“He was supposed to kiss her,” Ma said. There was the sound of a lamp switch and light came from under the door.
I ran back into my room and listened to the footsteps in the hall. It was Ma and she was coming to my room. I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Ma came in and sat on the edge of my bed. She placed her hand on my forehead and rolled my face toward her.
“Oh, hello, Ma,” I said.
“Craigie, you were supposed to kiss your grandmother.”
“I know, Ma.”
“What is it?” Martin asked, sitting up in bed.
“Go to sleep!” Ma yelled. She turned to me again. “Craigie, I want you to pray for Grandmama.” She stood up. “Get down here on your knees.”
I got out of bed and onto my knees.
“Now pray!” she commanded.
Then Daddy came in. “Kathy, let the boy get some sleep.”
“He has to pray.”
“Come on, Kathy.”
“Pray!” she screamed at me.
“Dear God,” I said, “please be good to my Grandmama.”
“Tell him to let her in heaven,” Ma said.
“And let her in heaven.”
“Okay,” Daddy said. “Come on, Kathy. Get in bed and go to sleep, Craig.” Daddy took Ma by the arm and ushered her out of the room. I stood up.
“You okay?” Martin asked.
I got into bed. I didn’t say anything. I just got into bed.
In the morning Bud and I were walking by the pond. The grass was wet from a shower the night before and the smell of rain was still floating around. We saw a dog sitting by the pond, a kind of German shepherd mix. Bud whistled and approached the dog. The dog limped into the pond.
“He’s hurt,” Bud said. We stood at the edge of the pond, calling the dog. Bud looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped into the pond. The water was up to his thighs when he reached the dog.
“Have you got him?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Bud pulled the dog through the water and up onto the bank. “That’s a good boy,” Bud said to the dog, examining him. “I can’t see anything wrong with his leg.”
“Maybe he sprained it.”
“Maybe.” Bud looked at me. “He ain’t got no tags. I’m going to keep him.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, and I’ve got a name for him.”
“What?”
“Django.”
“Django? What kind of name is that?”
“Django Reinhardt is the name of a guitar player. A Gypsy.”
The dog’s leg wasn’t bothering him so much as he walked with us back to the house. Bud was soaking wet. Bud told me to run into the kitchen and grab a towel and a couple of biscuits. I got the towel and picked some biscuits from a plate on the stove and ran back outside.
“Give those to the dog,” Bud said, taking the towel. “Your name is Django,” he said to the dog as I held a biscuit up for him.
Then Ma came running out of the kitchen in her coat and sneakers. She ran around the house and out into the street. I shook my head.
“She’ll be all right,” Bud said and he tossed another biscuit to Django. “You have to ask your father if you can keep him.”
“Why?”
“Well, I can’t take him to France with me.”
“Oh.”
“He’s a nice dog, huh?” Bud rubbed Django’s neck and back with the towel.
Daddy stepped out of the kitchen and saw the dog. He looked at me.
“We found him by the pond,” I told him.
Daddy nodded.
“Can we keep him?”
“We’ll see,” he said and walked away.
That night, while we were sitting on the front porch, Django was running all over the front yard.
“He’s a frisky little fella,” Daddy said.
“Hey, Doc,” Bud said, “I’ve got a story for you.”
Daddy sat up, ready to listen.
Bud told the story. “There was this old black man that had a job with the railroad. He was the crossing-tender — he would swing a lantern when the train was coming so people wouldn’t drive across the tracks. Well, there was this accident where the train hit a car. The owner of the car sued the railroad and the only witness was this old black man. At the trial the lawyer questioned that old man up and down, but his story stayed the same and the railroad got off. The railroad’s lawyer was so pleased that he hugged the old man and found him all sweaty. ‘Why are you so sweaty?’ the lawyer wanted to know. And the old man said, ‘I was scared he was going to ask me if that lantern I was swinging was lit.’”
Daddy laughed and so did I. Then there was screaming and McCoy popped out of some bushes across the street with Django right behind him, barking and snapping.
“I guess you can keep him,” Daddy said and sipped his iced tea.
Chapter 17
A light drizzle wakes me and I get up and walk into the cabin. The sun is coming up and I take to fixing some breakfast, bacon and eggs. As I’m sitting at the table eating, my nose picks up a strong smell which is me and I notice that my clothes ain’t offering much warmth. I toss some hay to Renoir and then I drive into Parkdale for a new jacket and some more clothes.
So, I’m in Parkdale in this little clothing store that sells clothes for men, women, and children. I’m in this line that everybody gets in to pay and there’s a little girl behind me and she’s with her mother. The girl must be about eight and she’s hopping mad.
“Mama, I will not wear that dress,” the girl says and the mother is silent. “You can buy all the dresses you want, but they won’t get wore. If they get wore, it’ll be because you put them on.” The child sniffs. “You always pick out my clothes. Why can’t I pick out my own damn clothes.”
Then there’s this loud pop, like flesh against flesh, and the little girl starts bawling something awful. So, her mother hits her again and the girl goes running out of the store. I don’t look back at the mother.
When I’m paying for my things the clerk chuckles and says, “What about a hat?” And he points to this enormous rack filled with cowboy hats and tractor caps. This clerk is very strange; he’s got food all in his mustache and beard and he’s smiling. “Why don’t you buy a hat?”
I’m about to say no when I see a beret. There’s one beret all by itself and I walk over and pick it up. I put it on and I check it out in the mirror and it looks real French. I buy it. I walk outside into the rain and trot to my truck. When I’m about two miles from Parkdale I hear this thumping noise. It’s a steady pounding coming from the back of the truck, so I pull over and stop the engine. After a second or so of quiet the noise starts up again. But the motor is off. I hop out of the truck and walk around back and pull the canvas away. It’s the little girl from the store.
We stare at each other for a few seconds. “What are you doing in here?” I ask and the rain is hitting me harder.
“Riding,” she says. Her eyes are wet.
I drop the canvas and walk back to the cab of the truck. The girl is out and behind me. “Get in the truck,” I says. “I’m taking you back.”
She sits on the ground. “No, you’re not.”
“Just get in the truck.”
She shakes her head and pushes rain off her face.
“Suit yourself.” I climb into the driver’s seat.
“You’re just going to leave me here?”
“Yep.”
“What kind of a monster are you? You’d leave a child sitting in the middle of a muddy road?” She looks up at the sky. “In the rain?”
I don’t say anything. I just start the engine.
She hops up on the running board and screams at me, “I’m pregnant!”
I stop the engine.
“I knew that would get your attention,” she says. “Take me home with you for right now. You can bring me back later. What do you say, sailor?”