Dirty Faces - Book 2

Chapter 27: Cornbread

Chapter 27: Cornbread

"Ye mama wants to talk to you." Ralph held up the receiver. The boy, reclining against the truck tire, laid down the book that had been holding his attention, and stood up. He crossed the parking lot and took the phone from him.

Ralph, more emotional than he could remember being in over a decade, returned to the truck. He was careful to keep his face the same as always: emotionless, or perhaps, smug. He crawled up into the driver's side and shut the door and his eyes.

She would tell him she loved him, that she was proud of the man he'd grown to be. She would say that everything back home was fine, and he would believe her because she was his mother and he would never doubt her word. He would hear her coughing and wheezing, and though very intelligent, he would believe that all was well because she said it was.

But to Ralph she had spoken the truth, and the truth was too much. He watched from the truck as the boy smiled and nodded in the phone booth, happy to hear that all was well with his loved ones back home. He wondered if there was doubt. The boy was sharp. He wandered if there was doubt, on his part, that all really was well.

The boy placed the phone back on the hook and returned back to the truck. He climbed back into the passenger's side and considered Ralph. "Are you OK?" he inquired.

Ralph gathered his composure before answering. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"I dunno. You just don't look...well."

Normally, he would have scoffed at such a suggestion. "I'm tired," he admitted. Tired was, truthfully, among the least of his concerns.

"Well, I'm alright," said the boy. "I can drive."

"No, no. Tired ain't nothing new," said Ralph. "I'll be alright."

"If you say so," the boy replied. He opened his book once more and picked up where he'd left off.

Ralph glanced over to the book to which the boy had committed himself. "What ya reading?"

"Life and Times of Frederick Douglas," the boy replied, never looking up from the pages.

"Ah," was all Ralph could manage, as he hadn't the slightest clue who Frederick Douglas was and was quite embarrassed to admit such.

Ralph started the truck and pulled it back out onto the highway. He stared numbly at the road ahead for several hours, hoping something could change. Of course, he hoped his wife would get better, but that wasn't likely. As it were, they were ahead of schedule and would probably get home earlier than expected, thanks to the boy's strong young back, efficiency, and assistance with driving. But Ralph hoped something would stall them and lengthen the run for as long as possible.

*****

Ginny hadn't eaten since breakfast. She knew she ought to be hungry by now but she just wasn't. Moreover, with Mama sick in bed, it was downright shameful that Ginny wasn't the one preparing meals for the family. In just over a month she would be fourteen years old and about all she could make without messing up was boiled eggs. She knew that it was well past time for her to accept the responsibilities that were hers;it was just so hard to think about anything right now.

She'd been in no hurry on her walk back to the holler, except to get herself out of Rowdy's presence. How could she expect sympathy from a boy who'd never had a mother to lose? Before this day, she'd never walked to or from town with her head down; she realized there was quite an ant problem along the dirt road leading out to the holler. There were still several hours of daylight left, and she cursed it. It would stretch well into the time that she would have already been in bed during the cooler months. Now, when she just wanted to sleep and forget it all, the dastardly sun would make it difficult.