"Maybe!" he called back, and under his breath: "On a cold day in h.e.l.l, lady."

Chris Snowden was the new girl on the block, and in this case it was literal. She and her family had moved in three doors down in the middle of last August. Her hair was such a pale blonde it was nearly white, her skin looked so soft you could lose your fingers in it if you tried to touch it, and, Brian Pratt's crudeness aside, she had a figure he had seen only in the movies. She was, at first glance, a laughable stereotype-cheerleader, brainless, and the football team captain's personal choice for a consort. Which she had been for 23.a while, while everyone nodded, then-professed shock and puzzlement when she started dating the president of the student council. She didn't need the grades, so he wasn't doing her homework, and she didn't need the ride to school, because it was only five blocks away and she walked every morning-except when it rained and she drove her own car, a dark red convertible whose top was always up. Then just last week it was known she was on her own again, and those who decided such things decided she was only sleeping around.

Don puffed his cheeks, blew out, and sighed.Chris's father was a doctor in some prestigious hospital in New York, and if Don's mother had her way, he would be taking her to every event of the town's century-plus birthday- the Ashford Day picnic, party, dance, concert, football game, whatever. A full week of celebration. But even if he wanted to, he knew he didn't have a chance.

Just as he reached the front hall and was about to turn right into the living room, he heard his father's voice and changed his mind.

"I don't give a sweet Jesus what you think, Harry. I am not going to take a position one way or another."

Great, Don thought gloomily; just great.

The position was which side of the dispute to be on; Harry was Mr.

Harold Falcone, his biology instructor and president of the teachers' union.

"Look," his father said as Don poked his head around the doorway, "I've pushed d.a.m.ned hard for you and your people since the day I walked into that place, and you know it. I got money for the labs, the teams, for the G.o.dd.a.m.ned maintenance, for G.o.d's sake, so don't you dare tell me I don't sympathize."

Norman Boyd was sitting in his favorite chair, a monstrous green thing with scarred wood trim and a sagging cushion. His back was to Don, and it was rigid.

"What? What? Harry, G.o.dd.a.m.nit to h.e.l.l, if my mother 24.hadn't taught me better, I'd hang up on you right now for that kind of nonsense. What do you mean, I don't give a s.h.i.t? I do give a s.h.i.t! But can't you see past your wallet just this once and understand that I'm caught between a rock and a hard place here? My G.o.d, man, you're screaming c.r.a.p in one ear and the board is screaming c.r.a.p in the other, and I'm d.a.m.ned for doing this and d.a.m.ned for doing that, and double d.a.m.ned if I don't do a thing-which is exactly what I feel like doing sometimes, believe me."

He tapped a long finger on the handset, looked up at the high plaster ceiling, and used his free hand to rake through his greying brown hair.

A deep breath swelled his chest beneath a white crewneck sweater; the tapping moved to the top of his thigh.

"I will be at the negotiations, yes. I've already told you that." He shifted. "I will not-" He glanced over his shoulder. "Yes, of course my contract is up for renewal at the end of this year. I know that, you know that, the board knows it-for Jesus's sake, the whole d.a.m.ned world knows about it by now!" He saw his son and grimaced a smile. "What? Yes!

Yes, d.a.m.nit, I admit it, are you happy? I do not want to jeopardize my job and my future just because you a.s.sholes couldn't come to terms over the summer. No," he said with acid sweetness, "I do not expect your support either if I decide to run for office."

He grinned then and returned the handset to its cradle on the floor beside him. "The creep hung up on me. He ain't got no manners, and that's shocking in a teacher. Hi, Don, saw you talking to the kids tonight. You change your mind about joining us and being a teacher, carrying on the new family tradition?""Dad," he said, suddenly cold. "Dad, there's a big test next week. Mr.

Falcone is my teacher."

"I know that."

"But you were yelling at him!"

25."Hey, he won't do anything, don't worry about it."

Don squeezed the soda can. "You always say that."

"And it always turns out, right?"

"No," he said softly. "No, not always." And before his father could respond, he said, "See you tomorrow. It's late. Mom wants me in bed."

He took the stairs slowly in case his father wanted to join him, but there was nothing but the sound of his mother bringing in the coffee, and the start of low voices. He heard his name once before he reached the top landing, but there was no temptation to eavesdrop. He knew what they were probably saying.

Dad was wondering if there was anything wrong, and Mom would tell him it was all part of growing up and Donny was really in a difficult position and perhaps Norm shouldn't lose his temper like that at the boy's teachers. Dad would bl.u.s.ter a bit, deny any problems, finally see the point, and rea.s.sure his wife that none of the faculty would dare do anything out of line, not if they wanted his support in the strike.

It was getting to be an old story.

Great, he thought as he pushed into his room. I'm not a son anymore, I'm a weapon. An ace up the old sleeve. If I fail, it isn't me, it's the teachers getting even; if I get an A, it isn't me, it's the teacher kissing a.s.s. Great. Just ... great.

