Nillmon, half-stunned, finding himself
kicking the air when what he wanted
to kick was so plain, wipes his mouth
in a nervous sling of his arm, and while
the sleeve is passing over his face he
tries to see if he holds a pistol, feels
himself squeezing it and emptying it.
But he can’t. It is all too easy. This Fon
nigger ain’t scared. He knows now he
has a nigger that needs a thorough job.
Nillmon smiles and spits on the gravel
in front of Fon. “Git in.”
Fon moves around the car, opens the
door, and slowly gets in, closing his
door carefully and firmly. Nillmon
slams his and jerks the car forward.
The car picks up speed. Nillmon grips
the steering wheel until the blood is
cut off from his hands. A thin line of
smoke issues from the rear window.
“Yesss, nigger, think you can count
them pieces of glass with the tip of
your tongue?” Fon is silent. Nillmon
relaxes his grip and looks at him
from the corner of his eye. “What the
hell you niggers doin up on that sign
chunkin at cars anyway?”
A cattle crossing. The car, slowing,
slowing…
“Teachin my brother how to shoot his
arrows.”
…and the car stops.
Nillmon feels himself lunging toward
Fon, pushing him out of the car with
his foot, and blasting his &