Just a picture, of an old Indian man and three young boys; all dressed for church. The boys were in 12.99 slacks from Walmart and white shirts passed down from their older brothers or cousins. Only Sam's collar was buttoned all the way to the top; some would say the first faint sign of his furture sexual preference. Andy had a jacket on, a miniture of his dad's dark grey tweed. Casey was irrevernt in a shirt that was unbuttoned at the throat, and hair that stuck up in the back.

Mr. Greybull was in the middle, his skin just five shades darker than his polyester brown suit and red tie. The shirt a stark contrast to his black hair, neatly cut but still very thick.

They were lined up and posed, someone thinking it might be a nice contrast to have the young and the old together in a picture; such fine upstanding boys and such a dignified old man.

They were lying to the camera. They were not nice young boys who would go far and have families and lots of children. Sam turned out a computer programmer in Texas and 'gayer than all France' as older men said it. He stood in that picture with his clothes neat and pressed and tidy - barely smiling and hair perfectly combed. Standing next to boys who were tough and swore and spit. Andy was his father all over again; doomed to be a short man trying to carve a living out of trees that weren't there. Andy drove heavy equipment when he was eight and got his first chainsaw when he turned thirteen; he never got out of debt, and never stopped logging. Just like his dad they cleaned up for one day only. Casey would never grow out of being tough, and never grow out of resenting being dressed up. He was a firefighter and a cowboy and now dressing up for him was putting on his cleanest pair of jeans to head down to the bar. None of them got married, and turned out rough in their own ways.

At least, those are the rumors. People drifted away, moved for work, changed religion and any news came from parents and grandparents occaisionly keeping in touch.

Mr. Greybull had died, outlived by his wife. Everyone said he 'was a very nice man'.

Looking at the picture again it was obvious the common bond was uncomfortable insecurity; but only the boys showed it. Greybull was sitting easily in the center; a nice, quiet old man in his Sunday best.

He could have been a drunkard or a slouch; he could have watched porn - child or otherwise. He could have beat his wife or his kids or cheated on his taxes.

Or, he could have been brilliant, a hero or the hope of everyone who knew him. He could have been a saint and a hard worker, or a role model.

White men never learned to live outside their clothes; they feel trapped, shoehorned into a corner by what they have to put on.

Indian men never learned to live in clothes; push and threaten all you want or dress them in costume or suits or loincloths and everyone will still say the same thing.

Just a picture of an old Indian man and three young boys.

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