Read Online Chaneysville Incident by David Bradley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Bradley
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waited silently until he stopped coughing, feeling the pain as if it were in my own chest, wishing that my feeling it would somehow make it less for him, knowing it would not.
He stopped coughing. I could hear his mouth working as he got up some spit and swallowed it to soothe his throat. “Hey,” he said finally, “if it ain’t the Perfessor. What brings you up this way?” His voice was a croak, but I could hear the bitterness in it; it had been a long time.
I didn’t say anything.
“It does me good to see you, Johnny,” he said, finally.
“It does me good to see you,” I said. I reached out through the darkness, but I stopped myself before I touched him; he would not want that, not now, when it would feel like the touch of a nurse. He would rather die than have that.
197903040700 (Sunday)
“I T’S TIME YOU LEARNED HOW TO BUILD A FIRE,” he had said, his voice sounding softer and more resonant than it did at other times. I said nothing. For I had learned that when he spoke in that voice, it was a time not for talking but for listening.
“Fire’s the most important thing in the world. You know why?”
“No,” I said. My voice was different too, softer and quieter, almost like a whisper.
He had paused to spit tobacco juice in a dark arc that ended, sizzling, in the campfire. “There’s four things a man needs,” he said. “He needs air an’ he needs land an’ he needs water an’ he needs sun. Ain’t nothin’ else he needs, or could need, or want, or, anyways, oughta want, that don’t come from those four. You understand that?”
I thought about it, trying to think of something that did not come from them. He waited patiently while I thought; it was one of the things I loved about him: he always gave me time to think. “Almost,” I said. “He needs air to breathe and he needs water to drink. I don’t know about the ground.”
“He needs somethin’ to stand on,” he said. “A man can’t stand on air an’ he can’t stand on water. He needs a place to stand.”
I nodded.
“An’ what about the sun?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought heat and I thought light, but you said—”
“Power,” he said. “The sun is power. The sun is what makes everything else happen. When the sun is weak the water turns to ice an’ the ground is hard as nails an’ the air ain’t fit to breathe.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Good. Now, them’s the four things a man needs, but he don’t need them on accounta he’s a man, he needs ’em on accounta he’s an animal. An’ if he stops when he’s got ’em, he won’t never be nothin’ but an animal. He won’t be a man. He won’t be a man on accounta he can’t make none a them things. So he ain’t got no say. If he don’t have no say over the things he needs to live, he ain’t got no say over whether he lives at all, an’ if he ain’t got no say over that, he ain’t no man. A man has to have say. You understand that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s what it’s all about. Everything a man does, that makes any kinda sense, anyways, is on accounta he wants some say. That’s why he builds a fence around his land, an’ digs in the ground an’ plants in rows; so every time he looks at that piece a ground he’ll know, maybe he didn’t make it, but he had some say. That’s why he builds a dam or a bridge an’ digs a channel for the water in a crick; so every time he stops the water or goes over it or sees it goin’ where he wants, ’stead a where it went before, he’ll know, maybe he can’t make water, but he can have some say. That’s why he fears the wind, why when it’s dark an’ the wind blows you feel that little shiver up your back—on accounta there ain’t no way a man can have no say over the air. You understand that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He can’t have no say over the sun, either. An’ the truth is, the little bit a say he’s got over ground an’ water don’t mean much. On
He stopped coughing. I could hear his mouth working as he got up some spit and swallowed it to soothe his throat. “Hey,” he said finally, “if it ain’t the Perfessor. What brings you up this way?” His voice was a croak, but I could hear the bitterness in it; it had been a long time.
I didn’t say anything.
“It does me good to see you, Johnny,” he said, finally.
“It does me good to see you,” I said. I reached out through the darkness, but I stopped myself before I touched him; he would not want that, not now, when it would feel like the touch of a nurse. He would rather die than have that.
197903040700 (Sunday)
“I T’S TIME YOU LEARNED HOW TO BUILD A FIRE,” he had said, his voice sounding softer and more resonant than it did at other times. I said nothing. For I had learned that when he spoke in that voice, it was a time not for talking but for listening.
“Fire’s the most important thing in the world. You know why?”
“No,” I said. My voice was different too, softer and quieter, almost like a whisper.
He had paused to spit tobacco juice in a dark arc that ended, sizzling, in the campfire. “There’s four things a man needs,” he said. “He needs air an’ he needs land an’ he needs water an’ he needs sun. Ain’t nothin’ else he needs, or could need, or want, or, anyways, oughta want, that don’t come from those four. You understand that?”
I thought about it, trying to think of something that did not come from them. He waited patiently while I thought; it was one of the things I loved about him: he always gave me time to think. “Almost,” I said. “He needs air to breathe and he needs water to drink. I don’t know about the ground.”
“He needs somethin’ to stand on,” he said. “A man can’t stand on air an’ he can’t stand on water. He needs a place to stand.”
I nodded.
“An’ what about the sun?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought heat and I thought light, but you said—”
“Power,” he said. “The sun is power. The sun is what makes everything else happen. When the sun is weak the water turns to ice an’ the ground is hard as nails an’ the air ain’t fit to breathe.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Good. Now, them’s the four things a man needs, but he don’t need them on accounta he’s a man, he needs ’em on accounta he’s an animal. An’ if he stops when he’s got ’em, he won’t never be nothin’ but an animal. He won’t be a man. He won’t be a man on accounta he can’t make none a them things. So he ain’t got no say. If he don’t have no say over the things he needs to live, he ain’t got no say over whether he lives at all, an’ if he ain’t got no say over that, he ain’t no man. A man has to have say. You understand that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s what it’s all about. Everything a man does, that makes any kinda sense, anyways, is on accounta he wants some say. That’s why he builds a fence around his land, an’ digs in the ground an’ plants in rows; so every time he looks at that piece a ground he’ll know, maybe he didn’t make it, but he had some say. That’s why he builds a dam or a bridge an’ digs a channel for the water in a crick; so every time he stops the water or goes over it or sees it goin’ where he wants, ’stead a where it went before, he’ll know, maybe he can’t make water, but he can have some say. That’s why he fears the wind, why when it’s dark an’ the wind blows you feel that little shiver up your back—on accounta there ain’t no way a man can have no say over the air. You understand that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He can’t have no say over the sun, either. An’ the truth is, the little bit a say he’s got over ground an’ water don’t mean much. On
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