by Ronald Kelly
“Yes, sir,” piped Rusty respectfully.
Keith hated to say it, but knew he had no other choice. “Yes, sir.”
The two boys dusted themselves off and turned toward the barn door. Susan McLeod stood there with her flabby arms crossed, her eyes dark and accusing. Back in the kitchen she had looked as if she didn’t possess an unkind bone in her body. But now she looked as though she could bit through iron chains and snap two-by-fours in half with her bare hands.
“Rusty,” she said sternly. “Get to your room and don’t come out for the rest of the afternoon.”
“But Ma – “ he began to protest.
“I don’t wanna hear it,” she told him. “Now do as I say.”
Rusty shot an almost apologetic glance at Keith. In turn, Keith simply shrugged his shoulders. With his head hanging low, Rusty ambled toward the barn doorway. As he passed, his mother gave him a sharp swat on the seat of his britches. It picked up his pace a bit and it wasn’t long before they heard the slamming of the back door.
“Keith,” said Susan, just before she turned and left. “I’m very disappointed in you.”
The twelve-year-old stood there and swallowed nervously. He didn’t know exactly why, but her words embarrassed him. He couldn’t figure out why he really cared one way or the other, but he did.
“You oughta be ashamed acting like that, and you a guest at your aunt’s house!” said Jasper, his face ruddy with anger. “I was a little careful about saying anything yesterday, but I ain’t now. I’m not gonna tolerate any more of your lip, boy. You might be able to brow-beat your mama and daddy back home, but I’m your grandpa and, while you’re in my care, you’ll do as you’re told and not backtalk me. Do I make myself clear?”
Keith felt none of the confidence he had felt the day before. Apparently, his fight with Rusty had taken some of the arrogance out of him. “Uh, yeah,” he mumbled.
Jasper glared at him sharply. “What was that?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, unable to meet his grandfather’s eyes.
“Good,” said the old man, looking a little weary. “Now, you go on out to the truck and wait for me. I’m gonna say goodbye to Susan, then we’re heading home.”
Keith nodded, then started for the barn door. I guess that means homemade ice cream is out of the question, he thought. But he didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t dare, not in front of Grandpa McLeod.
When he reached the truck, he sat and looked out the bug-speckled windshield. On the second floor of the farmhouse, Rusty stood in his bedroom window, looking down at him. He was dabbing at his nose with a piece of toilet paper. When he pulled the bloody tissue away, he grinned lopsidedly and shook his head.
Keith touched his lower lip. It was swollen to about twice its normal size. He also felt a few scrapes and bruises that he hadn’t noticed until now. Still, he couldn’t help but smile.
Despite their differences, he knew that he had developed a grudging respect for his cousin. And, from the look on Rusty’s battered face, he could tell that he felt the same about him as well.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, Keith walked the mile of rural back road that stretched between his grandfather’s farm and that of his Uncle Frank. When he arrived at the farmhouse around nine o’clock, he found himself a little winded. He was accustomed to walking the streets of Atlanta, at least those in the vicinity of his own neighborhood. Walking in the country was different, however. There were no traffic lights or street signs to mark your progress. You just set your sights on a distant hill or a far away grove of trees and headed for it. Also, he wasn’t all that used to walking on clay dirt or soft grass. Hard concrete and asphalt was all he had traveled on for as long as he could remember.
He saw his Aunt Susan standing in the backyard, hanging bed sheets and pillowcases on a clothesline with wooden pins. When she spotted Keith coming up the drive, she smiled cheerfully. The boy could detect none of the anger and disappointment that she had shown yesterday afternoon. Oddly enough, she seemed as good natured and happy as she had the first time he had met her.
“How are you doing this morning, Keith?” she asked her nephew.
“Okay, I guess,” he replied. That wasn’t entirely true. Keith hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. For some strange reason, his behavior of the day before, both at the dinner table and in the barn, had nagged at him, preventing him from falling to sleep. That was part of the reason he had made the long trek to the McLeod farm that morning.
