Sprout by Dale Peck

Author:Dale Peck
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury USA
Published: 2009-03-26T16:00:00+00:00

We know the sound of two hands clapping, but what is the sound of a hormone?

The Andersens’ St. Bernard had acquired legendary status two years earlier, when it pulled down a six-tined buck whose flight had been hampered by snowdrifts from a recent blizzard (it almost never snows in central Kansas, but when it does it tends to dump a foot or two, which the wind whips into four- or six- or eight-foot drifts that’re a lot of fun if you’re a kid, but apparently less so for things like rabbits and deer). According to Vernon Andersen, his St. Bernard ripped the buck’s throat out and fed on the rotting carcass for almost two weeks before he—Vernon, not the dog—was able to get a rope around its—the deer’s, not the dog’s—antlers and haul it away. I suppose I should mention that this story came to me through my dad, who heard it from Vernon at the 4th Street Tavern, the bar my dad went to on the rare occasions he wanted to drink with other drunks. Among other things, the 4th Street is actually on 5th, so it’s hard to trust any bit o’ wisdom that manages to stagger out of its door (although my dad told me the name/address discrepancy is just to throw wives off the track of wayward husbands, but whatever): my point is, however vicious the Andersens’ St. Bernard was, he still wasn’t the major obstacle preventing me from visiting Ty’s house.

“Oh—my—God,” Ty laughed so hard a pea flew from his mouth, landed on my thigh, disappeared into the sea of green stains. “When my old man saw my shirt he kicked my ass from one end of the house to the other. Course, we live in a pretty small house, which when I pointed that out he kicked my ass back to the other end, and then kicked me out the front door. I had to sleep in the barn.”

“I guess that explains the hay,” I said, although what I was looking at was the bruise on his face, the others concealed beneath his stained, straw-covered shirt.

Ty picked a piece of hay off his shirt. “You kind of like pointing out the obvious, huh? When you don’t got nothing to say? Anyway,” he cut off my protest, “here’s the plan: cut around the southern edge of the Andersens’ pasture to avoid that stupid dog—”

“Do we know the stupid dog’s name, by the way?”

“Do we care about the stupid dog’s name, by the way?”

“It’s just easier than calling it ‘the dog,’ or ‘the Andersens’ dog,’ or ‘Vernon Andersens’ stupid—’ ”

“What’s easier is if you shut up and listen to the plan, so that way you don’t get your head shot off by my dad.”

There was a pause here, while I waited for Ty to laugh, and Ty waited for me to realize he wasn’t going to laugh. Something—talking or chewing—had caused the cut on the side of his mouth to open, and after a moment he touched a finger to his lip, looked at the blood, licked it off.

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