Salience

By Steven McCann

The word, ‘salience,’ originally comes from the Latin, ‘salio,’ meaning to leap, or spring. Gradually, over the centuries, it has taken on its present meaning of, ‘particularly noticeable or prominent.’ Billy Garth, the hero of my novel that bears this title, experiences colors and sounds taking unusual prominence in his mind and distorting his senses during the last year of high school. Only after a long struggle does he understand that they are symptoms of his illness, schizophrenia. Billy is endowed with strength of body and character, as well as a noble and adventurous spirit. His journey takes him through masonry work in the hot sun, a police arrest, court hearings and stays at both a forensic correctional facility and a state mental hospital. He’s joined by a host of characters; some educated, some ignorant, some violent, others non-violent; those fated to endure a lifetime of suffering, and a few, like Billy, chosen to move on, becoming stronger, wiser and self-aware.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664195332

Steven McCann

Steven McCann is the author of novels, novellas, stories, plays and poems, and a 2021 recipient of a City Artist Corps Grant. He was born in 1948, graduated from Spring Valley High School in New York where he excelled in three sports. He enrolled at the University of Kansas, and later at NYU, majored in English and received a BA. His work experience is varied; nightwatchman at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hotel detective at the Plaza, home renovator and shipping manager. In 2005 he was stricken with paraplegia and has been wheelchair bound since. He lives in New York City and remains passionate about Central Park, the Shakespeare festival, the Met Museum, Lincoln Center, the opera, and the people of New York.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Billy Garth and his twin brother Maury grew up in the town of Cristol in central Massachusetts, a large populous community that had several manufacturers in the first half of the twentieth century; a shoe factory, a silver works, and a toolmaker. But manufacturing there went out in the 1950’s and the town went through decades of recession. The main street of Cristol took on a blighted look, until an urban renewal grant in the 1970’s gave the town a facelift. Afterwards, small businesses began to move back and realtors started to advertise Cristol as a safe community, only an hour’s commute from Boston. The north end where the Garths had a home was a network of tree-lined streets and solid one family dwellings built in the 1920’s. Rising above this neighborhood stood St.Agnes’s stone Church with its square steeple, at the top of which sat a gold cross. As a small boy, Billy Garth looked over the rooftops of surrounding houses for this cross to get his bearings, whenever he wandered too many blocks from home.

Home for Billy, Maury, and their mother Beth was a three-bedroom house on the corner of Church and MacDougal Streets with a beech tree and several beautiful azaleas growing on their small plot of front lawn. The azaleas had been planted by Billy’s father, a utility worker who died in an electrical accident when the boys were only three. Beth tended these azaleas with great care on the weekends in the spring and summer, along with her roses and tulips. During the week she worked at the savings bank on Main Street, first as a teller, then as a loan officer. On her desk in the bank sat linked photographs of her two boys with their curly red hair and fair freckled skin. Maury’s face and body were leaner than Billy’s, although both boys were smallish in stature. Maury was the softer, more well-behaved child; Billy the adventurer, the one with the daring. It was impossible for any of Mrs. Garth’s associates in the bank to sit down with her at her desk and start a conversation, without noticing these pictures of her boys and asking about their welfare.

The Garth boys had a healthy exuberant childhood, riding their bikes, playing running games and attending public school, all within their neighborhood, northeast of Main Street in Cristol. Their aunt Sara stayed with them when Beth was working at the bank in the afternoons, and prepared their dinner. But as their early years passed and they entered high school, the boys learned to fend for themselves when they got home from school, and had dinner at a later hour when Beth returned from the bank. They remained good boys and good students, and there were only rare occasions of a poor grade, or a teacher’s complaint. Among their numerous neighborhood friends, none were let into the house, if Beth were away. When Freshman year arrived and they had to take a bus across town to the local high school, they met Bob Littleton and developed a close threesome that stayed together until graduation. It was Bob who introduced them to track.