He slammed the door, turned on the light, and greeted his pets by kicking the bed.

"I don't understand it," said Joyce Boyd from her place on the sofa when she heard the door slam. "He's a perfectly normal boy, we know that, but he hardly ever goes anywhere anymore. If we hadn't insisted tonight, he would have stayed home, playing with those d.a.m.ned things he has upstairs."

"Sure he goes out," Norm said, lighting a cigarette, crossing his legs.

"But with all your zillion civic projects and that 26.Art League thing-not to mention the Ashford Day business- you're just not home long enough to see it."

Her eyes narrowed. "That's a crack."

"Yeah, so?"

"I thought we agreed not to do that anymore."He studied the cigarette's tip, the round of his knees, and brushed at an ash that settled on his chest. The coffee was on the table beside him, growing cold. "I guess we did at that."

"I guess we did at that," she mimicked sourly, and pulled her legs under her. A hand pa.s.sed wearily over her eyes. "d.a.m.n you, Norman," she said wearily, "I do the best I can."

"Sure you do," he answered without conviction. "Whenever you're around."

"Well, look at him, will you?" Her lips, thin at best, vanished when her mouth tightened. "When was the last time you spent an evening with him, huh? I don't think that poor boy has seen you for more than a couple of hours in the last two weeks."

"I have a school year to run," he reminded her tonelessly, "and a possible strike on my hands. Besides, he sees me at the school every day."

"Not hardly the same thing, Norm, and you know it. You're not his father there, not the way it should be."

He pushed himself deeper into the chair and stretched out his legs.

"Knock it off, Joyce, okay? I'm tired, and the boy can take care of himself.''

"Well, so am I tired," she snapped, "but I have to defend myself and you don't, is that it?"

"What's to defend?"

Her eyes closed briefly. "Nothing," she said in mild disgust, and reached over a pile of manila folders for a magazine, flipped the pages without looking, and tossed it aside. She picked up a folder-schedules for Ashford Day. She was one of the women in charge of coordinating the 27.entertainment from the two high schools. She dropped that as well and plucked at her blouse. "I worry about all that running he does too."

He was surprised, and he showed it.

"What I mean is," she said hastily, "it's not really like jogging, is it? He's not interested in keeping fit or joining the track team or cross-country. He just ... runs."

"Well, what's wrong with that? It's good for him."

"But he's always alone," she said, looking at him as if he ought to understand. "And he doesn't have a regular schedule either, nothing like that at all. He just runs when he gets in one of his moods. And he doesn't even do it here, around the block or something-he does it at the school track."

"Joyce, you're not making sense. Why run on cracked pavement and take a chance on a broken leg or twisted ankle when you can run on a real track?"

"It just ... I don't know. It just doesn't feel right.""Maybe it helps him think. Some guys lift weights, some guys use a punching bag, and Donald runs. So what?"

"If he has problems," she said primly, "he shouldn't ... he shouldn't try to run away from them. He should come to us."

"Why?" he said coldly. "The way you've been lately, why should he bother?"

"Me?"

Her stare was uncomfortable.

"All right. We." And he let his eyes close.

A few moments later: "Norman, do you think he's forgotten that animal hospital stuff?"

"I guess. He hasn't said anything since last month. At least not to me."

"Me either."

He opened his eyes again and looked at the empty fireplace, ran a finger absently down the crooked length of his 28.nose. "I guess, when you think about it, we didn't handle it very well.

We could have shown a little more enthusiasm."

"Agreed." She rubbed at her knees.

Norm allowed himself a sly look. "Maybe," he said with a glance to his wife, "we ought to do like that couple we read about in the Times, the one that claimed they solved their kid's mind-s.h.i.t by taking him to a ma.s.sage parlor." He chuckled quietly. "That's it. Maybe we ought to get him laid." He laughed aloud, shaking his head and trying to imagine his son-not a movie star, but not an ogre either- humping a woman. He couldn't do it. Donald, as far as he was concerned, was almost totally s.e.xless.

"Jesus," she muttered.

"Christ, I was only kidding."

"Jesus." She reached again for the magazine, gave it up halfway through the motion, and stood. "I'm going to bed. I have to teach tomorrow."

He waited until she was in the foyer before he rose and followed.

"You don't have to come."

"I know," he said, "but I have to be princ.i.p.al tomorrow."

At the landing she turned and looked down at him. "We're going to get a divorce, aren't we?"

He gripped the banister hard and shook his head. "G.o.d, Joyce, do you have to end every disagreement with talk of divorce? Other people argue like cats and dogs and they don't go running for a lawyer."He followed her down the hall, past Don's room, and into their own. She switched on the dresser lamp and opened their bathroom door. Her blouse was already unb.u.t.toned by the time he had sagged onto the bed and had his shoes off. Standing in the doorway, the pale light pink behind her from the tile on the walls and floor, she dropped the blouse and kicked it away. She wasn't wearing a bra, and though he could not see her face, he knew it wasn't an invitation.

