I took a deep breath before looking at the shop myself. When I saw it, my mouth fell open and I felt like someone punched the breath right out of my stomach.
J read the letters out loud. “S-h-i-p. Why does it say ship? Somebody don’t know how to spell. Shop is s-h-o-p.”
I couldn’t believe it. I never was any good at cursive, but how could it have gone so wrong? I stared at the p that wasn’t supposed to be, and I realized that I should’ve taken my finger off the trigger before I tried to cross the t, because I’d ended up making a loop. Then I figured out my other mistake. I held the trigger too long at the end and all the extra paint had run down to make a long drip that turned into the bottom of the p. Ship.
Mama picked up the black plastic cap of the spray can that I forgot about. Shoot. “Spray paint,” she said, “like we have in the shop.”
J pointed at my jeans. “What’s that black stuff?”
I looked down and saw what that snakish spray-paint can had done to me. Even though I’d stashed the blackened shirt under my bed, my jeans were giving me away. I lost my voice for a second, but then managed to say, “It’s just dirt.”
“You’re gonna get in trouble for making such a mess of yourself,” J said.
I knew J was just mad because I didn’t take him with me yesterday. I was more worried about Mama. I could feel her staring at me even though I was looking at the ground. I knew she was going to have a fit, I just didn’t know exactly what she’d do.
“Well,” she said, her voice calm, “I’m sure it won’t happen again. Will it, Red?”
I looked up, and she was squeezing the cap of the spray can between her fingers.
“No, ma’am,” I mumbled.
She was staring at me, her eyes narrowed down to real tough. “I think I’ll let you paint the shop, Red. And while you’re at it, why don’t you start cleaning it out so you can paint the inside, too? We’ll need to get rid of all that junk before we move.”
I gritted my teeth. “It’s not junk, Mama.”
“Well, there’s nothing in there that’ll be any use to us in Ohio.”
“There’s Old Man Porter’s desk – my desk.”
She raised her eyebrows, either because she didn’t know that Daddy had promised it to me or because she’d always thought “Old Man Porter” was a rude way to talk, even though Daddy said it was a mark of respect. Old Man Porter was the boss of Stony Gap.
“Daddy said I’d inherit Great-Great-Grandaddy Porter’s desk. It’s got my name on it. And there’s no way I’m leaving it behind.”
“Red, it’s just an old desk, and it’s too big—”
“It is not just an old desk! It’s all I’ll have left of Daddy if you’re taking me away from here! Maybe you don’t care about him any more, but I do!”
Mama’s hands went to her hips and her eyes flashed daggers at me. Her foot started tapping the gravel like a jackhammer. “I am not,” she said, pointing at the shop, “lugging that huge thing with us all the way to Ohio!”
“Well, I am!”
“You don’t have the money to move that monstrosity, so it’s staying right there.”
I narrowed my eyes down to hateful.
She turned and marched back inside like she’d won the battle. But she hadn’t won the war.
The whole time I was painting the shop, J rode his bike back and forth, saying, “Are you having fun, Red?” and “Is this better than what you did yesterday?” and “That’s what you get for being mean.” I tried to ignore him, but the hotter it got, the harder it was to pretend he wasn’t bothering me.
When Mr Harrison drove up, I saw my chance. I called J over. “Hey, J, do you want to do something fun?”
He scrunched his face up. “I ain’t painting the shop. I know that trick already. Daddy read us Tom Sawyer, remember?”
“Do you want to be a spy, like James Bond, double-o-seven?”
That got him. He skidded his bike to a stop beside me. “What do I do?”
I whispered so he’d get the idea it was something sly. “Go spy on Mama and Mr Harrison and see if you can hear what they’re saying.”
He frowned. “That doesn’t sound very fun.”
“It’s real important, though.”
“If I do, will you buy me a Coke? Mama says we can’t take them from the What-U-Want any more.”
“And where am I going to get the money? Come on, J.”