Bob’s father had been a champion hurdler in college and the Littleton home was decorated with photos and trophies from Mr. Littleton’s athletic days. Bob spent his grade school years anticipating an athletic career and was the first to sign up for the Freshman track team. He got Maury, a friend from French class, to sign up with him on a lark, and not long after that, when Maury came home flushed with pride about his new found talents, he got Billy to sign up also. Their running started that spring of ninth grade and it continued unabated as long as the three boys lived in Cristol. Bob ran across town to the Garth’s house, was joined by Billy and Maury wearing running shoes and shorts, and the three ran miles around and beyond the Garth’s neighborhood. By Sophomore year, they were all varsity distance runners competing in cross country meets in the fall, indoor track in the winter, and outdoor track in the spring.

Of the three, Maury had the greatest talent, Bob the most enthusiasm, but Billy was the gutsiest and most tenacious competitor. Their times were close. In their Sophomore year Maury ran a 4:50 mile, Bob a 4:53 mile, and Billy a 4:58 mile. During Junior year Mr. Kirk, their coach, diversified their talents, putting Maury in the longer races, Bob in the shorter ones, and keeping Billy in the mile. Billy’s time dropped to 4:45 Junior year and he placed third in the state meet. That same year, Maury ran a 10 minute two mile and Bob a 2:02 half mile, indicating that all three boys had a chance for track scholarships.

Bob and Maury were better than average students with Billy lagging behind somewhat, struggling to get past Chemistry and Eleventh Year Math. All three were smaller than average boys and had wiry, muscular runner’s bodies. Maury grew up a few inches taller than Billy and his face remained longer and narrower, just as it had been when they were children. But the brothers had the same curly red hair and the same fair complexion, turned reddish brown from all the hours of running outdoors. Bob Littleton was a short, dark haired boy with a pronounced nose and a lively, full mouth smile. When the three boys came running down Church Street in the summer evenings, after countless miles of running through the wooded area north of the parish, the neighbors watched them pass with quiet admiration for their tireless young bodies, churning smartly in powerful short strides, and appearing as brimful of energy on their return as they had starting out.

The boys shared notes in just about everything they did, from homework, to girl watching in school, to the little bits of gossip about track scholarships and colleges. But for all their comradery, it became clear by the end of Junior year that their destinies lay in different paths. Maury was the brightest student of the three, and most likely to succeed academically. Bob, with less brains and ability, had Maury’s academic standards at heart, and through great effort, followed in his footsteps not far behind. But Billy had neither his brother’s keen intellect, nor his academic interest. He was also the most independent of these three, and even during his childhood years had been an adventurer. When Bob came over to the house, and Bob and Maury sat around discussing colleges, Billy secretly fantasized about joining the navy, or a merchant marine vessel that would take him to far away places. Unlike Maury, his body had fully matured into manhood by sixteen. His broader shoulders and wider, handsomer face were ready to take on the burdens of independence. He had been bored with chemistry, and the only subject in school that had interested him was art class. Without anyone knowing it, he had taken a book out of the library about Van Gogh and read it cover to cover.

At the end of Junior year, Maury and Bob became intent on finding summer jobs, and put in applications for fast food cooks and camp counselors. But Billy was thinking along different lines. While they were out running one day north of the parish, they passed a stone mason building a wall by himself. Early the next Saturday morning, before Maury had gotten out of bed, Billy dressed and walked to the spot where he’d seen the mason. He found the mason still working by himself in the morning sunlight. Billy slowly approached the thirtyish, stubble-cheeked, dark, short and muscular man, busy laying stones in the wall with a batch of mortar and a trowel at his feet.

Hello, ventured Billy cautiously.

Hello, replied the mason, glancing at him and smiling with healthy white teeth. To Billy, the man looked Greek.

Do you need any help? Billy asked.

The mason looked at him again with a puzzled expression, knitting of his dark brows.

Do you need a helper? Billy asked again.

I could use a helper, probably. Do you do this kind of work?

I’ve done some masonry once. I helped a guy build a sidewalk, Billy lied.

The man looked Billy over.

You look like a strong boy. Do you go to school?

