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I
ca
n't
tell
is
he
laughing
or
what
.
"
Fir-first
stutter
?
First
stutter
?
The
first
word
I
said
I
st-stut-tered
:
m-m-m-m-mamma
.
"
Then
the
talking
fades
out
altogether
:
I
never
knew
that
to
happen
before
.
Maybe
Billy
's
hid
himself
in
the
fog
too
.
Maybe
all
the
guys
finally
and
forever
crowded
back
into
the
fog
.
A
chair
and
me
float
past
each
other
.
It
's
the
first
thing
I
've
seen
.
It
comes
sifting
out
of
the
fog
off
to
my
right
,
and
for
a
few
seconds
it
's
right
beside
my
face
,
just
out
of
my
reach
.
I
been
accustomed
of
late
to
just
let
things
alone
when
they
appear
in
the
fog
,
sit
still
and
not
try
to
hang
on
.
But
this
time
I
'm
scared
,
the
way
I
used
to
be
scared
.
I
try
with
all
I
got
to
pull
myself
over
to
the
chair
and
get
hold
of
it
,
but
there
's
nothing
to
brace
against
and
all
I
can
do
is
thrash
the
air
,
all
I
can
do
is
watch
the
chair
come
clear
,
clearer
than
ever
before
to
where
I
can
even
make
out
the
fingerprint
where
a
worker
touched
the
varnish
before
it
was
dry
,
looming
out
for
a
few
seconds
,
then
fading
on
off
again
.
I
never
seen
it
where
things
floated
around
this
way
.
I
never
seen
it
this
thick
before
,
thick
to
where
I
ca
n't
get
down
to
the
floor
and
get
on
my
feet
if
I
wanted
to
and
walk
around
.
That
's
why
I
'm
so
scared
;
I
feel
I
'm
going
to
float
off
someplace
for
good
this
time
.
I
see
a
Chronic
float
into
sight
a
little
below
me
.
It
's
old
Colonel
Matterson
,
reading
from
the
wrinkled
scripture
of
that
long
yellow
hand
.
I
look
close
at
him
because
I
figure
it
's
the
last
time
I
'll
ever
see
him
.
His
face
is
enormous
,
almost
more
than
I
can
bear
.
Every
hair
and
wrinkle
of
him
is
big
,
as
though
I
was
looking
at
him
with
one
of
those
microscopes
.
I
see
him
so
clear
I
see
his
whole
life
.
The
face
is
sixty
years
of
southwest
Army
camps
,
rutted
by
iron-rimmed
caisson
wheels
,
worn
to
the
bone
by
thousands
of
feet
on
two-day
marches
.
He
holds
out
that
long
hand
and
brings
it
up
in
front
of
his
eyes
and
squints
into
it
,
brings
up
his
other
hand
and
underlines
the
words
with
a
finger
wooden
and
varnished
the
color
of
a
gunstock
by
nicotine
.
His
voice
as
deep
and
slow
and
patient
,
and
I
see
the
words
come
out
dark
and
heavy
over
his
brittle
lips
when
he
reads
.
"
No
...
The
flag
is
...
Ah-mer-ica
.
America
is
...
the
plum
.
The
peach
.
The
wah-ter-mel-on
.
America
is
...
the
gumdrop
.
The
pump-kin
seed
.
America
is
...
tell-ah-vision
.
"
It
's
true
.
It
's
all
wrote
down
on
that
yellow
hand
.
I
can
read
it
along
with
him
myself
.
"
Now
...
The
cross
is
...
Mex-i-co
.
"
He
looks
up
to
see
if
I
'm
paying
attention
,
and
when
he
sees
I
am
he
smiles
at
me
and
goes
on
.
"
Mexico
is
...
the
wal-nut
.
The
hazelnut
.
The
ay-corn
.
Mexico
is
...
the
rain-bow
.
The
rain-bow
is
...
wooden
.
Mexico
is
...
woo-den
.
"
I
can
see
what
he
's
driving
at
.
He
's
been
saying
this
sort
of
thing
for
the
whole
six
years
he
's
been
here
,
but
I
never
paid
him
any
mind
,
figured
he
was
no
more
than
a
talking
statue
,
a
thing
made
out
of
bone
and
arthritis
,
rambling
on
and
on
with
these
goofy
definitions
of
his
that
did
n't
make
a
lick
of
sense
.
Now
,
at
last
,
I
see
what
he
's
saying
.
I
'm
trying
to
hold
him
for
one
last
look
to
remember
him
,
and
that
's
what
makes
me
look
hard
enough
to
understand
.
