the right. He looks like he’s a billion miles away, thinking about something that happened before I was born, I’m sure. It’s funny. He can remember stuff from forty years ago, but he can’t remember what day it is sometimes.
I go over to where Kenny is. He’s picking sandspurs out of his trouser leg, some of those nasty-looking purple onesthat’ll cure you of wearing shorts down here in about two minutes. He uses the rock to balance with his left hand while he picks them off, one at a time.
“My grandmother used to talk about this rock,” he says. “I never saw it till I came up to your granddaddy’s one day last year to ask him if I could look around the old place. My great-uncle worked and lived down here until about twenty years ago. Then he went to live with his children until he died.”
He rubs the old rock, which is kind of a pinkish-orange color, like it might be magic and he’s got three wishes.
“Where do you reckon they got this rock from?” Kenny asks, but it’s more like he’s really asking himself. “Grandmother said it was a sacred rock. She said her mother used to find arrowheads and pieces of clay pipes and beads and old-timey Indian stuff buried around it, like people used to worship here a long time ago. Before Jesus saved them from all this,” and he gives out a little laugh.
“She said Great-Grandfather took the job sharecropping here because of the rock. Back then, other Indian families would come here to rub it for good luck when they needed some. Didn’t work.”
He pushes against it, which is about like pushing against a tree. It doesn’t begin to budge.
“Some people say it was rolled here from way over in the Piedmont, maybe after our tribe won a battle against another tribe, I don’t know. It must’ve taken a lot of men a long time to roll this thing here. I’d sure love to know why.”
It’s getting hot as a bitch out in that open field, so we go and get Granddaddy and head back. I ask him later that nightif he’d ever heard about the Indians rolling that rock here from somewhere away off. He gets this faraway look in his eyes and gets very quiet.
“Yessir,” he says after a while. “I do think Rose told me about that one time. Don’t know whether’s it’s true or not, though.”
Rose must be some fifth cousin twice removed I’m supposed to know about.
A week after I get down here, Mom calls. She checked in with the Carlsons, just to make sure the house hadn’t burned down, I guess, and they told her about the Great Escape. I don’t know if she knows about the shoplifting thing or not, but she knows I flunked English. It’s after ten in London, where she says she and Mark the Narc have been pub-hopping. But she seems more concerned than pissed off, wants to know if I’m feeling any better now, how the summer school classes are going, tells me she can’t wait to see me in five weeks. She also says that Mark says hi. I guess it was too long a walk around the table to say it himself.
She sent Granddaddy a postcard that got here the day before she called, and she says she’ll send lots more now that she knows I’m here, too. Granddaddy gets on for a minute, but he’s not much of a talker, especially on the telephone. I’m just getting used to speaking up so he can understand what I’m saying, and the phone lines across the Atlantic aren’t exactly like making a call across the street. He hands the phone back to me.
“Justin?” Mom says. “Honey, please look out for your granddaddy, and do what he says. We’ll have a long talkwhen I get back, maybe go away to the beach for the weekend. And don’t do anything rash. Things’ll get better.”
We hang up, and I’m thinking, Jesus, are things that bad?
School’s a snap, and I am having a little bit of fun here, too. We play basketball after classes while I’m waiting for Kenny to get back from his death-defying day with the Future Drivers of America. Winfrey Geddie and his cousin Blue are
I go over to where Kenny is. He’s picking sandspurs out of his trouser leg, some of those nasty-looking purple onesthat’ll cure you of wearing shorts down here in about two minutes. He uses the rock to balance with his left hand while he picks them off, one at a time.
“My grandmother used to talk about this rock,” he says. “I never saw it till I came up to your granddaddy’s one day last year to ask him if I could look around the old place. My great-uncle worked and lived down here until about twenty years ago. Then he went to live with his children until he died.”
He rubs the old rock, which is kind of a pinkish-orange color, like it might be magic and he’s got three wishes.
“Where do you reckon they got this rock from?” Kenny asks, but it’s more like he’s really asking himself. “Grandmother said it was a sacred rock. She said her mother used to find arrowheads and pieces of clay pipes and beads and old-timey Indian stuff buried around it, like people used to worship here a long time ago. Before Jesus saved them from all this,” and he gives out a little laugh.
“She said Great-Grandfather took the job sharecropping here because of the rock. Back then, other Indian families would come here to rub it for good luck when they needed some. Didn’t work.”
He pushes against it, which is about like pushing against a tree. It doesn’t begin to budge.
“Some people say it was rolled here from way over in the Piedmont, maybe after our tribe won a battle against another tribe, I don’t know. It must’ve taken a lot of men a long time to roll this thing here. I’d sure love to know why.”
It’s getting hot as a bitch out in that open field, so we go and get Granddaddy and head back. I ask him later that nightif he’d ever heard about the Indians rolling that rock here from somewhere away off. He gets this faraway look in his eyes and gets very quiet.
“Yessir,” he says after a while. “I do think Rose told me about that one time. Don’t know whether’s it’s true or not, though.”
Rose must be some fifth cousin twice removed I’m supposed to know about.
A week after I get down here, Mom calls. She checked in with the Carlsons, just to make sure the house hadn’t burned down, I guess, and they told her about the Great Escape. I don’t know if she knows about the shoplifting thing or not, but she knows I flunked English. It’s after ten in London, where she says she and Mark the Narc have been pub-hopping. But she seems more concerned than pissed off, wants to know if I’m feeling any better now, how the summer school classes are going, tells me she can’t wait to see me in five weeks. She also says that Mark says hi. I guess it was too long a walk around the table to say it himself.
She sent Granddaddy a postcard that got here the day before she called, and she says she’ll send lots more now that she knows I’m here, too. Granddaddy gets on for a minute, but he’s not much of a talker, especially on the telephone. I’m just getting used to speaking up so he can understand what I’m saying, and the phone lines across the Atlantic aren’t exactly like making a call across the street. He hands the phone back to me.
“Justin?” Mom says. “Honey, please look out for your granddaddy, and do what he says. We’ll have a long talkwhen I get back, maybe go away to the beach for the weekend. And don’t do anything rash. Things’ll get better.”
We hang up, and I’m thinking, Jesus, are things that bad?
School’s a snap, and I am having a little bit of fun here, too. We play basketball after classes while I’m waiting for Kenny to get back from his death-defying day with the Future Drivers of America. Winfrey Geddie and his cousin Blue are
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