“Uh, Aunt Susan?” he began uncomfortably.
The woman smiled at him. “Yes, sweetie?”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said. “For being such a jerk yesterday. Lunch was good. It really was.”
Susan’s smile brightened. “Well, now, I’m sure glad you enjoyed it. And don’t worry about the other. Your grandpa told me about how you feel about spending the month here. Can’t say I really blame you. I’d be peeved if someone was to send me away like that, without giving me much time to get used to the idea.”
“Really?” Keith was surprised that his aunt actually understood what he was going through.
“Why, certainly,” she said as she finished one basket load and started hanging another.
“But you know something? I don’t think it’ll be much longer before you forget what you’re mad about. You’ll get to enjoying yourself and, by the time the summer’s over with, you’ll be dreading the trip back home.”
Keith shrugged. “Maybe.” But he doubted it.
He looked around the yard. “Is Rusty here?”
“He’s upstairs, cleaning his room,” she said. “You can go on up and see him if you want. It’s upstairs, last door to your left.”
Keith stood there for a moment longer, watching the woman pin bed linens on the heavy cotton line. “Tell me something, Aunt Susan?”
“What’s that, dear?”
“Why are you hanging your clothes out here? Don’t you have a dryer?”
Susan laughed. “I surely do. But things just seem to smell better if you hang them out in the fresh air.”
“Oh.” Keith shook his head and started for the back door of the house. If you tried that in the middle of Atlanta, you would likely discover your wash covered with bird droppings and spray-paint graffiti, and smelling like car exhaust fumes.
A minute later, he was on the second floor of the farmhouse, heading down the hallway for Rusty’s bedroom. The entire house smelled of potpourri and cinnamon. The aroma was alien to the twelve-year-old, but far from unpleasant.
“Rusty?” he called as he neared the end of the hall.
Abruptly, his cousin bounded into the hallway and aimed a slingshot at him; the kind made of crooked steel and yellow rubber tubing. Keith stopped dead still, startled by the contraption that was aimed his way. From where he stood, he could see that Rusty held a ball bearing in the cradle of the sling. If he were to let go at such a close range, the projectile could end up hurting him bad, or even worse.
But, an instant later, Rusty relaxed his grip. He lowered the slingshot, his eyebrows cocked. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Yeah,” said Keith, breathing a sigh of relief. “Couldn’t beat me at wrestling, so now you’re figuring to put out my eye with that thing, huh?”
Rusty laughed. “No fighting today. That’s why Ma’s got me working the chain gang this morning.” He nodded toward the door he had emerged from. “Come on. I’ll show you my room.”
Keith followed his cousin inside. The room was decorated with a simple oak bed, desk, and six-drawer bureau. The floor was cluttered with dirty clothes, comic books, and all manner of junk. The bedspread and curtains were tan and bore images of cowboys riding bucking broncos and roping unruly calves.
“Love your décor,” said Keith with a chuckle. “Bet you have pajamas like this, too.”
Rusty’s oversized ears bloomed bright red with embarrassment. “Aw, I’ve had this stuff since I was a kid. Ma’s gonna buy me something diff
erent this Christmas.”
Keith realized that he had embarrassed his cousin and, for once, he found that he derived no pleasure from the put-down. “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “I was just picking at you.”
Rusty tossed his slingshot on the desk and grinned. “Well, at least you ain’t called me Hiram… yet.”
Keith walked over and took a look at the walls of Rusty’s room. They were decorated with posters of John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn and Clint Eastwood as the Man with No Name, as well as reproductions of famous wanted posters, offering cash bounties for Jesse James and Billy the Kid. On the desk sat a row of westerns by Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey, held together by six-shooter bookends.
“Really into this cowboy stuff, aren’t you?” he asked.
Rusty shrugged. “I reckon so. But I’m most interested in gunfighters and U.S. marshals and such as that. Grandpa says I should’ve been born back in the days of the Old West, I like that kind of stuff so much.” The farm boy eyed his cousin. “You into anything like that?”
