If you copy this story, please include this notice and this introductory material.

Dogland is a novel published by Tor Books. The following text is not the copyedited version (I don’t have a file of that), so don’t blame Tor for minor mistakes.

This is available under a Creative Commons “Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported” license. For more information, see http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ .

You can learn much too much about me, and also my wife, Emma Bull, at www.qwertyranch.com .

—Will Shetterly

* * *

DOGLAND

by Will Shetterly

This novel is dedicated with love to Mom, Dad, Mike, and Liz.

Table of Contents

Chapter One: The Way to the Feast of Flowers

Chapter Two: In the Foundations of Dream

Chapter Three: Things Seen in Black and White

Chapter Four: Building in Blood

Chapter Five: Things Seen in Color, Part One

Chapter Six: Things Seen in Color, Part Two

Chapter Seven: Learning to Swim

Chapter Eight: Seeking Plunder

Chapter Nine: One Hundred Breeds

Chapter Ten: Wrestling With Angels

Chapter Eleven: Not Long Before the End

Chapter Twelve: Peace on Earth

Chapter One: The Way to the Feast of Flowers

It was a dream, then a place, then a memory. My father built it near the Suwannee River. I like to think it was in the heart of Florida, because it was, and is, in my heart. Its name was Dogland.

Some people say you can know others if you know the central incidents that shaped their lives. But an incident is an island in time, and to know the effect of the island on those who land there, you must know something about the river they have traveled.

And I must warn you before we begin, I don’t know that river well. I visit that time and place like a ghost with poor vision and little memory. I look up the river and see fog rolling in. I look down the river, and the brightness of the approaching day blinds me. I see shapes moving behind me and beyond me, but who they are and what they do, I cannot say. I will tell what I know is true, and I will invent what I believe is true, and that, I think, is all you can ask any storyteller to do.

I learned the Nix family history from the stories Pa told. Even at the age of four, I suspected that Pa’s stories might not be perfectly true. When Pa said we Nixes came to North America as indentured servants working our way out of debtor’s prison, Grandma Bette would make a face and say he couldn’t know that. When he said we Nixes had Lakota and Ojibwe blood in our veins, Grandma Bette would say she wasn’t prejudiced, but it simply wasn’t so: she and Pa and his brothers and sisters were dark because her people were Black Dutch, from a part of Holland where everyone had black hair and black eyes. And then Grandma Bette wouldn’t say a word for half an hour or more, a very long time for Grandma Bette to be quiet.

Pa usually told the family stories when driving to the store with Little Bit and me, while Ma stayed home with Digger. Little Bit would sit on the front seat of the station wagon with Pa, and I would stand in back, straddling the transmission hump with my arms wrapped over the front seat. After awhile, Little Bit or I would ask for the Little Big Horn story, or the Light-horse Harry Lee story, or another of the Nix family histories, like:

“Tell us ‘bout that bad man.”

“What bad man is that?”

“Our great-great-great-great-great-great grampa!”

“That’s a lot of greats.”

“‘Bout the bad man!”

“You mean the horse thief?”

“No.” The horse thief story was hardly a story at all. A Nix was caught for stealing horses and hung, that was all. Pa only told that story when Grandma Bette was visiting.

“‘Bout the bad man.”

“In jail.”

“An’ the train.”

“An’ the man ran off with his wife.”

“That story! Tell us that story.”

“Tell us that story. Please?”

“Pretty please. Pretty please tell us that story.”

“Well, there’s not much to tell.”

“Please, Pa! Please, please, please!”

“Well, okay. There was this man—”

“A Nix.”

“—a Nix.” Probably a farmer. Most forgotten Nixes were probably farmers. “And some fellow ran away with his wife.” The farmer was old, forty-five or fifty, with stubbly, hollowed cheeks and staring eyes. He wore overalls. His wife was young, barely twenty, pretty and plump and blond. The other man, a lanky salesman with clean-scrubbed skin, was from the city. He wore a nice suit and had a shy smile, and he parted his hair in the middle. “They were on a train. They thought they’d gotten away.”

“But they hadn’t, had they, Pa!”

“No, they hadn’t.” The couple sat side by side in the train. The wife-stealer sat by the aisle with his hat in his lap. He wore a green plaid suit, and he kept twisting the hat, a derby, with his smooth, clean fingers. He grinned his shy smile while staring happily into the eyes of the woman. She’d glance at him, glance away, then glance back, then glance away again. She was nervous, not afraid that her husband would find her but merely embarrassed to be so obviously the object of the young man’s love. She feared he expected too much of her and would be disappointed once they’d lived together. She loved him as much as he loved her, and she could not believe two people could be so perfectly created for each other.

“He caught up with them, didn’t he, Pa?”

“Right in the train, right?”

“That’s right.” The passenger car’s interior was like the train in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, only in color: seats of plush green velvet, heavy drapes by the windows, walls paneled in red oak. Happy people in Sunday clothes waited to depart. Men had moustaches that waggled in easy grins above their cigars. Women carried parasols and wore long dresses. The conductor looked like Captain Kangaroo with his plump belly and his white walrus moustache. He talked to a tiny old woman with sugar-white hair coiled on her head who wore square wire-rimmed glasses with lenses no bigger than cough drops, and no less thick.

“He managed to follow them. Left his farm as if he didn’t plan to come back. Came after them with a Bible and a shotgun.”

“Oooh.”

“He caught up with them on the train.” The conductor felt someone brush by him, saw someone dressed wrong for traveling by train. He turned away from the old woman, called, Hey, you! The man, the Nix, my ancestor, stopped to look back. The conductor stared at him. The old Nix wore a stiff black jacket over faded overalls. He carried a shotgun at his side. The conductor said, You can’t bring that gun in here. The old man looked at the conductor, looked at the shotgun, looked back at the conductor, said, It’s for hunting. He walked on.

The young couple did not see or hear the old Nix. The other people in the car did not notice the old Nix. He was an eccentric farmer, nothing more. The old man walked up behind the couple and called the young man’s name.

The young man in the plaid suit turned; he had never seen his beloved’s husband. He said, Yes? Beside him, the young woman turned, too. She raised her hand to her mouth, but in that moment, no words could come from her lips. The old man never looked at her.

“He said, ‘You sure you’re so-and-so?’ asking the fellow’s name again to be safe.”

The young man smiled as he nodded. The young woman spoke a word then, perhaps the young man’s name, perhaps my ancestor’s. As the young man looked toward her, the old man raised the gun-—

“—blew the man’s brains out, right there in the train.”

The shotgun’s explosion was loud, but the young woman’s scream may have been louder. The old woman covered her wrinkled mouth with a white lace glove. The conductor’s eyelids opened wide as if he could not get enough light to his pupils to see what had really happened.

“Then what? Huh, Pa? Then what?”

“Nothing, really. They locked him up. He didn’t try to get away or anything. He’d done what he had to do.”

“An’ then?”

“He hung himself in the jail cell.” The old man dangled from his belt (I never wondered why my ancestor wore both overalls and a belt) which had become long enough to tie to a convenient wooden beam. The walls of the cell had been built with blocks of gray stone. The old man spun slowly. His boots had holes in them. Sunlight shone obliquely between the bars of the single window. The shadows stretched across the floor, across the old man’s faded, battered boots.

“Oooooh.”

I learned my personal history from Ma. She told me about my birth in 1955 on an army base in South Carolina, and about the Mexico trip when everyone smiled at the happy gringo baby with curly red hair, and how proud Pa was. She told me that after they brought Little Bit home to the farm in Minnesota, they’d hear her cry and rush into the room to find me already there, patting her head and saying, “Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry.” It took them several weeks to realize that I would pinch her when we were alone, then comfort her as the adults arrived. That story always made me laugh.

I liked the old stories because they changed a little with each telling. Sometimes an old story inspired a new one that I had never heard, a story that told me about something I hadn’t suspected I hadn’t known. That was how I learned about the drunken man at the hospital when I was born.

Ma told me that story one night when I was four or five, soon after we moved to Florida. I asked, “Ma? D’you ‘member the hairy man an’ the tree lady at Mardi Gras?”

She shook her head and set aside the copy of Reader’s Digest that she’d been looking through. “There were an awful lot of people dressed up that day, and I wasn’t really paying much attention to any of them.” She smiled.

“The tree lady that helped you.”

“The nice Negro woman?” Ma smiled and glanced toward our TV set. We always had second-hand televisions that never delivered clear pictures or sound; one was usually playing in the background of any family conversation. “Oh, yes. But I don’t remember anything about her and a tree.” I thought Ma wouldn’t continue, but then she said, “It’s funny how you were all born under such odd circumstances.”

“We were?” No one else was in the living room. Digger and Little Bit had to go to bed half an hour before I did, and Pa was out in the yard working on the station wagon again.

“Well, not very funny,” Ma said. “But having Digger in the middle of the Mardi Gras parade is pretty funny.” She smiled and blushed at the same time, and so did I.

“Yeah.” I laughed. “Pretty funny.”

“And on the day Little Bit was born, an entire flock of quail landed outside my room. You hardly ever see quail in northern Minnesota. Several of them settled on my window sill and started whistling away. Doctor Jim said you could’ve hunted your dinner with a shopping bag. One of the nurses went to shoo them away, and they just flew around her, a-singing and a-singing. But as soon as Doctor Jim walked toward them, they flew off.”

I knew the punch line to that one: “Figure he forgot his shopping bag?”

Ma set her hand on my head and ran her fingers over the bristles of my crewcut. “I suppose so.”

“And what about me, Ma?”

“What about you?” Ma winced the tiniest bit, then smiled. “Oh, that. It’s nothing, really.”

“It’s funny?”

“Well, there was a drunk man in the waiting room, saying you were his boy. I was afraid Luke would hit him, but the orderlies took the man outside.”

I could see a drunken cowboy staggering into a hospital room wearing chaps and six-guns. “What kind of man?”

“Just some man. There are some very strange people in this world, Chris. You have to be careful.”

“Yes’m.”

I couldn’t remember the farm in Minnesota or the trip down to New Orleans, but Digger’s birth was one of my earliest memories and one of the first stories that I could tell, though it didn’t seem like a real story to anyone except me. It wasn’t like the things that no one else remembered because they probably weren’t important to them, like my earliest memory, of a day in the living room in Louisiana when the TV screen suddenly went dark in the middle of a show. A white dot lingered at its center as if the whole picture had fallen in on itself, and then the dot faded to black. Pa walked across the living room and did something to the back of the set, but that’s where that memory ends.

Everyone in the family remembered the day of Digger’s birth, even Little Bit and maybe even Digger himself, but everyone remembered it a little differently. He was born in 1958, soon after my family came to New Orleans. Pa had been away selling encyclopedias, and Grandma Letitia hadn’t come down to be with Ma yet because the baby wasn’t due for three more weeks. Ma had called us in from the yard and said that Little Bit and I would have to come with her in a taxi, and we’d have to be very good and take care of her like she usually took care of us.

I fetched the pink suitcase that Ma had packed a month before, and Little Bit carried Ma’s purse. No one said much. A neighbor came out and offered to drive Ma, but just then the taxi arrived. The driver, a red-nosed man who looked like Santa Claus with a flat-top, kept saying, “Don’t you worry none; we’ll get you to the hospital fine. Wish it weren’t Mardi Gras. Traffic’s gonna be hellacious. But don’t you fret now, ma’m. We’ll get you there jus’ fine, you’ll see.”

The taxi could not reach its destination, but a parade of costumed drunks were not enough to stop my brother from reaching his. Ma said, “The baby’s coming,” and the driver yelled into the crowded street, “He’p me! He’p me! A woman’s havin’ a child! Somebody he’p me!” Little Bit and I sat very quietly beside Ma, watching her breathe, watching the costumed crowd, watching for a white-haired doctor in a long white coat with a gleaming stethoscope around his neck and a black leather bag at his side.

“I know ‘bout birthin’ babies,” said a fat black woman with oak leaves sticking to her hair and her long green dress.

“Oh, thank Jesus,” said the taxi driver.

“I do, too,” said a scrawny, bare-chested white man with goat horns at his temples and shaggy trousers covering his legs. “I know to get everyone out of the way.”

“Yes, sir. That’s right. That’s a fine idea.” The driver and the goat man began hustling people away from the cab. I listened to Ma’s breathing, and I felt myself getting more and more scared. Ma smiled and kept saying it was okay, but she was sweating and red and gasping.

“You chil’en wait outside the cab,” said the woman with oak leaves. “Your mama won’t have no trouble at all, now.”

“Ma?” said Little Bit.

Ma smiled more easily, and her breathing grew deeper, slower, and more even. “Go on, you two. I did all right with you, didn’t I? Stay—” She gasped, then smiled again. “—by the car, okay?”

The tree woman glared at the people clustered around us. “Y’all turn your backs and give this poor woman some privacy, hear!”

The watchers, white and black, young and old, rich and poor, all nodded and obeyed. In the middle of a street packed tight with bodies, under a bright midday sun, Ma had more privacy than she would in any delivery room.

The taxi driver lifted Little Bit onto the hood of the car. They played pattycake while the Mardi Gras crowds surged around Ma’s shielding ring of people. Everyone ignored me, which comforted me; it meant there was nothing I was supposed to worry about. I couldn’t see Ma, and I could only see the back of the tree woman, which wasn’t that interesting, so I studied the hairy man.

Every kid knows about Halloween suits made of crinkly cloth in colors unknown to nature. The hair on the man’s legs was dark brown and matted with beer or sweat. His hooves were muddy, and one was chipped. His horns stuck out from the curly hair on his head, which was the color of the hair covering his legs. The horns were small and dull black and didn’t quite match. He smelled like a dog that’d been in the rain.

The hairy man put his fists on his flanks and said, “What you lookin’ at, son?”

“You,” I said, because Pa had taught me to answer adults, and then, “Sir,” because Pa had taught me to be polite.

The hairy man nodded, then belched. I smelled something like Grandma Bette’s breath after she drank port — soda pop for grown-ups, only stronger. Then the man laughed. “Think you see good, son?”

I had never thought about how well I saw. Ma and Pa both wore glasses, and Little Bit and I didn’t, so I nodded.

The hairy man laughed again. “You ain’t seen a thing till you’ve seen it straight on an’ out the corner of your eye, both. Near any fool can do one or the other.”

As an approaching band broke into “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the tree woman said, loud enough that I could hear over the noise of the parade and the crowd, “You got a son, ma’m. A beautiful son, and he’s doing just fine. You rest easy now, hear?”

A white policeman — a real policeman with a real pistol on his hip, not someone in a costume — had joined the ring of people standing around the cab. Someone began to cheer, and others joined in, even people far away in the parade who couldn’t have known what was going on. The cries — “She had a son!” and “A boy’s been born!” and “Hallelujah!” — rippled up and down Bourbon Street.

“She wants her chil’en,” the tree woman said. A few leaves fell from her hair as she brushed against the roof of the cab. One dropped into my hand. It seemed fresh and green, as if the woman had plucked the finishing touches for her costume only minutes before.

“Where’s her children?” the policeman asked.

“Ma!” I yelled, suddenly frightened. “Ma, I’m here!” I lunged between the adults’ legs, between hairy legs in Bermuda shorts, smooth legs in dresses, blue trousers that belonged to the policeman, blue jeans that belonged to farmers, black cotton trousers that belonged to jazz musicians, baggy red-and-white striped breeches belonging to pirates, rough leather chaps belonging to cowboys, fringed brown trousers belonging to Indians, tight white pedal-pushers belonging to motion picture starlets. “I’m here, Ma! I’m here!”

The tree woman grinned at me as she stepped away from the open taxi door. Her gold tooth reflected sunlight, and I was blinded by the sight of her and my mother and the baby. When my sight returned, I saw Ma lying in the back of the taxi. Her blue print dress was all rumpled and stained, and the taxi seat was, too, but that was okay. Ma was smiling. In her arms, she held a wet little red thing that looked like an ugly puppet or a shaved monkey. “Chris,” Ma said. “Say hello to your little brother.”

“Ma?” I whispered. “You okay, Ma?”

“I’m fine, Chris. Let Little Bit see, too.”

“Yes, Ma.” As my sister squeezed past me, I backed away, back through the sea of legs, and started to turn to run as fast and as far as I could. A hand gripped my shoulder, and I looked up into the hairy man’s face.

“Ugly li’l bastard, ain’t he?”

I nodded hesitantly, not sure whether I should let anyone talk that way about my new brother.

“But he’s beautiful, too. It’s tough to understand, but there it is. Chew on it awhile, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

The policeman, by the cab door, grinned like the drunkest of the festivalers. “Sure is a handsome li’l fellow. Got a name for ‘im, ma’m?”

“We’re not sure,” Ma said gently, which meant that Pa hadn’t said if there was a name he wanted Digger to have.

“George’d be good,” said the hairy man. “Means he works with the earth.”

“George?” Ma spoke as if she were tasting the name on her tongue.

“George is right nice,” said the fat woman with oak leaves, and she smiled at the hairy man. A breeze touched the taxi and the crowd, erasing the damp Louisiana heat for a moment.

Ma smiled. “George.” She stated it in the quiet voice that she almost never used, the voice that meant she had decided something and nothing anyone, even Pa, could do or say would ever change her mind.

“George!” someone in the crowd shouted. People called, “Good name, ma’m!” and “Let’s hear it for George!” and “Who the hell’s George?” I couldn’t make out much else in the joyous babble. Someone put a dark bottle in my hands and I drank deeply, thinking this was soda pop. When I began to cough, someone grabbed my shoulder. I thought I was about to be spanked for drinking wine, but the hand belonged to the policeman, who pushed me toward the taxi. “Get on in, boy, your mama still ought to get to the hospital.”

I looked around. The hairy man and the woman in oak leaves had gone. I nodded, mumbled, “Yessir,” and got in next to Little Bit.

The police car ran its siren all the way to the hospital. Little Bit sat next to me in the taxi and kept sliding onto my side of the seat to look out the window, but I didn’t mind. Ma sat with the baby and smiled and whispered to him, and the taxi flew so fast that the wind whipped through the window, so fast that the Louisiana heat couldn’t catch us, and Little Bit laughed, and everything was as wonderful as it could be, even if I did have a shaved monkey doll for a brother.

Pa came home five days later. Grandma Letitia, who’d arrived the night of Digger’s birth to take care of Ma and us kids, went right back to Minnesota. I tried to tell Pa about the tree woman and the hairy man, but Pa said that’s Mardi Gras for you, people’ll do any damn thing for fun, and why’d the hospital expect us to pay the full bill when Ma never even got a peek inside the delivery room?

I was sorry that Ma didn’t remember the hairy man. I’d wanted to ask if he had looked like the drunken man at the hospital in South Carolina when I was born.

I have few memories about the pink house in New Orleans that Ma loved, and the few that I have are suspicious, as if they come from things I was told rather than things I lived. I believe I remember running around in a small yard of lush green grass with a coke bottle in my hand, but that may come from Ma telling me how all the neighbor kids drank soda pop, and we Nixes would want some, so she would give us orange juice in a Coca-Cola bottle, and for awhile, that satisfied us.

I think the end of our street curved, rather than came to an intersection. I remember running with other kids around a winding sidewalk. Where it took us, I have no idea.

I do remember moving from the pink house. Some people took away our swing set—in the back of a pick-up truck, I think. Little Bit and I, and maybe Digger, too, ran behind it, watching it go away. I think we cried. (Ma said once that I watched our possessions being sold, and she explained that we would be getting a new house, new furniture, new friends, and new swings. I considered this for hours, then asked “Mommy, will we be getting a new Daddy, too?”)

Ma must have cried too as she said goodbye to her neighbors, her pink house with its pink General Electric appliances, and a life of some security, no matter how small. In South Carolina, Pa had brought home a check from the Army, and at the farm in Minnesota, he had worked part-time as a butcher, and in New Orleans, he had been paid by the owners of the horses he had trained, and later by the bank for which he had sold insurance. But now he was going to work for his dream, and dreams can’t be counted on when it’s time to pay your bills.

Pa sold everything that would not fit into or on top of our station wagon. When the pink house was bare, we drove away. Remembering later trips, I can guess some of the details of that one: Pa sang “Little Joe the Wrangler” and “The Streets of Laredo,” and Ma sang “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” and “Roll Over, Roll Over.” I sang the Daniel Boone theme song, and Little Bit sang any words that passed through her mind. We ate at hamburger stands and truck stops and Mom and Pop roadside restaurants where Pop tended the grill and Mom made a special of the day in the back kitchen. We stayed in little motels run by elderly couples in partial retirement. We drove all day, departing in darkness and arriving in darkness. If we drove past something that interested any of us, we did not turn back. If we missed a road we had intended to take, Pa told Ma to find the next one that would intersect the one we wanted. In the afternoon we stopped by city parks or country streams, and Pa napped while we kids ran around, chasing each other and yelling and doing our best to get a full day’s playing into half an hour. Ma sat in the shade with a magazine, sometimes reading, sometimes fanning herself, always glancing at us through large sunglasses to be sure no one was eating dirt or chasing large dogs.

That must have been the trip when Digger got his name. George Abner Nix had a metal construction crane with black rubber wheels and a movable front scoop. He played with it constantly. He rarely talked, but one of the words he knew and used was “digger,” the name of his toy. Pa started calling him that, and everyone, including Digger, thought it was funny.

Little Bit got her name because she had trouble pronouncing Letitia Bette Nix. She was a tiny girl with short brown hair and big brown eyes; “Little Bit” seemed appropriate to Pa and to everyone.

I never had a nickname other than Chris. I knew I had been named for Mark Christopher Nix, my father’s brother, the brother who’d taken care of him when he was little, then gone off to the Second World War, that great war that followed the Great War to End All Wars, and died a hero. I didn’t know then that he’d been shot down over Italy by American forces after returning from a successful mission; I didn’t know then that the good guys kill the wrong people, too. I had seen a picture of Uncle Mark looking like John Wayne in his pilot’s uniform. Ma was keeping his little pin-on silver wings for me until I was old enough to take care of them. Being named for him was better than any nickname could be.

As we drove toward Florida, land of flowers, where Spanish moss and oranges grew on every tree, Pa told me Grandpa Wade and Uncle Mark stories late at night, when I had the navigator’s job of keeping the driver awake while watching for the next road that we wanted, and Mom and Digger and Little Bit slept in the backseat.

Wade Nix, so far as I knew, sprang like Adam from the American Midwest at the beginning of the twentieth century. He married Bette Kalff, a girl much younger than him, and they settled on a farm in northern Minnesota among the descendants of Norwegian and Swedish pioneers. In photos, they are a small, dark, handsome couple, but they may only seem small and dark next to their tall, fair-skinned neighbors. A picture exists in which a lean, weathered farmer smiles with a laughing baby on his knee; Wade Nix died soon after meeting me, before I had a chance to remember meeting him.

The Grandpa Wade story I heard most often was from late in his life. He and Bette had taken a trailer house down to Florida for the winter. Every morning, he would go out and look at the sky, then shake his head. After several weeks of this, he said, “Another goddamn beautiful day,” hitched up the trailer, and started back to Minnesota. Pa always laughed when he told that one.

Wade and Bette Nix had six children: a daughter, a son, a daughter, then three sons. From the names Bette Nix gave them, you would think she was a devout Christian. The boys were Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; the girls were Hope and Faith. Whether Charity died young, in the womb, or was never conceived, I do not know. What a fifth son might have been named, I cannot guess. I know that Grandma Bette believed in the Lutheran church for human company, but she found her spiritual comfort among the beans and tomatoes of her gardens, and the tribulations of the shadowy actors on her afternoon soap operas.

What the young Bette Nix might have believed or sought, I cannot say. Pa would say Grandma Bette believed in having her children do her work and sought to keep them working. The only story he told about Bette was about how he would run down to the creek beside their farm whenever she chased him to beat him. If he made it to the creek, he was safe. She was too fat to scramble down the steep bank after him.

The only story Grandma Bette told that I remember was about crossing a river in a covered wagon when she was a girl. The water came up through the floor boards, but they crossed safely.

When her second son was born, Bette said his name would be Mark. My Grandpa Wade, who Pa said never spoke unless he had something to say, looked at her and at the red-faced baby and said, “Mark Christopher.” Bette stared at him, but he offered no explanation and left their bedroom.

The first names of her children seemed to satisfy Bette’s wish to shape a pattern for her neighbors to admire. The children’s middle names were those of dead relatives and presidents. Pa’s middle name was Homer, but he always signed himself “Luke H. Nix.” When he was in the Merchant Marine, he had his middle name legally changed to “H.” so he could continue to say, as he always had, that the “H.” stood for nothing.

After Uncle Mark was born, several years passed before the birth of my father, and then the birth of his younger brother. The Nix girls had school and chores around the farm house to keep them busy, and the oldest boy, Matt, had school and field work with Grandpa Wade, so Uncle Mark served as Pa’s babysitter at least as often as either of his sisters.

Soon after Pa entered school, Matt Nix left it. Uncle Mark became the oldest male Nix at a tiny public school filled with Hansons, Olsens, Petersons, and Lundgrens. When the Nixes got into fights with blond town boys, Uncle Mark was the family champion. Pa began to start fights with older boys, knowing that Uncle Mark would come to his aid, until the day Uncle Mark saw what was happening and let Pa get beat thoroughly. Pa had a bloody nose and a broken tooth from that one. He laughed whenever he told about it, and so did I.

The Nix boys had a reputation for an easy way with girls, according to Pa. When Uncle Mark was a teenager, he had the easiest way of all. He was tall and good-looking, he played the guitar, he drove a shiny Studebaker convertible, and he was the captain of the football team. It’s true that almost every boy in that community was tall, and Mark only knew a few songs and probably didn’t play them well, and the Studebaker was second-hand, and there were so few high school boys in that small town school that anyone who wanted to could be on the football team. But it’s also true that boys and girls both liked Uncle Mark’s smile, and not everyone was brave enough or driven enough to sing in front of others, and the Studebaker’s paint gleamed and its engine hummed, and even if anyone could be on the team, only one could be captain, and that one was Uncle Mark.

And it’s also true that my Pa got in a lot of fights when he was young, and the person who’d sit him down and hear his story and tell him he’d fought well whether he’d won or lost was Uncle Mark.

The story about Uncle Mark and Grandpa Wade goes like this:

“Mark and your Grandpa Wade and I went into town one Saturday morning for supplies, and this fellow I didn’t know came out of the store and stopped in front of us. We didn’t think anything of it; we just began to move around him, when he says, ‘Mark. You, Mark Nix. You afraid to face me?’

“Now, this fellow was big, a Swede farmer with shoulders that you get from working fourteen hours a day when work needs to be done. Being afraid of him seemed like a perfectly natural thing to me, and probably to your Grandpa Wade, too. I don’t know if Mark was afraid, or if he just felt funny having this happen in front of his pa and his little brother. There wasn’t much Mark could do but shake his head and say, ‘No, Carl, I’m not afraid of you.’

“The Swede grins and says, ‘All right, then. You and me, right here, right now.’ And he begins to roll up his sleeves.

“Mark says, ‘She said she wasn’t your girl anymore.’

“The Swede kind of loses his grin and looks real mean. He says, ‘You chickening out, Nix?’

“Mark looks at Pa and looks at me and says to the Swede, ‘If you want, I’ll meet you tonight at the Nitehawk.’

“The Swede says, ‘Why should I wait up all night when you’re right here?’

“Now, by this time, there’s a few people inside the store listening, and there’s a couple more on the sidewalk, and we’re blocking the doorway, even though everyone around is more interested in whether there’ll be a fight than in getting past us. Mark’s kind of blushing, ‘cause he knows everyone’s going to be talking about this, no matter what he does.

“‘Hell,’ the Swede says, real disgusted. ‘You’re yellow, Nix. Little yellow prettyboy. Come on, I’ll give you the first blow. Hit me, if you’re man enough.” He sticks out his chin. “I dare you. Hit me.”

“Mark looks at your grandpa, and your grandpa just says, ‘Well, son, hit the man.’”

Pa would laugh and repeat that: “‘Well, son, hit the man.’” And then the story would end the way it had to: “So Mark cold-cocks him, right there. One punch to the chin and the Swede’s on the ground, wondering what train went over him. One punch. Your grandpa says, ‘Come on, son,’ and we went about our business. They were helping that poor Swede out of the store as we left.” Pa would shake his head and grin then. “One punch.”

Uncle Mark joined the Army Air Corps when the U.S. went to war. Pa, too young to join the Army, became a radio operator in the Merchant Marine. One day at sea, he learned that Uncle Mark had been shot down over Italy. A week later, he overheard a radio report that a ship carrying thousands of American bodies back from Europe had been sunk. The news never reached the public.

The U.S. government buried a coffin and set up a tombstone with my name on it at the military graveyard on the outskirts of Minneapolis. None of the Nix family traveled to the funeral. A few weeks after the funeral, Bette and Wade Nix received an American flag in exchange for their son.

If Pa was bitter about the end of Uncle Mark’s story, I never heard that. I heard pride when he said that Uncle Mark and his copilot stayed in the plane until everyone else had parachuted safely, and then it was too late for them to bail out, too. What followed after that was just the way the story ended, no different than Custer at the Little Big Horn or the charge of the Light Brigade.

Ma told stories of our past, too, when she drove and Pa rested. Hers tended to be quiet, afternoon tales. Mystery and violence were usually replaced with humor, but sometimes the grim things lurked in the corners of Ma’s stories, outside the telling and making themselves known by their shadows, where none of us saw them unless we looked.

What should have been the best story of all was, in Ma’s telling, a simple statement of fact: We were related to General George Armstrong Custer through Grandma Letitia, who had been born a Kuster with a K, a cousin or a second-cousin of his, or perhaps they’d come from the same German village centuries before. The details didn’t matter. One of America’s most famous heroes was one of ours, even if Ma had nothing to say about his life or death. Pa did his part to enrich this simple detail for Digger, Little Bit, and me by pointing out that our Indian blood meant we had ancestors on both sides of the Battle of the Little Big Horn, among its losers and its winners.

I don’t remember any of Ma’s stories about Grandpa Abner. Ma loved him, and so did we, because he was a happy man who was always finding ways to make us laugh. Maybe because of that, we didn’t need any stories about him. He was the druggist in Rosecroix, Minnesota, a small town about a hundred miles from the farm where Pa grew up.

Ma’s favorite story about Grandma Letitia was of a Sunday afternoon when they had gone driving. Grandma Letitia had seen a sign advertising a new soft drink, 7-Up, and she had said, “What’s Zup?” Grandpa Abner had smiled and said, “I don’t know, dear. What’s up?” “No,” said Grandma Letitia, pointing adamantly at the billboard. “What’s Zup? What’s Zup?”

Ma was an only child, so she had no stories to tell about brave or foolish siblings. She had been a happy and an obedient child, and as the daughter of one of the three richest families in town (the druggist comes after the two other wealthy Ds of every small town, the doctor and the dentist), Ma had been protected.

But Ma knew one story whose mystery I had never appreciated. Grandma Letitia was one of four Kuster girls. The oldest, Rose, had been a journalist for a good newspaper. Rose Kuster was a tall, independent woman, the quintessence of the 1920s free women. She wore short, fringed dresses; she bobbed her hair; she smoked cigarettes and raced roadsters; she kept her father’s Colt .45 in her luggage. She never married. Grandma Letitia thought her oldest sister was a scandal and a delight.

Sometime between the two world wars, Rose Kuster took an ocean liner to Europe and never arrived. No one knew what happened to her, whether she fell overboard, was thrown, or threw herself. Her trunk came back to the U.S. without any hint of the fate of its owner.

Maybe I never appreciated the story because Ma would suggest that Rose had lost her memory and married a count, or had run away with a man who had not won Rose’s father’s approval. Those conclusions could not compare with struggling to land a shot-up B-12 in the dark hills of Italy. Only when I was older did I think of a moonless night on the ocean, and a ship cruising away while a dance band played a fox trot, and a woman in an evening gown swimming gamely after it, knowing her cries and the waving of her hand would never be noticed.

Only one set of family stories remains to be told before my story begins. These are the stories I learned as a child about Susan Genevieve Uvdal and Luke H. Nix.

When Ma graduated from high school, she went hundreds of miles away to the city, to Minneapolis. At the University, she danced late into the night at fraternity parties and hotel ballrooms, and eventually, homesick, she returned to her parents’ house. She became a Wave during the second World War. In photos of her in uniform, she looks like Judy Garland, another Minnesotan. After the war, with three others whom she called girls but who must have been young women, she spent a summer driving through Mexico. Handsome men were always available to help them whenever they had trouble with their car. When Ma returned to Minnesota, she was engaged several times, but she always found the men too stolid to marry.

Pa stayed in the Merchant Marine for some time after the war. In Germany, he was jumped by two men, perhaps for his money. Pa knocked one down, straddled his chest, and tightened his fingers around the man’s throat. The second man kicked Pa in the chin, so Pa banged the first man’s head against the cobblestones. They repeated this like figures in a cuckoo clock striking an hour that would not end. At last, the first German quit kicking Pa and carried away his friend, or maybe the Military Police arrived. That night left Pa with a patch of mottled skin on his jaw where his beard would never grow.

When he left the Merchant Marine, he came back to northern Minnesota, but not to the family farm. He rented a cabin on Lake of the Woods, and he bought a used red MG convertible, the only sports car in several counties. One summer, he and his brothers and sisters put on the first water-skiing show on Lake of the Woods. His cabin became the county’s weekend party house. He lived the life Uncle Mark might have led.

Pa was tending bar at the Nitehawk on the evening he met Ma. She came in with another man, and when Pa asked her what she’d like, she said, “In Minneapolis, they knew how to make highballs, but no one knows how to make them up here.”

Pa said, “Sister, if you can drink ‘em, I can build ‘em.”

That was probably the true moment of my conception.

Chapter Two: In the Foundations of Dream

At the Florida welcome station, three pretty women with their hair piled high on their heads gave us smiles and small paper cups of orange juice. When I held out mine for more, Ma said, “Chris! What do you say?”

I said, “Please,” and the pretty woman refilled my cup. I kept saying please until I could drink no more.

Ma gathered brochures of tourist attractions and showed us pictures of pirates in Tampa, mermaids in Silver Springs, and cowboys in Ocala. Pa said soon there’d be a brochure for Dogland here. He asked one of the pretty women with high hair if they had any literature about Latchahee County. The pretty woman frowned, said “Excuse me,” and went to speak with a prettier woman with higher hair.

Little Bit whispered, “‘Piders.”

I said, “What?”

Little Bit said, “In her hair. ‘Pider nest.”

I shivered and stared.

The youngest of the three spider women returned. “I’m sorry. We’re all out of brochures on Latchahee County. There isn’t much there—”

“Now,” Pa said.

“Beg pardon?”

Pa smiled. He always smiled at pretty women, and they always smiled at him. “Isn’t much there now. But there will be.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the woman said. “Florida’s the fastest growing state in the nation. And as you visit here—”

“Settle here,” Pa said. “Doing our bit to keep you growing so fast.”

“Well!” said the woman. “Welcome to Florida! You, too, ma’m.”

Ma said, “Thank you. We’re looking forward to living here.”

The woman looked at us. “And you, li’l chil’en? Are you looking forward to living here, too?”

I looked at my cowboy boots and nodded. Little Bit hid behind me. Digger just stared at the woman.

Ma said, “They’re tired. It’s been a long trip.”

“Yes,” said the young woman, smiling even more. “I’m sure it’s been.” At the end of the counter, the other two women watched us. Laughing, they waggled their fingers toward us like spiders walking.

Ma said, “Say goodbye, Chris, Letitia Bette.”

I whispered, “G’bye.”

The spider women laughed and called, “Be seeing you.”

#

In Florida, nature has not been taught its place. Plants and animals do not know the forms they’re permitted up north, so you find thick gray swatches of Spanish moss in the trees, and snapping turtles with heads shaped like those of eagles, and deep carpets of sawgrass growing along the bottoms of the rivers, and walls of green palmetto spears making dens in the countryside for rattlesnakes and wild pigs.

As we drove to Latchahee County, Ma said, “See, Letitia Bette? The moss is waving hello.”

Little Bit smiled and waved. “H’lo, moss.” Digger giggled. I thought of Halloween witches with thick gray hair.

I pointed with an empty cowboy cap pistol. “Turtle.”

Ma said, “Seven animals for Chris. One to catch up to Digger, six to catch up to Letitia Bette.”

I always hated car games.

Pa said, “They call that a gopher down here. Turtles live in the water, gophers live on the ground. Their heads look different. Down here, they don’t have hairy gophers like up north. Down here, lots of things are different.”

Little Bit pointed. “Fire.”

In the light of the sunset, a cross burned before an old wooden house. Several people stood around it wearing sheets.

I said, “Is it Hall’ween?”

Pa laughed, loud enough to surprise me. “No, son. You’ve got a couple of months to go.”

Digger, pressing his hands and nose against the window of the station wagon, stared at the distant flame. Ma patted the back of his head.

Little Bit said, “Can we make a fire?”

Pa said, “Next time we go camping, we’ll make a fire.”

“Can we have mushmellows?”

Pa nodded. “We can have mushmellows.”

“Can I have my own bag of mushmellows?”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

Ma tucked a strand of hair behind Little Bit’s ear. The burning cross soon disappeared behind us.

Little Bit pointed. “Deer.”

A fawn stood under the pines, long enough to be counted, then slipped into the shadows of the woods.

Ma said, “Fourteen for Letitia Bette.”

I said, “I quit. I give my points to Digger, so he wins.”

Ma and Pa always gave their points to Digger. Often we’d catch him looking at an animal that none of us had seen, and we’d give him those points, too. The only animals he would call were dogs and cats, and then he would only whisper, “Robberlee” or “Nax.” Robert E. Lee had been the neighbors’ dog in New Orleans, and Max had been their cat.

Little Bit said, “That’s not fair. Chris can’t give his points to Digger, too.”

Ma said, “He can give his points to anyone he wants, Letitia Bette.”

Pa said. “Life’s not fair.”

Little Bit said, “But we’re s’posed to try to be fair anyway.”

Pa nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”

“But that’s not fair,” Little Bit said.

Pa reached over and ruffled her hair. “Who’s my girl?”

“Me!” said Little Bit.

“Is that fair?”

Little Bit nodded vigorously.

Pa laughed. “No, it’s not. I’m just luckier’n I deserve.”

I pointed my pistol at her and whispered, “Bang.”

“Chris’s pointing his pistol at me!”

Ma said, “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Then that’s okay.”

I stuck my tongue out at her.

“Chris’s sticking his tongue out at me!”

Ma said, “Chris, do you want a little bird to land on your tongue and go to the bathroom?”

I pulled my tongue in fast.

“Ha-ha!” Little Bit said, pointing at me. “Ha-ha!”

We drove on in silence, finally broken when Pa said, “Down here, you’ll hear white people call Negroes ‘niggers.’ If any of you use that word, you’ll get the whipping of your life. Understand me?”

I said quietly, “Yes, sir.” Little Bit bounced on the seat and said, “An’ don’t say ‘ain’t.’”

Pa said, “You know why?”

Little Bit said, “‘Cause ‘ain’t’ ain’t right!”

They laughed, and Ma smiled, and Digger clapped his hands together. I pointed a cap gun into the night and whispered, “Bang.”

#

Besides watching for animals, we watched for interesting billboards. U.S. 19 had been decorated with signs promising wonderous things if only we would travel a little further: Reptile World, Seminole World, The Old Plantation, Six-Gun Territory, Busch Gardens, Beautiful Miami, Scenic Tallahassee, Historic St. Augustine, all kinds of motels with “beach” in their names that usually added a line saying they were “right on the beach!” Ma thought that was funny and said we’d better not stay at any beach motels that weren’t on the beach. Pa pointed at two signs, for the Fountain of Youth Motor Inn and Suwannee Riverboat Rides, and said they were just down the road from where we were going.

Almost all of the billboards had pictures of pretty white women in one-piece bathing suits, but they also had snake heads and seashells and panthers and automobiles and clowns and old black men singing and fat black women laughing. None of us kids could read yet, but I knew most of the alphabet, and Little Bit and I had both learned to recognize a few words, especially when they were near pictures of our favorite meal: “Hamburgers! Hamburgers!”

Ma said, “Two nights in a row?”

Little Bit and I said, “Yeah!”

Pa shrugged. “It’s a vacation.”

So we stopped for dinner at a hamburger stand and had burgers, french fries, and chocolate milk shakes on tables set between two rows of parked cars. Behind the stand were older cars and a table where a Negro family ate. The air smelled of burnt meat and burnt gasoline, the smells of travel.

The men’s room was locked, and Pa thought I was getting too old to be taken into the ladies’, but they had a third door next to the first two. The word on the door didn’t start with “W” or “L,” so it wasn’t for girls. It didn’t start with an “M” or a “G” either; it started with a “C,” which looked like a broken “G.” When I tried the door, it opened, and there was a toilet inside, so I used it. When I came out, a Negro woman at the door looked at me and smiled slightly, and I felt bad. I hadn’t known anyone had two women’s rooms.

A white boy coming out of the men’s room saw me ducking past the woman. He laughed and said, “That’s the lightest nigger I ever saw!”

At the table I asked Ma, “What’s see oh el oh ar ee dee?”

She said, “Oh, that’s the bathroom for the colored people. Why?”

I shook my head. Ma took Little Bit and Digger to the ladies’ room. When she brought them back, Little Bit, holding Ma’s hand and twisting to look over her shoulder, said, “There’s colored men and women using the same baffroom!”

I looked, and it was true. A whole family, a man, an old woman, two boys, and a girl, had formed a line at the bathroom I had used.

Ma said, “Shh.”

Pa took his pipe out of his mouth, looked at it, and said, “They only get one in most places in the South. Wasn’t any different in New Orleans. You never noticed?”

I shook my head.

“You think they should be using the bushes?”

Little Bit’s eyes opened wide, and she shook her head.

Pa said, “All right, then,” and put his pipe back in his mouth.

#

After dinner, as we drove into the gathering darkness, Ma said, “Should we get a motel room?”

Pa shook his head. “We’re almost there.”

“Everyone’ll be asleep.”

“I’ll call the realtor.”

“You don’t even know if we have beds.”

Pa frowned. “There’s the mattress on the roof. You’ve got sheets.”

Ma nodded.

“I’ll call the realtor.” Pa was at the pay phone for a minute or two. When he came back, he said, “Don’t look like that, Susan. You’ll be sleeping in your own house tonight.”

Ma nodded. “Who wants to ride in front?”

Little Bit and I said, “Me, me!” Pa looked at Ma and didn’t say anything.

Ma said, “You rode up front this afternoon, Little Bit. It’s Chris’s turn.”

I grinned in triumph and jumped in. The front seat was best because you could see everything, including the car’s control panel. Since we almost never had more than the driver and a passenger in the front, you had an entire half of the seat to yourself.

Ma, Little Bit, and Digger fell asleep quickly. Pa found a radio station that played Johnny Cash and other good country music, but when the signal turned into static, I couldn’t find anything else on the dial.

I woke up sometime after that, when Pa said, “That’s the Suwannee River up ahead.” I saw the silhouette of a steel girder bridge against the dark sky, and a black ribbon of river to either side of us as we rattled over it. I knew the song, the first lines, anyway, and I would have sung them if I had been asked. Pa only said, “Watch close, son. The turn off to Dickison’s easy to miss.”

I sat up and squinted hard. The next light in the darkness was an electric sign for The Fountain of Youth Motor Inn, a small pink motel with a swimming pool in its courtyard. At the far end of the pool, water gushed from a giant bowl molded in concrete.

As we passed it, Pa said, “There’s a springs back behind the hotel. The owner said you kids can swim there any time you want.”

We drove for a mile. Pa said, “Damn,” pulled into the gravel parking lot of Gideon’s 19-cent Hamburgers, and turned around. For the first time on that trip, we drove the same stretch of road twice. I sat there, unable to say anything, but Pa pointed into a dark field and said, “Dogland.”

I saw the shape of a building and the outlines of some trees, and nothing more. Pa said, “Needs just a little bit of work,” and laughed, so I nodded.

When we got back to the Fountain of Youth Motor Inn, Pa said, “Damn it to hell,” and we turned around again. I looked in the backseat. Ma and Digger still slept. Little Bit lay against Ma’s shoulder, but her eyes were open wide.

Pa said, “Now, how’n hell’d I miss that turn?” Little Bit closed her eyes then, and I looked up front. In our station wagon’s headlights, a narrow blacktop cut off from the highway. Beside it, a sign said, “Welcome to Latchahee County.”

Pa turned onto the new road. A second sign said, “Florida 13” and a third said, “Dickison, 12 mi.” Pa said, “Almost there.”

Florida 13 wound through forests and farm land. Just when I was about to fall asleep again, we left the darkness to pass a wooden roadhouse called Red’s where electric lights burned and several speakers under the eaves played Jerry Lee Lewis very loudly for a parking lot filled with pickups, semi-truck cabs, and convertibles with their tops down.

Under the lights, Red’s was a movie set. A vignette played just for me while we approached: A black-haired boy and a blond girl leaned against a crimson Cadillac as they kissed. His hair was long and slicked back; hers was caught in a ponytail. He wore a white T-shirt; she wore a black blouse. He wore tight blue jeans; she wore tight white pedal pushers. I couldn’t see her face. He looked up as our station wagon passed, and he smiled at us. Then, as he put his lips to her neck and she arched her back in pleasure, the movie set was gone in the darkness.

We came to a motel and a gas station where Pa began to slow down. A sign said, “Dickison, Pop. 1137.” Pa said, “They’ll have to pop five more now that we’re here,” but I didn’t get it and Ma was still asleep.

Main Street consisted of several blocks of buildings, mostly one-story flat-roofed single-windowed structures that fronted on sidewalks shaded by water oaks, live oaks, and Chinaberry trees. We parked in front of a small storefront with white lettering on its window: “Central Insurance Agency and Real Estate, A. Drake, Prop.” The office was dark. A note had been tucked in the screen door.

Pa and I got out. He looked the note over and headed back for the car. I ran to get into the passenger seat, and we drove several blocks to Mr. Drake’s house. Over half of the houses in Dickison were old, high-roofed square wooden boxes with a couple of windows and a porch in front and a shed in back. The rest were new, flat-roofed rectangular cement-block boxes with a large living room window, either no porch or a tiny porch large enough for one person to huddle out of the rain, and a car port attached to the living room side of the house. Mr. Drake lived near the Christ the Redeemer Baptist Church in one of the new houses. A yellow light burned next to his front door, and a statue of a Negro jockey waited to hold horses next to the asphalt driveway.

Ma had woken by then, but she didn’t say anything; she just watched. Pa parked behind the Drakes’ shiny blue Buick, and he and I went up to their door. Pa pressed the buzzer. An eye and a mass of brown hair appeared in one of the three glass panes set in the front door, and then that door opened. A teen-aged girl in a poodle skirt stood behind the screen. She smiled and said, “Hi. You folks lookin’ for my Daddy?”

Pa nodded. “If he’s Mr. Drake.”

“Just a minute.” The girl ran back into the house, then returned with a tanned man in a white short-sleeved shirt and brown trousers.

The man stepped out, thrusting his hand toward Pa. Lots of people were taller than Pa, but Mr. Drake was almost a full head taller. “Mr. Nix? Wasn’t sure you folks’d make it tonight.”

The men grinned as they shook hands. Pa said, “Sorry to bother you so late, Mr. Drake. I have your check. We’ll take the key and get out of your hair.”

Mr. Drake had very little hair to get out of; his brown crewcut looked like a marine’s version of Friar Tuck’s tonsure. He shook his head. “No, it isn’t any trouble. I’ll get you folks out there and show you where everything is.” He lifted a hand to forestall any protest. “Got to let a man earn his living. Call me Artie.” He motioned toward the girl. “That’s Gwenny, my pride and joy.”

Pa nodded. “I’m Luke. This is my boy, Chris. The rest of the family’s sleeping in the car.”

“You put in a couple of long days.”

I said, “Yes, sir. All day long, sir.”

Mr. Drake laughed. “I bet.” He turned and called, “Gwenny, pick me up at the old Hawkins Motel. In about half an hour.”

“Sure thing, Daddy.”

“And don’t call that Tepes boy and tell him you’re home alone.” He pronounced the name “teeps.” I didn’t learn the spelling until I saw Johnny Tepes’s name in the Dickison Star several years later.

Gwenny may’ve exaggerated her indignation for us. “Daddy!”

He laughed. “‘Cause I will be expecting you in half an hour.”

She may’ve exaggerated her resignation, too. “Yes, Daddy.”

Mr. Drake asked Pa “Mind if I drive you out? It’s a sight easier’n following me or my directions.”

Pa squinted. “We passed the property on the way in.”

Mr. Drake laughed again. I could smell a little beer on his breath. “Oh, I doubt you’d get lost on the highway. But I thought I’d show you a shortcut. And it’s a mite tricky.”

Short cut was always a phrase of seduction to Pa. Suggesting that the route was difficult was the setting of the hook. Pa shrugged. “Fine.”

“Good.” Mr. Drake reached inside the door to pick up a long silver flashlight. “You want to carry this, Chris?”

I smiled. “Yes, sir!” The flashlight was heavy and twice as big as any of Ma’s little house flashlights. I loved anything that was bigger than it was supposed to be, so long as it wasn’t scary.

Mr. Drake said, “Don’t turn it on until we need it.”

I nodded. “All right.”

Gwenny Drake smiled at me. “Nice meeting you, Chris, Mr. Nix.” She gave her father a kiss on the cheek. “See you soon, Daddy.”

“And don’t drive over fifty. And take the highway!”

She laughed. “Yes, Daddy.”

At the car, Digger didn’t wake up for introductions, but Little Bit did. Mr. Drake said, “What a little charmer,” and Little Bit grinned. He added, “It’s apparent where she gets it, Mrs. Nix.”

Ma smiled, tired and pleased. “I see I’ll have to warn her about Southern flattery.”

“Oh, some folks just have to state the obvious, and I fear I’m one, ma’m.”

Pa said, “Get in, Chris.” I hadn’t been dawdling, but I slid into the middle of the seat fast and grinned. Mr. Drake got behind the wheel, Pa got in beside me, and we backed out onto Church Street. As he drove, Mr. Drake said, “Dickison’s named for Captain J. J. Dickison of the Confederate Army. In February of 1865, he turned back two regiments of Yankees who tried to march inland from Cedar Keys. He was nearly the last Floridian to succeed in turning back northerners.” Mr. Drake’s smile was in his voice, and Pa laughed, so Little Bit and I did, too.