High school. I’m a Senior.

The mason continued his work, tapping the stone into place in the seat of mortar with a trowel. After several minutes, he stopped and rubbed his hands on his pants.

I could use a helper. Can you start Monday?

I can start today. Billy stood expectantly before the mason, his arms dangling at his sides.

I’ll pay you eight dollars an hour, if you can work. You can start Monday morning.

What time?

Eight o’clock.

Billy reached his hand out to shake and felt the powerful viselike grip of the mason’s hand.

I’ll be here Monday, at eight.

When he got home, Billy said nothing about the job. However, on Sunday night, Beth entered the kitchen and found him preparing a lunch for the next day.

What have we here? Are you making a trip somewhere?

I have a job. I’m going to help a mason build a stone wall.

Well, that’s good news. Why didn’t you tell us something?

It’ll probably last for only a week.

Maury had been sitting in the living room reading the paper and overheard a few words. He entered the kitchen with the paper in his hand and his face wonderstruck.

Billy has a job?

He says he’s going to work for a mason, tomorrow, interjected Mrs. Garth, as Billy quietly made his sandwiches.

Why, you lucky bum. Is it the mason we passed the other day on Duane Street?

That’s right.

Maury couldn’t answer at first. He was stunned and hurt that Billy hadn’t asked him to go talk to the mason also.

How much is he paying you, Billy? Beth asked.

Eight bucks an hour.

That’s a small fortune.

It’s good money. But it’ll probably only last a week.

I bet he works your tail off for that kind of money, Maury said.

Don’t let him take advantage of you, Beth warned.

Masonry is hard work, Mom. Nobody’s taking advantage.

Mrs. Garth was a middle-size woman, as tall as Billy and almost as tall as Maury. She had brown hair, not yet graying, and Billy’s good-looking wide jawed face. Staunchly independent, she still felt guilty at times that her sons grew up without a father. During these times, her independence softened and she became protective with her boys.

You’ll want to save the money you make, she said.

I’ll save every penny of it.

Maury left the kitchen, whistling between his teeth.

Eight bucks an hour! I wish I could make that.

Maybe you can help get your brother a job, if he needs another worker.

I’ll try, Mom, if he asks me.

But Billy was hoping he wouldn’t ask. He wanted to cut his own sphere of influence in life. He knew Maury would get another job soon and would make money also. Maury had his high grades, his academic achievements, and his prospects of going to a top college. It was only fair that Billy had something special too.

At six o’clock the next morning the alarm went off on the night table next to Billy’s bed. Maury, sleeping on the other twin bed, smacked his lips together sleepily and turned over. Billy rose from his bed smartly, dressed, and tiptoed out of the room. After breakfast, he had a full hour to wait before walking to the job site. He sat alone in the living room, glancing at yesterday’s sports page as the spreading morning light slanted in under the raised venetian blind and lit up his seat. He looked outside the window past the beech tree on the front lawn to the corner of Church and MacDougal Streets where houses ran off perpendicularly on two quiet, tree-lined avenues. Billy had spent all of his sixteen years there, and as he looked at it now, thinking of the neighbors in each house, he had a foretaste of a new direction, one that would lead him far away from his first home. He had always yearned for an adventure, and now, finally, he would have his wish. Quickly he began to calculate how much money he would make that day at eight dollars an hour. Surely, they would work at least eight hours, perhaps ten. If they worked ten hours for five days straight, he would make four hundred dollars. That was indeed a small fortune, almost enough to buy an old second-hand car. His mother would want him to save the money for college, but at some point, she would have to accept his desire to seek a different kind of future. Four hundred dollars. The figure echoed in his consciousness. Perhaps the mason would take two weeks to finish the wall. Eight hundred dollars. Certainly, enough to buy a car.

He began to think of the second-hand cars he’d seen for sale at Mel’s, the local garage. Then his thoughts reverted to the mason, to the man’s concentrated manner in setting the stones, and his incredibly rough, powerful grip. The mason would want him to work very hard, probably mix cement, carry stones, and shovel dirt. Billy’s body bristled in expectation. He would push himself like he’d never pushed himself before, on this important day, this crucial moment. He simply had to make a good impression on the mason. As he sat lost in these thoughts, the hour ticked away and soon it was time to leave for work.