Keith thought for a moment. “Yeah, I’m into police and detective stuff. You know, private eyes and gangsters and hard-boiled cops.”
The lanky boy with the fiery red hair grinned appreciatively. “You see? We ain’t that different after all. Our interests are kind of the same, except you like that crime stuff and I like the West.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Rusty began to pick the clutter from off the floor. “You know, if you help me clean up this place, we can get outta here and do some stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” asked Keith curiously.
“Help me pick up this mess and I’ll show you.”
They worked on the room for another fifteen minutes. When Rusty was satisfied that it would pass inspection, he and Keith scrambled downstairs and shot through the kitchen. Susan McLeod had finished her laundry and was washing the breakfast dishes in the sink.
“Ya’ll hold up a minute,” she called out before they could reach the back door. “Did you finish your room, Rusty?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “All squared away.”
“Where are you boys going in such a hurry?”
“Thought I’d take Keith over to Chuck’s house for a while,” said her son.
Susan nodded. “All right. Get back by twelve and I’ll have tuna fish sandwiches and tater chips ready… and that apple pie I cooked early this morning for dessert.”
“Then we’ll be back by high noon,” said Rusty with a grin. “Right, pardner?”
Keith nodded. “Right, Kemo Sabe.”
A second later, they were sprinting out the back door and leaping off the porch. Keith let his cousin take the lead, having no earthly idea where they were going. As it turned out, they headed straight for the barn.
“Who’s Chuck?” he asked as they made it through the structure’s open door and entered the musky, shadowy interior.
“He’s a friend of mine,” said Rusty. He headed for a stall at the far end of the barn. “Thought we might ride over there and see him.”
“What do you mean ‘ride’?”
A moment later, Keith found out. Rusty went to a wall cluttered with leaning boards and farm implements, and returned with a bicycle. The bike was a ten-speed with a bright red frame and dusty rubber tires. There were playing cards stuck in the spokes for making a racket when the wheels spun. Keith thought that was just something kids did in books and movies, but he guessed he was mistaken.
“Got ol’ Cyclone here,” he said. “Faster than a Texas twister, she is.”
“If you expect me to ride on the back of that thing, you’re crazy,” said Keith.
“Shoot naw!” said Rusty. “I got another one for you, if I can find it.”
He searched through one of the rear stalls for a moment, tossing aside old milk cans and mangled parts of kerosene lanterns. “Bingo!” he finally yelled, tugging something free from the clutter.
It took a while for Keith to realize that it was actually a bike. It was an old Schwinn ten-speed that looked a good ten years older than Rusty’s. The frame was rusty and cobwebs clung to the handlebars and the spokes of the wheels. One of the tires was flat, while the other looked as if it had been patched a half dozen times.
“Ain’t much to look at, but it’ll get you where we’re going,” said Rusty. “A little oil here and there, and some air in that tire and we’ll be ready to roll.”
Rusty fetched an oil can and a hand pump from near his father’s workbench, then set to work. Ten minutes later, the bike was in working order. At least that’s what Rusty claimed.
The farm boy hopped on his bike and headed for the door. He was almost there when he noticed that his cousin wasn’t following. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Keith was standing there with his hands on the handlebars, studying the older bike with a critical eye.
“Don’t worry,” Rusty called. “It ain’t gonna fall apart on you.”
“That isn’t it,” said Keith.
Rusty turned his bike and rode back to where his cousin stood. “So what’s the problem? Don’t tell me you don’t know how to ride.”
“Well, it’s been a while,” Keith admitted. “I had a bike when we lived in the suburbs, but when we moved uptown, my parents wouldn’t let me have one. They were afraid I’d get run over by a bus or something. “
“You know what they say… once you learn you never forget.”
“I guess you’re right,” nodded Keith, although he looked doubtful.