I sat in the dim glow of the headlights and the dashboard and saw Confederate cavalry chasing Union troops while cannons exploded in the sky. My family came from the North, but I was Southern-born. Besides, the Confederates had better uniforms than the Yankees.

Mr. Drake shrugged. “The last time was a month later, some of our troops and a bunch of school boys repelled a Yankee invasion of Tallahassee. That was up north a ways at a place called Natural Bridge. Did you know Tallahassee’s the only Confederate capitol east of the Mississippi that wasn’t captured by the Union?”

“No,” Ma said. “I didn’t.”

“I figure that either means the Yankees never completely whupped us, or we’ve always been able to work deals with the North, whether we liked it or not.”

Pa said, “There been any hard feelings about us buying the Hawkins land?”

Mr. Drake glanced at him, then laughed and glanced back at the road. “Oh, no, sir, not at all. Not enough Yankees settling in Latchahee County to bother anyone. Down south and along the coast, some folks call it the North’s second invasion, but no one really minds. This time it’s an invasion of money, not soldiers, and no one’s come trying to tell us how we ought to live.”

Pa said, “Good to hear that. Susan and I’ll always be Yankees, I suppose, but the kids’ll be talking like little rebels in a month, I bet.”

Mr. Drake laughed. “Kids’re like that.” He turned onto a rutted gravel road, marked only by a sign saying County 666, and pointed a finger out into the night. “Captain Dickison turned back the Yankees near Otter Creek, but the townsfolk there were happy enough with their name. Around here, we didn’t much like our old name of Creek Town, so we took on Dickison in 1866. Our old name wasn’t on account of any creek running through town. In territorial days, a Creek Indian village was here.

“We’ll pass by Old Dickison, the site of Creek Town, in about half a mile. Isn’t anything there to see in the dark.” Which was certainly true. Away from Dickison, there was only the night. The whole of the world lay inside our car and in the strip of gravel that rolled through our headlights and beneath our wheels.

“The Creeks and the whites lived in peace in Creek Town, same as in Chiefland over in Levy County. And, same as in Chiefland, they were forced south as more and more whites moved in. Some of ‘em prob’ly ended up in the Everglades. Most of ‘em were prob’ly sent to Oklahoma after the Seminole Wars. Anyways, the only Creeks you’ll see around Dickison are the Dickison Warriors on homecoming weekend. We always put on a nice parade. Gwenny’ll be a drum majorette this year.”

He pointed toward a dark strip on the black horizon. “Old Dickison. Not a heap more to see in daylight. Folks keep talking about turning it into a county park. Maybe that’ll happen when they finish this road.” He laughed. “That’s kind of a local joke. Seems like they’ve been working on this road forever.”

We passed a big yellow grading machine and a little caterpillar with a shovel on the front. On the side was stenciled “Tophet Construction Co.” Drake laughed again. “See what I mean? S’posed to connect Dickison with a little beach on the Gulf of Mexico, open up the county for tourism. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Ma said, “History is your hobby, Mr. Drake?”

“Yes, ma’m. That and religion. If you don’t know those things about folks, you don’t know dirt about ‘em. And it’s natural enough to me, being in insurance and real estate. Gods and the past, yes, indeed, ma’m.”

He gestured again at the night. “Folks think this is a new land, call it the new world, but it’s old. People been coming to Florida for near as long as there’s been people. When the Spaniards came in the 1500s, two tribes held most of this part of the peninsula. The Timucua and the Apalachee. The Suwannee River divided their territory.”

Apalachee sounded like Apache. I began to see John Wayne in the desert, and warriors circling the wagon train.

“There was an Indian village around the property you’re buying, which probably would’ve been Timucuan. They called the river the Guasaca Esqui, the River of Reeds. De Soto called it the River of the Deer. But its last Spanish name was the San Juanee, the little St. John. Folks say the coloreds corrupted the name to Suwannee, but I reckon we all did, since that’s what we all call it.” He nudged me. “Might find arrow heads on your property. Would you like that?”

“Yes, sir!” I said.

“You find anything special, you let me know. I’m an armchair archeologist, too. But I know some real ones at the University of Florida. You know what an archeologist does?”

“No, sir.”

“An archeologist is an active historian. Gets right in there with the clues folks have left us and figures out how they lived.”

“Oh.” Archaeology sounded more like something for Digger than for me.

“The tourist board likes to say Florida’s belonged to five nations, Spain, France, Britain, the Union, and the Confederacy. That’s prob’ly ‘cause they only want to use one hand to count with. When the Spanish came, there were four nations already here, the Calusa, the Tegesta, the Timucua, and the Apalachee. We don’t know the names of the folks who came before ‘em, but we know of some that came after. The Creeks came down with the British colonists, before the American revolution, helping ‘em fight the Spanish and enslave the local Indians. Some of the Creeks stayed here and got the name of Seminoles. That means Runaways. You know about the Seminoles, Chris?”

“No, sir.”

“Great warriors, and good people. Before the U.S. owned this land, slaves would run south to be free. Some of them set up their own community, took over an old Spanish fort. Others of ‘em married into the Seminoles. A woman named Morning Dew who had some Negro blood married a warrior named Osceola, or As-se-he-ho-lar, which means Black Drink. That was a ceremonial brew, sort of like beer.”

I nodded.

“Morning Dew gave Osceola four children, and then some settlers carried her off as a slave on account of her Negro blood. In those days, they had terms for how much Negro you had in you. An octoroon was an eighth Negro, and I don’t know if Morning Dew was even that much Negro. Anyway, Osceola never forgave the Americans for stealing his wife. A war lasted seven years. Might’ve ended earlier, but Osceola came in to talk under a flag of truce, and the American leader—I hope a Yankee—captured him. Another Seminole, Wild Cat, kept the war going. Cost the U.S. fifteen hundred soldiers’ lives and over forty million dollars in expenses and property damage.”

Pa said, “Sounds like Florida’s got a history of losing battles.”

Mr. Drake laughed. “Don’t say that to anyone but me. Folks know I’ll say any fool thing ‘cause I went off to school.” He laughed again. “You’re right, though. A history of losing wars and losing lands. But keep in mind that every one of those losses was hard-fought.”

Ma said, “What happened to Morning Dew?”

Mr. Drake gave her the same look he’d given Pa. “You know, I’ve bored countless people with that story, and you’re the first to ask. I’ll find out.”

Ma said, “Thank you.”

A car slowly approached and passed us; our headlights flashed across a pale, elderly couple sitting close together in the front seat. Mr. Drake said, “Tourists, most like. Surprising number of people travel this road, maybe just to see where it goes. Which is a few miles past Dickison into absolutely nothing at all.” A new set of headlights approached from the north, then crossed the road far ahead of us, continuing south and letting us know we were almost to the highway.

Mr. Drake said, “There, the short-cut prob’ly saved you a whole minute and a half.” We came onto Route 19 next to Gideon’s Hamburgers. Mr. Drake jerked his head toward the tiny restaurant. “Gideon Shale’s one of your neighbors. Nice old coot. Makes a fine hamburger. As long as you don’t mind hearing a little Jesus every ten or twenty minutes, you’ll get on fine with him.”

“What is he?” Ma asked.

“What church?” Mr. Drake shook his head. “Baptist, to be sure. Near everyone down here’s Baptist. What kind of Baptist, I can’t say. He’s a happy one though. He thinks Latchahee County is the site of the Garden of Eden.”

Pa sounded as if his nose had clogged up.

Mr. Drake said, “Lot of people in Florida get their notions. For the most part, folks figure you can believe any fool thing so long as you let them believe their own nonsense.” He let his foot off the gas and flipped the turn signal. “This is all sacred ground around here.”

Ma said, “Oh?”

“Sorry, I’m getting so wrapped up in ancient history that I’m forgetting near history.” He eased the car onto a gravel driveway. “Mrs. DeLyon’s willing to knock five thousand dollars off the buying price.”

Pa made a grunt of interest.

“The old house burned down a couple nights back.”

Ma gasped. Pa made a grunt that only said he’d heard what Mr. Drake had said. I said, “Ooh,” and wished I’d been here to watch.

“Wasn’t anything in it. You must’ve seen it was in sorry shape when Mrs. DeLyon showed it to you.”

Pa grunted again. Ma said, “But where’ll we live?”

Mr. Drake said, “The manager’s quarters have been kept up nice.”

“Luke said they were small.”

“Yes, ma’m.” Mr. Drake parked our station wagon beside a pale green square building with large windows on three sides and a closed sign in one of them. The window lettering said, “Hawkins’ Home-style Cafe.” The headlights shone on a dirt trail through an overgrown yard to a low cinder block building with two doors. “If you don’t think you’ll be comfortable, we’ll head back into town and put you up at our place. Won’t be any trouble.”

“Well.” Ma looked at Pa. Pa stared out at the charcoal night beyond the car’s twin beams of light. Ma said, “We’ve come this far.”

Little Bit said, “We’re here?”

I said, “Of course we’re here. Where d’you think we are, there?”

Ma said, “Chris, everyone’s tired.”

“But she couldn’t even tell—”

Pa said, “Chris.”

I said, “Yes, sir,” and shut up.

Mr. Drake said, “I ‘spect I’ll need that flashlight now.”

I handed it to him and felt useless. Pa was already getting out of the car, so I scrambled after him, and felt a little better as soon as my cowboy boots crunched onto the gravel.

Pa said, “That’s two fires here.”

Mr. Drake said, “Nothing suspicious about that. The row of motel rooms burned last year ‘cause of a fellow smoking in bed. Did you know that cigarette companies add things to their tobacco so the cigarettes won’t go out fast when you’re not puffing on ‘em?”

Pa glanced at him.

Mr. Drake laughed. “Sorry. My daughter says I always take shortcuts when I drive and the scenic route when I talk.”

Pa nodded.

Mr. Drake turned the flashlight on and cut the night with its beam, revealing the charred ruins of a house. “Rooster Donati—that’s the sheriff—says a party got out of control. Someone built a campfire behind the house, away from the highway, and didn’t pay any mind to it till it was too late. Prob’ly kids broke into the house to, ah, fool around and forgot about their campfire. Or might’ve been tramps. Anyways, the only damage was property damage.”

Pa nodded. “Anything else I should know?”

“There is one more thing, but I’d prefer to show you around first. Reassure you that everything else is just the way you saw it.”

Pa said, “My check won’t clear for a couple of days. I’ve got plenty of time to assure myself.”

Mr. Drake nodded. “Let me give your family the quick tour and finish up the ancient history, first. If you don’t mind.”

Pa shrugged.

Mr. Drake smiled and handed me the flashlight. “Shine that over there, Chris.”

I aimed the light where he pointed. Alone in the night, far from any other tree, stood a huge live oak draped in Spanish moss. Jack the Giant Killer could climb that tree and find riches. The Swiss Family Robinson could build a city in its limbs.

Mr. Drake said, “They call that the Heart Tree. No one’s sure why. S’posed to’ve sprouted when Columbus landed. No one’s counted rings, but the botanists who’ve looked at it agree it could be that old.” He smiled at me and Little Bit. “That tree’s nearly five hundred years old.”

“Ooh,” I said.

He nodded at Ma. “Remember when I said this was sacred land? Before the Spanish came, the natives marked the trees in a ring five miles out around this place. Apalachees and Timucuans who’d been wounded in battle would come here to heal, and no one would fight on this ground. Some say it was the Heart Tree that was sacred. Some say it was Hawkins’ Spring, back behind the Fountain of Youth Motel. In either case, it doesn’t matter. Sacred ground.”

I nodded and looked at my family. Everyone was listening to Mr. Drake, except for Digger, who sat on the dirt and grinned as he picked up sacred ground and dropped it on his clean dungarees.

Pa nodded. “Plenty of firewood there.” Mr. Drake gaped, and Pa laughed. “Don’t worry. We’ll put a sign in front of that tree for the tourists, Maybe we could hire you to write its history.”

Mr. Drake’s nod was almost a bow. “I’d be honored.”

Ma said, “Where were the motel rooms?”

Mr. Drake tapped my shoulder and pointed. I turned the beam of the heavy flashlight and revealed a long scar in the earth that tall grass and small bushes were beginning to reclaim. Mr. Drake pointed toward the woods. “I think they dozed the rubble back into there, by the Hawkins’s garbage dump. Nothing salvageable in either fire.”

He took from his pants pocket a ring of keys with a round white tag, led us to the restaurant door, opened it, and snapped on a light mounted to the outside of the building, then a light inside. In the electric glare, the Heart Tree was just a big tree, the Hawkins Cafe was an old roadside restaurant, and the land where the motel had burned was ugly instead of mysterious.

As Pa went to turn off the station wagon’s lights, Mr. Drake waved at the restaurant and said, “You can tell it needs a good cleaning.”

Ma’s lips tightened, and she nodded. The windows and walls were thick with grime. Digger stood beside Ma, resting his head on her leg. She picked him up in both arms and whispered, “It’ll be fine.” He put his head on her shoulder and immediately went to sleep.

Mr. Drake said, “Maynard Hawkins wasn’t much of a handyman, and when the title went to Mrs. DeLyon, she saw no need to fix up a business that’d just compete with the Fountain of Youth. So there’s plenty to keep you busy here. But everything’s sound. It’ll be worth the work.”

Pa said, “Hmm.”

Mr. Drake held the screen door open for us. The restaurant was a dusty version of the places we usually ate in when we traveled: large windows, a few bare light bulbs in the ceiling. The cinder block walls had once been white or light gray. Eight or ten square, formica-covered tables were stacked in twos on one side of the room; the upper, upside-down tables thrust their iron pedestals into the air, where their feet made Xs. Next to the tables was a cluster of steel-tube chairs with pink padded plastic-covered backs and seats. Just inside the door, a counter ran along the wall, with twelve high stools bolted to the floor in front of it. The stools had dark bases, like the tables, but they ended in round seats with shiny aluminum sides and padded red vinyl tops. Behind the counter was a pass-through into the kitchen, next to scarred swinging doors.

Mr. Drake said, “A few hours with soap and paint, and it’ll be beautiful.”

Little Bit and I jumped onto two high stools and began to spin ourselves around. When we laughed, Digger woke up, looked at us without any expression, and went back to sleep.

Pa said, “This’ll be the souvenir shop until we’re ready to expand.”

Ma looked at him and Mr. Drake and didn’t say anything.

Mr. Drake said, “Everything works. The grill, the hot water, the refrigerator which was bought new three years ago, the freezer, everything. If you decide you don’t want to run a restaurant, you could sell the furnishings for a good price.”

Ma looked at Little Bit and me. “You’ll get dizzy.” We were already dizzy, but her warning was a fine excuse to stop spinning, so we jumped down from the stools. Ma looked at Mr. Drake. “The manager’s quarters don’t have a kitchen.”

“No, ma’m, they don’t. But you’ve got everything you could want for cooking right in here.” He pushed open the swinging doors to the restaurant’s kitchen. I ran in with Little Bit right behind me, and Mr. Drake laughed.

The kitchen seemed darker than the front room because its walls were hung with cabinets and its ceiling had been stained with smoke. A heavy table dominated the center of the room, big enough to butcher a pig or a person. Little Bit and I peered under the table, then raced around it.

Pa looked at Ma, his face still, waiting as if he could wait forever. Ma opened the oven, turned a gas burner on and off, then smiled the tiniest bit and nodded. Pa turned to Mr. Drake. “Looks fine.”

“Good. On to the manager’s building?”

Ma said, “What’re you children looking at?”

Little Bit and I stood in front of a closet door. I closed it quickly. “Nothing.”

Ma looked in the closet. On an old calendar, a naked blond lady was stretching out on red cloth like she couldn’t get comfortable enough to sleep.

Mr. Drake said, “I’m sorry. You may not be able to tell it, but some tidying up was done after Maynard left.”

Ma told us, “I think you’ve looked at that long enough.”

Pa smiled. I felt a little embarrassed about looking at a grown-up without any clothes on, even if it was a picture of a grown-up. As Ma closed the closet door, Little Bit pointed at the calendar and said, “She’s going to take a bath.”

Ma said, “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to take yours.” She asked Mr. Drake, “Any surprises in the manager’s house?”

He smiled. “I surely hope not, ma’m.” He made a gesture like tossing a ball underhand, indicating we should all leave, then turned off the lights and locked the restaurant. He said to me, “You like pirates?”

I nodded very affirmatively.

“Pirates sailed up the Suwannee, way back when. So did smugglers, and during the War Between the States, so did blockade runners. There were bootleggers running liquor on the Suwannee during prohibition, so you might as well add gangsters to the list.”

Ma said, “Pirates, Mr. Drake?”

“Yes, ma’m. Blackbeard, Black Caesar, Gasparilla, Jean LaFitte, John Davis— You can just about take your pick.” Mr. Drake looked at me. “A pirate couldn’t think much of himself if he didn’t visit Florida at least once.” He pointed back at the restaurant. “Might be this place is named for a pirate.”

Pa said quietly, “Oh?” then added, “Keep that light on the path, Chris.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. We followed the dirt trail through long grass. Sand spurs stuck to my pants. When Little Bit, bare-legged in a dress, said, “Ow!” and brushed at her calves, Pa picked her up and set her on his shoulders.

Mr. Drake said, “Captain John Hawkins was an English pirate and slave trader. His ship was the Jesus of Lubeck, the first English ship to visit Florida waters. That would’ve been in 1564.”

I aimed the light at the building we were approaching. Like the restaurant, it was flat-topped, built of cinder block, and painted pale green. Two doors divided its front into thirds. Beside each door was a long louvered window with narrow horizontal panes of milky glass.

“Hawkins preyed mostly on the Spanish, I believe. No one knows if he really sailed up the Suwannee, but his log does mention a ‘beautefull sprynge where all do live in peace.’ Properly, the local spring’s named for Colonel Josiah Hawkins. He showed up in the early eighteen hundreds and built a plantation on these grounds. He said he was one of Captain John’s descendants, and he filed a claim for all these lands, but one of Mrs. DeLyon’s ancestors went to court arguing that the springs and the land around it were theirs. The law came up with a perfect compromise—it made everyone unhappy. The DeLyons kept the spring. The Hawkins got most of the land. The Hawkins and the DeLyons were at odds for nigh on a hundred years, but that’s all history now.”

Mr. Drake fumbled with his keys, then opened the right-hand door and asked for the flashlight. I gave it to him; he aimed it inside, reached in, and turned on a light. “You folks mind waiting on the porch?”

Ma and Pa both studied him. Pa said, “Kids can stand the sight of another calendar.”

Ma didn’t laugh. Mr. Drake said, “I won’t be a second.”

Pa drawled in the way that meant he was giving you one chance, and no more. “All right.”

I peeked in as Mr. Drake entered. The room looked like a motel room: blue block walls, a chipped dresser, a double bed with a beige chenille spread that had a couple of moth holes, a night stand that had a few cigarette burns, and a mottled black-brown-and-white linoleum floor. Mr. Drake disappeared through a door next to the closet, then came outside thirty seconds later through the further door.

Pa said, “Well?”

Mr. Drake laughed. “Didn’t want to alarm you, but Ethorne—he’s a local Negro who does odd jobs for Mrs. DeLyon—said he’d chased out a rattler when he brought the furniture. Mrs. DeLyon said if you have no need for these things, let her know and she’ll have Ethorne haul ‘em off to a needy family.”

Ma looked at Pa. He put his hand on her arm and said, “Now, Susan. You knew there’d be rattlesnakes.”

“Not in the house, I didn’t.”

“Well, there aren’t any.” Pa looked at Mr. Drake. “Are there?”

Mr. Drake told Ma, “No, ma’m. That one probably slipped in while Ethorne left the door open to fetch something. He said he looked all around to make sure there weren’t holes in the floor or the walls, or any likely nests under the foundation. I trust Ethorne. He’s a better man than most whites you’ll meet.”

Pa glanced at us as if he was going to say something, but didn’t.

Mr. Drake said, “Snakes don’t like folks any more than folks like snakes. You’ll see one now and then, but once there’s activity around here, they’ll keep their distance.”

Ma said, “If you say so,” and went inside. The rest of us followed her. While Ma put Digger down on the bed, I pushed open the sliding door of the closet and saw a room just long enough for me to sleep in.

Ma said, “That was thoughtful.” Someone had picked a handful of small blue flowers and put them in water in a Coca-Cola bottle.

Mr. Drake smiled. “Ethorne, I bet.”

“It was kind of Mrs. DeLyon to see we had beds our first night.”

“I mentioned your husband had said you’d be buying furniture when you got here. She’s a fine lady, is Mrs. DeLyon.”

I ran to catch up to Pa and Little Bit, who were following the route Mr. Drake had taken on his search for snakes. The right-hand bedroom’s inner door led to a small yellow bathroom consisting of a white porcelain sink and toilet, and a sheetmetal shower. A door opposite the first opened on the left-hand bedroom, which was a funhouse mirror image of the right-hand one. The furniture in the second bedroom had seen even more use than the furniture in the first, the walls were green, the blue flowers were in an Orange Crush bottle.

Ma said, “There’s not a lot of space for a family.”

Pa said, “Got a big yard.”

Ma smiled slightly, then shook her head. “All three children in one room?”

“It’s big enough for ‘em while they’re small. I never had a room of my own when I was a boy. We can build on, someday, or build a new house once Dogland’s a going concern.”

“Well—”

I went into the closet, closed the door, and called, “This is my room!”

Ma said, “That’s the closet, Chris.”

Little Bit said, “Do I get my own bed?”

Pa said, “Not tonight, little darling.”

Little Bit said, “I want my own bed.”

Ma looked at Pa. He said, “We can bring in the mattress. If we’re staying.”

Ma said, “Well—”

Mr. Drake spoke from the bathroom doorway. “I don’t want to pressure you. I’m serious about being happy to put you up at our place.”

Pa laughed. “A little hard sell, a little soft?”

Mr. Drake shrugged. “I won’t deny that I want you folks to stay. Time’s passing by Latchahee County, and it doesn’t have to be that way. The kids, white and black both, leave for the cities, where pay’s higher and there’s excitement every night. Seems the only folks who stay are losers and dreamers.” He touched his chest and grinned. “Myself, not excluded. But you folks seem to be dreamers and doers. I like that. Latchahee County needs people like you.”

Pa looked at Ma. “Write the check?”

Ma said, “Well—”

Mr. Drake said, “You can write it now if you want, but I won’t deposit it till you call and say to. ‘Cause there’s one thing I haven’t told you yet.”

Pa said, “I hadn’t forgotten.” His smile had gone.

“They’ll be building the interstate a good hour east of here. U.S. Nineteen’s going to lose some traffic in the next few years.”

Ma gasped. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it must be worse than rattlesnakes in your bedroom. I went to stand beside her. Little Bit took her hand.

Pa said, “We knew that was a possibility when we picked this place.”

Ma looked at him.

Mr. Drake said, “Planning for the worst doesn’t mean you expect it. We know that.”

Pa said, “Just means there won’t be as many tourists visiting accidentally. We’ll have to get them to visit on purpose.”

Ma said, “Can we?”

Pa said, “If that’s the choice. I assume they won’t be shutting down Nineteen.”

Mr. Drake laughed. “No.”

Pa nodded. “Then all we’ll really lose are folks in a hurry to get to south Florida. The ones who’re traveling for scenery will still come this way. They’re our real customers.”

Ma said, “If you say so.”

Pa said, “So. Write the check?”

We kids saw he wanted Ma to say yes. She looked at Mr. Drake. “It’s really all right to sleep here tonight and decide tomorrow?”

An automobile horn sounded up by the restaurant. Mr. Drake smiled. “That’s my girl.” Then he said, “That’d be fine with Mrs. DeLyon. The longer you stay, the more you’ll like it here.” He handed Pa the ring of keys. “Only thing you didn’t see was the pump house, and it ain’t much.”

Pa said, “The water’s running. It’s probably fine.”

“Give you a hand with the mattress?”

Pa looked at Little Bit. “Thanks.”

The horn sounded again. Pa said, “C’mon, Chris.”

Ma looked in on Digger, who slept, as always, quite soundly, then she followed us up to the restaurant where Mr. Drake’s new Buick blinded us with its headlights. Gwenny identified herself as the shadow in the driver’s seat by calling, “You ready, Daddy?”

“Just about. Was the Tepes boy at Red’s?”

“No, Daddy,” she said, very patiently, and she brushed her sand-brown hair forward over her shoulder. The collar of her yellow shirt with red polka dots had been turned up.

Mr. Drake smiled. “That’s too bad. Gwenny, this is Mrs. Nix and Little Bit.”

“Hey,” said Gwenny.

“Hi,” said Ma.

Little Bit said, just loud enough that I could hear, “Her neck.”

I squinted and stepped closer to the car. Gwenny smiled at me and said, “Hi, handsome.” I blushed and stood still.

Ma said, “Do you babysit?”

Gwenny shrugged. “Now and then.”

Mr. Drake smiled. “She’s the finest babysitter in Latchahee County.”

Gwenny looked at me, then tugged a thick strand of her hair forward again, hiding a reddened area at her throat. “Daddy tell you about the pirates?”

I nodded.

“He’s still working on getting Billy the Kid down here.”

Mr. Drake said, “You don’t remember old man Goode, Gwenny. Died when you were a baby. Some said he was the Kid, and Pat Garrett lied about killing him.”

Gwenny laughed. “Oh, Daddy.” Little Bit and I laughed, too.

Mr. Drake put his hand on my head and ruffled my crewcut. “I didn’t tell a single stretcher tonight, Chris. Might’ve set you up for a few later, though. ‘Cept for that business about old man Goode, which was Gwenny’s fault. He wasn’t really Billy the Kid.”

I nodded. “I knew that, sir.”

Mr. Drake said, “He was John Dillinger.” He held his hands out like he was holding a machine gun and went, “Ratta-tatta-tatta!”

“Daddy!”

Mr. Drake winked at me. I blinked both eyes at him, which was the best I could do. Ma smiled at him and said, “We shouldn’t be keeping you.”

“You kidding? Gwenny just got her driver’s permit. This is a great night for her, cruising alone and driving the boys wild.” Gwenny wrinkled her nose at him. Mr. Drake stepped over to the station wagon, where Pa had finished untying the mattress. “Here, I got this end, Luke.”

Pa grunted, then said, “Bring the blue suitcase, Chris.”

“Yes, sir!” I used both hands to drag the heavy case from the rear of the car.

Little Bit told Gwenny, “You’re pretty.”

Gwenny laughed and said, “Wish the boys thought so. But you, you’re cuter than a bug.”

I said, “I think you’re pretty.” Then I looked at my cowboy boots.

Gwenny nodded. “Then you’re my boyfriend. Want some help with that suitcase?”

I shook my head and began to haul it toward the house, clutching the handle in both hands and bumping my knees with every step. “Uh-uh.”

Little Bit said, “Chris has got a girlfriend, Chris has got a girlfriend.”

“Do not.”

Gwenny said, “You’re not my boyfriend?”

She sounded hurt. I said quietly, “I’m your boyfriend, but I don’t got a girlfriend. Okay?”

I hadn’t realized Ma had heard. She laughed and said, “Isn’t that just like a man?”

The night ended soon after that. Pa and Mr. Drake put the mattress for Little Bit in one corner of the green bedroom and pushed the double bed against the wall for Digger and me. Gwenny helped Ma put on sheets from a box out of the back of the station wagon. Pa wrote a check for the property after Ma said, “Well, all right.” Ma and Pa both shook hands with Mr. Drake, everyone smiled, Gwenny and Mr. Drake drove away, and I had to go to sleep with Digger.

A plastic nightlight plugged into an outlet in the cinder block wall kept our bedroom from becoming part of the kingdom of night. Its dim red light held the room in the borderland, in the land of shadows. The night lay under our bed and crouched in the closet and peeked through the louvers of the window over our heads. On the wall above our bed, a chameleon was perfectly still. Whether it was watching, sleeping, or dead, I could not tell.

Digger rolled against me. I pushed him onto his side of the bed. He didn’t wake. I hoped he’d pee on his side of the bed if he had to pee in bed; he could sleep in a damp bed, but I hated moist sheets and always had to get Ma to change the linen no matter which of us had wet them.

I lay curled in a ball and thought about pirates and cowboys and Confederate troops, and all the dogs that would be coming to Dogland, and Indians in the woods watching the settlers who’d come to build a tourist trap close to the banks of the Suwannee. I thought about Mr. Drake, who seemed like he’d be a nice father. I thought about Gwenny Drake, and wondered if I would marry her when I grew up. I don’t think I thought about my family; they were too much a part of me. I might have wondered whether Pa would be happy here, and whether Ma would like this place as much as she liked the pink house in New Orleans. At some point, my thoughts became dreams, and I slept through the warm, Florida night.

Chapter Three: Things Seen in Black and White

I woke at dawn when Digger climbed over me to get out of bed, and I woke again an hour later when Pa called, “Everyone up who wants breakfast!” Across the room, Little Bit was dressing in a T-shirt and jeans that had been mine a year before. Ma had put a stack of clean clothes at the foot of the bed for me. I dressed without caring what I put on. The only important items were my cowboy boots and my Roy Rogers belt with two holsters for cap guns, even though I only had one cap gun left, and its trigger was broken.

When I used the toilet, I sat on the front edge of the seat, watching the water beneath me, and scooted off as soon as I was done. I had seen a cartoon in a book at Grandpa Abner’s that showed a fish leaping out of a toilet bowl and a woman staring at it with big eyes. I thought that was funny and I knew it was impossible, but I didn’t think there was any reason to take chances.

Ma called, “Little Bit has to use the bathroom.”

I yelled, “I’m almost done.”

Ma called, “Are you off the toilet?”

I yelled, “Yes!” Ma opened the door and brought Little Bit in. Squeezing toothpaste onto my toothbrush, I said, “I wasn’t done yet.”

Ma said, “Your father’s making breakfast in the restaurant.” That meant we should hurry, so I slid the brush over my teeth while Little Bit sat next to the sink, and then I ran out of the house.

Stepping into the sunlight was stepping into Florida. I didn’t smell oranges — Ma had explained that oranges grew further south — but I smelled a humid pinelands that was not like the New Orleans suburb I had known. I drew my pistol and watched for Injuns and rustlers in the weeds or behind the bushes. I knew where they were: the clearing for the former motel and restaurant was enclosed on three sides by straight walls of the old forest. But no bad guys showed themselves as I followed the path to the restaurant, so I entered through the back door.

Pa grinned and said, “Morning, Christopher.” I said, “G’mornin’,” and sat next to Digger at the big table. In one skillet, Pa tended pancakes (bubbles were just beginning to appear on their tops as the first side fried) and in another, bacon, which sizzled and shriveled and, in its way, bubbled, too.

Digger had a bowl of Rice Krispies and a box decorated with the three elves, Snap, Crackle, and Pop. He was happily loading his mouth with milk and sugar drenched cereal, using a spoon that he held tightly in his fist. Whitish drool oozed from the corners of his mouth.

“Digger’s dribblin’,” I announced. Pa had piled plastic bowls and spoons in the middle of the table and set out a carton of milk. I grabbed the biggest bowl and heaped it full of Rice Krispies.

“He dribblin’ on you?”

“No, sir.” Several open mason jars were in the center of the table with spoons in them; some of the spice containers had gotten wet when we had packed in New Orleans, so Ma or Pa had transfered the contents. I grabbed a jar with white powder and put three spoonfuls on my Rice Krispies.

Pa flipped bacon and pancakes. “Then don’t worry about it.”

“No, sir.” I filled my bowl with milk until the cereal became a floating island, and listened to the snap-crackle-pop, which was never as good as it was on television. Then I put a spoonful in my mouth and said,”Bleh!”

Digger looked at me and grinned. Pa looked at me and said, “What is it?”

“Tastes bad,” I declared.

Pa flipped pancakes and bacon onto two plates and set them in front of us, then looked at my cereal bowl. He frowned and said, “You put salt on it.”

“Oh.” I reached for the syrup bottle to drench my pancakes.

“Finish your cereal.”

“Tastes bad,” I repeated.

“Waste not, want not,” Pa said, which had no meaning that I could understand. When I hesitated, he said, “That was your doing. Now you live with it.”

Ma and Little Bit came in then. Ma said, “Smells wonderful.” Pa grunted. Ma went straight to Digger and wiped his face, but when I looked at Pa, he didn’t seem to have noticed that I’d been right.

Pa gave plates of pancakes and bacon to Ma and Little Bit. Beside me, Digger used his fork to break apart the center of his pancake, then lift mush into his face. I sat there, looking at my huge bowl of salted cereal.

Ma said, “What’s wrong, Chris?”

I shook my head.

Pa said, “He dumped salt on his cereal. Now he won’t eat it.”

Ma said, “Why’d you do that, Chris?”

Little Bit quit eating to watch. Digger kept merrily breaking apart his pancake.

I said, “I thought it was sugar.”

Ma nodded and told Pa, “He thought it was sugar, Luke.”

Pa said, “I heard.” He sat down with his own plate of pancakes. “Everyone eat, now.”

I stared at the bowl.

Ma said, “Luke, if he didn’t know—”

Pa said, “He’s got to learn to eat what he takes.”

Ma said, “But if he didn’t know—”

Pa said, “He could’ve looked. He could’ve asked. The salt was right next to the pepper, and the sugar was way the hell off to the side.”

Ma said, “It was a natural mistake.”

Pa said, “Life doesn’t forgive you for natural mistakes. Everyone eat now.”

Little Bit looked at me with sympathy and began to eat. Digger seemed to have finished eating; he kept making mounds on his plate with pancake mush.

Ma looked at Pa, who was concentrating on his breakfast, then said, “Go on, Chris. It may taste bad, but it won’t hurt you.”

I shook my head.

Ma said, “If you don’t eat it, you won’t get to eat your pancakes. They’re good.” She took a bite to show me.

I shook my head again.

Pa said, “You took it, son. Now you eat it.”

I shook my head a third time.

Pa said, “What do you say?”

I whispered, “No, sir.”

Pa said, “On the farm, we ate when we had food. When we didn’t have food, we didn’t eat. Have you ever been short of food, Chris?”

I shook my head.

“Eat, then.”

“I’m not hungry. Sir.”

Ma said, “If he misses his breakfast, surely that’s punishment enough.”

Pa said, “I’m not trying to punish him. He’s old enough to be accountable for his actions, that’s all.”

Little Bit said, “I’ll eat some. I like Rice Krispies.”

Pa said, “Chris took ‘em, now Chris’ll eat ‘em. I don’t want to talk about this any more.”

I said, “They taste bad, sir.”

“Jesus! You think you’re going to go through life eating things that taste wonderful? Eat that cereal.”

I shook my head.

“You asking for a spanking?”

I shook my head again.

Ma said, “Luke? Surely he doesn’t deserve a spanking for—”

Pa said, “I gave him an order. He heard it.” He looked at me. “I’m going to count to three, Chris. If you haven’t started eating by then, you’ll get a spanking. And you’ll still have to eat the cereal.”

In my mind, I said, “That’s not fair.” I didn’t dare say it out loud.

“You understand?”

I nodded.

“One.”

I lifted a single kernel of cereal in my spoon.

“Real bites,” Pa said.

I scooped a spoonful of salted cereal and held it in front of my face.

“Two.”

“Go on,” Ma whispered.

I grimaced.

Pa said, “I’m not fooling, Chris.”

“I can’t!” I threw the spoon into my bowl, splashing the table with milk and cereal, and jumped from my chair to run. Pa caught my arm.

“Luke!” Ma cried. “Don’t!”

Pa bent me over his thigh and began spanking me, hard, with the flat of his hand. “I told you, damn it. I gave you fair warning.”

I didn’t make a sound. Pa’s spankings followed set rules. He spanked you until you cried. Little Bit understood that; she would cry after the first swat. Digger didn’t need to understand that; he would cry before the first swat. I understood that, but I also understood that men didn’t cry. What was worse was that I knew that men didn’t get spanked. The fact of being spanked was worse than the act.

Ma winced with each blow of Pa’s hand, and so did I. Little Bit and Digger stared in horror, fascination, and, since the spanking hadn’t been provoked by something I had done to them, pity. I always tried to keep my face from showing anything, but I doubt I was successful. I usually began to cry around the eighth or ninth blow, maybe to make Pa stop, maybe because I had to, and that satisfied everyone. This time was no different.

Pa gripped my shoulders to straighten me up from his knee. “It’s done. You can stop crying and eat.”

I wiped my nose with my hand and nodded.

“And clean up the table where you spilled.”

I nodded again.

Ma went to the sink for a rag. Pa said, “Chris made the mess.” Ma handed me the rag. I wiped up the spatter of milk around my bowl and wished I’d spilled it all. Pa said, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you a reason to keep crying.”

I nodded and sat with my face ten inches from the bowl.

“Well?” Pa said.

I began to eat like a robot. Pa was right. It didn’t taste horrible. It didn’t taste like anything at all. When I finished the cereal, I ate my pancakes. They didn’t taste like anything, either.

By the time I finished, Digger and Little Bit had gone out to play. Pa said, “Learn anything?” I nodded, got up and walked toward the door. Ma said my name and reached for my arm, but I twisted away from her and went outside.

A green cement sidewalk circled the restaurant. I sat on it, around the corner from the back door where no one could see me, and stared at the ground. I said, “Ee-yuch!” several times, but I couldn’t make myself throw up. Ants had built a hill between the sidewalk and the gravel parking lot. I considered eating some to show everyone how sick I was. The idea made me ill, so I didn’t.

I was watching a line of ants carrying bits of a dead caterpillar into their home when a shadow fell over me. I didn’t look up, ‘cause I thought it was Pa, and then I knew it wasn’t. The person smelled wrong — smokey, but not like Pa’s cigars, and flowery, but not like Pa’s shaving lotion, and warm, but not like Pa’s sweat. I looked up.

I must have talked to black people in New Orleans, though I don’t remember any. I’m sure I gaped at the small, very dark man standing before me. He said solemnly, “How do.”

Ma and Pa had taught me to answer the greetings of adults. I said, “Fine, sir. How’re you?”

The man’s eyebrows drew together, and then he smiled, and then he laughed while shaking his head, “Oh, I’s very fine, yes, sir-ree. But why’s a well-spoken gentleman like yourself off a-cryin’ by hisself?”

I wiped my nose, which must’ve betrayed me, then wiped my hand on my shorts and shook my head. The man smiled again. “Mind if I sets?”

I shook my head.

“Thankee, sir.” He sat. We studied each other. He had a narrow moustache and iron-gray hair, which was not clipped close to his scalp like that of most black men I had seen. His hair was long, glistening with lotion and parted high on one side of his head. He wore faded Levi coveralls, a blue workshirt that had been laundered almost to whiteness, and heavy brown workboots, all of which seemed a little large for him. He looked like a singer Ma liked, Sammy Davis, Jr., but he dressed like a comic strip character I liked, L’il Abner, except for the Panama hat in his hands with an eagle feather in its cloth band. He said, “Go on and cry if you want. Don’t mind me.”

I said, “Wasn’t crying.”

He nodded. “My mistake. Not that it matters. Sometimes a man gets so frustrated he just gots to cry, and that’s all there is to it. Cleans you out, like. Shoot, I s’pose a man ought to cry every now and then whether he’s got a reason to or no.”

I squinted at him.

“They calls me Ethorne.”

“Mark Christopher Nix.” I wiped my hand on my shorts, then held it out.

Ethorne smiled, and we shook. His skin felt strange. His palms were hard and rough like tree bark. I decided that all Negroes must have skin like his. “Pleased to meet you, Master Nix. I seen you watchin’ the ants.”

I nodded.

“Ants is somethin’ else. They busy all the time, bustlin’ all about. I ‘xpect they think they seen it all and know it all. Got them a purpose, which is to work. They know who their friends is, which is ants from their hill. They know who their enemies is, which is ants from anywheres else. Think it’d be good to be a ant?”

I stared at him and shrugged.

He nodded. “Can’t really say I know, neither.”

Behind the restaurant, Pa called, “Chris?” Before I could answer, Pa walked around the corner. He looked at us, and I had time to wonder if I was talking to strangers, which I wasn’t supposed to do. Pa looked from me to Ethorne and said in a firm voice with a hint of a question, “Hello.”

Ethorne stood, stiffly and gracefully at the same time, and nodded. “How do, sir.” He didn’t offer his hand. “I’s Ethorne Hawkins. I do a li’l work for Mis’ DeLyon, up at the Fountain o’ Youth.”

Pa studied him for an instant, then held out his hand. “Luke Nix.”

Ethorne took the hand. “Mist’ Nix. This your boy?”

Pa nodded.

“He’s a fine boy.”

Pa glanced at me. “Sometimes.” I looked away, then back as they continued to talk.

Ethorne studied the yard. His gaze lingered on the burned ruins of the old house. “I ‘xpect you got a mess o’ work needs doin’.”

Pa nodded. “I expect so.”

“I work hard when I got a mind to. You ask Mis’ DeLyon.”

“And when you don’t have a mind to?”

Ethorne laughed. “Then I don’t work none at all, Mist’ Nix. That’s the best part o’ bein’ free.”

Pa smiled. “We can probably keep you busy, if you’ve a mind to work just now.”

“That’s what I hoped to hear.”

“Hawkins, you say?”

“Yes, sir. My people was slaves of Co’nel Josiah. When we was freed, all we kept was his name.”

Pa said, “Malcolm X didn’t.”

Ethorne smiled a little differently than he had before. It was almost like Grandpa Abner taking off his Santa Claus suit at Christmas. He was still the same man, but the smiles were smaller, and they meant more. “Folks ‘round here’s knowed me as Hawkins nigh on forever. Shoot, I knowed me as Hawkins nigh on forever, too. An’ I kind o’ like knowin’ the only folks still named after Co’nel Josiah is li’l black babies.”

Pa said, “I can see that.”

We all stood there, not really looking at each other. Several hundred feet away, cars passed steadily on the highway, mostly new cars of tourists and old cars of local people. Birds made bird sounds (I never paid attention to the kinds of birds that lived around us when I was a boy) and in the woods, something rustled the bushes, probably squirrels.

Pa said, “Dollar and a quarter an hour be fair?”

Ethorne grinned. “Dollar and a quarter an hour be very fair.”

“C’mon.” Pa turned. Ethorne looked at me, and we both followed Pa around the back of the restaurant. Ma came out with a broom in her hand, maybe to see what Digger and Little Bit were doing. Pa said, “Susan, this is Ethorne Hawkins. He’ll be helping us get the place fixed up.”

Ma brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead with the back of her hand, smiled her usual wide, delighted greeting, rubbed her hand against her skirt, and thrust it out. “Mr. Hawkins. Glad to meet you.”

Ethorne looked at the ground. I was the only one low enough to see his face; he looked shy or embarrassed or pleased. When he glanced up, he smiled easily and shook Ma’s hand. “Mis’ Nix, I’m most delighted to make your acquaintance. Please, call me Ethorne.”

Ma laughed. “Then you call me Susan.”

Ethorne shook his head and grinned. “Oh, no, ma’m. But you call me Ethorne. Mr. Hawkins was one bad, bad man. All I got is his name, and I wouldn’t be so content with it if I had to hear it all the time.”

Ma frowned and looked at Pa.

Pa said, “His people were slaves here.”

Ma took a quick intake of breath.

Ethorne smiled. “Long, long time ago, ma’m. Not forgotten, but gone.” He pointed past the woods, toward the Fountain of Youth Motor Inn and Hawkins Springs. “Wasn’t ‘xactly here, neither. The old house was up thataways, and so was the fields an’ the nigger shacks. Old house done burned. Fields’re overgrowed now. Don’t hurt me none to see it like this.”

Ma said, “The Colonel was a bad man?”

“I say that? Oh, I misspoke myself, ma’m. Gettin’ old. He was a hard man. He did good as he saw it, to whoever he figured needed it. That’s ‘bout all I can say.”

Pa said, “People have long memories around here.”

Ethorne laughed. “You been talkin’ to Mist’ Drake. Him and me, we live more in the past than the present, I ‘xpect. Most folks ‘round here are just folks, same as anywheres.”

Pa said, “You must’ve heard the joke.”

“Oh?”

“My Pa used to tell it. A house is for sale. A fellow comes to buy it, asks the oldtimer living next door how the local people are. The oldtimer asks how they were in this fellow’s last home. Fellow says they were mean ess oh bees. The oldtimer nods and says, a-yup, the locals are pretty much like that. The fellow decides not to buy the house.”

Pa glanced at me, and I looked away, as if I wasn’t listening. Pa said, “‘Nother fellow comes to buy it, asks the oldtimer how the locals are. The oldtimer asks how they were in this second fellow’s last home. Fellow says they were the friendliest bunch of people you were ever like to meet. The oldtimer nods and says, a-yup, the locals are pretty much like that.”

I threw a rock into a palmetto clump. It rustled the leaves as it fell.

Ethorne said, “No one’s payin’ a black man more’n a dollar an hour in Latchahee County.”

Pa said, “Can’t be true. I am.” He added, “I don’t expect you to do less work than a white man, so I figure I better not pay you less money.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ethorne put his straw hat onto his head, and the eagle feather bobbed. “Where you want me to start?”

“Got a lot of ground to clear. There was a scythe in the pump house when I was here before.”

Ethorne nodded. “I’s a fine hand with a scythe, Mist’ Nix.”

Pa said, “Luke.”

Ethorne said, “Mist’ Luke.”

Pa shrugged. “All right. We’ll call you what you want, and you call us what suits you. I warn you, I might not answer to son-of-a-bitch.”

Ma said, “Luke!” and looked at me.

Pa said, “Well, I wouldn’t. Chris doesn’t know that, it’s time he learned.” He grinned at me, and I smiled for the first time at him. Pa jerked his head. “C’mon.” He headed toward the pump house, a wooden, flat-roofed shack with peeling lime green paint.

Digger and Little Bit were playing in the gravel parking area, which was dotted with high, lone weeds trying to reclaim the land for the woods. Pa shouted at Little Bit, “Don’t play near the bushes. Might be anything in there!”

We walked up to the pump house, Pa leading, followed by Ethorne, then me. I kicked the dirt as I walked. I wanted to go away and play, but I also wanted to see the inside of the pump house, and Pa had not dismissed me.

He unlocked the padlock and opened the door, a plywood rectangle reinforced with two-by-fours and hanging from two rusty hinges. Some light filtered through two dusty windows. My first impression was of dirt, tools, and machinery. As the door opened wide, there was a sound like hissing or pebbles tumbling against themselves.

Pa stepped back fast. “Jesus Christ!”

Something like a fire hose moved in the gloom beyond the water pump and tank. Its eyes were bright beads. Two curved needles shone within its smile.

Ethorne said, “Move easy. Rattler don’t want no more trouble’n we do.”

Pa breathed quickly. I stared, unable to move until Pa said, “Back off, Chris. Slow.”

I stepped backwards, watching the snake undulate on the pump house’s wooden floor.

Pa said, “Guess we’ll have to buy a gun.”

Ethorne said, “You mean to kill it?”

“If we scared that thing off, would it come back?”

“Hard to say. If it thinks that’s home, most like it would.” Ethorne sounded sad.

Pa said, “Then we kill it.”

Ethorne said, “They’s a scythe in there, you say?”

Pa snorted a harsh laugh. “I didn’t look too close.”

Ethorne nodded and stepped toward the door.

Pa said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Ethorne said, “Me, too, Mist’ Luke.” He pushed against the half-open door. It swung against the far wall. The sound startled us all, except the snake. Sunlight didn’t seem to bother it. Its skin was like a chainmail shirt made of precious metals. Its eyes were jewels. Its flickering tongue was a taunt.

Ethorne moved slowly, like a man in one of the silent films that Grandpa Abner showed in his basement with the projector turned to half-speed. He approached the door as though his shadow, preceding him, had more substance than his body. He seemed to be trying to keep his shadow from falling on the snake, as if that much disturbance would make the rattler attack.

At the door, Ethorne peeked in, then reached his arm inside to feel along the wall.

Pa whispered, “You know how high a snake can strike?”

Ethorne shook his head. “Don’t aim to find out.” He withdrew his hand, showing us a shovel. “Scythe’s too far back.” He glanced at us. “Back off some, now, hear?”

Pa brushed his hand in the air at his side, trusting me to obey. I did.

Ethorne raised the shovel overhead like a spear, then thrust it down into the pump house. Something thrashed violently as the shovel struck the floor. Then Ethorne swept the shovel across the wooden planks, flinging something like a man’s fist out onto the grass. The thrashing continued within the pump house.

Ethorne whirled toward us, calling, “Stay ‘way from it!”

he snake’s severed head snapped its jaws open and closed, over and over again, bouncing it around in the long grass. Ethorne said, “Snake needs time to study out it’s dead.”

Little Bit and Digger had seen that something interesting was happening. Pa spotted them as they approached us. He yelled, “You kids, stay back!” Little Bit grabbed Digger’s hand. They stood, staring as the snake’s head continued to seek escape or a victim.

Ethorne turned with the shovel and plunged it back into the pump house. Pa and I turned to watch him sweep out the snake’s writhing body.

Little Bit screamed. I looked at her. Little Bit was still twenty feet away from the snake’s head, but Digger, laughing, ran toward it on pudgy, unsteady legs.

Pa shouted, “Digger! No!” Digger, usually the most obedient of us all, did not seem to hear. He stretched a small hand out for the shiny thing that danced in our yard.

Pa and Ethorne both ran forward. Pa held his arms out to grab Digger. Ethorne lifted the shovel as if he hoped to bat the snake head away. Digger stopped still in mid-squat, his hand six inches from the snake’s head, and looked at the two men running toward him. His smile faded. He squinted as if he was trying to decide whether he had done something for which he should cry.

The snake’s jaws thrashed once more. The head sprang into the air, its jaws open to their widest. They closed around Digger’s hand, enclosing it within its bite. Its fangs buried themselves into Digger’s wrist. Its eyes glistened.

Digger stared at his arm, terminating in the head of a snake that smiled as it watched the boy puzzle out what had happened. Then Digger screamed, waved his arms, and tried to run back toward the restaurant where Ma was working.

