（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