29."I know why," she said, working at the snap on her slacks.

"Why what?"

"Why you don't love me anymore."

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake." His shirt was off, and he dug for his pajamas folded under the pillow.

"No, really, I know. You think Harry and I are having an affair. That's why you're so hard on him. That's why you make an a.s.s of yourself when you talk to him like you did tonight."

"You're full of it," he said unconvincingly. He put on his top, stood, and unfastened his belt, zipper, and let his trousers fall. "I figure you have better taste than that."

She turned away to the basin, running hot water and steaming the light-ringed mirror. "You don't have to pretend, Norman. I know. I know."

Except for her panties she was naked. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were still small and firm, her stomach reasonably flat for a woman who'd had two children and didn't exercise, and her legs were so long they seemed to go on forever.

He watched as she leaned forward to squeeze toothpaste onto her toothbrush; he watched while she examined herself in the mirror, turning slightly left and right. He watched, and he was saddened, because she didn't do a thing for him.

It's a b.i.t.c.h, he thought; G.o.d, life is a b.i.t.c.h.

He wriggled under the covers, rubbed his eyes to relieve them of an abrupt burning itch, and looked at her again. "Are you?" he asked at last. "With Harry, I mean."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said, and slammed the door.

The overcoat wasn't going to be enough, but Tanker had nothing else to use as a blanket. The leaves covered most of him, and the brush kept away most of the wind, but it still wasn't enough.

What he needed to relax was one of them wh.o.r.es. Like the 30.one up in Yonkers. t.i.ts breaking out of her sweater, teenage a.s.s as tight as her jeans. When he yanked her into the alley and clubbed her with a fist so she wouldn't scream, he had known once again he wouldn't be dying without getting a piece. Her eyes had crossed when he dropped her on the ground, and she'd spat blood at him when he slapped her again; but she was warm, no doubt about it. She was warm right up untilthe moment he had opened her throat with his knife, and had finished the job with his nails grown especially long.

She had been warm, and now he was cold, and he decided that the next one would have to be one of them wh.o.r.es.

He shivered, huddled deeper under the coat and the leaves, and closed his eyes, sighed, and waited for sleep.

Waiting an hour later, eyes wide and watching.

It was the park.

The moon was up there, still guarding him, still whispering him his orders, but there was something else, something in the park that was waiting just for him. He tried scoffing at it, but the feeling wouldn't go away; he tried banishing it with a determined shake of his head, but it wouldn't go away.

It was out there, somewhere, and if it hadn't been for the moon, he knew he'd be dead.

Tomorrow, he promised himself, crossing his heart and pointing at his eye; tomorrow he would have a wh.o.r.e, and then get the h.e.l.l out.

And if the moon didn't show, he'd kill somewhere else.

The door was open just enough to let a bar of light from the hallway drop across the brown s.h.a.g rug, climb the side of the bed, and pin him to the mattress. Don lay on top of the covers, head on the pillow, hands clasped on his stomach, and checked to be sure his friends were still with him.

Above the headboard was a poster of a panther lying in a 31.jungle clearing and licking its paw while it stared at the camera; on the wall opposite, flanking the door, were posters of elephants charging with trunks up through the brush, their ears fanned wide and their tusks sharply pointed and an unnatural white. Elsewhere around the large room were pictures and prints of leopards and cheetahs running, eagles stooping, pumas stalking, a cobra from the back to show the eyes on its hood. On the chest of drawers was a fake stuffed bobcat with fangs bared; on the low dresser was a miniature stuffed lion; in the blank s.p.a.ces on the three unfinished bookcases were plaster and plastic figurines he had made and painted himself, claws and teeth and talons and eyes. And above the desk set perpendicular to the room's only window was a tall poster framed behind reflectionless gla.s.s-a dirt road bordered by a dark screen of immense poplars that lay shadows on the ground, shadows in the air, deepened the twilight sky, and made the stars seem brighter; and down the road, just coming over the horizon, was a galloping black horse, its hooves striking sparks from hidden stones, breath steaming from its nostrils, eyes narrowed, and ears laid back. It had neither rider nor reins, and it was evident that should it ever reach the foreground, it would be the largest horse the viewer had ever seen.

His friends.His pets.

After examining them a second time, he rolled over and buried his face in the crook of his arm.

His parents refused to allow real animals in the house, at least since Sam had died and they had given the kid's parakeet to an aunt in Pennsylvania. Because of the memories; and it didn't seem to make a difference that Don had loved the dumb bird too.

When he pressed for a replacement-any kind, he wasn't fussy-his mother claimed a severe allergy to cats, and his father told him reasonably there wasn't anyone around the 32.place long enough anymore to take adequate care of a dog. Fish were boring, birds and turtles carried all manner of exotic and incurable diseases, and hamsters and gerbils were too dumb to do anything but sleep and eat.

He had long ago decided he didn't mind; if his parents weren't exactly thrilled about what he wanted to do with his life, why should he fuss over the absence of some pets?

Because, he told himself; just because.