Pa caught up to him as he tripped and fell. Pa seized the snake’s jaws in both hands and ripped the head apart. Blood dripped from Digger’s wrist and Pa’s fingers. Digger continued to scream as if he would squeeze every bit of breath from his lungs before he could inhale and begin again. Pa snatched him up, patted his back, saying, “Easy, son. Easy,” and began carrying Digger toward our station wagon.

Ma ran from the restaurant with a broom in her hands. She cried, “Luke! What’s—” Then she saw Digger and dropped the broom. “George! Oh, my God, Georgie!”

Digger screamed louder when he saw Ma and reached for her with blood-smeared hands.

Pa said, “Susan, don’t get excited. We’ve got to stay calm.”

Ethorne said, “Let me help, ma’m. I know what to do.”

Digger struggled in Pa’s arms, reaching for Ma. She grabbed him from Pa, saying, “Oh, Georgie, Georgie,” and then, to Pa, “What happened?”

Pa said, “Snake bite.”

Ma gasped.

Ethorne pulled out a red bandanna, twirled it between his fingers into a rope, and telling Digger, “This be all right, now,” tied the bandanna around Digger’s arm, above the bite, then tested it with his finger to see that it was snug enough to slow the flow of blood, yet not so tight as to stop it. A little blood continued to ooze from the two holes.

Digger tried to wrap his arms around Ma’s neck. Ethorne caught Digger’s wrists and brought them down gently, telling Ma, “Keep his bitten arm low, closer to the earth than his heart. Poison slows some when it has to work uphill.”

Ma closed her arm around Digger’s shoulders to trap his arms at his side. “We’ve got to call— Who has the nearest phone? Oh, my God.”

Pa asked Ethorne, “Is Dickison the nearest hospital?”

“Ain’t no time, Mist’ Luke.” Ethorne’s hand came out of his jeans pocket with a pearl-handled folding razor and a box of Red Devil matches. “Got to get some o’ the poison out of ‘im now.”

Ma said, “But—”

“I knows what I’m doin’, ma’m. I’d do this for my own chil’en.”

Digger continued to scream. Ma pressed her cheek against his, while Pa stood beside the station wagon, ready to open the back door. Pa nodded. “All right.”

Ma looked at him, then nodded too. She continued to say, “Easy, Georgie, easy.” She didn’t seem to see that Digger knew something bad was happening because she used his real name. When Little Bit touched his leg and said, “It’s okay, Digger,” he quit screaming and only cried.

Ethorne lit a match in one hand, snapping the head with his thumbnail, and flicked open the straight razor in his other hand. Passing the flame under the blade, he said, “Now, don’t be scared, Mist’ Digger. I got to cut you, but I won’t go so deep as ol’ Mist’ Snake.”

Digger continued to cry, wrapping his arms around Ma’s side. Her dress and her face were flecked with his blood. Ethorne glanced at Pa. “We got to.”

Pa had been pressing his own cut fingers against a handkerchief. He pocketed it, took Digger’s bit hand, and held the arm straight out. “Easy, son,” he said, surprisingly helpless. “Easy.”

Ethorne rested his hand on Pa’s, pressing downward. Pa lowered Digger’s arm.

Ethorne said, “Goin’ be fine, Mist’ Digger.” He cut four shallow slits, each less than half an inch long, down the length of Digger’s arm. As he made the incisions, he said for the rest of us, or maybe for himself, “Two cuts at the bite marks. Two a little lower, where Mist’ Snake spurted his poison. No need to cut deep. Just the surface, so the blood’ll let the poison out. We be mos’ careful o’ the muscles and the nerves, um-hmm.”

Digger screamed louder as dark blood sprang from the cuts. Ma pressed her head hard against the side of his, saying, “‘S all right, baby. ‘S all right.” Pa continued to hold Digger’s wrist in one hand. He rested his other lightly on Digger’s upper arm.

Ethorne picked something out of one of the wounds and tossed it aside. He leaned over, fastening his lips around Digger’s cuts, then spat blood out with a grimace. He did this several times. then paused to say, “We need to get over to the Fountain o’ Youth now. Mis’ DeLyon’s good with these troubles, an’ she has a telephone to call the doctor.”

Pa said, “All right. Susan—”

“I’m going.” Ma used the hard voice we rarely heard.

Pa nodded. “We’re all going. You kids, hop in front, fast.”

Ethorne, Mom, and Digger slid into the back. I had been squatting nearby, running my fingers through the gravel; I scrambled into the front seat with Little Bit, where I dropped the fang that Ethorne had thrown aside into my shirt pocket. As doors slammed, Pa drove away more quickly than I had ever known: Gravel slid beneath our wheels as he backed up, and when he turned onto the highway, the rear end of the station wagon slewed sideways to line up with the front wheels, and we hurtled up Route 19.

Ethorne kept applying suction to Digger’s arm and spitting the result out the car window, spattering the rear glass. Digger had stopped crying, which was scarier than his crying and screaming had been. He lay against Ma like he was going to nap. Tears ran from Ma’s eyes, but her voice was calm as she said, “It’s all right, Digger. Everything’s fine, now.”

At the Fountain of Youth Motor Inn, Pa screeched the brakes as we halted under the car port by the office. Ethorne was the first one out. He yelled, “Mis’ DeLyon! A child needs you!”

A dark woman stepped from one of the guest rooms, pulling the door firmly shut behind her. In a place where most people’s race was obvious, hers was impossible to guess. Her skin was a brown that might have been its natural hue or might have come from years in the sun. Her hair, drawn back in a tail, was thick and black. Her eyes were as dark as her hair; the skin around them was lined from weather and laughter. She was small without being slender; she looked as if she could carry her own weight on her shoulders and walk all day without rest. She wore no make-up or jewelry. Her clothes consisted of a short-sleeved white shirt, blue jeans, and white tennis shoes.

That may have been the first time I knew my mother was pretty. I’d always known that Ma was beautiful, but this was the first time that I saw another woman and compared Ma to her. Ma was a little taller and bustier than Mis’ DeLyon. Ma’s eyes were green, and her hair was short and curly and reddish-brown. She wore red lipstick and a necklace of white beads with her light blue dress and white sandals. Her face, as I looked, was etched with anguish for Digger. Mis’ DeLyon’s face was calm, concerned but confident, and I realized that Ma’s face always showed her feelings, joy or fear, but rarely confidence.

Mis’ DeLyon saw Digger’s wounded wrist, then looked from it to Pa’s fingers. Ethorne explained, “Snake bite, Mis’ DeLyon. Mist’ Luke tore its mouth off o’ Mast’ Digger here.”

Mis’ DeLyon looked at Pa. “There’s a phone in the office with a list of numbers beside it. Call Dr. Lamont and tell him you’ll be bringing your boy.”

Pa nodded as he headed into the office. Ma started to follow, but Mis’ DeLyon touched her shoulder. Ma turned back, frowning. Mis’ DeLyon took Digger’s wrist in her hand. He opened his eyes when she did that, then closed them again.

Ethorne said, “I been suckin’ the poison out o’ him. But he’s mighty small.”

Mis’ DeLyon said, “Come.” She strode across the black-top to the swimming pool. We followed as obediently as we would follow the Pied Piper of Hamlin.

The pool was a typical small southern motel’s outdoor pool, a rectangle with a diving board at the deep end and a shallow end for non-swimmers. But next to the shallow end was the motel’s trademark, the green cement fountain shaped like a sports trophy. Water bubbled from its top, spilling into a metal-lined basin, then into the pool. Next to the fountain was a plastic dispenser for paper Dixie cups.

Mis’ DeLyon yanked free a cup and dipped it into the basin. “This,” she told Ma, “is piped from the springs behind the motel. There’s no water purer, I assure you.” She poured it on Digger’s wrist and washed the slits with her fingers, then sprinkled some drops onto his forehead. When he opened his eyes, she smiled. “Hello, Master Digger. Drink this.”

Digger’s head rolled from side to side.

Mis’ DeLyon said, “For your mother’s sake.” She put the cup to his lips.

“Uh,” Digger said, perhaps in protest. As his lips parted, Mis’ DeLyon poured water into his mouth. He sputtered, and water dripped over his chin, onto his shirt and onto Ma’s dress.

“Drink,” Mis’ DeLyon repeated, tipping more water into his mouth.

His eyes opened wider and he began to drink deeply. Ma laughed, and Mis’ DeLyon smiled again. Digger bobbed his head once and announced, “Good.” As Mis’ DeLyon filled a second cup for him, Ma laughed louder, and hugged him harder.

Mis’ DeLyon looked at Ethorne. “I suppose you haven’t rinsed out your mouth.”

“Ain’t been time, Mis’ DeLyon.”

Shaking her head without losing her smile, she set her hand on his upper arm. “Oh, Ethorne.” She took a clean handkerchief from her jeans’ pocket and tied it over Digger’s cuts while Ethorne snagged a paper cup, filled it, rinsed his mouth, spat, then filled his mouth and drank.

Pa came out of the motel office. “They’re expecting us.”

Mis’ DeLyon said, “Let me see your hands.”

Pa stood at the driver’s door. “They’re expecting us.”

Mis’ DeLyon said, “If this makes a difference, it will be for the good. Come.”

Pa’s eyes narrowed, then he strode toward Ma and Mis’ DeLyon. I may have seen him, too, for the first time that day as someone other than my father. I had always seen a wild force in Pa: He never needed to rest when something needed doing. That force drove him toward us now. But there was something else I had never seen, a helplessness before the threat to Digger that scared me. I knew how easily Pa’s helplessness could turn to anger.

I also saw that Pa, unlike Ma or us kids, looked like Mis’ DeLyon. His hair and his eyes were black. His skin tanned quickly and darkly and almost never burned beneath the sun. Though his face showed emotions as easily as Ma’s, a fierce confidence always lurked beneath his expressions.

He stopped in front of Mis’ DeLyon. “Well?”

She reached for his hands and turned the palms upward. “From its teeth?”

He nodded. “I feel fine.”

Ethorne said, “One o’ the fangs tore off in Digger.”

Pa said, “The other didn’t get me.”

Mis’ DeLyon poured water from the fountain onto Pa’s hands. “You can’t rely on strength alone.”

He gave the humorless laugh. “You rely on what you’ve got.”

She patted the cuts clean. “Exactly.” Before he could respond, she said, “You were luckier than your son. Have Doctor Lamont look at these, just to be sure.”

“Hell, I don’t need—”

“And if you feel weak on the way, have someone else drive. Understand?”

He looked at her, and, to my amazement, nodded.

Mis’ DeLyon said, “Ethorne, will you guide them?”

“Sure thing, ma’m.”

Ma said, “Mis’ DeLyon—”

Mis’ DeLyon shook her head. “Neighbors must help each other.”

Ma smiled. “Thank you.”

“Go. Dr. Lamont will worry.” Mis’ DeLyon refilled Digger’s cup and handed it to Ma. “Keep him warm, and give him all the water he wants. He’ll be fine.”

Pa said, “C’mon.” We all got into the station wagon in the same places where we had sat before. Pa nodded to Mis’ DeLyon, and we drove away. Mis’ DeLyon stood at the edge of the highway and watched us go.

Little Bit waved back at her and whispered, “She’s a nice lady.”

As we turned toward Dickison, Pa told Ethorne, “Had trouble finding this road last night in the dark.”

Ethorne smiled. “Oh, it be easy, now you belong here.”

#

At Dr. Lamont’s house, Ma and Digger went into the office with him and his nurse. Pa, Little Bit, and I went back outside, where Ethorne waited by the car. He smiled at us, then walked around the doctor’s yard with Little Bit, telling her the names of the plants. Pa and I sat in the sun on the hood of the station wagon. The metal was warm and hard under my butt, but I liked sitting there with my cowboy boots resting on the bumper. I watched Little Bit and Ethorne, and wondered about whether Digger would get better, or if he would die, and if he died, would he get a Viking burial on a burning boat pushed out to sea. Pa was quiet beside me, and he didn’t seem angry, so I didn’t think about him at all.

Without warning, Pa said, quietly enough that only I could hear, “When I was a boy and I’d done something wrong, my Pa beat me with a razor strap. You know what that is?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a strap of leather that you use to sharpen a razor. You strop the razor back and forth on it.” Pa closed his hand as though he were holding a straight razor and turned his wrist from side to side.

I nodded.

“Worst part was he’d send me to bring the strap from where it hung on a nail in the barn. I hated fetching it more than I hated the beating. I never knew whether it was better to walk slow, to put it off as long as possible, or to run, to get the whole thing over fast.”

I nodded again, but Pa didn’t see that. He had been looking at his scuffed engineer boots. Now he looked up, not at me but at the doctor’s big white wooden house. “And when my Pa was a boy, his Pa would take a whip to him when he acted up. You imagine what that’s like?”

I grimaced. “Bad?”

Pa gave a harsh bark of a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Bad’s a start on what that’s like.” He shook his head, then looked at me. “Spanking only hurts a little while, doesn’t it?”

I said, “Yes, Pa.”

He nodded. “So maybe things’re getting better for the Nixes. That’s what I tell myself. That’s all you can hope for, isn’t it?”

The question wasn’t directed to me. He spoke it to his open hands. I was glad, since I didn’t have an answer.

Dr. Lamont, a thin, brown-haired man a little older than Pa, came onto his porch. “Your boy’ll be fine. We’re done for now, if you want to come in.”

Pa looked at Ethorne. “You want to come in?”

Ethorne laughed easily. “Oh, I like it outdoors on a pretty day like this.”

Pa nodded. “I like it outdoors, too.”

Dr. Lamont looked at Pa, then shrugged. “Your boy’s resting easy. No reason he can’t go home with you. Doesn’t look like any poison got into him, but you’ll want to watch him careful. Skin tends to get ugly ‘round a rattler bite. It’ll usually slough off, leaving an ulcer there, danger of gangrene, all kinds of potential problems. Could be expensive, too, if it called for reconstructive surgery. But it looks like your boy was sure lucky. Considering, of course.”

Dr. Lamont tapped out a Camel cigarette, held the pack out to Pa, then lit one for himself when Pa shook his head. “Some docs’d cut out the bit area, just to be safe. But his color’s good, the skin around the bite seems healthy, his breathing’s easy. I’m of a mind to leave it be, for now, least ways. Your rattler must’ve sprayed near all its poison ‘fore it latched onto the boy’s wrist. Then since you treated him fast, you got out most of what poison was left on the fangs.”

Dr. Lamont dragged deep on his cigarette. “Or it might just be a miracle. I’ll take payment, but I can’t take credit.”

Pa smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Doctor.”

Dr. Lamont said, “Your wife said you’d been cut by its teeth.”

Pa shrugged.

Dr. Lamont said, “I don’t charge to look, not when you’re already here.”

Pa said, “Well.” He held out his palms. “Mis’ DeLyon cleaned ‘em up.” The cuts had closed, leaving a thin scab line.

Dr. Lamont looked closely. “Your snake must’ve been shooting blanks. Keep your hands clean and bandaged till that’s healed. If there’s any inflammation, or if you just get to feeling poorly, tell me immediately, hear?”

Pa nodded. Ma and Digger showed up on the porch then. Ma’s dress was damp from where she’d tried to sponge away Digger’s blood, but the cloth was drying quickly. Ma carried Digger, and he seemed to be asleep, but when the sunlight fell on his face, he looked at us and, smiling, waved his bandaged wrist.

“Hey, Digger,” Little Bit said.

Pa grinned. “You’re a tough kid, Digger.”

Ma said, “He was very brave.”

Digger smiled, then slumped back against Ma’s shoulder. I wished the snake had bitten me instead of him.

Dr. Lamont said, “Give him plenty of liquids and plenty of rest. Kids bounce back in no time.”

Ma said, “We haven’t opened a local checking account yet—”

Dr. Lamont said, “I understand. We’ll send the bill.” He and Pa shook hands, and we all got into the car.

Driving toward downtown, Ethorne said, “Dr. Lamont, he takes good care o’ the white folks. Coloreds has their own doctor up in Waycross.”

Ma looked at Pa. He grunted to say he’d heard Ethorne, and Ma relaxed. Pa said, “Since we’re in town, we might as well get some business done.” He glanced at Ma. “You haven’t changed your mind about staying?”

Ma stroked Digger’s head.

Pa said, “We’ll get the land cleared back, fast. Activity’ll keep the wildlife away. You’ll see.”

Ma shrugged.

Pa said, “Can’t keep kids perfectly safe anywhere, Susan. All you can do is watch ‘em, and do what you can when things go wrong. Seems to me today proved there’s good people here.”

Ma said, “I know that.”

Pa said, “Then I’ll tell Drake what we decided.”

Ma said, “Yes.” It was resignation, not agreement. We all knew that. No one said anything.

Dickison in daylight looked like any of the small Southern towns we’d driven through on our way to Dogland. I spotted a Five and Dime, which I pointed out to Ma, in case she needed to buy someone a new cap gun or a bag of plastic army men. She smiled and said something about needing to buy some thread, which made Pa say, “If there’s time.”

We stopped at the Dickison State Bank. A happy man gave us kids lollipops while Ma and Pa got account books, including savings accounts for each of us with the five-dollar bills that Grandpa Abner had sent. Which would’ve bought me a Fort Apache toy set of blue U.S. Cavalry and Indians in red and yellow, but Ma said the account was so we could learn how to save. Little Bit said, “I’m going to have lots of money,” and everyone laughed, including the banker.

When we drove to Artie Drake’s office, he was at his desk, reading a thick, leather-bound book. He heard the door, looked up, then closed the book on an envelope to mark his place. “Hi, y’all. Come on in. How was the night?”

Pa said, “Night was fine. Morning was a little rough.”

Mr. Drake’s eyes widened as he saw the bandage on Digger, asleep in Ma’s arms.

Ma said, “A snake bit him.”

Mr. Drake said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Pa said, “I don’t know what got into Digger. He ran up to it before we could stop him.”

“Kids,” said Mr. Drake.

Pa nodded.

“He’ll be fine?”

Ma said, “Dr. Lamont thinks so.”

“Good.”

Pa said, “We just wanted to tell you to deposit our check. We’re staying.”

Mr. Drake said, “Sure you’re not rushing the decision?”

Pa laughed. “You’re one hell of a salesman, you know that?”

Mr. Drake shrugged. “There’s enough business in the world dealing with folks who’re content. No need to make money off folks who aren’t.”

Ma smiled at him. “I agree one hundred per cent.”

Pa said, “You give people a fair deal. If they’re not happy with it, that’s their problem.”

Mr. Drake said, “So, no refunds at Dogland if you don’t like what you see?”

“You give folks what you said you would, and no one’ll want refunds.”

Mr. Drake smiled. “You have a lot of faith in human nature, Luke.”

“Not a bit. Just being practical. Never give anyone grounds to use against you, and you’ll get by.”

Mr. Drake looked at Ma, then back at Pa. “Ah. I expect you could make that argument.”

Pa said, “Have to make it some other time. Work’s waiting. If you’re out our way, drop in. I can argue all night.”

Ma laughed. “That’s no exaggeration. Do drop by. And say hi to Gwennie for us. Right, Chris?”

I looked at my boots. “Okay.”

Pa said, “Mind if I use your bathroom?”

Mr. Drake said, “Not at all.” He pointed toward the rear of the office. “Through that door.”

“Thanks.” Pa left.

Mr. Drake looked at Ma and said gently, “I’ll hold off another day on depositing that check, if you’d like. What happened to your boy—” He shook his head. “That’d drive a lot of people away.”

Ma said, “The best way to get Luke to stay somewhere is to try to drive him away.”

The toilet flushed. Pa came out, and we went outside. Mr. Drake followed us to the car. Seeing Ethorne in the backseat, Mr. Drake said, “Hey, Ethorne. How’s things?”

Ethorne said, “Like silk, Mist’ Artie. Had a li’l bump over a seam, but we back on the silk now.”

“And Mis’ DeLyon?”

“Oh, same as always.”

We waved to Mr. Drake as we drove away. Little Bit whispered, “He likes her.”

“Mr. Drake?”

Little Bit nodded.

“Likes Mis’ DeLyon?”

Little Bit shook her head. “Ma.”

I nodded. Everyone liked Ma.

At the Winn-Dixie Grocery Store, Ethorne said, “I’ll watch over Digger while you shop.”

Again Pa looked at him, but didn’t say anything. Ma said, “That’s good of you. We won’t be long.”

We bought groceries: hamburger, milk, eggs, white bread, Sugar Frosted Flakes, and cans of Campbell’s soup, corned beef hash, cream corn, and string beans. I lingered by a wire spinner jammed full of comic books. I knew the names of many of the characters, though I couldn’t read them: Batman, Superman, Dennis the Menace, Jerry Lewis. Ma tugged me onward, so I followed.

In the car, driving home, Little Bit and I ate Baby Ruth bars and drank from big bottles of Grape Ne-hi, my favorite. Digger slept in the back on a blanket, next to the groceries, and Ethorne sat beside us. Ma, in the front, said, “Mr. Drake seems like a nice man.”

Ethorne nodded. “Oh, Mist’ Artie’s a fine fellow.”

“We met his daughter, but not his wife.”

“Oh, he don’ got no wife. Not since his troubles.”

“Troubles?”

“Well, it’s not a secret, ‘xactly. It was a long time ago.”

“Oh?”

Pa said, “Susan, don’t make the man tell anything he doesn’t want to.”

Ma said, “I couldn’t make anyone tell anything they didn’t want to! How could I possibly—”

Pa laughed. “You can make anyone agree to anything, when you put your mind to it.”

“But I don’t try—”

Pa reached an arm along the top of the bench seat and gave her a hug. “Which is the only thing that saves us all.”

“Well.” Ma smiled enough to say she had forgiven him, though she did not think he deserved it.

Ethorne said, “Ain’t no big deal, I s’pect. You might as well hear ‘bout it from someone who likes Mist’ Artie. He had him a hard time in the war.”

“Korea?” Pa said.

“World War Two,” Ethorne said. “He come back to his wife and his job, but he acted kind of strange. He went off to the V.A. hospital for a year or so. When he come back, his wife left him.”

Ma said, “Poor man.” Then she said, “What about Gwenny?”

Ethorne shook his head. “Her Ma drowned a year or two later. Girl was sent back to her Pa. He’s been a good father to her. Has one o’ my girls for a housekeeper. Sarah cares for Gwenny like she was another of her own babies.”

Ma, delighted, said, “You don’t have grandchildren, Ethorne!” She added with less certainty, “Do you?”

Ethorne laughed. “Oh, yes’m, I do. A passle.”

Pa said, “Start young enough—” He grinned at Ethorne. “I don’t have any that I know about.”

Ma said, “Luke, honestly.” Ethorne chuckled, maybe at both of them.

Pa lifted his chin, pointing up the road. “Who wants hamburgers?”

Little Bit and I both shouted, “I do, I do!”

Ma said, “You don’t have to scream.”

Pa said, “All right,” and turned onto the gravel parking lot in front of Gideon’s 19-cent Hamburgers.

As we rattled to a stop, Little Bit said, “Ma likes Mister Drake, too.”

I squinted at her. “Ma likes everyone.” Then I yanked on the door handle, and we ran toward the source of God’s most perfect food.

Gideon’s was a drive-in carryout hamburger stand with a porch on one side covering several wooden picnic tables. A door in the center of the building opened on a small room divided by a long counter. On one side of the counter was space enough for six or eight people to stand while placing their orders. On the other side was a griddle, a refrigerator, a wooden cutting table, and the few other basics that a fry chef requires.

Little Bit and I came to a stop as soon as the screen door closed behind us. On the back wall, between two draped American flags, were pictures of Jesus. There were Jesuses on place mats, post cards, and cardboard fans. There were little paintings of Jesus in wooden and plastic frames. There were newspaper cutouts of black-and-white pictures of paintings of Jesus, and photos of people dressed to look like Jesus, and photos of things that looked like Jesus if you squinted, like a cow with markings on its side that resembled a bearded man’s face.

Behind the counter and in front of the collage was a short, skinny, tanned man with white hair in a crewcut. Despite the heat, he wore a long-sleeved white shirt buttoned to his neck. He saw us and said, “God bless you, children! Welcome, welcome!”

Little Bit smiled, saying, “Hi. We’re going to have hamburgers.”

“Well, the Lord surely directed you to the right place,” said the small man.

Little Bit walked up to the counter, but I stayed back, studying the Jesuses. Some cried, and some laughed, but most looked as if they had not had enough sleep. A blackboard hung over part of the collage. It was covered with writing that did not look to me like a menu, because there were no rows of items with corresponding rows of prices.

The screen door opened again. I had to jump forward to make room for Pa and Ma. Pa looked around the room, and Ma glanced from the collage to Pa. The small man said, “Welcome. Your girl says you’ve come for hamburgers, and I’m mighty glad to hear it. That’s all we serve that you can sink your teeth into, though the good word’s available if you’d like some meat for your soul, too.”

Pa nodded at the collage of Jesuses. “Friend of yours?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the small man. “A friend of yours, too, though you may not know it. And a friend of the Hamite in your car, as well.”

“Hamite?” said Pa.

The small man nodded. “The unfortunate race with God’s mark on their skin. But if they serve dutifully in this world, they’ll be rewarded in the next. The Negro is to be pitied, not despised.”

Ma looked at Pa again.

“So,” said the small man. “What can I fix you?”

Pa began, “I don’t know—”

Little Bit cut him off with, “A hamburger, please, an’ a starberry milk shake!”

“We’re your new neighbors,” Ma said. “We bought the Hawkins land.”

“You did? I’m delighted!” The small man wiped his hand on a dish cloth and offered his palm to Pa. “I’m Gideon Shale, sir. If there’s anything, anything at all, I might help you with, you let me know. I’ve done a few things in my time.”

Pa glanced at Ma as he took the man’s hand. “Luke Nix. This is Susan.”

Ma held out her hand, and Mr. Shale said, “A pleasure,” as he took it.

Pa said, “That’s Chris and Little Bit.”

“Well, you look like fine helpers for your parents!” Mr. Shale shook hands with us, too. His fingers felt like talons, strong and fleshless, but his hand shook slightly in my grip.

I shrugged at his statement. Little Bit said, “I’m going to have any dog I want.”

“You are?” said Mr. Shale.

Little Bit nodded.

“Have you decided what kind you want?”

Little Bit nodded. “Every kind!”

Mr. Shale laughed. Pa said, “We’re building a tourist attraction. When we’re done, we’ll have over a hundred and twenty breeds of dog on display. American Kennel Association recognizes a hundred and thirteen currently, but in the world, there’s more’n four hundred breeds. We’ll have plenty of room to expand.”

Mr. Shale nodded. “mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, hound or spaniel, brach or lym; or bobtail tike, or trundle-tail—” He stopped abruptly and shrugged.

Pa said, “I don’t recognize that.”

“Shakespeare. The other good book. Though neither book has much good to say about dogs, I fear.” Mr. Shale shrugged. “You came for food for the body, I believe.”

Pa nodded. “Six hamburgers.”

“Mine plain,” I said.

“I can’t make you a milk shake,” Mr. Shale told Little Bit. “Freezer broke down, and the Lord hasn’t provided a new one, yet. I suspect He’s waiting for me to pull the motor. We have milk, soda pop, and coffee.”

“Four milks.” Pa stepped outside and called, “Ethorne! Milk or pop?”

“Anything be fine, Mist’ Luke,” Ethorne called back.

“What’d be finest?”

Ethorne laughed. “Co’cola be finest, sir.”

Pa stepped back inside. “And one Coke.”

“Coming right up.” Mr. Shale opened the refrigerator and took out a metal tray full of ground red meat.

Pa looked at the blackboard and read aloud, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God. Matthew, Nineteen, twenty-four.” Ma glanced at Pa again as he said, “Interesting thing for a businessman to have on his wall.”

“Oh, I change the teaching every week,” said Mr. Shale, shaping hamburger patties in his hands. “That one’s to remind me that we make money to live, not the other way around.”

“Sounds un-American.” Pa nodded toward the two American flags flanking the Jesuses.

Mr. Shale laughed, pointed at cutout letters among the pictures of Jesus, and read, “One nation, under GOD.” The word “GOD” was surrounded with gold foil stars. Mr. Shale dropped six patties onto the grill, each adding its sizzle to the noise as it landed. “Nothing wrong with making money, so long as you spend some on Jesus.”

“Hadn’t heard he was hurting for cash,” Pa said.

Ma said, “Luke.”

Mr. Shale said, “Oh, I don’t mind some funning, Mrs. Nix. There are many ways to spend money on the Lord, if you seek them out. There’s always someone doing His work who could use a little help.”

“I’ve read the Bible,” Pa said. “I don’t remember Jesus asking for handouts.”

Mr. Shale frowned at Pa, then flipped each of the burgers, producing new explosions of sound and increasing the smell of cooking meat. As he placed hamburger buns on the grill to toast, he said, “We’re all frail. We do what we can for those we can.”

Ma looked at Pa and said, “That’s what we all do.”

Pa told Mr. Shale, “You may be a little hard on yourself. I heard there was a gate in Jerusalem called the Eye of the Needle. And it wasn’t impossible to get a camel through the gate. It was just hard.”

Mr. Shale shook his head and placed six paper napkins on the counter. “I’ve heard that, too. I doubt the Lord was unaware of the implications of what He said when He said it.” Mr. Shale removed the buns, placed them on the napkins, squirted five with ketchup, then assembled the burgers and folded the napkins around them. “Want these to go?”

Pa said, “We’ll eat them here.”

“I could eat a horse,” I said.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Mr. Shale. “These are all cow.” He stacked the burgers onto a cardboard tray and set that on the counter. As he opened the refrigerator to remove four cartons of milk and a Coca Cola bottle, he said, “If talking about Jesus disturbs you, let me know. I’ll be happy to quit my prattling. Jesus comes when you’re ready for Him. I can ask you to receive Him, but only you can open your heart.”

Pa said, “Tell you what. You don’t try to convince me you’re right, and I won’t try to convince you you’re wrong. Is that a deal?”

Mr. Shale laughed. “No, Lucifer, that’s never a deal. But my wife, bless her soul, always said I never knew when to let folks be. You have a good meal, hear?”

“Will do.” Pa placed a five-dollar bill on the counter.

Mr. Shale started to hand Pa his money back. “We’re neighbors.”

Pa shook his head. “That’s right. This way, on slow days, we’ll each know we got at least one customer nearby.”

Mr. Shale smiled and counted out Pa’s change. “God bless you.”

“Bye,” Pa said.

“God bless you,” Ma repeated.

“God bless you,” Little Bit stated firmly.

“G’ b—” I began, and finished, “bye.”

As we walked out into the sun, Pa said, “Why’d you introduce us right off? Old coot’ll be over to convert us within twenty-four hours.”

“He’s our neighbor, Luke.”

“You want to be nice to him, you be nice to him. I’ll have work to do.”

Ethorne brought Digger out of the car. Ma carried Digger to a picnic table; he ate half of his hamburger before he fell asleep again. Pa ate the other half. Afterwards, he said, “Well, I suppose I can always listen to ol’ Gideon for the sake of a good hamburger.”

After we returned to our land, Pa and Ethorne looked in the grass for the dead snake. The head and body were both gone. Ethorne said, “Critter got it,” but he sounded doubtful.

I patted my shirt pocket. I still had a fang to prove the snake had been here. I didn’t show it to anyone.

Chapter Four: Building in Blood

In 1959, these things happened in my parents’ world: Ninety miles away from the United States, Fidel Castro’s Communist forces defeated Cuba’s corrupt dictator and expropriated U.S.-owned sugar mills. The Soviet Union sent the first rocket to the moon. Alaska and Hawaii became the forty-ninth and fiftieth U.S. states. Raymond Chandler, Frank Lloyd Wright, Cecil B. De Mille, Errol Flynn, Buddy Holly, and Billie Holiday died. China crushed a Tibetan revolt, and Tibet’s spiritual leader, the Dalai Lama, fled to India. “Ben Hur” won the Academy Award. “Tom Dooley” and “Mack the Knife” dominated the radio waves. For the first time, the number of Americans who had died in automobile accidents (more than 1.25 million) was greater than the number who had died in all previous American wars. The U.S. Postmaster General banned Lady Chatterley’s Lover from the mail. President Eisenhower sent troops to crush strikes by U.S. steelworkers and longshoremen. Los Angeles won baseball’s World Series. Jack Nicklaus won the U.S. Golf Association amateur championship. The star contestant on “21”, America’s most popular television game show, admitted that the show’s producers had given him answers to their questions.

My world’s events happened near the cinder block motel unit that was home. Ethorne and a crew of young men cleared the ashes of the house that had burned before we arrived, and then they began cutting back the jungle around us. Ma and several hired black women cleaned the restaurant, then Ethorne and his crew painted it pink. A swingset appeared beside our new home, a replacement for the one we had lost in New Orleans, and Little Bit, Digger, and I learned how playing was different in Florida:

When sand spurs are green, you can crush them between the tips of your fingers, if you’re careful. When they’re brown, the spines will pierce your skin, hurting when they enter, hurting while they’re in you, hurting again when you pluck them.

Some ants are busy specks that scurry away when you kick apart their hills. Some ants are fire ants whose bites burn like a lit match.

Some snakes are harmless, but every poisonous snake in North America lives in northern Florida. Rattlers, water moccasins, and copperheads are easy to know by their fangs. The difference between the poisonous coral snake and the harmless scarlet king snake is subtle; it lies in the pattern of red, black, and yellow rings around their bodies. Ma taught us, “Red on yellow, kill the fellow. Red on black, poison lack.”

I went to tell an adult whenever I saw a snake, no matter what I thought it might be. Little Bit loved to hunt for grass snakes. When she found one, she called, “Come, Chris-a-fer! Come, Digger! Nice snakey! See?” Digger always waddled to her as quickly as he could to see what made her laugh. His fears were reserved for large, fanged monsters with heads larger than Pa’s fist. I always stood back and pretended I was bored by mere grass snakes.

Dogs began arriving before construction had begun on the kennels. The first was a Rough Coated Collie. Little Bit saw her and raced toward her, yelling, “Lassie! It’s Lassie!”

The second was a white and brown Pointer that liked to jump up and bark when he saw people he didn’t know. I heard the barking and stepped behind Ma. Pa saw me and said, “Christopher, come here.”

Ma said, “He needs time to get used to the dog.”

Pa nodded. “That’s what I’m going to arrange.”

The entire family was watching. Digger and Little Bit had stepped back when the Pointer barked, but Pa had not noticed them. I took a few steps forward as if I had merely been walking around Ma to get a better look at the dog.

“Come on,” Pa said with less patience. “He won’t hurt you.”

“Chris doesn’t know that,” Ma said.

Pa glanced at her. “He will.” Ma looked away as Pa said, “Hold out your hand. Toward the dog.”

I moved my hand about six inches forward. The snake had enclosed Digger’s fist. A big dog could swallow my arm.

Pa patted the Pointer. “His name’s Beauregard. He’s not going to hurt you, Chris. You do what I say, and you’ll know how to tell if any dog might bite.”

I nodded, but I didn’t move my arm any closer.

“Turn your hand over so he can see you don’t have anything in it. Dogs usually bite when they’re scared. If they can’t see what’s in your hand, they don’t know if you’re going to hit them or something.”

I showed my palm. Beauregard licked it, and I jumped back. Little Bit and Digger laughed, then so did I. Beauregard began licking my face, and I had to use both arms to hold him back.

Pa said, “Well, Beauregard’s too fast to be a good example. But anytime you’re dealing with a dog you don’t know, let it smell you so it’ll know you don’t plan to hurt it. If a dog growls at you, just draw your hand back slowly. Never show you’re scared, or it’ll try to chase you away.”

I nodded and let Beauregard lick my hands. It had never occurred to me that something large might be afraid of me.

Pa kept the Collie and the Pointer chained to the porch in front of the house so they wouldn’t run off or get on the highway. That seemed a reasonable solution until a blond short-haired Chihuahua arrived.

Ma said, “You can’t leave that little thing out all night.”

Pa said, “On the farm, we never had dogs in the house.”

Ma said, “Daddy and Mother have always had house dogs.”

“Gretel,” said Little Bit, naming Grandma and Grandpa’s elderly Dachshund.

Pa said, “I don’t want a dog in my damn house.”

Ma said, “What if something happens to him? Mickey’s a champion. If we had to pay the breeder what he’s worth—”

“Champion Chihuahua,” Pa said. “Champion yappy little lapdog.”

“Yappy lappy dog,” said Little Bit, petting Mickey.

That night, when we went into Ma and Pa’s room to watch “Gunsmoke” on the secondhand TV that Pa had bought at a church sale, Mickey was in a cardboard box that Ma had cut down and lined with rags. Pa looked at Mickey and said, “All right. I don’t want a dog in my damn bed.”

Ma said, “Fine.” All during “Gunsmoke,” while Marshall Dillon and Miss Kitty maintained civilization in Dodge City, Mickey kept jumping onto the chenille bedspread. At first, we kids laughed at the way Ma would catch Mickey and set him down with a shake of her finger and a fiercely whispered, “Stay! Good dog! Stay!”

And then it quit being funny. Mickey would stand on the tiles, then circle the bed and bound back up. Finally, Pa said, “Jesus, Susan, will you just hold that damn dog so it’ll quit jumping around?” Ma clutched Mickey like a baby through the rest of the show. He licked Ma’s and Little Bit’s faces, and after a few minutes, they laughed. Pa, Digger, and I watched “Gunsmoke” as if the Chihuahua did not exist.

The fourth dog to arrive was Captain, the best Norwegian Elkhound that ever lived. I don’t know who decided Captain was my dog, if I did or Captain did, or if Ma or Pa decided that each of us kids should have a dog that we could consider our own—though most of the dogs were on loan to Dogland, it was understood that they would stay with us as long as they lived. Captain was gray and shaggy and happy and brave, the kind of dog who pulled Sergeant Preston of the Yukon through the snow to save lost people and capture bad men. Captain loved to lick my face when I petted him, and he always thought it was wonderful to see me, and I always knew it was wonderful to see him.

#

Shortly after my fourth birthday, I was playing in the gravel parking lot near the restaurant, building a moat around the Fort Apache set that Grandpa Abner had sent me, when something large rolled across the rubble behind me. I turned, gasped, and scrambled backwards, caving in part of the trench I had dug and burying a blue cavalryman who had been about to saber a bright yellow tomahawk-wielding redskin.

An ancient green pick-up truck had coasted in behind me. The door opened quickly and quietly, slicing the air within inches of my head. The driver stepped out as the door swung wide. I saw engineer boots and shapeless work trousers, and I thought this was Pa until I heard the man’s voice: “Hey, boy. Careful where you play. Might get hurt.”

He walked away so quickly that I barely had time to note the ways in which he was not Pa. He had a north-Florida accent. He was short and round like Santa Claus. His skin was reddish-brown, and he wore a work shirt that matched his trousers. He carried himself with a military erectness that I envied.

He stopped under the shade of the Heart Tree. A few hundred yards away, Pa and Ethorne were clearing land with several young men that Ethorne called his boys. The stranger said, “That your pa with the niggers?”

That was my Pa, but I had been told that Ethorne, James, and Seth were not supposed to be called niggers. I had also been told not to correct adults. I stared at the workers as if I had never seen them.

“You too scared to talk,” said the man, “you just nod, hear?”

I nodded and whispered, “That’s my Pa.”

The man laughed. Ma came out of the restaurant with a wet sponge in one hand; she and Mayella, one of Ethorne’s girls, had been scrubbing walls. Little Bit was helping them. She followed Ma with a small silver, blue, and green metal beach bucket full of sudsy water. Ma smiled and said, “We’re not open yet.”

The man touched the bill of his cap. “I know, ma’m. That your daughter?”

Ma nodded.

The man said, “I figured she was. She’s near as pretty as you. My name’s Tom Greenleaf, but they call me Handyman. I hear your husband’s got work needs doin’.” He smiled. “Ain’t much I can’t handle right.”

Ma frowned. “You’ll have to speak with Luke.”

Handyman touched his cap again. “Will do, ma’m.” He looked at the woods, then said, “Say, you folks ain’t seen no sign o’ boar, have you?”

Ma said, “Excuse me?”

“Boar, ma’m. Been some good hunts through this land. Got one hog not long ago what weighed near two hun’ed an’ fifty pounds.”

Ma’s eyes widened, and she looked at me.

Handyman smiled. “One I’d like to get is s’posed to be more’n three hun’ed. Big fellow the niggers call Blanche.”

“Blanche?”

“Yes’m. A French-talkin’ nigger come out of the woods a few years back, all tore up and screamin’ something wild. Your neighbor, ol’ man Shale, an’ Preacher Jones, the minister up at All Souls—that’s the nigger church in Dickison—found him. Jones says there was a big ol’ boar in the bushes, an’ that boar just watched him and Shale put the French nigger in the back of his truck. French nigger said somethin’ about Blanche an’ the horror an’ like that, all in French, which is Greek to ol’ man Shale and Preacher Jones. That was all anyone ever got out of him. That nigger’s off at the crazy farm now. No one ever figured out where he was from or what he was doin’ here.”

“Good Lord,” Ma said. “The poor man.”

Handyman shrugged. “Preacher Jones an’ ol’ man Shale both been known to take a drink now an’ then. Might be you can only find that boar half-way through a jug o’ shine. But if you see any sign of a big ol’ boar, le’ me know, hear? I got a pack of hounds that’ll track and hold anything that runs on this Earth.”

Ma said, “I haven’t noticed anything like a boar around here.”

“With all this activity you got now, you’re not like to, neither. Don’t you fret on it none, ma’m.”

Ma nodded. Handyman touched his cap again and walked toward Pa and the workers. Little Bit said, “What’s a boar?”

Ma said, “It’s a wild pig with big tusks. Teeth that stick out from its mouth. If you see any wild animals, you go inside the nearest house immediately, understand?”

Little Bit and I nodded. Ma went back into the restaurant, but Little Bit stood on the green cement sidewalk, squinting in the sunlight. Thinking about wolves and the three little pigs, I trailed Handyman from about thirty feet back.

A few days’ toil with a tractor and bulldozer had carved wide, muddy swatches into the woods. Pa and the negro men were working at the edge of an island of jungle. Pa had his shirt off. His shoulders were red from the sun, but I knew from our trips to the beach that what burned Ma or me would only tan Pa.

Pa and the hired men were hauling a felled tree out of the brush. They were sweating, and their breaths came in gasps, but they all smiled. Ethorne grunted to Pa, “This goin’ make—a mighty nice—resting bench, Mist’ Luke. Folks come—from miles ‘round—just to set on—this here log.”

Pa’s laugh was interrupted by Handyman saying, “Got them boys working pretty good.”

The negroes quit smiling. Pa looked at Handyman. “They’re hard-working men.” He and the others didn’t slow down.

Handyman grunted agreement. “Long as you keep after ‘em.” He grabbed a dirt-encrusted root to help carry the tree toward several others that that lay in a pile, waiting for Pa to decide how they might be useful. Handyman said, “How you, Ethorne?”

Ethorne said, “Can’t complain, Mist’ Greenleaf.”

Pa said, “Good enough,” and everyone dropped the tree. Pa pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket, swabbed his forehead, then looked at Handyman again. “Help you with something?”

“No, sir,” said Handyman. “Might be I can he’p you. I hear you might be needin’ a ‘lectrician. I’m Tom Greenleaf. Folks call me Handyman, ‘cause that’s what I try to be.”

Pa held out his hand. “Luke Nix.” As the men shook, Pa said, “We’re hardly ready for an electrician. Got to finish laying this out, maybe get a little more landscaping done first.”

“You putting in dog runs,” said Handyman, “you’ll need plumbing work. I do that, too. You plannin’ on some serious landscaping—” He gestured toward the Heart Tree by extending two fingers, making a pistol of his hand. “—I work with dynamite.”

Pa smiled. “Wife’s set on keeping that old tree.”

“Give you more room to park cars.”

“If we start turning customers away ‘cause we’re out of parking places, you’ll get the first call.”

Handyman laughed. “Glad to hear that.”

“Check back Monday, if you want. We may be ready to string a few yard lights by then.”

“Will do.” Handyman nodded at Ethorne, Seth, and James. “See you boys.”

Ethorne smiled. “Sure ‘nough.”

Handyman looked at me. “I got a boy ‘bout your age. Might be you two could play together sometime. How’d you like that?” I shrugged and looked at my boots. All of the men chuckled. Handyman said, “Well,” and started to walk away.

Pa called, “Tell you what. I’ll let you know what we’re planning. If you can get up an estimate—”

“Easy,” said Handyman.

Pa looked at Ethorne, then at the woods where they’d been working. “Anything in there you think is pretty, let it stand. But all the weeds and most of those bushes have to go. I want to be able to get a riding mower in there, maybe plant some flowers. We’ll make Busch Gardens look like some old lady’s back yard.”

Ethorne said, “You got it.”

Pa and Handyman headed toward Handyman’s truck. Seth, the youngest of the negro men, watched Handyman and whispered, “Damn cracker.” Though Seth and James were both handsome and wiry like Ethorne, James was tall and dark like a telephone pole, and Seth was short and copper-skinned.

Ethorne looked at me, then shrugged and told Seth, “Boy, pray you never meet a worse white than the Handyman.”

Seth said, “Isn’t a matter of better or worse.” He wiped his dark-framed glasses on the tail of his shirt.

“Oh?” James gave a low laugh. “Say what it be, collegeboy.”

Ethorne, frowning, shook his head, but Seth was looking at me. He squatted on his heels and said, “Hey, cowboy. What’s the only good Indian?”

I grinned and drew my broken cap pistol. “Only good Injun is a dead Injun! Pow-pow-pow-pow!”

Seth and James laughed. Seth, standing, said, “Some days I wish this world had nothing but good whites.”

Ethorne asked me, “You like Mis’ DeLyon, Chris?”

I nodded. On hot afternoons, Ma or Pa or both of them would take us kids to the Fountain of Youth, and Mis’ DeLyon would let us play in her wading pool.

Ethorne said, “Mis’ DeLyon’s an Indian.”

I squinted at him, then announced, “Pa’s part Indian, so I’m part Indian.” I patted my hand over my mouth. “Woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!”

James smiled. “You goin’ shoot yourself?”

I grinned and fired several times toward the woods with my cap pistol. “Pow-pow-pow!” Then I holstered my pistol, squatted, and shot an imaginary bow. “Whoo! Whoo!” Then I grunted, clutched my chest, and fell full-length onto the ground.

Seth clapped. “Marlon Brando’s eating his heart out.”

Ethorne said, “Paul Robeson be feelin’ a mite jealous, too.”

James said, “John Wayne got nothing on that boy.”

I opened my eyes and grinned at James. John Wayne made the cowboy movies that Pa and I loved. John Wayne was a real actor.

Ethorne said, “We best be gettin’ to work.”

Seth nodded slowly. “Got to show the white man we ain’t no lazy niggers. Ain’t that right?” He stared at Ethorne and Ethorne stared back, like gunfighters facing off in a dusty street.

James poked Seth’s shoulder. “You ain’t ‘bout to show nobody nothin’ about workin’, collegeboy.”

Seth slid his gaze to James. “You’re just—” Then he laughed. “About to be proven wrong, farmboy.” He snatched up a machete that was lying beside a sickle and a scythe, and he headed toward the woods.

James grabbed the scythe and followed Seth. Stooping for the sickle, Ethorne said, “Your mama be happiest if you play up near the restaurant, Kit Carson.”

I saluted, bringing my left hand up above my eyebrow and touching my coonskin cap. Even if he didn’t have a TV show, Kit Carson was as good as Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett; Pa had said so. Even better, his first name was my first name. “Ethorne, sir?”

He began to sharpen the sickle with a stone from the pocket of his overalls. “Yes, Mast’ Nix?”

“Kit’s a good name.”

“That is a fact.”

“Would people call me that?”

“You’d like that?”

I nodded.

“If you asked ‘em nice, they might.”

I nodded and ran toward my Fort Apache play set. A little later, Mayella called me in for lunch. I ran into the men’s washroom, scrubbed my hands, then ran into the restaurant kitchen by the back door.

“Whoa!” said Mayella. “Hurr’cane just blew in.”

I grinned at her. Mayella reminded me of Aunt Jemima on the pancake box and the syrup bottle, except she was younger, darker, and not quite as stout.

Ma said, “Be careful when you come inside, Chris. You might’ve hit someone with the door.”

I nodded.

Pa said, “Your mother’s talking to you, Chris.”

I said, “Yessir,” then, “yes, ma’m,” and ran to the table.

Ma said, “Did you wash?”

I said, “Yes, ma’m.”

Mayella laughed. “Didn’t bathe.”

I looked at her.

She said, “Got dirt on the back of yo’ head. What was you doin’, anyway?”

I said, “Injuns shot me.”

Pa looked up from a copy of Newsweek and smiled.

Little Bit said, “Really?” and Digger stared. When Ma said, “No, Chris is just fooling,” Little Bit seemed disappointed.

Mayella grabbed my shoulders and swung me onto a chair. “Now, you stay right there—” She turned away to reach for a wash rag, and when she did, I saw down the collar of her white shirt. The skin of her back was striped with black, shiny tissue.

I poked my finger onto the top edge of the uppermost mark. It felt hard and cool beneath my finger. “What’s that, Mayella?”

Mayella stepped forward quickly, saying nothing. She bumped against the counter, and everyone looked.

Pa said, “What’d you do, Chris?”

I looked at my boots.

Mayella gave a small laugh. “Oh, Chris just saw where my back got cut up.” She lifted the tail of my cap and scrubbed the back of my head with her wash rag, hard enough that it hurt a little. I didn’t mind, ‘cause I knew she was upset by what I’d done, though I didn’t know why.

Little Bit said, R 0;What happened, Mayella?”

Ma said, “Don’t pester Mayella, you two.”

Mayella said, “That’s all right, ma’m. I was somewheres at the wrong time. That’s how it usually is when you get yourself hurt.”

Ma nodded. “Hear that, Chris? Letitia? You always want to be careful, wherever you are.”

Pa said, “Being careful isn’t always enough.”

Mayella glanced at him, then shrugged and begin removing golden-brown grilled cheese sandwiches from the griddle.

Pa looked at Little Bit and me. “But there are enough mistakes being made in the world. You don’t need to add to them.”

#

For her birthday, Pa had bought Ma a ditto machine so she could send newsletters to friends, family, and Dogland’s shareholders. In her first, she wrote, “I smashed my pointer finger, right hand, in car door a week ago and am sill having a kickens of a time using it, so please forgive rrrors.” I remember Ma’s yell of pain, and my dismay: Kids are supposed to suffer; parents are supposed to soothe them. I stood back as Little Bit and Digger ran up beside her.