It took only fifteen minutes to walk to Duane Street, situated on the wooded fringe of the parish. There were several new homes recently built on one side of Duane, and on the other, wooded lots with an occasional realtor’s sign. Scrub maples filled the empty lots, and newly seeded lawns with small transplanted evergreens enhanced the properties of the new, split-level homes. At the job site, a stone wall was in progress along one hundred feet of sidewalk. The property descended in a steep, five-foot embankment at the front, and the mason had been digging away this embankment and replacing it with a stone wall. About a fourth of the wall had been built. On a corner of the property, beyond the driveway, lay a large pile of fieldstones, sand, cement bags under polyethylene covering, several large masonry tubs, and a gas-powered cement mixer. When Billy reached the work site, the street appeared deserted and he stood awkwardly in his T shirt, jeans, and sneakers with his hands in his pockets and his lunch bag tucked under his arm. Before he’d been there ten minutes, the mason drove up in a rusted, International dump truck, and without signaling a greeting, pulled into the driveway.

The mason got out of the truck, and still not taking any notice of Billy, walked around to the pile of stones. He looked over the pile thoughtfully as Billy approached him and stood respectfully by his side. Suddenly, with a swift movement, the mason turned to the truck again and began unloading a wheelbarrow, hoes, shovels, and a box of hand tools.

Take these over to the wall, said the mason to Billy, without looking at him and motioning to the box of hand tools and the masonry tubs. Billy set his lunch down in a safe place and carried the things over. When he returned, he found the mason starting up the gas-powered cement mixer.

Have you ever mixed mortar before?! shouted the mason over the noise of the loud engine, looking into Billy’s face for the first time. Billy shrugged his shoulders in dumb negation.

Two shovels of sand, to one shovel of Portland! Got that?!

Billy nodded quickly.

First we put in water!

The mason took a nearby hose and squirted it into the cement mixer. Then he proceeded to shovel a mix of sand and Portland into the machine, ripping open a Portland bag with a corner of the shovel. He was dressed in a T shirt, grey kakis and construction boots, and his tanned muscles tightened vigorously, the veins showing deeply on his forearms. He stopped in his shoveling once to shout further directions.

Add water carefully! You don’t want the mix to be like soup!

Again, Billy nodded. He felt awkward just standing there watching the mason, aware that it was now a few minutes past eight o’clock and wanting to be earning his eight dollars an hour. The mason took fifteen minutes to finish the first batch and pushed it over to the wall in a wheelbarrow. He poured the mortar into two tubs and gave Billy further directions on how to stack stones in front of the work area. The stones, too, were to be moved by the wheelbarrow. Then he led Billy to the middle point in the wall and showed him where the embankment was to be dug away and a small footing with reinforcement rods set at the base. Billy was to continue digging out the embankment for the footing whenever he got ahead, after making mortar and moving stones. To all the mason’s simple directions Billy nodded, never saying a word. Finally, the mason went to his spot of yesterday and began setting stones in a mortar bed on the wall. Billy walked back to the truck and the cement mixer and commenced working. He moved several loads of stones over to the mason, then started making a mix. In the bright clear morning air, not a soul stirred in any of the recently finished houses along the street. No cars passed along the road and the only sound was the deafening, gas powered engine of the mixer. The mason said not a word, as Billy came and went, pushing the heavy wheelbarrow.

