stretches his right leg and jumps to the curbing in front of Gurney’s Hardware Store. The cooling autumn air brushes his flushed face, bringing with it the pungent salty smell of burning leaves. As he stands on the curb, the yawning door behind him closes. The motor of the bus rumbles lowly. The cool air makes him shiver. The wheels of the bus turn; the bus moves forward, then turns to the right up Second Street. Jon plants his feet on the chipped curbing and waits for the green light to turn red once more. In the gutter lies a grease-coated puddle of water from the last rain two days ago. The lights from Gurney’s rainbow themselves in the oil scum. The ten o’clock traffic flows erratically by Jon. The headlights of the cars reflect on the black asphalt, making it grey and shiny-rough like a reptile’s skin. The red light flicks to green, and Jon walks across the four lanes of the boulevard to the curb on the other side. Marrit’s Super Service Station must have closed early, for the pumps are ranged vacantly in front of the white station. The air hoses have been taken in for the night. The windows stare blandly at Jon, beaming with the small night-light inside by the shelf of oil cans. Jon walks slowly to the curb parallel to Second. He stubs the scuffed toe of his oxfords on the cracked raise of curbing as he waits for the light to turn. The light turns green. He walks across the two carless lanes to the other side of Second. He stops, turns his head upward, and looks at the beaming oval street lamp on the corner. His head lowers, and he shakes it with a jerk. His spine shivers. He turns west and looks down Second Street. The lights of the corner and the hardware store are to his back. The motors of the cars on the boulevard combine in a low rumble that echoes in his head. He smells the bitter tang of the exhaust fumes. The street stretches black and lifeless to Wall Avenue. A single street lamp far down the black street feebly disperses the dark. One of the buildings of Parker’s Lumber Yard juts out, silhouetted behind the square brick walls of the drugstore in front of Jon. The building rises black to the peak of its shingled gable, where it combines with the silhouetted form of the top branches of a tall box elder. Its branches sway in the breeze that sweeps along Jon’s flushed cheeks. Jon scuffs his feet along the rough concrete of the sidewalk to the end of the dark bricks that are the drugstore. He leans against the brown bricks and stares at the murky enclosure of the lumber yard. A two-tiered, open-fronted building looms to the north of the enclosure. Inside, the lumber lies in stacks, black, barely noticeable in the blank dark of the building. Jon shuffles his feet as he leans against the brick wall. His eyes focus and blur as he stares into the forbidding darkness. In the enclosure the crickets creak incessantly. The sound swims in his head, filling every wind and turn of his brain. He shakes his head. He wants to move, but he stands rigidly and stares down the black street. 36 In the blackness he sees the shadowy plot of the elm that overhangs the sidewalk four houses up from his. The sidewalk runs beneath the elm like the floor of a tunnel. Above the tree a. smattering of feeble stars plays peek-a-boo in the folds of a smoke-black cloud. The rest of the sky lies placid, with a sparse smattering of stars, looking tarnished against the navy-blue sky. Jon’s eyes blear, and the cool autumn air burns against his hot pupils. He blinks them and looks down the street. He sees the intermittent pinpoint flashes of headlights on Wall Avenue. He hesitates. His feet shuffle as the chirping of the crickets grows once more in his head. He shakes it jerkily. His breath wheezes through his vibrating throat, and his knees go imperceptibly as if he had been standing at attention for an hour. The onyx-black air prickles at his sweaty arms and flushed face. He wants to move, but his legs react to no stimulus. His feet shuffle as he leans against the wall. The rough bricks of the drugstore are now biting into his skin. The tingling pain in his arm feels good to him. He waits. The pain grows. A Cadillac moves up the dark street. It’s motor murmurs. As the headlights near him, he feels the air rushing past his cheeks and his feet tingling as they hit flatly against the rough concrete. His head aches as he jogs. His breath wheezes down his throat. The lights on the hill to the north look like those of a passing train as he runs. His feet stop, and he stops. He pants, and the cold air cools his warm insides. The obsidian blackness encloses his sweaty body. His ears strain. The wind rustles the weeping willows in the yard in front of him. The crickets creak lowly in the low shadows of the green alfalfa and dried June grass border of the sidewalk. His belly quivers under the plaid of his shirt. The dark overhang of the elm lies right in his path. Its stocky trunk rises, etched against the background of shadowy hedges, fences, and houses. He shuffles his feet; his body feels taut. He turns his head to the north. Ben Lomond Peak rises against the navy-blue sky. As his gaze lowers, he sees the black maze of houses and trees. His heart beats. The trees rustle, and the crickets creak. In the distance he hears the low whistle of a train. With a burst of speed he rushes past the quiet stillness of the houses. His hot chubby arms pump at his sides. His breathing quickens. He passes below the elm and rushes along the dirt-strewn sidewalk. The picture of a rutted old lady rises in his mind. His legs pulse. His sides feel as though they’re about to burst. He spies the one-lighted window as he nears his house. His mother sits, her back to the window. His feet rise and fall, hitting flatly on the unyielding sidewalk. Jon slows his pace to a quick walk. He turns to the right down the sidewalk that leads to his steps. The autumn air prickles at his sweaty skin. He smells the salty smell of burnt leaves. 37