“People around here ain’t going to take it,” Prescott was saying. He was no longer looking at Brown, but prowling ahead down the endless corridor between the trellises. One hand held the radio to his ear while his free arm cradled the riot gun, its butt on his hip. “They used to take all these sit-ins and all that crap, but not any more. People are mad. You think you’re going to crucify me in that sheet of yours if I blast one of these guys? You read your letters column. Read your own editorials.”

  “They don’t do any harm. They sleep on the sand in here and talk and eat a few grapes. Less than the birds. What harm does that do?”

  “You try telling that to one of these growers. They—” Prescott stiffened in midsentence, his head up, listening to the walkie-talkie. “Hey! The copter’s got one spotted. Come on!”

  He was off at a clumsy run before Brown could collect his wits enough to follow, then ducked sideways through a hole in the vines much as the boy he had shot at earlier had. Afraid that he would miss the action entirely, Brown was forced to sprint to keep him in sight. There were distant shouts from other deputies moving unseen down other aisles. Apparently in response to his radio Prescott bulled his way through the trellises again, Brown closer behind him now.

  Ahead of them a figure with flying hair dashed away. Prescott halted and raised his gun, then lowered it again and set off in pursuit. The helicopter close overhead made a sound like a washing machine and, whipping the leaves like a hurricane, blew choking dust.

  Looking past Prescott, Brown saw their quarry, a girl in a gaudy op-art smock, trying to break through the wall of green into another aisle. Beyond her he glimpsed the blue-clad deputy who had cut off her escape. Prescott shouted something and fired into the air.

  The girl stopped and turned to face them, her arms dangling loose at her sides. Tears were cutting bright channels through the dirt the helicopter had blown onto her face. “Up! Get them up!” The girl raised her hands slowly.

  Brown thought: I brought her. She read what I wrote and thought the vineyards would be a new kick, a new game. It was as though the girl were his daughter, and he was powerless to help her. She had blue eyes and long legs like a colt’s, heavily tanned. Brown legs, he thought. Brown face. Brown hair.

  The other deputy came up behind her, puffing and red faced. “All right,” Prescott demanded, “what’s your name?”

  “Jane,” the girl said. She held her head proudly, but the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  “Where are you from, Jane?”

  “Oz.”

  “Don’t give me any of that.” Prescott advanced a step toward her. “Where are you from?” He had hooked the radio on his belt, and with the riot gun resting in the crook of his elbow, he held pencil poised over note pad.

  “Tarzana.”

  “That’s part of L.A., ain’t it?” He looked at her suspiciously. “I thought that place changed its name.”

  “If you say so.”

  A third deputy arrived, thrusting his way through the vines, and looked curiously at the girl. “Better bring her out, Prescott. Sheriff says he wants to see her.” Brown took a picture of the three of them with her, the flash almost invisible in the brilliant sunshine. With him bringing up the rear they began the walk back to the road, feet crunching softly in the dry sand, the girl erect as a young palm between Prescott and the second deputy.

  When they had gone perhaps a hundred feet Brown halted, changing plates in the camera and exchanging the spent flash bulb for a fresh one. Culough would want a picture of the sheriff with the girl.

  Fingers drove his nose and lips back, crushing them against the bony parts of his face, and held them there. He thrust out his arms, flinging away the camera as he was jerked backward into the tangle of vines; then he jolted against the ground and was staring up into a broad, sun-darked face framed in straggling hair.

  “If you yell, I’ll break your back.”

  “I won’t yell.” Blood from his lips ran salty in his mouth, but Brown forced himself to relax, lying back against the sand. In leopard-patterned shorts the other towered over him, his shoulders wide as a bulldozer blade and his arms as thick as Brown’s thighs. Unexpectedly he bent down again, slipping his hands inside Brown’s coat to touch his chest and armpits. “I don’t have a gun,” Brown said. “I’m a newspaper reporter. Honestly.”

