They had Lisa, they had the garage, they needed string, red string for the sake of blood.
They couldn’t enter the deep garage without red string.
The kitchen drawer is a step removed from the garbage can, which is a step removed from the outside garbage can, which is a step removed from the armadillo-hulked automatic garbage trucks, which are a step removed from the mysterious stinking garbage heaps by the edge of the St. Lawrence.
“A nice glass of chocolate milk?”
He wished his mother had some respect for importance.
Oh, it is a most perfect kitchen drawer, even when you are in a desperate hurry.
Besides the tangled string box there are candle-butts from years of Sabbath evenings kept in thrifty anticipation of hurricanes, brass keys to locks which have been changed (it is difficult to throw out anything so precise and crafted as a metal key), straight pens with ink-caked nibs which could be cleaned if anyone took the trouble (his mother instructed the maid), toothpicks they never used (especially for picking teeth), the broken pair of scissors (the new pair was kept in another drawer: ten years later it was still referred to as “the new pair”), exhausted rubber rings from home preserving bottles (pickled tomatoes, green, evil, tight-skinned), knobs, nuts, all the homey debris which avarice protects.
He fingered blindly in the string box because the drawer can never be opened all the way.
“A little cookie, a nice piece of honey cake, there’s a whole box of macaroons?”
Ah! bright red.
The welts dance all over Lisa’s imaginary body.
“Strawberries,” his mother called like a good-bye.
There is a way children enter garages, barns, attics, the same way they enter great halls and family chapels. Garages, barns and attics are always older than the buildings to which they are attached. They have the dark reverent air of immense kitchen drawers. They are friendly museums.
It was dark inside, smelled of oil and last year’s leaves which splintered as they moved. Bits of metal, the edges of shovels and cans glimmered damply.
“You’re the American,” said Krantz.
“No, I’m not,” said Lisa.
“You’re the American,” said Breavman. “Two against one.”
The ack-ack of Breavman and Krantz was very heavy. Lisa came on a daring manoeuvre across the darkness, arms outstretched.
“Eheheheheheheh,” stuttered her machine guns.
She’s hit.
She went into a spectacular nose dive, bailed out at the last moment. Swaying from one foot to another she floated down the sky, looking below, knowing her number was up.
She’s a perfect dancer, Breavman thought.
Lisa watched the Krauts coming.
“Achtung. Heil Hitler! You are a prisoner of the Third Reich.”
“I swallowed the plans.”
“Vee haf methods.”
She is led to lie face down on the cot.
“Just on the bum.”
Geez, they’re white, they’re solid white.
Her buttocks were whipped painlessly with red string.
“Turn over,” Breavman commanded.
“The rule was: only on the bum,” Lisa protested.
“That was last time,” argued Krantz the legalist.
She had to take off her top, too, and the cot disappeared from under her and she floated in the autumnal gloom of the garage, two feet above the stone floor.
Oh my, my, my.
Breavman didn’t take his turn whipping. There were white flowers growing out of all her pores.
“What’s the matter with him? I’m getting dressed.”
“The Third Reich will not tolerate insubordination,” said Krantz.
“Should we hold her?” said Breavman.
“She’ll make a lot of noise,” said Krantz.
Now outside of the game, she made them turn while she put on her dress. The sunlight she let in while leaving turned the garage into a garage. They sat in silence, the red whip lost.
“Let’s go, Breavman.”
“She’s perfect, isn’t she, Krantz?”
“What’s so perfect about her?”
“You saw her. She’s perfect.”
“So long, Breavman.”
Breavman followed him out of the yard.
“She’s perfect, Krantz, didn’t you see?”
Krantz plugged his ears with his forefingers. They passed Bertha’s Tree. Krantz began to run.
“She was really perfect, you have to admit it, Krantz.”
Krantz was faster.