. In one window, part of a crumpled Venetian blind hung down, and on the walls, dirty outlines of shadowy squares remained where pictures once had hung. For some reason, looking into the closed up house always affected Lee with a queer sensation, as though even from outside he could actually sense something hollow and lonely about the stillness within. Through some trick of perspective, Lee felt as if he could even see how he looked from the inside, passing by on the sidewalk. It was as is he could see himself from the point of view of whatever, or whomever, might be inside and peering out. Always unable not to look, he was only too happy to let it go and bring his attention back to the Leroy's yard.

Still, no sign of Sticker.

In the South there are dogs, and then there are dawgs. Sticker, a striped, yellow butt biter was pure dawg, born and bred. Every kid in Pickford Acres knew it didn't pay to flash past Sticker's hole under the porch. If he were loose, he'd get you, if for no other reason than just to show you he could.

Without so much as a warning growl, the dog came bursting out of his hole. The mongrel's claws ripped the earth as the scroungy, long legs frantically worked to gain speed.

Even though Lee had been half expecting it he started, adrenaline burning his stomach.

But before he could react and jump the fence, Sticker met the end of his chain, lurching around by his neck and off all four feet entirely. The dog hit the ground hard in a cloud of dry dust. Rolling and twisting Sticker scrabbled around and got back to his feet. Straining and jerking his head side to side in an effort to slip the collar, the angry animal now growled furiously while slinging slobber off into the air. Today though, his collar was tight, and despite his efforts to pull free, Sticker only succeeded in choking his ugly self.

Quickly looking around to check that no one had witnessed Sticker had made him jump; Lee ignored the dog and walked on. Swinging his arms casually, he made a point to act as though nothing had happened at all, even as Sticker gave up on his fury and settled down to give himself a lick.

The evening felt so good; it was almost exciting. Taking one lunging step forward, Lee planted his feet and leapt up as high as he could, stretching out and catching the end of a high branch above. He came down with a few new, green leaves between his fingers and then tossed them up in the air, leaving them behind to flutter down to the sidewalk behind.

Pickford Acres, once the upper middle class section of Lenoir, had been in full bloom in the late nineteen twenties. Originally named for the developer's favorite movie star, Mary Pickford, the streets all carried the big names from the days of silent movies. Valentino Drive crossed into Arbuckle Avenue, just down from Normand, Crabbe, Keystone, and DeMille. The only one of those stars Lee had ever heard of was Fatty Arbuckle. He had been an immensely popular comic actor in the early days of silent films. Apparently, one afternoon at a private party in a posh Hollywood hotel suite, Fatty was accused of raping a young actress employing a champagne bottle to help him in doing the deed. According to the police report filed, the both of them were alone in an adjoining bedroom of the suite as a host of revelers swilled martinis laced with bathtub gin. Though he never went to jail for the crime, public outcry was such that Fatty Arbuckle's career was over. After reading about this wonderful tidbit of Hollywood lore, Lee had been surprised that the street had been allowed to still carry Fatty's infamous name. After all, he'd never heard of a Jack the Ripper Road or a Lizzy Borden Lane. But that was Lenior; life in the rest of the world didn't seem to matter so much around here.

On either side of the neighborhood's streets, the homes sat back from the black, asphalt streets, surrounding themselves under huge, green live oaks, fiery crepe myrtles, and here and there an enormous magnolia or hemlock spread itself across a lawn. Like most parts of the South, a little degradation had crept in over the years. By far, many of the brick and frame houses were still nicely painted and the lawns well kept. But here and there a rusted car sat up on blocks in a driveway choked with weeds, and there wasn't a street that didn't have at least one house boarded up entirely.

Safely past Sticker's place, Lee took a turn off of Arbuckle Avenue. Jumping off the sidewalk, he picked back up to a trot, loping along on the all too familiar cracked pavement of Valentino Drive. He'd lived every day of his life up until just recently in the small, wood frame house one block down and two houses to the right over on Keystone Street. It was odd, in the days since the move nothing had really changed, but suddenly everything that had always been so familiar, now looked so strangely different.

