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and the pole flew back like a whip. Mr. Powell looked quickly at me and then stepped out of the boat into the water.
    Daddy stood up. “Bud!”
    The water came up to Mr. Powell’s chest. He was searching around with his hands for the fish. He put his hands, palms down, on the surface of the water and looked around. “Damn,” he said. “Damn.”
    The next night I ask Peter if he wants to go to the game with me and he shakes his head and I go alone. I sit in the stands behind our dugout and watch the game. I watch third baseman Manny Ortega initiate a double play and hit a double and clobber a lazy change-up over the right-field fence. I just sorta scratch my head and start feeling uneasy. The Yankees get beat.
    After the game, Lou Tyler comes over and spits some tobacco juice and asks if I want to ride home with him.
    â€œI’ve got my car,” I tell him.
    â€œBut I ain’t got mine.”
    So, after he changes, we go get into my car, but he don’t want to go straight home. “Just where do you want to go?” I ask.
    â€œFind a nice little country road. Get out of town.”
    We drive off and he pushes a cigar into his face and starts asking me how things are at home. I tell him that everything at home is just fine.
    â€œHow’s Thelma?”
    â€œShe’s good.”
    â€œHow’s your boy?” He blows some smoke out and then spits out the window.
    â€œHe’s okay.”
    â€œDavid tells me things are sorta tense around your house.”
    â€œThings are fine.” We’re out of the city pretty much by now. There are houses, but less lights. “How far out you want to go?”
    â€œKeep going.”
    He sits quietly for a while, gnawing on his cigar. “You know, I really hate that Dome.”
    â€œYeah? Why is that?”
    â€œI don’t know. It’s big. It’s ugly. It ain’t a ball park. You know what I mean?”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œIt just ain’t a ball park. Stop the car!” he shouts and he’s excited and he’s pointing over to the left side of the highway.
    I stop the car. “What is it?”
    He’s out of the car and across the road and I’m out and after him. “Great,” he says. “Terrific.” He’s looking down at a dog that’s been run over. He bends over and looks at the dog real close. “Good shape.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    He’s down and picking up this German shepherd dog. “Well, help me,” he says. “This ain’t no little dog.”
    â€œWhat do you want with this dog?”
    â€œI want to stuff it. Now, help me put it in the car.”
    â€œMy car?”
    â€œI don’t see another one. Come on, grab the back legs.”
    I bend over and take the back legs in my hands. I look at all the blood and guts running out of the dog’s middle and I feel a little sick. The dog’s head is hanging loose next to Lou’s leg and we walk across the road to the car.
    â€œYou want to put him in the back seat or the trunk?” Lou asks.
    â€œI don’t want to put it in at all.”
    â€œWe better put it in the trunk—might smell a little.” We put the dog in the trunk and get back into the car. Lou’s eyes are searching the road and the bushes and he’s sitting up close to the windshield.
    â€œWhat are you looking for?”
    â€œRoad kills,” he says matter-of-factly, “like the one in the trunk.”
    â€œYou’re not filling my trunk up with dead dogs. I’m sorry.”
    â€œThey ain’t gonna hurt nothing. Where else am I supposed to get specimens?”
    â€œOkay, okay.”
    â€œStop!”
    I stop the car and we get out and pick up another dead dog and toss it into the trunk. I got blood on my hands and I don’t like it. I’m getting just a little bit upset. “I hope you’re satisfied. I can smell them up