The Other

by Thomas Tryon

root beer all gone? Maybe Winnie would let them bring out the enamel tub and mix a batch in the kitchen sink. Or churn some ice cream. But, jeeze, that was work, Holland would say; besides, ice cream was Sunday treat. Or they could go up in the storeroom and play Granddaddy Perry’s old records on the Victrola. Or practice some more magic tricks. Though that morning had already seen secret practice in this regard. Next month was the Firemen’s Fourth of July Carnival. Chan Yu the Disappearing Marvel. With who knew what latest feat of prestidigitation! “What’s a hermaphrodite?” Niles asked out of the blue. “What?” Holland, who collected big words as others collect stamps or money (though there were collections of these as well), was a million miles away. “A hermaphrodite. There was this poster at the drugstore this morning that said they’re going to have a real live hermaphrodite this year. All the way from Malta.” “I don’t know what that means. Look it up.” Holland stooped and opened his hands out onto the floor. The rat crawled from his palm, dragging itself to the center of a panel of light where it lay beside a knothole, belly down, tall limply curled, quiescent and scarcely breathing. What was wrong with it? Niles looked down at the lime-speckled planking where the sun melted in a syrupy flow of red and gold around his feet and around the still, white form. Bending,