（Flames。）

The　needle　inside　the　greasy；　almost　opaque　dial　had　danced　up　to　two　hundred

and　fifteen　pounds　per　square　inch。

Another　memory　occurred　to　him；　a　childhood　memory。　There　had　been　a　wasps'

nest　in　the　lower　branches　of　their　apple　tree　behind　the　house。　One　of　his

older　brothers　—　he　couldn't　remember　which　one　now　—　had　been　stung　while

swinging　in　the　old　tire　Daddy　had　hung　from　one　of　the　tree's　lower　branches。

It　had　been　late　summer；　when　wasps　tend　to　be　at　their　ugliest。

Their　father；　just　home　from　work；　dressed　in　his　whites；　the　smell　of　beer

hanging　around　his　face　in　a　fine　mist；　had　gathered　all　three　boys；　Brett；

Mike；　and　little　Jacky；　and　told　them　he　was　going　to　get　rid　of　the　wasps。

〃Now　watch；〃　he　had　said；　smiling　and　staggering　a　little　（he　hadn't　been

using　the　cane　then；　the　collision　with　the　milk　truck　was　years　in　the　future）。

〃Maybe　you'll　learn　something。　My　father　showed　me　this。〃

He　had　raked　a　big　pile　of　rain…dampened　leaves　under　the　branch　where　the

wasps'　nest　rested；　a　deadlier　fruit　than　the　shrunken　but　tasty　apples　their

tree　usually　produced　in　late　September；　which　was　then　still　half　a　month　away。

He　lit　the　leaves。　The　day　was　clear　and　windless。　The　leaves　smoldered　but

didn't　really　burn；　and　they　made　a　smell　—　a　fragrance　that　had　echoed　back　to　him

each　fall　when　men　in　Saturday　pants　and　light　Windbreakers　raked　leaves

together　and　burned　them。　A　sweet　smell　with　a　bitter　undertone；　rich　and

evocative。　The　smoldering　leaves　produced　great　rafts　of　smoke　that　drifted　up

to　obscure　the　nest。

Their　father　had　let　the　leaves　smolder　all　that　afternoon