Boys

The swing was hanging from the old oak tree’s thickest branch. Brady swung his legs back and forth, his feet barely touching the dirt. His friend George sat near the tree’s trunk, clutching at a big red ball.

           “Why are you leaving?” George squeezed the ball tight to his chest, eyes following Brady as he swung back and forth.

           Brady stopped swinging his legs at the question, letting himself slowly come to a stop. “You know why,” he said, wiping his hand over his snotty nose. “Mom says the fighting is too close. If we stay here, we’ll get shot up like the Smith family.” George frowned, keeping one hand on his ball while using the other to pull at the weeds peeking through the dirt.

           “My paw says that running makes you a coward.” George slapped the ball. It rang out with a rubbery boing. It was followed by a few pops in the distance, and Brady started his swinging back up again.

           “Your paw is a crazy old nut. That’s why he got his leg shot off. If he had run like we are, he wouldn’t have to get help to go take a crap.”

           George’s face was fat and pudgy, so he resembled a bloated tomato when he got angry. He threw his weeds on the ground and stood up. Brady was getting high up. He might be able to circle the branch if he kept going. He looked down at George in time to see the red ball sailing up toward his face. It hit him in the jaw, and even though it wasn’t hard, it shocked him enough to make him lose his grip on the chains. Brady didn’t have any time to yell. The next thing he felt was the hard ground. He tried sucking in air, but his lungs didn’t do what he told them to. He sat there, unbidden tears coming out of his eyes, gasping for air, coughing up spit. George walked up beside him, his hands rubbing his arms feverishly.

           “You don’t know nothing about being brave. Paw’s bravest of them all! If you go west, you’ll be as dead as your brother.”

           The air finally came back to Brady, and just in time. Almost, almost unwillingly, he fisted his hands into the dirt, grabbing a big handful and chucking it at George. The fat boy couldn’t dodge, and a little bit of it got into his mouth. Brady took a moment to sit up while George spat onto the ground.

           “My brother was stupid,” Brady said, monotone. He held his shaking hands in his lap. His heart beat fast, and it took him a few minutes to stop feeling too angry. By the time he had finally calmed down, George had stopped spitting out dirt. The two boys stayed there, one standing and one sitting, as the stars twinkled above. Eventually, George held out a hand, and Brady took it.

           “I’m sorry I threw my ball at you. I didn’t mean to make you fall. But you shouldn’t have said that ‘bout my paw.”

           Brady took his place back on the swing, letting his feet dangle. “I’m sorry about throwing dirt at you. I don’t know why I did it. I meant what I said.”

           George looked at him, sniffling. He always got sick around this time, when the summer heat disappeared to be replaced with frigid cold. Brady wondered if he would have one this time next year. Or if he would still have his red ball that he got from his grandpa two springs ago. The fat boy sat beside his swing on the ground, going back to picking weeds.

           “I thought your brother was real brave,” George admitted. The pops had started again, and George waited for them to stop before continuing. “I thought he deserved one of those fancy send-offs they give to soldiers, with the guns and the trumpets playing Taps.”

           “He wasn’t a soldier, so stop callin’ him that. He was stupid.” Brady repeated the mantra to himself, just like his father did every morning in the mirror. “He knew he would get hurt if he went out there. You can’t protect people if you're dead.”

           “I guess.” George shivered as a breeze picked up, blowing away his pile of grass. He poked Brady’s leg with a finger. “Where are you goin’?”

           “I dunno. Mom said west.” Brady sat up a little straighter on his swing. “She says they still have fairs out there, and they grill big ol’ pigs right in front of you.”

           George’s mouth watered at the thought, bits of drool escaping his mouth. “Do you mean that?”

           “Sure do. See? Going west is the best idea ever. Bet you wish you were me.”

           George stopped thinking about fried turkey legs and giant cups of lemonade, hitting Brady’s leg. “Nah, I’m brave, so I’m staying out here with Paw and everybody else. My paw says if you can’t play with the cards you were dealt, you better fold.”

           “What does that mean?”

           “It’s a gambling thing. If you fold, you’re out of the game, see? I think his point is that we’re never gonna fold, not as long as we’re livin’ here.” More pops, getting closer. Not close enough to send either boy running though. George pulled his knees up to his chest, looking out in the direction of the popping. He looked older than ten just then, Brady couldn’t help but notice. He looked tired, like Mom when they buried his brother in their garden.

           “It sure is loud tonight,” whispered George.

           “I stopped noticing.” It was a lie. Brady would be so much happier when they were finally going west, the only proof of them ever being there a body under the tulips. George sniffled again. It was waterier this time, and Brady pretended not to notice as tears fell down his friend’s face.

           Trying to get him to stop, he said, “I’ll miss you, you know that, George?” Brady laughed and knotted the swing’s chain around his knuckles. “I’ll miss your stupid face and the funny little noise you make when you try to run.”

           George snorted. “I won’t miss you. You won’t be gone long enough to miss. I’ll learn to shoot a real gun like Paw, and then I’ll come out west and find you, and we’ll travel to all the fairs and eat all the food there.”

           Brady looked away from George, who was sitting up like a real man, who wasn’t scared of getting shot in the head when his back was turned. His friend coughed, and Brady wondered if George would make it to next year. He wondered if his little town wouldn’t be attacked by men with guns and fire. He thought of them burning his home, stomping on the ground that his brother now guarded. Fools, his father would say. Fools and optimists. Brady unwound his hands from the swing’s chains. He spat on one and held it out to George.

           “You better promise. You better promise to come and go to the fair with me.” His hand was shaking until George took it. His friend smiled; his two front teeth were yellow with a noticeable gap.

           “You bet. It’s a promise.”

           The pops came back in a burst, and both the boys jumped, separating. George fell over on his back, screeching like a newborn baby. Brady giggled, causing George to kick him and begin his own set of laughs. They stayed there, on the hill with the swing, staring up at the sky. And Brady looked west.