Lee sped back up to a full run, careening around the thick oleanders which had overgrown the walkway up to Ronnie's house. Timing his jump just before the first cement step, he leapt up, landing flat on the smoothly worn boards of the McGiver's front porch. The tremendous "fwap" of the rubber soles of his PF Flyers, meant his knock at the door was a mere formality.

The front door and windows of the two story brick and frame house were wide open, and gaped behind dented and rust stained screens. An attic fan was sucking in the air from outside, and the screens bowed in slightly. The loose, white curtains wafted freely inward under the steady draw of the fan.

Something, possibly a fork, crashed down on a plate, followed by the grind of a chair rending a hardwood floor. An exuberant voice called out, "Lee's here! I'm done."

"Sit your butt back down!" came a man's voice, "You'll finish your supper."

Some snickers followed right along, as the chair scrunched back into place, and a young girl's voice was heard saying, "Daddy, he's already eaten half the table."

"Shut up, Melissa!" the boy's voice came back.

From the dining room, Ronnie's father yelled out, "Lee, you just sit yourself out on the porch 'til Ronnie finishes his supper, y' hear!"

Lee put his face right up to the screen and hollered in, "Yes sir, Mr. McGiver." He ambled away from the door, his thumbs in his pockets and fell in backwards onto the porch swing hanging from the eaves in front of the big front window.

Lee could smell the aroma of Mrs. McGiver's fried pork chops and gravy. She always used a little more garlic seasoning in her gravy than his mom did, and her home grown fired okra was the best in the county.

"Goddamn, kids!" Ronnie's dad said, his mouth obviously full. "Y'all ain't never got time for chores, but there's always time for foolin' around."

This time there was no snickering.

The porch was wide and cool, and the rusty old swing creaked in time while Lee kicked his feet out and back. The sky up above between the sweet, new leaves, high up in the trees, was blue as blue, and from up and down the block came the play of birds, the spin of bugs, and the sounds of families who were home for the evening. At a time like this, as Lee sat back, he could almost feel the day stretching out a little longer, while the sun swung low, languishing lazily, reluctant to give up its watch over the quiet, little town.

Lee heard the screen door creak open behind him. He turned, but not quickly enough to avoid the knuckles that tagged his shoulder.

The swing flung back, rebounding off the side of the house when Lee lunged off. Ronnie already had a good head start, having leapt off the corner of the porch, and was running as fast as he could. The lead wasn't nearly enough though, and Lee quickly hauled him down from behind, tackling him on the neighbor's lawn before Ronnie could even reach the next drive.

"Thought you could sneak up on me, did ya?" Lee gritted his teeth, while grappling for position to drop his famous headlock around Ronnie's neck.

A knee came rounding over and caught Lee in the chest. Both boys went rolling over and over. Ronnie ended up on top, pinning Lee and sitting heavily on his chest. Laughing with utter triumph, he doubled over the three middle fingers on one hand and applied a vicious dose of nuggies to his captive's skull.

Squirming and wiggling, Lee fought to arch his back, but damn, Ronnie was heavy. At last, he had enough room and flung his legs up and over, catching Ronnie around the neck with his calves. Lee squeezed unmercifully, but Ronnie hung tenaciously to his advantage, continuing to dig his knuckles into Lee's head, roaring and whooping to beat the band.

His air cut off, Ronnie began turning deep red, then teetered and lost balance, finally falling to his side. Both boys let go and rolled apart in the grass, as they could no longer laugh and breathe simultaneously without choking.

Lee, catching his breath first, sat up, his t-shirt balled up in a ring around his neck. Flecks of grass were stuck to his bare back and chest. "That'll teach ya."

Ronnie lay on his back panting, his stomach heaving in and out. Using his elbows and then his hands he worked himself to an upright position. "Yeah?" he countered with all the pity of a vast playground education. "Teach me what? Teach me you cry like a baby, when you're gettin' your butt whupped?"

