Content warning: sexual violence          

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           Phil dreaded going to church, so he said he had a stomachache. Dad said if he missed church, no going out to play the rest of the day.

            Old Father Jones droned on and on. Phil couldn’t wait to hit the railyard with his friend Glen. They’d sneak along between the tracks, hidden from brakemen and engineers by long strings of brown boxcars and dirty coal hoppers, and they’d watch for the old steam switchers, 2609 and 2611, working the middle of the yard, crawling back and forth to assemble long freights.  Phil loved the cindery metallic smell of steam smoke and hot oil. The trick was to grab the handrail of a boxcar or gondola and pull yourself up for a free ride. With the black smoke chuffing out of the smokestack and the hot wind in his face and cinders flying around him, Phil would feel like a brakeman speeding 70 miles an hour across the prairie, though he knew the switcher would clank and groan to a stop about every two blocks. 

           Then, he and Glen would ride their bikes to Franklin field to play baseball. Glen wasn’t very good, but he tried hard.  They’d sit down with the other guys and trade baseball cards and sail the stale pink gum through the air.                                                                                    

            But first he’d have to help Dad clear the garden for this year’s vegetables.

            After lunch, Mom and Phil’s little brother Lloyd went off to buy groceries. Dad turned on the kitchen radio to big band music, and they walked outside, Phil carrying the scythe and clippers.

            Dad picked up the heavy steel incinerator and moved it to the back of the yard—more room for the garden. He began turning over the black dirt with a pitchfork. Phil liked swinging the long-handled scythe to cut down last fall’s plant stalks and then stacking up the stalks so they could be burned. But his favorite job was lighting the incinerator.  The flames crackled in the dead plant stalks, sending up a dry, sweet aroma, like incense, but that reminded him, again, of Glen’s trouble.

            Dad didn’t back down to anyone. Phil had seen him go toe-to-toe with a mechanic who’d screwed up a car repair; the man gave in finally and fixed the car for free.  Another time, they’d come out of the supermarket to find four teenagers hitting and shoving a boy his age.  Dad had chased them off.  Maybe he could help Glen. 

            “That’s enough for today,” Dad said, lighting a cigarette. “Such a nice afternoon. Go on in and bring me back a beer and a Coke for yourself. Us big guys’ll sit down here on the stoop and have a drink together while mom and the little guy are out shopping.”

            Inside, Phil got the drinks and tuned the radio to the rock’n’roll station.

            “What’s that idiot screaming about?” Dad hollered. “Turn that damned thing off! Get my station back on.”

            “It was just Little Richard,” Phil said, handing Dad his beer.

            “I don’t care who it is.”

            Here came the dumb slow strings again. “Now that’s real music,” Dad said.

            Phil sipped his Coke. He picked up a twig and broke it, then another. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, trying to think of the right words.  

            “Got ants in your pants?”

            “Father Becker’s doing really creepy stuff to Glen, and Glen doesn’t know how to stop him.”

            Dad’s eyes narrowed. “What creepy stuff? You know, Glen’s kind of”—Dad made a fluttering motion with his hand.

            “What does that mean, what you did with your hand?”

            “I mean, he’s kind of dreamy, head in the clouds, not much of an athlete, and he hangs around church all the time. What did he say Father did?”

            Phil broke another twig, then another. “He tells Glen they’re going to pray in a special way, but it’s private, he can’t tell anyone or he’ll be in big trouble, and then he, Dad, I mean, I can’t”—

            “Come on, blurt it out, I ain’t got all day.”

“He puts Glen’s hand on his, his dick, and then he rubs it up and down”—

            “That’s enough.”

            Dad took a long drag and threw his cigarette away. Then he said, slowly, as if choosing every word, “I don’t believe it. I think—I think Glen’s just trying to get attention, he’s getting carried away with himself. Did he tell his dad?”

            “His dad’s dead. Don’t you remember?”

            “Oh, yeah, too bad about that. So what did his mom say?

            “She slapped him.”

            “Good.  Knock some sense into him. Look, Phil, you’ve got plenty of friends. I don’t want you hanging around with Glen anymore. He’s a bad influence. He’s sick. He needs help. Anybody who’d make something like that up, who’d even think it”—

            “Dad! He’s telling the truth! He’s my best friend. He’d never lie to me. This is awful.”

            “Well, no matter what, it’s none of our damned business. Now go play ball. If Glen’s at the field, well, I can’t control that, but if he wants to go somewhere, or calls here, the answer is no. Do you understand me?”

            “But Dad”—

            “Do you want me to ground you? I mean it. No more Glen.”

            Phil shoved his glove, bat and ball in the rear basket, but he didn’t go to Franklin Field. He rode his bike to the church parking lot and parked it next to the garage. There was no one around. Right behind the garage was a rectory basement window. He swung his bat as hard as he could and shattered the window. He jumped back on his bike and pedaled like mad until he was long gone.