The first batch of mortar was successful, and as Billy poured it into the tubs from the wheelbarrow, the mason took up a trowelful, held it up to show that it had proper consistency, and uttered his approval. A few minutes later, however, when he started preparing the second batch, Billy squirted too much water into the mixer, and as the mixer filled with sand and Portland, it became apparent that the mix was soupy. Feverishly, Billy added more sand and Portland, trying to solidify the mix. The contents of the mixer overflowed, dripping down its side. In the bright morning sun that flooded down on the deserted construction site, the mason raised his head from the wall and looked over to the mixer, indicating that he had cleaned the tubs and needed more mortar. He saw Billy working frantically, sensed what was happening, and walked back to the blastingly loud mixer. While Billy stood by with an embarrassed look, the mason moved the wheelbarrow in front of the mixer, poured half the contents into the wheelbarrow, and added several shovelfuls of sand to the wheelbarrow. He didn’t scold Billy, but pushed the wheelbarrow off without a word. Feeling utterly chagrined, Billy went on struggling to solidify the remaining contents of the mixer. His mind seized on his apparent failure, and he even thought about being fired. But the mason continued to work without criticizing him, and only called out once, above the noise of the engine:

More stones!

Billy hurriedly filled the wheelbarrow with stones and unloaded it at the mason’s work spot. The process went on for an interminable period as Billy hastened to and fro with mortar and stones. It became apparent to him that he was not going fast enough to dig the trench as well, and he tried to increase his pace, but for all his efforts, he could barely keep up with the mason, moving stones and mixing mortar.

After what seemed like an eternity of lifting and lugging loads back and forth, Billy glanced at his watch and saw that only an hour had passed. With a shrug, he concluded that if this is what it took to make eight dollars an hour, maybe buying a car wasn’t all that important. But as he looked at the mason again and saw his tireless activity, lifting the heavy stones and setting them into the wall, he realized that there must be some secret to this work, for masons and their helpers had been building walls for centuries. He vowed not to glance at his watch again, until the mason stopped working, and to try, somehow, to become preoccupied with his work. The exploding, stuttering noise of the gas engine blasted on, the dust from the bags of Portland blew up into Billy’s face, covering his arms and hair with a fine gray silt, and sweat began to pour from his body. He picked the wheelbarrow up with a mighty grip, and, taking pride in his strength, wheeled it back and forth to the mason. The cool breeze of the morning died away as the air became still and warm, and the sky above turned to a pristine cerulean blue, with only a few tufts of white clouds that disappeared completely as the sun rose higher in the sky.

They worked without abatement until noon, when the mason got into his truck, drove to a nearby deli, and came back with a sandwich. Seeing the mason leave, Billy started in digging the trench, but when the mason returned in the truck, he ordered Billy to stop, and together, sitting on the mound of stones, they opened their bags and ate lunch. The mason had bought two sodas at the store, gave one to Billy, and refused payment for it. After finishing his sandwich, the mason lit a cigarette and sat looking over the job site as Billy continued eating. The mason glanced at Billy’s hands, then went to his truck and came back with a pair of work gloves, which he tossed on a rock next to Billy.

Wear these when you dig, or your hands will blister.

The mason glanced at Billy’s sneakers.

Do you have a pair of boots?

I’ll buy some.

Good idea.

The mason looked into the distance, past the wall, at the wooded property across the street. The cigarette dangled from a corner of his mouth.

Do you always work in Cristol? Billy asked suddenly.

Nah! uttered the mason, taking the cigarette from his mouth and spitting. I work in Belmont, on the coast. Do you know where Belmont is?

Sure. The south coast, about thirty miles from Boston.

That’s right. I get plenty of work there. I only took this job to fill in for somebody.

Do you always work by yourself?

Most of the time. If I hire steady help, I have to pay insurance and do paperwork. I don’t like that. You see, I’ll be paying you off the books.

Cash?

That’s right.

What do you do in the wintertime?

I build fireplaces.

They stopped talking for a minute and Billy finished his lunch. He didn’t want to ask too many questions, but wanted to extract as much information as possible in a few words.

What’s your name, kid? The mason asked.

Billy.

Billy, I’m Nick.

Nick reached over and shook Billy’s hand.

This is tough work, Billy. But there’s good money in it. And there’s nothing wrong with working with your hands for a living.

Billy nodded, tried to think of something to add to this, but remained silent.

When we start work again, I want you to dig the trench for an hour. I’ll mix my own mortar.