He twisted his mouth up, trying to think of another deal. “Can we play Rock’Em Sock’Em Robots?”
“No!” I was as surprised as J at how loud I said it. But it belonged to me and Thomas. I guess I still hoped that we’d play it again.
“Then forget it,” J said, getting back on his bike.
“Wait! You can play with my Hot Wheels cars. I’ll even help you set up my track in your room.”
“Will you help me play, too? It ain’t as much fun by myself.”
“It isn’t as much fun,” I corrected him, like Daddy used to.
“I know it, so will you play, too?”
“Sure.”
“Promise?”
“Yes, now go spy on them.”
J was stuck to the side of the house like a tick on a dog, listening through the screen door. It didn’t take him long to get tired of being a spy, though, and wander off.
“J!” I called.
“What?”
I looked from side to side like I had a big secret and motioned him over to me.
He came running. “What?”
I bent down and whispered to him. “What did Mr Harrison say?”
“Aw, is that all? Shoot, I thought you had something good.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Just boring stuff.”
“Did he say anything about Mr Reynolds?”
“Who?”
“How about a buyer?”
“A what?”
“Somebody buying the house and shop.”
“Oh, that. He said there’s plenty of rich people wanting summer places.”
“What else?”
He shrugged.
“Go back and listen some more.”
“I don’t wanna. It’s boring.”
“Then I’m not playing Hot Wheels with you.”
“You promised!”
“Not if you don’t hold up your side of the bargain.”
J grabbed a fistful of gravel and threw the wad where I’d just painted. A mess of dirt and grit spread across the wall, sticking itself in the wet paint.
“J, I swear, you’re paying for that!”
“You ca-ain’t get me!” he taunted, running off behind the shop.
“Oh, yeah?” I raced the other way and was almost on him before he noticed and ran hollering towards the house. For some dumb reason I skidded and fell, which gave J time to reach the pine outside my window and begin climbing. The problem is, those branches are so close together and the pine needles are so prickly, it’s about the worst getaway tree you could pick, so I was on him in seconds, pulling him down. He fought back pretty well for a little kid, so I had to hit him and he started screaming.
So did Mama. Even Mr Harrison felt like he should get in on the yelling, shouting, “Stop it now, boys!”
I let go of J, and he ran crying to Mama, as usual, so I’d get in trouble instead of him.
Mr Harrison shook his head at me before getting in his car. He called out the window to Mama, “ ’Bye, Betty, I’m always here to help,” as he drove off.
Mama was ready to spit nails, so I figured I’d better defend myself while I had the chance.
“J started it! He’s been pestering me all day. He just threw gravel—”
“Red! You’re twelve years old now! J is only seven.”
“I know, but—”
“You’re his big brother. You’re supposed to be helping him.”
“I’m trying, but he won’t listen to me! You don’t know what that’s like!”
Mama was silent for a long moment, clenching her teeth
together. Finally she said, “Oh, yes, I think I do, Red,” and glared at me.
I wasn’t going to let her make me feel guilty. I had a good reason for not listening to her. Ohio.
“My knee hurts,” J said in a crybaby voice, hanging on to Mama.
Mama looked down at the tiny little trickle of blood and gasped. “See, Red?”
When she looked over at me, J lost his pained look and started grinning.
I shook my head. “He’s faking—”
“Honestly, Red!” Mama put her hand on her hip. “I know you’re upset about your daddy, but what do you think Daddy would say if he were here now?” She stared at me, her eyes turning pink and watery.
I looked away because I didn’t want to hear what she was going to say. But she said it anyway.
“Writing foul language on his repair shop? Running after your little brother, hurting him and then trying to blame him, a seven-year-old, for starting it all? And treating me like I don’t even exist?” Her voice was shaky now, and she took a raspy breath. “What would your daddy say?” She choked up, spun around, and marched to the house. “Come on inside, J,” she said, without turning her head, “I’ll fix you up.”
