Удушье (Choke)

and nab the head out of the leaves and trash.

The man yelps and pulls back.

And the woman says, 'Victor? Victor Mancini. Oh, my God.'

She must've saved my life, because I don't know who the hell she is.

In the chapel, after I gave up, after we were buttoning our clothes shut, I said to Paige, 'Forget fetal tissue. Forget resenting strong women.' I say, 'You want to know the real reason why I won't fuck you?'

Doing up the buttons of my britches, I told her, 'Maybe the truth is I really want to like you instead.'

And with both hands above her head, making her black hair brain tight again, Paige said, 'Maybe sex and affection aren't mu­tually exclusive.'

And I laughed. My hands tying my cravat, I told her, yes. Yes, they are.

Denny and me, we get to the seven hundred block of, the street sign says Birch Street. To Denny pushing the stroller, I say, 'Wrong way, dude.' I point behind us and say, 'My mom's house is back there.'

Denny keeps pushing, the bottom of the stroller making a growling sound against the sidewalk. The happy couple are drop-jawed, still watching us from two blocks back.

I trot along next to him, tossing the pink doll head from hand to hand. 'Dude,' I say. 'Turn back around.'

Denny says, 'We have to see the eight hundred block first.'

What's there?

'It's supposed to be nothing,' Denny says. 'My Uncle Don used to own it.'

The houses end, and the eight hundred block is just land with more houses on the block after that. The land is just tall grass planted around the edges with old apple trees, their bark all wrinkled and twisting up into the darkness. Inside a bunch of brush, blackberry whips, and scrub, more thorns on every twig, the middle of the land is clear.

On the corner is a billboard sign, plywood painted white with a picture across the top of red-brick houses built against each other and people waving from windows with flower boxes. Under the houses, black words say: Coming Soon Menningtown Coun­try Townhouses. Under the billboard, the ground's snowed with peeling paint chips. Up close, the billboard is curling, the brick townhouses cracked and faded pink.

Denny tips the boulder out of the stroller, and it lands in the tall grass beside the sidewalk. He shakes out the pink blanket and hands me two corners. Between us, we fold it, and Denny says, 'If you can have the opposite of a role model, he'd be my Uncle Don.'

Then Denny flops the folded blanket into the stroller and starts to push the stroller toward home.

And I call after him, 'Dude. You don't want this rock?'

And Denny says, 'Those mothers against drunk driving, for sure, they threw a party when they found out old Don Menning was dead.'

Wind lifts and crushes the tall grass. Nobody but plants lives here now, and across the dark center of the block you can see the porch lights of houses on the other side. The black zigzags of old apple trees are outlines in between.

'So,' I go, 'is this a park??

And Denny says, 'Not really.' Still walking away, he says, 'It's mine.'

I pitch the doll head at him and say, 'For real?'

'Since my folks called a couple days ago,' he says, and he catches the head and drops it into the stroller. Under the street­lights, past everybody's dark house, we walk.

My buckle shoes flashing, my hands stuffed in my pockets, I say, 'Dude?' I say, 'You don't really think I'm anything like Jesus Christ, do you?'