Silas was out of the leaves and halfway across the yard, brushing dirt from his knees, before Larry realized he was gone from his side. Striding away, he seemed taller than he had when they’d met.
Still frozen, Larry watched Silas walk up to the two drunk white men on the porch, both speechless at his appearance.
“Yall leave that girl alone,” he said.
Cecil let go of Cindy and she cinched up her towel and stood watching the black boy down in their yard, as speechless as everybody else, then she turned and went inside, the door slamming behind her.
The noise startled Cecil. “Who you, boy?”
But Silas was walking, around the deck and house, heading for the road.
“Wait,” Carl was saying. “Hey, boy!” He came down the steps with his bottle and circled the house but Silas had sprinted away, gone for good.
Larry began to inch down the land in the rustling leaves like a reptile and lay breathing hard at the bottom. He was about to rise with his rifle and trudge home when, above him, Carl stepped into the tree line. He stood gazing about, maybe looking to see were there more black boys in the woods, and Larry lay flat, thankful for his camouflage. Carl kinked his hip and unzipped his fly and reached into his pants. Larry looked away as his father hosed out piss that crackled in the dry leaves like a fire. When he finished he stood a moment.
“Hey, Carl!”
It was Cecil.
“Any more natives down yonder? Don’t get stobbed by no spear.”
When Larry opened his eyes his father was gone from the top of the hill.
HE FOUND SILAS flinging his baseball at a stout magnolia and fielding the returns.
“Thanks for helping her,” he said.
Silas wound up and threw into the tree. Instead of fielding, he let the ball die in the weeds. “You always spying on people,” he said.
“I don’t spy.”
“You ever take that girl on a date?”
Larry didn’t answer.
“You wasn’t gone help her.”
“I wanted to.”
Silas watched him a moment, then got his ball and began to walk toward home and Larry followed. It was cooler in the woods and they crunched over the leaves and ducked branches. At one point when the brush cleared Silas sprinted ahead and turned, still running, and pivoted and threw the baseball back toward Larry. Larry reached for it but closed his eyes and missed and it bounced behind him and disappeared.
“Shit,” Silas said.
He hurried past Larry and began looking for the ball.
LARRY KNEW SOMETHING was wrong when he walked in the back door, on his way to place the.33 in its green velvet slot in the gun cabinet in the hall.
Carl sidestepped out of the kitchen to face him.
“Come here,” he said.
Larry willed himself to walk toward his father, who seized him by his sleeve and dragged him into the living room. He took the rifle from Larry.
“Where’s my Marlin?”
Larry looked down at his hands.
“Get it,” his father said.
Larry didn’t move.
“Boy.”
“I ain’t got it, Daddy.”
“ ‘Ain’t got it, Daddy.’ ”
“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.”
Larry’s mother was behind them now. “Carl,” she said.
Carl held up his finger to her and looked at his son. “Where’s my dad-blame rifle, boy?”
Larry was kneading his fingers. “I let my friend use it.”
“Friend,” his father said. “I didn’t know you had none.”
“Carl-”
“Ina Jean, this boy’s subcontracting out my firearms. I want to know who it is. Well?”
Larry didn’t answer.
“I ain’t asking again.”
“That boy we picked up.”
“What boy?”
“Silas.”
“Silas,” his father said. “Silas that nigger boy?”
“Carl.”
His father moved his face so close Larry could smell beer and cigarettes, and in that moment he knew that Carl had seen him at the bottom of the hill. “Just a dad-blame minute. You give my gun to your nigger friend?”
“Carl, stop it.”
He looked at his wife pointing her finger.
“Carl Ott, I said stop it right now.”
His father let Larry’s sleeve go. “Maybe you right. You want to have em over for dinner after church?”
“You’re-” she said, “you’re just-”
“Tomorrow,” Carl told Larry. “Tomorrow first thing you get your ass out there where they’re squatting and get my god dang Marlin back. Is that clear, boy?”
“Carl, your language.”
“Ina Jean, this is not the time.”
“Then when is? How long they gone live there, Carl?”
“Shut your mouth.”
“It ain’t proper.”
Larry had wedged himself into the corner behind his father’s chair.
“Proper,” his father said.
“If they don’t leave,” his mother said, “then me and Larry are. Tonight.”
For a moment it seemed his father might laugh, then he just shook his head. “Don’t tempt me,” he said.
“Carl,” she whispered.
He flapped a hand at Larry. “When you able to come out of the corner-”
“Carl.”
“Just get the gun back,” he said through his teeth. “Whether you’re here tomorrow or not.”
He went up the hall to the front and banged opened the screen door and went onto the porch and the screen door closed slowly in his wake.
“Carl,” she called, following him, peering through the screen. “Where you going? ”
From behind the chair, Larry couldn’t hear what he said.
THAT NIGHT, AS she had every night of his life, his mother came into his room and sat on his bed. He was facing the wall and didn’t turn around, even when he felt her hand, its familiar odor of dish soap, rest on his shoulder.
“Larry?”
He didn’t answer.
“Son?”
During his attacks of asthma, she’d stayed up with him as he struggled to breathe-nights were worse-rubbing Vicks on his chest, and they’d prayed together for the asthma to go away. When her rooster began to crow he’d know the long nights were nearly over. In first grade he’d told her how he asked Shelly Salter to marry him, sent her a note with two boxes drawn at the bottom, check yes or no. She’d checked no. “Silly girl,” his mother had said, rubbing his chest. “Good-looking boy like you? If I wasn’t your mother I’d set my cap for you.” In second grade, the