  The young giant twitched his head almost imperceptibly in the direction the deputies had taken. “I’m going to fight them. You going to fight for them?”

  “To help them?” Brown shook his head. “No. I only want to watch so I can write about it later, Tarzan.”

  The broad face remained immobile, but Brown sensed that he had scored, if only ever so slightly. A muscle-beach boy? Wrestler? Someone who wandered in here looking for a leader and found himself cast in the part.

  As Brown spat away blood, the giant turned and loped off down the corridor between the trellis rows, pausing only occasionally to peer through the leaves into the aisle the deputies had taken. At last he stopped, and Brown, who had sprung up to follow, was able to catch up. Through the living barrier, he could hear the deep mutter of the deputies voices.

  Then the giant plunged through.

  By the time Brown could follow, the group had exploded like a herd of prize steers ambushed by a tiger. One burly officer actually flew, both feet in the air from the force of the blow he had taken, and the ground shook when he fell.

  Then Prescott’s riot gun flashed back, and forward, the stock slamming against the giant’s head. A second time, and the wooden butt splintered. The giant pitched on his face. Brown ran to get his camera.

  When he returned, Prescott was putting handcuffs on the unconscious man’s huge wrists. The deputy he had seen sailing through the air a few moments before was sitting up, moaning with pain as the third officer tried to straighten the suddenly warped line of his chin. “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” Brown said. “His jaw’s broken. Where’s the girl?”

  “She got away.” Prescott stood up as the cuffs clicked shut. “What the hell do you think? But we got the big guy here, and he’s worth more than all the rest put together.” For a moment he looked down at the injured deputy, then nodded in agreement with Brown’s diagnosis. “That’s busted all right.” To the uninjured one he said, “Help him up and take him to the car so they can get him to the hospital. I’ll stay here with the prisoner until he can walk or you can send somebody out.”

  Brown helped lift the deputy with the fractured jaw to his feet, and Prescott asked, “You want to go with them?”

  Brown shook his head, gesturing at the unconscious giant. “This is where the story is. I’ll stay here.” The two deputies left.

  After a moment Prescott asked, “Say, where were you when the fight started?”

  “Back a way,” Brown said vaguely. Now that the excitement was over he was beginning to feel the heat again. Even in the dry air his shirt was soaked with sweat. He fanned himself with his hat, and for a few minutes neither of them spoke. The thrashing of the helicopter was no longer audible.

  Prescott picked up his riot gun, dusted sand from it, then dropped it again. Besides the damage to the stock, the barrel was at least fifteen degrees out of true. “Well, you can put it in your story that this kook busted a hell of a good Winchester gun for me.”

  Brown did not answer. He was watching the prisoner, whose eyes now showed a tiny crevice of awareness at the base of the lids. His arms had not moved, but they were knotted now with effort. Brown looked away, pretending to search the sky for the helicopter, hoping that Prescott would be deceived by the misdirection. The steel link that held the manacles snapped.

  The Little Stranger

  Dear Cousin Danny:

  Please forgive me for troubling you with another letter. I know you understand. You are the only family I have, and as you are dead you probably do not mind. I am lonely, terribly lonely, living alone way out here. Yesterday I drove into town, and at the supermarket Brenda told me how lucky I am. She has to check groceries all day, keep house, and look after three children. I would love to know whether she divorced him or he divorced her, but I do not like to ask. You know how that is.

  And why. I would dearly love to know why.

  I said I would trade with her if I could stand up to so much work, which I could not, and I would take her children anytime and take care of them for as long as she wanted. They could run through the woods, I said, play Monopoly and Parcheesi, and explore the old road. I should have said only the girls, but I did not think of that in time, Danny. Not that I have anything against you boys, but I don’t know much about them or taking care of them.