Pa, on the other side of the car, said, “What in hell—” and ran around to our side. When he saw Ma’s hand, he stared, too.

Ma whispered, “It’s all right.” Her finger was bleeding and ugly. Red drops fell onto the driveway, staining the gravel.

Pa said, “What’d you do that for, Susan?”

Ma shook her head. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes.

Pa said, “Jesus. You need to bandage that up,” and he led her into the house.

Following them, Little Bit said, “Does that hurt?”

Ma said, “It’ll be fine.”

Digger looked at Little Bit. She told him, “Don’t worry, Dig-dig. Mommy’ll be fine.”

When Ma and Pa came out of the bathroom, Ma’s finger was covered with a bulbous white gauze bandage. Ma said, “Pretty funny-looking, huh? I’ve got a clown on my finger.” She waggled it once. Digger yowled, beginning to cry fiercely. Ma scooped him up in a hug and said that everything was really fine, really.

Later, when Little Bit and Digger had gone to play on the porch and Pa had gone outside to work, I said, “Does it still hurt, Ma?”

Ma said, “Not enough for you to worry about,” and she kissed the top of my head.

That afternoon, we all went swimming at the Fountain of Youth. Afterwards, Ma said her finger hardly bothered her at all.

The changing of Ma’s bandage became a daily ritual for us kids. When Pa was present, he stayed on the far side of the room, reading or watching TV. Once he said, “Bunch of ghouls.” Ma said, “They’re curious.” Pa said nothing more about it. Over the next days, we watched the finger swell, the bruise darken, the nail fall off, the skin turn pink again, and the new nail grow in clean and straight. It was better than television.

#

Ma and Pa told us we weren’t supposed to play in the front seat of the station wagon when no adults were in the car, but we could play in the back. Sometimes the backseat was my stage coach, sometimes it was Little Bit’s house, and often it was merely a place where we could sit or lie out of the summer sun. Little Bit liked to crawl in and out through the car window. Sometimes she would perch there, watching traffic on the highway or birds over the woods, or maybe dreaming of wild rides with laughing people, or maybe just basking in sunshine and a rich sense of accomplishment. No one knows why, after weeks of playing safely, she fell backwards out of the car window.

Mayella spotted Little Bit lying still on the gravel, and she screamed once. Pa, Ethorne, Seth, James, and all the other workers came running, and so did Ma. Mayella, crouching over Little Bit, said, “Sweet Lord Jesus,” and Ma, hurrying near, said, “Oh, Letitia!” and Pa, running from the construction site, said, “What in hell happened!”

I didn’t know. Digger and I had been by the Heart Tree, building dirt roads so our plastic cars could run around the tree’s thick roots. I was the oldest person present when Little Bit fell, so I knew it was my fault. Pa had addressed his query to everyone, not to me specifically, which was proof of my failure: If I had really been responsible, I would have been expected to answer, even if only to admit my guilt.

Ma reached for Little Bit. Mayella said, “Don’t move her, ma’m.”

As Ma answered, “I know,” Little Bit’s eyes opened. She whispered, “Di’ I faw?”

Pa laughed. “Yes, little darling, you did.” When Little Bit didn’t respond, Pa said, “Little Bit?”

“Hmm?” Little Bit looked toward the highway where cars sped past us.

Ma said, “Letitia? Are you all right?” Little Bit looked toward Ma. Her eyes did not focus. Ma said, “Oh, God.”

Pa said, “Easy, Susan. Little Bit? Can you understand me?”

Little Bit said, “Umm. Hmm.”

Mayella said, “She took a bad fall, Mist’ Luke. You got to give her time.”

Ma said, “I’m taking her to see Doctor Lamont.”

Pa said, “Maybe we should watch her for awhile.”

Ma said, “Luke.”

Pa said, “We’ve got one doctor bill to pay already.”

Ma repeated, “I’m taking her to see Doctor Lamont.”

Pa nodded. “I’ll drive.”

Little Bit sat between Ma and Pa. Digger and I had the back to ourselves, so we rolled our toy cars back and forth across the vinyl seat and tried to be quiet. Dr. Lamont said Little Bit didn’t have a fracture, but we should watch her, in case she acted strangely. Pa said, “Well, sure, but what if she acts differently?” Dr. Lamont laughed, though Ma didn’t. Driving back, we passed Artie Drake on the street, and he waved at Ma. Ma smiled and nodded at him.

We stopped at Gideon’s 19-cent Hamburgers on the way home. As we walked in, Mr. Shale said, “My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, so flewed, so sanded; and their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew; crook-kneed, and dew-lapped like the Thessalian bulls; slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells.”

Pa said, “Excuse me?”

Mr. Shale said, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream. How are you, Miss Letitia?”

Ma said, “We were at the doctor’s. She fell.”

“Would a starberry milk shake help?”

Little Bit smiled and nodded. Ma and Pa both grinned.

“Good to hear,” said Mr. Shale, reaching for an ice cream scoop. “Jesus told me to get that freezer fixed, and your smile’s all the reward I could want.”

“Choc’late,” I said.

Mr. Shale nodded. “That’s a nice reward, too.”

A week later, Little Bit began stuttering whenever she spoke, calling us K-k-k-Chris, D-d-d-Digger, P-p-p-papa, and Mmmm-mama. She stuttered for a week, then quit as abruptly as she had begun.

#

Dogs came to Dogland more quickly than kennels could be built for them. We always had several living in and around our house while their homes were being prepared. Before we could become familiar with one, it would be in its kennel and a new dog would take its place on our porch, in our house, and in our hearts.

Each kennel was designed for five dogs. Ethorne’s crew made the houses, long, wooden structures with five separate rooms, each with its own porch. The houses came in three sizes. The small rooms were just big enough to hold Little Bit and a Lhasa Apso; the big rooms could have been club houses for all three Nix kids.

Handyman and Pa supervised the pouring of the concrete runways, which sloped into a common gutter. Ethorne’s crew put up chainlink fence to separate the dogs. Ma made hand-lettered wooden signs that hung on hooks on the dogs’ front gates, identifying each by breed, name, and owner. Pa built twenty-four kennels, and though they were never all full, we had more than a hundred pure-bred dogs on our grounds within our first year of operation.

The kennels were arranged in a circle at the back of Dogland. You reached it by going through the Doggy Salon, a pavillion built to house the tiniest dogs and to provide a place to groom and nurse all the dogs. Mickey the Chihuahua ruled the Doggy Salon, barking at all who entered. At Dogland’s peak, Mickey shared the Salon with a Mexican Hairless that shivered no matter how hot the day might be, and a Toy Manchester terrier that loved to lick fingers, and several others.

The only pure-bred dog that often had free run of Dogland was Ranger, a huge, shaggy, white kuvasz whose mouth always hung slightly open in a lazy, wolflike grin. kuvaszes had guarded Hungarian kings in the fifteenth century; Pa decided Ranger was good enough to guard our family, too. During the day, Ranger stayed in his cage next to the other large working dogs, the Great Dane, the St. Bernard, the mastiff, and the Newfoundland. During the night, Pa let Ranger out to patrol Dogland.

I remember Ranger as taller than me, but I don’t remember being afraid of him. Pa bought a steel cart with bicycle wheels and a wooden bench wide enough that we three kids could sit side by side on it. Ranger pulled us easily whenever newspaper people wanted to shoot publicity photos. (Pa intended to offer dog cart rides to tourists’ children, but if the experiment was ever tried, I don’t remember it.)

One night when Pa was away and we kids were asleep, Ma heard Ranger barking. She took a flashlight to investigate, and found a drunken man cringing against the Heart Tree with Ranger before him. The man said, “O great white spirit, don’ eat me, please!” Ma laughed and held Ranger’s collar while the drunken man ran away. When Ma told the story, we laughed, too. Who could be afraid of Ranger? He was our friend.

Dogs arrived at Dogland in many ways. Some were brought by their owners, who wished to assure themselves that the dogs would be properly fed, housed, and exercised. Some were shipped to the Gainesville train station or the Dickison bus stop. Our Doberman pinscher, a lean, seventy-pound black-and-rust beast named Percival, arrived late one day in a cage. Percival barked when anyone came near. He was hungry, thirsty, tired, confused, frustrated, and furious. He had been traveling for at least three days.

James said, “That dog don’t like niggers.”

Pa said, “That dog doesn’t like anyone. He’s a liberal.”

Seth said, “I’m mighty fond of my fingers.”

Ethorne said, “Got to give him time to quiet down. And got to show him we don’t mean to keep him in that cage. We might let him out in the ex’cise pen.” He looked at Pa.

Pa nodded. The men had recently finished fencing a large, sandy area near the kennels where dogs could run and dig and play. Pa said, “Everyone take a corner.”

The four men lifted the cage by its handles. Ethorne told Percival, “Easy, boy. You be gettin’ somethin’ closer to freedom real soon now.” The Doberman circled in the wire cage, barking at its transporters’ hands.

Seth said, “Keep something deprived long enough, it’s bound to snap out at anything.”

“Shoot,” said James. “That’s just one mean-spirited dog, is all.”

“Some things always lookin’ for an excuse to bite,” said Ethorne.

“Doesn’t mean you should give ‘em one,” said Pa. “Damn Dobermans tend to be a bit in-bred. Once this one gets to know us, he’ll be all right.”

When we approached the exercise pen, Pa said, “Chris, open the gate.”

I said, “Yes, sir!” and ran ahead through the long grass to fumble with the latch. It lifted just as the men arrived, and I sighed and grinned simultaneously. Ethorne grinned back. Pa didn’t say or do anything, which meant I’d done fine.

“Ain’t goin’ to fit,” said James, looking from the cage to the gate.

“You sure?” said Seth.

“I got eyes, don’t I?” said James.

“Let’s try,” said Seth. “Never know if you don’t try.”

Pa nodded. “Might squeeze through, if we’re lucky.”

Ethorne grinned. “I say that, too, now’n then.”

They were not lucky. After one attempt to carry the cage into the exercise area, Seth said, “Why’d they put a dog in such a big box, anyway?”

James said, “‘Cause that’s all they had, most like.”

Ethorne said, “‘Cause someone had a feelin’ for this dog. When you got to cage something you like, you give it the biggest cage you got.”

Pa said, “All right. We’ll put the cage up to the door of the pen. When the dog goes in the pen, Seth, you close that gate. Fast.”

Seth nodded.

Pa said, “Ethorne, you and James pull the cage back out of the way as soon as that dog’s out of it.”

Ethorne and James both said, “Yes, sir.” They placed the cage against the open door. Pa looked at the others, then at Little Bit and me where we stood watching from twenty feet away. Then he reached over the top of Percival’s cage, unlatched the front grille, and lifted it high.

It might have all gone as planned, if Ma had known the Doberman had arrived. But Ma had gone out to the kennels to check on the dogs, and since the day was ending, she had let Ranger out. We heard her call “Ranger!” from the far side of the circle of dog pens, and we all looked up. Ranger raced through the island of palmettoes and live oaks, approaching like a great ghostly god of wolves.

“Damn!” Pa slammed the grille down a moment too late. It clipped Percival’s shoulder as he bounded out of his cage. “Close that—” Pa began, but Percival wheeled in the gateway. As Seth shoved the gate forward, and Ethorne and James yanked the cage backward, Percival leaped, bounding over his cage and charging toward Little Bit and me.

“Get back!” Pa yelled at us as he followed the Doberman. I stared at dark eyes and glistening teeth, then twisted aside, bumped into Little Bit, caught her arm, and began to run, dragging her behind me.

“Don’t!” Little Bit shook her arm free and pointed. “Nice dog! See?”

The Doberman. ignoring us, raced along the exercise pen, heading toward the highway. Ranger intercepted him before he reached the end of the fence. The kuvasz must have been twenty pounds heavier than the Doberman, yet Percival did not hesitate. He lunged for Ranger’s throat. Ranger met the attack, twisting aside and snapping his teeth close to Percival’s snout.

Ethorne yelled, “Ranger! Down, boy!” as Pa stepped between the dogs. Ranger backed away, and, when Pa grabbed for the Doberman’s collar, Percival sunk his teeth deep into Pa’s right forearm.

Pa hit the Doberman once in the nose with his left fist. Percival did not let go. Ethorne, James, and Seth reached to pull Percival away, and Ranger circled around them. Pa grunted, “Hold Ranger!” and slammed the Doberman onto his back on the ground. His bleeding arm slipped free of the dog’s bite. His right hand covered Percival’s throat and jaw, extending the Doberman’s head back so it was parallel with the ground. His left hand held the dog’s stomach, pinning Percival’s torso. The dog’s limbs thrashed as he tried to claw or flee, and he whimpered desperately. With his head only inches away from Percival’s, Pa yelled, “Who’s boss, damn it! Who’s boss?” With each yell, Pa pressed Percival against the ground, then released him slightly in order to press him down again.

Percival lay still. His whimpering slowed and quieted to a desperately hopeful plea.

Pa said with disgust and disappointment, “All right, then.” He looked at Ethorne. “Put him in the pen.”

Ethorne said quietly, “Yes, sir, Mist’ Luke.” He clipped a leash to Percival’s collar and said, “C’mon, boy.” Percival began to growl. Ethorne, keeping the leash taut, held out his free hand, palm forward for the dog to sniff. “Di’n’t you learn nothin’, boy?” Percival let Ethorne lead him into the exercise pen. Ethorne seemed to be watching Pa more than the Doberman.

James smiled. “Reckon he knows who’s boss now.”

Seth, holding Ranger’s collar, looked at Pa’s arm and said, “Mist’ Nix, I’m sorry, I tried to close him in, honest, I did.” His accent was as thick as James’. It was easy to believe he was Ethorne’s son.

Pa clenched his bleeding arm with his left hand and shook his head. Every kennel had a faucet and a hose on its side for washing the dogs and their runs. Pa went to the nearest and rinsed his arm, but the flow of blood did not slow. The Doberman’s bite had opened his flesh in a long, deep tear.

“That’s bad,” said Little Bit.

“Umm,” said Pa.

Ethorne nodded. “Best have Mis’ DeLyon look at that, Mist’ Luke. Might be the doc should see it, too.”

“Don’t need a doctor.” Pa never needed doctors. He began to walk toward our house. “Susan’ll tie it up.”

“I’ll come along,” Ethorne said.

Pa shook his head. “Chris or Little Bit can tell you where my body is, if I fall on the way. C’mon, kids.”

Ethorne frowned. “If you say so.”

We had hardly gone twenty yards when Ma and Digger came around the path along the kennels. Ma said, “Have you seen Ranger? I let— Oh, my God.” She stared at Pa’s arm.

Digger stared, too, then began to cry. Little Bit took his hand and said, “Don’t cry now, Digger,” and he stopped.

Pa said, “Now, Susan, don’t get excited. Just run ahead to the house to get some bandages. It’s a dog bite, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Ma said. “You—”

“You prefer I bleed to death here?” As Ma shook her head, Pa said, “Little Bit, you and Digger follow your Ma. I’ll keep Chris to lean on, if I need to.”

“Oh, my God,” Ma repeated. “C’mon, kids.” She ran toward the house.

Pa and I picked our way over open ground where plumbing had been recently buried and where walking paths had yet to be finished. Pa’s skin was damp and pale, and his blood marked our trail from the kennels to the house. In one kind of fairytale, wolves would follow the smell of the blood, and in another, we would make our way to the princess whose kiss could heal, and in a third, Pa’s blood would turn into red birds whose song would bring joy to the world.

“What’ll you do to the bad dog, Pa?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“It was my fault.”

I blinked at him.

“Should’ve made sure Ranger was penned before letting the Doberman out. Should’ve hosed ‘em both down instead of grabbing at ‘em. That’s what you get when you don’t think.”

“You didn’t think, Pa?”

Pa laughed weakly. “No need to rub it in.”

I stared at his arm.

“Your Pa makes mistakes, you know.”

I stared up at him. Things were often my fault, or Ma’s, or sometimes even Little Bit’s. If Pa was saying he could be wrong, that must be so, because Pa was always right. Had I been two or three years older, that would have been a paradox. At four, it was simply a new truth. To be sure I understood, I said, “You do?”

Pa nodded as we entered the house. He leaned against the door frame, then lurched inside. Blood spattered onto the dark floor tiles.

Ma hurried out of the bathroom with the blue metal first aid box. Opening it, she said, “What happened?”

Pa shook his head. “Ranger and the Doberman wanted to fight. I got in the way.”

Ma whispered, “Oh. I didn’t—” As she wiped his arm clean, Pa grimaced. Ma said, “You have to see the doctor, Luke.”

Pa shook his head.

Ma said, “You do.”

Pa said, “I don’t have to see any damn doctor. Especially not that bigot.”

Ma said, “If the dog’s rabid?”

Pa said, “More likely, I’m rabid. You better worry about that poor Doberman.” He laughed, but his shirt was drenched in sweat, and his chest rose and fell as he gasped for breath.

By the time Ma finished taping gauze around Pa’s forearm, the bandage was already soaked with blood. Ma said, “You need stitches.”

Pa said, “The hell I do,” and fainted.

Ma caught him as he collapsed. She screamed at me, “Get Ethorne!”

I ran outside, yelling, “Ethorne! Ethorne!” Ethorne loped across the field toward me, and I yelled, “Ma wants you! Ma wants you!”

When Pa came to a minute later, Ma and Ethorne were carrying him to the station wagon. “I can walk,” he said, wrenching himself free of their grip, and he staggered to the car. He hesitated, resting bloody hands on the hood, then went to the passenger door, telling Ma, “You drive.”

In the car I began to wonder whether Pa could die.

After Dr. Lamont and Pa came out of the doctor’s office, Dr. Lamont said, “You folks’re going to pay for the fishing boat I been looking at, if you keep this up.”

Pa said, “Yeah, funny.”

Dr. Lamont said, “I’ll test that dog that bit you. If it’s got rabies, you’ll be going through a pretty painful process, Luke.”

Pa said, “Mmm.”

“You going to put that dog down?”

Pa looked at him. “Why?”

Dr. Lamont said, “It’s got a taste for human blood.”

Pa laughed. “You know how much that dog’s worth?”

Ma said, “It’s not worth taking the chance that anyone’ll be hurt.” She looked at Little Bit and me, so I smiled at her.

Pa scowled. “It was my own damn fault. I’m getting tired of having to say that.”

Dr. Lamont said, “That land’s taking a lot from y’all.”

Pa said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dr. Lamont smiled. “Means I’ll be getting my fishing boat if this keeps up.”

“Don’t put money on it,” Pa said, and walked out of the waiting room.

Ma smiled at Dr. Lamont. “Well, thanks, Dr. Lamont. Luke’s—”

Dr. Lamont nodded. “It’s hard to keep your spirits up when your arm’s hurting. ‘Specially if you’re the sort who doesn’t like the sight of blood.”

Little Bit said, “You like seeing blood, Dr. Lamont?”

He said, “Beg pardon?”

Ma said, “Letitia!”

Dr. Lamont said, “Don’t you never mind. I couldn’t quite make out what she said.”

In the front yard, the station wagon started with a roar. Ma glanced over her shoulder and said, “We have to run.”

Dr. Lamont nodded. “Hope the next time I see you is under better circumstances.”

Ma nodded and hurried us out. Pa drove us back, and no one spoke. Not one of us kids asked to watch when he changed the bandages. After a week or two, Pa cut the stitches and pulled them himself.

#

In the motel unit that was our home, there was a sink in each of the two bedrooms. Ma kept a chair next to each sink for us kids to stand or kneel on when we needed to wash. One morning in our parent’s room while Ma was helping Little Bit and me with our shoes, Digger fell from the chair. Mickey’s food bowl was on the floor beneath the sink. Digger hit the bowl with his forehead, strewing blood, broken porcelain, and moist dog food all around him. When we looked, he lay motionless on the floor. Mickey yapped desperately and bounded around Digger’s arms. Digger pushed himself up. The skin of his forehead had been opened from his hairline to his eye. When he saw Ma running toward him, he began to wail.

Again we made the drive to Dickison. While Dr. Lamont put eight stitches in Digger’s forehead, I pondered the pictures in the comic books in the waiting room, Little Bit rolled wooden blocks across the carpet, and Pa leafed through copies of Life and Look. When Dr. Lamont and Ma came back with Digger, Dr. Lamont said, “I can’t promise there won’t be some deformity. I’m sorry.”

Ma squeezed Digger tighter. Pa said, “He can see all right?”

“Doesn’t seem to have affected his vision. Time will tell.”

Pa nodded.

Little Bit said, “Can Digger go swimmin’?”

Ma said, “May Digger go swimming?” Then she told Dr. Lamont, “We have a little wading pool. And Mrs. DeLyon lets the children play in her swimming pool, too.”

Dr. Lamont narrowed his eyes, then nodded. “So long as the boy’s in clean water, he should be fine.”

Driving home in the station wagon, Ma looked out the window. I didn’t see anything except trees and billboards there. She said quietly, “I wasn’t watching. I was dressing Letitia, and I turned away. He’d never had any trouble washing himself. Never. And I didn’t think—”

Pa shrugged, keeping his gaze on the road. “Can’t watch kids all the time, Susan. They’re going to get hurt. That’s just how it is.”

Digger, in the front seat between them, began to whimper. Ma hugged him. I said, “Here,” and handed Ma Digger’s toy crane. He laughed when he saw it.

Ma said, “That was very thoughtful, Chris.”

I looked at my boots and blushed. The toy had been lying by my feet. Anyone would have passed it to her.

The next morning, Digger, giggling, ran naked from the bathroom into our parents’ room. Pa winced and said, “Jesus, Susan, cover up his forehead. Kid looks like Frankenstein’s Baby.”

Digger stopped in the middle of the room and squinted at Pa, then at Ma. Ma frowned, scooped Digger up, took him to the chair he had fallen from, and began wrapping a gauze bandage around his forehead. I said, “It’s not fair.”

Ma said, “What’s not?”

“Why’s Digger get to look like a pirate? I want to be a pirate, too.”

Ma said, “Okay. I’ll do you next.”

Little Bit said, “Me, too! Me, too!”

Pa went to the door and, as he left, said, “You can dress the walking wounded. Ethorne and I need to run into town for more dog food.”

While Ma bandaged Little Bit, I ran outside to slice the air with an imaginary cutlass. Seth, James, and Mayella were sitting on the sidewalk around the kitchen, waiting for the workday to begin. Seth pointed at me. “Look-a-there. It’s the mummy of King Tot.”

Mayella laughed. James said, “King what?”

Seth shrugged. “Forget it.”

James said, “No, what?”

Seth said, “It was a joke.”

James looked at Mayella. “Must’a’ been a funny one.”

Mayella looked at Seth. “Took me by surprise, is all.”

Seth said, “You know about Egyptian mummies, don’t you?”

James said, “Sure,” as I said, “No, sir.”

The three of them looked at me, then they all grinned. Mayella said, “Sir! Who he talkin’ to, I wonder?”

Seth said, “That’s one smart kid, that is.”

“Yeah?” said James. “He don’ know ‘bout the ‘Gyptians.”

“Then you better teach him,” said Seth.

“Me?” James touched his chest.

“Since you know all about them,” said Seth.

“Yeah,” said Mayella. “We listenin’.”

“Well,” said James, looking around, then settling his gaze on me. “The ‘Gyptians was the world’s first civilization. And you know where Egypt is?”

I shook my head.

“Africa. The Egyptians was Africans. Most o’ their queens looked a sight more like Mayella than ‘Lizabeth Taylor.” He looked at Mayella and flashed his teeth.

Mayella smiled as she looked away. “No.”

Seth frowned and said, “Cleopatra was descended from the Macedonians who conquered Egypt, so she prob’ly did look a bit like Liz Taylor.”

James said, “Did I or did I not say ‘most’ o’ their queens?”

Seth nodded reluctantly.

James laughed. “There you is, collegeboy.” He looked back at me. “The ‘Gyptians, they was fixed on eternal life. That was why they wrapped up their kings an’ queens an’ made ‘em mummies. They thought there was a tie ‘tween the survival of their bodies an’ the salvation of their souls. They thought their souls would travel a long ways, crossin’ a lot o’ bodies o’ water to reach the land o’ the dead. An’ you know who escorted their souls to the land o’ the dead?”

I shook my head.

“Anubis,” said James. “He was a ‘Gyptian god. An’ you know what his head looked like?”

I shook my head again.

“A jackal. That’s a wild dog. You know that Pharaoh Hound what come in the other day?”

I nodded. Pa had been very proud of getting the Pharaoh Hound. It was a sleek tan Egyptian racing dog that might be the oldest breed of domesticated dog.

James smiled. “Ol’ Anubis had a body of a man an’ a head of a dog. He was the god o’ cemetaries and embalming. ‘Gyptians didn’t know a thing about Jesus.”

Seth said, “Who you been talkin’ to?”

James grinned. “Ethorne.”

Seth laughed. “He told you he was in ancient Egypt, I expect.”

James shook his head. “Said he read a lot of books.”

Seth nodded.

“Said he met someone who was there, though.”

Seth and Mayella both laughed. Mayella said, “That’s Ethorne. He tells some tall ones.”

James frowned. “He ever lie to you?”

Mayella shook her head. Seth said, “Not about anything important.”

James said, “Like what?”

Seth said, “Like his story that he was a slave here. Come on.”

James said, “You think he wasn’t?”

“I know he wasn’t.”

“You can prove it?”

Seth stared at him. “What kind of nappy-headed nigger do you take me for? Nobody needs to prove something that’s impossible is impossible.”

“Ethorne knows how the pyramids were built.”

Seth laughed. “So do I. Like the ol’ South was built. With slaves.”

James shook his head. “Hired folks, mostly, says Ethorne. Workin’ durin’ the winter when the crops was in. An’ that’s not the question. How’d they lift those big stone blocks to build the pyramids?”

Seth said, “Wooden cranes, maybe. Swing ‘em up there? I dunno.”

James nodded in victory. “They made ramps of sand and hauled those blocks up on rollers.”

Seth shrugged. “Sounds reasonable.”

“There you are,” said James.

“Ethorne must’ve read that. Or maybe he made it up. Doesn’t prove a thing about his stories, you know.”

James nodded. “Not to you.”

Seth jerked his thumb at James and addressed Mayella. “Can you b’lieve—”

When he stopped speaking, we all looked to see why. A young white woman had come around the corner. She appeared to be about as old as Artie Drake’s daughter, which meant she was younger than Mayella, James, or Seth. She had thin blond hair cut like a football helmet, and she wore a cotton dress that looked thinner and more faded than Mayella’s. I looked to see if she had come with her parents and saw she was alone.

She studied us, and we studied her. Then Mayella stood, saying, “Help you, miss?” James followed Mayella’s example. He nudged Seth with his foot, and Seth scrambled to his feet.

The white girl said, “This here’s the dog place?”

I could hear dogs barking in the distance, but I said nothing. Mayella said, “Yes’m. Ain’t open for business yet.”

“I’m lookin’ for the owner.”

“That’s my Pa,” I said.

She looked at me without smiling. “Where can I find him?”

“He went to town with Ethorne,” I said. “My Ma’s here.”

The girl nodded. “What’s wrong with your head?”

“I’m a pirate.”

“Oh.” She looked at Mayella and smiled. “That’d ‘xplain it.”

“Ma’s at the house.” I pointed at the motel unit. “She’s going to make bre’fast. Pa makes scrambled eggs, but Ma makes French toast.”

The girl nodded, looked at the four of us, then nodded again and started toward the house.

Seth whispered, “Kind o’ cute, for a Cracker.”

Mayella elbowed him in the arm. “You gone color-blind, stupid, or both?”

James whispered, “Nigger, Emmett Till died for whistling at a white woman.”

Seth said, “In Mississippi.”

Mayella said, “They hang fools in Florida, too.” She looked at me.

Seth followed her glance. “Say, Christopher, d’you think that’s a pretty young lady?”

I nodded and scuffed gravel with the toe of my boot.

Seth grinned. “Well, I agree with you.”

James whispered, “Shee-it.”

The screen door opened as the white girl approached our house, and Ma led Digger and Little Bit out. The blond girl stopped still.

James said, “That’s a mess of pirates.”

Ma looked at the girl’s face, then smiled, indicating Digger with a dip of her chin. “George cut his forehead. The other two are pretending it’s Halloween.”

“Oh,” said the girl. “Ma’m, I’m Francine Carter, an’ I’m lookin’ for work.”

Mom let go of Digger and held out her right hand. “Susan Nix. You’ll have to talk to my husband about work. Right now, we’re just getting things ready. When the restaurant opens, we’ll need waitresses. And when the grounds are ready, we’ll need guides to take the tourists around.”

“There’s nothin’ now, ma’m?”

Ma said, “Mostly, there’s just heavy labor—”

“I’m strong, ma’m,” Francine said. “I was born a McKay. McKays is country people, an’ we work hard. I can hoe an’ haul an’ cut weeds an’ put up fence an’ most anything. You try me.”

“I’m sure you can,” Ma said.

“I’ll work with niggers,” Francine said. “I don’t mind. I’ll work for nigger wages, too.”

Ma said, “We try to pay a fair wage to everyone. That isn’t—”

“Ma’m, I don’t mean to beg, but I want you to know I’m willin’ to do most any kind of work, honest.”

Ma nodded. “I’m sure of that. There might be some kind of part-time work you can do.”

“I’m huntin’ full-time work, ma’m. But I’ll take part-time if that’s all there is.”

Ma frowned. “You’d skip school?”

“Ma’m, I done finished ninth grade. Now I need to support my family.”

“I see,” Ma said. “How old are you, Francine?”

“Sixteen, ma’m.”

“And your father made you quit school to get a job?”

“No, ma’m. But Pa says since I got married, it’s my husband’s job to support me, only Cal ain’t found no steady work, quite yet. He ain’t about to do nigger work, but I don’t mind.”

Ma glanced at Little Bit and Digger. Little Bit said, “Digger’s hungry, Ma.”

Ma looked at Francine. “You said your family. Do you have a child?”

Francine nodded. “Little Cal, yes’m. My sister don’ mind lookin’ after him, since she’s got plenty of her own. He’s a good baby. He won’t cause me to miss no work or nothin’.”

Ma looked up at the parking area, but the station wagon was still gone. She asked, “Have you eaten this morning?”

Francine said, “No’m. I’m not hungry, ma’m.”

Ma nodded. “Come up to the restaurant. You might as well join us while we wait for Luke.”

“I ain’t askin’ for handouts, ma’m.”

“I know. I have to make breakfast, and Luke gets upset when there are leftovers. So, if there’s any extra, you’d be doing me a favor.”

I frowned and said, “There’s always leftovers, Ma.”

Ma laughed. “See? Come on.”

“Well, all right,” said Francine.

Little Bit looked up at her. “My name’s Let’bet. D’you have a dog?”

Francine nodded. “We got a few. Best one’s a coon dog.”

“How many we got, Chris?” Little Bit asked.

I held up both hands and opened and closed my fingers, over and over again.

Francine nodded again. “That’s a lot o’ dogs.”

“They’re mostly loaned to us,” Ma said. “Don’t brag, you two.”

Mayella, James, and Seth all said good morning as we approached. Ma smiled at them and began unlocking the kitchen door, saying, “This is Francine. She’ll be working here, for a few days, anyway. Seth and James, since Luke’s not back yet, you’re welcome to come in for some coffee.”

Seth said, “Thank you, ma’m. That’d be nice.”

Mayella and James stared at him. Then James dipped his head, saying, “Thank you, Mis’ Nix. I’d ‘preciate that.”

In the kitchen, we three kids went immediately to our usual seats. Mayella followed Ma over by the sink, where she said, “What’d you like me to do, ma’m?”

Ma said, “Start lots of coffee. James?”

He, Seth, and Francine were standing by the door. “Yes’m?”

“You’ll find some chairs in the front room.”

“Yes’m.”

“I’ll help,” said Seth, following him.

“How many you want?” said Francine, starting after Seth and James.

Ma caught her arm. “Let the men do it. You sit.”

Little Bit nodded and hit the chair beside her with the flat of her hand. “Sit here!”

Francine nodded and took the chair. “All right.”

Ma said, “Who’s eaten?”

I said, “Not me!”

Little Bit said, “Not me! Not Digger!” Digger nodded several times.

Ma said, “Besides you three?”

Francine said, “I ain’t hungry, ma’m.”

“I done ate,” said Mayella.

“I watched James eat,” said Seth. “That took care of my appetite.”

“You dog!” said James. “You put away as much as I did.”

“What’d you have?” asked Ma.

“Ethorne made grits an’ eggs an’ biscuits,” said Mayella. “He’s the best cook in these parts. For a colored man, that is, ma’m. He scrambled up the eggs with onion an’ thyme an’ rosemary. His biscuits is like clouds in a crust. Folks say Ethorne talks to the food an’ it tells him how to fix it best.”

“My mama makes better grits,” said James.

Seth said, “It’s good to see a boy stick up for his mama.”

James faked a punch at Seth, and Seth blocked it. Everyone laughed, including Francine, though her face quickly slid back to its usual somber expression.

“There ain’t much call for grits in no’the’n hotels,” said Mayella.

“Well,” said Ma, “my kids will just have to make do with French toast.”

“Yum, good!” I yelled.

When Pa arrived, Francine was eating her second stack of French toast. Seth and James stood up from the table, both saying something like, “Thanks for the coffee, Mis’ Nix, that was sure nice, we’ll go find Ethorne and get right to work now, Mist’ Nix, sir.”

I thought Pa was going to be furious about how Ma had cooked way too much more food, but Ma said, “We have to talk,” and he and Ma went into the front room. When they came back, Pa never said a word about the waste. He just told Francine to catch up to Ethorne, so she could start learning about the care of the dogs, and we’d see how things went.

After almost everyone had left the kitchen, Mayella, washing dishes, told Ma, “That poor girl. Some folks has it rough.”

That night in my parents’ bedroom, watching TV, Ma said something similar: “Poor Francine. Did you know she walked three miles to get here? And she plans to walk that every day.”

Pa nodded without looking up from a cowboy book. “Walking’s good for you.”

Ma pressed her lips together, shook her head, then smiled. “Oh, Luke.”

Pa set his book onto a table by the bed. “You know how far it is to Hawkins Corner?”

Ma said, “To where?”

“That bunch of houses where Ethorne and the others live.”

Ma blinked. “No.”

“Nearly five miles. Sometimes they catch rides with neighbors. Sometimes they don’t.”

“I didn’t mean Francine had it worse than anyone else. Can’t you just let yourself feel for someone?”

“Feel what?”

“Feel— I don’t know. Feel sorry.”

Pa nodded. “So you can feel superior?”

“No! How can you say—”

“It’s a hard world, Susan. These people aren’t asking for favors. They just want to be treated like anyone else.”

“I’m not saying we should do anyone favors. I’m just saying—” Ma shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Just let ‘em do their work, Susan. That’s doing ‘em a big favor.”

Ma frowned. “Are you saying I shouldn’t’ve had them in the kitchen this morning?”

Pa nodded. “No need to make ‘em watch the white folks eat.”

“I invited them to eat! I practically had to force Francine to take anything!”

“I’m not talking about Francine. People have their pride.”

“Luke, the Hawkins told me what they had for breakfast. They eat a lot better than we usually do.”

Pa said, “You mean they get along fine the way they are, but it’s too bad about that little white girl.”

Ma gnawed her lower lip.

“Well?” Pa said.

“I’m not talking about any ‘they.’ I’m talking about Seth and James and Mayella. They say Ethorne’s a fine cook.”

“I’m a pretty good cook myself,” Pa said. “So?”

“So they ate well this morning, that’s all. And Francine hadn’t eaten anything. So I made extra French toast. Four slices of bread, two eggs, and a splash of milk. Is that too much?”

I had the bad feeling as I listened. I slid closer to the TV set, but Little Bit looked back at Ma and Pa and said, “An’ surp an’ coffee an’ a glass of milk. Francy was hungry.”

Ma looked from Little Bit to Pa. “And syrup and coffee and a glass of milk. Is that what we’re arguing about? A little food?”

Pa looked at Little Bit, then at Ma. “We’re not arguing.” He picked up his book.

Ma said, “Luke? Did something happen?”

Pa said, “I ran into Artie Drake this morning.”

“Oh?”

“He says people are wondering why we’re not giving work to whites here.”

Ma’s eyes went wide. “No one asked! Except for Handyman. We gave him some work.”

Pa nodded. “That’s what I said. Artie says they’re beginning to think we only call in whites when there’s work niggers can’t do. The hell of it is, that part’s true.”

“But we didn’t mean—”

“Mean doesn’t mean anything, Susan. It’s what you do.”

Ma squinted at him. “Is that why you hired Francine?”

Pa inhaled, drawing air between his teeth, making the sound we kids knew was the same as a rattlesnake’s rattle, but that Ma often failed to recognize. Then he exhaled, saying quietly, “Is that what you think?” as he turned the page of his cowboy book.

Ma watched him read for a long moment, then kissed his cheek. He did not look up. He did not move away. Ma looked at us and said, “I think it’s the kids’ bedtime.”

#

On the day before Dogland’s restaurant opened to the public, I was playing behind the kitchen near the door to the utility room. I found a piece of bare wire, maybe six inches long, near the place where Handyman had extended the electrical lines. I tested the wire on different things, sticking it in dirt and through leaves and into dry pieces of bark, and I scratched patterns in the gravel, mostly for the satisfaction of seeing the dust fly up behind the wire. As I played with it, I worked my way toward the front of the restaurant.

Digger, sitting on a blanket in the sun in front of a plate glass window, watched me, then walked over and held out his hand. I shook my head. He grabbed the wire and yanked. I pulled back, and as the wire began to slide from his hands, his face began to contort in a promise of tears and yelling. I imagined Pa asking what I’d done to my brother, and Ma asking why we couldn’t play together in peace. I said, “Okay, Digger, you can have it. Don’t cry, okay?” Digger smiled. I decided that I had been finished with the wire anyway, and I left to build a race track under the Heart Tree for my toy cars.

As I walked off, Ma came outside, calling, “Georgie? Where are— There you are! Didn’t I tell you to stay by the blanket where I could see you? Now you have to come inside. I hope that teaches you something. And hurry up, because Mommy has a lot of work to do. Tomorrow’s a very big day.”

Ma had put childproof plugs in all the electrical outlets in our house, but none in the restaurant. Digger took the piece of wire into the front room of the restaurant, where Ma and Mayella were hanging crepe streamers from the florescent ceiling lights. Ma said, “Georgie, stay in the corner and don’t get in the way, all right?” Digger nodded, crawled under one of the tables, squatted by an electrical socket, and poked the length of wire into it.

Ma heard a scream and a hiss. Digger fell away from the socket as if he had been thrown. When Ma picked him up, she saw that the end of the wire must have pressed against the top of his foot. His fingers were striped lightly, but the wire had burned through his sock and into his skin.

Digger opened his eyes and began to cry. Ma yelled, “Get Luke!” at Mayella and carried Digger to the deep metal sink behind the counter. Little Bit and I came inside the front door as Ma said, “Here, Georgie, this’ll make it feel better.” She put his foot under a stream of cold water. Digger continued to cry while Ma pulled off his sock and shoe.

Pa ran in, saw Ma, and said, “What now?”

Ma pointed at the outlet. The wire still dangled from it. “George did that.”

“He’s all right?”

“He didn’t go unconscious.”

Pa gave a tight smile as Digger continued to scream. “Well, he’s sure breathing fine.”

Ma said, “He’s got a bad burn on his foot.”

“Kids get burned all the time.” Pa looked at us. “Stay away from that wire. I’ll shut off the electricity.”

Little Bit and I said, “Yes, sir.” We had heard Digger; we weren’t about to touch that wire. We followed Pa around back to the utility room, where he removed a fuse, and all the lights went out inside the restaurant.

When we went back in, Pa said, “Any idea where he got that wire?”

Ma said, “I’ve never seen it before.”

Pa said, “He had to’ve found it somewhere. What about you two?”

Little Bit shook her head. I said, “Maybe Handyman dropped it, sir.”

Pa said, “You need to look out for your little brother.”

As Little Bit and I nodded, Ma said, “The burn’s deep, Luke.”

Pa said, “Chris, get the first aid kit.”

Ma said, “I want to know he’s all right.”

Pa said, “You can hear he’s all right.”

Ma lifted Digger up and stood him on the counter. Pa saw his foot and winced. “All right. We’ll help that bastard buy his boat.”

After bandaging Digger, Doctor Lamont said, “That’s a tough little kid you’ve got there.”

Pa said, “I know that. Not too lucky, though.”

Dr. Lamont said, “I don’t know about that. He’s still alive. If he hadn’t fallen away from that socket—” He looked at Ma. “You don’t need to bring him back unless it starts to smell or just, well, looks unhealthy. Change the bandage every other day, or when it gets dirty. If it sticks to the burn, soak it in cool water until you can lift it off. Don’t break the blisters or put any antiseptic on it, nothing but clean water. His body’ll heal itself if you let it.”

Ma nodded.

Dr. Lamont looked from Digger’s tennis shoes to my cowboy boots. “George might’ve been so lucky because his rubber soles kept him from being grounded. If your boy in the leather boots had been holding that wire—”

Little Bit said, “Digger’s always groun’ed.”

Pa smiled and rubbed her head with the palm of his hand. “Not like Dr. Lamont means, li’l darling.”

Driving home, Ma said, “Luke?”

Pa shook his head. “We open the restaurant tomorrow. We got to keep a better eye on the kids, is all.”

That night, we heard an automobile park by the restaurant. Pa looked through his and Ma’s screen door, said, “It’s Mrs. DeLyon. I’ll see what she wants.”

Ma was sitting on the bed with Digger in her lap. Little Bit sat next to them, and they were playing a game that involved touching Digger’s toes and his nose and his stomach, and everyone laughing. Ma said, “Invite her in, if she can stay.”

Pa nodded and headed out the door. There wasn’t anything good on television, just Ed Sullivan’s variety show with some stupid singers and dancers and nothing really good except for Topo Gigio, a little mouse puppet. I said, “I’ll come, too,” and I ran to catch up with Pa.

Behind me, Ma said, “Such brave guardians I have,” and I felt good.

Mrs. DeLyon was standing beside her green sports car, petting Ranger. She was the only person who didn’t work at Dogland that Ranger would not bark at when the sun went down. Ranger had his head turned to one side so she could scratch behind his ear, and his tongue lolled in bliss.

Pa said, “Don’t want to make him too happy. He’s supposed to be our watchdog.”

“He’s a most excellent watchdog.”

Pa looked at her car. “Alfa Romeo? Nice little rig.”

“It gets me where I wish to go. You like sports cars?”

“Had a few before I got married. Now I drive whatever gets me where I need to be.”

Mrs. DeLyon nodded. “Would you like to try her sometime? There are stretches of highway where she’ll really open up.”

Pa said, “I can tell.”

I put both hands in front of me and twisted them together. “Vroom, vroom!”

They both laughed. Mrs. DeLyon said, “How’ve you been, Christopher?”

“Fine, ma’m. Me an’ Ethorne are gonna go to Texas an’ be cowboys.”

Mrs. DeLyon nodded solemnly. “Ethorne would make an excellent instructor for anyone who wished to become a vaquero.”

“A what?” I asked.

“A vaquero,” she said. “It’s Spanish. In English, you now say, buckaroo. Your American cowboys learned the art of ranching from those who were there before them.”

“I’m a buckaroo an’ a buccaneer,” I said. “Ethorne says so.”

“Does he?” said Mrs. DeLyon. Ranger turned his head so she could scratch at his other ear. “Buccaneer’s French. It means one who eats barbecued meat. The buccaneers lived on islands in the Caribbean and ate a lot of barbecued meat.”

“I like barbecue,” I said. “We went to the Ol’ South Pit Bar-B-Q for dinner the other night, an’ it was good.”

Mrs. DeLyon said, “Then you’d be a fine buccaneer.”

“Digger got burned today,” I said. “He might have a scar. But it’s on his foot, so you couldn’t see it ‘less he goes barefoot. A pirate should have a scar here.” I traced a jagged line on my cheek.

Mrs. DeLyon said, “Don’t worry about what shows. It’s what’s inside that makes you a buccaneer.”

Pa said, “Like barbecue.”

Mrs. DeLyon said, “To start.”

Pa said, “You’re welcome to come inside, if you’d like.”

Mrs. DeLyon shook her head. “I heard about the Digger’s burn.” She reached into the car and brought out a gallon jug filled with clear liquid.

Pa said, “Doc said we shouldn’t put anything on it.”

“Except clean water,” said Mrs. DeLyon. “This is from the spring. You’ll find no purer water anywhere.”

Pa laughed and took the jug. “You ought to be selling the stuff.”

Mrs. DeLyon shook her head. “What is truly good, you do not sell—you share.”

Pa laughed. “You and old Gideon.”

“His heart is good,” said Mrs. DeLyon.

“Oh, sure,” said Pa. “I just wonder about his mind.” He shrugged. “We’re all entitled to our eccentricities.”

Mrs. DeLyon said, “Even you?”

Pa said, “When I’ve got time for ‘em. Right now, I’ve got a family to raise and a business to run.”

Mrs. DeLyon said, “Yes.” The word hung in the air for a moment.

“What about Ethorne?” Pa asked.

Mrs. DeLyon frowned. “What about him?”

“You’ve known him for awhile.”

“You could say that.”

“Is he dependable?” Pa shrugged. “I mean, he’s bright and he works hard. I can tell that. But I’m thinking of making him our cook, and you want to know your cook’ll be there on time and ready to go most days.”

“He used to drink,” Mrs. DeLyon said. “But that was a long time ago.”

“Then I think I’ll offer him the job.”

Mrs. DeLyon smiled. “I’m glad. I hope you will be, too.”

“Ethorne’s a good cook,” I said. “He cooked for a Spanish man named Cowhead once, and he says he’s been cooking for people ever since.”

Pa laughed and rubbed my crewcut. “Only cowhead here is you, Kit Carson.”

Mrs. DeLyon smiled and got into her car. Ranger looked up at her window as if he wanted to lean on her door, but he didn’t. Mrs. DeLyon said, “Don’t be a stranger,” and started her engine.

Pa nodded, lifting the jug of water. “Thanks, neighbor.”

When we went back into the house, Ma said, “What did Mrs. DeLyon want?”

Pa set the jug of water on top of a dresser near the sink. “Brought some spring water for Digger’s burn.”

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Ma said. “She’s such a nice woman.”

Little Bit said, “She’s smart.”

Ma said, “When you grow up, you’ll be smart, too.”

Little Bit nodded. “I know.”

Chapter Five: Things Seen in Color, Part One

Everyone woke early on the day that Dogland’s restaurant opened. Everything that needed to be done in advance had been done: white wire tables and chairs stood on the restaurant’s green concrete patio, and a sign painter had lettered each of the restaurant’s windows: Doggy gifts and Snack bar and Guided tours and Bring your camera! and Entrance with a stylized hand with a finger pointing toward the restaurant’s front door. Ma, Mayella, and Francine had scrubbed the front room and the kitchen “from top to bottom,” as Ma proudly announced several times. She wished her mother could come to visit, because she knew the place would never be so clean again.

James had mowed the open land, and Ethorne had walked the grounds with a clippers and a knife, saying he had every intention of improving on perfection. Seth had lettered several sheets of poster board with the information that the kennels would not formally open until more dogs had arrived, people were welcome to stroll along the viewing path for free, and please don’t feed the dogs.

We woke at sunrise. Because this was a special day, Pa left to pick up the workers. Ma dressed us, telling us to stay clean and not to talk to customers unless they talked to us first and to stay by the house and not to get in the way and to always be polite and not to yell or make noise unless someone wanted us to get in their car or go anywhere with them without Ma or Pa saying it was okay first, and then we were to scream for all we were worth.

Little Bit didn’t want to wear a dress. When Ma asked if she wanted to be a little lady, she gave a decided “No,” so Ma let her wear shorts, T-shirt, and cowboy boots like Digger and me.

While Ma helped Little Bit, I moved my rattlesnake fang from my plastic coin purse to my shirt pocket. I always kept it close, so if people did something bad, I could show it to them, and they would know that they had to be good right away, because if they were bad twice, I would scratch them with the fang and they would die.

We walked to the kitchen in the cool, dark morning and were just sitting down to bowls of Sugar Frosted Flakes when Pa entered, saying, “Thought you’d’ve finished by now.”

Ma was dropping slices of French toast onto the griddle, where they spattered and sizzled. “Your daughter didn’t like her wardrobe. She wants to be a cowboy, too.”

Ethorne followed Pa inside. “My, you surely do look pretty today, Mis’ Susan. Now, you get away from there and le’ me do what I been hired to do, hear?”

Ma let him take the spatula. “You look very handsome yourself, Ethorne.” She glanced at the others. “You all do.”

I squinted. Pa didn’t look any different; he wore a short-sleeved white shirt, tan slacks, and brown engineer boots that he had polished the night before. Ma’s hair was pulled back with a white scarf, and she wore a new green cotton dress that I had never seen. Ethorne was dressed something like Pa, only he wore a black tie. His slacks were black too, his socks were white, and his black shoes gleamed like his hair and his moustache. Seth wore dark sunglasses, a red-and-white checked shirt, black slacks, and black loafers. James wore a striped white and blue shirt, blue slacks, and black high-top tennis shoes. Mayella wore a pink dress with white socks and low white tennis shoes, and her hair was pinned up in a bun. Francine wore the faded blue and white dress that she had worn when she came loo ing for work, but a white plastic clip on either side of her head held her hair back from her face. She and James grinned when Ma spoke; Seth merely touched his sunglasses and nodded.

I said, “I got to get my cowboy hat.”

Ethorne said, “You got to eat your breakfast. Everyone what counts knows you’s a cowboy.”

Pa studied Seth, James, and Francine. “You shouldn’t’ve dressed up to work with the dogs. Clean and neat is all we ask.”

“It’s the first day,” Francine said.

Seth looked at James. “Splash me and die.”

“Splash you?” James said. “Li’l water won’t hurt that trash none. But these’re my church clothes. You mess with these, I kill you first, Jesus’ll boot your black behind out o’ Heaven, and Satan’ll have you hunker in the brimstone so folks won’t notice them rags o’ yours.”

