Now, Beckman said, talking to Guthrie. Tell him in front of us what this is about. What do you say happened?
Guthrie spoke directly to the boy. His voice sounded strained and tight. You finally went too far, didn’t you. You’ve hurt my two boys now. You and that Murphy kid. Last night you took them out in the country and scared them and then you figured it would be smart to pull their pants off and leave them out there to walk home. They’re just little boys. They’re just nine and ten years old. They didn’t do anything to you. They told me about it. You’re just a coward, aren’t you. You have something against me, then you come see me about it. But you leave my boys out of it.
What’s all this? Beckman said. What’s he talking about? Do you know anything about this?
I don’t know what he’s talking about, the boy said. I don’t have any idea what the hell he’s saying. He’s full of shit, as usual. I don’t even know his little kids.
Yeah you do, Guthrie said. He was barely able to speak now. His voice sounded tight even to himself, scarcely within his control. You’re lying again. You know exactly what I’m talking about.
I don’t know his kids! the boy said. I wouldn’t know em if they was standing right here in front of me. He’s always making trouble for me. Get him out of here.
Goddamn you, Guthrie said. You’re lying again. Then it was past talking. Guthrie rushed the boy and grabbed his shirt at the neck. You sorry son of a bitch. You leave my boys alone. He slammed the boy back against the front wall of the house, his fists up under his chin. If you ever touch my kids again . . .
But Beckman was in it now too. He grabbed Guthrie’s arms. Let him go, he was hollering. Let him go.
I’m warning you, Guthrie said, shouting, his voice still awkward and strained, his face inches away from the boy’s. Goddamn you. He rocked the boy’s head back against the house wall, the boy’s eyes flaring in alarm and surprise and anger, his chin tilted up above Guthrie’s fist, his head canted back; he was pulled up onto his toes, his hands scrabbling at Guthrie’s wrists.
Let go, goddamn it! Beckman yelled. His wife was slapping at Guthrie from the back, clawing at his jacket, screeching something unintelligible, not even words, just a high-pitched furious noise. Beckman was still jerking at Guthrie’s arms, then he stopped and drew back and hit Guthrie at the side of the face and Guthrie went over sideways, pulling the boy with him. Guthrie’s glasses hung crookedly from his face. Beckman bent over and swung again, hitting him above the ear.
Next door the Fraisers were watching. Mrs. Fraiser went running into the house to call the police, and her husband came hurrying across the yard between the two houses. Here now, he called. Here, you men, stop this.