good to see you two are friends again.”
“We are,” the boy said. “We’ll be friends, even after our deaths.”
The grandfather shook his head, unsure what the words actually meant, though for some reason he was pleased.
Next they counted out the peeps—checking their beaks, their fluffy stomachs, their reptilian feet—for any sign of infection. The boy squatted beside his grandfather, petting the head of a round chick, letting it nip at his finger. Then he looked up.
“Sir?”
“Hm.”
“Nothing.” The boy glanced back down at the peeps.
“Go on,” the grandfather said.
“Did you . . .” But the boy paused again.
“Go on.”
“Did ever you hear from my mom?”
Jim frowned, unable to hide his disappointment. “Not yet.”
“Do you think she’s coming back?”
Jim itched his nose and gave a short nod. “Like as not. But she’s got a lot to figure out first.”
“Did she tell you where she’s staying?”
The grandfather stood up, setting the peep back into the brooder, and shook his head. “I bet she’s with friends though. I’m sure she’s all right. How come you’re asking?”
“I dunno,” the boy said, scratching at a scab on his arm. “I guess I’d like to call her.”
Jim gave a slow smile. “Of course you would. It’s nice, a boy thinking of his mother like that.”
“I’d like to tell her about the horse. I think it would make her happy.”
“Sure it would,” Jim said.
“I’d like to tell her.”
Jim tilted his hat a little and put a hand on the boy’s head, feeling the coarse, fine hair, and mussed it gently. “Anything is possible,” the grandfather said.
* * *
The boy rode with his grandfather into town to get supplies that Saturday. As they drove, the grandfather glanced over from the rubberized steering wheel and asked the kind of question he always seemed to propose during these sorts of trips. “What would you do with a million dollars?”
The boy answered without thinking: “I’d try to breed a rattlesnake with a water moccasin. Or a cobra.”
Jim smiled. “Breed a what? You’d spend all your money on that?”
“I’d sell their offspring and then I’d be even richer.”
The grandfather nodded, though with an undisguised air of doubt.
On his lap in the passenger seat, the boy held a small shoe box with holes in the top, which had been jabbed with the rounded edge of a butter knife. There was a sound, an indefinable, nearly indescribable movement, a kind of gentle scraping, coming from inside the box. The boy turned and faced his grandfather with a curious expression.
“Sir?”
“Hm.”
“Are we gonna race her again?” he asked. “The horse, I mean.”
“Hope to.”
“You think she’ll win?”
“It’d be nice,” he said, turning back to face the road.
* * *
They parked the pickup in its usual spot near the closed-down café. Opening the driver’s-side door before the street of similar-looking, redbrick, two-story buildings, Jim pulled his cattleman hat down to shade his eyes and said, “All right, I’ll meet you back here around five o’clock. Mind you’re not late. We still have some other work to do when we get back.”
“We’re not gonna eat in town?”
“No sir. I got to get home and give them hens their medicine.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
“Okay.”
Quentin heaved his backpack over his shoulder, took hold of the small shoe box, and walked off. A rusted-out Camaro with a Confederate flag license-plate holder rattled past. The boy took notice of the faded plastic stars and bars and inwardly felt aggrieved, though no actual sign showed on his face. He was used to it by now. He walked on. In a strip mall around the corner was the exotic pet store, located right between a Chinese takeout place and a you-wash-it laundry. The sign above the pet shop was fading white—a painting of a lizard above the words, Exotic Reptiles , all spelled out in blue, though Mr. Peel, the
“We are,” the boy said. “We’ll be friends, even after our deaths.”
The grandfather shook his head, unsure what the words actually meant, though for some reason he was pleased.
Next they counted out the peeps—checking their beaks, their fluffy stomachs, their reptilian feet—for any sign of infection. The boy squatted beside his grandfather, petting the head of a round chick, letting it nip at his finger. Then he looked up.
“Sir?”
“Hm.”
“Nothing.” The boy glanced back down at the peeps.
“Go on,” the grandfather said.
“Did you . . .” But the boy paused again.
“Go on.”
“Did ever you hear from my mom?”
Jim frowned, unable to hide his disappointment. “Not yet.”
“Do you think she’s coming back?”
Jim itched his nose and gave a short nod. “Like as not. But she’s got a lot to figure out first.”
“Did she tell you where she’s staying?”
The grandfather stood up, setting the peep back into the brooder, and shook his head. “I bet she’s with friends though. I’m sure she’s all right. How come you’re asking?”
“I dunno,” the boy said, scratching at a scab on his arm. “I guess I’d like to call her.”
Jim gave a slow smile. “Of course you would. It’s nice, a boy thinking of his mother like that.”
“I’d like to tell her about the horse. I think it would make her happy.”
“Sure it would,” Jim said.
“I’d like to tell her.”
Jim tilted his hat a little and put a hand on the boy’s head, feeling the coarse, fine hair, and mussed it gently. “Anything is possible,” the grandfather said.
* * *
The boy rode with his grandfather into town to get supplies that Saturday. As they drove, the grandfather glanced over from the rubberized steering wheel and asked the kind of question he always seemed to propose during these sorts of trips. “What would you do with a million dollars?”
The boy answered without thinking: “I’d try to breed a rattlesnake with a water moccasin. Or a cobra.”
Jim smiled. “Breed a what? You’d spend all your money on that?”
“I’d sell their offspring and then I’d be even richer.”
The grandfather nodded, though with an undisguised air of doubt.
On his lap in the passenger seat, the boy held a small shoe box with holes in the top, which had been jabbed with the rounded edge of a butter knife. There was a sound, an indefinable, nearly indescribable movement, a kind of gentle scraping, coming from inside the box. The boy turned and faced his grandfather with a curious expression.
“Sir?”
“Hm.”
“Are we gonna race her again?” he asked. “The horse, I mean.”
“Hope to.”
“You think she’ll win?”
“It’d be nice,” he said, turning back to face the road.
* * *
They parked the pickup in its usual spot near the closed-down café. Opening the driver’s-side door before the street of similar-looking, redbrick, two-story buildings, Jim pulled his cattleman hat down to shade his eyes and said, “All right, I’ll meet you back here around five o’clock. Mind you’re not late. We still have some other work to do when we get back.”
“We’re not gonna eat in town?”
“No sir. I got to get home and give them hens their medicine.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you in a couple hours.”
“Okay.”
Quentin heaved his backpack over his shoulder, took hold of the small shoe box, and walked off. A rusted-out Camaro with a Confederate flag license-plate holder rattled past. The boy took notice of the faded plastic stars and bars and inwardly felt aggrieved, though no actual sign showed on his face. He was used to it by now. He walked on. In a strip mall around the corner was the exotic pet store, located right between a Chinese takeout place and a you-wash-it laundry. The sign above the pet shop was fading white—a painting of a lizard above the words, Exotic Reptiles , all spelled out in blue, though Mr. Peel, the
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