As Little Bit and I laughed, Ethorne said quietly, “I think that’s enough.”

Pa nodded. “Dogs’re getting hungry.”

Seth touched his sunglasses again. “We’ll get right to it.”

He and James jostled each other in the doorway. James, the larger, got through first, as usual. Francine looked at Ma, whispered loudly, “Don’t Seth look pretty t’day?” and giggled as she followed him out. Ma laughed, too, but behind her, Mayella frowned.

Ethorne touched Mayella’s arm. “Right now, Seth’s smarts has gone to his head. But he’s bright. He’ll figure things out.”

Mayella shook her head. “That boy is such a boy.”

Ethorne said, “Mist’ Luke? I was thinkin’ ‘bout the only way you’d make this restaurant prettier’d be if you had some flowers on the tables.”

“You were, eh?” Pa looked like he was hiding a smile. He pulled car keys and a roll of green bills from his pocket. “Mayella, why don’t you run up to Don and Roger’s and see what ten dollars’ll buy.” Don and Roger ran the Suwannee River Gift and Floral, a business on the other side of the river that was full of things to look at and smell that only Ma liked.

Ma said, “Oh, Luke!”

Pa shrugged. “Isn’t everyday we start a business.”

Mayella took the money and the keys. “I be right back.”

Ethorne set breakfast before us. Ma bit into the French toast. “Mmm. You sprinkled this with cinnamon?”

“Simmon’s good,” Little Bit said.

“Simmanin,” I corrected.

Ethorne said, “Yes’m. I was thinking on the specials today—”

Pa said, “Oh, oh. What’ll this thinking cost me?”

Ethorne said, “Nothin’ more’n what you spent. Tourists like Southern food. We can take that bag o’ pecans that you bought fo’ pecan pie an’ offer pecan pancakes fo’ next to nothin’—leastways, till we see if there’s much call for ‘em. An’ the ground sausage for breakfast, well, come dinnertime, we can fry up a hamburger patty an’ a sausage patty, put ‘em on top of each other on a grilled bun, an’ call it a Rebel Burger. They’d move at a fair clip, I reckon.”

Pa nodded. “Maybe we ought to forget about the dogs and start a restaurant chain. Call it Ethorne’s House of Good Eating. Have a big sign of you in a chef’s cap, waving a spatula—”

“Mm-hmm!” I held out my empty plate. “More!”

Ma said, “More, what?”

Everyone was in a good mood; timing is everything. “More French toast!”

Ethorne grinned. Ma and Pa did not. Ma said, “More French toast, what?”

“More French toast, now!”

Ma and Pa frowned.

“Please?” I added. Ma and Pa smiled. Timing is everything.

Shortly after we finished breakfast, Mayella returned with a box of red and yellow carnations. While she and Ma cut the stems and put the flowers in water glasses, I walked around the restaurant.

A three-tiered glass display table had been placed in front of the dining counter. It held sea shell ashtrays and nightlights, painted ceramic dogs including Boston Terriers and Dalmations but no Huskeys or kuvaszes, dark glass beer bottles that had been melted into ashtrays, clear plastic hemispheres full of water that you could turn upside down to make snow swirl around palm trees or pretty women waterskiers, collapsible cups in red or green or blue plastic that you could carry in your pocket, white saucer ashtrays with “Dogland” or “Florida” painted on their rims, salt water taffy, porcelain mermaids on rocks looking wistfully into bowls that you could fill with water or use as ashtrays, spoons that said “Florida” on their handles, ceramic alligators with hollowed backs where you could grow plants or flick cigarette ashes, thin beaded leather belts spelling Florida and showing the heads of American Indians in eagle bonnets, open-decked pirate ships that could be filled with sand to serve as ashtrays, table lamps made from cypress knees, Confederate war flags and caps and ashtrays, spice shakers with a West Highland White Terrier for the salt and a Scottish Terrier for the pepper, coiled rattlesnake ashtrays, and much more, all for tourists and not us kids. Pa had said if we touched any of it, we’d be spanked, no questions asked.

The Confederate soldier’s cap tempted me, but there was only one thing I needed: a plastic sword with a golden hilt and a black sheath. Being a cavalryman was better than being a cowboy because you got to wear a six-gun and a saber both. I pointed at the sword. “Ma, can I have this, please, huh, please?”

Ma smiled. “If you’re good.”

I left the souvenir table and circled the restaurant. Things that dispensed things fascinated me; I wanted to pull the paper napkins out of their holders and tap repeatedly on the metal tongue that released plastic drinking straws from a burnished box. Things that turned fascinated me; I wanted to spin the round seats of the counter stools. Places I wasn’t supposed to be fascinated me; I wanted to run behind the counter and play with the ice cream freezer and the milk shake mixer and the griddle and the shining steel refrigerators with their big latches. I wanted to go through the swinging doors into the kitchen and help Ethorne make pecan pies. I wanted to stay in the restaurant and play tag or hide and seek under the tables. I said, “I’m gonna watch TV.”

Ma pointed at the highway. “Look, there goes the school bus.” I watched a large yellow bus roll past as Ma said, “You’ll be riding that in a year or two. Won’t that be fun? Riding to school with all the boys and girls?”

“Mm-hmm,” I said without certainty.

Mayella laughed. “My li’l brother loves to ride on the school bus. He ain’t so big on school none, but he loves to ride that bus.”

“What doesn’t he like?” Ma asked.

“Oh, you know chil’en.”

“Oh, of course,” said Ma. “Do you help him with his homework? They say personal attention can make such a difference.”

“Ain’t no homework, ma’m. Hardly ever, least ways.”

“There isn’t? Why not?”

“Ain’t no school books, ma’m.”

“No books?” Ma turned and stared at Mayella.

“Yes’m. Well, there’s some books, but there ain’t enough. Not fo’ all the chil’en at the colored school, you know. They takes turns takin’ home the books they got. My brother, he’s mighty careful with them books when it’s his turn.”

“No,” said Ma. “I didn’t know.”

“The teacher, she learns ‘em from magazines and such. I was meanin’ to ask if them Life and Newsweek magazines you throw away, you know, if you’d mind if I took ‘em for the colored school.”

“No. No, I don’t mind.”

“That’s good of you, ma’m.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. We’d just— That’s all right. If there’s anything we—” Ma bit her lip. “If there’s anything you see us throw away, and you think someone can make use of it, you take it.”

“Thank you, ma’m. I worked for one woman once, she fired me for takin’ things from her trash. She said she didn’t want to see none o’ her things bein’ used by niggers. That’s why I ask.”

“I see.”

Mayella laughed. “I think she got mad ‘cause I seen her hair-dye jars. Like ever’body think she was born with silver-blue hair.”

Ma cocked her head to one side as she tied an apron around her waist. “Is that our first customer?”

I heard a car turn onto the gravel driveway. Mayella said, “No’m, that’s Handyman.”

“You can tell by the engine?”

Mayella shrugged. Ma hurried to the front door, opened the Venetian blinds, said “You’re right,” threw the bolt, then tugged the door open to let it rest against her hip. “Tom! Good morning! I thought you were bringing us some business!”

“No, ma’m.” Handyman stepped out of his truck and grinned. “I brung you some he’p.” A tall, somber woman with tanned, weathered skin came around the cab. She stood half a head taller than Handyman. Side by side, they reminded me of Jack Spratt and Mrs. Spratt.

Ma said, “Oh, good. You must be Mrs. Greenleaf.”

The woman nodded. “You call me Lurleen, Mis’ Nix.”

She and Ma shook hands. Ma nodded at me. “Mr. Bigeyes there is Christopher, our oldest. That’s Letitia building castles in the sand box.”

Lurleen nodded. Handyman said, “I’ll be by ‘round six.” His wife nodded again. Handyman touched the bill of his cap as he smiled at Ma, then drove away.

Ma let the door close. “I’m Susan.” She pointed toward the corner of the room. “That’s Georgie.” Digger was sleeping in the play area that Ma had built with the wooden slats from his crib. Pa had said we should hang a sign on it: “Digger. Breed: Unknown. Do not feed. Pet at your own risk.” Little Bit and I thought that was hilarious, but Ma had not laughed.

“And this is Mayella,” Ma said.

Lurleen looked at Mayella for the first time. “I’m Mis’ Greenleaf. You a Hawkins, ain’t you?”

Mayella nodded. “Yes’m.”

“Vernice’s girl?”

Mayella nodded again, with a touch of a smile.

“Your mama washed for my mama. Now that I’m workin’, I’ll need a cleanin’ girl.”

Mayella’s smile closed on itself. “I’m workin’ here fulltime, ma’m.”

Lurleen looked at Ma. “She waitin’ tables?”

Ma blinked. “Why, no. Mayella will be clearing tables and helping in the kitchen. Why?”

“Oh. I was wonderin’, that’s all.”

Ma called, “Ethorne?”

He came through the swinging doors with an apron over his shirt and trousers. His arms and hands were white with flour. “Yes’m?”

“This is, ah, Mrs. Greenleaf. Lurleen, this—”

“Shoot, ever’body knows Ethorne,” said Lurleen. “You fixin’ sweet potato pie?”

“Pecan,” said Ethorne.

“When you fix sweet potato, you make me one, hear?”

Ethorne nodded. “I best get back to it.” He returned to the kitchen.

“Well.” Ma looked at the clock, then smoothed her apron. “Let’s open the blinds. We’re ready for business.”

I called, “I’ll help!”

“Okay. Go outside and pick up all the litter you see, and I’ll give you a nickel.”

I grinned as she gave me a paper sack to put trash in, and I ran into the sunlight, leaping as far as I could from the sidewalk onto the gravel. Little Bit was squatting by the Heart Tree.

I said, “Whatchadoin’?”

“Talkin’.”

“To the tree?”

She shook her head.

“To who?”

She pointed at a squirrel peeking around the side of the ancient live oak. When she pointed, the squirrel scurried out of sight.

“That squirrel?”

“His name’s Ratatosk.”

“Watta-tot?”

“Ratatosk.”

“Ratty socks?”

“Ratatosk!”

“Ratta-tox. Pretty funny name.”

Little Bit pointed overhead at the tree top. “There’s a eagle.”

“Where?”

She shrugged. “Ratatosk said.”

“Oh.” I kept looking, but I saw no eagles.

She pointed at an exposed root, next to one of Digger’s toy trucks. “An’ a big lizard lives there. Like a alligator.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Way down. Underground.”

I whispered, “In hell?”

She shrugged.

I sneered. “You’re telling a story.”

“Ratatosk said.”

“Maybe Rattytocks is a big liar.”

“He’s nice. He wou’n’t lie.”

I considered that. “Is he friends with the eagle an’ the gator?”

“Uh huh. But the eagle an’ the gator hate each other. Ratatosk runs up an’ down, tellin’ ‘em what each one said.”

“You shouldn’t tell stories.”

“He isn’t tellin’ stories. He’s like a mailman.”

“That’s silly.”

Little Bit shrugged. “Ratatosk said it’s a job.”

I shrugged, too. “I’m gonna pick up paper. If you help, I’ll give you a penny.”

A couple of cars of tourists arrived while we scoured the grounds. When we returned to the restaurant, Pa had come up from the kennels for a cup of coffee. I gave Ma my bag. There was almost nothing in it; Ethorne’s crew had done a clean-up the day before that would’ve pleased marine inspectors. Ma smiled. “That’s very good. Here’s a nickel.”

“Thank you.”

“And since you were helping,” Ma told Little Bit, “here’s a nickel for you, too.”

“Thank you.” Little Bit and I walked over by the front door to sit beneath the counter on the long foot rest.

I said, “I’m gonna buy a Baby Ruth.”

“I’m saving mine.” She put her nickel in her red plastic coin purse, then held out her hand.

“What?”

She looked at her palm and shoved it closer to me.

“You got a nickel.”

“You said you’d give me a penny.”

“You got a nickel.”

“You owe me a penny.”

“Ma gave you a whole nickel.”

“You said.”

“Okay.” I smiled. “Give me the nickel, an’ I’ll give you a penny.”

“I’ll tell Pa.”

“You’re not s’posed to tell stories.”

“It’s not a story. You said you’d give me a penny.”

“You got a nickel. It’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” Pa asked.

We both looked up.

“Well?”

“Chris said he’d give me a penny if I helped pick up paper.”

Pa looked at me. “Did you?”

I nodded. “Ma gave her a nickel.”

He kept looking at me. “Did Ma say she’d give you a nickel for picking up trash?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you told Little Bit you’d give her a penny for helping?”

I nodded again.

“Then you owe her a penny, don’t you?”

“It’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair to do what you said you would?”

“But she got a nickel from Ma.”

Pa shook his head as he smiled. “You made your own bed, Chris. A man’s got to stand by his word.”

“When it’s not fair?”

“Especially then.”

I dug in my pocket for my leather coin purse with cowboys on one side and Indians on the other, took out one of three pennies, and handed it to Little Bit.

She grinned and dropped it into her coin purse. “Ha, ha.”

I left without saying goodbye to anyone, crossed the gravel lot to the Heart Tree, and began kicking the bark with the toe of my cowboy boot. After awhile, I saw the squirrel watching me. “Ratty socks,” I whispered. As it ran away, I chanted, “Ratty socks, Ratty socks!”

“Master Christopher Nix. Wha’d that tree do to you?”

I turned. Ethorne was sitting on the back step, rolling a cigarette in one hand. “Nothin’.”

“Then why you treatin’ it that way?”

I shrugged.

“You like it if it treated you that way?”

I gawked at him.

He struck a match on the walk and put it to his cigarette, then said, “It’s a livin’ thing, ain’t it? You think folks should hurt livin’ things just ‘cause they feel like it?”

“Stupid ol’ tree.” I kicked it as hard as I could, then walked toward the dog runs.

“Can’t all live in Diddy Wa Diddy,” said Ethorne.

I stopped, then turned back. “Where?”

“Diddy Wa Diddy.” Ethorne blew a smoke ring. “You don’ know ‘bout Diddy Wa Diddy?”

I shook my head.

He smiled. “It’s right close by, just a bit too far to get to. It’s not a town, an’ it’s not a city. It’s where the river runs with lemonade, an’ hamburgers grow on bushes. If you hungry an’ you sit down, fancy meals on plates come runnin’ by, yellin’ ‘Eat me! Eat me!’ till you got to pick one, knowin’ the rest’ll have their feelin’s hurt.”

I knew Ethorne was fooling, but Pa had said we should never say adults were lying.

“You don’t b’lieve me?”

Pa had also said we should never lie. I shook my head.

Ethorne laughed. “What you don’t believe, you can’t find.”

Little Bit had followed me out. She said, “Ethorne? Are you from Diddy Wa Diddy?”

He laughed, smiling at her. “Yes’m, Miss Li’l Bit. I was the Moon Regulator for a spell. But hangin’ out the moon every night, that’s some job. Ain’t but once a month you got the strength to put up the full moon. An’ then you so tired from the effort that you put up less an’ less moon ever’ night till they ain’t hardly no moon in the sky at all. An’ then you so ‘shamed of yo’self that you put up a li’l moon, and then a li’l more moon, and finally you get so prideful, you put up the whole moon again. An’ soon as you do that, whoosh!” Ethorne exhaled and slumped his shoulders. “You too pooped to pop. The whole thing jus’ starts all over again. I up and left that job.”

I said, “Who puts up the moon now?”

He shrugged. “Danged if I know. But I’m proud to’ve turned it over to whoever’s got it now. Don’ you think they doin’ a fine job?”

I nodded. Little Bit said, “C’n we go to Diddy Wa Diddy?”

“‘Fraid not, Mis’ Li’l Bit.”

“Don’t you want to take us?”

He drew on his cigarette, then stubbed it out and shredded the remains, letting the wind scatter the tobacco and paper bits. “Oh, I’d take every living body in this wide world there, if I could. But it’s easier to find West Hell than Diddy Wa Diddy.” He looked up. Pa walked around the corner from the front of the restaurant. Ethorne nodded. “Mist’ Luke.”

Pa grinned. “We did all right this morning.”

Ethorne smiled. “I do think so. Dinner an’ supper yet to go. I got biscuits in the oven ‘bout ready to come out.”

Pa’s grin increased. “I might try one. Just to be sure it’s good enough for our customers, you know.”

“Sure thing.”

Pa looked at Little Bit and me. “Didn’t I tell you not to pester Ethorne when he’s working?”

Ethorne said, “They ain’t no bother.”

“They know the rules.”

“Well, I called to Chris, so I ‘spect it’s my fault.”

“It’s not a matter of fault. If you want to entertain them when you’re on break, that’s your choice. Just so long as it stays your choice. I don’t want them taking advantage of you.”

“Us?” Little Bit blinked twice.

Pa smiled. “Poor Ethorne isn’t as hard-hearted as your old man. He’s got enough to do without a pack of kids hanging on his heels.”

“But—” I began.

“Is that understood?” He used the voice that meant it had better be. Little Bit and I nodded. “Good.” Pa pushed open the kitchen door and headed inside.

Ethorne stood. “Time for me to get back to work.”

“Me, too,” I said. Ethorne laughed and went inside.

Little Bit said, “Chris?”

I shook my head and ran up the tourist path.

Little Bit stamped her foot. “You’re not s’posed to go back by the dogs alone!”

“Don’t be a tattletale!” I yelled in a hoarse whisper, and ran on. I passed the “Welcome to Dogland” sign and raced through the Doggy Salon, my cowboy boots clattering on the concrete floor. Seth and Francine talked while James brushed an Afghan Hound’s long, fine hair. They looked up, but I didn’t slow.

I ran to the northern working dogs, the Siberian Huskey, the Samoyed, the Alaskan Malamute, the Norwegian E

lkhound. They jumped against the chainlink fences when they saw me. Captain stood against his gate, trying to lick my fingers as I lifted the latch. I had to push both the gate and Captain back to let myself in. I crawled inside his dog house, which was dark and warm and smelled like Captain. He crawled in beside me, pressing me against the boards of his house. I put my arm around his shoulders. After awhile, I quit crying.

“Pa’s not fair.” I whispered.

“Rr-ffh?”

“Pa likes Little Bit and Digger best.”

Captain licked my face.

I yanked my head away. “Pa’s bad.” I touched the rattlesnake fang though my shirt, pressing it between my fingers and my heart. Captain lifted his head, pushing my hand away as he nuzzled my neck. I hugged him because I was cold. After awhile, I slept.

I woke in darkness with someone calling my name. I peeked out of the dog house. Captain, on the small porch, wagged his tail and licked my face. Ma was calling from the restaurant. I patted Captain goodbye and ran up the path, passing Francine, who was guiding a group of tourists. One said as I went by, “What a lucky boy.” I didn’t know or care who she meant.

On the green sidewalk, Ma stood with her arms akimbo. Her apron bore several stains, and a curl of her hair was clinging to her forehead. “Where’d you go?”

I pointed back at the pens.

“Never run off without telling your father or me. I thought you knew that.”

I nodded.

“I don’t want to have to tell your father.”

I repeated my nod.

“We all have to work together if Dogland’s going to succeed. I may not have as much time to spend with you as I wish, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you. You’ve got to help me, too. Okay, Chris? You’re my big boy, you know.”

I nodded a third time.

“Good. We won’t tell your father.”

I reached into my shirt. “Where’s Pa?”

“Up front with two new dogs. I thought you’d want to see them.”

“All right.”

“What’d you take out of your pocket?”

I shrugged. “I got an itch.”

We circled the restaurant. Pa and James were watching Digger stare at a low shaggy mass of golden hair with thick puffs like pompoms at each end. James wore a loose blue cotton shirt over his clothes. Seth and Francine, in the Doggy Salon, had worn similar shirts. All the grown-ups at Dogland were wearing work shirts or aprons, except for Pa. Pa was not like us. I watched him grin as he told Digger, “Hold out your hand, son. Whichever end sniffs it will be its head.”

James laughed. “Dog like that wouldn’ las’ five minutes with no real dogs. But it sure is pretty.”

“That’s Ro-Ba,” Ma said. “He’s a Lhasa Apso. Georgie, can you say Ro-Ba?”

Digger held his hand toward the taller puff, where hints of eyes and a nose lay beneath the hair. When Ro-Ba licked his fingers, Digger waddled two steps backwards, then sat. Ro-Ba licked his face, making him giggle. Everyone laughed, except me.

Little Bit said, “Digger figured which end was which, huh, Pa?”

“That’s not very sanitary,” Ma said, but she didn’t move to separate Digger and Ro-Ba.

“The dogs have all had their shots,” Pa said.

“Well,” Ma said, “so has George.” Then she heard herself and smiled.

Little Bit was crouching beside the second dog, who was also long-haired, short-legged, and golden, though he had a white crest on his chest and a smoother coat streaked with black along his sides and back. The hair on his head was swept back from his flat, black face. Little Bit held his leash in one hand and petted him with the other, saying, “Pretty funny, huh, Jo-Jo?”

As I approached Pa, Jo-Jo turned his small dark eyes my way, then bolted at me. His leash slid from Little Bit’s fingers. She yelled, “Jo-Jo! Come back, Jo-Jo!”

The dog’s eyes had fixed on mine. His mouth stayed grimly closed. I stood still. Ma lunged for Jo-Jo as he approached, but he slipped through her hands and bounded into the air, striking me in the chest.

I fell onto the gravel on my butt and elbows. Jo-Jo scrambled on top of me, sniffed my mouth, then scurried along my right arm. As I gasped and drew away, he batted my hand with the flat of his skull. The rattlesnake fang slipped from my fingers. Jo-Jo leaped after it, snuffled in the dust, then snatched up something in his teeth. A small crisp sound rang through a world of pristine silence. Then bits of fang fell from Jo-Jo’s teeth, and he whirled proudly in a tight circle at my feet.

Pa ran toward me. “What in hell—”

Jo-Jo jumped back onto my chest to lick my face. I sputtered, and Ma laughed, saying, “Somebody’s got a new friend.”

Pa stopped beside her, then shook his head. “I thought Pekingeses were good with kids.”

James smiled. “Looks like that one is.”

I sat up, laughed, and patted Jo-Jo’s head. His tongue lolled smugly. I stood, studying the ground.

“Lose something?” Pa asked.

By my boot lay half the fang, a brittle sliver of bone and nothing more. I shook my head. Jo-Jo stood on his hind legs to rest against my hip, so I scratched behind his ears. The morning was bright, warm, and clear.

A carfull of tourists pulled into the driveway. Ma said, “I’d better check on Mayella and Lurleen.”

Pa nodded, telling James, “Put the new dogs next to that Japanese Chin. Seth should’ve hung up their signs by now.”

“Sure thing.” James took the leashes and started toward the Doggy Salon with Jo-Jo and Ro-Ba in tow.

I said, “Can I go along?”

Pa said, “You won’t bother James?”

I shook my head.

“Come right back.”

I smiled and ran after James.

Pa called, “Chris?” I turned, knowing he had decided I should pick up paper or sweep the sidewalk or pick up toys around the house instead. “You’ve been a big help. Your brother and sister are too little to understand that we all have to do what needs doing. I know that’s hard on you sometimes. but it’s all part of being the oldest.” He shrugged. “I just wanted you to know that I’m proud of you, son.”

I blushed, nodded, and ran after James. Jo-Jo and Ro-Ba pranced ahead of us. All of the small dogs in the Doggy Salon barked as we passed through. James laughed. “These li’l runts got hearts big as a St. Bernard.”

Two pens had been left empty between Tano the Japanese Chin and Pierre the Brussels Griffon. While James studied the signs on the gates, Seth approached. “Got a problem, nigger?”

James nodded. “Mist’ Nix said to put these dogs away.”

“So?”

“This one’s a Pekingese and that one’s a Lhasa Apso.”

“Yeah?” Then Seth’s voice softened. “Oh.” He pointed at the signs. “You were prob’ly right. That ‘g’ in Pekingese is silent, and so’s that ‘h’ in Lhasa Apso.”

James nodded, opened the gates, and let the dogs in. “Why they do that? They want it to be hard fo’ folks to read?”

“There’s lots of reasons. Foreign words brought into English hardly ever follow the usual rules. ‘Course, English words hardly ever follow the usual rules, either. Most letters that’re silent now were pronounced when the printing press was invented. Then people started sayin’ some words differently.”

“Should’ve started writin’ ‘em differently, too.”

Seth grinned. “Hell, that’d make too much sense for white folks.”

He and James left to see if any dog runs needed cleaning. I patted Jo-Jo and Ro-Ba goodbye, and ran toward the restaurant with my arms outspread, being a fighter jet in search of Nazi and Commie planes to shoot down.

Someone was talking as I flew near the Doggy Salon. The voice was Francine’s, which made me expect to hear about Chihuahuas or Mexican Hairless Dogs and whether they were native to North America. But no one was in the main room when I stepped into the shade. I quit being a jet.

Francine was saying, “No, Cal, I can’t.”

The grooming and nursing area was enclosed by two wooden walls that stopped a foot short of the ceiling. Ma had hung strings of wooden beads in its open doorway, and the sign beside it said, “Staff only.” You could only see inside if you stood at the edge of the rear door of the Doggy Salon.

A short boy with blond ducktailed hair had backed Francine against the far wall. An acne rash decorated the side of his neck. His thin arms were dark, though a pale band of flesh showed beneath the cigarettes rolled into one sleeve of his white T-shirt. “C’mon, Francy. Tell ‘em the baby’s sick.”

“I won’t lie.”

“Then tell ‘em we’re short on cash. That’s God’s truth, ain’t it?”

“Well. Yes.”

“So tell ‘em. All I need’s four-five dollars. Make it ten. Tell ‘em to take it out on payday.”

“No, Cal. You don’t need it.”

“You tellin’ me what I need?”

“No. I ain’t, honest.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Weren’t what I meant.”

“You tellin’ me I’m hearing wrong?”

I barely heard her whisper, “No, Cal.”

“Then what you tellin’ me?”

“Nothin’.”

He nodded. “Ten dollars. I’ll wait here.”

“No, Cal. I’ll get paid on Friday, an’ I’ll give the money to my sister.”

“Your sister?” He laughed. “Why’n hell’d you do that?”

“To pay her back for lettin’ us live with her.”

“Hell, don’t she love you?”

Francine whispered again. “Yes.”

“You heard her say it weren’t no trouble to take us in.”

“Till we were set up.”

“Well, we ain’t set up yet. You give her the next paycheck, if that’s what you want. I need t’ have some fun with this one.”

“No.”

“Ain’t you s’posed to honor and obey me?”

She looked up. “I got to think of us, too!”

He slapped her hard, knocking her head back against the wooden wall of the Doggy Salon. “I’m thinkin’. Hear me? I’m thinkin’ for us. Understand? Or you goin’ to make me hit you again?”

I would have run for the restaurant and Pa, but that meant passing through the building and close to Cal. Perhaps I would have done that anyway, or maybe I would have circled around the building to get Pa, if I had not seen Seth and James crossing the field toward the exercise pen.

I ran into the sunlight yelling, “Seth! James! Hurry!”

Someone came after me from the Doggy Salon. I ran as fast as I could, but Cal caught me by the back of my shirt and laughed. “What’s got in your shorts, li’l fellow?”

“Help!” I yelled. “Seth, James, help!”

A button popped from my shirt as I struggled. When the hand released me, I ran forward, then turned to look up at Cal. He smiled easily; I thought he looked handsome like a singer on Ed Sullivan, like Pat Boone or Fabian except for the acne. He quit laughing to look over my head. “What you want?”

I followed his gaze. Seth and James stood side by side before us, saying nothing. Seth wiped his palms on his trousers. James merely stood there, watching. I ran to stand between them.

Cal said, “I’m talkin’ to you niggers.”

James squinted. Seth said, “You—”

James interrupted. “Mist’ Nix’s boy called us.” He looked at me. “You wantin’ somethin’, Chris?”

“He hit Francine.” I turned and saw her step into the doorway of the Doggy Salon. Behind me, I heard an intake of breath from Seth or James. I said, “Didn’t he, Francine?”

She shook her head as Cal laughed. “That weren’t no hit. She’s my wife.”

“I saw,” I told Seth and James.

Cal said, “Ain’t none o’ your business, Yankee-boy.”

“Is!” I said. “I saw! An’ I was born in South Carolina. So I’m not a Yankee, neither!”

Cal smiled. “Shoot, that sets me straight.”

Francine told Seth and James, “You best take that Italian Grayhound out o’ the exercise pen. Mist’ Nix said the Blue Tick Hound and the Airedale seem to get along together. Try ‘em out, but keep an eye on ‘em, hear?”

After a long moment, James nodded at Francine. “Yes’m.” Seth continued to stare. James touched his arm and turned him. “You one lazy fool, sometimes. Le’s get some work done.”

I watched them walk away. Cal said to me, “Ain’t you got somethin’ else to do, boy?”

I shook my head.

He laughed. “You best find somethin’ to do.”

“Francine’s s’posed to be workin’,” I said.

“I’m just talkin’ to her durin’ her coffee break.”

“She’s s’posed to be workin’. Pa says when people are s’posed to be workin’, it doesn’t mean they can do any da—” I modified his original statement. “—rn thing.”

Cal saluted me like a soldier. “Well, yes, sir!” As his posture relaxed, he said, “You don’t mind none if I say g’bye to my very own wife, now do you, boss-boy?”

I looked at Francine. She wasn’t looking at me. I shrugged.

“All right, then.” He stepped close to her. “Don’t you worry ‘bout your lovin’ husband gettin’ all bored an’ havin’ nothin’ to do the whole day long. I ‘preciate you workin’ till my luck turns. Which it will.” He held out his arms. “Forgive me, sweet thing?”

She embraced him. “Oh, Cal, I’m tryin’ to think what’s best for us an’ the baby.”

“I know you are, honey.” They kissed, and I looked away. He said, “Tha’s my job, too, you know.”

She said gently, “Cal?”

He cut her off. “That nigger boy botherin’ you?”

She frowned. “Which nigger boy?”

“That one with the glasses.”

“Seth Hawkins? Botherin’ me?”

“I seen how he looked at you.”

She laughed. “He di’n’t! Him an’ James, they ain’t but perfect gen’lemen ‘round me.”

Cal squinted. “Not like some you could name?”

“Oh, Cal, I didn’t mean it like that. You treat me the best.”

“An’ don’t you forget it.” He looked at me as he stepped away from her. “See you later, boss-boy.”

“Bye.” I watched Cal walk away. He looked back once and waved. Only Francine waved back.

She said, “You don’ have to tell your folks ‘bout Cal. He’s my husband. They un’erstand that.”

I shrugged.

“Your pa really say that about workin’?”

“He said it about kids. I don’t know about grown-ups.”

She laughed. “Grown-ups. Ain’t you the sweetest thing?”

I looked down. “I got to go now. Bye.”

A light midday rain began as Ma put Digger, Little Bit, and me at a table in the corner. The drizzle ended by the time Ethorne had fixed rebel burgers and french fries for us. I ate wishing for a Confederate soldier’s gray cap with a shiny black visor. The lunch crowd kept Ma busy, but she returned to our table often, mostly to wipe ketchup off Digger’s face and, sometimes, Little Bit’s. I hated ketchup and I liked pulling paper napkins from the metal dispenser (which I justified by using them to wipe my face), so Ma didn’t need to treat me like a baby.

The fun of eating in the restaurant lay in choosing your own food and watching the diners. Mostly they were tourists, young families consisting of parents and several kids, like our family, except most of them drove shiny new cars. Many were older couples like my Grandma and Grandpa. Some were solitary businessmen in rumpled suits, and a few were truck drivers.

Shortly after noon. Ma pointed out the window. “Look, kids, a rainbow.”

A stocky grey-haired man with a patch over one eye entered the restaurant, followed by a larger red-bearded man. Behind them came a slender pale-haired man who held the door for a plump blond woman. The three men wore Hawaiian shirts; the woman wore a scooped-neck green sweater with white pedal-pushers. They walked directly to a table near us kids.

The red-bearded man grinned at me. “What’s good?”

The slender man jerked a thumb at the one-eyed man. “Ask him. He knows.”

The one-eyed man looked at them, then said dourly, “Rebel Burgers.”

I rubbed my stomach. “They’re good.”

Ma brought menus. “I hope the children aren’t bothering you.”

“No,” said the pretty woman. “Not at all.”

“They asked,” I explained. “Are they strangers?”

“Strange,” said the slender man, smiling at Ma, “but not strangers.”

She smiled back at him as she told me, “It’s all right to talk with anyone if your father or I are here.” Then she asked the visitors, “Are you performers? I mean—”

“No,” the one-eyed man said.

The slender man laughed. “Of course we are. Who’s not?”

“Who’s not?” The red-bearded man elbowed him. “That’s good!”

The slender man winced, then indicated the one-eyed man. “He sees all and knows all. Beware, or he’ll tell all. Too much knowledge of what’s to come will make you glum indeed.”

The one-eyed man nodded at Ma as he continued to study his menu.

“And this is the strong man, obviously. His feats of strength are only surpassed by his feats of feasting, as you shall no doubt witness.”

The red-bearded man grinned. “Break anything for you, ma’m?”

“That,” said the slender man, “is his idea of flirting.” He glanced at Red-beard. “You know she’s married.”

“He does?” Ma asked.

“Of course,” said the slender man. “From your care for these three fine children, and the ring upon your fair hand.”

Ma smiled. “He’s not the only flirt.”

“No,” agreed the one-eyed man.

The slender man nodded toward the blond woman. “And this is our beauteous companion. Some say she does nothing but bring joy to the world. I say, what’s more important than that?”

The blond woman laughed. “He’s shameless. Why do women love the company of heartless men?”

Ma said, “Because we can leave them easily?”

The slender man frowned. Red-beard elbowed him again. “Hah! Got you there!”

The slender man shrugged. “Perhaps I deserve it, for I am the honest deceiver.” He turned his hand. A yellow rose lay there, which he held out to Ma.

She said, “I can’t take that.”

He said, “You must. It’ll wither soon. Let its last days be in your company.”

“It will not wither,” said the one-eyed man.

“Is it synthetic?” Ma took the rose, smelled it, then offered it to Little Bit to sniff. Little Bit wrinkled her nose.

“It’s as natural as any of us,” said the slender man.

Ma touched the petals. “Silk,” she told Little Bit, and then she asked the man, “Right?” He smiled. Ma said, “How’d you palm it? You’re very good.”

“Thank you. Would you really know the secret?”

Ma smiled. “No.”

He nodded. “I thought not.”

“He made it appear,” said Little Bit. “Out of the air.”

All of the adults laughed, so I did, too.

“We’ll have Rebel Burgers,” said the one-eyed man. “And fries and chocolate milk shakes. Except—”

“A green salad, please,” said the woman. “And hot tea?”

“Of course.” Ma took the order into the kitchen, and the four visitors began to talk in a language I did not know.

A box had arrived in the mail that Grandpa Abner had sent from his drug store, so we kids amused ourselves at the table with its contents. For Digger, there was a metal bulldozer to go with his crane. He examined it with his fingers and his mouth. For Little Bit, there were crayons and a coloring book. I told her several times what colors things should be, but she ignored me. For me, there were comic books whose covers had been stripped and returned to the distributor for credit. I studied the bright pictures and figured out who were the good guys and who were the bad.

When Ma brought food, the four visitors ate with a great show of pleasure. Red-beard consumed three milk shakes, four Rebel Burgers, and two slices of pecan pie, then laughed when the slender man asked him if something had upset his appetite. Little Bit and I laughed, too; the slender man had asked with a wink at us.

Since I was concentrating on Richie Rich, Kid Colt, Sad Sack, and Jimmy Olsen, Superman’s Pal, I paid no attention to the next table when they spoke in their language, but when the slender man spoke to the blond woman and laughed, Little Bit nudged me. She whispered, “There’s a snake an’ a wuff here. He said.”

The slender man addressed us. “This is a land of snakes and wolves. Dogs are the children of wolves. Who are the children of snakes?”

The blond woman looked at him, then smiled and shook her head. “At the risk of adding fuel to the flames, I’ll remind you we’re only visitors.”

He grinned. “Hardly, m’dear. Who expects us to sit in the wings when the last show’s almost upon us?”

The red-bearded man shuddered. “We’re stopping at the next bar we come to.”

The one-eyed man said, “Yes.”

Pa was helping behind the counter during lunch. While the one-eyed man paid their bill, Pa spoke with them about politics or business. The blond woman came back to their table where Ma was clearing away the dishes. “When he told you my part, he didn’t say that I kept them from killing each other.”

Ma laughed. “Men.”

The blond woman smiled. “What is not acknowledged may still be valued.”

Ma nodded. “A good life is its own reward.”

The blond woman laughed. “I pray you continue to think so.” She smiled at Ma, and then at us kids or maybe to Little Bit, who was coloring an oak tree with golden bark and leaves.

As the four were leaving, Mrs. DeLyon entered. She answered the slender man when he said something to her, then nodded and watched them disappear among the cars in the parking area.

Pa grinned at Mrs. DeLyon. They spoke together, and Mrs. DeLyon laughed, then came to the table that Ma had cleared.

Ma said, “Hi, Maggie. D’you know those people who just left?”

“Hello, Susan. When you’ve been here awhile, you’ll find that many return to the spring and the tree.”

“The Heart Tree? We ought to have Seth letter a sign for it.” She looked at Mrs. DeLyon. “Have you thought about making a bigger deal about your springs? You know, putting up some signs, advertising? Luke loves water fresh from the earth. When we travel, he’s always stopping to drink from natural wells or bathe in hot springs. Lots of people are like him.”

“No,” said Mrs. DeLyon. “Few are like him.”

Ma smiled at Pa. “Well, that’s true.”

Mrs. DeLyon glanced at us kids. “How goes it?”

I shrugged and blushed. Little Bit said, “We got more dogs, Jo-Jo and Ro-Ba. Only they’re little. What can they do if there’s wuffs an’ snakes?”

Ma said, “There aren’t any wolves here, Letitia. And you know your Daddy and I will protect you from snakes.”

“Not me,” said Little Bit. “Jo-Jo an’ Ro-Ba an’ Tano an’ Mickey an’ Sun-Up an’ all the little dogs having to sleep outside.”

“They protect each other,” Mrs. DeLyon said. “Wolves will not venture near those who’re united against them.”

“Good,” said Little Bit.

“You know how they bark if a snake comes around?” Ma added. “Snakes don’t like noise and attention. All the dogs’ll be fine.” She frowned. “Chris, were you telling stories about wolves and snakes?”

I shook my head.

“You don’t want to scare your little brother and sister.”

“This one?” Mrs. DeLyon nodded toward Little Bit. “Nothing frightens her. She’s an amazon.”

“Am’zon,” said Little Bit.

Ma laughed. “I’m afraid that’s so. She’s not afraid of the dark or of heights, she’ll taste any new food—”

I looked away. If Pa had been near, he would have added, “She’s braver than her big brother.”

“Of course, you’re not prejudiced,” said Mrs. DeLyon.

Ma laughed. “Not a bit!”

I said, “A little bit,” and the women laughed together.

“How old is your Digger?”

“George is two in February.”

“He’s very quiet.”

Ma frowned. “Yes. Some children are slow.”

Mrs. DeLyon shrugged. “Maybe he’s chosen to keep his own counsel.”

Ma looked at Digger. “Maybe.” She smiled. “I’m a very lucky woman, having three wonderful children.”

Mrs. DeLyon looked at Pa making root beer floats behind the counter. “Yes.”

Ma followed her gaze. Mr. Drake held the door for several tourists who were leaving. As he entered, Ma waved. “Artie! Hi!”

Pa came around the counter to grip Mr. Drake’s hand. “Artie, good to see you!”

Mr. Drake laughed with a hint of embarrassment. “Likewise, Luke, likewise. Susan, how’re you?”

“On a day like this? Fine, of course,” Ma said. “Sit and have a slice of Ethorne’s pecan pie. On the house. This day wouldn’t have come about if it hadn’t been for you.”

Pa grinned at Mrs. DeLyon. “That has to go for you, too, Maggie.”

“I wanted to be your first customer,” Mr. Drake said. “But I see I’m a little late.” The lunchtime traffic had lightened, but half of the tables were still occupied, keeping Ma and Lurleen busy.

“Well,” Pa said, “you can be our first freeloader.”

“Deal.” Mr. Drake sat at the table near us.

“If you insist.” Mrs. DeLyon took a seat across from Mr. Drake.

“We certainly do,” said Ma.

“Susan, check on the paying customers,” Pa told her. “I’ll wait on our friends.”

Ma smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

Mr. Drake grinned at her, then at me. “If it isn’t Cowboy Chris. And Miss Letitia, and He Who Loves the Earth. How y’all?”

“Fine.” Little Bit tucked her chin to smile up at him.

“All right!” I said.

Pa said, “You kids can run play if you want.”

“I’m reading.” I flipped a comic book page.

“I’m coloring.” Little Bit touched up a blue woman who embraced a green man.

“R-rrn!” Digger slipped out of his chair to push his metal bulldozer around the base of the table.

“Kids,” Pa said.

“Enjoy ‘em,” said Mr. Drake. “They’ll be adults before you notice.”

Mrs. DeLyon said, “How’s Gwen?”

“Boy-crazy. Wouldn’t be so bad if I liked the boy.”

“Johnny Tepes,” Mrs. DeLyon said. Mr. Drake nodded.

“Boys that age run a little wild. I did. Look at me now.” Pa held his arms out wide and looked down at the apron he had donned when he went behind the counter.

Mr. Drake said, “There’s wild, and there’s wild.”

“And it’s easy to say, ‘boys that age.’” said Mrs. DeLyon. “But those who behave as men must be held to the standards of men.”

Ma arrived with a coffeepot and two slices of pecan pie. “Ethorne says you’re to eat this up or his feelings’ll be hurt.”

“Small chance of that.” Mr. Drake lifted his fork.

“How’s Ethorne?” asked Mrs. DeLyon, blowing on her coffee.

“Fine,” Pa said. “Missed work for a day or two, but nothing serious.”

“Good.”

“Must be nice,” said Mr. Drake, “tending dogs and showing folks around who only want some entertainment while they learn a little about pets.”

“Must be nice,” said Pa, “selling houses and insurance to folks who only want some reassurance while they try to do the right thing for their families.”

“You want to switch places,” said Mr. Drake, “call me.”

Ma laughed. “Luke happy in an office? You’ll have a long wait for that call.”

“Mmm.” Mr. Drake took another bite of pie.

Mrs. DeLyon said, “The new woman fits right in.”

We all looked over. Lurleen Greenleaf carried a round tray propped on one hand and one shoulder. The tray was loaded with dishes and glasses for a family of eight.

Ma nodded. “She hardly sits down to rest. I don’t think Handyman appreciates what a worker she is.”

Mr. Drake waggled his fork at Pa. “This is a good time to start a business in the South.”

“Is it?” said Mrs. DeLyon.

“Sure,” said Mr. Drake. “It’s taken a hundred years, but the South’s recovered from the War Between the States. We’re moving on. You can thank the automobile and the air conditioner for that.”

“Or curse them,” said Mrs. DeLyon.

Mr. Drake smiled. “Those inventions will end New England’s control of America.”

Pa said, “John Kennedy’s from Massachusetts. I figure he’s got a better shot at the presidency than Nixon, Stevenson, or Johnson.”

“I agree,” said Mr. Drake. “But Kennedy’s young, and a Democrat. He’s not as tied to the old ways.”

“Will the South vote for a Catholic?” Pa asked.

“We’d rather vote for a Texan like Johnson, but if the Democrats endorse Kennedy, the South’ll vote for him. Folks down here may be Baptist, but we think a man’s religion is his own business.”

“Yet you teach it in your schools.”

Mr. Drake grinned. “You know what our graduation rate’s like? We don’t force anyone to learn a thing.”

“What about integration?”

“The Chief Justice carries the blame, not the president. You see bumper stickers saying ‘Impeach Earl Warren,’ not ‘Impeach Eisenhower.’ Everybody knows the president can’t enforce integration, anyway.”

Pa smiled without showing his teeth. “Who sent the National Guard into Little Rock so some Negroes could go to a decent school?”

Ma asked Mr. Drake, “Would you like to see the dogs?” She looked at Mrs. DeLyon. “We’re not charging today.”

Mr. Drake said, “I would,” then turned his grin to Pa. “Don’t know why I’m arguing. I’m one of the few around here who thinks integration’s inevitable. What Yankees don’t understand is you can’t force it. Folks need time to get used to an idea.”

Pa nodded as he stabbed a finger at Mr. Drake. “Ah, but will folks get used to an idea if they don’t have to?”

Ma said, “Did I mention that we got two new dogs today?”

“No,” said Mr. Drake, without turning his eyes from Pa. “The South’s lived with slavery far longer than it’s lived without it. We’re talking patterns of behavior that’re older than this nation. Can you change—”

“It’d be nice to see your dogs,” said Mrs. DeLyon. “I’m a great admirer of hounds.”

“Oh, good,” said Ma.

Mr. Drake laughed. “Listen to me. I didn’t come here to argue politics.”

“Oh, Luke loves it,” Ma said.

Pa shrugged. “Handyman and I get into it sometimes. Only thing we agree on is it’s nice to do a little fishing now and then.”

Mr. Drake nodded. “He’s in the Klan, you know.”

“He is?” said Pa.

“Handyman?” said Ma.

“Oh,” said Mr. Drake.

“Ku Klux Klan?” I said, then realized I had interrupted. No one noticed.

“Doesn’t necessarily mean a thing,” said Mr. Drake. “Poor whites down here join the Klan or the John Birchers like Yankees join the Lion’s Club. I can’t say I understand why grown men like to get together an’ wear silly hats.”

“Doesn’t do much for me, either,” Pa said.

I raised my hand.

“Yes, Chris?”

“Cowboy hats aren’t silly, are they?”

Pa laughed. “Nothing John Wayne wears is silly.”

“God’s truth,” said Mr. Drake. He set his fork on his bare plate and stood. “Tell Ethorne he did it again. You say you have two new dogs?”

“Jo-Jo an’ Ro-Ba,” Little Bit said.

“A Pekingese and a Lhasa Apso,” Ma said.

“Ah,” said Mr. Drake. “Two demon-fighters.”

“Say what?” said Pa.

“Lhasa Apsos guarded Tibetan temples,” said Mr. Drake. “And Pekingese were Chinese palace dogs, known as lion dogs or sun dogs. Very small ones were called sleeve dogs, because the nobility carried them in the pockets of their loose sleeves. Pekingeses are said to be descended from the Foo Dog, a kind of a household guardian god. Your family’s spate of bad luck must be at an end.”

Ma and Pa laughed. Mrs. DeLyon merely said, “Let’s hope so.”

Ma looked at us kids. “I think someone’s getting tired.”

“No!” I said, and added, “Ma’m,” when I saw Pa’s look.

“I’m not tired,” said Little Bit. “I’m never tired.”

Pa laughed. “She goes like a rocket right until her gas tank’s empty.”

Ma looked under the table. “Yes, it’s nap-time.”

Digger was sleeping at our feet. I said, “I’m not tired.”

“You don’t understand, Chris,” Mr. Drake said. “You have to take a nap so your parents can get some rest.”

“But—”

“Christopher,” Pa said.

I nodded and stood. Digger woke when Ma picked him up, but the evidence was against us. His beginning to cry made it worse. Ma patted his back. As he fell asleep again, she said, “I’ll take them.”

Mr. Drake said, “Need a hand? I used to be pretty good at getting kids to nap.”

“Thanks.” Ma passed Digger to him. Digger opened his eyes once, then rested his head on Mr. Drake’s shoulder.

As the five of us walked away, Mrs. DeLyon asked Pa whether he found any similarities between working with horses and working with dogs. Pa laughed, said dogs and horses were nothing after working with kids, and the door closed behind us.

Mr. Drake paused on the green sidewalk. Little Bit and I stared at him. He was looking at Dogland, but there was nothing to see, just fences and bushes and flowers and buildings. He said, “You’ve done a lot in the past few months.”

Ma smiled. “Luke has.”

“Who decided to plant palm trees out front?”

“Well, we needed something to catch people’s eyes.”

“So, you did?”

Ma looked down.

“And who decorated the restaurant? I remember what it looked like.”

“Well, Luke says I’m good with colors and things women worry about.”

Mr. Drake nodded. “You are.”

Little Bit said, “Ma writes all about the dogs, too. She wrote the signs on their doors.”

“‘Cause Pa told her to,” I said.

Ma said, “Someone has to. We all chip in.”

“Then you can all share the credit,” Mr. Drake said.

“Okay,” Little Bit stated, and Ma laughed. Opening the door to our room, she said, “You’ll have to excuse the chaos. The restaurant gets the attention I’d like to give the house.”

“Tell me about it.” They both smiled at nothing I could see. Mr. Drake nodded at the masks of painted teak that hung on the cinderblock wall. One mask scowled, and the other grinned. “I like those.”

“Luke and I bought them on our honeymoon. We took a boat down the coast of South America. It was a late honeymoon, actually. Luke was drafted right after we married, so Chris came along for the honeymoon.”

“I did?”

Ma nodded. “Everyone said you were the prettiest baby.”

Little Bit smiled at me. I made a face of disgust to answer her.

Putting Digger into bed, Mr. Drake said, “Sleeps like a baby ‘possum.”

Ma said, “He’s the easiest child to care for that there could be.”

“‘Cept for me,” said Little Bit.

“‘Cept for me,” I said.

“Oh,” Ma said. “You’d better prove that by going right to sleep.”

ittle Bit rolled her eyes, nodded, and jumped onto her bed. “Okay.”

“No fair,” I said. “You tricked us.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Drake. “Looks like you tricked yourself.”

Ma smiled. “That’s what Luke would say.”

“Ah.”

Little Bit lay on the bed with her arms folded like Sleeping Beauty in a glass case. Then she opened her eyes and said to Mr. Drake, “Tell a story.”

“A story?”

“Don’t bother Artie,” Ma said. “And take off your shoes before you nap.”

“Read something!” I said, running to find The Little Engine Who Could.

“Christopher!” Ma said.

I pumped my arms like a train. “Woo, woo!”

Ma said, “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

Mr. Drake said, “Oh, I reckon I’ll just have to tell a story to quiet ‘em down. Something boring that’ll make it easy for them to sleep.”

“Okay,” said Little Bit.

“Here!” I handed him the book.

“No, a story out of my head,” said Mr. Drake.

Ma glanced at him.

“Not one I made up. One that I know.”

I set the book aside with extreme reluctance. “Okay.”

