Everyone loved to pick on Robert Wysocki. You really couldn’t blame them. He was one of the strangest kids any of us
had ever met—he always wore thick wool sweaters, even on sweltering summer
days, and seemed to own only two pairs of pants, both beige corduroys. He was bigger than most children, tall and
sqaurejawed with an empty glimmer in his light blue eyes that gave one the
sense that perhaps he wasn’t fully human: stupid in the least, an alien at
most. White speckles of dandruff
permeated his thick shag of straight brown hair. Alone in the back row, he would constantly pick at his scalp,
clawing away the layers of dead, dry skin and introducing into his mouth the
small white clumps accumulated beneath his dingy fingernails. The same method was used to transport the
bounty extracted from far within his nasal cavity, a region to which he devoted
nearly as much time to as the top of his head.
Worst of all was his voice, a deep monotone bassoon distanced from the
realm of normalcy, through which he uttered such constructions as I like to fart or Hair tastes good. For the
average fourth grader, torturing the boy was a reaction as instinctive as
waking up in the morning.
I
must admit that I, too, participated in the cruelties unleashed upon
Robert. We would prod him to make
ludicrous statements, goading him to push the boundaries of abnormality. There was little remorse for him, as could
be expected from young schoolchildren; yet, nothing seemed to bother him. He would play along, making his outlandish
comments with an eerie smirk. I think
he was playing dumb––that he was just as amused by our behavior as we were of
his. He probably just enjoyed the
attention.
So
Robert was the butt of a lot of jokes and the source of a lot of
entertainment. Every day during recess
the playground was swarming with the shouts of children. Everyone commingled and all played with each
other—except, of course, for Robert, who played with no one. Everyday he spent the hour recess standing
alone on a small hill near the parking lot, hands deep within his pockets as he
stared down at the grass, humming quietly.
No one bothered him during this short sabbath.
That was
until a peculiar idea came across me one overcast Tuesday.
Everything
was the same as every other day during playtime: kids running about, teachers
watching us from a small group huddled beneath a stone eave, and Robert on his
hill. Spring had just set in less than
two weeks before, and the fervor of a long-anticipated summer hummed in
everyone’s minds. I was engaged in an
intense game of dodgeball, the score even at twenty. I had the rubber ball between my palms with my targets set for
Ricky, the small fat boy on the other team whose life had been spared constant
torture in DiLoreto Elementary only on account of Robert’s existence. Ricky stared back at me with a look of
terror in his eyes that made me feel ten feet tall. Directly behind him, visible just over his left shoulder,
Robert’s form stood looking down, kicking at the grass. He wasn’t watching the game or anyone
else. Just standing there, lost in his
peculiar reverie.
I
had realized a few months earlier that there was something more to Robert,
during a lesson on the Liberty Bell.
That something I cannot
define—perhaps genius, perhaps mere insanity.
Our teacher, Mrs. Kalwat, had reached the historical point in which the
famous and iconic crack had appeared along its side. There always had been something about that crack which had
bothered me for some reason. I never
understood why they had never chosen to fix the ugly zigzagging line. It made the thing look cheap and
discarded. This was nothing new to me,
nor was it especially intriguing, so I stared at my desktop and scribbled as my
imagination wandered. From the corner
of my eye, I saw Robert’s hand slowly rise.
It was rare for him to volunteer to speak—so, when Mrs Kalwat called his
name, I lifted my head to listen.
Does
it mean anything that the Liberty Bell’s cracked? he asked in his languid, deep
monotone, emphasizing the word mean. Hushed snickering decorated the ensuing
pause as Mrs Kalwat furrowed her brows, confused and impatient.
What are
you getting at, Robert? she returned, terse and unsympathetic. She tended toward hot-bloodedness, once
thrusting a kid against the wall for rocking in his chair until he fell and
crashed. Uhmn…maybe it means that
America’s liberty isn’t...perfect…
He wanted
to say more, but she cut him off: I
have no idea what you’re talking about.
Now, let’s move on. With that,
Robert’s question fell unanswered, but it got me thinking. I wanted to know what her answer would have
been and why she had such a hard time getting his point…a point that had
needled its way into my own thoughts well before this day. I felt jilted and a little sorry for Robert,
who appeared a fool unjustly.