Ronnie swiped at his head dislodging a twig from behind an ear. Both boys sported short crew cuts. Lee, being what the old folks would call a towhead, was a silvery blonde. Ronnie's hair though, was jet black and seemed sparse, each piece standing out from his white scalp like a bristle brush. Ronnie too, wasn't lanky and muscular as was Lee. He liked his mom's fine cooking a bit much, and it showed.

Struggling, Ronnie managed to pull his red and black striped t-shirt back down. Leaning forward and still breathing heavily, he began retying the shoelace of one of his canvas high-top tennis shoes. One of which, for some unknown reason, always seemed to be undone.

Lee picked up the twig, and peeled off a leaf, then wadding it up, he flicked it at Ronnie. "Is that what you call a butt kicking?"

Ronnie blocked it with one hand and grinned toothily. "I was the one on top, or are you still so dizzy you don't remember?"

"Dizzy, I'm smashed flat," Lee came back. "You only weigh about two tons."

Ronnie's chin was mashed to his chest as he worked at trying to snap the top of his jeans back together. The snap had come undone during the all the wrestling and rolling about. He was too big though; there was no way he'd get that snap snapped while sitting down. Giving up, he looked up to Lee, his face still as red as a blister. "I had you there for a minute. You gotta admit."

Lee got up on his knees. "Didn't last long though, did it?"

"Long enough," Ronnie came back. "I got ya good."

Both boys got to their feet, and with Ronnie finally getting his jeans re-snapped, they set off towards the street, picking off remaining blades of torn grass and pulling up their blue jeans.

"What'd you do today," asked Ronnie stepping off the sidewalk into the street.

"Not all that much," Lee replied. "Laid low mostly. Dad's making me help Maggie get the stuff unpacked." He paused to let the injustice of chores sink home. "How 'bout you?"

Ronnie landed a good kick on a flattened, dead toad lying in the road. It skittered along like a blackened tin can top with splayed arms and legs before disappearing into the black hole of the gutter. "I had to help my mom out in the garden."

"Well, at least it's better than being in school," Lee replied.

"I guess," agreed Ronnie hollowly. "Course next year you jump up to high school, and I'll be left in the eighth grade all on my lonesome. I can't believe they're letting you skip a whole grade. You don't never study neither. It ain't fair."

Lee shrugged. "I guess they know brains when they see 'em."

"Yeah right," Ronnie came back. "You mean when they smell 'em."

Continuing the argument they turned off Valentino. Sticker, who was sitting by the porch, ceased licking himself for a moment and watched silently as the boys headed down Arbuckle, south towards the river. Even though his collar still appeared to be tight they stayed over to the opposite side of the street while passing, then kept on, not really going anywhere.

"So what you think about livin' in your grandma's old house?" Ronnie asked, swinging his arms around and jumping on and off the curb.

"We've only really been in the place since Saturday, you know," Lee replied. "But so far, it's not been too bad. At least I got a room now that's big enough to swing a cat in."

Lee's grandmother, his mother's mother, had died suddenly, just a few weeks before school let out for the summer. It was late in the afternoon when Javier Fuentes, an old Mexican who lived at the end of the road, had driven past and spotted the body sprawled in the drive. The official coroner's report concluded she'd been carrying in her groceries when she'd suffered a massive stroke. The driver's side front and rear doors of her nearly new, green and white '58 Ford Fairlane were open, and two bags from the Lucky Seven were lying to either side, the contents spilled out on the grass. The day she died it had been more than two months since Lee had last seen her. At the funeral, he'd heard grown-ups talking in low whispers about the look on Kathleen's face. He'd never know. It had been a closed coffin.

"But ain't it weird y'all bein' there?" Ronnie asked, watching his feet as he balanced on the curb. "I mean you know she hated y'all. And now, you're livin' in her house. And not only are y'all in your dead grandma's house, but right next door to Old Lady Ballard's, to boot." Ronnie rolled his eyes as he made his version of the horror face all the kids made when they mentioned weird, old widow Ballard and her haunted mansion.

