But my feeling of triumph tends to leave me as I walk around to the back of the school and behold the vast meadow that serves as playground and sports field, on which the baseball diamond is a small thing. I will see woods at the end of the field and be saddened . . . not always thinking of the exact reason why; not always staring, merely knowing that if I look it will be there. The woods, the place, is enough. Sometimes I think those woods are cold and incomprehensible. Wild things happen there. When I look there I see futility and waste. As if the very air had become fetid and rank. Sometimes I just stare.

Depressed, I turn to go, listening for the sound of children who are already many miles away in their many homes, telling their parents of their adventures at school today, chewing on chicken and peas.

Place: The Schoolyard behind the Tims Creek Elementary School.

Time: 7:05 A.M. April 30, 1984.

The sun is just above the trees in the east. The sunlight sparkles in morning dew on the grass. JIMMY stands at the rear of a large red-brick structure trimmed in white. He stands at the edge of a long meadow. Across the grass, HORACE walks near the woods. He is dressed in a large navy-blue woolen coat. He wears nothing else, no pants, no shoes or shirt. The coat is not buttoned. HORACE is carrying a gun. He motions for JIMMY to come to him. JIMMY is hesitant at first, but walks slowly toward HORACE. HORACE advances toward JIMMY. HORACE has a strange, almost clownlike smile on his face.

JIMMY (baffled): Horace? What . . . What are you doing here? What are you wearing? What are you doing with Uncle Zeke’s gun? Do you realize you can catch TB walking around here practically naked? Have you lost your mind?

HORACE: (leveling the gun at JIMMY): I think he has . . . lost his mind—to me, that is.

JIMMY (angrily): What is on your face? Horace, is this some kind of game?

HORACE (smiling): Fraid not, Preacher-boy.

JIMMY: Horace, I don’t—

HORACE: Bulletin, Chief: A: Name’s not Horace. B: I don’t care what you think.

JIMMY (hesitant at first, then sarcastic): Oh, you don’t, huh? What is your name then . . . sir?

HORACE: Wouldn’t you like to know?

JIMMY (pausing awhile with a look of disbelief): Horace, I’m really not in the mood for this. You’re reaching the end of my patience. Do you want to explain this—

HORACE: No. I do not want to explain anything to you, mate.

JIMMY: Horace! Damn it—

HORACE: Ah-ah-ah. Horace ain’t home.

(They stand this way for minutes, JIMMY narrowing his eyes as if to think of some reason behind this strange sight. He finally shakes his head, shrugs, and turns away.)