 
JOHN MARQUIS MAHONEY the mare whinnied softly as Francis rested his head against her shoulder and rubbed her neck. at
that moment he wished for death. for himself. for Lucy. for Elvira,
Pincher, Buster and Rudy, all of them, the dancers, his mother and father.
He swallowed hard. bitches and bastards. all of them freak. Just a dumb
freak. They should have smothered me at birth. Why hadn't they let me
drown that time? Why had they pulled me from the river? He climbed up on
the wagon and fingered the reins. He blinked at the sudden wetness in his
eyes.
"All done dancing, stud?"
Francis felt the reins yanked from his hands. Buster was standing by
the wagon, softly slapping the reins across the palm of his hand. Rudy was
holding the horse's bridle.
"Get down, dummy."
Francis shook his head and held out his hands for the reins. Buster
slashed the reins across Francis' face, then grabbed his wrist and yanked.
Francis tried to roll to cushion the fall but Buster's knee caught him in
the side just before he hit the ground. gasping and trying to catch his
breath, Francis struggled to his knees. What was happening? Jesus, his
side hurt. What had he done?
Buster stepped back, carefully calculated the distance, and kicked him
the face. Francis' head snapped back, his mouth filling with hot blood as
his lips split. He felt his front teeth snap at the gum line while a
distant voice called, "That's the way ... that's good ... put the fucking
boots to him." Francis lay unconscious in the damp grass.
"Get his belt, then get those boots off." Buster grunted as he wrapped
the belt around Francis and pinioned his arms to his side. "Now pull his
pants down." Rudy looked at the moonlight glinting off the blade of the
pocketknife in his brother's hand. in the cold glare of the moonlight,
Francis' legs were are white as a perch's belly.
"Buster, maybe we ought not..."
"Shut up! Spread his feet."
Buster reached between Francis' legs, found his scrotum, pulled it
taughtly upward towards the belly, and with two swift flicks of his wrist
cut out a testicle. there was suprisingly little blood. "Christ, look at
that ... even his pecker hairs are white." Buster loosened the belt and
threw it under the wagon. "He ain't going to feel much like dancing for a
while."
Rudy laughed and slapped his thigh. "Scratch one stud. Well, half a
stud."
Something soft and wet was pushing gently against his face and for a blurry moment thought he was at the fair. The horse snorted and nudged him again. The blood on his face had dried, his right eye was swollen shut, his breath whistled through torn lips. God, how he hurt. Francis tried to get up and realized his pants were around his ankles. His groin was on fire. He reached between his legs, then lifted his hand to his face. He wondered at the blood. He pulled on his pants, got to his knees, lurched upright, and stood wobbly on bare feet by the horse. wincing as he held his ribs, he pulled himself into the wagon. He clucked his swollen tongue twice against the roof of his mouth and the mare started slowly for home. Francis closed his good eye, held his left arm tightly to his side, and surrendered his body to the swaying rhythm of the wagon. His mother was rocking on the porch in the dark and heard the creak of the wagon before she saw it coming over the hill. She was smiling as she watched the horse and wagon slowly approaching in the moonlight. She hoped everything had gone well at the dance. The horse turned into the yard and stopped by the barn door. Francis fell from the wagon seat as he mother came through the back door. She screamed once, then ran down the stairs. She was whimpering and stroking his battered face when her husband found them. "You satisfied now?" she cried. "They even stole his boots."
"Me! ask me! I know, Miss Langdon!" Lucy turned her pointer towards the front row of desks, the row in which she had sat as a child and vied for Miss montgomery's attention during quizzes. "All right, Lewis. what city is the capital of Quebec?" "Sherbrooke!" Lewis looked very proud that he knew the answer. the older girls laughed. several of the boys hissed, "Stupid!" "That's enough, children. we don't make fun of each other in this school. Lewis, the capital city of Quebec is Quebec City." She looked up at the oaken and brass Regulator clock high on the wall at the rear of the classroom. Time for recess, she thought, and dismissed the class. Lucy was leaning against the doorjamb, watching the children playing in the schoolyard, when a farm wagon slowly made its way down the hill and into the village. As the wagon approached Lucy realized that it was Francis, delivering his cream cans to her father's creamery. She hadn't seen him since that night at the dance two years ago when her mother had sent him away. There had been some talk in the village about a terrible fight between him and the Putvains after the dance, but it soon died down. She felt remorse that she hadn't stood up to her mother, had allowed herself to be bullied into submission. Poor Francis, she thought, he's such a lonely man. She strode briskly through the gate at the roadside and, smiling and waiving, called to him. "Francis! Hello, how are you?" Startled, he looked over at her. He felt the blood rise quickly from his neck to his face. He tipped his hat then, looking straight ahead, clucked his tongue twice and the horse quickened her pace. Lucy closed her eyes tightly as the wagon passed, her raised hand suspended in an unfinished greeting. to part 3...
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