"Grandma didn't hate me," Lee corrected, stressing the me, "just Maggie, Dad, and Patty."

"You know what I meant," Ronnie said.

Lee's family never visited his grandma, not even for Christmas, yet they had inherited the big, slate roofed house, as Maggie, his step mom, was the nearest heir. For almost as long as he could remember, at least since Maggie and his dad had married, Lee was the only one Grandma Bonham had ever tolerated for a visit. The house, along with the car and a little money, was a huge windfall for Lee's parents; there was no mistaking that. But now that Grandma was gone the house itself seemed to know it, and to Lee it felt empty and strange, almost resentful, as if the very stone and wood were aware of their trespass.

Momentarily feeling it, Lee just looked away, not wanting to reply.

Way off down the street, where Arbuckle Avenue passed under the railroad trestle, a small boy was jumping up and down and hollering. Seeing that he'd been noticed, the boy broke into a frantic run in their direction. The skinny, little kid, wearing only a pair of stained, plaid shorts came flying up the street, his bare feet slapping on the warm asphalt. He stopped just short of the two older boys, his lungs heaving and his ribs stretching under his scabby skin. How his pants stayed up was anyone's guess.

"Hey, y'all, guess what?" he panted.

He was around seven, and was one of a brood of hillbillies whom had taken over an abandoned house between the PS&Y railroad trestle and the Yalahalla River. This one's name was Alton, and he had two brothers, one older, and the other about the same age as Lee, they sometimes saw around. Altogether, counting cousins and runaways there were maybe seven or eight kids that lived at the place off and on.

"I know what," Ronnie answered Alton, following with a laugh. "Your momma told ya', you're gonna have to take a bath tonight."

The dirty little boy obviously wasn't expecting this, and it took him a moment to catch his thoughts.

"Bath? What're you talkin' 'bout?" he hollered, revealing a few green baby teeth. "You ain't seen my mama. You don't even know my mamma. 'Sides, you're wrong! You're dead wrong! I ain't takin' no damn bath!"

Ronnie grinned at Lee; obviously knowing he'd struck the right nerve.

"When's the last time you had a bath anyway, Alton?" Lee joined in, "Last Christmas?"

As he thought about it, Alton scratched at a bug bite around the back of one shoulder blade getting one hand over the shoulder and the other coming up and around from behind. Suddenly he remembered what he'd come running to tell.

"Carl and Daryl, they caught themselves a turtle! A big ass turtle! They got it in the hole, 'round to the back of the house!" He turned and broke into a run, flailing one arm back behind. "Come on ya'll!" he yelled, "Y'all come see!"

Reflexively, Lee almost started to run, but stopped, realizing it was beneath his dignity as a big kid to chase along behind Alton.

Another fifty yards beyond the trestle's abandoned tracks, amongst some sad, crooked chinaberry trees and dry, gray brush, leaned a house whose homey spirit had moved on long ago. At one time it might have been a young couple's first home. But now, the window frames held only a few complete panes of glass, and the front door hung on by just a bottom hinge. So faded was the paint, that it was impossible to tell what color, if any, it had ever been. And what might once have been a decorative brick wishing well out front, was now stuffed with the residue from a half a dozen dead lawnmowers.

Making their way around back, the tall brush grew so close, they had to squeeze past a giant blackened car motor, hanging from a chain beneath a bent and straining swing set frame. There wasn't any grass anywhere, as the deposits of thick, tarry oil, shards of metal, and scraps of trash had long since killed the soil and nothing green would come near.

Lee was careful where he walked, as he didn't want to step in something and ruin his new PF Flyers. The commercials on T.V. promised he could "Run faster and jump higher, thanks to the Action Wedge." He had yet to make up his mind entirely if the wedge actually worked, as he'd only had the pair since Saturday, but it did seem that when he ran, he did feel like he was just a tad bit quicker.

