I herded them out the door amp; kept them going right down the walk, I mean I was on a roll. The kid, meanwhile, is asking, “Do you forgive me? Do you forgive me?” over amp; over again, like a broken record. By the time I got them down to the sidewalk, I realized I was furious with both of them. Not just because of the hell we’ve been through but because they both acted like I was somehow responsible for the thieving little fart’s immortal soul. Plus I kept remembering the way his eyes were going everywhere, seeing what we had in our house that he didn’t have in his.

I’m pretty sure-almost positive, actually-that a lot of Seth’s “strange powers” have a very short range, like the radio transmitters they used to have at the drive-ins, the ones that piped the movie sound directly into your car radio. So when I got them down to the street, I felt safe (relatively safe, anyway) to ask how Hugh Hobart had come to lift Seth’s Power Wagon in the first place.

Pere and fils exchanged a glance at that. It was a funny, uneasy glance, and I realized neither of them much minded the idea of a spanking or even a visit from the cops, but they didn’t like the idea of talking about the actual theft itself. Not one little bit. No wonder the fundamentalists hate the Catholics so much. The idea of going to confession must make their balls shrivel.

Still, I had “em in a corner, amp; finally it came out. William did most of the talking; by then the kid had decided he didn’t like me. His eyes had gotten narrow, and they’d quit leaking, too.

Most of it I could’ve figured out myself. The Hobarts belong to the Zion’s Covenant Baptist Church, and one of the things they do as good church members is to “spread the Gospel”. This means leaving tracts like the one Herb found sticking out of our milkbox, the one about a million years in hell amp; not one drink of water. William and Hugh do this together, a father-and-son type of thing, I guess, a holy substitute for Little League or touch football. They stick mostly to houses that look temporarily empty, wanting “to spread the word amp; plant the seed, not engage in debate” (William Hobart’s words), or they put their little love-notes under the windshields of cars on the street.

They must’ve hit our place right after we left for Milly’s. Hugh ran up the driveway and stuck the tract under the milkbox, and of course he saw Dream Floater wherever Seth put it down. Later, after his father had declared him off-duty for the rest of the day but before we got back from the mall, Hugh wandered back up the street… amp; gave in to the ever-popular TVS (Tempting Voice of Satan). His mother found the PW yesterday, Monday, while Hugh was at school amp;she was cleaning in his room. Last night they had a “family conference” about it, then called their minister for his advice, had a little over-the-phone prayer, and now here they were.

Once the story was out, the kid started in on “Do you forgive me” again. The second time through, I said, “Quit saying that.”

He looked like I’d slapped him and his father’s face got all stiff. I didn’t give a crap. I squatted down so I could look directly into Hugh’s piggy little eyes. It wasn’t all that easy to see them, either, because of the dandruff flakes and grease-smears on his glasses.

“Forgiveness is between you and your God,” I said. “As for me, I’m going to keep quiet about what you did, and I’d advise the Hobarts to do the same.” They will, I’m pretty sure. I only had to look at the bruise on Hugh’s cheek, really, to know that. I don’t know about the creep’s mother, but what he did is absolutely killing his father.

Hugh backed a step away from me, and I could see in his face that this wasn’t going the way it was supposed to, amp; he hated me for it. That’s okay. I hate him a little, too. Not surprising, is it, after the weekend we put in because of his light fingers'?

“We’ll leave you now, Mrs Wyler, if you’re finished,” Hobart said. “Hugh has got a lot of meditation to do. In his room. On his knees.”

“But I’m not finished,” I said. “Not quite.” I didn’t look at him. It was the boy I looked at. I think I was trying to look past the hate amp; shame amp; self-righteousness, to see if there was a real boy left inside anywhere. And did I see one? I truly don’t know.

“Hugh,” I said, “you know that people only have to ask forgiveness if they do something wrong, don’t you?”

He nodded cautiously… like he was testifying in a trial amp; thought one of the lawyers was laying a trap.

“So you know that stealing Seth’s toy was wrong.”

He nodded again, more reluctantly than ever. By then he was practically hiding behind his father’s leg, as if he were three instead of eight or nine.

“Mrs Wyler, I hardly think it’s necessary to browbeat the boy,” his old man said. Unbelievable prig! He’s willing to let me turn the kid over my knee amp; whale on his ass like it was a snare drum, but when I want the kid to say out loud that he did wrong, all at once it’s abuse. There’s a lesson in this, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

“I’m not browbeating him, but I want you to know that the last few days have been very difficult around here,” I said. It was the adult I was answering but still the kid I was really talking to. “Seth loves his Power Wagons very much. So here is what I want, Hugh. I want you to tell me that what you did was wrong, and it was bad, and you’re sorry. Then we’ll be done.”

Hugh glared at me, amp; if looks could kill, I wouldn’t be writing in this book now. But was I scared? Please. When it comes to pissed-off kids, I live with the champ of champs.

“Mrs Wyler, do you think that’s really necessary?” Hobart asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “More for your son than for me.”

“Dad, do I have to?” he whines. He’s still giving me the Death-ray look from behind his smeary glasses.

“Go on and tell her what she wants to hear,” Hobart said. “Bitter medicine is best swallowed in a single gulp.” Then he patted the kid on the shoulder, as if to say yes, she’s being mean, a real bitch, but we have to put up with it.

“It-was-wrong-it-was-bad-I’m-sorry,” the kid says, like he’s back on the cue-cards. Glaring at me the whole time-no more tears or snivelling. I looked up amp; saw the same stare coming from the father. The two of them never looked more alike than they did right then. People are amazing. They came up the street, scared but sort of exalted at the idea of getting crucified, just like their boss did. Instead I made the kid admit what he was, amp; it hurt, amp; they both hate me for it.

The important things, though, are these: 1) D.F. is back, and 2) the Hobarts won’t talk about it. Sometimes shame is the only gag that works on people. I must think up a yarn to tell Seth, then tell the same one to Herb. The truth just isn’t safe.

Feet upstairs, going down to the bathroom. He’s up. Please God I hope I’m right about him not being able to see into my thoughts.

Later

Big sigh of relief. And maybe a self-administered pat on the back, as well. I think The Dream Floater Crisis is past, with no harm done (except for some broken dishes amp; my beautiful Waterford glasses, that is). Seth amp;Herb both sleeping. I intend to go up myself as soon as I’ve written a little in this book (keeping a journal under these circumstances may be dangerous, but God, it can be so soothing), then put it back on top of the kitchen cabinet where I keep it.

Seth getting up when he did, before I had much of a chance to think what I was going to tell him, turned out to be a blessing in disguise. When he came downstairs, still with his eyes mostly puffed shut, I just held D.F. out to him. What happened to his face-the way it opened up in surprise amp; delight, like a flower in the sun-was almost worth the whole damned horror show. I saw both of them in that glad look, Seth and the SLB. The SLB just glad to have his Power Wagon back. Seth, I think, glad for other reasons. Maybe I’m wrong, giving him too much credit, but I don’t think so. I think Seth was glad because he knows the SLB will let up on us now. For a little while, anyway.