Joe kept his face directed toward the trees through which Laurence had disappeared. When he must have been assured that Laurence wasn’t coming back, he hurriedly unbuttoned his gray cotton shirt and stripped down to his waist.
I aimed to stand up and say, Joe! Wait! Before I could spring upright, however, he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled both the pants and his drawers down his legs. I closed my eyes and turned my head, but not before catching sight of his naked white backside, as muscular as his arms but much paler than his top half. My stomach gave an odd squeeze.
I heard his legs brushing through the rushes and the ferns and couldn’t help but wonder if the foliage tickled his bare flesh. I cracked my right eye open a sliver and couldn’t see him any longer. I just crouched there in the grasses, an accidental Peeping Tom, not knowing what to do. The bee soared away, thank the Lord. At least I wouldn’t make the situation worse by hollering from a sting.
A plunking sound and some splashes let me know that Joe had entered the pond. I debated whether I should leave him be while he bathed, yet no other obligation seemed as pressing as talking to him about Deputy Fortaine and what the hell we should do next.
I stood up and crept to the side of the shed, not yet seeing the pond beyond the trees.
“Hey, Joe,” I called.
The splashes stopped. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Do you have a gun?”
“No. Stop worrying about that. I’m not going to shoot you.”
“All right . . . I just . . .” He made a swishing sound in the water, as though turning away from me. “I’ll be there soon. Just . . . go into the shed and wait. I want some privacy for a moment.”
“Isn’t that water awfully cold for bathing?”
“Go wait in the shed, Hanalee. I don’t need you spying on me.”
“I’m not . . .” I stood up straight; my face burned. “I’m not spying on you. I have no desire to see your”—I sidled back around the shed—“pale and naked fanny.” With a nimble leap, I darted over his clothing and promptly made a loud to-do about shutting the shed door behind me, so he’d know I wasn’t watching him.
The shed smelled terrible. Stale. Old. Fishy. Trace scents of ashes from the potbelly stove tried to break through the stench, but the fish stink proved too powerful. I leaned against the boards of the leftmost wall, across from the cot, and spotted a new playing-card structure built on the ground—a circular building with a flat roof positioned atop it. I tiptoed forward and knelt down in front of the construction with my mouth sealed closed, careful not to breathe wrong and topple the entire enterprise. The symmetry—the intricate complexity of all those perfectly angled cards—reminded me of a honeycomb.
Joe’s footsteps padded toward the shed.
I jumped to my feet—and knocked over the structure.
“Oh . . . damn,” I whispered, and I backed against the opposite wall, banging my right shoulder blade against it.
Joe hummed something outside the shed, perhaps to warn me of his approach. He gave two fake-sounding coughs outside the door, and I could see the shadows of his feet moving around beyond the space at the bottom. He hopped about a bit and slid his trousers back on, and I couldn’t help but think of his naked backside again. Two firm loaves of uncooked dough.
He opened the door, still missing his shirt.
“Oh, Christ, Hanalee.” He glared at the collapsed pile of cards. “Did you knock down my tower?”
“What criminal act did they catch you in before you hit my father with the Ford?” I asked.
He froze, his hand still on the doorknob.
“Well?” I said.
“Who told you I got caught for something else?”
“Deputy Fortaine.”
Joe let go of the knob and sauntered into the shed, his gray shirt clutched in his right hand. The sleeves dangled down to his knees, like an upside-down person stretching toward the floor.
“Put your shirt on.” I inched toward the door. “I’m not standing in a shed with a half-naked boy.”
“Why did you talk to Deputy Fortaine?”
“Put your shirt on.”
He raised his voice. “Why did you talk to Deputy Fortaine?”
“Dr. Koning brought him to our house this morning. They sat me down like I was a criminal on trial and questioned me about your whereabouts.”
Joe rubbed his shirt over his wet hair, and I smelled the pond water all over him again. He reminded me of a river otter, drenched and slick and wild. His hair dripped rivulets of water down his bare shoulders. Old yellowed bruises marred the skin above his left ribs, as though someone had beat him up in recent weeks.
“If you committed another crime,” I said, turning my eyes instead toward the wreckage of the card tower, “how in the world am I supposed to trust a word you said about your innocence?”
Joe plopped himself down on the cot and wiped his forehead with a shirtsleeve. “The deputy . . .” He sighed and leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, the shirt hanging between his legs. “He caught me with another boy. Someone I met at a party that Christmas Eve.”
I stood up straight.