I
remembered that feeling of pity as I watched him in the distance, absorbed
within himself, wearing the same blue sweater he had worn the day before. Maybe that threw off my aim or something,
but the ball hurled past Ricky’s chubby head and bounced away onto the grass,
coming to rest next to the wire mesh fence at the base of Robert’s hill. Everyone stared, openmouthed, stunned that I
blew such an easy shot. Ricky made a
comical double take, glancing between the resting ball and my face (which must
have looked as surprised has everyone else’s), before he took a backward pounce
in the direction of the fence and retrieved it. Seconds later I felt the powerful sting of the ball wailing into
the upper left side of my chest, where Ricky placed it with uncanny
accuracy. I was out.
See
ya, slick, someone said as I walked from the dodgeball court, hands in my
pockets and hating myself for losing so soon.
How could I have missed? He was
right in front of me, frozen. I’ve hit
people a million times further away than Ricky had been. As I walked and brooded, a strong breeze
rushed across my face. I turned my
head, catching sight of the game continuing without my presence. Nobody looked back or noticed me, alone,
with forty minutes left outside and nothing to do. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for myself; then I saw
Robert.
I
can’t recall what I was thinking as I stared at his silhouette and the blank
sky behind him, a cloudless blue as faint and clear as his eyes. Perhaps I wasn’t thinking at all…perhaps I
simply was bored. Either way, an urge
took hold, and I found myself walking towards Robert. I climbed over the fence and began making my way up the short
incline when he caught sight of me, turned abruptly, and started to walk slowly
down the other side.
Hey
Robert! I called out. He stopped. Where’re you going?
Mnn…Nowhere. What do you want? he said without looking
back, the words barely discernable in the hushing wind. He didn’t want to be bothered. Maybe he was only a little frightened—nobody
had ever approached him during recess.
He probably thought I was going to lay into him like in class, destroying
his only chance at peace during the schoolday.
Nothing. Just seeing what you’re doing. It was an honest statement, nearly a plea in
tone. He shuffled in place for a
moment, then turned towards me, his eyes remaining fixed upon the ground. I remember thinking how little he resembled
a kid. Maybe it was because we were both
the same age, but now, even in retrospection, I cannot picture him as younger
than me.
See,
then? he replied, almost under his breath.
The slightest note of sarcasm seemed too lively for him and it threw me
off. He still refused to look up at me,
building a barricade so thick that I could almost see the outlines of bricks
surrounding him. Only a fraction of
Robert was actually holding this conversation; most of his thoughts remained in
whatever place they had been lost within earlier—dwelling on paradoxes,
troubles so twisting that most dare not given the slightest nod toward their
existence. I think I hoped to cheer him
up perhaps.
Bored? Do you want to play tag or something? I’m not sure where that idea came from
either. Silly, in a way, and wholly
from left field, to my recollection.
No…I
don’t know, he said.
Come on, I
said, what else are you gonna be doing for the next forty-five minutes—walk
around in circles? With that, I slapped
him on the upper right arm. Let’s
go…you’re It! Then began jogging away,
down the hill. At the base I stopped
and turned around. He had not budged.
Well,
what’re you waiting for? I called out.
His eyes darted at me and I caught his gaze. He took a cautious step forward, then another, then another—the
whole while staring at his feet. As he
advanced I backed away, maintaining a comfortable distance between us. After a few years of gym class with Robert I
was confident I could easily outrun him, even though he was fairly fit compared
with my husky build. He picked up the
pace gradually into a jog down the hill, coming within a yard of me before I
took off down the field, running parallel to the fence.
A few
hundred feet later I came to a full halt and looked over my shoulder. Robert was far behind; two inches tall and
still doing his best to catch up with an unbalanced plod slow enough to have
made the whole game pointless. I recall
a glimmer of shame at taking on such an unchallenging feat. He looked pathetic, yet I smiled wide and
proud…and unwilling to discourage him.
I pretended that I was out of breath and hunkered down with my hands on
my knees, tongue extending in feigned panting.
Again I let him come within a few feet of me before running away,
leaving him far behind and tantalized by false hope.
The same
scenario repeated itself over and over for close to half an hour, the two of us
running circles around the schoolyard until fatigue and boredom caused me to
finally stop running. My heart pounded
heavily while I waited for Robert to arrive. He was visibly worn out, his face
blotchy red, shoulders slumping. He
looked ready to collapse onto the grass, but finally managed to catch up.
