Preacher's Boy

"Nothin'," I snapped, starting up the stairs. "Nothin' that's any business of yours." I pushed past him and headed through the kitchen for the porch door.

"Where you goin'?"

"Uh-fishing."

"Can I go, too, huh, Robbie?"

I tried hard to tamp down my impatience as I cupped my hands over my bulging pockets. "Maybe later," I said. "Say? Don't I hear Pa calling you?"

He cocked his ear to the silence. "Pa found me," he said.

"Yeah, Elliot. I know."

"Why you mad at me, Robbie?"

I could feel the gorge rise in my throat. "Why should I be mad at you?"

"I dunno. Shumtime you are, Robbie. I don' know why. Was I bad?"

I sighed. "No, Elliot. You was just lost. We was worried about you."

"Not bad?" he asked anxiously.

"No. Just not careful where you was going."

"Pa found me," he said, then worried all over again. "He cried."

"I know."

"Was he shad he foun' me?"

"No, Elliot, he was happy."

"Den why he cry?"

"Maybe he was really tired out."

"Oh." He seemed to ponder the idea. I opened the porch door and started out.

"Don' get los'," he called after me.

"I won't."

"Promish?"

"Promise."

7. Thou Shalt Not Steal

THE HILL BEHIND OUR HOUSE, WHICH IS REALLY PART of Webster's pastureland, is terraced by generations of cows meandering across it. Cows, as you might guess, don't fancy sliding headfirst down a slope like a child on a sled. They like to take the long road home, thus the zigzag cow paths. As often as I climb that hill, I still have to pay attention. But that afternoon I had the feeling someone was following me, and I tripped more than once, climbing as I was with one eye over my shoulder to see what might be at my back.

I kept wishing I'd taken time to put the vegetables in a sack or basket. It's hard to move with any speed whilst carrots and potatoes bump and poke at your thighs. Once I commenced to run, and a potato just popped out of my pocket and started rolling down the hill. It bounced on a dried cow pie and just kept going. I had to chase after it, and when I did, most of the rest of the potatoes hopped out and joined the fun. I was breathing hard by the time I corralled the whole shebang or as many as I could run down. I slowed to an uphill crawl, holding my hands tight against my pockets to keep the blooming roots in place while I engineered across the cow-paths and around the sharpest rocks and sidestepped the wettest of the cow pies that decorate the pasture.

Let me tell you, I was in some kind of sweat before I hit the sugar bush that rimmed the woods. The cool under the trees was more than welcome.

I smelled the smoke before I could see it rising from the stone chimney of the cabin. The hoboes? Tramps?—I'll just call them Vile and Zeb—had built a big fire. They had a pot of water going. I guess they always carried a pot with them. Willie and I didn't have one. But maybe they'd got it the same way they'd got the chicken. I wasn't about to ask.

"Dadblasted water," Zeb was growling. "It hain't never gonna bile. Hell would freeze over quicker. Pour some out, Vile. I'm hungry as a bear."