an older boy was saying

“I don’t know nothing about no chin,” the boy whose father saw it in the paper was saying. “Way I heard it he was a-drivin along in his ole Tin Lizzie and he hit a rock and ole Tin Lizzie run off the road and showed him out and run up a eight-foot bank and turned over and over and fell back down on top of him whomp.” “How do you know?” an older boy was saying. “You wasn’t there. Anybody here knows it’s him.” And he pointed at Rufus and Rufus was startled from his revery. “Why?” asked the boy who had just come up. “Cause it’s his daddy,” one of them explained. “It’s my daddy,” Rufus said. “What happened?” asked still another boy, at the fringe of the group. “My daddy got killed,” Rufus said. “His daddy got killed,” several of the others explained. “My daddy says he bets he was drunk.” “Good ole whiskey!” “Shut up, what’s your daddy know about it.” “Was he drunk?” “No,” Rufus said. “No,” two others said. “Let him tell it.” “Yeah, you tell it.” “Anybody here ought to know, it’s him.” “Come on and tell us.” “Good ole whiskey.” “Shut your mouth.” “Well come on and tell us, then.” They became silent and all of them looked at him. Rufus looked back into their eyes in the sudden deep stillness. A man walked by, stepping into the gutter to skirt them.