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Masons by Bruce Jacobs
every parking space on my street after 7 they emerge from cars wielding dark suits, tote black briefcases into the stone-toothed temple. Their posture bears no hint of infanticide, but their wing-tipped scuffle recalls fraternity brother Dobson, who, my father said, terrorized our living room with His Goddamned Opinions. It was all the same to me from the shadows at the top of the stairs: warm mutterings of scholarships and cotillions wafting like cigar smoke from the assembled brethren, clink of glasses and flatware, sounds of my mother's pies shrinking to school-lunch-box size amid laughing clamors for her hand in marriage. I would only hear of the carnage much later, through their bedroom wall, my father padding barefoot, invoking the name like that of the Hydra: "Dobson!" A word that could grind a man back to lost flesh, a skinless boy stripped too early, his own stolen father buried in these deep and taunting voices. Another evening with Dobson Another brotherhood of honking dark cars Another night with no place to park.
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