The Listener

by Robert McCammon

Little Jack had reddish-blonde hair a few shades lighter than his daddy’s, and its thickness obviously defied a comb because it was everywhichaway on that head. It looked to Pearly like six red-tailed squirrels and a beaver or two were having a war up in there.

Around the cabin on the lake the crickets, cicadas and other insects in the woods were sending out their music of clicks and chirrups, clacks and drones. The

“Shut up,” Donnie said, with a harsh rasp of dread menace in his voice. “If I want to hear you fart, I’ll kick it out of you.”

“One thing your goddamned daddy has failed at, boy,” Donnie went on, “is teachin’ you respect for your elders. You’re supposed to call me ‘sir’ when you speak to me.” “I won’t speak to you anymore, then,” said Little Jack. “Go back to your hole.”

The woman used language that a whole crate of soap could not wash from a person’s mouth.

The light changed and Ludenmere drove on through the misty streets, where by night and the yellow-tinged streetlamps the famous old oaks and weeping willows of the city took on the shapes of gnarled dragons lurking on the roadside.