into Ravenel County.
"Thirty more miles, hogs."
"Will you tell us about the new house, Bull? I'm perishing from curiosity," Lillian spoke.
"It's a surprise," Bull gloated.
"I gotta go number one real bad," Matthew said.
"Tough titty," Bull answered, his sunglasses eyelessly hunting for Matthew in the rearview mirror. "You should have gone when we stopped for the train."
"Cross your legs, darling," Lillian advised. "And offer it up for a good intention."
"Like the conversion of Russia," Ben suggested.
The air had a fetid, tropical feel to it as it passed through the car: the land was flat, lush and brilliantly green. On the road's grassy fringes, black men and women, sometimes alone but often in lethargic twos or silhouetted in triplicate, walked the long stretches between shacks and cabins where plumes of morning smoke trailed above rusty tin roofs and smells of breakfast spilled from open windows and entered the rush of air that caromed about the Meecham car.
"Bacon," Lillian moaned, as the car passed one small house. "I would rather eat bacon than a filet mignon."
Bull grunted, a monosyllable meaningless in any language, but an audible assent that he had heard and understood her. He was tiring now and his participation in conversation would diminish with each mile passed. The children were staring out the windows. As strangers, they entered Ravenel with sharpened, critical eyes assimilating every image that flashed by them, so that what they saw was the addendum of ten million impressions that registered briefly and almost tangentially in their minds like flags of undiscovered countries: each image a single frame of memory whose life span was light quick and heartbeat fast: each a mystery clamoring for preservation, for life, for admittance to the vaults of the brain where remembrance burns. Each child in the car hunted for the familiar; the sights that would relate Ravenel to the other towns that had served as temporary homes.
A jet passed overhead; the sound poured into the car like a liquid. Leaning his head out the window, Bull scanned the treeline for a glimpse of the plane. "That's the sound of freedom," he said. It was a sound familiar to all of them, its thunder rumbling across them as though they were long sheets of glass. It was a legitimate sound of home, one that would remind the Meecham children of their youth more strongly than the singing bells of ice cream trucks or the cadences of lullabies.
Moments later, Mary Anne began to cry. It was soundless weeping free from hysterics, unrelated even to grief. Her eyes glistened as the tears rolled down her face in clearly defined salt creeks.
"What's the boo-hooing about?" Colonel Meecham stormed at his rearview mirror, catching and holding the image of his weeping daughter. "You better get her to stop, Lil. I can't stand boo-hooing."
"Get a Kleenex to wipe your face, Mary Anne. There's nothing to cry about. You've got to give it a chance."
"I gave it a chance," Mary Anne replied miserably. "I hate this town too."
"You'll learn to love it. Give it time. If I were you, I'd say, 'I'm going to take this town by storm. I'm going to go out of my way to meet people and I'm going to be the most popular young lady in Ravenel by the time I leave here.' That's the spirit I'd take."
"Just get her to turn off the waterworks, Lillian. We don't need a speech."
"I'm trying, Bull. Just give me a chance. Mary Anne is just upset about moving. So are all the kids."
"Tell the hogs too bad from the Big Dad. I don't care if they're upset or not."
Mary Anne searched her purse for a Kleenex, but pulled out instead a teaspoon pirated from her mother's silver service. Crying gently, she held the spoon under her eyes, carefully catching each tear, preserving their sad silver in the hollow of the spoon. "I'm real depressed," she said finally. "I'm going to hate this town. I wish I were dead."
Bull replied," You may get your wish if you don't cut the weepy scene.
When the
"Thirty more miles, hogs."
"Will you tell us about the new house, Bull? I'm perishing from curiosity," Lillian spoke.
"It's a surprise," Bull gloated.
"I gotta go number one real bad," Matthew said.
"Tough titty," Bull answered, his sunglasses eyelessly hunting for Matthew in the rearview mirror. "You should have gone when we stopped for the train."
"Cross your legs, darling," Lillian advised. "And offer it up for a good intention."
"Like the conversion of Russia," Ben suggested.
The air had a fetid, tropical feel to it as it passed through the car: the land was flat, lush and brilliantly green. On the road's grassy fringes, black men and women, sometimes alone but often in lethargic twos or silhouetted in triplicate, walked the long stretches between shacks and cabins where plumes of morning smoke trailed above rusty tin roofs and smells of breakfast spilled from open windows and entered the rush of air that caromed about the Meecham car.
"Bacon," Lillian moaned, as the car passed one small house. "I would rather eat bacon than a filet mignon."
Bull grunted, a monosyllable meaningless in any language, but an audible assent that he had heard and understood her. He was tiring now and his participation in conversation would diminish with each mile passed. The children were staring out the windows. As strangers, they entered Ravenel with sharpened, critical eyes assimilating every image that flashed by them, so that what they saw was the addendum of ten million impressions that registered briefly and almost tangentially in their minds like flags of undiscovered countries: each image a single frame of memory whose life span was light quick and heartbeat fast: each a mystery clamoring for preservation, for life, for admittance to the vaults of the brain where remembrance burns. Each child in the car hunted for the familiar; the sights that would relate Ravenel to the other towns that had served as temporary homes.
A jet passed overhead; the sound poured into the car like a liquid. Leaning his head out the window, Bull scanned the treeline for a glimpse of the plane. "That's the sound of freedom," he said. It was a sound familiar to all of them, its thunder rumbling across them as though they were long sheets of glass. It was a legitimate sound of home, one that would remind the Meecham children of their youth more strongly than the singing bells of ice cream trucks or the cadences of lullabies.
Moments later, Mary Anne began to cry. It was soundless weeping free from hysterics, unrelated even to grief. Her eyes glistened as the tears rolled down her face in clearly defined salt creeks.
"What's the boo-hooing about?" Colonel Meecham stormed at his rearview mirror, catching and holding the image of his weeping daughter. "You better get her to stop, Lil. I can't stand boo-hooing."
"Get a Kleenex to wipe your face, Mary Anne. There's nothing to cry about. You've got to give it a chance."
"I gave it a chance," Mary Anne replied miserably. "I hate this town too."
"You'll learn to love it. Give it time. If I were you, I'd say, 'I'm going to take this town by storm. I'm going to go out of my way to meet people and I'm going to be the most popular young lady in Ravenel by the time I leave here.' That's the spirit I'd take."
"Just get her to turn off the waterworks, Lillian. We don't need a speech."
"I'm trying, Bull. Just give me a chance. Mary Anne is just upset about moving. So are all the kids."
"Tell the hogs too bad from the Big Dad. I don't care if they're upset or not."
Mary Anne searched her purse for a Kleenex, but pulled out instead a teaspoon pirated from her mother's silver service. Crying gently, she held the spoon under her eyes, carefully catching each tear, preserving their sad silver in the hollow of the spoon. "I'm real depressed," she said finally. "I'm going to hate this town. I wish I were dead."
Bull replied," You may get your wish if you don't cut the weepy scene.
When the
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