Ma said, “You take off your boots, too.”

I obeyed her as Mr. Drake said, “Now, I could tell you the story of the little insurance agent and the head office that wanted everything in triplicate.”

His grin told me how to react. “Yuck!”

“No,” Little Bit said. “Thank you.”

“Or I could tell a story with knights on horseback and duels and magic and quests. Then you could dream about it afterward.”

“That one!” I said.

“Okay,” said Little Bit.

Digger rolled over and opened his eyes.

Mr. Drake took the chair by the sink, placed it in the middle of the room between the two beds, and sat. “This’s also got love in it.”

“Ee-yuck,” I said.

“Oh, okay,” said Little Bit, accepting that as the price of the story.

Ma, in the doorway beyond Mr. Drake, shook her head and smiled.

Mr. Drake began, “Once upon a time in a country far away, there was a sword stuck in a stone. Whoever could pull it out would become the rightful ruler of the land. And there was a boy—” I don’t think we interrupted very often as we listened to the tale of the boy, the wizard, and the country that needed a good ruler. The boy was not as clever as the Little Tailor, or as brave as Jack the Giant-Killer, or as lucky as Jack who climbed the Beanstalk, but he pulled out the sword, married the queen, and gathered all of the knights of the country together to do good deeds under the direction of his best friend, the best knight in the world. “And that’s probably all you need to know this afternoon,” said Mr. Drake. “I’ll tell you more some other time. It’s a big story.”

“They live happ’ly ever after?” asked Little Bit.

“Of course,” said Ma.

Mr. Drake nodded. “Pretty happily, anyway. When the king died, he was buried in a hill. And when the country needs him again, he’ll wake up and come help.”

Little Bit smiled. “Did the king an’ the queen have babies?”

“Well.” Mr. Drake looked at Ma. “The king had a son.”

Little Bit said, “What’s his name?”

Ma said, “Somebody’s trying to keep from taking her nap.”

Little Bit said, “Does his son have a story, too?”

Mr. Drake laughed. “Yes. It’s part of the story of what happened to the king and the queen and the best friend.”

“An’ the lady in the lake,” said Little Bit. “An’ the wise old magician.”

“And all the others,” Mr. Drake agreed. “Now you’d better go to sleep.”

“All right,” Little Bit said.

I asked, “What happened to the king’s son?”

“Good try,” Mr. Drake said. “Sleep, now.”

I think I fell asleep immediately. I did not dream of the king, his sword, his city, or his knights. I dreamed that I ran through dark woods in a chase with rivals I could not see. Though I breathed deeply, I ran easily. My sleeping mind admired the grace with which I ducked low tree limbs and leaped puddles and logs. A deeper part of my mind wondered whether my running self was the hunter or the prey.

Chapter Six: Things Seen in Color, Part Two

The day that Dogland’s restaurant opened and the day of Dogland’s official grand opening have merged in my mind, though they were separated by six months and two seasons. Our lives must have followed an uneventful course from December to May, excepting the interruption of Christmas. I’m sure at least one box came from Minnesota with clothes from Grandma and toys from Grandpa, and Ma must have commented on the strangeness of a Christmas without snow, and Pa must have been very busy and very quiet during the holidays. From Ma’s holiday newsletter to family and friends, I know that Handyman and Lurleen gave us a bag of pecans, and Ethorne gave us a jug of cane syrup that he had brewed, and Mrs. DeLyon gave us a bushel basket of bayberry to decorate the motel unit that was our home.

In the world beyond Dogland, in the world that came in discontinuous bits from the television news that Pa watched every night and the radio that was always playing in the restaurant, these things happened in 1960: The U.S. denied that it was sending reconnaissance flights over the Soviet Union until a U-2 jet was shot down and its pilot confessed. The Belgian Congo received its independence. John F. Kennedy won the Democratic nomination, chose one of his challengers, Lyndon Baines Johnson, for his running mate, and, at the age of forty-two, defeated Republican Richard Nixon to become the U.S.’s youngest president. John Updike’s Rabbit, Run, Errol Flynn’s My Wicked, Wicked Ways, and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird appeared in print. Albert Camus, Clark Gable, Oscar Hammerstein, and Mack Sennett died. Preminger’s Exodus and Hitchcock’s Psycho were released. The sixteen-year-old Bobby Fischer held the U.S. chess title. Floyd Patterson took back the world heavyweight boxing title. Cowboys rode the airwaves; the three TV networks carried twenty-eight westerns during prime time. Chubby Checker gave the world a new dance, the Twist; Little Bit, Digger, and I would twist naked in our bedroom to imaginary music after our night-time baths, which made Ma laugh. “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” seemed to be on the radio whenever I passed it, which made me blush because it was a song about a girl who hardly had any clothes on.

The day of the restaurant opening and the day of the official grand opening are joined in a naptime dream. A dove flew near my ear and said, “Wake up, Chris. There’s a surprise for you.”

I rubbed my eyes with my fists. “Grandpa’s here?”

Ma shook her head. “Not that kind of surprise.”

Little Bit, Digger, and I followed her out of the house and through the afternoon sun. Had I been older, May and December could never have combined in my mind. In north central Florida late fall was a time for long pants and light jackets, while late spring was made for shorts and flip-flops.

The restaurant was empty except for a boy a little taller than me who sat at the table where we kids had eaten. He looked up from a coverless comic book. Behind the counter, Lurleen Greenleaf nodded at Ma, saying, “Mis’ Nix,” as she walked over to stand beside the boy.

Handyman was stout and dark-haired, and Lurleen was tall with strands of gray in her brown hair, but their boy’s hair was like wheat and his skin was the color of lightly browned bread. He wore new blue jeans rolled into a wide cuff at his ankles, scuffed tennis shoes, and a blue short-sleeved shirt.

Lurleen set one hand on his shoulder. “This here’s my Jordy. Jordy, that’s Chris Nix, an’ Li’l Letitia, an’ Baby Georgie. You say hi to ‘em now.”

Jordy stood, smiled, and held out his hand. “Hi, y’all.”

I did not move. Little Bit said, “Hi,” and waved. Digger sat on the floor, then crawled toward the kitchen. Ma caught him, aimed him toward the middle of the restaurant, and said, “Chris, go say hello to Jordy. He’s Handyman’s son. He got off the school bus here, all by himself. Imagine that!”

Jordy offered his hand again. I shook my head. “Those’re my comic books.”

“Chris!” Ma said. “I said he could read them. I didn’t think you’d be selfish.”

“Grandpa sent ‘em to me.”

“Your granddaddy sent you comic books?” In Jordy’s voice was a generous acknowledgement of my good fortune. “Wish my granddaddy’d send me comic books.”

“He doesn’t?”

“Nary a one. He give me a quarter, once.”

“My grandpa gave me five dollars once.”

“Chris,” Ma said. “Don’t brag.”

“But he did.”

“You still shouldn’t brag.”

“Five dollars?” said Jordy. “I’d get me a B-B Gun.”

“You would?” I said.

“You’re too young for a B-B Gun,” Ma said.

“And so’re you,” Lurleen told Jordy.

He said, “I shot my daddy’s twenty-two lots o’ times. I shot a shotgun once, and I ‘bout fell over.” He rubbed his shoulder. “That thing kicks like a mule.”

“It does?”

Jordy nodded.

“I never shot a gun,” I said.

“And I hope you never have to,” Ma said.

Little Bit said, “E’cept for cap guns.”

Jordy said, “Me an’ Daddy go huntin’ t’gether. I near hit a squirrel once.”

“Squirrel?” said Little Bit.

Jordy nodded. “Squirrel’s better eatin’n chicken. Daddy says the price is right, too. I’m goin’ t’ hit one, next time we go out, you wait an’ see. Mama makes the best squirrel you ever ate.”

Lurleen shook her head. So far as I could tell, she did not know how to smile. “Now, Jordy.”

“You do, Mama! It’s the best ever.”

She shook her head again. “Maybe you children should go play outside.”

Ma leaned down to whisper in my ear. “You could show Jordy the swing set.”

I said, “Do you want to see our swings? They’re pretty good.”

Jordy shrugged. “All right.”

Little Bit said, “You got to push me.”

I turned to Ma. “Just the boys.”

Jordy said, “I don’t mind pushin’ her.”

“Oh,” I said. “All right.”

Ma smiled as we walked outside. Little Bit made us both push her on the swing. She said if we pushed hard, she’d go all the way around the bar, but we couldn’t push hard enough to prove that. When our arms had tired, I showed Jordy where there were big ants that you could cut in half with a plastic shovel, and both halves would wriggle. Then we played army with my plastic soldiers. Jordy didn’t know how to divide them up and have them talk like on “Combat.” I taught him how the soldier with the pistol could say things like, “You go around the hill. Be careful so the Jerries don’t shoot you,” and the one with the rifle could say, “Yes, sir, I will,” and then he could go around a sand mound, twisting from side to side on his plastic stand as if he was walking, and the German with the machine gun could say, “Achtung! I hear an American!” and shoot him, but while the German was doing that, the American with the pistol, a sergeant, could shoot the German in the back. Since they were my soldiers, Jordy was the Germans. We took turns killing each other’s soldiers, except when Jordy tried to kill the American with the pistol and only wounded him. When there were more Germans than Americans, the American with the pistol threw a grenade and I won.

“Let’s play something else,” Jordy said.

“Cowboys.” I ran to the toy chest on our front porch. “You’re the Indian.” I pulled out a cap gun with a broken cylinder plate and a rifle with a missing hammer.

“Let’s both be cowboys.”

“I’m ‘Have Gun, Will Travel.’”

“Paladin,” said Jordy. I squinted, then nodded. I never thought of the character by his name. I thought of him by the name of his show, his theme music, and his black gunfighting clothes. “Who’m I?”

I thought a second. “Rowdy Yates.”

“‘Wagon Train’? All right.”

“Who’m I?” said Little Bit.

I didn’t hesitate. “Miss Kitty.”

“Then you’re Marshall Dillon.”

“I’m Paladin.” I slapped the pistol at my hip. “Have gun, will travel.”

“Who’s Marshall Dillon?”

“Digger.”

“He’s little. Jordy, be Marshall Dillon.”

Jordy blinked at her. “Chris said I’m Rowdy.”

Little Bit nodded. “I’m not playing.”

I shrugged.

Jordy said, “She can be something, can’t she?”

I shrugged again. “She’s got long hair. She can be a Indian.”

Little Bit said, “What about Digger?”

“He can be a Indian, too.”

Digger grinned. He became Sitting Bull, which wasn’t much work for him, and Little Bit became Geronimo. Her job was to tell Sitting Bull where the pale faces were, and then ambush them while Jordy and I rode through the desert carrying the mail to Fort Apache. Digger died every time you shot him, which would have been fine if after every death he had not immediately sat up and giggled. Little Bit never died and would only be wounded for a minute or two, even though Paladin never missed and Rowdy Yates only missed sometimes. Finally I said Little Bit was dead and I wasn’t going to play any more, so Jordy and I won, even though Little Bit said, “Did not!” and she and Digger began a war dance around the sand box.

Ma was sitting in a lawn chair under the Heart Tree, reading a paperback. I ran and asked if I could show Jordy the dogs. She said that was fine if we stayed on the path and didn’t go inside any of the pens and didn’t bother any of the visitors or any of the help. I nodded, yelled, “C’mon, Jordy!” and we ran away, shooting Indians in the bushes. “Pow! Pow! Pow!” We hit every single one.

Jordy wanted to look at each dog, so I told him about them as we walked. “That’s Bambi, the Basenji. They don’t bark, an’ they keep themselves clean like cats. They’re real old. There were Basenjis in ancient Egypt with the Pharaohs. Bambi’s one of my favorites.”

“You said that English Bulldog was one of your favorites.”

“Bo-peep’s one of my favorites, too. That’s Percy. He bit Pa real bad. Ethorne says you don’t want to scare Percy.” I held out my hand and let Percy lick my palm. “Here’s the Dachshunds. Whizkee’s a wire-hair, an’ Sun-Up’s a reg’lar Dachshund, an’ Pandora’s a miniature wire-hair, and Dev is a long-hair. Dev’s the best, or maybe Whizkee.” Whizkee’s name made us both smile.

“You can play with ‘em whenever you want?”

I shrugged. “That’s Driver. He’s a Otter Hound. I don’t know what he oughter do.” Jordy laughed, and I started running. “C’mon! This’s Ranger. He’s a kuvasz. He caught somebody once when Pa wasn’t here. A drunk.”

“He’s dang big.”

“Yeah.” I stuck my hand in the cage and scratched Ranger through his thick white coat.

“Can I pet him?”

“If you’re careful,” I said, though it was daytime. Ma said Ranger loved everybody when the sun was up and only our family when the sun had set.

“Boy.” Jordy grinned as Ranger let him rub his skull. “That’s sure some dog.”

“He guards the kings of Hungary.”

“Where’s that?”

“In central Europe,” Seth said behind us. “It’s ruled by the Soviet Union now and hasn’t had a king for some time.”

Jordy and I turned. Jordy stared. “You sound like a white man.”

“That’s Seth,” I said. “This is Jordy. He’s Handyman’s boy.”

Seth rolled his eyes. “Should’ve guessed.”

“How come they haven’t got a king?” I asked.

“In Hungary?” Seth picked up a hose and turned on the faucet. “They got rid of them. If your oppressors won’t free you, you’ve to free yourself.” He began rinsing the dog runs. The Great Dane’s run always needed cleaning. “That’s what America’s about, isn’t it?”

Jordy and I shrugged.

Seth said, “We don’t have a king, do we?”

I shook my head. “President.”

“That’s right. Americans don’t like kings.”

Jordy said, “Martin Luther King.”

Seth smiled. “Well, we like one.”

“No, we don’t!” Jordy said. “He’s a Com’nist agitator!”

As Seth frowned, I said, “King Arthur.”

Seth laughed. “Yeah, we like fairy-tale kings who’re so far removed from reality that they quit looking like heartless exploiters of the poor.”

Jordy and I squinted at him. He waved his free hand. “Forget it. Want a sprinkle?”

Jordy glanced at me. I grinned and nodded. Seth flicked the hose, catching us in its cool spray. Jordy ran for the restaurant and I followed, laughing.

As we approached the Doggy Salon, Pa and James pushed two wheelbarrows full of warm dog food onto the viewing path. Pa let his wheelbarrow down and squatted in front of us. Jordy came to a stop, but I kept running. Pa caught me around the waist with one arm, then stood, turning me upside down and setting me back on my feet. James, Pa, and I all laughed.

“So,” he said. “Who’ve you outlaws been terrorizing?”

Jordy pointed toward the pens. “That nigger got us wet! He turned a hose on us like we was dogs!”

Pa’s face settled like the scowling mask on our bedroom wall. James watched with no expression that I could see. Pa looked at me. “That so?”

I looked at Jordy, then back at Pa and nodded.

“Why?”

“He asked. I said okay.”

Jordy glanced at me. “Di’n’t ask me.”

“Asked us both. I said it was okay.”

“I di’n’t say no nigger could squirt me.”

Pa said, “Seth sprinkled you?” Jordy and I nodded, and Pa did, too. “Well, then, Jordy, show me your wounds.”

Jordy blinked.

“He must’ve hurt you pretty bad, seeing how upset you are. Just show me what he did, and I’ll call the sheriff.”

Jordy looked down at himself, then held out his shirt, showing the damp speckles.

“That’s it?”

Jordy nodded.

“What’d he get you with?”

“Water,” Jordy said.

“What else?”

“Just water.”

“You melt in water?”

Jordy shook his head. James grinned, but Jordy did not.

Pa said, “I don’t think the sheriff’s going to be impressed.”

“A nigger hosed water on me!” Jordy seemed angry enough to cry.

“His name’s Seth,” said Pa.

“I introduced them,” I said.

Jordy said, “My Daddy’ll make him sorry.”

James looked at Pa. Pa rolled his eyes and said, “That’s what you want? To hear Seth say he’s sorry?”

Jordy shrugged.

“Come on.” Pa pushed the wheelbarrow to the first set of dog pens and left it sitting in the path. We walked on while most of the dogs ran back and forth, baying their bafflement at our priorities.

Pa said, “Seth?”

Seth took his thumb off the end of the hose he was using to clean the bull terrier’s pen. “Mister Nix?”

“I understand you sprayed these boys.”

Seth glanced at me. I had hurt him, though I did not know how. He nodded.

Pa said, “Why?”

“I thought Chris liked it. I didn’t hurt his clothes, did I?”

“No.” Pa did not look at my clothes. Even if Seth had stained my best shirt, Pa would not have noticed or cared unless Ma had insisted on buying a new one. “Jordy had his feelings hurt.”

We stepped up beside Pa. Jordy nodded.

“Oh? Sorry,” Seth said. “Thought you both’d like a splash of cold water.”

“I did,” I said, and Seth grinned.

“That good enough for you?” said Pa, looking at Jordy.

“Good enough for what?” said Seth.

“Oh, the kid thought he needed an apology.”

Jordy nodded. Seth squinted, saying, “Needed?”

James had followed us. He said, “Tha’s fine.”

Seth said, “What’d I do that needed an apology?”

“You ‘pologized,” James said. “That’s the Christian thing to do, right or wrong.”

“Wait,” said Seth. “Wrong? We’re not talking about a matter of right or wrong here. There was just a misunderstanding—”

“Tha’s right,” said James. “A misunderstanding, that’s all. Chris, I seen a heap o’ Indians on the far side o’ your house. I bet you an’ Jordy could capture ‘em all if you headed out runnin’.”

“We wanted to help feed the dogs.”

Jordy nodded.

Pa said, “I don’t know—” as Seth said, “Even if I splashed you again?”

Jordy cocked his head, then said, “I reckon.”

All three men smiled. Pa said, “You two can help feed the dogs so long as you obey Seth and James. If I hear you disobey ‘em, you can’t come out here anymore. Is that understood?”

“Yessir,” Jordy and I said together.

“All right, then. Seth, take the other wheelbarrow. I’ll be up front if you need me.” Pa studied Jordy and me. “If either of these two act up, let me know.”

“We won’t,” I said.

Pa walked off. Jordy and I followed Seth and James back toward the wheelbarrows. Seth said, “New York City. When I get enough for a bus ticket and a bit to live on, I’m going to New York City.”

“Ethorne be disappointed,” James said.

“He can come to New York, too.”

James smiled. “They’s worse things to be called than college boy, y’know.”

“Education’s something you do, not something that’s done to you.”

“There’s places where it’s easier to do. Ever’body ‘xpects you to go back next term.”

“Everybody expects a lot.”

Jordy said, “You really go to college?”

Seth looked down at him. “Why, yes. I really do.”

“That’s why you talk like that.”

“Must be.”

Francine was escorting a last group of tourists around the path. Seth looked at them, then glanced away with a grimace. To my surprise, Francine’s husband listened at the back of the tourist group, which consisted of an old lady in Bermuda shorts, several children much older than me, three or four adults in sports clothes, a well-dressed dark-skinned couple, Cal Carter, and a taller, stockier youth with Brylcreamed hair. Cal wore wraparound sunglasses, a pink shortsleeved shirt, and crisp new jeans.

I stopped walking. Jordy stopped beside me. We listened to Francine saying, “Dogs that hunt their prey by sight are called sight-hounds or gaze-hounds. They tend to be large and fast, like the Irish Wolfhound or the Greyhound. Dogs that hunt by smell are called scent-hounds. They tend to be small and tenacious, like Beagles, Basset Hounds, and Dachshunds.”

She led the group from one set of runs toward another. Cal, following behind, told his companion, “Bet you’d like to take one o’ those out one night, see what she could do.”

The other said, “Wouldn’t a li’l Dachshund’d be more your speed?”

Cal pointed toward Francine, or perhaps just past her, at one of the racing dogs. “Nice lines on that bitch there, Victor. Looks like she could move out right quick, don’t she?” He smiled and raised his voice slightly. “You can tell she gets what she’s after in the dark.”

The older woman in Bermuda shorts looked back at him. Francine turned to say, “Sight hounds and scent hounds both get around better in the dark than most folks. But these dogs aren’t available to rent or borrow. If you’re thinkin’ on buying one—”

Victor shook his head. “My ol’ man’s the banker. Wouldn’t I just be checkin’ the collatoral on your loan?” When he said that, I could see that Victor looked like a younger, softer version of Mr. Dalton, who always gave us lollipops at the Dickison State Bank.

Francine said, “I really don’t think so.”

Victor Dalton nodded. “What’s to keep someone from wandering in here to borrow a dog he fancied?”

Francine frowned, narrowed her eyes at Cal, and told Victor, “There’s always someone on the grounds. Wait’ll I show you the watchdog they let out at night.”

Cal said, “Victor’s real concerned that dogs’re treated right. Which you’d understand if you ever seen him on a date.”

Victor grunted in anger or amusement and shoved Cal’s shoulder, knocking him off the path. Cal splashed into a shallow puddle and stood there, water seeping into his brown loafers, as he grinned. “Yep, Victor’s the original hound dog. Your boss ought to put him on display.”

Francine said, “I ought to put you two out to run in the exercise pen is what I ought to do.”

Victor frowned. Cal smiled, stepped out of the puddle, and neatly wiped his loafers on the grass, telling Francine, “Folks’re waiting, Mis’ Tourist Guide. I’d hate to think they’s waitin’ on us.”

The rest of the tourists had stopped in front of the next set of dog runs. Francine hurried to stand before them, resuming the speech that Ma had written. Jordy listened as though she were Captain Kangaroo, Sheri Lewis, and Bozo rolled into one, but I knew the script by heart.

The two dark-skinned visitors did not look like the Negroes I had seen. Their hair was straight, and their clothes were conservatively expensive, and they carried themselves with an unthinking assertiveness that marked them as foreigners before they spoke. While the rest had waited for Francine, the dark couple had watched the dogs, but as Francine’s speech began again, the man smiled at Victor Dalton, who frowned, and then interrupted Francine. “What do you do with the dogs who die?”

The woman in Bermuda shorts gave him a scathing glance. Francine said, “Ain’t no dogs died, mister.”

He turned his hands palms-up. “All creatures are mortal.”

“Why, um, yes, sir, that’s Bible-true,” said Francine. “Now—”

“Have you considered a canine mausoleum?” said the man. “With statues or paintings of the dogs who had died? A monument would require less care than living dogs do, and offer no waste or noise.”

“Dogland’s about livin’ dogs, sir,” said Francine. “Folks on vacation don’t pay to look at no dead critters.”

“Oh? What are dinosaurs but dead critters? What are all museums but monuments to the dead, lacking only the presence of the dead themselves? And often there’s the token representative in the form of a skeleton or two of an animal or an Indian.”

“Yes, sir,” said Francine. “But we have to keep going if we’re going to finish the tour before dark.”

I glanced at the sky. The sun was low. My stomach said it was almost time for dinner.

The dark man looked at the sun. “Ah, yes. The transition time.”

The woman beside him smiled at Francine. “Then I shall not ask whether you plan a Catland next. There are almost as many distinct breeds, you know.”

Francine shook her head. “Ma’m, you can’t never know what Mister Nix’ll be thinkin’ on next.” Before either visitor could speak again, she lifted her hand toward the next dog. “This is Spots, our Dalmatian. No one knows where the breed’s from or how old it is. Their name comes from Dalmatia, where they were first known.”

The dark couple looked down the walk. A pale man strode toward us. He wore a white cotton suit that glistened in the late afternoon light, and the set of his jaw said that his days were always wonderful. Most of the tourists, including the old woman in the Bermuda shorts, smiled at the sight of him, and so did I. Cal and Victor’s glance was almost reverential.

The dark couple nodded curtly to him and returned their attention to Francine, who was saying, “Dalmatians were known for running alongside horse-drawn vehicles. That’s how they came to be associated with fire engines. The breed’s got many nicknames, including the plum-pudding dog and spotted Dick.”

“Spotted dick,” Jordy whispered, and we ran ten or twenty feet away, giggling.

Behind us, Francine told the blond man, “You’re welcome to join this tour, sir.”

He answered, “Thank you, but I’m used to making my own way.” I looked back. His voice had no accent in this land where everyone spoke like a Northerner, a Southerner, or a foreigner. His voice might have been mine.

Seth called, “So, you two want to help or not?”

I turned. Seth approached us with a heavy-laden wheelbarrow. A small tin pot was stuck into the dog food like a giant’s medicine-spoon. While Jordy and I had dallied, Seth and James had begun their way around the ring of pens. I saw James across the circle, slopping dog food onto the cement run in front of Bambi, who wagged her coiled tail as she buried her nose in the food.

I looked back. The tourists had moved on. The pale man was not with them. If he had walked quickly, he might be on the far side of the circle, hidden by trees and bushes.

“Yeah!” said Jordy.

I returned his grin. “Yeah!” We ran to join Seth, then followed him as he opened each dog’s gate to slap food onto its run. Jordy and I laughed at how happy the dogs were to see us, and we laughed again when Seth had to hose down the Great Dane’s dog pen before he could put food in it. After the feeding was done, I wanted to help hose down pens in the final cleaning of the day, but I heard Ma call Jordy and me.

“Bye, Seth! Bye, James!” I yelled.

“Bye, now!” called Jordy.

“Bye, y’all,” James answered as Seth shook his head.

Handyman was waiting behind the kitchen with Ma when we arrived. “Hey, boy,” he said.

“Hey, Daddy,” Jordy said. “Guess what? A nigger squirted me.”

Handyman glanced at Ma.

Jordy laughed. “It were pretty funny, Daddy. He squirted Chris, too, but Chris run faster’n me. You should’a seen him go, Daddy. Dang, it were funny!”

Handyman shook his head. “I’m glad they’re amusin’ you, boy. C’mon. It’s time to get on home, have your Momma cook up some food.”

“She’s a hard worker,” Ma said.

Handyman made a soft grunt of acknowledgment. “We best be goin’.”

Ma looked at me. “Chris, you’d better go wash. Dinner’ll be ready soon.”

“Dinner?” said Jordy. “You ain’t had dinner, and it’s nigh on suppertime already?”

“That’s what we mean,” Ma said. “What you call dinner, we call lunch, and what we call dinner, you call supper.”

“Dang,” said Jordy. “That’s a funny way to do things.”

“Yankees,” said Handyman, and he and Ma smiled.

I waved and ran back to our house. When I’d finished in the bathroom, I charged up the path toward the kitchen. The pale man in the white suit stood by the Doggy Salon, watching me.

“Christopher,” he said, and I stopped.

“We’re not s’posed to talk to strangers.”

He smiled. “I’m no stranger to anyone.” He looked over; Little Bit was leading Digger from the house to the kitchen. “I’m at home everywhere.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Little Bit looked at us and kept walking. I wondered if she would tell, then decided that there was nothing for her to tell. I was talking to a tourist. Pa said we were to be polite to tourists.

“You don’t know the meaning of your name,” the man said.

I shook my head.

“Christ-bearer. One who carries Jesus Christ in his heart.”

“Oh.” I grinned. Ma and both Grandmas would like that.

“Names do not define you, Christ-bearer. Some people try to live up to their names, some try to live down to them, some never know that their names are anything more than a sound that draws them. Do you love Christ, Christopher?”

I recognized a trick question. Jesus was a tall man with long blond hair who wore a white bathrobe and flip-flops. He liked children and sheep. If you said you loved somebody, people would laugh at you and you’d blush. “I love Ma, Grandma and Grandpa, Grandma Tess, and God.”

Christ was also God. The pale man saw how clever I had been, and he laughed. “Do you believe in Christ, Christ-lover?”

Christ-lover sounded like nigger-lover, though he said it nicely. I said carefully, “Yes, sir.”

“And Santa Claus?”

I nodded again.

“And Superman?”

That was another trick question, yet he smiled. I had seen pictures of Superman in comic books. I nodded again.

“Who’s stronger, Superman or Jesus?”

I shrugged.

He laughed. “I wonder that myself.”

“How’d you know my name?” I asked.

“Names are easy to know. Is there anything you want?”

“A Fort Apache play set.”

“You have a Fort Apache play set.”

“With two, I could put ‘em together an’ make a great big fort, an’ a whole bunch of Indians could attack.”

“Ah. It’s good to know what you want. What would you do if you ruled the whole world?”

“I’d give everybody everything they want,” I said. “Then I’d have a big war.”

“You are wise beyond your years.” He looked up. I followed his gaze. Ma had stepped out from the kitchen.

“Come,” said the pale man. “I’ll walk with you a ways.”

“All right.”

“Does everyone in your family believe in Christ?”

Wondering if he was a preacher, I nodded.

“Your mother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your brother?”

Digger prayed whenever we prayed. “Yes, sir.”

“Your father?”

“Ye—” I began.

The pale man did not notice that I stopped. He smiled at Ma as we approached the restaurant. “Mrs. Nix. You have a very wise son.”

Ma looked from me to him. “Yes. Sometimes a little too wise for his own good.”

“He knows a great deal about your dogs, among other things.”

Ma laughed. “Were you showing off, Christopher?”

“No, ma’m.”

She asked the pale man, “Are you local?”

“Everywhere I go. Call me Nick. Nick Lumiere, at your service.” He held out his hand.

Ma took it. “How do you do? I’m Susan Nix.”

“Yes. I know your neighbors well. Mrs. DeLyon and the Reverend Shale.”

“They’re good people. Everyone here is.”

“The Reverend sometimes, ah, wanders from his establishment. He hasn’t bothered you, I trust?”

“Oh, no,” Ma said quickly. “I’m not worried about him. You can tell he means well.”

Mr. Lumiere smiled. “Mrs. DeLyon does not wander. I understand she’s been especially friendly to your family, to you, to your husband.”

Ma frowned, then laughed. “Oh, my, yes. I don’t know how we would’ve gotten by without her.”

“Perhaps I may be able to help you, too.”

“Oh?”

He nodded. “If there’s anything you need, call on me.”

“Ah, I’m afraid—” Ma began.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t catch what you do.”

“Well,” said Mr. Lumiere, “I’m not the law; I’m a lawyer, which gives me advantages in any company. I assure you, there’s nothing I don’t know about a contract.”

“Artie Drake recommended someone for the filing we’ve had to do,” Ma said. “My husband’s happy with him.”

“Artie Drake wouldn’t recommend me,” said Mr. Lumiere. “But he can’t say I’ve been less than honest in my dealings with him.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean to suggest—”

“I know you didn’t,” said Mr. Lumiere. “I should leave you to your dinner. Ethorne’s your cook.”

Ma nodded.

“Some people fear a colored cook might spit in their food or worse, to take some small revenge on the white race.”

“Yuck!” I said.

“But Ethorne isn’t one of those, of course,” said Mr. Lumiere. “I trust you’ll have a good meal.”

“Thank you.” Ma narrowed her eyes.

“Good day,” he told her. Then he grinned at me. “Go for what you want, Christopher. Don’t let anything stand in your way. That’s the path to happiness.”

I nodded. Ma took my hand as if I was a baby, and we watched Mr. Lumiere stroll away. His white suit caught the light of the setting sun and shimmered like molten gold. Then he stepped around the corner of the restaurant, and I shook my hand free, saying, “I’m four an’ three-quarters, Ma.” She laughed, and we went into the kitchen.

Mayella and Ethorne bustled within a world of heat and steam that smelled of soap and the satisfaction of hunger. They glanced at us as Ma pulled me through the swinging doors into the front room. Mr. Shale said, “Hello there, young Christopher. I closed the hamburger stand a little early to share this joyous day with your family, and to bring you a present.”

He sat at a small table by a window with a Bible before him and a cardboard box beside him. I felt everyone looking at me — Pa behind the counter, Jordy, Handyman, and Lurleen in front of it, Francine and Cal at one table, Little Bit and Digger at another, and people I did not know at others — but I did not have time to be embarrassed. The promise of a present drew me toward the box as Mr. Shale reached in with hands that were brown and gnarled like the roots of the Heart Tree. Something struggled, then mewed in fear and fury as he caught it. He lifted out a small grey and black-striped kitten.

“Ooh,” said Little Bit.

“What a darling kitty,” said Ma, and then she glanced at Pa.

“Mine?” I said.

Handyman laughed. “Ought to have a mouser bigger’n a mouse.”

Mr. Shale said, “The lord brought him to my doorstep, safely past gators and boars who would’ve swallowed him like Jonah. Maybe one did swallow him and cast him up here, safe in the hands of those who’ll preserve him.”

“Maybe not,” Pa said.

“Or maybe not,” Mr. Shale acknowledged. His cheeks were speckled with white day-old whiskers that rippled as he laughed. He held the kitten toward me. “Take him. If it’s all right with your folks.”

I reached out. “Gently,” Mr. Shale said.

The kitten swatted my finger, drawing blood. “Ow!” I said. As Ma hurried over to me, Mr. Shale said, “He’s just reminding you he’s got a mind of his own. You have to show him you’ll be nice.”

“All right.” I took the kitten into my cupped hands. He looked up at me as I stroked his forehead. When he lapped at my cut finger with his rough tongue, I smiled.

“Ain’t that sweet?” said Lurleen.

“What you goin’ to name him?” asked Jordy. “Tom? We got a Elvis and a Fabian. You could name him Troy.”

“Tiger,” I said.

“Isn’t orange,” Pa said. Ma was watching him. He shrugged. “I see how much say I’ve got in this.”

Handyman grinned. “Ain’t that the way of it.”

Little Bit held out her hands. I twisted away from her and said, “No. Tiger’s mine.”

Mr. Shale laughed. “Thought that swipe might’ve shown you he’s not a toy. Keeping a live thing is a grave responsibility. That’s what it means, for something to be yours. You have to care for it.”

I nodded.

Pa said, “You’ll like cleaning his box.”

Ma said, “Chris is a little young—”

Pa said, “I wouldn’t call scooping cat turds a great challenge for a boy.”

“I’ll clean his box,” said Little Bit.

“No!” I said. “I will.”

Pa laughed. “Wouldn’t’ve called it a privilege, either.”

Tiger twisted in my hands. I started to put him back in the cardboard box, but Digger patted Tiger’s head, and he began purring a loud, deep note. I let Little Bit pet him, too, and she smiled at Tiger and me.

“Y’know,” Handyman said, “maybe we ought to eat here t’night. We both had a long day.”

Lurleen nodded, smiling down at Handyman’s scalp, as Jordy said, “All right!”

Pa said, “Did I mention the employee discount?”

“Employee discount?” said Cal, and we all looked at the table he shared with Francine.

Francine began, “Now, Cal—”

Pa nodded. “Francine gets it, too.” He sounded less happy than he had been a minute before.

“Thank you, Mist’ Nix,” Francine murmured.

“Nothing to thank me for,” Pa said. “It comes with the job.”

Handyman claimed an empty table. “Then I reckon we better take advantage of Lurleen’s benefits. What’ve the kitchen niggers cooked up?”

“Ethorne,” Pa said, “has cooked up pork chops, mashed potatoes, sausage gravy, and green beans with bacon. That to your liking?”

“And biscuits.” Mr. Shale lifted one to illustrate. “The lightest I’ve ever seen.”

“They’re good,” Little Bit said, and I noticed that she and Digger had dirty plates in front of them.

“Sounds fine,” said Handyman.

“Me an’ Jordy’ll eat together,” I said.

“May Jordy and I eat together?” said Ma.

“Shoot,” said Handyman, “once you’ve seen the young’uns eat together, you won’t ask to eat with ‘em, Mis’ Nix.”

Jordy laughed hard, so I did, too. Ma said, “Christopher.”

“May Jordy and I eat together?”

“Yes, you may.”

“And Tiger?”

Ma smiled. “We’ll fix something for him.” She glanced at Lurleen. “Sit. I’ll take your order.”

Lurleen nodded as if she’d been hit. “Yes’m.”

Everyone admired my cat, even Cal, who said as he returned to his table, “I see you popped a button, boy. You ought to take better care o’ your clothes.”

Ma looked at me. “Oh, Chris. How’d you do that?”

I shrugged.

“You need to be careful with what you’re wearing.”

I nodded. Cal said, “You listen to your mama, boy. You want to be a nice young man.”

Francine said, “Cal.”

“Well, don’t he?”

Ma said, “Yes, he does, and he will be.”

“All right then,” Cal said with satisfaction.

Once Jordy and I had been convinced that Tiger should be allowed to sleep, we began to play a game that involved sliding sugar packets across a Formica tabletop. When Ma brought our dinner, she put a saucer with a scrambled egg into Tiger’s box and said, “I suppose you two didn’t even notice the gorgeous sunset.”

“No, Ma,” I said, and giggled because Jordy did. Sunsets were for girls.

A long, dark convertible turned into the drive. Its lights struck the front window, turning the world into a fireburst, then snapped off, turning it into nothing at all. Mr. Shale blinked, then smiled when Gwenny Drake came through the door. I did, too. Mr. Shale’s smile disappeared when a pale, dark-haired boy in a Levi jacket stopped at the door frame.

“Y’all still open?” the boy asked politely.

Pa looked at the clock. “Sure. Come in, have a seat.”

“Thank you,” said the boy, and he stepped inside.

“Your date?” Pa asked Gwenny.

“Oh.” She covered her mouth and laughed. “A friend. Johnny Tepes, this is Mr. Nix, and that’s Mrs. Nix—” Ma waved as she carried dishes into the kitchen. “—and that’s my boyfriend, Christopher, and my best girlfriend, Little Bit, and my best little buddy, Digger.”

I blushed and looked down. Jordy kicked my leg with a tennis shoe. “Your girlfriend?” he whispered.

I nodded.

“Wow. She’s pretty.”

“How d’you do.” Johnny Tepes stood by the cash register, surveying the room. Cal and Francine ignored him.

“Fine,” I mumbled.

“Fine,” said Little Bit, walking up to Johnny with Digger’s hand in her own. “Gwen’s nice.”

“I know,” said Johnny, smiling at Little Bit.

Ma laughed. “My daughter’s just a little bit protective. There’s a clean table in the corner.”

“Thank you.” Johnny began to cross toward it, then paused. “Ethorne’s cooking for you?”

Ma nodded.

“Ah. He remembers how I like my food.”

“Oh.” Ma frowned, then smiled. “All right. Sure. Do you know what you’d like? Or does Ethorne know that, too?”

Johnny glanced at Gwenny. She said, “A rebel burger, fries, and a Coke.”

Johnny nodded. “Likewise. Water instead of Coke, please.”

“Got it.” Ma headed into the kitchen.

Gwenny tucked her menu between the napkin dispenser and the ketchup, then looked around and smiled. “Francy!”

Francine had been staring into the window, perhaps at the gathering night, perhaps at Cal’s reflection in the glass. “Oh, Gwenny. Hi!”

Cal pursed his lips and said in falsetto, “Oh, Gwenny, hi!”

Jordy and I laughed. Francine swatted the air before Cal’s nose, saying, “Oh, you,” then turning back to Gwenny. “You know Cal, don’t you?”

Gwen nodded. “You caught the long bomb in the second quarter of the Trenton game last fall.”

He grinned. “Why, yes’m, that was me.”

“This is Johnny,” Gwenny said.

“Hi,” said Francine. “I keep thinking we met, but I must’ve just seen you around.”

“No doubt,” said Johnny.

“Where around?” said Cal to Francine.

“Around. You know.”

“No.” Cal kept smiling. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

Francine glanced at Johnny and back at Cal. “Maybe at the Roadhouse when you took me the other night?”

Johnny shrugged with a smile. “I’m often at the Roadhouse.”

Cal asked Francine, “So, you givin’ boys the eye when I step outside?”

“No, Cal—” she began.

“If she has,” Johnny said calmly, “I haven’t been lucky enough to get that eye.”

“She’s my wife, you know,” Cal said. “I’d like to know what makes you think—”

“Here you go!” Ma announced, bringing a tray of food toward Francine and Johnny. Setting a plate before Johnny, she said, “Very rare, no onions or garlic, right?” Johnny nodded. Ma looked at me. “What’s the show, Mr. Bigeyes?”

Everyone looked at me. I pointed at the metal cannister in front of Francine. “Can I have a milk shake too?”

“Well—” She glanced up as a set of headlights hesitated on the highway, then came slowly down the driveway toward us.

“Huh?” I said.

Behind the counter, Pa set down his cowboy book. “My. Busy day.”

“Hope it keeps up.” Handyman stood. “Dinner was all right, but I sure don’t see why anyone thinks that nigger cooks so good.”

“Maybe your stomach’s upset,” Lurleen said. “It was just fine. Jordy! Go wash up.”

“Yes’m,” he said, sliding out of his chair with a last peek into Tiger’s box. The kitten had eaten most of the egg and gone to sleep.

The new arrival parked. Little Bit stared at it, so I did, too. In the dark parking lot, a man got out from behind the driver’s seat. I could see several other people inside the car, but its ceiling light did not come on, so the people stayed shadows. Light from the restaurant surfed over the car’s new paint.

The man stopped at the front door and knocked. Pa frowned, then waved his arm. “C’mon on in! We’re still serving!”

The door opened, and a man stood in the entryway in a business suit as dark as his skin. He said softly, “Excuse me, sir. Do you have a colored rest room?”

Pa studied him for a long instant, then said, “Yep. Two. The men’s is colored blue, and the women’s is colored pink.”

The visitor’s gaze flickered a fraction. I had not seen that he was not meeting anyone’s eyes, until he looked at Pa’s. Pa pointed at the door on the far side of the room. “They’re on the side of the building, through there.”

“Thank you.” The visitor stepped back into the night. In the silence, we all heard him say, “It’s all right,” and a woman with two small girls got out of the car.

Ma was looking at Pa. He said, “What, is the women’s green? I can’t remember these things.”

The black family hesitated at the front door. The woman wore a nice dress, as did the girls, who wore clothes cleaner and newer than mine or Jordy’s, as though they had dressed for church or a family reunion. The man said, “Hurry up, now,” and walked his family through the room.

Johnny Tepes looked away and said, “Good burger,” to Gwenny, at the same time that Francine said, “We best be goin’,” to Cal, who answered, “What’s the hurry? Ain’t but one openin’ day. Don’t you want to stay till closin’?”

A family of tourists went to the cash register and paid their bill. Pa said, “Hope you’ll stop in the next time you’re by.” The parents nodded curtly and left without speaking.

The black man was the first to return from the restrooms. He said, “Thank you,” again to Pa.

Pa said, “That’s what they’re there for.”

The man smiled a bit. “Do you fix take-out food?”

Pa nodded. “We fix take-out food and take-in food. I figure once you buy it, you can take it where you please.” He gestured toward a table. “We’re staying open a little late tonight, if you folks would like to sit down. It’s our first official day of business.”

The man looked at the woman and girls as they came into the room. “I— Thank you. Yes. We would. We had car trouble this afternoon, and we’d hoped to be home by now—”

“You haven’t eaten?” Ma said. “These children must be starving.”

“I think they are,” said the woman.

“Yes, ma’am, we surely are,” said the younger girl with a solemn nod.

“Well,” said Ma. “We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?”

Handyman shook his head once, then said, “Bye,” and walked out. Lurleen and Jordy followed him. I waved at Jordy. Lurleen tugged his arm before he could wave back.

Cal said, “I seen enough,” and he and Francine left after she told me to take good care of my Tiger. Johnny and Gwenny stayed in the corner, whispering as they ate. The black family ate their dinner and left. Pa said something about the man ordering the most expensive meal on the menu. Ma did not respond to that. After Johnny and Gwenny had gone and Pa had turned the “open” sign around, he went to the cash register to count the day’s receipts, and Ma took Digger and Little Bit back to the house since it was past their bedtimes.

I stood by the window, holding Tiger and looking out into the night. Ethorne, mopping the floor, came up to me and said, “What you see out there, Christopher?”

“Nothin’.”

Ethorne nodded.

I added, “‘Cept that man on the road.”

“Oh? What’s he look like to you?”

“Like you, Ethorne. Only tall. An’ he’s got a black coat an’ a high black hat.”

“He’s a Negro?”

I nodded.

“What’s he doin’?”

“Just dancing.”

Ethorne nodded. We stood there, looking out into the moonlight. The dancing man waved and went into the trees. I waved back. Ethorne said, “You seen him go?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well. It’s been a long, long day, Mast’ Chris. You best do like your kittycat and get you some sleep.”

Chapter Seven: Learning to Swim

We gave Tiger swimming lessons in our plastic wading pool. I taught the kitten the way Pa taught me: I threw him into water where he could not stand, and I watched, ready to grab him if he went under. Tiger did not thrash desperately like me. He merely paddled urgently for the edge of the plastic pool with his head high and his thin legs churning. Little Bit said, “Dog paddle,” and we all laughed. “Tiger paddle,” I said, and we all laughed some more, even Jordy. That was probably when Ma noticed the kitten swimming lessons and stopped them.

Our swimming lessons happened in two places. When Pa took us, we went to Hawkins Springs behind Mrs. DeLyons’ Fountain of Youth Motor Hotel. When Ma took us, we drove to Mermaid Springs State Park, where we would sometimes meet Mr. Drake.

I liked Mermaid Springs better because I felt safe there. Ma could not swim, so she never made me jump off a dock into deep water, and she always insisted that I wear an orange styrofoam cylinder on my back like a skindiver or spaceman. Ma usually sat on a towel on the grass near the beach, reading a magazine or a book while tanning her legs. Every now and then she would call to us not to go too far or not to splash each other. When she wore her one-piece red swimming suit, she would come in up to her waist, then lower herself to her shoulders, being careful not to get her hair wet. On the rarest occasions, she would wear a swimming cap and float on her back in the shallow water. Often she stayed in her shorts and shirt, adding sunglasses and removing shoes as her concession to summer and the beach.

Mermaid Springs had several floating docks that enclosed a shallow area for little kids, and concrete and tile changing rooms with wooden benches and flush toilets, and a concession stand that sold hot dogs and soda pop and popsicles, and a walking bridge that arched over a narrow neck of land where the springs flowed into a broad area of weeds and sawgrass on its way to the river. There were always a lot of people at the state park, little kids like us, big kids like Gwenny Drake, and adults like Ma and Mr. Drake.

Besides the orange styrofoam cylinder on my back, I often swam with a giant red plastic baseball bat that I clutched like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a spar. Once, when neither Pa nor Mr. Drake were along, I was hanging onto the bat and swimming in the shallows by the walking bridge. Little kids played on both sides of the neck of land, and bigger kids swam back and forth. I decided to swim to the far side, but the current caught the plastic bat and began pulling me toward the bridge.

I screamed. I can’t remember now whether I was afraid that I would drown, or that I would lose the red bat, or that something among the weeds and lillypads would get me. Maybe I only knew that something stronger than me was taking me someplace I did not want to go.

Kids and adults stared at me. I don’t know if the lifeguard was far away, or if there was no lifeguard on duty that day. All I know is that Ma, fully dressed, ran into the water and grabbed me before the current drew me under the bridge.

I had an early lesson about appearances at Mermaid Springs. The first time I went into the enclosed swimming area, I saw a man several yards from shore in water up to his neck. I looked at him, wondering if there was a drop-off and trying to remember if undertows were only something to worry about in the ocean. The man saw me and smiled and rose, higher and higher as water cascaded from his skin until he stood knee-deep in what had clearly been shallow water all along, yet had been mysterious depths until he stood.

Mermaid Springs was named for manatees. Ma read about them from plastic-covered papers tacked to a rough, outdoor sign board that stood under its own small roof. “See?” Ma said, pointing at a drawing of something that looked like a cross between a pig and a catfish. “That’s a manatee. Sometimes they come into the springs, but I don’t see any now.”

“Will they get us?” I asked.

Ma pointed at a wire fence in the water around the swimming area. “They can’t get through that. Even if they could, they wouldn’t hurt anyone. It says they don’t have any natural enemies. They’re mammals. Do you remember what mammals are?”

“Like us,” Little Bit said.

“Air breathers,” I said.

Digger nodded.

“The Latin name’s Trichechus manatus. That’s pretty hard to say, huh? There are three kinds of tricky-chee-dee.” She laughed as she stumbled over the name, so we laughed, too. “Trichechus manatus is found from central Florida to northern South America. That’s the manatee that lives in the river here. There’s also Trickycus inunguis in the Amazon river and Trickycus senegalensis in West Africa. Manatees an get to be as big as fifteen hundred pounds. That’s thirty times what you weigh, Chris.”

“A lot,” I said.

“And the adults range in length from eight to fifteen feet. They mate, um, we’ll skip that. The mothers have one baby at a time, like humans do.”

“Can we see a baby?” asked Little Bit.

“We can look for one,” said Ma. “Manatees eat plants in slow rivers and along the coasts. They help keep the waterways clear of vegetation. They’re part of a group called sea cows, who’re over fifty million years old. That’s a lot of zeroes. That’s before there were people.”

“Dinosaurs?” I asked.

Ma shrugged. “Maybe. People used to hunt sea cows for meat, for their hides, and for oil. The biggest was Stellar’s Sea Cow, which grew as long as twenty-four feet. It was hunted to extinction thirty years after being discovered in the Bering Sea in 1741.”

“Stinkshun means there’s no more,” I said.

“Not of that kind of sea cow, anyway.” Ma kept reading. “Manatees are in danger because they float near the top of the water, and people in motor boats hit them with their propellers. Some of them are scarred on their backs from being hit many times. Poor things.”

“That’s not fair,” said Little Bit.

“Well, people have to use the river too,” Ma said. “You like riding in boats, don’t you?”

Little Bit nodded.

“Manatees don’t see well. They communicate by touching their muzzles together.”

“Like a kiss!” Little Bit said, laughing.

Ma smiled. “And when they’re alarmed, they make a chirping sound. Like squirrels, maybe. They live alone or in families of up to fifteen or twenty. You know why this place is called Mermaid Springs?”

“Uh uh,” Little Bit and I said.

“When sailors on the ocean saw sea cows swimming far away, they thought they were mermaids.”

I pointed at the drawing of a manatee. “Don’t have any hair. Or arms.”

Ma ruffled my crewcut. “If you’d been the lookout, you’d’ve told them these were sea cows, not mermaids, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“Mercows,” said Mr. Drake behind us. “Moo. Glub glub glub. Moo.”

We all laughed, even Ma, who said, “Fancy meeting you here. Is Gwenny along?”

“Oh, she’s getting too old to be escorted by a senile, decrepit male like her Dad.” He grinned. “How’re things?”

