At the back of the gym, Ray Delgado put his hat against his chest.
He opened his mouth.
And very softly, in a rough, off key, terrible voice, he started to sing.Pages:6
“Saturday morning, kitchen’s warm…”
Ray’s voice was so quiet at first that I’m not sure anyone in the front rows heard it.
Then the officer beside him joined in. Then the next. Then it was moving along the wall like a current, low and uneven, forty three cops who couldn’t carry a tune between them, singing a silly made up song about pancakes in an elementary school accent of a gym.
“…pancakes burning, here’s the storm.
Little hands upon the pan…”
On the stage, Caleb made a sound I’d never heard from him. Half a laugh, half a sob. He wiped his face with his whole forearm, roughly, the way little boys do.
