Read Online M.C. Higgins, the Great by Virginia Hamilton - Free Book Online
Authors: Virginia Hamilton
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on the ground. Breathing deeply, he rubbed his chest contentedly.
But there was a glint in his eye when he looked up at M.C. “I’ll have to get you one time,” he said. “Any minute, before this day is done, I’m going to even the score.”
“Bet you won’t,” M.C. said.
“You want to bet that dollar?” Jones asked him.
“No,” M.C. said. “Easiest dollar I ever made.”
Their playing had taken only a few minutes. Now he wouldn’t come too close to his father, even though Jones looked worn out.
“Think I’ll tell your mama on you, instead. Playing tricks on me,” Jones said.
M.C. looked down at his feet. Even Jones suddenly looked uncomfortable. Both of them knew it wasn’t fair to bring his mother, Banina, into fooling-around business, when she had to be gone the whole time, and they missing her.
“Take that pole of yours and wrap it around your head,” Jones said, by way of getting his wife off his mind.
“Touch my pole again, and you won’t ever stand up.”
M.C. had barely got the words out when Jones was on him, wrestling him to the ground. He had knocked M.C. down and had pinned him before M.C. realized he was lying with the hose running water under him. Jones took up the hose and put it down the back of M.C.’s pants. He smiled at his son. Planting his knees just above M.C.’s hips, he squeezed, too hard.
Pain took M.C.’s breath away. He tried to warn Jones with his eyes. Jones squeezed twice, and each time M.C.’s waist and shoulders jerked off the ground. Finally M.C. managed to scream.
Instantly Jones leaped away. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, anxiously.
Holding back tears, M.C. forced himself not to cry.
“I don’t know my own strength,” Jones said. He bent over to help M.C. up.
“Wasn’t trying to hurt you ,” M.C. said. A moment ago they had been playing. Sure, they played rough, but he had got his father in a rare good mood. Now there was tension between them and he hated to admit that his father was still the stronger.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, either,” Jones was saying. “But sometimes you do take too much on yourself.”
“I was just playing ,” M.C. said.
“Okay,” Jones spoke calmly. “But you get to thinking because you can swim and because of that pole, you are some M.C. Higgins, the Great.”
“I never thought it!” M.C. said.
“Just mind who was it taught you to swim and who was it gave you the pole,” Jones said. “Now come on, hose me good. I have to get back to the mill business.”
M.C. did as he was told. And yet he felt a sullen anger at his father and an abiding admiration at the same time, he didn’t know why. The hard-edge pain at his waist was now a dull kind of throb. He hosed Jones from head to foot, aware that he and his father greatly resembled one another.
Jones was a powerfully built man. He wasn’t tall, but he had a broad chest and lean but wide, muscular shoulders. He was narrow through the hips just as M.C. was, and his legs were long with muscles grown lengthwise. His toes were splayed with the bridge flattened wide, as were M.C.’s, the way a swimmer’s feet will look. Jones was a swimmer. But somehow, his fine, physical equipment had never quite come together. As a man, he wasn’t as good a swimmer as M.C. was right now.
What will I be, at his age? M.C. wondered.
Be on this mountain , his mind spoke for Jones.
No, M.C. thought.
His brother, Lennie Pool, thrust a clean towel and a dry pair of shorts out of the window. M.C. shut off the hose, took the clothes and towel and handed them to Jones. Automatically, he turned his back to his father so Jones could wipe dry, take off his wet underwear and put on the fresh pair.
M.C. went inside the house into the kitchen. There, Macie Pearl had pulled four chairs and a crate covered with blue linoleum up to the kitchen table. The children had taken from the icebox the greens with pork butt and cornbread which M.C. had prepared
But there was a glint in his eye when he looked up at M.C. “I’ll have to get you one time,” he said. “Any minute, before this day is done, I’m going to even the score.”
“Bet you won’t,” M.C. said.
“You want to bet that dollar?” Jones asked him.
“No,” M.C. said. “Easiest dollar I ever made.”
Their playing had taken only a few minutes. Now he wouldn’t come too close to his father, even though Jones looked worn out.
“Think I’ll tell your mama on you, instead. Playing tricks on me,” Jones said.
M.C. looked down at his feet. Even Jones suddenly looked uncomfortable. Both of them knew it wasn’t fair to bring his mother, Banina, into fooling-around business, when she had to be gone the whole time, and they missing her.
“Take that pole of yours and wrap it around your head,” Jones said, by way of getting his wife off his mind.
“Touch my pole again, and you won’t ever stand up.”
M.C. had barely got the words out when Jones was on him, wrestling him to the ground. He had knocked M.C. down and had pinned him before M.C. realized he was lying with the hose running water under him. Jones took up the hose and put it down the back of M.C.’s pants. He smiled at his son. Planting his knees just above M.C.’s hips, he squeezed, too hard.
Pain took M.C.’s breath away. He tried to warn Jones with his eyes. Jones squeezed twice, and each time M.C.’s waist and shoulders jerked off the ground. Finally M.C. managed to scream.
Instantly Jones leaped away. “Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, anxiously.
Holding back tears, M.C. forced himself not to cry.
“I don’t know my own strength,” Jones said. He bent over to help M.C. up.
“Wasn’t trying to hurt you ,” M.C. said. A moment ago they had been playing. Sure, they played rough, but he had got his father in a rare good mood. Now there was tension between them and he hated to admit that his father was still the stronger.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, either,” Jones was saying. “But sometimes you do take too much on yourself.”
“I was just playing ,” M.C. said.
“Okay,” Jones spoke calmly. “But you get to thinking because you can swim and because of that pole, you are some M.C. Higgins, the Great.”
“I never thought it!” M.C. said.
“Just mind who was it taught you to swim and who was it gave you the pole,” Jones said. “Now come on, hose me good. I have to get back to the mill business.”
M.C. did as he was told. And yet he felt a sullen anger at his father and an abiding admiration at the same time, he didn’t know why. The hard-edge pain at his waist was now a dull kind of throb. He hosed Jones from head to foot, aware that he and his father greatly resembled one another.
Jones was a powerfully built man. He wasn’t tall, but he had a broad chest and lean but wide, muscular shoulders. He was narrow through the hips just as M.C. was, and his legs were long with muscles grown lengthwise. His toes were splayed with the bridge flattened wide, as were M.C.’s, the way a swimmer’s feet will look. Jones was a swimmer. But somehow, his fine, physical equipment had never quite come together. As a man, he wasn’t as good a swimmer as M.C. was right now.
What will I be, at his age? M.C. wondered.
Be on this mountain , his mind spoke for Jones.
No, M.C. thought.
His brother, Lennie Pool, thrust a clean towel and a dry pair of shorts out of the window. M.C. shut off the hose, took the clothes and towel and handed them to Jones. Automatically, he turned his back to his father so Jones could wipe dry, take off his wet underwear and put on the fresh pair.
M.C. went inside the house into the kitchen. There, Macie Pearl had pulled four chairs and a crate covered with blue linoleum up to the kitchen table. The children had taken from the icebox the greens with pork butt and cornbread which M.C. had prepared
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