"Come on y'all, over this way," Alton turned back, his impatience nearing a frenzy. "Daryl and Carl got him down in the hole to the side of the shed." The boy led the way, strutting proudly forward, his bare feet immune to the perils.

Lee came around the tin shed but stopped short just as a muddy boy in plaid shorts screamed, "Shit fire," and hopped back from a huge, nasty hole that stretched twenty or thirty feet around.

Another boy, Carl, a tall and wrangly teen, was attempting to close a makeshift scrap of chain link, that together with some cracked planks and stolen road signs, made up the fence around the edge of "The Hole."

"Goddamn! Looky here, ain't that some shit!" Daryl whooped, holding up the splintered shaft of a red broomstick.

The excitement was too much for Alton, who began stamping one foot on the ground and clapping like a cheap, mechanical monkey.

"Hey, Carl. Hey, Daryl," Ronnie said cautiously. "Alton says y'all caught a turtle."

"Biggest damn turtle, you ever seen," said Carl, not looking at Ronnie, but peering back over the chain link as though he needed to keep an eye on whatever it was that was in there.

"Fuckin' A!" agreed Daryl.

Carl was the oldest of the Willis brood, and was known for being wild and mean. Luckily, he seldom had anything to do with the boys Lee and Ronnie's ages. If you didn't drink, smoke, fuck or fight, Carl Willis had little use for you. This evening, the rangy youth was wearing filthy blue jeans stuck down into a pair of big, green rubber boots, and a blue mechanic's shirt with the name "Lonnie" stenciled above the pocket.

For a moment Lee and Ronnie, Carl and Daryl stood across from each other in one of those pauses between boys that can swing one-way or the other.

"Git on out of here, Alton," Daryl said, and flung a blob of mud off the broomstick smacking his little brother on the shoulder. "Or we'll feed yer ass to the turtle."

The tension was broken. Someone had been picked on, and everyone was glad to see that it had been Alton.

"Y'all come on over here and have yourselves a look," offered Carl, plucking a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket. He tamped the stubby, unfiltered cigarette against a big knuckle and then lit it with a flick of a chrome metal Zippo he'd produced from his pants.

Ronnie didn't move. Something in Carl's tone sounded more like a dare than an invitation.

Lee though, stepped right up, and for whatever reason, looked Carl straight back in the eye. The big teen stared back coldly for a second then turned pointing with his cigarette down into the filthy pit. Ronnie moved in to the left of Daryl, and Alton hung by his armpits on one of the few sturdy boards.

The pit didn't appear to be very deep, and was filled with yellowish, foamy water, flecked with pieces of grass, bits of twigs, and a big, scaly carp's head could be seen floating out near the center. A garden hose let in a trickle of water at one end, and a busted piece of concrete tube let the overflow seep out on the other side. Right near the gate, just below Carl's long fingers and stubby Lucky Strike, was more than a hundred pounds of mean, black lightening.

There were a few other reptiles visible, attempting to hide down in the goo. A big, flat, white soft shell, close to two feet around, stuck its snorkel-like snout up at the far end. And a small green and yellow striped alligator, maybe three feet long, lay motionless on top of a chunk of rotten cottonwood log that jutted out from the bank almost to the middle of the muck.

But it was the alligator snapper that ruled the roost. Its massive shell was black and covered with plates like some kind of horned armor. Its clawed feet were flat and stuck out from each corner of the shell. Opposite its short, pointy tail was its massive head supported by a scaled, leathery neck as thick around as a full-grown man's forearm. From its terrible, wedged beak, a piece of mangled red broomstick stuck out as a warning.

"Where'd y'all get him?" asked Lee, properly impressed.

"Just down below the falls, over yonder," Daryl answered, waving an arm towards the high granite bluffs on the other side of the trees that marked the southern bank of the Yalahalla River. "Carl and me, we was giggin' us some frogs, and no sooner had Carl stuck this big fat sucker, than this bitch come up from under this old log and bit the damn frog clean in two."