“Fine.” Ma shrugged. “But I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the climate. I expected the heat and the bugs. I never thought I’d be fighting mold and mustiness, trying to keep our shoes and luggage and belts wiped clean—” She brushed her hair back from her forehead and laughed. “Well. I came here to leave that behind, and here I drag it along with me.”

Mr. Drake nodded. “How about a cold Co-cola to help you forget?”

“Okay!” said Little Bit.

“Well,” said Ma. “That’d be nice.”

So we all had Cokes. I drank mine to the last drop, though it did not taste like grape or orange or anything good. Digger and I made sand castles while Ma and Mr. Drake sat on the beach, talking about concrete block houses and girls to help with house work and what the local schools were like and the funny things that children did. Ma wore her swimsuit and sunglasses that day, and Mr. Drake, in green swimming trunks and a red Hawaiian shirt, had white gunk on his nose like lifeguards wore (which he told me was warpaint). In the sunlight, his hair and hers were the same color as Digger’s and Little Bit’s, which meant they were the same color as mine. As Ma spread tanning oil on her legs, Mr. Drake smiled and said it was a glorious day.

There were no Cokes to be had at Hawkins Springs, or flush toilets and tiled changing rooms, or young lifeguards with white grease striped down their noses, or laughing crowds, or signboards about the history of the land or the native wildlife. There was an abandoned wooden dance hall, and the overgrown foundations of Fort Hawkins, and the springs itself, an eternal frigid bubbling of water from a bowl in the Earth that might have been thirty feet deep and thirty feet across. A simple wooden platform had been built at the edge of the shore for divers, and a thick knotted rope hung from an oak for those who wished to swing out over the cool boil and drop into its heart.

The ground around the springs was steep and grassy, roughly terraced by roots and a few boulders. A wide swatch of saw grass under glass-clear waters bounded the side of the boil that gushed toward the Suwannee. Perhaps twenty yards from the boil was a steep sandy beach and a gently sloping sand-bottomed swimming area. Beyond that lay a region of weeds, lily pads, dark mud, and cypress knees.

Sometimes we rode in the station wagon to Hawkins Springs, but when the weather was warm and Pa was not in a hurry, we walked along the side of the road and past the Fountain of Youth to a dirt road that wound back beside the motel units to the dance hall, an old rectangular structure of weathered wood that had windows without glass or screens and entrances without doors. For decades, people had come to dance, drink, and make love there, moving desperately together beneath the rafters to the beat of a visiting band. Ma and Pa probably looked at the building and saw the ghosts of couples who passed warm evenings beside the springs. To me, it was only the old dancehall. It needed a saloon’s swinging doors and the scars of gun duels to acquire romance in my eyes.

The dancehall overlooked Hawkins Springs and a sliver of the darker waters of the Suwannee that flowed past the spring’s mouth. A narrow dirt path, rutted from rains, ran in front of the dancehall and down to the sandy beach. We would change into our swimsuits in the shadows of the echoing dancehall, leaving our clothes on the floor, and run down to the water with our towels and toys. Pa usually dropped his shirt and towel in the sand as he ran, kicked off his flipflops, and plunged in, splashing all about him while we kids giggled, and diving under water when he was in up to his thighs.

A raft made of wooden planks and metal barrels had been anchored between the beach and the mouth to the river. Sometimes Pa’s dive would carry him under the raft, and he would rise on the far side out of our sight. Before we could worry, he would return, climbing onto the raft, then diving toward us, or merely swimming with strong overhead strokes back to where he could stand and ask why we hadn’t gotten in the water yet.

Little Bit would laugh, and sometimes they’d start to splash each other while Digger, giggling, rocked up and down, slapping the water and splashing himself more than anyone else. Sometimes Pa would pick us up and toss us out into the water. Little Bit would shriek in delight, but I would try to hide my dread. I hated the shock of being swallowed by cold water, the pain of having water run up my nose, the sight of a rippling roof of water above me that might recede infinitely as I sank further and further until I was a corpse at the bottom of the sea, drifting forever among rippling grasses, sunken galleons, and curious mermaids.

We rarely saw other people at Hawkins Spring. When we did, they were usually guests of the motel who we’d never see again. If Mrs. DeLyon was working outside or by the office window when we passed, she and Pa would nod or wave. We almost never saw her at the springs, but once, when Pa was diving down into the boil to touch the opening where water gushed from the Earth, the opening where two scuba divers had entered and never returned, I saw Little Bit looking up at the dancehall. Mrs. DeLyon stood there, watching from the shadows.

Little Bit waved to her, and so did Digger, and so did I. She laughed, said, “I have better things to do,” then walked down to join us. Digger, Little Bit, and I sat by the shore where Pa had told us to stay while he swam. As Mrs. DeLyon removed her sunglasses, Pa shot to the surface, shaking his head like a seal. He looked toward us, and I cannot guess what he saw; his glasses were tucked into a grassy ledge along with a translucent plastic box that held a white bar of soap. He said, “Hi, Maggie. It’s invigorating.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”

Pa swam to the shore and climbed up to join us. His tanned biceps worked smoothly in both enterprises. I thought of my thin pale arms and wished I could be an adult instantly by one supreme effort of will. Pa said, “Taking a break?”

Mrs. DeLyon nodded. “I shouldn’t be.”

Pa said, “Sometimes you have to.” He began soaping himself, passing the bar over the hair on his chest and stomach.

“Shampoo monster,” Little Bit said, and Mrs. DeLyon covered her mouth to hide a smile.

Pa said, “Seems to me I’m not the only one who needs to wash. What would your Ma say?”

Little Bit said, “I don’t need a bath.”

Pa said, “Queen Elizabeth the First took a bath every year, whether she needed one or not.”

Little Bit laughed. “I took one this year! I took one this year!”

Pa shook his head and, sudsing his legs and feet, told Mrs. DeLyon, “I think our first mistake is teaching our children to reason.”

“It would be nice if we could,” Mrs. DeLyon replied.

“Yeah. That’s why we make the mistake of trying.” Pa handed the soap to Digger. “Soap all over.”

Digger nodded and followed Pa’s example. Pa said, “There’s nothing like this after a hot day’s work.” He stepped to the bank and dove. When he came up again in the center of the springs, he treaded water lazily and said, “Care to join us?”

“Some other time.” Mrs. DeLyon replaced her sunglasses.

“I like washing in the springs water,” Little Bit said. “It’s fun.”

Mrs. DeLyon nodded at her. Pa called, “Meet you at the shallow area!” and began swimming across the stretch of sawgrass as though there was no chance at all that the Creature from the Black Lagoon lurked there. The rest of us followed along the shore, stepping carefully across a creek that trickled from beneath the dancehall into the springs. Then Digger dropped the soap into Little Bit’s hands and ran into the water. Pa caught him, swinging him high, then setting him back in shallow water because Digger swam fine underwater but did not seem to understand about swimming on the surface.

Little Bit threw the soap to me. I dropped it on the sand. “Stupid!” I said.

“You’re stupid,” Little Bit said.

“I’m rubber,” I said, “And you’re glue, and what you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”

Ma had taught me that. I grinned until Little Bit spoiled my triumph. “Am not. You are.”

“I think,” Mrs. DeLyon said, “you’re both too intelligent for this conversation.”

“The soap’s all dirty,” I said.

“Is there a remedy?” asked Mrs. DeLyon.

I stuck out my lower lip, immediately retracted it, nodded, and carried the soap to the water to rinse it.

“That,” said Mrs. DeLyon, “is all there is to being a hero.”

“It’s still got some dirt in it,” I said pointedly, but Little Bit had already waded out to jump around until she had rinsed herself.

“That’s the harder half of being a hero,” said Mrs. DeLyon. “You can never make things the same as they were.”

I rubbed my chest with the soap with its embedded bits of sand. “Scratches.”

“Makes you tough,” Mrs. DeLyon said.

“Makes you more careful about catching what you’re thrown,” Pa said behind me. I had not realized he was listening. He patted the bristles of my crewcut, and I relaxed. He asked Mrs. DeLyon, “You do all right with kids. Any of your own?”

“Sometimes I serve as a teacher.”

Pa nodded. “I don’t know why our society doesn’t value teachers more.”

Mrs. DeLyon smiled. “I’ve quit trying to understand the why of societies. It’s enough to know the what and the how.”

Pa sat beside her. “I’d settle for that.”

She laughed. “Would you? I think you understand much of what the South is, yet you do not settle for that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to get after me for serving colored people, too?”

“Who’s gotten after you?”

Pa shrugged. “A few of Dogland’s shareholders. And I’ve seen that we don’t get much business from local whites.”

“Tourist attractions don’t get a lot of local business.”

“Restaurant should get some. And we do. From local colored people.”

“That bothers you?”

“Hell, no. They’re good people. Their money’s green, and they generally seem glad to be spending it at our place. Which is more than I can say for some white tourists. Too many people aren’t happy unless they’re miserable.”

“Ah.”

“Watching Lurleen Greenleaf is the damndest thing. You can tell she likes Mayella, which makes sense since Mayella’s the only other Southern woman there. They’ll sit in the kitchen smoking cigarettes and talking about men until I have to yell at them to pretend I’m paying them to do something. But when Lurleen’s out front, she won’t wait on Negroes, and Mayella might as well be a stranger. A stranger of no consequence.”

“Does Mayella mind?”

Pa looked at her, then said, “You know, I can’t tell.”

“Do you mind?”

“Isn’t my place to mind.”

“Mmm.”

I sat near them, digging in the sand with a sun-bleached stick. Pa called, “Don’t you want to rinse that soap off?” I shrugged. The drying soap itched, but their conversation was interesting, and I was in no hurry to go in the water while Pa was watching.

He said, “Artie says once you understand the nature of defeated nations, you understand the South. And Ireland and Germany and a few other places as well. Folks look for scapegoats. Here, it’s the black man. But why does one person’s pride have to come at the expense of another’s?”

“It’s not unusual to despise those we’ve wronged.”

Pa nodded. “I hate people.”

Mrs. DeLyon laughed so hard that Digger and Little Bit quit splashing to glance at her. She said, “You’re one of the most sociable men I’ve ever known, Luke Nix. Whenever I visit Dogland, you’re talking with someone. Tourist, worker, child, old person, white, black—”

Pa looked at his toes, which he had buried in the sand. “Well, I don’t mind a few people at a time. It’s the herd I can’t stand.”

“Ah.”

“Now, Susan loves people, though how you’d confuse me with her, I’d never know.”

“You’re much alike.”

He looked at her, then at me. “What’re you staring at?”

“Nothing. Sir.”

“Get washed.”

“Yessir.”

I liked getting in cold water the way Ma did, as slowly as you could. That was the way Ma and I liked removing Band-Aids, too. Pa was completely different. Grown-ups were usually wrong about obvious things.

Pa called, “Gonna take all day?”

I had gone to the point where the water would touch the bottom of my swimsuit, and the suit would cling to my legs. “No, sir.”

“Then jump in.”

I leaped forward, sinking to my shoulders in a crouch, then sprang up.

“Feels great, doesn’t it?”

I nodded. Becoming aware that my teeth wanted to chatter, I let them. Digger, Little Bit, Mrs. DeLyon, and Pa all laughed. I grinned, but it did no good. Pa called, “Now, swim back and forth a little.”

I obeyed by dogpaddling parallel to the shore.

“No,” Pa called. “Over-hand.”

I began throwing my arms over my head, thrashing from side to side, keeping my head high so I could see whether alligators or water moccasins might swim from the part of Hawkins Springs where lily pads were thick around cypress knees and anything might wait for a small boy who was just the right size to stick in an oven.

“Kick!” Pa yelled. “Kick harder.” After I had swum back and forth several times, he called, “There. Wasn’t so bad.”

I shrugged extravagantly.

Little Bit pointed across the springs, toward the opening to the Suwannee. “Lookit.”

I turned. Something peered at us from close to the bank by the river. I saw the top of a dark head with damp hair, and then the watcher slid under water.

“What?” Pa asked.

“Mermaid,” said Little Bit.

Pa laughed. “Probably a log. In the water, things look different.”

Mrs. DeLyon said, “A manatee.”

“Oh,” I said.

“We saw a pi’ture at Mermaid State Park,” said Little Bit. “They got a place to live there.”

“They had the world in which to live,” said Mrs. DeLyon. “The manatee you saw was an old one.”

Little Bit nodded. “I know.”

“Because of its size?” Pa asked.

Mrs. DeLyon nodded.

Pa said, “We have reservations for damn near everything. Manatees and American Indians. Had ‘em for Japanese-Americans during the war. Sometimes I’m surprised we don’t have one for Negroes. Hmm. Guess that’s what Liberia was meant to be. Wonder why it didn’t work.”

“Too expensive to send people back to Africa?” said Mrs. DeLyon.

“Prob’ly,” said Pa. “People are practical. By ‘43, Romania had killed a hundred thousand Jews, which was getting expensive. So they offered to send Jews to any country that’d pay to transport ‘em. A Hollywood writer named Ben Hecht took out a full-page ad in the New York Times with a headline, ‘For Sale to Humanity, 70,000 Jews, Guaranteed Human Beings at $50 Apiece.’ There were no buyers. So the Romanians kept doing what they knew how to do. Practical, yep.”

An aluminum boat with a large outboard raced past on the Suwannee. I said, “I hope the man’tee dived.”

“So do I,” said Mrs. DeLyon. Then she spoke to Pa. “I’ve heard you say you admire Earl Warren.”

“Among others. So?”

“He was California’s Attorney General during the war,” said Mrs. DeLyon. “He had an important part in creating concentration camps for Japanese Americans.”

“Well, maybe he learned. Maybe it’s just that when you get a job on something like the Supreme Court, you’re tempted to do the right thing in spite of yourself. What’s your point?”

“You have hope,” said Mrs. DeLyon.

Pa shrugged. “Wouldn’t have kids if I didn’t have hope.”

#

Sally and Colleen were two Yankee college girls spending their summer vacation driving around the South, taking odd jobs for a week or two, waiting tables or picking fruit, then moving on. I could not tell them apart. Many people passed through Dogland for a week or a month, and I only remember that Sally and Colleen were loud girls with nasal accents like Mr. Kennedy, the man Pa liked who was running for President against Mr. Nixon, the man Ma and Grandma Letitia and Grandpa Abner liked because they were Republicans. Sally and Colleen liked Mr. Kennedy, who was “a dreamboat” and “someone who would change things, make real changes at last, really.” Maybe that was why Pa often talked with them about the coming election.

When Pa and we kids walked back from Hawkins Springs, we saw Sally and Colleen waving goodbye as Cal Carter and Victor Dalton drove away in a cloud of dust and gravel. Sally or Colleen saw us and called, “Hi, Mr. Nix! Hi, Chris and Little Bit and Digger!”

“Hi,” I said.

Pa said, “So, you know someone in Latchahee County?”

“Met someone,” said Colleen or Sally.

“Victor Dalton and Calvin Coolidge Carter Junior.” said Sally or Colleen.

“Hmm,” said Pa. “Dalton’s dad is the banker. He’s a good man. Cal’s married to one of our girls. Susan must’ve mentioned her. Francine, who’s gone to Georgia to care for her grandmother.”

“He didn’t say anything about being married,” said Sally or Colleen.

“But you did tell him you had a fiancÉ in Rhode Island,” said Colleen or Sally.

“True,” said Sally or Colleen.

“Why?” said Pa, who followed this with a grin.

“We’re going out Friday night,” said Colleen or Sally.

“It’ll be a double-date,” said Sally or Colleen.

“Just like in high school!” said Colleen or Sally, and they both laughed.

“We’re going Dutch. First to the Roadhouse for dinner, then we’ll catch a double feature at the—” Colleen or Sally made a face. “Thee-Ayter.” They both laughed again.

“Sounds like fun,” Pa said.

“Oh, it will be,” said Colleen or Sally. “Then there’s a rock and roll band from Gainesville at the Roadhouse.”

“Your fiancÉ won’t mind?” Pa asked.

“Oh, it’s not that kind of date,” said Sally or Colleen.

“For you,” said Colleen or Sally. “I don’t have a fiancÉ. And Victor’s kind of cute. He isn’t married, is he?”

“I don’t think so,” Pa said, “He’s going to Tampa State, or something. Isn’t it about time to feed the dogs?”

“Oh, right you are, Mr. Nix. James’s probably got their food mixed and ready by now.”

“Probably,” Pa said.

“People are so polite down here. Have you noticed that, Mr. Nix?”

“Um hmm. It’s amazing how subtly people will suggest that the help ought to spend a little time now and then earning their pay.”

The girls laughed, because Pa spoke with a grin. Laughing together, they walked toward the dog pens. Pa led us kids into the new wooden gift shop that he, Handyman, Ethorne, and a few helpers were building next to the restaurant. My part in the construction had been to crawl, hot, sticky, and itching, through the rafters in the low attic, unrolling pink fiberglass insulation.

Ethorne was building pegboard frames to hang up items for sale like Florida playing cards, smoke bombs, and plastic conquistador helmets. Digger grinned, and Little Bit and I both yelled, “Hi, Ethorne!”

He set aside his screwdriver. “How y’all? Looks like somebody fell in the water.”

Digger nodded, and Little said, “I did,” then added, “We saw a mermaid.”

“Do tell?”

“A manatee,” I explained.

“Oh, a manatee. That’s ‘bout like a mermaid. You know, they got sea cows ‘round Africa and ‘round here. Both black folks and red folks tol’ stories ‘bout folks who turn into sea cows. Or maybe it’s sea cows who turn into folks.”

“That’s just stories,” I said.

“Those frames look good,” Pa said.

Ethorne tapped one. “Comin’ along.”

Pa looked at us. “Why don’t you kids go put away your swim stuff?”

“Okay,” Little Bit answered, and I nodded. Outside the gift shop, I stooped to look at several empty paint cans while Digger and Little Bit went to the house. I touched the inside of one can, and the tip of my finger came away covered with slick white goo. I rubbed the goo off on my pants, saw what a mess that made, and rubbed dirt into it so the dirt would get the paint off. And while I was doing that, I heard Pa say, “Ethorne?”

“Yes, Mist’ Luke?”

“You’re proving such a help on the grounds that I think we’ll let Mayella and Lurleen handle the cooking.”

After a moment, Ethorne said, “I don’t mean nothin’ again’ either of ‘em, but they don’t exactly come up with inspirin’ eatin’, if you know what I mean.”

Pa laughed. “I do. But, well, it seems that for all the compliments we get on your cooking, we get just as many complaints.”

“Eh,” said Ethorne.

“Doesn’t mean anything,” said Pa. “I’d eat your cooking forever.”

“Eh,” Ethorne repeated. “I bes’ finish up this frame before quittin’ time, Mist’ Luke.”

“I—” Pa began, but he only finished, “All right.” I heard him walking away from Ethorne, so I began scrabbling more earnestly in the gravel. When Pa came out the door, he said, “What’re you doing?”

“Playing,” I said.

“Get changed,” Pa said, walking toward the dog pens. “It’s nearly dinner.”

“Yessir.” I ran to the house. “Playing” was the best excuse I had ever found. One day when Ma was cleaning the women’s bathroom, I scuttled across the floor on my hands and knees, racing between her legs and peeking up her skirt as I went. When she asked me what I was doing, I said, “Playing.” She looked at me, then said, “Maybe you’d better play outside so I can finish in here.”

#

When Little Bit told Mayella about the mermaid, Mayella laughed and laughed. “You don’ fear no manatees, do you, girl?”

“No,” Little Bit said solemnly.

“Good,” said Mayella. “Manatees don’ hurt nobody. They just swim along, thinkin’ their deep river dreams.”

“Deep river dreams?” I said. “What’s that?”

Mayella smiled. “That’s when everything’s slow and peaceful, and there’s plenty to eat, and there’s company when you want it, and nothing happens in a hurry, and you can think all you want on what God is and what God wants, and you can know it don’t much matter ‘cause you doin’ what you s’posed to, and God’s doin’ what God’s s’posed to. That’s deep river dreamin’.”

#

Pa put a Coca-cola machine in the Doggy Salon. Tourists commented on it because it was old, a low, squat red machine with a glass door in one side where the bottles of Coke waited to be pulled out, and because it was cheap, only a nickel a bottle though many places had begun selling Coke for a dime, and because Pa kept wooden trays of full Coke bottles stacked next to the machine. When people asked why he wasn’t afraid they’d be stolen, Pa would point out that no one could smuggle trays of Coke through the gift shop and past Mrs. Stark, an older widow who worked in the giftshop as our cashier, and no one would want to drink a bottle of warm Coke on a hot day when a cold one was available for five cents.

What Pa did not know was that when one of the dispensing holes was empty because all the Cokes in the rack feeding that slot had been sold, you could shove a warm Coke bottle into the hole. And if you didn’t push it in all the way, it didn’t get latched inside, and if a tourist didn’t drop in a nickel and take that bottle, you could pull it out, nice and cool, anytime you wanted and go hide in the closet of Ma and Pa’s bedroom, the absolute last place anyone would look for you, and drink the Coke, which was probably still a little warm because who could wait?—even though you’d have to share it with Digger and Little Bit, not because they would tell but because they would make too much noise laughing or begging for a drink if you didn’t let them have some.

I can’t remember if I quit chilling Cokes because I realized that was stealing. I think a tourist reached for the bottle that I had been cooling for a long half hour, and I asked the tourist to take a different one, and the tourist told my parents.

#

Most Sundays, Ma took us to Sunday school in Dickison. On hot days, we would fan ourselves with paper fans that showed Jesus with his long blond hair and beard, dressed in a white robe and leather sandals, holding his arms wide for an embrace that anticipated his crucifixion. Once we went with Mayella to her church, and though everyone was colored, and they sang more than in the white people’s church, they used the same paper fans.

#

We kids all showered together when we were small. Afterwards, Little Bit would do the Naked Dance, whirling from the bathroom into the kids’ room wrapped in a beach towel that she would discard while Digger and I clapped. Ma stopped the Naked Dances and the shared showers at about the same time. Digger and I continued to shower together, and sometimes, Pa showered with us. Pa looked like us, only bigger and hairier and more muscled. Ma wore dresses and had long hair, but those were the only traits she shared with Little Bit that I could tell.

#

Dog babies were tiny and blind, and if you scared the mother, she might bite you. But when Ma or Pa said the babies were old enough, you could hold one in your hands and it would snuffle against your skin, trying to find out if you were its mother.

#

Early one evening after dinner but before dark, I was circling the Heart Tree with a cap rifle when a car horn honked. Cal and Victor got out of Victor’s red Chevrolet convertible. “Hey, boy,” Victor called, “you know Colleen and Sally?”

I looked at them and shrugged.

“Sure you do,” said Cal, laughing. “You want to run tell ‘em we’re here, boss-boy?”

I grinned, nodded, and ran.

Colleen and Sally had a small trailer, just big enough for two bunks and a tiny kitchen, that they had parked next to our house. I banged on the door. Sally or Colleen looked out and laughed even before I said, “Cal an’ Victor are here.” I pointed up at the parking lot.

“Already?” said Colleen or Sally, inside the trailer.

“Already,” said Sally or Colleen. Then she told me, “Tell them to hold their horses; we’ll be ready in a sec; we’re putting on our faces, okay?”

I nodded.

“You’re a dear,” said Sally or Colleen, and the door closed.

I ran up to the parking lot. Victor was sitting in the passenger seat, looking in the mirror as he combed his hair back. Cal was sitting on the front bumper, smoking a cigarette. He looked at me and said, “Well, boss-boy?”

“You’re s’posed to hold the horses. They’re puttin’ on their faces.”

“I was figurin’ on holdin’ something else,” said Victor.

“I’m goin’ to have a white horse an’ a black horse when I grow up,” I said. “I’ll ride the white one in the day time an’ the black one in the night.”

Victor frowned at me.

Cal pointed away. “Umm-hmmm, lookathere.”

“Where?” said Victor.

“G’night, Mayella!” I called, waving as hard as I could.

She stopped in the middle of the semicircular driveway and looked at us without any expression. Ethorne had not come to work that day, or the day before, and Seth and James had left earlier, before supper, so she was walking home. “Good night, Chris,” she said quietly, and she walked on.

“Brown sugar,” Cal told Victor.

Victor laughed and nudged him. “You a dog. You such a dog.”

“I like cimanin sugar,” I said. “On toast.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re a Yankee,” said Cal.

“Everyone likes cimanin sugar,” I said.

“On toast,” said Cal, nodding.

Victor said, “Ain’t any kind of sugar that this houn’ dog don’t like.”

Cal looked up at the sky and bayed like Colonel, our Blood Hound. As I laughed, I heard Colleen or Sally say, “I do believe the gentlemen approve.”

“And how,” said Cal.

I turned. Colleen and Sally wore dresses, one pink and flounced at the waist, one blue and close-fitting. “You look like princesses,” I said.

“Well,” said Colleen or Sally. “Then I guess our work was not in vain.”

“Not a’tall,” said Victor.

Sally or Colleen said, “We haven’t had an excuse to dress up all summer.”

“Glad to provide one, ladies,” said Cal. “Hop in. Dinner’s calling.”

“You didn’t mention you were married,” said Sally or Colleen as both girls got into the backseat.

“Didn’t think I needed to after you mentioned your fee-oncy.” Cal grinned. “Goin’ dancin’ don’ mean goin’ romancin’. Wasn’t we just goin’ to show you how we have fun ‘round here?”

“Fine,” said Sally or Colleen. “I just wanted to be sure.”

I waved goodbye. Sally or Colleen waved back, one hand twisting from side to side at the wrist. When I turned, Ma had come out of the gift shop, where she counted up the money at the end of the day after Mrs. Stark had closed the building. She said, “Didn’t they look nice?”

I nodded.

“I wouldn’t have thought those boys owned ties, let alone sports jackets.” She came and touched my shoulder. “You’re getting to be a big boy, Chris.”

I grinned. “Time to measure me again?” The inside bathroom doorframe bore the marks and dates of the measurements of each kid’s height, and I enjoyed the inexorable progress, a promise that someday I could be as tall as Pa.

Ma laughed. “I don’t think you’ve grown that much since Sunday.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I was just thinking that someday I’d watch you going off on a date.”

“With a girl?”

She laughed and nodded.

“Yuck!”

She said, “You’ll think differently when you’re older.” And then she bent over and kissed my cheek.

“Yuck!” I repeated, and wiped my cheek with my hand.

“Are you getting too big to be kissed by your mother?”

I rolled my eyes and shrugged.

“You’re never too big to be kissed by your mother,” Ma said.

“Okay,” I conceded, and Ma laughed. “Come on. It’s time to get into your peejays.”

“Already?”

“Digger’s sound asleep, and Little Bit’s in hers.”

“All right,” I said sadly.

Ma laughed again. “Life sure is hard on some people.”

#

I woke sometime in the middle of the night and pushed myself up onto my arms to see why. The night-light showed me that Digger, curled like a cat, was still asleep and Little Bit, on her back like a mummy, was already awake. She watched me from the corners of her eyes. Car lights shone through the window above her head. Someone was moving around in the yard. I wanted to call for Ma or Pa, then realized that I heard their voices outside.

I ran across the cold linoleum floor to stand on Little Bit’s bed and peer through the louvered windows. Little Bit, without moving, said, “What you see?”

“Ma an’ Pa an’ C’leen an’ Sally.”

“Who’s cryin’?”

I hadn’t realized anyone was crying. I looked closer. “Ma. No. C’leen an’ Sally.” One was crying while Ma embraced her, and the other was furious, making fists and faces at Pa, who stood there with his hands before him in a rare gesture of helplessness.

“Who hurt ‘em?”

“I dunno.”

“Nobody should hurt ‘em.”

“They’re hitchin’ up the trailer! Pa’s helpin’.”

“They’re takin’ me swimmin’ tomorrow. Co-leen said.”

“Not no more,” I said. “They’re leavin’.”

“Who hurt ‘em?”

“I don’t know!” I said, annoyed that she had asked me again.

“Somebody hurt ‘em!”

“Maybe Cal an’ Victor.”

“Cal an’ Victor.”

“Maybe,” I said.

I watched Colleen and Sally get into their old dark coupe and rattle toward the highway. I watched Ma and Pa looking after them as they turned north and drove out of this story of my life. I watched Pa put his arm around Ma and lead her toward the door to their room. I ducked down and off Little Bit’s bed, whispering, “They left.” Then I added, “Pa hugged Ma,” and I returned to my bed. When Ma looked in a moment later, Little Bit and I pretended we were sleeping as soundly as Digger. Perhaps Little Bit was.

#

The next afternoon, Cal and Victor drove into the parking lot. Digger, Little Bit, and I were playing by the Heart Tree. I started to wave, but Little Bit made a face and turned her back, so I merely watched.

Cal called, “Hey, boss-boy! Sally or Colleen around?”

I don’t know where Pa came from, perhaps from the gift shop, perhaps from the kitchen. He walked toward them with a stride that would have made me want to run in the opposite direction. He gave Cal and Victor the steady look that said you had better not run. Maybe that’s why they waited. Pa asked in his calm-before-the-storm voice, “Why?”

“Oh oh,” I said.

“Good,” Little Bit said.

Cal smiled. “How you, Mister Nix? Elvis Presley’s in a movie at the drive-in. We was wonderin’ if the girls wanted some fun.”

The door to the gift shop opened, and Ma stepped out. Mrs. Stark, who never missed anything interesting, looked through the gift shop window. Lurleen watched from the front of the restaurant, and the kitchen door was open wide enough for Mayella to see and hear. Ethorne and the rest of the staff were back with the dogs. I was the only male observer.

“Get off my property,” Pa said. The storm had yet to break.

“What’s the matter?” said Victor. “We only want to talk to the girls.”

“Now,” Pa said.

Victor said, “Hold on,” and began to open his car door. Pa stopped it with the flat of his hand, and he and Victor strained against each other. Victor was a foot taller than Pa, but I knew who was stronger. Ma called, “Luke!” as Victor said, “This here’s a public business, Mister Nix. You can’t run us off, and those girls ain’t your slaves. If you—”

Pa released the door, grabbed Victor by his golf shirt, and yanked him forward, out of the car. Victor sprawled onto the gravel, and Pa put an engineer boot against the back of his head. “You hear what I said?”

“Yeah!” screamed Victor as Pa bore down on his boot. “I hear! I hear!”

Cal came running around the side of the car, but he stopped when Pa pointed at him. Cal spread his arms wide. “Mister Nix, I—”

“Off my land,” Pa said. “I don’t ever want to see your face again. Either of you.”

“Sure,” Cal said. “Sure thing. Let him up.”

Victor scrambled to his feet. The side of his face was red, and pieces of gravel clung to his skin. “My daddy was good to you.”

Pa kicked the convertible’s door shut as Victor reached for the handle. “Get.”

“That’s my car!”

“Get,” Pa said, starting forward with one fist cocked at his side.

“Come on,” said Cal, walking toward the highway. “We’ll let that damn sherriff know what happened here.”

“No need,” Pa said, starting after Cal and Victor. “Susan! Call the sheriff!”

Ma yelled, “Luke, don’t hurt them!”

“Call the goddamn sheriff!”

Ma looked at him, then ran back inside. Cal and Victor had stopped near the top of the driveway. “Get the hell off my property!” Pa yelled, taking several quick steps after them.

Cal and Victor backed away so quickly that a passing car honked as it swerved around them. “Don’t mess with my car!” Victor called.

“I won’t touch your daddy’s car,” Pa said. “Start walking.”

Victor squatted at the edge of the highway. Cal looked at him, then shrugged and stood there.

Pa said, “I won’t tell you again.”

Cal yelled, “We’re off your land, Mr. Nix. I don’t know what’s got in your bonnet. We ain’t done nothin’ that’s none of your business.”

“It’s—” Pa began, but he stopped and turned away.

The kitchen door closed, and Lurleen moved away from the front window. An elderly couple came out of the gift shop, looked at Pa, and hurried to their car as Mrs. Stark called, “Y’all come back soon now, hear?”

Ma came out and said, “Rooster Donati’s on the way.”

She stood there, looking at Pa until he said, “Good. Everyone can get back to work. What’m I paying people for, anyway?”

Mrs. Stark smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir, Luke. Everything’s fine now.”

Pa looked at me. “You see either of those two on the property, come get me.”

“Yessir, Pa.” I sat cross-legged under the Heart Tree with my cap rifle across my lap. Pa went back toward the Doggy Salon, and we kids were alone again, alone if you did not count the occasional tourist passing by or Ma looking out at us every two or three minutes with her lower lip pinched between her teeth.

Little Bit said, “Pa should’ve shooted them.”

“He di’n’t have a gun,” I said.

Little Bit shrugged. “He should’ve shooted them anyway.”

I didn’t bother to answer. Victor sat on the edge of the highway, staring at his car in our lot while punching his right fist into his palm. Cal walked around behind him, talking constantly and laughing sometimes, though Victor never laughed.

After ten or fifteen minutes, Victor stood up, looked down the highway, and grinned. When the sheriff’s car turned into the driveway, they followed it down. I ran back to the Doggy Salon, yelling, “Pa, Pa, they came back even though you told ‘em not to! An’ the police’re here, too!”

Pa came out of the grooming area. James, clipping the black poodle’s toenails, glanced at me and kept working, saying only, “Mist’ Luke?”

Pa said, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

As we walked toward the back of the gift shop, Ma yelled, “Luke! Sheriff Donati’s here!”

Pa nodded. We went through the gift shop and into the front. Sheriff Donati, a barrel-chested, balding man with a pistol on his hip and a hat like Smokey the Bear’s, stood beside his car. Victor was telling him how they hadn’t done a thing. The sheriff’s eyes flicked from Victor to Pa to me with my cap rifle to Pa again.

Pa said, “I ordered them off my property.”

Sheriff Donati looked at Victor. “That so?”

“Yeah,” said Victor. “Then he threw me down—”

“You didn’t get off his property?”

“No,” said Victor. “This here’s a public—”

“I reckon you better get offa here now.”

“But he threw—”

“We’ll straighten this out,” said Sheriff Donati. “Be a little easier if you’d get, now.”

Cal tugged Victor’s arm, and they started toward the red convertible.

“You’re not driving that off this property,” Pa said.

“But—” said Victor.

“Go on up by the highway,” said Sheriff Donati, waggling his fingers to shoo Victor. “Looked like you found a good place to sit.” He turned his back on them immediately and held out his hand to Pa. “Luke.”

“Rooster,” Pa said as they shook. “Sorry to call you out.” Behind them, Victor jabbed his finger at the sheriff’s back, then trudged after Cal toward the highway.

“It’s my business,” Sheriff Donati said. “How’re you, Chris?”

“Fine,” I said, and stepped behind Pa.

“He’s a good one,” Sheriff Donati told Pa with a laugh, and then the laugh left his face. “Susan said somethin’ ‘bout ‘em hurting two o’ your hired gals last night.”

Pa nodded.

Sheriff Donati said, “I should talk to the gals.”

“They headed home,” said Pa. “North.”

“Oh.” Sheriff Donati took off his hat and fanned himself with it. “Prob’ly for the best.”

Pa shrugged.

“You got no call to harass those boys, you know,” Sheriff Donati said.

“They came whipping in here like they were drunk,” Pa said. “How do I know they didn’t steal that car? They were rude to me. You saying a free American can’t kick a couple of little know-nothings off his property?”

Sheriff Donati said, “You had ‘em sit in the sun for awhile. You embarassed ‘em in front of each other and everyone who happened by. Story’ll be all over the county by church-time tomorrow. I reckon that’s pretty good.”

“Oh?” said Pa.

“They ain’t niggers,” Sheriff Donati said.

“You didn’t see the girls,” said Pa.

“Yankee gals runnin’ ‘round with grown boys—”

“Yeah,” said Pa. “They’re not taking that car. Jack Dalton can come for it if he wants it.”

Sheriff Donati looked at me, then nodded. “I’ll have to give ‘em rides home.”

“You do what you have to.”

“Cal don’t live far,” I said. “Francine used to walk all the time.”

Pa and the sheriff laughed. Sheriff Donati said, “All right, one of ‘em’ll put a couple miles on his best shoes.” Then he said, “I have three daughters of my own, you know.”

Pa said, “No, I didn’t.”

“It ain’t that I don’t feel for them Yankee gals. But they made a mistake. Man can’t protect ever’body from their own mistakes.”

“A man protects everyone he can.”

The sheriff nodded. “That’s so. But in this here case, it looks like what’s done is done.”

Pa looked up at the boys on the highway. “They’re not coming back on my property.”

“I’ll tell ‘em,” the sheriff said, putting his hat back on his head. He made a pistol with his fingers and shot me, and I laughed, then he said, “See you, Luke,” got in his car, and drove away.

An hour or two later, a gleaming black car stopped by the driveway. The banker got out, and the car turned around and drove away. As the banker walked down the gravel in his suit and gleaming shoes, I called, “Hi, Mr. Dalton!” He looked at me and nodded. I called, “How’re you?”

“Fine,” he said quietly, and did not bring any lollipops out of his pocket. “Where’s your father?”

“Here,” Pa said, coming from the gift shop with a key in his hand. He smiled as though nothing had gone wrong all day. “Sorry you had to come yourself, Jack. I thought you’d send a tow truck and take it out of the boy’s allowance, or something.”

“Vic isn’t spoiled,” said Mr. Dalton, taking the key from Pa. “And he isn’t wild, either.”

“Umm.”

“He doesn’t keep the best company, but boys’ll be boys, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Pa. “I wonder sometimes if men’ll learn to be men.”

#

I don’t remember the transition from being afraid to swim to being able to swim. I remember Pa throwing me from the dock at Mermaid Springs while Ma looked nervous, and I swam straight back, but that wasn’t really swimming. That was survival. Pa once said, “You just do it, and then you aren’t scared.” Ma once said, “I never learned, but I never had the chance to learn when I was your age. You’ve seen the bigger boys swimming, haven’t you? You’ll be just like them.”

My parents volunteered those comments. I had to ask everyone else. Mr. Drake said, “You keep practicing, and you keep getting better. Everything’s like that.” Mrs. DeLyon said, “Water’s an environment, like the ground and the air. You learn its ways. You learn to trust it, and respect it. And then you swim.”

When I asked Ethorne, he laughed and said, “Oh, that was too long ago. You ‘member how you learned to walk?” I said, “I was just a baby.” He said, “Well, there you is,” which did not help me at all. He laughed again and said, “You want to talk to someone who knows ‘bout swimmin’, you talk to Mayella. She’s the swimminest fool I know.”

“Mayella?” I said. In my understanding of the world, all men could swim, but only some women could.

“Sure. Her momma was the queen of the sea. Ain’t nobody knows more ‘bout swimmin’ than Mayella.”

One afternoon when the restaurant was empty of customers and Lurleen was at a table smoking a cigarette while reading a copy of Look, a picture magazine which had letters in the middle of its name that might be two eyes if you drew in pupils or two heads if you drew in eyes and mouths, Little Bit and I sat at the counter and drank glasses of milk through plastic straws. I asked Mayella, “Could you really swim before you could walk?”

Little Bit giggled, and Mayella said, “Why, can’t say I remember either. Why you ask?”

“Just askin’,” I said.

“Oh, I see.”

“Was it hard?”

“No, not—” She looked at me. “Well, first it was hard. But you know what?”

“What?”

“When you in the water, you just got to quit thinkin’ you a land critter. Like Mr. Turtle. When he’s on land, he thinks he’s a land critter. But you know what he thinks soon as he’s in the water?”

“He’s a water critter?”

Mayella nodded.

“But how do you do that?”

“You want to think like ‘em, you got to act like ‘em. Do you splash around an’ get all antsy when you in the water?”

I nodded.

“Do Mr. Turtle do like that?”

I shook my head. “He’s a turtle.”

“Well,” said Mayella. “What about manatees?”

“I don’t know.”

“They like people,” said Mayella. “They breathe the air. How you think they learn to swim?”

“They just swim?”

“Don’t nothing just nothing. Everything’s got to learn. Some learns easier ‘n others, that’s all. How you think li’l manatee babies learn to swim?”

“Their parents teach ‘em?”

“Just ‘cause someone teaches don’ mean nobody learns. How you think they learn?”

I wrinkled up my forehead.

“Think on it. A li’l manatee baby in the water. What’s it doin’?”

“Playing!”

Mayella laughed. “See? You got it figured out now.”

#

Near the end of a day near the end of summer, I saw Ethorne walking down Dogland’s driveway. I knew he was drunk by his walk, an awkard exaggeration of his usual saunter. I looked down at the dirt where Digger and I were playing with toy trucks, but Digger looked up and grinned at Ethorne.

“How you boys?” Ethorne called. “How you been?”

“Fine,” I said.

“Tha’s good. Ever’one ought to be jus’ fine. Where’s yo’ pappy?” He laughed, though I did not know why. “Yo’ pappy, he’s a good man. Y’all ought to be proud of a fine man like him.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Y’all ain’ scared o’ me?” Ethorne drew himself up. “Ain’ nothin’ to be scared of.” He came close. He smelled like flowers that had festered.

“No,” I said, which was a truth. I was wary, or I was prepared to be scared, but I liked Ethorne too much to be afraid just because everything he said and did was excessive.

“Is yo’ pappy—”

“Hello, Ethorne,” Ma said, coming up behind him.

He whirled, snatching his straw hat from his head and sweeping it low before him like a stage courtier. “Mis’ Susan! How you!”

“Fine, Ethorne. We missed you the last week.”

“Oh, I been—” Ethorne looked away, worked his lips so his moustache crawled like a dancing centipede, then said, “‘Round. Busy, you know. Is Mist’ Luke about?”

“He went into town on errands,” Ma said. “Something I can do?”

“Well, I don’ know. Maybe I bes’ wait fo’ Mist’ Luke.”

“I don’t know, Ethorne. You look like you’ve been feeling pretty good.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned, and so did I, since Ma was not worried. “Tha’s what I wanted t’ talk to Mist’ Luke about.”

“Luke’s not very understanding about drinking, Ethorne. I think it’d be best if you came back when you weren’t—” She smiled. “—feelin’ so good.” I heard something under her smile that Ethorne missed.

“Oh, no, ma’am. Tha’s the problem. Tha’s precisely the problem.”

“What is?”

“I need me a fi’ dollar advance.”

Ma’s smile broadened. “You’re still working here, then?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. When I’s a mind to.”

“Doesn’t look like your mind has much to do with whether you work today.”

Ethorne grinned weakly. “Well, tha’s true. I need me a li’l pick-me-up, is what I need.”

“I don’t know, Ethorne.”

He nodded and sat in the dirt in front of Digger, who laughed. “Then I’ll jus’ wait on Mist’ Luke.”

“Oh, Ethorne, I—” Ma looked at Digger and me, then said, “I’ll lend you five dollars, Ethorne. But this’ll be our secret, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. Thank you, ma’am. Thank you kindly.” He kissed the bill Ma gave him, then turned it, showing Lincoln’s face. “Y’know, he di’n’t want to free the slaves. But he freed ‘em anyway when he thought it’d he’p him win the war, an’ I love him fo’ that.”

Ma said quietly, “I thought you said you were quitting drinking.”

“Tha’s so. T’morrow, I quit again.”

“Ethorne, why do you do that to yourself?”

“Oh, a man needs a li’l vacation now’n then. I’s on the way here las’ week, but Mist’ Lumiere say he have a li’l job fo’ me. An’ when I do it, he as’ me if I druther have fi’ dollars or two bottles o’ Jim Beam. Mist’ Beam, he’s good company.”

As Ethorne walked away, Ma called, “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be needin’ a vacation from my vacation by then.”

Ma watched with her lips pursed as Ethorne strolled off like an able seaman on a storm-tossed ship. Her hand touched my head, and she said, “Ethorne’ll pay me back. Your father doesn’t have to know about this.”

I nodded, and her hand left my head. I looked up, followed her gaze, expecting to see Pa, and saw Mayella instead.

She said, “You di’n’t give him no money, did you, ma’am?”

“I could hardly say no.”

Mayella’s face tightened.

Ma said, “I didn’t know what to do. If Luke found him drunk—”

“Tha’s all right, ma’am. Better you’n some others.”

“Ethorne’s good for it, I’m sure.”

“Oh, yes’m. That’s the problem. He always pays his debts.”

“You’re not—” Ma’s eyes flicked toward Ethorne as he crossed to the far side of the highway. “—hurting, are you? I mean, I’d hate for anyone to go hungry if we—”

“Oh, no, ma’am! It’s just Ethorne I worry ‘bout.”

“Mmm.” Ma nodded.

Seth and James walked up from the dog pens then. James called, “We all done, Mis’ Nix!”

“No problems?”

“None at all, ma’am,” said Seth. “Um, Mayella—”

“Them Newbury sisters? I thought you done spent all your money on ‘em.”

Seth smiled. “We have our ways.”

Mayella said, “Um hmm, but mos’ folks forgive you for ‘em.”

James laughed. “We done cleared some brush fo’ Mist’ Lumiere over the weekend.”

Ma said, “He didn’t pay you in liquor?”

James frowned at her. “Why, no, ma’am.”

Seth said, “Good green folding stuff, ma’am.”

Ma laughed. “And it’s burning a hole through your pockets.”

Mayella said, “Tha’s not what’s burnin’.”

Seth looked as if he would’ve blushed, if he had been paler. He looked down, adjusted his glasses, and lifted his shoulders.

James said, “Got to spend it on someone.”

Mayella said, “Well, it’s a pretty evenin’. I feel like a walk.”

Seth and James grinned and ran for their truck. “We owe you!” called James.

“‘Bout a million an’ one,” said Mayella. “Ain’ nobody paid me back fo’ my half o’ that truck yet.”

Though she spoke quietly, James heard her and laughed. “We will! We will!”

Seth and James drove away, Ma and Mayella returned to the restaurant, Digger and I continued to play under the Heart Tree, and Cal and Victor drove by on the highway. Little Bit ran out of the gift shop, looking up after the red convertible. I called, “They didn’t try to come in.” She studied me, so I repeated, “They didn’t.” Seth and James were as big and as strong as Cal and Victor, and their truck may have been slower than the convertible, but it was more powerful. I wasn’t afraid for them.

Mrs. Stark followed Little Bit out of the gift shop. “Who’d you see, sweetie?”

Little Bit said, “Car,” and went inside. Mrs. Stark looked at her back, then smiled at me and followed Little Bit inside. Pa said Mrs. Stark wanted to be our grandma, but we already had two of them, and grandpas were better anyway.

When Mayella left half an hour later, I called, “Night, Mayella!” Digger waved to her as he usually did, but Little Bit ran to her and gave her a hug.

“Wha’s got into you, gal?” Mayella asked, laughing.

“Nuffin.”

“Your brothers di’n’t hurt you none?”

“No’m.”

“‘Cause if they do, you just got to whomp ‘em good. Let ‘em know they can’t get away with nothin’ no how.”

Little Bit nodded.

Mayella pried Little Bit’s arms from her legs. “I see you t’morrow.”

Little Bit nodded again. As Mayella walked up to the road, Little Bit whispered, “Bye.”

#

Early the next morning, I swept the walkway around the restaurant all by myself, which as not fair. Little Bit usually did half, but she had gone to Gainesville with Ma, who had wanted company when she went to the doctor, but not as much company as all three kids would provide. I was big enough that I could stay at Dogland and help Pa. People said I was lucky being the oldest, which showed how stupid a lot of people were.

I stopped sweeping when Sheriff Donati’s car turned onto the driveway. The sheriff parked near me. He got out, saying, “Hey, Deputy Chris, your pa around?” He smiled, but he did not sound like he would like to be asked if I could touch his pistol’s genuine cherrywood handle.

I said, “Yes, sir. Want me to get him?” Ready to sprint, I dropped the broom onto the sidewalk.

“You can lead me.”

“All right.”

As we walked, the sheriff said, “Seen Mayella Hawkins today?”

“No, sir.” I grinned at him. I liked helping adults.

“When’s she usually come in?”

I frowned. “Is it nine yet?”

He looked at his watch. “No.”

“She don’t get in until nine. Doesn’t, I mean.”

Pa had dug a hole between two kennels to run a plumber’s snake through a blocked sewage pipe. The plumber’s snake did not have eyes or a mouth like I thought it should; it was only a diamond-shaped piece of steel on a long metal ribbon. Pa smiled at us, set down the plumber’s snake, and said, “Rooster. You’d probably be grateful if I don’t shake hands with you.”

“Isn’t a social call,” Sheriff Donati said. “I’m looking for Mayella Hawkins.”

Pa frowned. “She isn’t here yet.”

“Wasn’t at her family’s shack, either. An’ I didn’t see her on the road.”

“She shortcuts across a field or two when she can’t get a ride. Why?”

The sheriff looked at me.

Pa said, “You finish sweeping?”

“Almost.”

“Almost isn’t enough.”

“Yes, sir.” I dragged my cowboy boots in the gravel as I walked away, but the sheriff waited, then spoke too quietly for me to hear. Disgusted, I ran back to the restaurant and picked up my broom.

Then I dropped it again. “Mayella! Mayella!” I cried her name as I ran up the hill to the highway.

Her smile seemed forced. “How you, Chris?” She stood on the side of the road, waiting for me while she looked at Sheriff Donati’s patrol car.

“The sheriff’s here. He’s looking for you.”

“That Cal with him?”

I shook my head. “Are you getting up a posse?”

“I wish.” She looked at me. “Chris, I bes’ go. Don’ tell no one you seen me, hear?”

“Yes’m. Why?”

She shook her head, turned, then turned back. “How’s that swimmin’ goin’?”

“Oh.” I shrugged. “Pretty good.”

“Good. You keep at it.” She smiled, turned, and loped across the highway.

Behind me, Sheriff Donati called, “Who you wavin’ at, Deputy Chris?”

He and Pa stood by the front door of the gift shop. Unable even to shrug, I stared at them.

“Cat got your—” the sheriff began.

“He was talkin’ to Mayella,” said Mrs. Stark, pushing past the sheriff. “Weren’t you, Chris? You don’t have to be shy of Sheriff Rooster, you know.”

“Damn,” said Sheriff Donati. “You tell her— Don’t matter. That trail comes out back by the bridge, don’t it?” He looked at Pa.

Pa shrugged. “Lots of side trails run off it. She could be heading anywhere.”