As soon as the door slammed behind her, J started his teasing. “Ha-ha, you got in trou-ble.”
When I looked at him I was surprised at how blurry he was and how croaky and quiet my “shut up” came out. Then I realized I was all choked up, but it was too late to hide it from J. I turned my back on him, waiting for a stream of name-calling and meanness. Not that I cared. Nothing would make me feel worse than I already did, because I knew what else Daddy would say. He said it any time he left, any time there was a problem, any time he needed my help.
I know I can count on you, son.
When I wiped my eyes and turned to stare at him, J wasn’t grinning. His mouth was drooped open and his dark eyes looked kind of scared. I guess he’d never seen me almost crying before, at least not without a lot of blood coming out of me.
“What?” I said.
He shrugged, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his shorts, and looked at the ground, pushing some gravel around with his Keds. Finally he turned and walked towards the house, but he kept looking back at me over his shoulder.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Sheriff
The next day, Mr Harrison came by with another For Sale sign since I’d spray-painted the last one. He was hopping mad because he had to dig the whole wad of cement out of the ground to get the old sign out. I was in my room because I was grounded, but he kept yelling over to my window stuff like, “Boy, you want to come over here and help with this?” and “I don’t own a lumber yard, you know!” and “Sheriff Scott might like to know about this kind of vandalism!”
I didn’t mind at all, though, because I also heard Mr Harrison tell Mama that the buyer he thought he’d snagged had gotten away. In fact, I thought the whole thing was downright funny until the sheriff came by that afternoon.
Every kid in town had been scared of Sheriff Scott since the day he shot his gun off in my first-grade classroom. I’ll never forget it. He started out real nice, about how policemen and sheriffs are your friends. He slowly pulled out his gun, which is what we boys had been waiting for, and we all oohed and aahed. He said, “Y’all like this gun, huh? You want to see how much fun it is?” and suddenly his face went all mad and red, and he let out a blood-curdling war whoop, swung his gun around, and fired a bullet right through the open window. It was such a thundering noise that it sent the birds screaming from their trees and us screaming under our desks. Mama was beside herself when she found out. Daddy said Sheriff Scott did it because he’d seen too many kids get hurt by guns and he wanted to show us once and for all that it wasn’t a toy to be played with. It worked. After that whenever I saw the sheriff I felt queasy, because all I could see was his red face hollering as he shot that powerful gun off right in front of me.
I could hear my own heart pounding when Mama called me into the living room. You don’t know how much you make a floor creak until people are hushed and staring at you. It felt like the time everyone came over after the funeral. Only quieter. At least then, some of them were talking softly. Now it was dead still. Mama was real pale and wavering like she was about to drop. Sheriff Scott was sticking his lips out, making that long, slow kissing noise.
The Kiss of Death.
I couldn’t look straight at him. I was too busy looking at the floor. But out of the corner of my eye I could see his boots, his legs, and all the way up to his holster, with that gun.
I saw a hand move to his belt. “What were you up to last night, Red?”
“N-nothing. Much.” I swallowed hard, and it felt like someone clapped their hands inside my head.
“You weren’t over at the graveyard, were you?”
I let out my breath because I knew I was safe on that one. I even looked up. “No, sir, nowhere close.”
The sheriff looked over at Mama.
“He went straight to bed after painting the shop. As…as far as I know.”
Sheriff Scott made another Kiss of Death. “Seems like a lot of spray-painting going on lately.” He stared at me, took a deep breath, and put his other hand on his belt. The gun side. “This your new hobby?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t think this is what your daddy had in mind for you. You got anything to say?”
I didn’t know what I could say.
Mama spoke real slow, almost like she was taking a breath between each word. “Frederick Stewart Porter, did you spray-paint those headstones at the graveyard last night?”
I stared at her. “Headstones? Someone spray-painted headstones? Daddy’s? Did someone paint Daddy’s?”
