“Why?”
Teddy is rolling a cigarette by the light of the glove box.
Vern says, “Times a changin’.”
“Hey, that’s a Bob Dylan song,” I say. “Willard loves Bob Dylan.”
“Who’s Bob Dylan? Who’s Willard?” Vern asks.
“Bob Dylan is a popular singer and Willard lives next door to us. He smokes hemp.”
“That a fact?”
“Yes, it is. Did ya know if ya smoke hemp it relaxes ya?” I ask, picturing Willard’s deboned- looking body when he’s done inhaling the stuff. Hemp grows like weeds around here, in the ditches.
“Hemp smokin’ is relaxin’, huh? Maybe we should look into that, Teddy.”
The golden light from the radio bounces off his brother’s teeth as he runs his startling pink tongue across his white rolling paper.
I say, “Miss Florida says people do not like me anymore in Browntown. Why?”
“You’s the wrong color,” Vern says.
“Colored folks are mad at white folks?” Even though I may sound surprised, I’m really not. I can understand them being mad at people who treat them rude. “But I’m a nice white folk.”
When Teddy lights up his cigarette, the glow of the tip warms up his face. He’s got a scar on his chin that matches the lightning bolt that just flashed above the lake.
“Yeah, you’s a nice white folk,” Vern answers. “But some of the coloreds, they’s not lookin’ on the inside of a body no more, they’s only interested in the outside.”
“But then, aren’t those colored folks actin’ just as ignorant as those white folks? Decidin’ if somebody is good or bad because of what shade they are?”
Vern gives me a strong nod of approval. “Ya know, for a girl wit a messed-up brain, ya say some very reasonable things.”
“Appreciate you sayin’ that, Vern. I’ve been working real hard at gettin’ more reasonable.”
“Well, ya can work your brain ’til it’s blistered, but ya ain’t never gonna be able to reason out hate.”
Him saying that breaks my heart, for I’ve found hating doesn’t make you feel too good. Well, maybe it makes you feel good for a little while. Sort of powerful and all, thinking up ways to have at a certain somebody. (Sneaky Tim Ray.) To get back at him for making you feel less right than you already do.
Just as we come upon Buster Malloy’s farm, the rain lets loose. I can’t see his place through the trees, but I know his mansion is made of bricks and has a four-car garage.
Over my head, Vern says to Teddy, “Haskell says nobody’s been paid this week for pickin’. Buster better get hisself back soon or-”
“He won’t be back,” I blurt. “Mr. Buster is dead.”
Next to me on the seat, Teddy Smith stiffens like a Sunday shirt.
“Buster dead?” Vern says. “No, he ain’t.”
“Would you like to see his body?” pops out before I realize I can’t really do that. That’d blow my plan to kingdom come.
“Where it at?” Vern asks with a lot of suspicion.
“I… I… can’t remember right at this moment but when I do, I will call you on the telephone.”
Vern says, “Ya do that,” crooking his eyebrow up at Teddy, who is still awfully starched.
We’re quiet, listening to the radio and the rain ’til we make the last turn toward home. Pulling up to the cottage, the truck’s headlights spotlight Grampa. Like he’s the star of a magic show, the windshield wipers are making him appear and disappear. He’s perched on a pail, his legs planked out, not even trying to keep his shotgun dry.
Vern says soft, “Ya in for it now, Gibber.”
Reverend Jack
Cray Ridge is perched on the shores of Lake Mary, which is a good-size body of water. Not so large that you can’t see across it, but when the sun is out, you do need to squint. I can see how the smallness of the town might get on some folks’ nerves, but I find it quite enchanting. It’s only six blocks long with trees running along Main Street. And the brick buildings have ivy twisting up their sides. Since you gotta pass through it on your way to the big cave down south, most of the shops and attractions do okay during the hot months selling trinkets and such.
Reverend Jack and me are sitting on the steps of his front porch that’s right next door to the Cumberland United Methodist. He’s a handsome fellow with brown hair trimmed into a crew cut so short that you can see summer beading all over his skull. Besides being a pastor, he’s got a doctoring degree from the University of Mississippi in psychology, which he has explained to me is the study of a person’s Psyche: A human’s soul, spirit or mind. What this means is that he tries to unravel the reasons for why folks do and feel things.
“Do I understand the situation correctly?” the reverend asks.
'S’pose so,” I say, watching Keeper give his paws a going-over.
“An elaboration would be most helpful.”
“Grampa’s upset ’cause I went to Browntown last night. He told me that if he was a hide- tannin’ man, both Clever’s and my bottoms’d look like his cowboy saddle right about now.”
When I first started coming to see the reverend, we spoke mostly about how wretched it feels to be an orphan. And how it’s all right to feel sad about that and it isn’t at all like feeling sorry for yourself, even though Grampa says it is. But now that some time has passed, whenever
“Gibby?”
A heavenly smell is wiggling our way out of Loretta’s Candy World-Home of the Best Chocolate-Covered Cherries in the Universe and Beyond. Miss Loretta gets out of bed before the rooster crows to melt these hunks of chocolate in silver bins that are warm and shiny and-
“Do you understand why your grampa is upset with you?” Reverend Jack asks.
“I have friends in Browntown.”
He twiddles his thumbs. Round and round and round. “Do you know what the word
If I had my leather-like with me, I could look it up in my
“Gib?” He taps my shoulder. “Racism?”
“Spell it, please.”
“R-a-c-i-s-m.”
“Does it… does it have something to do with running?”
“No,” he says, rubbing his palm cross the top of his bristly head, which I perceive he does when he’s searching for the right words. “Racism means that some people do not care for people who are of a different color than they are.”
