"What's wrong with him?"
"He's afraid of going to hell," I said, gazing
back. He looked like a mad prophet razing against the
heavens, his arms lifted, that machete painted in our
direction.
"He should be locked up somewhere. He's
dangerous."
Daddy and Uncle Simon had just parted and
Daddy was stepping onto the porch when we
appeared, hurrying from the path to the pond toward Chandler's car. Both he and Uncle Simon turned to
watch us a moment.
"Why are you guys walking barefoot?
Something wrong, Honey?" Daddy asked when we
drew closer.
"Grandad," I said.
"What did he do?"
"He frightened us and accused us of things," I
said. "And he waved his machete at Chandler." "He did what?"
Daddy and Uncle Simon looked toward the
pond.
"I'd better get going," Chandler said, reaching
for his car door handle. He didn't pause to put on his
shoes and socks first. "I'll call you. Or, maybe you call
me when you can," he added. He looked absolutely
terrified. I couldn't blame him.
"I'm sorry," I said. He nodded, started the
engine, and drove off qui
ckly, forgetting the bump
again. I looked up at Daddy.
"He's horrible," I cried. "I don't care if he is