His sweaty
moist hand fell on my crouching back like a dead fish as I panted. That touch sparked some reaction, like the
sudden dropping of magnesium into hydrochloric acid, forcing a well of anger to
erupt from nowhere. I clenched my fist
tight and swung at his large jaw with all my might, hitting his head with a fleshy
knock.
There was
that split second, before my fist landed, when I saw his face—his eyes locked
with mine and he was surprised that a moment of fun and triumph could become
hell so quickly…but my hand was already in motion. His head jerked backwards from the force of the thud, and
returned into its former position as if nothing had happened.
He stood
there like a wooden statue, staring off down the field where everyone else was
wrapping up their last plays or tallying up each other’s scores. And I simply watched him, waiting for him to
fight back. He looked away then made a
slow and mechanical retreat to the hill behind the fence.
Robert
grew smaller walking toward the horizon, leaving me at the other end of the
field wondering what could possibly be running through his head, why he didn’t
react to such a slug. A mixture of
guilt, curiosity, and confusion swam throughout me as the bell rang high and
loud, calling all of us inside for an afternoon of science and math.
Class wore
on as usual for the rest of the day.
Robert remained quiet the entire time, keeping his head buried deep in
his arms coiled on the desktop. Mrs
Kalwat didn’t seem to care much about his lack of attentiveness, while I
couldn’t help but stare at him, befuddled, wondering if he was sleeping or
crying or, possibly, even laughing. He
gave no impression of anything troubling him, and class ended as it usually
did, with children shouting and cheering like freed convicts. I watched Robert board his bus, which took
him to a home I had never seen, far from my neighborhood.
That night
I couldn’t sleep for what seemed like forever.
The mystery surrounding Robert only grew murkier and more engrossing as
the afternoon shifted into the evening, then into the dead of night. The silence allowed my imagination to roam
unhampered: visions of shining steel and wires beneath Robert’s skin, or a
scaly reptilian epidermal layer, cold, rough and unfeeling…anything that could
easily explain the extreme stoicism and resignation he presented. No matter what thoughts I conceived, what fantasies
I imagined, nothing settled, and I drifted off into a sleep plagued by dreams
of running away from Robert the Terminator, steel glistening from beneath the
torn patch of skin where I punched him.
I awoke
the next morning clear of all immediate memory of the previous day. I walked into my classroom, saw Robert (same
pants, but now wearing a red sweater), and the entire series of events returned
as if the night had never existed to distance them. His eyes gazed down at nothing as he clawed at his scalp; I
assumed my seat trying not to look at him.
Lunchtime
came followed by recess, as usual. I
started to head over to the dodgeball court, where a dozen or so kids lined up
to be called for teams, when I felt my desire to play falter. I was in almost the exact spot as yesterday
when I caught sight of Robert again on the hill pacing slowly in tiny
circles. I walked towards him
cautiously, not sure what he’d do once he saw me.
Just as
before Robert began sauntering down the opposite side in an almost perfect
inverted reflection of my advance.
Moving away.
Robert? Hey, listen…. He was no longer interested, having learned a lesson, which I
sincerely felt guilty for enacting.
Perhaps, I decided, I should go the extra yard and actually apologize.
I’m really
sorry. I was just, y’know, mad that you
tagged me. He kept walking. It was wrong, I said, Come on, let’s go at
it again. I’ll even be It. He stopped,
but didn’t turn around.
You’re not
gonna hit me again? he said low and flatly.
Perhaps I truly hurt him, although there hadn’t seemed to be any effect.
No, I said
with full honesty.
Promise?
Yeah, I
promise.
Stick a
needle in your eye?
Stick a
needle in my eye. He looked over his
shoulder, and I made the charade motion of stabbing my eye with an invisible
needle (though it would have had to been an extremely long one), convincing him
of my good intentions. Before you could
say go. he started stiffly jogging away from me, flinging himself into the
chase with abandon.
I let him
run for almost a full minute before weakly treading after him. We circumambulated the whole schoolyard at
least four times over the next fifteen minutes until I finally found myself
growing weary. A sharp cramp was
stabbing at my side and Robert continued running, never stopping to breathe or
even look back. I began thinking that
maybe he was using me, having fun for the first time in his short, detached
life without any consideration for the only person bothering to waste their
time with him. And of course he wasn’t
really hurt from my punch: he probably just thought it was me tagging him
back…or something. Watching him, my
rage increased.
