Guthrie rose up and shoved the boy away, and Beckman came at him again, swinging wildly, and Guthrie ducked under his arm and hit him in the throat at the open neck of his white shirt. Beckman fell back choking. His wife screamed and tried to help him but he pushed her away. The boy rushed Guthrie from the side, his head lowered, and tackled him backward. They hit the porch rail and Guthrie felt something pop in his side, then they dropped down, the boy on top of him.
Guthrie fought with the boy on the floorboards and Beckman, recovered now, came once more and leaned over his son and found an opening and hit Guthrie in the face. Guthrie released the boy, then father and son worked on him together, punishing him, while he tried to roll over. When they stopped, Mrs. Beckman rushed forward and kicked him in the back. Guthrie rolled toward her and when she drew back to kick again he caught her foot, and she sat down violently on the porch boards, her dress flung up onto her thighs, and she sat just screaming until her husband lifted under her arms and raised her to her feet and told her to shut up. She sobered and straightened her dress. Guthrie got onto his knees, then stood. His face was smeared with the blood that ran from his nose and there was a cut over his eye. The chest pocket of his jacket was torn open, flapping like a tongue. He stood panting. One eye was already swelling shut and his side hurt where he’d hit the rail. He looked around for his glasses but couldn’t find them.
You men, Fraiser said. Here now. This isn’t the way.
Guthrie, you better get out of here, Beckman said. I’m telling you.
You son of a bitch, Guthrie panted.
You better go on. We’ll take you again.
You tell that boy . . .
I’m not telling him a goddamn thing. You leave him alone.
Guthrie looked at him. You tell him he better never touch my boys again. I’m telling all of you that now.
Wait, Fraiser said. Listen, you men.
Out in the street Bud Sealy suddenly pulled up in the blue sheriff’s car and got out in a hurry, the door swinging open, and he came hustling toward the house. He was a heavy red-faced man with a hard stomach. What’s going on here? he said. This don’t look like no Sunday school church meeting to me. He stepped onto the porch and looked at them. What’s all this? Who’s going to tell me?
Guthrie here attacked my boy, Beckman said. Come right to the house this morning raising hell, claiming some bullshit story about his kids. He called my boy outside and attacked him. But we fixed him.
That right, Tom? Is that what happened?
Guthrie didn’t answer. He was still looking at the Beckmans. Don’t you ever touch them again, he said. This is the one time I’m going to tell you.
Do I have to listen to this? Beckman said to the sheriff. This is my house. I don’t have to listen to this shit on my own front porch.
I’ll tell you what, Bud Sealy said. You all three better come down to the station with me. We’re going to talk this out. Tom, you better ride with me. And Beckman, you and the boy there follow us in your car.
What about me? Mrs. Beckman said. He attacked me too.
You come too, the sheriff said. With them in the car.
McPherons.
She told them about it that morning. About Dwayne coming to the school to get her and about climbing in his car and driving to Denver without even knowing why, and how she hoped for it to be one way but how it was another, and how it was generally in his little apartment on the second floor in Denver. The McPheron brothers listened to her, watching her face all the time she talked. And after breakfast they went outside and fed out and then came back to the house and cleaned up and put on their good Bailey hats and took her into town to see Dr. Martin.
On the way she told them what she hadn’t said two hours earlier while they were still seated at the kitchen table. She said she’d gone to a party with him and had let herself go and had gotten to drinking too much, and then she stopped talking and was just quiet, riding between the two old men in the pickup, her hands cupped in her lap under her stomach as though she were holding it up, supporting it.
Did you? they said.
Yes, she said, I did. Then without warning her eyes filled and tears ran down her cheeks and she looked straight ahead over the dashboard at the highway.
Is there something else? Raymond said. You seem like there is, Victoria.
Yes, she said.
What is it?