Read Online Behind the Curtain by Peter Abrahams - Free Book Online Page B

faster, almost reckless, never took a single measurement, but after a very short time there stood a perfect box, about six feet square and three feet high, with a hinged door and even a roof.
    “Forgot the windows,” he said, changing saw blades, and zip, zip, cut out three round windows. “Know the story about Giotto?” he said.
    “Who’s Giotto?”
    “Some painter guy trying out for a job,” saidGrampy. “The pope says let’s see how good you are, so what does Giotto do?”
    “What, Grampy?”
    “Draws him a little circle,” said Grampy. “But perfect.”
    How did Grampy know something like that? He’d never shown any interest in art. She looked at him closely. He caught the look and said, “Not this pope, of course. Earlier.”
    “Did he get the job, whatever his name was?” Ingrid said.
    Something about her question made Grampy smile. “No idea,” he said. “Ask your mom.”
    “My mom?”
    “Head on her shoulders, your mom,” said Grampy. “She’s the one told me the story.” He handed Ingrid a pitchfork. “Get some of that hay into the box.” He picked up the tools and went into the barn.
    Ingrid tossed a few forkfuls of hay through the hinged doorway. From the barn came some high-pitched squeaks. Grampy came out with a squirming pink thing in his arms.
    “A pig, Grampy? You’re going to have animals again?”
    “Just the one piglet for now,” said Grampy, stooping to shove it into the box. “Tax purposes.”
    The piglet poked its snout through one of the round windows, made miserable noises.
    “Ugly little fella,” Grampy said.
    “I think he’s kind of cute,” said Ingrid. “What does tax purposes mean, Grampy?”
    Grampy took a Slim Jim from his pocket, peeled off the wrapper, offered it to Ingrid.
    “No thanks.”
    He bit off a piece, held the rest out for the pig, who scarfed it up with one snort. “All on paper, the tax situation,” he said, and set off toward the house, Ingrid following. The pig started whining before they were out of sight.
    “Should we give him a name?” Ingrid said.
    Grampy shook his head. “Only makes it harder in the end,” he said.
     
    Grampy had a great kitchen with wide-plank pine floors and a huge fireplace—big enough for roasting grown-up pigs, Ingrid recalled, which used to happen long ago. But he didn’t have a fire going and it was cold. Ingrid touched a radiator.
    “Is the heat on?” she said. At 99 Maple Lane, theheat went on by the middle of October; earlier if Mom had her way.
    “Not till Thanksgiving,” said Grampy.
    He stood by the table, searching through the mail. There were piles and piles of it. Ingrid went over. Piles and piles of mail, almost all unopened, going back for weeks.
    “Here we go,” he said, pulling out an envelope. It had one of those green Registered Mail stickers, meaning the mailman had stuck around for Grampy’s signature. He handed her the letter.
    Dear Mr. Hill,
    It has come to the attention of the Echo Falls Board of Assessors that your property on Route 392, town lots 103 A through T, is no longer a working farm. Accordingly, your tax category for the upcoming fiscal year has been changed from D to A. You have thirty days to appeal this ruling.
    Sincerely,
Scrawled Signature
    “What does it mean?” Ingrid said.
    “Means they’re bloodsuckers,” said Grampy. “Pure and simple.”
    “Who?”
    “All of them,” said Grampy, waving his hands. He was getting agitated, all at once seemed older. “The whole town.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    He jabbed at the letter. “Farms are D. Houses are A. Get it now?”
    Ingrid didn’t. “Sorry, Grampy.”
    He looked angry for a moment; then his face softened. “Farms don’t get taxed. Houses do.”
    “Oh.”
    “And the more acres you got, the more you pay. I own more acres than anybody in town.”
    “You do?”
    “Know how much the taxes are going to be?”
    “How much?”
    “The earth,” Grampy said.
    “But it’s going to be all