I started
to fly after him at full speed, closing the distance between us within a few
seconds. As I approached his lumbering
form from behind I yelled out—Hey, Robert, heads up!—and grabbed him by his
thick red layer of wool. His arms flung
round in huge circles as inertia carried his mass forward, causing his sweater
to tear at the neck with the loud sound of ripping yarn.
He
staggered some, then balanced himself, swinging round and facing me with
wide-eyed confusion, yet our eyes did not meet. I began hating his distant stare, its refusal to adequately
acknowledge my existence. I wanted to
jolt him into an awareness of presence.
I wanted him to see me, and see myself reflected in the dawning
awareness in his eyes.
I swung at
him again, hitting the flat of his cheek with a loud thwack. I expected him to reel, fall over…hopefully
staring back at me in crosseyed shock, bleeding.
None of
that happened: he merely stood in the same position, vacantly gazing at my feet
as if my punch had hit an off switch or caused a short abeyance in his brain
functions.
Maddened
by my ineffectualness, I kicked at his trunk-like legs repeatedly, beating at
his shins so hard I thought they might splinter through his skin and beige
cords. You’d be sure he definitely
would fall on his ass then, screaming like there’s no tomorrow.
Yet
nothing happened—not the slightest buckle nor flinch. It didn’t bother him. My
heart felt ready to seize up on account of the stress of running and the
sourceless panic fostered by the previous night’s dreams, which apparently
seemed to be coming all too true. The
moment had finally come when Robert’s true impenetrable figure would burst
through his humanoid guise to wreck havoc upon my nugatory body. It would be gruesome indeed. He’d have no pity.
I stopped
kicking him that instant and awaited his wrath. After a short pause, Robert ran off, past his hill, the eyes of
all the children littering the field who had been watching us following
him. I hadn’t noticed that the world
had grown disturbingly silent during the last few minutes, as Robert and I
became the focus of everyone’s attention.
The whole yard, a sea of hauntingly engulfed faces: tall and short, boy
and girl, teacher and student. Each of
them followed Robert’s ungraceful form disappear through the backdoor and into
the cafeteria.
I looked
around and met the stares of dozens of kids.
Some I knew, some I didn’t. All
looked perplexed. All stood as though
time had stopped. Around the corner of
the building stormed Mrs Kalwat, who had been notified by someone (Robert?) of
what had happened. She walked towards
me and I knew that my real trouble was soon to come. I could be suspended or held back. Hell, possibly thrown out of school. And Mrs Kalwat wasn’t exactly the most patient or forgiving soul
I’d come across in my life. She loomed
over me, purselipped and glaring.
So, Peter,
what exactly has been going on here? she said in an annoyed, high-pitched
voice. Her fists were planted squarely on her hips.
Well, um,
Robert and I were playing and…
Playing? I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Peter
Steerman. I know what Robert usually
does during recess. Why on earth would
he be playing with you?
I felt sorta bad for him and asked
him to, I responded. Thankfully, we
were talking relatively low; everyone, except for a sprinkle of ogling
stragglers, had lost interest and returned to whatever it was they had been
doing. I didn’t want anyone thinking
anything funny.
I guess
you felt so bad for him you decided to beat him up, hmm? She reached to grab me by my collar and drag
me to the principal’s office. I backed
away.
Nonono, I
just wanted to play tag but…but he didn’t know how, he was gonna choke me…so I
punched him to keep him off me, swear to God!
A rambling and blatant lie that she should have seen through: pleading
self-defense against a harmless wallflower that had never raised a finger against
anyone.
Don’t lie
to me, Peter…Are you sure that’s what happened?
Yes. For a second I thought there’d be no way
she’d buy my story, but, somehow, it went over. She lowered her head, shaking it slowly back and forth, resigned
and with pity. I realized she knew more
about Robert than I’d originally thought—my explanation was plausible,
according to her understanding of him was plausible. Or perhaps, she only thought
she understood him.
Oh my…I’m
sorry, Peter. Robert is a very…special
child…and sometimes doesn’t see what’s going on quite the same way you or I
would, she said staring at the ground.