"See here. Daryl ain't lyin'. I got the frog's legs," said Alton, proudly plucking a pair of leopard frog legs without a body from a gory bucket by the board where he'd been hanging. "Here's all that's left of 'em."

"Then what'd ya'll do?" Ronnie asked, not taking his eyes off the monster below.

"I told Daryl to run quick, back up to the house for the cast net and some rope," continued Carl, extending his arm way out and tapping his cigarette so the ash fell on the turtle's shell. "I took my frog sticker and shoved him down in the mud, up against the bank so the fucker couldn't get loose."

Carl's face changed to a scowl, an easy transition, and said, "Took you damn near forever to get back too, Daryl. Slower'n a damn three legged dog. Couple of times, he 'bout got away. Here I was up to my ass in that river. If that bitch had got free, he'd have bit my balls off."

"I run as fast as I could," defended Daryl. "And it took both of us to ball him up and drag him home."

A mosquito landed right above the turtle's left eye and probed for a place to suck between the scales.

The turtle didn't even blink.

Lee slapped a mosquito biting his thigh and another on his calf. Looking west, he noticed the sky had begun to go from washed blue to streaks of red and gray.

"Y'all catch all these turtles and stuff around here?" Lee asked.

"Yeah, Carl and me don't spend much time 'round some pussified school, like y'all." Daryl waved the broomstick in the direction of the river and the thick woods that followed the bluffs. "We go all back up in there. There's shit we seen you wouldn't believe if it bit you in the ass. Huh, Carl?"

Carl flicked his cigarette ash again, hitting the turtle on its flat head and dislodging the bloating mosquito.

"Damn, he didn't move a muscle," said Ronnie. "You'd think he'd pull up in his shell."

"You don't know shit about snappers. Do you?" said Carl rudely.

Ronnie didn't argue.

"A turtle like that," Carl shook his head and took another long drag from his Lucky Strike, smoke coming out of his nose when he talked, "shit, he don't never hide. And if he does, it's just so's he can sneak up on somethin'. He ain't afraid of a goddamned thing. If he can't bite the piss out of it, or flat out eat it, then whatever it is just might as well do the same fuckin' thing to him. That's all he's ever known. That's the way it is. Whether it's down in the river, or up here in town, there ain't no difference. Some's strong and some ain't."

Carl looked hard at Ronnie.

Alton slapped a mosquito and lost his balance knocking over the bucket of frogs.

With a violent quickness, Carl had him by his shorts, hanging the flailing boy out over the fence.

"Aaah!" Alton screamed, his terror real. "No Carl! Please don't! Maaama!"

"Drop him, Carl! Drop him!" jeered Daryl, his eyes gone wild.

The long muscles of Carl's arm stood out, but his arm stayed straight, despite the swinging arms and kicking feet of the forty-pound boy.

Lee and Ronnie stood frozen; anything might happen.

Alton's panic was real. His high voice cracked as he shrieked.

Slowly, Carl retracted his arm and set his little brother down on the dry side of the fence.

"Now pick them frogs up and get 'em inside to Mama," ordered Carl.

Alton, settling down enough to start to cry, scooped the bloody mess, grass, mud and all back into the bucket and ran off towards the house.

"I guess we'll be going," said Lee. "Mosquitoes are getting kind of thick."

"Yeah," agreed Ronnie. "We'll see y'all around."

Carl put his hard gaze back on Lee and leaned away hanging on to a fence post. "You been to the movies lately?"

"Not for a little while," Lee replied.

"Well, you tell me if you do," Carl said, grinning and taking a final drag off of his Lucky Strike. "You put on one hell of a show, you know that, boy?"

Lee nodded; suddenly understanding what he'd first thought was a trick question.

Ronnie had walked away a few steps and was standing back, one shoelace again untied. "Come on, Lee, let's go."

Carl continued to glare like he expected something.

"One hell of a turtle, Carl," Lee said, not flinching. "What y'all gonna do with him?"