  One time Sally Cusick showed me her husband’s fish. There was a big lady fish and a little man fish, very shiny and silvery, and Sally said the man fish just came and went and that was that. I said I thought that was about how people were too, but Sally did not agree and has not had me over since although I have had her twice and invited her three times, one time when she said she could not come because the rain, as if rain ever stopped her from going anywhere. She is my nearest neighbor, and I could ride my bicycle down Miller Road and up the County Road and come anytime.

  Brenda gave me the name of a plumber friend of hers. It is Jack C. Swierzbowski. I have called him (phoned), and he says he will come.

  Every time I turn on the hot water the whole house moans. I think that when I told you about this before, Danny, I said it yelled but it is really more of a moan. Or bellow, like a cow. It is a big house. I know you must remember my house from when you came as a little boy and we played store and all that. Well, probably you remember it bigger than it really is. But it is big. Five big bedrooms and all the other rooms like the big cold dining room. I never eat in there anymore. You and I would eat in my merry little kitchen, in the breakfast nook.

  If Brenda really sends her girls to me someday that is where we will eat, all three crowded around the little table in the breakfast nook, and for the first day we will make chicken soup and bake brownies and cookies.

  There it goes again, and I am not even running the water. Maybe I left it on somewhere, I will see.

  Hugs,

  Your cousin Ivy

  · · · ·

  Dear Cousin Danny:

  I do not know whether I ever told you what a relief it is to me to write you like this, but it is. I never write to Mama or Papa because I saw them before they were embalmed and everything, and I went to the funerals. But I feel like you are still alive, so I can do it. I put on a stamp but no return address. That nice Mr. Chen at the Post Office said yesterday it might go to the Dead Letter Office, and I said yes that is where I want it to go. I did not even smile, but it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud.

  Mr. Swierzbowski came and worked for three hours and even got up on the roof, three floors up. Then he turned on the water to show me and it was as quiet as mice. But last night it was doing it again. I do not think I will call him again. It was almost two hundred dollars and I am so afraid he will fall.

  I went for a ramble in the woods after he left, Danny, remembering how you and I played there. If Brenda sends her girls to stay with me for a while, they will go out there and talk about it afterward, and I ought to know the places.

  So I started learning today. It is sad to see how much was fields and farms back in the colonial times. Now it is woods all over again and the Mohawks would feel right at home, but they are gone. You can still see the square hole where the old Hopkins place stood, but it is filling up. Father used to say that the Hopkins were the last people around except us. He did not count the Cusicks, because it was too far to see their smoke. When they had a fire in the fireplace, I mean, or burned their leaves. Only I think probably Mr. Swierzbowski could have seen it when he was up on the roof. It is not so far that I could not ride over on my bicycle, Danny, and Sally drives all over.

  She does not even feed those fish. Her husband does it.

  It might be nicer if I had another cat. I used to have Pussums. She was as nice a cat as ever you saw, a calico and oh so pretty. I did not have her fixed or anything because I thought I would find a nice boy calico for her and they would have pretty kittens. I would give away the ones that were not calicos themselves, but I would keep the calicos and have three or four or even five of them. And then the mice would not come inside in the winter the way they do. It was terrible last winter.

  Only Pussums got big and wanted a boy cat, but I had not found one for her yet. And one day she just disappeared. I should have gotten another cat then, I think. I did not because I kept thinking Pussums would come back after she had her little fling. Which she has not done, and it is more than three years.

  Hugs,

  Your cousin Ivy

  · · · ·

  Dear Cousin Danny,

  Here I am, bothering you again. But a lot has happened since I wrote a week ago, and I really do need to tell somebody.

  One night I was lying in bed and I heard the house moan in the way I have told you about. A few minutes later it did it again, and it did it again a few minutes after that.

  Pretty soon I understood why it was so unhappy, Danny. It is just like Pussums. It wants another house. You were a man and would not understand, but I knew. It was not from thinking, even if I think a lot and am good at it, my teachers always said. I knew. So I got out of bed and told it as loud as I could that I would get it another house. At first I said a tool shed, but that didn’t work, so a house. A little house, hut a house.