They started out the barn door. Keith was a little shaky and off balance at first. But it didn’t take but a few minutes for him to get the hang of it. By the time they reached the road, his confidence had built enough that he was able to keep up with Rusty.
“See?” Rusty told him with a grin. “I told you!”
Together, they headed down the rural stretch of Sycamore Road. Soon, they were riding north, in the direction of town.
~ * ~
A couple miles later, Rusty and Keith stopped to take a breather.
“You hanging in there, cuz?” asked the farm boy.
“Don’t worry about me,” gasped Keith, catching his breath. “I’m keeping up, aren’t I?”
Rusty nodded, breathing just as hard as the other boy. Half of their fatigue was from exertion. The other was due to the heat. It was a little past ten o’clock and, already, the temperature was well into the mid-nineties.
“It’s a real scorcher today,” he said. “You could roast a pig on a flagpole, it’s so blamed hot.”
“We should’ve brought us something to drink,” said Keith.
“I could sure go for a cold Nehi right about now,” agreed Rusty. “But Hill’s store is all the way on the far side of Harmony. We’d pass out from heat stroke before we even got there.”
“Maybe your friend Chuck has something cold in his fridge.”
“More’n likely.” Rusty sat atop his bike and stared thoughtfully at his cousin for a moment. “Tell me something?”
“Sure. What?”
“You don’t make a habit of picking fun at crippled people, do you?” asked Rusty quite seriously.
Keith wondered why he was asking such a question, then recalled how much of a smart-ass he had been the day before. Maybe he had good reason to ask, after all. “No, not really.”
“Good. ‘Cause if you get a wild hair to when we get to Chuck’s, I swear I’ll open a can of whup-ass on you that you ain’t ever gonna forget.”
Keith couldn’t understand the nature of the threat. “What are you talking about?”
Rusty’s face was solemn. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were walking their bikes off the sunbaked earth of the road and into the shade of a green yard thick with black walnut trees. When they reached the front porch, they parked their bikes next to the steps, then went up and knocked on the door.
A moment later, a thin, blond-haired lady with glasses appeared at the sc
reen door. “Well, hi there, Rusty,” she said.
“Howdy, Mrs. Adkins,” replied the boy.
“Who’s this you’ve got with you?”
“Oh, this here’s my cousin, Keith, from Atlanta,” said Rusty. “He’s staying the rest of the summer with Grandpa, on account his folks went on a trip overseas.”
The woman smiled. “Well, ain’t that nice? I’m sure it’ll do your grandfather a world of good, too. He’s been awful gloomy since your grandmother passed on, God bless her soul.”
“Is Chuck around?” he asked. Keith could tell that Rusty didn’t want to discuss their grandmother’s death. He had gotten a little pale in the face when Mrs. Adkins had mentioned it.
“He’s back in his room,” she said. “I tried to get him to come out on the porch and get some fresh air, but you know him. He’s in one of those funky moods of his again.” She opened the door. “Ya’ll come in. Maybe you can cheer him up a little.”
“We’ll sure see what we can do,” said Rusty. He mustered one of his best good-ol-boy grins, although it looked as if it took some effort on his part.
“You boys look hot,” she said. “There’s lemonade in the refrigerator and clean glasses in the dish drainer. Ya’ll help yourselves if you want.”
“Yes, ma’am!” replied Rusty gratefully.
They went to the kitchen and fetched their lemonades. As they were walking down a dim hallway toward the back of the house, Keith stopped him for a moment. “Hey. Exactly what’s wrong with this friend of yours? What’d his mom mean by his ‘funky mood’?”
Rusty’s face grew serious again. “Chuck ain’t like other kids. He gets depressed sometimes.” A warning look came into the boy’s eyes. “Remember what I said before.”
“Sure,” said Keith, still confused. “I swear, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
A second later, they were standing outside a door with an American flag pinned to the outside with thumb tacks. From the other side, Keith could hear a slow, syrupy melody made up entirely of brass instruments. He turned and looked at his cousin.