The Fading Read Online Free PDF

drunk! Speeding! I saw the whole damn thing and
     you ought to sue that whole family upside down. I’ll testify, you bet I will!’
    Becky could only nod and seethe as the shock ran outof her. She kept glancing at the crumpled Cadillac, expecting the driver to stagger out and enter an argument with her. But
     no one had gotten out. The door probably wouldn’t even open, she realized as her ears stopped buzzing. Becky was grateful
     for Alice Fryeberger’s bold defense, but after another minute she couldn’t help feeling at least a pang of concern for the
     driver, whoever he was.
    ‘Your boy okay,’ Mrs Fryeberger said, more of a statement than a question.
    ‘Yes.’ She searched him again for scratches or scrapes but knew there weren’t any. If the massive car had so much as grazed
     him, he would be sprawled in the street right now, broken in five places. ‘He’s in shock. It was just so scary and I didn’t—’
    Becky’s throat locked up. She didn’t want to cry but the tears and choked sobs came anyway.
    Alice Fryeberger spat on the road and marched over to the smashed vehicle, parting the curtains of willow branches, right
     up along the driver’s door. She leaned sideways to peer inside. She scooted further along, closer to the hood. She lifted
     her chin as if inspecting fruit at the grocery store, nodded at something, and walked back, wrists folded against her bony
     hips.
    ‘Well, that’s not Tony-Anthony, the little one,’ Mrs Fryeberger said. ‘It’s his old man, the father. Anthony Sobretti Sr.
     Went to elementary school with him and used to be friends with his wife Stefana, bless her heart.’
    Becky squinted, holding her son tighter. AliceFryeberger didn’t seem upset, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked.
    ‘Ambulance,’ Becky said, but her tongue felt swollen and it didn’t come out right.
    The old woman flapped her blouse at the chest, cooling some heat that had arisen there. ‘Oh, honey. He went out the windshield.
     His head opened up pretty good on that tree. Terrible mess. He’s a goner and he ain’t coming back.’
    Becky cried, and the boy cried with her.
    Noel Shaker, age two years and seven months, did not understand what had just happened. All he knew was that he had played
     the game wrong and done a very bad thing. There was no way he could explain to Mommy now, no way to show her the thing. It
     was a bad thing and he was afraid of it. He promised himself, in whatever ways such young children are capable of, that he
     would never do it again. He cried inside this early taste of guilt, inside his promise, and stared tiredly through his tears
     over his mother’s shoulder, up the street.
    There was no sign of Dimples. He had vanished just as quickly as Noel Shaker had been restored.

6
    Few events altered the playground hierarchy like the appearance of a brand new Nerf football. Kids who barely knew one another,
     and others who possessed no speed or passing skills, suddenly flocked to the colorful foam beacon like stray dogs to a restaurant
     steak the chef has lobbed into the alley. Class divisions crumbled. Sworn enemies who had come to blows over stolen candy
     at Halloween found themselves backslapping one another after the completion of a mondo huck down the leaf-strewn sidelines.
     Shoelaces got tied in double knots. At least one tomboy crossed over from the rope-skippers to play safety. It was a mystery,
     the power this cheap toy commanded.
    But not a very deep mystery. It was an inviting ovoid, meant to be shared. The pebbled grippy fruit skin gave form to a soft
     missile that promised to chafe noses without bleeding them. In its simplicity and forgiveness, the Nerf suggested they were
     all worthy of touching it, running with it, savoring the fresh bike-tire scent of it whistling under their chins. It made
     their little hands feel as big and strong as Terry Bradshaw’s.
    Didn’t matter if the kid who brought it was the budding athletic star or the