  Well, that is what I am going to do. I am going to talk to people who build houses and have a cottage built right here on my own property. I know they will probably cheat me, but I will have to bear it and keep the cheating as small as I can. I mean to talk to Mr. LaPointe at the bank about it. I know he will advise me, and he is honest.

  So that is one thing, but just one. There is another one.

  An old truck was going up Miller Road towing a big trailer when it broke down right in front of my house here. There were two men in the truck and two ladies in the trailer, and one lady has a little baby. They are all dark, with curly black hair and big smiles, even the baby.

  The older man rang my bell and explained what had happened. He asked if he could pull his truck and the trailer up onto my front lawn until he and the other man could get the truck fixed.

  I said all right, but then I thought what if they want to come inside to use the bathroom? Should I let them in? I decided I did not know them well enough to make up my mind about that, but you cannot keep somebody who needs to come inside quickly standing on the porch while you ask questions. I went into the parlor and watched them awhile through the window. They had put the baby on the lawn. The young lady was steering, and the men and the older lady were pushing, because the lawn is higher than Miller Road, and there was the ditch and everything. I could see everyone was working hard, so I made lemonade.

  When it was ready they had tied a big chain around the biggest maple. There were zigzag ropes between the chain and their truck, turning and turning around little wheels, and they were pulling on the other end. It was working, too. They had already gotten the front end of their truck up on the grass. I went out and we had lemonade and talked awhile.

  The older man is Mr. Zoltan, and the younger one is Johnny. The older lady is Marmar. Or something like that. I cannot say it like they do. She is Mrs. Zoltan. The young lady is Mrs. Johnny, and the baby is hers. Her name is Ivy, just like mine. Her mother’s name is Suzette, and she is really quite pretty.

  I never said about the bathroom, but I decided if they asked I would let them come in, especially Suzette. Only they never have. I think they are going in the woods. Now I am somewhat scared about going to bed. What if they break in while I am sleeping?

  Well, I just went into the parlor and watched them through the window, and both men are working really hard on their truck, with flashlights to see and the engine in pieces. So I do not think they will break in tonight. They will be too tired. I will write to you again really soon, Danny.

  Hugs,

  Your cousin Ivy

  P.S. The house has been quiet as mice ever since they came.

  · · · ·

  Dear Cousin Danny:

  I have such good news! You will not believe how nicely everything is working out. Mr. Zoltan came to breakfast this morning. It was just bacon and eggs and toast, but he liked it. He drinks a lot of coffee. He said they were poor people, and they need parts for their truck. I said I did not have any, which was the truth. Then he asked if they could stay here until they could earn enough to fix their truck. Not in my house, I said. He said they would live in their trailer, like always, but if they parked it someplace without permission the police would make them leave, and they could not leave here so they would go to jail.

  That was when I got my wonderful idea. I get many wonderful ideas, Danny, but this was the most wonderful ever. I explained to Mr. Zoltan that I wanted another house built on my property. Not a big house, just a little one. I said that if he and Johnny would build it for me in their spare time, I would let them stay.

  Mr. Zoltan looked at me in a worried kind of way, then looked over at the stove. I said if they could fix a truck they could build a house, and would they do it?

  He told me all over again how poor they were. He said they would have to earn enough to buy wood and shingles and so forth. They could find some things at the dump, he said, but they would have to buy the rest. It might take a long time.

  I said that I would not ask them to buy the material, only to build me a little old-fashioned cottage like the picture I showed him. I would buy the material for them. That made him happy, and he agreed at once. He wanted to know where I wanted it built. I said you look around and decide where you think it ought to be and tell me.

  So you see, Danny, why I said I had wonderful news. The Willis Lumber Co. in town will not cheat me more than they cheat everybody, and Mr. Zoltan and Johnny will not cheat me either, because I am not going to give them any money at all.