Okay.

Nick looked into the distance again, then spat, and wiped his face on the shoulder of his T shirt.

Yup, there’s nothing wrong with working for a living, he said.

Billy sat poised and ready, until Nick stood up a few minutes later, went to the mixer, pulled the starter rope, and began making a mix. Then Billy went to the stone wall, and just beyond the work area, set about digging a trench. When Nick came around with a batch of mortar, he stopped to give Billy further directions, then as Billy continued with the pick and shovel, he went back to laying stone on the wall. Billy dug hurriedly at first, but soon slowed his pace. Digging, he discovered, was exhausting work. He wore the mason’s loose fitting rawhide gloves and gripped the shiny hickory handles of the pick and shovel tightly. The sun beat down relentlessly, adding a stinging sunburn to Billy’s neck and arms as the afternoon hours passed.

Despite his fierce efforts, the digging went slow. For a long time, Nick, working only ten paces away, kept to his stone setting and did not look at Billy. But when Billy had dug a trench about a foot wide and ten feet long out of the embankment, and was struggling to deepen it, Nick stopped his work, came to Billy, and took the pick out of his hands. He proceeded to score at the ground, loosening the dirt and stones with the pick and lifting the larger stones out with his hands. There was a unique skill in his digging and Billy noticed that Nick dug much faster and more easily than himself. Soon Nick stopped, handed him the pick and went back to his stone setting, without a word. Billy started in digging again, trying to move the pick skillfully just as Nick had done, loosening the dirt and stones with short, scoring pulls instead of hacking fitfully. The digging began to go easier, without as much effort. In another hour Billy had the trench prepared for the footing.

Nick again stopped stone setting, went to the truck, and came back with a roll of chicken wire and several reinforcement rods. He took a wire snips from the box of hand tools, cut the chicken wire to the length of the ditch, and folded it over to lay in the bed. Then he directed Billy to cut the pieces of rebar, long iron reinforcement rods, to half lengths with the hacksaw. When Billy had completed this, Nick hammered the rods into the ground through the chicken wire a few feet apart along the trench.

In the pile of Portland bags there are bags that say, ‘Gravel Mix.’ I want you to mix those bags with only water, using the hoe, in one of these tubs, and pour them into the trench, about ten inches high. You’ll have to use buckets to bring water over, Nick said.

Billy nodded eagerly. Despite the hours of work, the dust, dirt, and sunburn, he still wanted to do a good job. He walked over to the pile of Portland bags, located the gravel mix, and began carrying the 96lb bags on his shoulder one at a time back to the trench. Then he took two buckets from the truck, filled them with the hose, and carried the large buckets by their handles back to the tubs. He mixed the gravel mix and water in one of the masonry tubs with a hoe, and when it reached a heavy fluid consistency, shoveled it into the trench, covering the chicken wire. Nick looked up once or twice at Billy’s work, but said nothing, using the other tub to continue making mortar and building the wall. After a dozen tubs of gravel mix, Billy had the trench neatly filled to a depth of ten inches. Without the mason telling him, he leveled the surface of the footing with the shovel while the mix was still soft, then he returned to the gas-powered mixer, started making mortar again and moving wheelbarrows of stone over to the mason.

They stopped only once during the long, hot, sun-baked afternoon, when Nick drove back to the deli, and bought two large sodas. He gave one to Billy, again refused payment, and for a few minutes they sat on the pile of stones and drank soda. During this break, Nick lit another cigarette.

You’re a tough kid. You can work, he said to Billy.

Billy said nothing and only nodded. Both were looking across the street at the empty lots, overgrown with scrub maples and underbrush. Billy’s hands, despite the gloves, had stinging blisters, and his neck was stiff with sunburn. But the mason’s approval elated his spirits. When they rose to work again, Billy was infused with renewed energy.

Before the end of the day, they set a row of large stones in the new footing that Billy had poured. They moved stones onto the soft concrete together, and Nick showed Billy how to set the first row so that it gave maximum support to the stones set on top.

