Read Online Blue Hole Back Home: A Novel by Joy Jordan-Lake - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joy Jordan-Lake
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settled in to something that crept past civil and almost to warm.
After dinner, we began to stagger our way toward Emerson’s truck, arms draped around each other’s shoulders. I turned my head back to Hog Wild, satisfied, and glimpsed Mort’s truck in the corner of the dirt lot. Wiping the last of barbecue sauce from his mouth with his forearm, he must’ve been there at Steinberger’s some time already and we’d just not seen him and they must not have seen us. He and Buddy, their bulky backs to us, were walking away from the picnic tables and toward Mort’s truck. They were sauntering first, and then Mort lifted Buddy’s wrist for a look at his watch. They both broke into a run.
I nudged Jimbo, who was beside me, his right arm over my shoulders, his left over Welp’s.
“What do you suppose,” I whispered to Bo, “the two of them are off to this time of night?”
Bo shrugged. He could be irritating that way, his not getting worked up when worry seemed rooted in nothing but air.
By the time we stopped by Dairy Queen for chocolate-dipped cones on the way to drop Farsanna off, the fireflies had already begun damping their lights for darkness to tuck the town into sleep.
Sleepy and no longer hungry, we curled up next to each other like kittens, and Em’s engine purred for us. My head resting against Bo, I idly pedaled the warm air with bare feet.
“What could I grow up and do for a living,” I murmured into his shoulder, “and never wear shoes?”
His eyebrows crumpled together in one long, shaggy line. “Well, lemme cogitate now. There’s surfing. And pearl-diving. And there’s professions I can’t pronounce in the presence of ladies.”
I nuzzled in closer. “Hmm. What else?”
He ran a hand down my hair. “Or we could keep doing this.”
“You think,” Bobby Welpler wanted to know, “that we could?” He looked, I thought, about four years old just then, his mouth gone all round and hopeful.
Bo closed his eyes, nodding. “Day in, day out. Day up, day down. Day good, bad, and ugly.”
“How ’bout,” I whispered, “we just skip all the ugly?”
He rested his chin on the top of my head. “All right, then. We’ll skip all the ugly.”
“Hey … Bo?” I whispered.
“Hmm?”
“You don’t reckon …”
“Don’t reckon what, Turtlest?”
“You don’t reckon Mort’s gonna do anything with that gun, do you? I mean, anything besides cart it around like he’s always done?”
Bo tightened his arm around me. “Shoot.”
“You … don’t think he will, do you?”
He chuckled into my hair. “Shoot no’s what I meant. His kind’s all blam and no bullet.”
I thought about this. “But … Bo?”
“You plan on ever letting a man sleep?”
“Bo, you may be right about Mort all by himself. But what about as a group?”
“Mort’s big enough to be his own group.”
“I meant … you know how wild dogs, by themselves, wouldn’t do much harm but eat trash, but once you let them start running in a pack—”
“And then you got trouble.” His chin still on the top of my head, I could feel him nodding. That was all the reassurance he offered just then. But just then, it was enough.
Jimbo was right, I had decided. Mort was mostly a loner, except when he ran with Buddy. And Buddy only followed whatever Mort did. Mort himself, Jimbo had said and I was believing, was all swagger and snarl. Him and his gun for a security blanket.
Everyone’s eyes were closed by that time except mine, and I’d like to think Emerson’s because he was driving—and maybe also the new girl’s, whose head was turned toward the white wake of taillights behind us that sometimes washed red. We rode in silence down the Pike, Em pulling his truck onto back roads that led to the Look. Slowing, he followed the two-lane road without guardrails that traced the edge of our mountain. Far below, the lights of the valley below winked back at us—those of us who opened our eyes to see them. L. J.
After dinner, we began to stagger our way toward Emerson’s truck, arms draped around each other’s shoulders. I turned my head back to Hog Wild, satisfied, and glimpsed Mort’s truck in the corner of the dirt lot. Wiping the last of barbecue sauce from his mouth with his forearm, he must’ve been there at Steinberger’s some time already and we’d just not seen him and they must not have seen us. He and Buddy, their bulky backs to us, were walking away from the picnic tables and toward Mort’s truck. They were sauntering first, and then Mort lifted Buddy’s wrist for a look at his watch. They both broke into a run.
I nudged Jimbo, who was beside me, his right arm over my shoulders, his left over Welp’s.
“What do you suppose,” I whispered to Bo, “the two of them are off to this time of night?”
Bo shrugged. He could be irritating that way, his not getting worked up when worry seemed rooted in nothing but air.
By the time we stopped by Dairy Queen for chocolate-dipped cones on the way to drop Farsanna off, the fireflies had already begun damping their lights for darkness to tuck the town into sleep.
Sleepy and no longer hungry, we curled up next to each other like kittens, and Em’s engine purred for us. My head resting against Bo, I idly pedaled the warm air with bare feet.
“What could I grow up and do for a living,” I murmured into his shoulder, “and never wear shoes?”
His eyebrows crumpled together in one long, shaggy line. “Well, lemme cogitate now. There’s surfing. And pearl-diving. And there’s professions I can’t pronounce in the presence of ladies.”
I nuzzled in closer. “Hmm. What else?”
He ran a hand down my hair. “Or we could keep doing this.”
“You think,” Bobby Welpler wanted to know, “that we could?” He looked, I thought, about four years old just then, his mouth gone all round and hopeful.
Bo closed his eyes, nodding. “Day in, day out. Day up, day down. Day good, bad, and ugly.”
“How ’bout,” I whispered, “we just skip all the ugly?”
He rested his chin on the top of my head. “All right, then. We’ll skip all the ugly.”
“Hey … Bo?” I whispered.
“Hmm?”
“You don’t reckon …”
“Don’t reckon what, Turtlest?”
“You don’t reckon Mort’s gonna do anything with that gun, do you? I mean, anything besides cart it around like he’s always done?”
Bo tightened his arm around me. “Shoot.”
“You … don’t think he will, do you?”
He chuckled into my hair. “Shoot no’s what I meant. His kind’s all blam and no bullet.”
I thought about this. “But … Bo?”
“You plan on ever letting a man sleep?”
“Bo, you may be right about Mort all by himself. But what about as a group?”
“Mort’s big enough to be his own group.”
“I meant … you know how wild dogs, by themselves, wouldn’t do much harm but eat trash, but once you let them start running in a pack—”
“And then you got trouble.” His chin still on the top of my head, I could feel him nodding. That was all the reassurance he offered just then. But just then, it was enough.
Jimbo was right, I had decided. Mort was mostly a loner, except when he ran with Buddy. And Buddy only followed whatever Mort did. Mort himself, Jimbo had said and I was believing, was all swagger and snarl. Him and his gun for a security blanket.
Everyone’s eyes were closed by that time except mine, and I’d like to think Emerson’s because he was driving—and maybe also the new girl’s, whose head was turned toward the white wake of taillights behind us that sometimes washed red. We rode in silence down the Pike, Em pulling his truck onto back roads that led to the Look. Slowing, he followed the two-lane road without guardrails that traced the edge of our mountain. Far below, the lights of the valley below winked back at us—those of us who opened our eyes to see them. L. J.
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