of them, but to their eyes I had long since become oblivion. They only saw strange, faceless men wrestling on top of cheap tableware. Reluctantly I returned to my newer world and within the bedlam saw my father attempt to grab the steak knife still spinning upon the unbused table.
Blood was streaking down his forehead—the lamp had slashed him good. He tried to wipe away an eyeful and Boggs, his compact torso contracting ferociously, took the opportunity to slam him to the table. Plates vibrated and silverware floated in midair; the steak knife twirled and Harnett’s hand pinned it to the wall. One second later it was clutched in his fist, the blade flashing.
Finally there were arms everywhere, pulling the two fighters apart, and in the tangle of bodies I saw faces that triggered recognition: here was Brownie, lifting Boggs in a backward bear hug; here was Under-the-Mud, prying Boggs’s fingers from a bloodied neck; here was Screw, restraining Boggs’s thrashing legs; here was Fisher, doing the same to Harnett; here was Crying John, already hoisting Harnett by the coat collar; and here, like a ghost, was the Apologist, gently coaxing the knife from Harnett’s fingers.
Through it, the two men roared.
“Kenny! Kenny!” Boggs cried. “What did I do?”
“We should’ve taken care of you years ago!”
“Was it my brain?” Boggs clawed desperately at the sides of his head. “Did my brain do something wrong?”
“You’re no brother to me and no son to Lionel.”
“I am! I am!” Boggs shook free from his captors and snatched up the Rotters Book. Panting, he regarded each old man in turn. The pale grief drained from his face and replaced itself with a florid loathing. “Why are all of you looking at me? I don’t exist to you, remember? Don’t any of you remember? You banished me. All of you agreed to it. That’s how much you all loved your Baby. You banished me and you want to pretend that you’re blameless. Well, go ahead. Pretend. Act like I don’t exist. Pretty soon you’ll change your mind. I swear it. You see this book?”
“Get out!” Harnett boomed. Crying John took handfuls of his clothes to keep him at bay.
“Yes, brother—oh, sorry, Mr. Resurrectionist, sir. Anything you say. Resurrectionist tells Baby what to do and Baby does it. Those are the rules, right?” He futzed with his suit until he recognized its hopeless condition. The tie slopped in an inebriated loop; the vest was missing buttons; the shirt was bedecked with food. The violation of this façade of respectability infuriated him. He grated his tiny teeth and glared at Harnett. “You’re no different than the rest of these rotters.”
“You stay in your territory,” Harnett said. “You remember Monro-Barclay and stay the hell away.”
“The pact?” Boggs laughed and a mist of blood painted his ruffles. “If I’m not your brother and I’m not Lionel’s son, then guess what? I’m an orphan again! I’m an orphan and I belong to nobody. Any pact you rotters have ain’t my concern. I plan to finish my book on schedule. And if that takes me into enemy territory, I don’t know what to say. I have no enemies. I love all of you. You know that. It’s you who don’t love me.”
Boggs limped in the direction of the door. He muttered as he passed me.
“Ask Daddy about the Rat King,” he said. “Ask Daddy about the Gatlins.” He turned up the volume so that everyone—Diggers, diners, cooks, everyone—could hear. “The Rat King? The Gatlins? Your memory, old men, is selective!”
At the mention of these curious oaths, Harnett pulled against Crying John’s embrace. Boggs ducked and crabbed sideways. After his stubby fingers hooked the handle of the front door, he scanned the crowd until his eyes found mine. “Your first hole, son. Remember the feeling? Now imagine it times a hundred. Times a thousand. Imagine how a gentleman of breeding raises his little Digger.”
Boggs slipped the Rotters Book inside his coat and I felt a stab of loss. He pushed open the door and a sparkling cone of snow turned him into some dizzying dream. A jingle of door bells, a flare of coattails, and he was gone.
Already the Diggers were threading into the crowd and loosening from my memory. The worst possible thing had happened. They had been seen, addressed in public, and now, thanks to my father’s rash behavior, would have to disperse far sooner than they had hoped. As the interlopers withdrew, the surrounding gawkers took on even finer dimension.