Read The German for Free Online Page A

which makes me smile and makes Ormand laugh out loud. The agitated butcher turns angry and insists on being heard, though Ormand is already speaking and neither of them listens to the other. They aren’t concerned with solving the mystery of Harold Ashton’s death; they just like to hear themselves talk, and their argumentative tone draws others from the back of the store, questioning the cause of their disagreement. A woman squawks at the news. Men mutter.
    Listening I come to understand that the boy was quite popular in town and everyone believed he’d run off to join the army. It is a shame that did not happen. The army is a good place for boys. Sometimes I think it is the only place I ever truly belonged. The regimentation and masculine camaraderie are unequaled, and I still find myself longing to return to the conflict, the chaos, and the company of brothers with whom I created the turmoil or quelled it, depending on the needs of the cause. The military was a bastion against political storms, the ignorant rabble, and the cancerous boredom of a tradesman’s life, and it is forever denied me now.
    I remember being startled from a peaceful sleep. They called me traitor.
    New accusations and suppositions as to who could murder such a young, fine boy rise in the crowd, as if they are playing a morbid guessing game. They speak no name but rather invoke labels in conspiratorial voices – Drifters, Niggers, Bean-eaters, Northerners, and Weigle again asserts the guilt of gypsies. Then a plump woman with flat features says that Sheriff Rabbit thinks a German has done this terrible thing. This sends Weigle back a step, and I take it as a petty cruelty on the woman’s part, intended to quiet Old Weigle down. Little in the way of valuable information emerges. A boy is dead. His parents and sister are grief-stricken. The sheriff is investigating the crime. I do not know this boy or his family, so I will wait to see what information is printed in the Register come morning. But such a crowd has gathered at the counter, I see no way to purchase my few items without being drawn into the discussion, and this sort of conversation has no interest for me. I replace the jar of blackberry preserves on the shelf. At the back of the store I return the bag of flour and the yeast, and then turn for the door.
    A man enters. He is handsome with smooth cheeks and finely combed blond hair, slicked back like a movie star’s. His name is Jeffrey Irvine. I do not know why he isn’t fighting this country’s war as he is intelligent and healthy. He is a schoolteacher. He is twenty-eight years old and has a pretty wife named Betty and two little girls. I know this man. We have fucked. When Jeffrey sees me he ducks his head low and hurries past the crowd at the counter to distance himself from me as I continue toward the front door. He remembers following me home from the city park, remembers ejaculating on my thigh the moment my hand wrapped around his cock. He remembers the nights he’s come to visit me, rapping quietly on my front door only minutes after full dark has set, and he is ashamed of it.
    I reach for the door handle amused by his weakness.
    “Nothing today. Ernst?” Errol calls from the counter. He looks at me suspiciously as if he thinks me trying to steal a crock of butter or a can of beans. The rest of the crowd similarly eyes me, and I cannot understand why I should draw such attention unless it is the scars on my face, though these are not new.
    “Not today,” I reply and leave the mercantile.
    I pause on the sidewalk, standing beneath the awning of the store and letting the late afternoon heat work through my muscles as my eyes adjust to the bright light covering the downtown buildings. The oddity of my experience inside the grocery takes hold and I feel a needle of guilt, though I am certain I have nothing to feel guilty for – at least nothing of which these people of Barnard would know. I think to return to Ormand’s