Swinging around, Carl snatched the broomstick away from Daryl and reached back in towards the pit.

"Probably eat him," he replied as he jabbed violently down at something Lee couldn't see.

Keeping together, the two boys skirted the back of the Willis house, coming around from the other side. One of the gaping bedroom windows had a stained, yellow curtain that was hanging more out than in. There wasn't a stick of furniture visible in the entire room, just a couple piles of dirty clothes, and a couple of corn shuck mattresses down on the floor. Strangely enough, there were tracks of muddy footprints leading up and down on the outside wall and windowsill from where someone had been using the window as a door. The smell of grease getting hot was heavy in the air. Fried frog legs were obviously the main course on the Willis menu tonight.

It was becoming dark quickly now, as it did around these parts, and Lee and Ronnie were glad to pass under the trestle's long shadows and get back on Arbuckle Ave.

"Do you think he'd have dropped him?" asked Ronnie.

"I doubt it," answered Lee picking up the pace. "Carl may be tough, but he doesn't hold a candle to their old man."

"Do you think he's around?" Ronnie asked, keeping up right by Lee. "I heard he was in the clink."

"I don't know," Lee shrugged. "You got me. I didn't see him."

Emmett Willis, the clan's father was known for the hard time he had done in various jails. Most of the town slept a little better at night when Emmett was out of town, "on vacation," serving a six-month sentence down at the Parson's County Pea Farm.

"Hey Ronnie, your Mom got you doing any chores tomorrow?" Lee asked, just as they approached the cut down through Spit Creek.

"I probably got to help her some in the morning," Ronnie answered. "She's putting in another row of tomatoes."

"Then why don't you come on over in the afternoon. We can climb the fence in back of the house and poke around the railroad junkyard. I saw there's a place where the barbed wire doesn't come together, and we could just slip on over."

Ronnie stopped. "What if the guard's there? It'll be daylight you know. We could get caught."

Lee crossed his arms and frowned. "Don't worry about it. Fat Larry couldn't catch a cold."

"Not everybody runs as fast as you do," Ronnie came back.

Lee maintained his pose.

"Okay," agreed Ronnie. "Okay." He started off back up the street towards home. "At least I'll come over and see your house. I've never been in it." He waved without looking back. "See ya' tomorrow."

Looking up Arbuckle Ave., lights were starting to come on, and big, fat June bugs were already swooping in to circle around the streetlights in swirling droves.

"See ya," Lee called out peeling off down into the deepening shadows of Spit creek.

Coming up out of the creek, Lee saw that the lights were on at the Fuentes' house, and Javier's black Chevy was parked on the street out front. He could hear voices coming from inside the screen door, but from the rapid-fire staccato sounds, he was sure they weren't speaking English.

Lee ran past, but slowed down as he entered the winding shortcut between the two sections of Seminole Road. The thick brambles and brush rose up high to either side closing off the cut through from rest of the world. It was quiet in here, and he could hear his own breathing and the pounding of his feet in the dust as he loped along easily. Trotting at a good pace, he emerged, picking it up to a full run as he passed the Riley's empty drive. The light in the front window was on, and Lee could hear a baby crying from somewhere inside the little, wood frame house.

Seeing his Grandma's house loom up from between its surrounding oak trees he felt an odd, almost spooky sensation, as though the world had suddenly taken a turn. Maybe it was just the way those massive old oaks lining the drive looked, looming larger in the gray evening light and spreading dark shadows across the lawn. Somehow, it did look different just now. Just six months ago 1959 had given way to 1960. Everywhere it seemed that change was in the air, and nothing brought on the sense of that feeling more than the look of that big, old house brooding back at him. The place seemed to be lurking behind that monstrous old magnolia tree smack dab in the center of the lawn.

Leaping the ditch, he ran all the way up to the whitewashed steps. In one jump he was up on the porch. Lee didn't realize it for what it was, but he was washed over with relief when he stepped up into the pool of light by the door, pulled the screen open, and went inside.