It didn’t seem as though she were talking to me at all. I couldn’t grasp at the time how much her
own confusion regarding Robert paralleled my own perception of him as some
unfathomable creature set upon this earth to test the patience of his
caregivers and the tolerance of his peers.
The teasings and terse comments were the product of empathetic
frustration surrounding an essence of true compassion. Even Mrs Kalwat was in the same boat. None of us had ever been prepared to handle
“special” cases such as Robert.
Very
little of this dawned on me at the time.
I was too young, too used to the prescribed notions upon which I has
become reliant, formulas that do not provide life’s unknown variables—such as
Robert—a place for adequate comprehension.
His mannerisms and speech, his clothes and appearance, everything that
emanated an air of repulsion existed for a reason, had a cause, even if it was
hidden to the understanding of those like Mrs Kalwat and I. I felt only a vague sadness for him, and
fearful suspicion that I lived in a vast and labyrinthine world.
Mrs Kalwat
left me alone, saying Just try and understand, smiled, Thank you, before
turning around to hurry back indoors.
She kept staring upwards as she trotted away, and I thought for a moment
that she might be praying, but then I looked up. The sky seemed grayer, and the wind had picked up some as
well. Drops, tiny and cold, sprinkled
on my face. It began to drizzle, then
shower. A few of the children (Ricky
was one) screamed and ran back inside, while others wrestled and slung mud
bombs at each other. Most, including
me, simply stood benumbed, staring at each other and the sky with a mutual wonder,
devoid of the sensibility that instructs one to come in from storm
weather. Within a few minutes a
full-fledged rain had set in and the school bell rang, cutting short recess and
drawing us all back inside.
For the
rest of the afternoon I stared across the room at Robert, who, being the only
dry kid in the building, actually seemed neater and more comfortable then
everyone else. He kept his head propped
with an elbow, gazing out the window at the torrent outside and paying no
attention to Mrs Kalwat’s lecture on the differences between fish and
amphibians. He neither cried nor
laughed nor exposed any state aside from that of preoccupation. He did nothing
No dreams came that evening.
None that I can remember, anyhow.
The next morning was
bright: the sun blared down on the wet streets and leaves; yards glistened with
dew; the air was moist enough to make my pillow unpleasantly damp. Humidity had invaded the school as
well. It was only April, too early for
the public school administrators to allow on the air conditioning, so four
hundred and fifty students and teachers were forced to perform the miracle of
education with their forearms sticking to the desktops and their temples
dripping with perspiration. Everybody
wore as little clothing as was permitted (shorts could not be worn until after
Memorial Day), except, of course, for Robert, who sat stuffed inside a heavy
yellow sweater and dark blue jeans, which was strange, because I never recall
him wearing anything except beige corduroys.
The windows were open wide, but it made little difference. An oppressive haze hung about everything,
obscuring the horizon, the thick air congregated in my throat and lungs. The morning plodded along, the class in a
muggy stupor, slow and disinterested. I
was having trouble staying awake— my eyelids faltered as if made out of
lead. Yawns decorated the long silence
of reading hour, and even lunch period was unusually quiet. Robert remained still and discreet, so
motionless that I almost forgot he was there.
Recess
commenced with a flurry of kids invading the field, hooting and yelling, their
spirits lifted by the fresh air and cooler temperature. The children turned frantically alive,
exerted the arsenal of energy pent up all morning. I ran as hard as I could, eyes shut, as enraptured as everyone
else by the momentary rush of freedom.
I kept going, running blindly, until I ran smack against the steel
fence, bouncing off and landing on my butt with a soft thud that slammed my jaw
over the tip of my tongue. Each pulse of pain brought a wave of saltiness into
my mouth. I touched the stinging
area…my fingertips came away smeared with bright red.
I was
sitting on the grass, still staring at my stained fingers, when I heard a low
snorting giggle. I looked around and
couldn’t see anybody, but when I raised my head I saw Robert, not more than
twenty feet away, standing at the crest of his hill, smiling back at me. I had run in this direction, instinctively
curving towards him, and now he had amusedly observed my clumsy
maneuvering. No one else had witnessed
it, but the rush of embarrassment soon gave way to contempt.
Hey,
Robert, I said, what’s so funny? I
hadn’t even bothered to pick myself up yet.
Robert pretended not to know what I was talking about, feigning
innocence in light of potential repercussions.
I wouldn’t let him off so easily.