Sheriff Donati nodded, then trotted to his car. As he backed out of his parking space, Mrs. Stark said, “Wha’d she do? I always liked Mayella, but black blood’s weak, you know. Never tempt a nigger, ‘cause a nigger hasn’t got a white man’s will. It’s just how the good Lord made ‘em. Reverend Shale says—”

Pa said, “Later,” and ran to our pick-up truck. I followed. As I opened the passenger door, Pa said, “Stay—” My heart dipped until he finished, “—out of the way.”

“Yes, sir.” I slammed the door, and we took off after the sheriff. This was no time to ask Pa questions. He drove as quickly as he had when Digger had been bitten. The pick-up was old, used mostly for hauling dog food, and had rarely been driven quickly. Pa gripped the wheel with both fists, and we bounced high at every irregularity in the road.

The trail that Mayella had taken may have been an animal path, or maybe humans had used it since the time of the Timucua and the Apalachee. It cut through scrub and forest, passing by Hawkins Spring and leaving the woods near the bridge over the Suwannee.

The highway curved from Dogland to the bridge, meeting a county road to Trenton at the center of the curve. Whenever we walked to Hawkins Spring, we always followed the highway, even though it was at least twice as long as the trail. Ma didn’t want her kids going where they might be bitten by bears, boars, or snakes. Though Pa laughed at those fears, he agreed that it was too easy for kids to get lost on the trail, and maybe end up drowned in swamplands or the river.

Pa kept his attention on the highway as he said, “She’s prob’ly heading home. Nothing to be gained by crossing the county line. Not when the sheriff’s in hot pursuit.” We passed the Fountain of Youth Motor Inn, and Mrs. DeLyon, in the courtyard, shaded her eyes with her hand as we roared by. Pa’s next word was a low, quiet “Damn.”

Mayella, on foot, was a quarter of the way across the suspension bridge with Sheriff Donati close behind her in his patrol car. He braked and jumped out, drawing his large, dark pistol with its gleaming cherrywood butt.

I heard his “Freeze!” as Pa stopped our truck behind the patrol car. Mayella kept running. Pa opened his door and stepped out, yelling, “Mayella! Surrender! We’ll get you a lawyer!”

The sheriff called, “Listen to him, Mayella!” She had reached the middle of the bridge and was not slowing. The sheriff’s pistol fired once. I blinked. The shot echoed over the river.

A cattle truck had stopped at the far side of the bridge. Sheriff Donati’s pistol was pointed into the air. Mayella stood still with her back to us.

The sheriff called, “Don’t make me shoot you, Mayella! I don’t want to have to! I surely don’t!”

Pa called quietly, “Rooster, you don’t need to shoot anyone. You know—”

Mayella jumped up onto the railing. A breeze, or maybe her motion, pressed her dress against her body.

“Don’t be—” Rooster shouted.

“No!” Pa called.

Mayella dove. Her arc carried her toward the sun. The bridge hid the end of her dive from my sight. Pa and Rooster ran to the railing to stare down at the river. A crowd of men and women, drivers who had stopped at either end of the bridge, ran to stand beside them. I pressed through the strangers and their questions: “What happened?” “That nigger crazy?” “She tryin’ to kill herself?” “What’s goin’ on here?”

I squeezed next to Pa and looked down. The dark waters washed on to the Gulf of Mexico. A speedboat circled beneath the bridge, its driver craning like us all to see what the river might bring up.

“Pa!” I asked. “Where’s Mayella?”

“I don’t see her.”

“But—”

“Sh.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and we watched the water.

“I wouldn’t’a’ shot her,” Rooster said.

Pa clapped Rooster’s arm once. Rooster stood still like a scarecrow that had been emptied of life. Pa told me, “Come on.”

“But Mayella—”

“She isn’t coming up,” Pa said. “Let’s go.”

“But she swims good.”

“It’s been too long.”

“Wait! Pa, look!” Everyone stared at the bend of the river, where I pointed.

“Sorry, Chris,” Pa said. “That’s just a manatee.”

“Don’t see many,” said someone in the crowd.

“I wouldn’t’a’ shot her,” Rooster repeated. “I don’t think I would’a’ shot her.”

Pa drove back to Dogland far more slowly than he had driven to the bridge. I said, “Pa?”

“Son?”

“What’d Mayella do?”

“Nothing. She was just born the wrong—” He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“Pa?”

“Cal Carter said she drowned Victor Dalton.”

“Oh.”

The pick-up bumped its way down the driveway, and Pa parked on the far side of the Heart Tree so tourists could park near the gift shop. When we got out, Pa looked at me and said, “What is it?”

“Did she?”

After a moment, he said, “Do you think Mayella would drown someone?”

“Not unless they were bad.”

“Mmm.”

“Pa?”

“Yes?”

“If there was a submarine, Mayella could’a’ swum down to it, right?”

“There wasn’t a sub, Chris.” Pa turned to face the gift shop, where Mrs. Stark waited at the door.

“But there could’a’—”

“There wasn’t a sub!” Pa shouted as he whirled toward me. I stepped back. My eyes began to water, and I tightened my eyelids to stop myself from crying. “Understand? There’s no—” He lifted one fist, then opened it, looked from his palm to my face, turned, and strode away.

“Mister Nix?” Mrs. Stark said. He brushed by her without slowing. She watched him pass, then came into the parking lot. Extending her soft arms to me, she said, “Christopher? Oh, you poor ba—”

I spun away, ran around the gift shop, and scrambled through the partially completed fence that would hide the dog kennels from the view of passers-by. The Saluki and the Italian Grayhound raced toward me in the exercise pen. I ignored them as they bounded onto the wire fence to thrust their long snouts through the links.

The northern working dogs noticed me next. I waited until tourists had left Captain’s pen, then opened his gate. He jumped up, and I hugged him. He followed me into his house. “Frogmen could’a’ took her in a sub,” I said, and Captain licked my ear.

When Captain decided he would rather spend a warm summer day on his porch instead of sleeping in his tiny house with me, he crawled out, waking me. I peeked between two wall slats and saw no one, but when I poked my head out the doorway, Captain licked my nose, and on the gravel walkway, Helen, one of the guides, said, “Now, I’m sure you folks think we have a rare set of identical twin Norwegian Elkhounds here, but the one in the cowboy boots is Christopher Nix, the owners’ son.”

People laughed, and I smiled. Someone asked if all the dogs were my family, and I said yes, and everyone laughed again. I squeezed out of Captain’s pen as Helen said, “You ought to fill in for breeds that’re off to the vet or that we haven’t got in yet. We already have a Elkhound to show folks.”

“Yes’m.” Helen made me more shy than any of the women at Dogland. She was older than Francine and younger than Ma or Lurleen. I saw her as tall and broad-shouldered because she worked with the dogs like the men, and she ordered Ethorne, Seth, and James around as easily as Pa did—Ma and Francine gave requests, not orders. Helen was a Seventh Day Adventist, which meant she did not eat meat and she thought Sunday was on Saturday, which was fine by Pa because Helen never minded coming to work on Sundays.

When Helen led the tourists away, I took the path in the opposite direction. I poked my fingers in the cages of all my favorite dogs, then went into the Doggy Salon, where I ignored the little dogs and sat by Bo-Peep. The English Bulldog always lay in the shade of the Doggy Salon on the hottest days of summer. He rested on his side on a rug before an electric fan and panted. Froth dripped from his lolling tongue. That was how dogs sweated, I explained to two old ladies, and they gave me a nickel. After they left, I sat with Bo-Peep, patting his ribs.

Seth and James brought the Bedlington Terrier and the Papillon in to be groomed. James saw me and said, “Your Pa’s wonderin’ where you got to.”

I nodded.

He said, “It’s hard ‘bout Mayella, ain’t it?”

I nodded again.

“You seen it?”

“Uh huh.”

“She really dove? She weren’t shot an’ fell?”

I shook my head.

“Tha’s somethin’, I ‘xpect.”

“She dove good.”

“She was always somethin’ in the water. Ethorne say she got that from her mama.”

I nodded.

“I ‘xpect if she had to choose, she’d choose the water.”

“Maybe she came up inside a beaver dam,” I said. “Like Daniel Boone. An’ hid there till everyone left.”

“Ain’t no beaver dams ‘round here.”

I nodded.

Seth spoke. “Fucking redneck sheriff.”

James said, “Mayella ain’t goin’ t’ be watchin’ yo’ mouth fo’ you now.”

“Things are going to change.”

“Mm hmm. Brush that poor dog a li’l more lightly. Ain’t his fault.”

“You ain’t replacin’ her,” Seth said, but his touch with the brush became more gentle.

“Ain’t no one replacin’ her,” James agreed.

They both stopped talking as they looked at the door. Pa stood there. He said, “Susan’s back. Why don’t you two take the weekend off?”

James said, “You sure you can get by?”

Pa nodded.

Seth said, “All right.”

James said, “We just finish up with these two, then we’ll go.”

Pa said, “All right.”

“Thanks, Mist’ Nix,” James said quietly.

“Hell,” Pa said. “Nothing to thank me for. Chris?”

“Yessir?”

“Find Ethorne. Tell ‘im Simmy and Abraham Brown can work, so he can take the weekend off. More if he wants it.”

“All right, Pa.”

I found Ethorne at the grooming shed on the far side of the walking circle. He was humming a church hymn as I approached. He looked up and smiled. “How you be, Mast’ Christopher?”

“All right, Ethorne.”

“Tha’s good.”

“Pa says Simmy an’ Abraham can work, so you don’t need to.”

“Who’s he got cookin’?”

I shrugged. “Pa cooks good.”

“Man can’t do ever’thing hisself.”

“Ethorne?”

“Yes?”

“Is Mayella coming back?”

Ethorne closed his eyes. “No, Chris. She’s gone to a better place.”

“Miami?” Mayella had often talked about going to live in Miami.

“Better’n Miami. She goin’ to loll ‘round all the time, eatin’ when she wants an’ playin’ when she wants. Her mama goin’ t’ be there to greet her, ‘long with all kinds o’ kith an’ kin for company. Ain’ no need to feel sad for her.”

“Won’t she miss you?”

“Oh, sure, she’ll miss all of us. But things got so she couldn’t stay here no more, so she done gone home.”

“Oh.” I sat beside him. “Seth’s mad at Rooster.”

“I ‘xpect he is.”

“Mis’ Stark says they’ll drag the river.” Ethorne glanced at me. “For Mayella,” I explained.

“They won’t find her.”

“Why?”

“River keeps secrets, same as you or me.”

“Why’d Rooster chase Mayella?”

“Tha’s his job.”

“But he’s the sheriff. He should lock up Cal.”

“Oh.” Ethorne nodded. When I frowned, he patted my back. “Always take it easy, Christopher Nix. Tha’s the secret fo’ livin’ long.”

“But it’s not fair!”

“No, it surely ain’t. That’s why takin’ it easy is ‘bout the hardest thing there is t’ do.”

#

Ethorne asked Pa about using the kitchen before he left, then prepared a batch of sweet rolls. While the restaurant filled with the smell of baking bread, Ma said she thought he was fixing them for a church reception or a household gathering to remember Mayella, but when he took the rolls from the oven, he gave them to Ma, saying, “Eat ‘em while they’re warm.”

Ma looked as if she wanted to say several things at once. She settled on, “Thank you.”

Ethorne shrugged that off with a smile. “I be goin’ now. I may be sayin’ my farewell fo’ a few days.”

Ma said, “Oh, Ethorne.”

“The good lord gave us ways to cope with the pains o’ this Earth.”

“But can’t you see it’s hard on you?”

Pa, standing near, said, “Susan.”

Ma said, “But I only—”

Ethorne said, “Oh, I don’ mind, Mist’ Luke. I’d rather listen to her than to some preacher who don’ know me.”

Pa nodded. After Ethorne left, Pa said, “It’d be harder on him not to—”

“I know!” Ma said so angrily that Pa jerked his chin back.

As Ma ran from the kitchen, Pa said, “Christ, Susan—” then looked at me. “Fetch Little Bit and Digger. It’s time for another happy family meal.”

Ma was in our bedroom, hugging Digger. She looked at me. I said, “It’s lunchtime.”

Little Bit was beside the house, pulling a piece of rope like a snake for Tiger. I said, “Pa said it’s lunch time.”

“I know.”

“Then how come you didn’t come up to the kitchen already?”

“Because you didn’t come to get me already.”

“Tiger’s my cat.”

“I know.” She kept playing with Tiger, but when I turned my back to walk up to the restaurant, Little Bit raced past. I ran, but she pushed through the kitchen door first.

Pa lifted her high into the air. “Pretty speedy, li’l darling.” She laughed, and the kitchen door opened again.

Ma released Digger’s hand as they stepped inside. He ran over to Pa, who set Little Bit down and swung Digger up. Pa made airplane noises as he turned Digger from side to side, then set him on his feet.

Ma said quietly, “What’s for lunch?”

Pa looked at her. “Hamburgers and green beans.”

“French cut?” I said. French cut string beans were my favorite vegetable. I always ran ahead in the grocery aisle to select the cans by the pictures on them.

Pa smiled. “Yep. French cut.”

I nodded. “Yayy!”

Lunch went well, except for the usual moment when Pa, Little Bit, and Digger heaped ketchup on their burgers and I used none. When Ma set the plate of sweet rolls in the center of our table and handed one to each of us, a customer at the next table said, “Those look good.”

Lurleen, passing by, said, “They’re not for sale.”

“They should be,” the customer said.

I took a roll in my hands. It was as soft as flesh, as warm as a heart. I tore a strip free, popped it in my mouth, and mumbled, “Why’d Rooster think Mayella did that?”

Pa looked at me as he lifted a roll. “Ever hear anyone say that children should be seen and not heard?”

Because he smiled, I said, “But I want to know.”

Ma swallowed a mouthful, then said, “Because there was a charge made. Rooster had to investigate it. That’s what the police do. They find the guilty and protect the innocent.”

Pa glanced away, then said, “Cal took Rooster to the body. Down one of the trails along the Suwannee.” Without looking at Ma, he said, “They might as well hear it from us,” and continued, “Hard to ignore a body. Cal claimed Mayella lured him and Victor down there, went crazy, and drowned Victor.”

“Hmmf,” said Ma. “And where was Cal supposed to be?”

“Said she knocked him down, and he bumped his head.” To Ma’s disbelief, he said, “Could be. There’s such a thing as berserker strength.”

“Rooster,” said Lurleen, passing by, “has got better things to do than listen to the likes of Cal Carter.”

Pa looked after Lurleen, then said, “The funny thing is, Rooster said Victor was mashed down in a mud flat near the edge of the shore. It looked like he drowned in mud. Would’ve taken more’n Cal or Mayella to hold him down like that.”

“What do you think happened then?” Ma asked.

“Yeah, Pa,” said Little Bit. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Pa said. “Maybe Victor was drunk, and he dove off the bank not knowing there was a sand bar there. Maybe he was in a tree and fell. Or was pushed. We’ll prob’ly never know.”

“But why’d Cal blame Mayella?” I asked.

Pa looked from me to Ma to me. “Maybe she wouldn’t do something he wanted. Maybe she saw something, like him pushing Victor off the river bank as a joke, maybe. And Victor drowned because Cal didn’t pull him out of the mud in time, so Cal had to blame someone.”

“She shou’n’t’a’ run,” Little Bit said.

“That’s right,” Pa agreed. “We’d’a’ helped her.”

I put the last of the sweet roll in my mouth. “No matter what.”

Pa nodded. “No matter what.”

#

That evening, after dinner, we kids were playing around the swingset when Ma screamed. We ran around the house to the washer-wringer where she was standing. Pa arrived a moment later. Ma pointed at Ranger and Tiger. The kuvasz sat, watching Ma with his head cocked, ready to be commanded. The kitten had his back to us all as he scrubbed his damp head with a paw. Ma pointed at them both. “I saw them just in time. Ranger was about to bite Tiger’s head off.”

Pa said, “Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about ‘em anymore, then.”

Ma said, “Luke!”

Pa shrugged. “Well, you wouldn’t.”

Little Bit said, “Ranger likes Tiger.”

Pa said, “Like Digger likes hamburgers.”

“Really,” I said. “See?”

Tiger stalked up to Ranger and swatted the dog’s paw, tangling his tiny claws in Ranger’s thick white fur. Ranger bent down, closed his jaws around Tiger’s head, and shook the kitten from side to side.

“Oh, I can’t look,” Ma said, turning away. Pa laughed, and so did we kids, and we all laughed harder as Tiger proceeded to the next part of the game by drying his ears with angry swipes.

After a moment, Pa stepped beside Ma and said, “Damndest thing happened today.” When Ma looked at him, he said, “Second damndest thing.”

“Oh?”

“Negro family came in this evening. I headed for their table, but Lurleen said she’d get it. I told her she didn’t have to, but she just said, ‘I know,’ so I got out of her way. She took the order, and she delivered the food to ‘em. Then she said she had to have a cigarette. I told her to sit down; I’d get her an ashtray.”

Ma smiled at Pa, and he smiled back. “Well,” Ma said.

Pa said, “She sucked on that cigarette like a Weeki-Wachee mermaid sucking on an air tube. She didn’t say a word until she’d finished. Then she went and asked ‘em if they wanted dessert.”

Ma put her hand on Pa’s shoulder. We all watched Ranger and Tiger trying to decide who was chasing whom.

Chapter Eight: Seeking Plunder

The yellow school bus did not pass in front of Dogland during the summer, but I watched the highway for it most mornings. When Lurleen asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told her, “To go to school.”

She laughed, and then her face stilled. “You’re a good boy, Chris.”

A day or two later, I was behind the restaurant, playing cars in the gravel with Digger. Pa came and sat on the green sidewalk. He prodded tobacco into his pipe, struck a wooden match against the concrete, lit his pipe, puffed twice, then said, “Chris, I hear you want to go to school.”

I kept pushing a little metal sportscar around the road we had made. “Yes, sir.”

“Kids have to go to school when they’re old enough for first grade. You’ve got a year to go.” He watched us play, then said, “Some schools have kindergartens for kids who’re five.”

I looked up.

“But Dickison doesn’t. Their school starts with first grade.”

“Oh.”

“Trenton has a kindergarten, though.”

I knew Trenton. It was a small town as far from Dogland as Dickison or Chiefland.

“Problem is,” Pa said, “their school bus stops a mile away. And Trenton’s in another county, which means they don’t have to take you. Even if they accepted you, your Ma or I would have to drive you to the bus stop every morning, and one of us would have to meet you there every afternoon. It’s mighty hard for either of us to get away now that we’ve let some workers go.”

I nodded.

“They don’t teach you anything useful in kindergarten. You won’t learn about reading, writing, or arithmetic until first grade. That’s when real school begins.”

I nodded again.

“But if you want to go to kindergarten, we’ll do what we have to to get you there.”

I looked at him.

“Do you want us to do that?”

I worked my lip between my teeth.

“Well, Chris?”

“No, sir.”

Pa studied me. “You’re sure?”

I nodded.

“Well.” Pa nodded, put his hands on his knees, and stood. “Your decision.”

#

We drove to Minnesota early that August. Ma said it was for my birthday, even though we would return to Dogland before my birthday came. Pa said it was to give Ma a vacation. After a day or two, Pa left us in Rosecroix with Grandpa Abner and Grandma Letitia. He had to get back to Dogland to work.

At Rosecroix, we played with Grandma and Grandpa’s Dachshund and the kids of the people who managed Grandpa’s drug store. Grandma and Grandpa had a huge white house with two stories and a basement, and you could go out onto the roof above the attached two-car garage. The back yard, bordered by Grandpa’s roses and a white picket fence, extended endlessly toward the Rosecroix River. We played croquet there, as well as the usual games of hide and seek, chase, cowboys and Indians, and Mother, May I?

At night, Grandpa showed us movies in the basement on his 16 mm projector. Our favorite was about bear cubs that get into a campsite that has been abandoned for the day. The cubs topple things and break things and finally bring the canvas tents down on top of them before they run away. Little Bit, Digger, and I thought nothing was funnier in the world. Grandpa Abner, calling each of the cubs by our names, would cry, “Look, there’s Big Boy Chris! Oh-oh, Pretty Letitia Bette’s getting in the ice cream! Careful, Digger George, don’t run through those hanging clothes or you’ll be wearing somebody’s nightie for sure!”

Grandma and Grandpa Uvdal had a color TV, which should have been wonderful, but Grandma Letitia always wanted to watch shows where people played accordions or guessed the answers to boring questions, even if the shows were in black and white and a cowboy show in color was on another channel. The only program we all liked — all except Pa, when he was there — was Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of Color.

Several blocks away, across the Rosecroix River and two blocks into downtown, Grandpa’s drugstore had two rooms, a boring one for drugs and health care products and a better one for gifts like cameras, greeting cards, and chocolates. That room had a rack by the front window for paperback books, magazines, and comic books. The Uvdal Pharmarcy’s back room was dark and full of cardboard boxes and strange wonders like decorations for holidays that were months away. Next to Grandpa’s drug store was the toy store, and down the block near the movie theatre was the bakery that made the best bread in the world, cylindrical loaves of cinnamon spirals cut into slices no larger than a child’s hand and eaten chewy fresh or toasted crisp with a thick swash of butter.

But the best place in Minnesota was Grandma and Grandpa’s cabin on Lake of the Woods. Thirty or forty small vacation homes made a multicolored ribbon between the woods of pine and birch and the wide blue-gray water. The Uvdals’ had two bedrooms, one for Grandma and Grandpa and one for Ma, and a common room that faced the lake. Its walls were paneled with pale varnished boards, and the kitchen table was built like those in public parks, with two attached benches, except its coat of lacquer made it smooth to touch. Though the cabin had electricity, you had to use a hand pump to get water, and if you wanted warm water, you had to heat it on an old gas stove that had been in Grandma and Grandpa’s house in Rosecroix before they had gotten an electric stove. A huge wooden box held quartered birch logs beside the cabin’s stone fireplace that at night when you begged him, Grandpa would throw colored salts into, making dancing sprites of purple and blue and green and gold while a radio as big as a TV set and even older than Ma played static-filled music from the faraway land of Canada.

Catercorner to the cabin was the boathouse where Grandpa kept his fishing boat. The toilet was a room in the boathouse, which almost made it an inhouse. It was a two-holer, which Pa once said was a sign of luxury, which made Grandma Letitia say “Umf” in a way that meant Pa shouldn’t joke about wealth or toilets, but Grandpa Abner laughed in a way that said it was all right. After you used the boathouse toilet, you sprinkled white powder on your number two so it didn’t smell as bad and so it decomposed faster. Anything could hide down there, or in the dark rafters, so I always did my business in the boathouse toilet as fast as I could.

The rest of the boathouse was as wonderful as Grandpa’s basement. A rack by the door held two different sized outboard motors, a smaller one for trolling and a larger one for racing. Along the wall were a set of gray oars and more bulky orange lifejackets than I could count. The boathouse’s shelves held toys, some of which had been Ma’s and some of which had been bought for us. We kids each had tin sandbuckets and sandshovels with our names painted on them in red enamel. Grandpa had a second croquet set at the cabin, as well as a badminton set, fishing poles, minnow buckets, tackle boxes, a large canvas American flag that flew on the tall white wooden flagpole between the cabin and the lake, and anything that had ever been useful to have at the lake during the last thirty years, and anything that might be useful someday.

The only permanent structure in the cabin’s front yard was the wooden flagpole, encircled by a rough wooden bench. Its chalk white surface was always stained by lake gulls. When the house was occupied, the yard also held two wooden Adirondack chairs and a picnic table, larger and darker and more crudely made than the table indoors. Many of the beach cabins had docks, but Grandma and Grandpa’s did not. Large rocks had been dragged aside in the lake so Grandpa could land his fishing boat on the narrow beach of sand and gravel.

Lake of the Woods, a part of the Great Lakes, was cold in the summer, but no colder than Hawkins Spring. When you looked across the lake, you could not see land. The sea was like that, only salty. Sometimes you could see Gull Rock, a boney island on the horizon, but it had never had pirates, only gulls, so that did not excite me. During low tide, you could climb along a spine of rocks that stretched impossibly far from shore, perhaps twenty or thirty feet. You could even jump from one to the next if Ma or Grandpa was along to hold your hand and swing you while yelling, “Careful!” On sunny days, you could run around without your shirt, and the breeze from the lake kept you cool. On grim days, the waves drove in to tease us with the notion of storm, and that was good, too. Then we would build the fire high and watch the wind and water play while we stayed warm and dry.

One of my favorite photos of my young self must have been taken on that trip. I stand in front of the cabin and wear black sneakers, dark trousers, and a powder-blue jacket with a black cowboy hat. A holster is on my right hip, and in my right hand, I hold a cap gun. In my left, I display the cover of a comic book titled Colt 45. At first glance, my clothes might suggest the day was cool, but Digger stands nearby, hugging a birch tree and watching with something like envy. His trousers and sneakers are identical to mine, but he wears a striped short sleeved shirt. My jacket is the color of the cowboy’s on the cover of the comic, and I am holding my pistol like the cowboy holds his. Children know that style is more important than comfort.

Rosecroix’s doctor and dentist had cabins next to Grandma and Grandpa’s. On the first morning at Lake of the Woods, when I had been alone running around outside shooting bad guys, I stepped through the back door of what I thought was Grandpa and Grandma’s cabin. A pleasant woman stared at me, and I stared at her. She seemed familiar, though the cabin did not. She smiled. “Hello. You must be Chris. You came to visit?”

I continued to stare.

“You should knock, you know.”

That was the rule when you went to a strange house. But what was the rule when a strange house came to you?

“Your grandparents sure are happy to have you here.”

I nodded.

“Would you like something to eat?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you, ma’am.”

“It’s too bad your father had to hurry back to Florida.”

I began examining the strange cabin, trying to find something familiar.

“Does your mother know you’re here?”

I shook my head.

“Then maybe you should go tell her where you are. We’ll visit some other time.”

I nodded and backed out of the house. In the yard, between the gravel road and the row of cabins, all different colors but all similar in size and shape, I sought something I knew. I found nothing. I walked toward one cabin, then turned and walked toward another, then darted between two cabins to be near the lake. I saw no people. Chipmunks hid at my approach. Gulls screamed overhead, advising or mocking me.

I knew a dock stood in front of the cabin next to Grandma and Grandpa’s, but docks stood near every second or third cabin. I knew I would recognize the inside of Grandma and Grandpa’s cabin as soon as I saw it, but I had lost faith in my ability to know its outside. I did not dare knock on any door or peek in any cabin after walking in on the strange woman.

“Christopher!” Ma called nearby. I turned and ran toward her voice. She stood in front of a white cabin with green shutters and green shingles. When she saw me, I slowed down suddenly, and she laughed. “What’ve you been up to, young man?”

“Playing.”

She smiled. “Just so you’re having fun.”

#

That night, I woke on the daybed in the cabin’s front room. Embers remained in the fireplace. Their glow, a small nightlight shielded by a seashell, and the moon were the only illumination. I could feel Digger sleeping beside me, and I could see Little Bit’s still form on the couch across the way. Shadows moved in the wind outside, but if I did not look at them, they did not matter. The wind itself was a familiar and comforting sound; I doubt that woke me.

Something walked in the passageway between the two bedrooms. The refrigerator opened, spilling light into the cabin, but I could not see around the corner to see who or what was there. Then a bedroom door opened, and Grandpa whispered, “Can’t sleep?”

Ma whispered back, “I hope I didn’t wake you, Pop-pop.”

“It isn’t always easy, being an old married lady, is it?”

Ma laughed softly.

Grandpa said, “They’re good kids.”

“You think all kids are good kids.”

Grandpa laughed, louder than Ma. “They’re especially good kids.”

“Sometimes it’s tough to remember that. I’m really very lucky.”

Grandpa said more quietly, “Luke works hard for all of you. Your mother sees that.”

“Not much else.”

“She wants Dogland to work out for you. We both do.”

“I know, Daddy.”

“We don’t mind the money.”

“Luke does.”

“He shouldn’t. We know he’s good for it.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Did you and Mimmy ever—?”

The half-question hung in the air for so long that I nearly fell back to sleep.

“That’s why we’re glad to help you. My parents helped us get started. It’s natural.”

“No. I mean, you two never quarrel, and Luke and I—”

Again, the question dangled. Grandpa said, “Do you miss him?” If Ma answered aloud, I did not hear her. Grandpa said, “Do you want to be a family?”

“Of course! But—”

“Then isn’t that your answer?”

“Oh.”

“You should sleep. You’re not just sleeping for yourself, you know.”

“Yes, Daddy.” I heard them move apart, then Ma said, “Pop-pop?”

“Suzzy?”

“Good night.”

“Sleep tight.”

Their bedroom doors closed, one right after the other. I thought, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” and fell asleep almost immediately.

#

I don’t remember the drive back to Florida in the small Dodge that had been Ma’s before her marriage, which Grandma and Grandpa had given back to her as a birthday present. Each morning, Ma had us take some medicine with our vitamins, and we were, by our standards and hers, quiet through the day.

At Dogland, the first new thing I noticed was Bridget, an Irish Wolfhound who had trouble adjusting to Florida’s moist heat and Dogland’s concrete runs. She had been sleeping on the bed with Pa while we were gone. Now she spent her days in front of a fan in the Doggy Salon and her nights in Ma and Pa’s room on a mattress from Digger’s crib. I didn’t like Bridget. She was big and awkward, and she slobbered on your face, and since she was a wolfhound, she might gobble you with one bite. I did not learn until a year or two later that wolfhounds hunted wolves and were not like them.

Near Dogland, just across the river from Hawkins Springs and the Fountain of Youth Motor Hotel, a new tourist attraction was ready to open: Pirates’ Paradise. Mr. Drake told Pa about it, saying, “I never would’ve thought it possible, but I think they’re going to achive a new low in historical accuracy.”

“Huh,” said Pa. “Business’ll be booming.”

“Pirates?” I whispered.

Mr. Drake nodded.

“Who’s behind it?” Pa asked.

“Don’t know,” Mr. Drake said. “I was away on business for a couple of weeks. Lumiere handled the paperwork.”

“Seems like you’ve been called out of town a lot lately.”

“The company’s been a little busy. Reason I opened a branch in Latchahee was to have time for Gwenny and myself. Head office hasn’t figured out that I’ve got a smooth operation ‘cause nothing at all happens here, so I keep gettin’ called to help when another agent’s swamped. It’s hard to say no.”

“They have pirates?” I repeated.

Mr. Drake laughed and nodded. “And a pirate ship you can board, and a dungeon, and a Spanish village that gets raided every hour on the hour.”

“Wow.”

“It’ll open by your birthday,” Pa said. “Want to go?”

“Yeah!”

Mr. Drake said, “What else do you want for your birthday?”

“A driver’s license.”

Pa and Mr. Drake both laughed. Pa said, “Where’re you planning to drive?”

“The bus stop.”

Pa stopped smiling. Mr. Drake, watching me, grinned even more. “Why do you want to drive to a bus stop? Where’ll a bus take you that you couldn’t drive?”

“School,” I said.

Pa looked at his wrist watch, then at Mr. Drake, then stood. “Tell Susan I had to run into town.”

“Sure.” Mr. Drake frowned. “Is there something—”

“Nah,” said Pa. “I shouldn’t be long.”

We watched Pa go out to our pickup truck. As he drove off, Mr. Drake said, “So, where’s this bus stop?”

“At the Stan’ard Oil. Ma and Pa have to work all day, but if I had a driver’s license, I could drive there by myself. Then I could go to kin’ergarden on the school bus.”

Mr. Drake said, “You have to be fourteen years old to get a learner’s permit in Florida.”

“Oh.”

Ma hurried into the restaurant, saw us, and smiled. “Artie.”

He smiled back. “Susan.” After a moment, he said, “Luke went into town. Said he wouldn’t be long.”

“That man.” Ma looked at me. “It’s such a nice day. You should be outside playing.”

“I’m reading.” Lurleen had saved several weeks of Sunday funnies for me, and I was looking at the pictures at the table next to Mr. Drake. Prince Valiant, Dick Tracy, and the Phantom were my favorites. Grandma and Grandpa’s paper had Flash Gordon, which was my favorite in Minnesota, but the Dickison Star did not carry it.

Ma sighed. Mr. Drake said, “Take a load off your feet?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” She sat. The restaurant was quiet in mid-afternoon.

“Where’re Little Bit and Digger?” said Mr. Drake.

“Napping.”

“They’re little kids,” I explained.

“Ah.” Mr. Drake glanced back at Ma. “Good trip home?”

I nodded.

Ma laughed. “A good one, but a slow one. Phenobarb’s a wonderful traveling companion, but even with that we averaged about thirty miles an hour.”

Mr. Drake’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

Ma nodded. “Probably wouldn’t be here yet without it. The kids weren’t any real trouble, but we were still constantly stopping to find a lost toy, get a drink, go potty, fix a sandwich, you know. A flyswatter lying in view on the dash helped the phenobarb take effect.”

Mr. Drake swirled his coffee. “The Victorians, the lower-class ones, at least, quieted their children, too. The drug of choice gave them a name: Gin Babies. Imagine infant alcoholics crying with the d.t.s—”

“No!”

“Less enlightened times.”

“It was just for the trip. Doctor Jim — he’s our family doctor — gave me the prescription for the kids. He told me how much was safe.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

Ma glanced at him.

He rolled his eyes. “Well, all right, I did. Sorry.”

Ma patted his hand just as Lurleen set an iced tea in front of her. Ma drew her hand back. “Ah, thanks, Lurleen.”

Lurleen looked at Mr. Drake. “‘Nother cup o’ coffee, Mister Drake?”

“Please.”

Lurleen refilled his cup and returned to the counter. Ma gave a tiny laugh, then said, “Is Gwenny looking forward to her last year of school?”

“Mm hmm.”

“She still seeing that Tepes boy?”

“I guess. Seems like they break things off near every three or four weeks, he disappears for a month or so, then he’s back as if he’d never left.” Mr. Drake held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart. “I’m this close to forbidding her to see him. When they’re together, she loses weight and starts looking as bleached as a Klansman’s sheet, but she’s happy. When they’re apart, she fills out and spends time in the sun till she’s as brown as an Indian. I’d think she was happy if that wasn’t when she runs fastest to answer the phone.”

“Love is strange.”

Mr. Drake smiled. “I’m tempted to demand he stay away from her. Then they’d elope and put an end to this.”

“They’re so young.”

“Not by local standards. Look at Francine Carter.”

“Francy’s getting divorced and going back to school. Hadn’t you heard? Talk about living life fast.”

“Good for her.” He sipped his coffee. “Seen much of Ethorne?”

“He hasn’t been back to work all summer.”

Mr. Drake shook his head. “He worked for my family when I was a boy. Used to take me hunting and fishing. I s’pose he was more of a father to me than anyone.”

“Oh?”

Mr. Drake nodded, took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, looked at them, then returned them to his shirt. “My parents died when I was younger than Chris. Father was part of the U.S. occupation of Haiti. They both took sick and died in Port-au-Prince. My uncle gave me a place in his house, but he was a traveling salesman, often away and drunk when he was home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He had a good library, and he treated me well. I can’t complain.”

Ma nodded.

Mr. Drake smiled. “So. What do you think of the South now that you’ve been here awhile?”

“I like it, but I won’t ever get used to it.”

“For instance?”

“Well, attitudes toward work are so different. I have a good colored woman for housework and washing now, but she’s the first dependable one I’ve found since my girl I liked ran off with that albino evangelist. People, white or colored, down here have absolutely no sense of responsibility. They say they’re coming to work and don’t. We’ve had them leave at noon and not return, for no apparent reason as they seemed happy enough. One gal said her divorced husband was after her kids when she didn’t show up. She said she’d taken her two babies and driven around the countryside all night to escape him, so she was leaving the state. She stopped here at six a.m. for her check. It’s—” Ma shrugged. “—not Minnesota.”

Mr. Drake laughed. “No, it surely is not.”

Ma’s face tightened. “I shouldn’t go on like this.”

“You might have cause.”

“Not really. People are so friendly here. I do appreciate that. The good workers, well, they’re as good as any workers anywhere. And I can’t say I mind the general attitude, except when it’s inconvenient. I bet there are a lot fewer ulcers here than anywhere in America.”

“Lot of ulcers get brought to Florida.”

The bell over the front door rang as the door swung open. We all looked as Mr. Shale strode in. His face was red and damp, and his white hair stood in tufts about his head. He wore a faded black coat over his chef’s apron. In one hand, he carried a green canvas bag.

“Mr. Shale!” Ma called. “You found our deposit!”

“Yes, ma’am, indeed I did.”

“Come in; sit down! You didn’t walk here in this heat?”

“Oh, I’m a lizard.” He sat by Ma and Mr. Drake. “A lizard for the Lord. How’re you, Artie?”

“Fine, Reverend, as always.”

Lurleen called, “Fix you somethin’, Mr. Shale?”

“The Lord provides,” Mr. Shale answered.

“An iced tea? A Coke?” Ma asked, then saw him nod and called, “A Coke!”

Mr. Shale set the green canvas bag on the linoleum tabletop. “I thought you folks’d be relieved to see this.”

“We are. Luke figured we’d just learned an expensive lesson.”

“What happened?” Mr. Drake asked.

“Oh, Luke was talking with friends of ours from New Orleans who’d come to visit the other day, and he left the bank deposit on top of their car. We didn’t figure out what had happened to it until after they’d gone.”

Lurleen placed a tall glass of Coke and ice before Mr. Shale. “Men’re lucky their most treasured possessions are attached to ‘em, that’s all I got to say. Here you go, Mr. Shale.”

Ma blushed, but I didn’t know why.

Mr. Shale took the Coke in both hands and lowered his head toward the straw. “You are two fine women in the eyes of the Lord.”

Ma waved that away with a flicker of red-painted fingernails. “Was the deposit near your place?”

“No. I was walking and thinking upon the end. I found your money ‘long side the road ‘bout half a mile past Tom Hasty’s Truck Stop.”

Ma unzipped the bag and ran a finger through its contents. “Looks like it’s all here.” She plucked a bill and held it out. “You have to take a reward.”

Mr. Shale shook his head. “No, ma’am, I don’t, and I couldn’t.”

“A donation,” Ma said. “You must be able to put some money to some good use.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mr. Shale said. “The lord sends enough folks needing burgers and the good word to meet all my daily needs. And I don’t need much when the end is so close. The signs are all about us. The Commies will bring us to war, maybe over Cuba, maybe over Berlin. You can see it coming. Havoc has been cried, and soon the dogs of war’ll be let slip.”

Mr. Drake said, “Shakespeare?”

Mr. Shale nodded. “Julius Caesar. The signs are everywhere, if you know how to look. I find newspapers along the road, and the front pages speak of destruction. War with the godless Russians must come.”

“Really?” I said, with perhaps a bit of eagerness.

“Not if we can help it,” Ma said.

“There’s only one who can help it.” Mr. Shale lifted a finger from his Coke glass to point at the roof.

“One who expects us to do our best to keep the peace,” said Mr. Drake.

“True,” said Mr. Shale, and he smiled at Ma. “The lord led me to your lost deposit for a reason. Maybe he means for your kind donation to be put to his service.” He tucked the bill Ma had given him into a pocket of his apron and looked at me. “How’s Tiger?”

“Okay,” I said.

Ma said, “He’s growing up strong and independent, just like my Christopher.”

I grinned. “Yeah.”

Pa returned sometime after Mr. Shale had left, but Mr. Drake had not. Ma called, “Luke, look! Gideon Shale found our deposit.”

Pa grinned. “I guess I ought to pray with the old coot, next time he asks me to.”

“What’d you do in town?”

“Just a little last minute business I’d neglected.”

#

The ship at Pirate’s Paradise was far better than any real ship could have been. It was a shell built on a dock on the river, so you could look over either side and see water. It had ropes and masts and heavy iron cannon on wooden blocks that you could sit on. Above the ship, on the tallest of the three sailless masts, flew a black flag with a white skull and crossbones.

I turned in circles on the deck, trying to see it all at once. My birthday expedition included Ma, Pa, Digger, Little Bit, Mr. Drake, Gwenny Drake, and Jordy Greenleaf. Jordy and I stopped staring at the ship to stare at each other. “Whoa!” Jordy said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Whoa!”

Mr. Drake said, “So? Where’s Captain Blood?”

Someone behind us said, “Arr, matey. Cap’n Blood’s a scribbler’s phantasm. Why d’ye seek ‘im when the boldest privateer of all walks these decks, an’ that be me, Cap’n John ‘Awkins.”

Captain John grinned as though a spotlight should glint against his teeth. Though a small man, brown-haired and tanned as dark as some of the lighter blacks who worked at Dogland, he swaggered like a giant. His short hair was Brylcreamed back from his forehead, and a golden clip-on earring adorned one earlobe, and his white short-sleeved shirt and tan trousers would have gone unremarked anywhere in America that year, if he had not worn them with high black boots, a red sash, crossed flintlock pistols, and a cutlass.

“Now, there’s a real pirate,” Pa said.

I nodded, and Jordy said, “Yeah!”

“Welcome aboard me pirate ship!” Captain John cried. “What’s your name, laddie? Be ye Black-hearted Bob, Bloody Bill, Dev’lish Davey, or Murd’rous Mike?”

“Chris’pher.”

“Ah! Christopher, the Crimson Pirate! Aye, I’ve heard o’ you, you scurvey dog! You parked your longboat out front and came aboard on a social call, I hope. We pirates must stick together, eh? We only raid the Spanish. And the French. And the Dutch. But not each other, eh?”

I nodded, and Ma, Pa, Mr. Drake, and Gwenny Drake laughed. Mr. Drake said, “I thought Hawkins’ ship was the Jesus of Lubeck.”

Captain John threw his head back and laughed. “Aye, was! Ye don’t expect a rover to keep the same ship for four hundred years, do ye?” He looked at Little Bit. “And who’s the pretty wench?”

“That’s Cap’n Li’l Bit,” I said.

“Ah, indeed. Captain Li’l Bit. You surely sailed with Anne Bonney and Mary Reid.”

“No,” said Little Bit.

“With Morgan the Pirate,” I said.

“Arr! Captain Morgan. There was a man! The glorious sack of Panama! Ah, men dreamed the dreams of giants in those days.”

“A little after your time, Captain Hawkins,” said Mr. Drake.

Before the pirate could respond, Jordy said, “Was it a big sack?”

Captain John nodded solemnly. “Indeed, laddie. As big as all Panama.”

“C’mon,” said Gwenny. “I want to see the dungeon.”

“Do ye?” Captain John laughed. “Careful what ye wish for, lassie.”

“She’s Gwenny,” I said. “Lassie’s a dog.”

Gwenny shook her head. “Thanks, boyfriend.”

Captain John slipped his fingers into his sash and withdrew several bright yellow slips of paper no bigger than calling cards. “Here, take a bit o’ plunder with ye, now. You, Cap’n—”

“Jordy,” Jordy said.

“Jordy,” Captain John agreed. “And you—”

“He’s Digger,” I said.

“I dig that,” said Captain John. “‘Cause I’m one hep pirate. Here’s one for you, Cap’n Li’l Bit. And you, Dungeon Wench. And you, Cap’n Chris.”

The yellow paper had a picture of a skull and crossbones, along with some words. “Thank you,” I said, and folded it to put in my pocket.

Ma read over my shoulder. “It’s for free French Fries.”

“All right!” Jordy and I said together.

Pa told Captain John, “I’m Luke Nix. This is my wife, Susan. We own Dogland, up the road.”

Captain John shook Pa’s hand, then kissed Ma’s, which made her cover her mouth and smile. “It’s good to meet you at last. Come aboard anytime.”

Going down the gangplank, Ma asked, “Having fun?”

I nodded. Jordy said, “Yes’m, this is sure grand!”

The native village consisted of a couple of frond-covered huts with picnic tables beneath them. The dungeon was a small three-sided room with a skeleton manacled to one wall and a dummy dressed like a pirate stretched on a torturer’s rack. A second, empty rack and an empty set of chains were by the opposite wall, where a pirate with a red scarf around his head was reading a newspaper.

As we approached, he set the paper aside, started to smile, studied us, then continued to smile. “Hi, y’all. Want to get your picture taken with a real pirate?”

Gwenny said, “Dream on, Cal Carter.”

Ma looked from Cal to me to Pa. She said, “Luke.”

Pa watched Cal, who said, “What about you, Chrissy-boy? I can put you in the rack and give it a crank or two, just like a pirate would.”

I shook my head. Pa looked at Cal, then at me, then said, “C’mon, Chris.”

Cal said, “I hear business ain’t so hot at Dogland lately, Mister Nix.”

Pa looked at him. Ma glanced at Pa, but he suddenly laughed. “We’ll be around awhile, Cal. Don’t worry about us.”

Ma and Pa walked on. Mr. Drake looked back at Cal and said, “If a pup barks at an old wolf long enough, it’s going to get nipped.”

“I ain’t scared of no one,” Cal said.

Mr. Drake nodded. “You’ve identified the problem. Now see what you can do about it.”

As we walked away, Little Bit smiled. “We’re li’l wolfs.”

The restaurant, a large place paneled with dark, timber planks, had long wooden tables and dim electric chandeliers. I ordered a buccaneer burger and fries. Mr. Drake told how Blackbeard would tie lit candles in his beard to make the people he attacked think he was crazy. Pa said he thought that must’ve worked pretty good, then said something about Cal being so concerned about Dogland when this place wasn’t doing much business and didn’t look like it was going to. Gwenny joked with Little Bit while Jordy and I wandered around the dining room, looking at posters for pirate movies, reproductions of paintings of sailing ships, and second-hand mannequins wearing seventeenth-century clothes and weapons. A black woman in a red circle skirt and a bare-shouldered white blouse brought our food on a tray, and my root beer came in a heavy frosted glass mug. It was my fifth birthday, and I could not imagine that it could be improved until Pa told me he’d gotten to Trenton in time to guarantee that the last available place at kindergarten would be mine, and he and Ma would be happy to get me to and from the bus stop every school day. When Ma asked if I liked that, I liked it so much that, unable to speak, I could only grin.

#

Early each morning, Ma or Pa drove me a mile to the Standard Oil station at the end of the Trenton school bus line. Late each afternoon, one of my parents would leave the business of running a tourist attraction to meet me. Sometimes I would have to wait at the station for our car to arrive, but I became friendly with the old man who ran the station, so the delays in p cking me up were merely an extension in the adventure of education.

I loved school. I have forgotten my kindergarten teacher and most of my classmates, but I have not forgotten the thrill of riding the bus, and learning to sing and color and cut out traced figures on stiff paper with dull scissors, winning praise from my teacher, my parents, and my grandparents. I crayoned suns as large as my paper and as yellow as margarine. I made stick men who were pilgrims, jet pilots, and pirates. I learned to cut on the line and color inside the line, to make the sky blue and the grass green. I sang songs whose words were meaningless expressions of joy: Frair uh jock ah, frair uh jock ah, door may voo? Door may voo? Sing cock uls an muss uls, a lie vuh lie voe. Yanky doodle went to town, London bridge is falling down, Mary had a little lamb, Baa-baa-black sheep, have you any wool? I plejaleejinced to the flag, and I prayed to Our Father Huart In Heaven. I played tag, catch, and dodgeball. I ran when girls chased me to kiss me, and when they caught me, I rubbed off their kisses to rid myself of girl cooties, screaming, “Ee-yuck!” while I laughed.

#

“Storm’s comin’,” Ethorne said, entering the kitchen.

“Yep.” Pa folded the morning paper and set it aside. “Hurricane Donna. You heard it on the radio?”

“I heard.”

“Gonna be a bad one. Record gales.”

Ma put a bowl of Sugar Frosted Flakes in front of me. “Seems like every couple of years, there’s a new record storm. How can that be?”

Little Bit smiled. “Gets bad.”

Ma looked at me. “No school for you today, young man.”

“Aw, Ma!”

“They’ll probably close the school anyway.” Ma smoothed her apron and smiled at Ethorne. “It’s good to see you, Ethorne.”

“It’s good to see you, ma’am. How you been?”

“Fine. Went to visit my parents for a couple of weeks this summer. That was nice.”

“Yes’m, I’m ‘xpect so.”

“How’s Seth doing at college?”

“He’s workin’ hard, ma’am. Which is what I ought to be doin’ now.”

Pa laughed. “It’s been months since we’ve seen you.”

“No, Pa,” I said. “We seen Ethorne—”

Pa’s glance told me to be quiet. We had seen Ethorne one evening in July, staggering along the highway with a bottle in a paper bag in one fist.

“Saw,” Ma corrected.

“Once or twice,” Pa added. “We haven’t seen Ethorne in the sense of being sociable.”

“Oh.”

Pa looked back at Ethorne. “We had to lay off some workers.”

“Didn’t come for money, Mist’ Luke. That storm’s movin’ out. We ought to be gettin’ ready for it. James is out feedin’ the dogs already. You want to bring any of ‘em in?”

We all looked at Pa. He said, “One advantage of building the pens yourself is you know they’re built to stand.”

Ma said, “What about Checky?”

Pa rolled his eyes. “All right.”

“An’ Bo Peep,” said Little Bit.

“And Mickey,” said Ma.

“Any more requests?” Pa asked.

“Captain,” I said.

“Elkhounds don’t mind a little water. What, you want to bring them all in?”

Little Bit nodded. “Uh huh.”

Pa rolled his eyes. “Maybe I’ll put a cot for me in the Doggy Salon till it’s over.”

Hurricane Donna hit America’s East Coast on September 6, 1960, breaking all records for destructive storms in the U.S. One hundred and forty-eight people died when Donna passed by. At Dogland, the skies grayed and lowered, and rain slapped the earth in heavy sheets, soaking within seconds anyone who stepped into it. A new-planted palm in the open field in front of Dogland blew free of the ground, and a wooden sign fell onto a customer’s windshield, but, as Ma pointed out, we had insurance, and no one was hurt.

#

My delight in school was recognized by my teacher or my classmates. I was chosen by whim or vote to be one of the crown-bearers for the coronation of Trenton High School’s homecoming king and queen. There is a black and white photograph of me in a white jacket and dark trousers beside the other crown-bearer, a dark-haired girl in a princess’s white gown. We are both smiling. When I remember the photo, I am surprised by how healthy and clever and cheerful and willing to please we appear to be.

I practiced my duty as a crown-bearer in the school gymnasium. The girl and I had to walk side by side with the bright crowns balanced before us on crimson pillows. Later, when we walked the same route for the ceremony, the bleachers were full of students and parents, and the ceiling and walls were decked with colored crepe and cardboard. The school b