“But—”
“You said you don’t want to be treated like a child, Stan.”
“I don’t.”
“Then you’re going to have to think before you speak. And you’re going to have to realize that the hardest thing about being grown up is keeping hurtful things to yourself. You think you can get rid of a hurt like this by giving it to your mother?” She shook her head sadly. “It doesn’t work like that, Stan. You won’t divide the hurt you’re feeling, you’ll only double it. Do you really want to do that to her?”
Anguish mingled with resentment in the boy’s eyes.
“No, ma’am,” he said at last.
* * *
Cyl and I drove Stan and Lashanda back to Cotton Grove in mid-morning. Angry and confused as he was, he was still young enough to be as distracted as his little sister by all the devastation. And it truly was amazing. Andrew and A.K. had been told that it was possible to drive Old 48 into town, and it was. But only because we kept detouring and backtracking. We had heard reports of tornadoes in the night and now we could see where small ones might have touched down: swaths of woodlands where treetops had been twisted off still-standing trunks.
Trunks and limbs were everywhere. Power poles were down. Every fifth house seemed to have a big leafy tree on it somewhere, mostly on the roof, but also through windows and across porches and cars. Yet, considering the number of trees that had fallen, it was amazing how many did
As we entered town, an almost festive air hung over the streets. Everyone seemed to be out sightseeing along the sidewalks and the mood was one of good-natured excitement. Children clambered on fallen tree trunks, chattering and pointing. Neighbors called out to other neighbors who drove past with rolled-down windows despite the hot and muggy day. Part of it was amazement at so much destruction, another part had to be relief that the destruction wasn’t worse. As we crept along at a snail’s pace, I did my own share of exchanging news.
“Hey, there, Deb’rah,” folks would call. “Mr. Kezzie okay?”
“He’s fine,” I’d call back. “Y’all come through it all right? Anybody have power yet?”
“Not on this side of town. Heared it’s back on from North Main to the town limits, though.”
More detours through parts of Cotton Grove I hadn’t visited in ages, more waits for our turn to pass through the single open lanes.
“Isn’t that Jason Bullock?” asked Cyl as we were routed down an unfamiliar street.
I followed her pointing finger and there he was, coming along the driveway of a nondescript house and carrying a chain saw and gas can.
He saw us at the same time and walked over to my open window. His blue T-shirt was drenched with perspiration, flecks of sawdust sprinkled his brown hair and I smelled the strong odor of gasoline from his chain saw.
“Ms. DeGraffenried, Judge. This is really something, isn’t it?”
“That your house?” I asked. “Doesn’t look like you had much damage.”
He laughed. “Look a little closer. See that brush pile? I just finished cutting it off my car. You can’t see it from here, but the top’s got a dent the size of a fish pond and the side’s smashed in. Still, I was luckier than Mrs. Wesley down there.” He gestured to a house half a block further on, where an enormous oak had pulled out of the ground and crushed the front of a shabby old two-story frame house that had seen better days. “She’s eighty-three and her only relative’s the seventy-year-old niece who lives with her. Some of the neighbors and I are fixing to clear their yard for them.”
By this time, Lashanda had slipped out of her seat belt and was kneeling on the backseat with her forearms on the back of my seat and her small face next to mine.
“Hey, there,” she said.
Jason smiled down at her, then said to Cyl, “These aren’t your children, are they?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Actually, though, you need to meet them,” I said. “Lashanda, Stan, this is Mr. Bullock. He’s one of the men from the rescue squad that pulled your mother out of the creek night before last.”
Before he or Stan could respond, Lashanda said, “Do you have a little girl, too?”
“Nope, I’m afraid not,” said Jason.
As the cars ahead of me began to move, we said goodbye and he stood back, so we could drive on.
From the backseat, I heard Stan say, “You know him?”
“Not really. Can you do my seat belt? I can’t click it.”
“Then how come you thought he had a daughter?”
“’Cause when Mama comes to pick me up at school, he’s there, too.”
Despite the heat, a chill went down my spine at the child’s words. Making my voice as casual as I could, I said, “You’ve seen him at your school, honey?”
“Yes’m, and guess what? When we stop for groceries and stuff, he goes to the same places.”
Cyl glanced at me curiously and then her eyes widened as she picked up on what I was thinking.
Goes to the same places? Childless, white Jason Bullock “goes to the same places” as Clara Freeman, a black