So who was laughing just now? I
asked, playing along. He shrugged,
looked around and shrugged again. I
didn’t accuse him; instead, I acted as if I wholly believed him.
I got to
my feet and climbed over the fence.
Robert, who stood looking at the ground, retreated a few steps. I thought he would bolt as soon as I came
close to him, but he remained unafraid.
As I got closer I could see his forehead glistening with sweat cascading
from his matted hair. His entire body,
packed in winter wool and heavy denim, must have been doused in a sea of
perspiration. The sun burned bright, a
yellow mammoth in all its early afternoon glory, unleashing its torrent of heat
upon a steaming world. How could the
kid have withstood it?
Hot enough
for you? I said, trying to break the ice.
He giggled again, his wide grin unveiling two rows of yellowing
horselike teeth, and I knew it was the same laugh I’d heard a few minutes ago. I felt my face sneer.
So, do you
wanna play tag again? I said after returning the smile to my face, even though
he never seemed to look at me. If he
said yes, he’d deserve whatever he got.
How stupid can someone be, for Christ’s sake?
His head
drooped. No, he replied in a near
whisper. From his the tip of his nose
dangled a drop of sweat, which swelled and fell to the grass an instant
later. Another came to take its place. You’ll hit me like before, he said. I’m not retarded.
No,
Robert. No I won’t. I only got mad because I couldn’t catch up
to you. Listen, I’ll be It again—or do you wanna be It? His heavy-booted foot kicked at the ground
again, swinging with his indecisiveness.
It struck the earth and overturned a small patch of sod..
I’ll be
It, he said. My heart leaped. I backed away, ready to commence the false
hunt, wolf wearing sheep’s clothing and sheep wearing wolf’s.
Okay—Catch
me! I said after a few swift
paces. I dashed away along the fence
line, hoping an awareness of my deception would dawn on him. I wanted to do him
a favor. I was actually rooting for
him. I circled the yard twice, never
once looking back. My heart pounded
under the grueling sun, lungs drowning in humid air. I had to stop for a second or I would have collapsed from heat
exhaustion. I looked over my shoulder.
Robert was
right behind me. He had somehow managed
to keep up. Maybe I wasn’t running as
fast as I thought: maybe the heat slowed me down. His arm stretched forward to tag me. Panicking, I ran from his touch, forgetting about my cramping
side and lightheadedness. As I ran I
could feel the fanning of his palm nearly grazing me. I pumped my legs as hard and far as possible, my head thrown
backwards as if inertia insisted I fall back to him.
I don’t recall
exactly whom I hit, a girl in a short purple babydoll dress I think. The impact forced her a step or two
forwards, but the slickness of my soles slipped on the wet grass causing me to
slide to the ground and bang my head against the stony earth, sending across my
vision waves of white. I lolled my head
about, panting and dazed.
His clammy hands fell on me
a moment later. I was helpless, staring
at the mute expression he wore, a gleam of triumph in his skyward gaze. Even then, he would not look at me; he
didn’t bother to exhibit any appreciation for playing with him on equal
terms. Did he really think I’d not
retaliate against his mocking me?
Whatever satisfaction he received from his cheap victory I planned to
extinguish quickly.
I stood up and approached
him, blowing hot gusts of breath in his face.
He kept looking away.
Without reflection or
hesitation, I struck him for the third time that week, but held back near the
throw’s culmination, which reduced the strength of the impact. His tag had possessed much more verve.
No reaction. His head did not even budge. This was the utter bottom. I had lost to Robert in a fair game of tag
and couldn’t even overcome him through assault.
Was anybody watching?
There was a sniff. Robert’s face grew red and his lower lip,
over which so many nonsense statements had passed, quivered as though about to
fall off. Suddenly he sucked it in and
let out a quiet moan. The moan evolved
into sobs as tears ran down his ruddy cheek, a film sparkling in the sun. Robert’s kept crying to himself, but I could
see his heaving and could hear the broken sounds of sorrow. He wasn’t an alien, a robot, or even an
unknowable creature. In front of me
stood a crying child, small and afraid.
A lump gathered in my throat,
and both eyes puddled. Hot streams
raced down my face and fell to the grass, and the ground consumed them. As everyone continued their games beneath
the golden circle of sun, Robert and I bawled, unleashing all our strain and
sorrow, in silence and together.
— S. Parker
1997
* * *
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