Neither of them answered. They just stood there like headstones themselves.
I bolted out of the house and ran all the way to the graveyard without stopping, even though my lungs felt fit to burst. I was almost there when I saw Rosie sitting on the grass in the corner of the graveyard, crying. I wanted to check on Daddy’s headstone, but I couldn’t exactly walk right past her.
“What’s wrong, Rosie?”
“I don’t want to be around when Daddy gets his hands on Darrell.”
“Oh. Yeah.” I should’ve known Darrell was responsible. I looked around and there was more than just spray-painted headstones. One was even busted. It was a Dunlop’s. I looked over towards where Daddy’s headstone was.
“It’s okay,” said Rosie, “I didn’t let them do anything to your daddy’s.” She sniffed.
I still craned my neck, trying to see if there was any damage. The mayonnaise jar was broken and the roses on the ground. I stormed over there and carefully brushed the glass away from Daddy’s grave. I propped the roses up against his headstone, like the blossoms were leaning on Daddy.
When I heard Rosie sniffling some more I looked around. She was looking back towards her house, or more likely, her shed.
I walked over to her. “Maybe the sheriff won’t find out it was Darrell.”
Her big dark eyes looked at me like I was slower than a possum. She took a deep breath and let it out. “At least school starts in a week and a half, so Darrell won’t be getting in as much trouble.”
“What?”
“Okay, he gets in trouble at school, too, but they don’t always tell Daddy, so—”
“No, I mean, school starts in a week and a half? Are you sure?”
“Next Monday is Labor Day, Red. You know school always starts the day after Labor Day.”
How did it get to be almost Labor Day already? Without me even noticing?
I sat down next to her. “Shoot. How am I going to stop Mama from selling our place if I’m stuck in school all day? Who cares about stupid English and stupid history and stupid math?”
She didn’t have a chance to answer because we heard the distant slam of a door, and we both knew it was the Dunlops’ shed. Rosie looked at me, her eyes pleading, like she wanted me to help but there
was nothing I could do. Me and Thomas had tried. But it hadn’t worked. She flinched when we heard Darrell scream the first time. After that, we just sat there, as still as the graveyard.
It’s weird how when you want to cover up an awful noise like that you can’t think of anything to say or do and you just sit there stupidly in the stillness that you don’t want. Rosie squeezed her lips together hard, but it looked like the crying was going to come out of her eyes anyway.
I don’t know what made me do it, but I reached out and put my hand over hers. Her hand was so soft and fragile. She looked at me, and if she hadn’t been about to bust out crying, I swear she would’ve smiled. It was almost like holding hands. And it helped while we waited, trying to tune out the smacking sound and Darrell’s crying. I wished Mr Dunlop wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t he see that it didn’t stop Darrell? If anything, it made Darrell worse.
Finally Rosie whispered, “He’s done.”
I gave her hand a little squeeze, and we both let out our breaths. It was over. For now.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Brotherhood
Darrell came to see me the next day. I tried to pretend that he wasn’t walking funny. I guess his backside still hurt from the beating his daddy gave him.
“We’re meeting in the woods behind Kenny’s tonight,” he said.
“Who?”
“The gang, dingbat! Do you want our help or not?”
“It didn’t work so well last time.”
“That was Kenny’s fault. And Thomas’s.”
“Thomas didn’t do anything!”
Darrell shrugged. “Glen said to bring you up the mountain behind Kenny’s, because tonight’s the Brotherhood’s big night.”
“The Brotherhood?”
“That’s the name of the gang.” Darrell looked at me like he was so smart and I was an idiot.
How was I supposed to know the gang’s name? “Why’s it called the Brotherhood?”
Now Darrell didn’t look so smart. “It’s the name Glen picked, okay?”
“Is he the boss?”
“He’s not a boss, he’s a chieftain.”
I guess Darrell didn’t like the face I made. “Fine, you don’t have to come.”
Seeing Red Page 7