You only have to know one thing about stone walls, Nick said. He took a ten-pound stone, held it out arms length, and dropped it to the ground. Stones fall straight down.

Billy watched this demonstration of gravity and nodded to Nick. He knew Nick approved of his work, which made him very happy. However, he showed no signs of his feelings. At four thirty Nick stopped work, directed Billy to hose down the tubs and the tools, and loaded the truck again. They cleared away the stones from the worksite and covered the Portland bags with the polyethylene sheet again.

Can I give you a ride?

No thanks.

See you tomorrow, kid.

See you.

Billy walked off on his way to Church and MacDougal Streets about a mile away. Passing him along the sidewalk in the truck, Nick said to himself once more:

That’s a tough kid.

Chapter 2

When Billy reached home, he took off his dusty clothes, piled them in a corner of the bathroom, and before stepping into the shower, inspected his torso in the bathroom mirror. His arms, face, and hair, even his eyelashes, were covered with a layer of gray dust from the Portland bags. Underneath this, etched into his biceps and neck, glowed a deep, raw sunburn that contrasted with the milky whiteness of his chest, which had been protected by his T shirt. He looked at his hands and saw blisters on the palms and an open smarting blister on his right index finger where he’d gripped the shovel and pick tightest. Feeling a soreness in his legs, he noticed with surprise that the front of his thighs had small bruises. How did that happen? He wondered. Then he remembered that many of the large stones as he picked them up and placed them in the wheelbarrow had hit against his thighs. He examined himself in the mirror a last time, admiring his muscular shoulders, turned and stepped into the shower.

He turned the water hot to draw out the sunburn. After a lengthy shower, he moved from the steamy bathroom, went to his room with the armful of dirty work clothes, dressed in fresh jeans and a T shirt, and went downstairs where he found his mother in the kitchen preparing dinner.

I have to buy boots and work gloves tonight. I’ll pay you back the money, he said.

Mrs. Garth was aghast at his sunburn and told him to put on some lotion. She continued preparing their dinner.

How’d it go, Billy? She asked.

It went all right, Mom.

You look tired.

I’m tired, but it wasn’t that bad.

Did he pay you?

Nah. He’ll probably pay me at the end of the week.

Make sure you keep track of your hours.

She went to her pocketbook lying on a counter at the center of the kitchen, took out several twenty-dollar bills, and handed them to Billy.

This is for your work boots and gloves, before I forget.

Thanks, Mom.

Billy folded the money over and put it into his jeans pocket.

I’ll pay you back.

You don’t have to pay me back.

She looked into the oven again.

You need to save your money. You boys are still in high school and don’t have to buy your own clothes yet.

But this is different, Mom. These things are for work. I should pay for them myself.

Never you mind.

The screen door of the front entrance opened and footsteps advanced through the living room into the kitchen.

How’d it go, Big Shot?

Billy glanced at his brother and noticed how pale and thin Maury looked in comparison to himself. He thought of his bruised thighs and blistered hands and felt proud of his battle worn body.

It went okay.

Did he pay you?

Nah, probably Friday.

Well, you’ll never guess who else got a job.

Beth looked up from her work.

A Mister Jordan called me at one o’clock from the day camp over at Pine Ridge. I’m hired.

Splendid!

Of course, I’ll be making about a third of what Billy makes, but it’s a job.

The mason is going back to Belmont in a short time, Billy protested.

It’s a start, Maury. Next summer you’ll have work experience and you’ll get something better, Beth said.

That’s what I’m thinking.

Maury turned to Billy again.

Bob’s coming over tonight to run. Do you have enough energy for a workout?

I can’t. I’ve got to walk into town to buy boots.

That should only take an hour.

I can’t, repeated Billy.

Without another word, Maury moved into the living room to read the local paper before dinner. Billy went to the living room also, looking out the front window from the seat he’d occupied that morning. The brothers didn’t speak again, until they came to the table in the dining room where the family usually ate. When a conversation started again about Maury’s job as a counselor, Beth announced in a proud voice that all of them were