Not only smarter, but Gideon was as mean as hell. Most folk said he came by it honest. He was the youngest son of Lucius Stone, Tims Creek’s only bootlegger. A thin, tall man, Lucius had asthma, was usually weak as a kitten, and stayed drunk on his own corn whiskey more often than he ought. But his sons—there were seven: Henry, John, Michael, Peter, David, Nathaniel, and Gideon (or Bo-Peep, Bob-Cat, Shotgun, Bago, Hot Rod, Boy-boy, and Gideon)—took after his wife, Viola, who was a Honeyblue, and Honeyblues are known for being large-boned, evil people remembered for their sloth and their strength, but never their industry. Viola was the force behind Lucius, making sure he got the whiskey down on time and taking care of the money. Gideon was their godsend, and Gideon knew it, developing an arrogance that he wielded like a weapon against all outsiders. In his father’s eyes he could do no wrong, and rarely did.

Folk in the community who did not purchase Lucius Stone’s elixir turned their noses up when a Stone walked by. And many who bought it did too. Women especially shunned Viola, saying no more than Good day, and even that grudgingly. The Stones were labeled shameful backsliders, as Ezekiel Cross would say at the dinner table. Them folks done forgot, if they ever knew, the way of the Lord. Gideon had, or at least Horace pictured it thus, selected Horace to bear the contempt he felt for the community’s throwing of the stone.

Sitting there on the stoop, Horace suddenly spied a group of boys rushing in front of the steps before him.

There were five of them, Horace, Rufus, Willie John, John Anthony, and Gideon. Horace knew he was looking at them as they had been in the seventh grade, twelve and thirteen years old. Gideon stood apart from them, a look of sheer anger on his face.

“So tell us, Gid.” John Anthony nudged Horace. “What’s it feel like to kiss a man?”

“I don’t know.” Calmly, Gideon kicked at the dirt. “Your daddy ain’t much of a man.” The guys looked at John Anthony saying, Oooooh, expecting a reaction from him.

He balled up his fist. “Don’t talk about my old man, faggot.”

Rufus ran around behind Gideon. “Hey, Gid. Want to mess around? Huh? Come on.”

“What with? . . . You? I don’t play with little animals like you farmboys.” Again, there were assorted ooohs and aaahs.

“Hey, Giiideeeooon!” Willie John stepped out, mimicking Gideon’s effeminate walk and speech, his wrist limp, his back arched, one hand on his hip. “Can you give me a tip on my makeup?”

“Willie John, honey. There ain’t no help for a face like that.”

The boys all guffawed, pointing at Willie John, who frowned and backed away from Gideon.