created by the noise and it was repelled. Finally the song was over and the fly lit on the boy's hand. "Now well hear from Miss Vicki Russell. She'll talk on honesty," the bishop said in his quiet monotone. The boy slapped at the fly, narrowly missing it, making a loud smack which turned all the heads on either side of him in his direction. The fly circled lazily up, then down and lit in the same spot again, by the boy's right foreknuckle. He swished at it, and again it returned to the same spot, tickling his hand with its furry legs. Slowly he moved his left hand down over it and with a quick motion crushed it. The black body fell silently to the floor and lay still. "And then the man put all of the eggs back in the basket and returned them to the inn-keeper," the small girl read, her blond, tightly pulled hair barely visible above the pulpit. The boy leaned forward, away from the wooden backrest, but his shirt stuck and pulled away from his back, then away from the wood as he leaned farther. A sun reddened neck was visible directly in front of him. White hairs stood like coil springs on the neck and ears below the gray, comb-striped hair. Small beads of sweat stuck below the ears and around the collar which was frayed and worn around the top. Next to the red-necked man was a woman with a fat baby that sucked contentedly on her neck. She bounced it occasionally and each time small streams of slobber escaped from the small wet lips and rolled down her neck. The boy wondered how they could sit so still in the August heat. It seemed as though his bench were sliding forward, pushing him closer to the one in front of him. The fat lady creaked into a different position pushing her soft ample thigh against his. He tried to move closer to his father but the hard Sunday-stiff body was already pressed against his. His collar tightened around his throat; it was hard to breath. He wanted to scream. Suddenly he was reaching up, touching his father's shoulder, and whispering hoarsely. "Dad," pause "Dad." The movement seemed to multiply the sweat on his body about three times. "Shhh can't you sit still and pay attention?" His father remained still, his head straight forward, but his mouth and part of his face had shifted around to the side as he spoke. "But Dad," the boy's trapped voice croaked, "I gotta go to the bathroom now!" Then his father looked at him, mouth twisted to one side, shaking his head in disgust. He pulled his knees to one side and motioned for the boy to leave. Then the boy was side-stepping quickly along the row, past knees which had swung like fat gates out of 24 his way, over stubborn feet and shiny black purses, and finally, into the aisle. Grim, stiff faces turned toward him as he walked down the aisle toward the door. He suddenly became aware of himself as if he were a bullfighter with thousands of eyes upon him anticipating his next move. He walked through the open doorway and down the long hallway, past the men's room, the classrooms, the offices, the empty coatrack, and out the glass doors onto the summer browned lawn. He broke into a run. The August sun was bright and hot but now a cool breeze hit his chest and face, cooling and at the same time drying his damp body. Up and over the small hill he flew past the neatly arranged, dried out phitzers, past the scrubby maple trees and the strong smelling lilac bushes. Now he was dry, except for his armpits, where a new sweat had formed. It was clean and free flowing, not sticky like in church. He didn't slow up until he came to the edge of the lawn where the tall oak trees grew and the creek ran. Here he slowed to a walk, feeling the coolness raise shivery bumps on his arms as the tail trees blocked the sun from him. He was on a path, lined with low bushes, but with a channel worn out wide enough so you could walk it if you were a small boy and not afraid of having the cool green leaves brush against your shins. He hurried along, smiling foolishly to himself and chomping on a freshly picked green leaf. It tasted bitter but felt fresh and clean in his mouth. Now the trail came to the creek. There were several worn stones sticking up among the swirling, quietly rushing water. The boy stepped first to one, then to the other and, straddling the water, one foot on each rock, he bent over and let his hands dangle. The water was cold and sent chills up to his quickly drying armpits. He stared into the clear smooth water and saw the small boy bending up from the waist to touch hands with him. The brown freckled face smiled and a green leaf jutted from between his teeth. The sandy-blond hair stood evenly combed at the part but hung dry and unruly over his forehead. The boy stood up and looked at the yellow-topped trees. They were waving slightly from the breeze. "God," the boy said aloud, startling himself with his own voice. "I know you're here but I don't blame you; it's too hot in there for even you." He smiled down at the boy in the water, then looked back up at the trees. "But we better get back before they get mad." SOMEWHERE SOMEWHERE IN TIME AND SPACE I WAS TO BE. SOMEWHERE COSMOS SWIRL ELEMENTS COMBINE SPIRITS FORM THERE WAS TO BE A ME AT THAT APPOINTED TIME MY EXISTENCE BEGAN BY LAWS I KNEW NOT OF NOR WHERE NOR BY WHOM BUT I WAS TO BE AND TO BE TO BE IS TO LIVE Ronald Bartlett. 25