from beneath his long lashes. Then Davey felt sorry and relented. They both headed for the swings.
After the mustard and ketchup face-smearing contest, it was time to wander over to edge of the street and await the first entry in the parade to pass by. Again, it was the clown act.
Not remembering his reaction to them from the year before, Davey’s eyes glinted with joy watching the antics of the colorful clowns as they rode their small cycles and cars.
“One, two, three, four, five,” he counted on his raised fingers. “There are five of them, Mommy, Daddy!”
Then Davey let out a sudden gasp of fright, as one of the tricycling clowns came too close to him. Davey stumbled backward to hide behind his mother’s legs not realizing he’d done the exact same thing the year before.
His mother smiled down upon his head and said, “What are you hiding for, Davey? You’re not scared of him, are you?”
“No, Momma, not scared!” He lifted his eyes and stared boldly at the clown face in front of him. At that moment, the entertainer swung around and continued down the curb, seeking another little one to terrorize, all in the name of fun, of course.
As Davey watched, craning his neck sideways, he spotted Wilson down the line, standing next to his own parents. Wilson was laughing and laughing, like he would never stop. Then, he extended his small hand out to touch the clown’s face.
Don’t! Don’t do that, Wilson! Don’t touch him! Davey had no idea why he thought that way and how much he wanted to yell those words out loud, but at the same time, he knew how stupid they would sound to everyone around him, so he held back.
Davey gasped again, watching the scene unfold, as if it were in slow motion. Wilson just barely swept his chubby hand over the painted cheek of the grinning clown, when he jerked it back like he’d come into contact with a hot, burning coal. He hid his fist under one arm and giggled uncertainly. The rider on the small bike continued on his wobbly way.
Then the moment passed. When everything returned to normal, Davey let out his breath, again. Whew! he thought. That was strange. Davey went to play and forgot about the little performance with the clown.
“What? WHAT?” June was on the phone in the kitchen the following day, her eyes wide as she listened to the person on the other end. Her husband shot her an inquisitive look, to which she waved him off and laid one finger across her lips to silence any questions he might utter.
“No. I can’t believe it! That poor, little boy. Why, he’s in the same class as...” June stopped speaking when she realized her son had wandered into the room.
She sat heavily on a nearby stool and said softly, “Do you mind if I call you back in a bit? I have to fix something for the boys to eat...” She waited a moment. “Okay. Later then.”
“I want Cheerios!” Davey said.
“What’s the magic word?” asked his Dad with a half-frown on his face.
“Abracadabra!” his son shot back, then playfully ran around the table before his father could swat his behind.
With a twinkle in his eye, Davey sat down and said, “Okay, puleeeze may I have Cheerios for breakfast?”
“That’s better, son.”
Half way through the bowl of cereal, Davey noticed that his parents weren’t eating anything. They only sipped on their cups of black coffee. Davey’s eyes moved back and forth from face to face, wondering what was wrong, why is something different this morning? It was like they were waiting for something. He continued to watch them warily, until he finished the last spoonful.
“Can I go out and play with Slingshot, now?” he asked. “Maybe he needs to take a walk.”
“Okay, Davey, but you know the rule––only to the end of the block and back again.” Both parents watched him walk slowly out the kitchen door. It made him feel weird. He snatched the leash off the hook on the porch and stepped into the yard.
Once out of their sight, he called, “Here, Slingshot, here boy!”, then slid down the outside wall until he was just within hearing range of the kitchen.
“What’ll we do? How shall we tell Davey about this...?” June began.
“About what? You haven’t even clued me in on whatever it is, yet!” said Guy.
“Oh, I’m sorry! That was my friend down the street, Amy Witherton. She said that the little Royle boy, Wilson––you