Chapter One

1963 (part three)

Nancy pulled me toward the billboard, then pulled loose, scooted under it and looked back.

"You're going the wrong way," I said. "Aunt Mattie's is this way."

"Can't catch me!" she said.

Nancy raced down a path parallel to a white-fenced horse farm and I followed. Bordered by tall grassy weeds, the narrow path soon turned a corner and dipped into a dry, tunnel-like ditch, then popped up on a side road in front of the Pisgah schoolhouse. She was light and quick and I could see her tossing her head and laughing at me. I slowed to a trot at the sight of the brick schoolhouse standing empty and hushed in a grove of oak trees.

Stopping to take off her sandals, Nancy ran across the dirt road into the schoolyard. I climbed to the top of the ditch and watched her. She had found a spot in the shade along with an old playground carousel, the metal type with a flat, round platform and smooth, steel handrails. She was spinning around slowly, straddling a railing she clutched with outstretched arms, arched and hanging, face lifted to the sky and toes pointing toward the center of the merry-go-round.

"Take a ride," she said.

I grabbed a railing and ran with it as fast as I could around twice before I let go.

"Whoa, Josh!"

Nancy whirled around, whooping, trying to stand again. She couldn't. She laughed and whooped and leaped off the platform, landing in the thick grass just outside the merry-go-round's dirt circle. She got up and staggered around the schoolyard, lurching toward me, giggling.

"Hold me, Josh, I can't walk."

I backed away. "Hold me, Josh, I can't stand up!" I backed up, turned and tripped over the concrete footing of a tall metal slide. I fell in the shade under the long slide and Nancy fell on top of me. She clutched at my chest with her fingertips and exhaled.

"Whew! I sure was spinnin'," she said. "I'm still spinnin'."

I moved to lift her away from me.

"Don't Josh. Let me rest." She sighed. "I like it here in the shade."

"I'm hot," I said.

She raised her head and looked down at me. I could see her knobby collar bone sticking out.

"You don't look hot to me. You're not even sweaty."

"I am too."

She looked down at me with a look that made me puzzled. "Josh," she said, "have you ever thought about kissin' a girl?"

"No," I said, "not really."

"Never?"

"Well, maybe once."

She looked at me. I could feel her chest breathing against my chest and I could feel her kneecaps poking into my thighs.

"We have to go," I said, beginning to push her off again.

"No we don't."

She tensed, lifted up and put her hands in the tall grass, leaning over my face.

"Kiss me, Josh."

"I can't kiss you."

I reached down and pulled up the sheet and turned to lie on my side.

That's it, Josh. Start feeling sorry for yourself now. That's the easy way out. Poor little Josh. His mommy and daddy are divorced and his daddy won't talk to him about anything important. He probably loves you and he probably would like to talk about things, but he can't. He can't show affection and it seems like he can't talk to you about anything but money and how much of it he used to have. But he probably still loves you.

Just keep feeling sorry for yourself, Josh. You're getting really good at it. So what if your parents are split up. That's old news anyway. So what if you're an only child. You've never felt lonely, really. And you've got a mother who treats you like you're some kind of hero. Besides that, Tommy's as honest and fair as anyone you've ever met.

But you still can't talk to your mother about something like this, I reminded myself.

If you had an older brother, you could tell him how you felt and get his opinion. If you only had a brother, it wouldn't be so bad about being shuffled back and forth between parents. Then you'd have someone to shuffle around with you. But you don't have a brother. And you don't have a sister. Those are just old dreams that keep lighting up and somebody ought to flip a switch and get rid of them. You're it, brother. So shut up about it.

I plumped at the old feather pillow, listened to the crickets crying "katydid" and tried to calm my mind. In the back of my head I saw an image dark and flickering, a ragged scarecrow strung high in a walled garden. Surrounded by charred fields and the cracks of a lightning storm the scarecrow stared into an icy wind. I shuddered and pulled the sheet up around my neck. Whatever that is, I thought, you're not going to think about it. You can think nice thoughts if you want to. I do want to, I said to myself. I have plenty of time to think bad thoughts when I get older. Just look at some of the adults around me.

Yes, the voice agreed, you can choose to think about good things and block out the bad. Yeah, I've got plenty of people to ask if I need lousy thoughts like scarecrows flapping in the breeze. You're damn right, the voice said.

After struggling for a long while I managed to dodge the ugly thoughts and even lined up a few good ones. Finally, I was beginning to feel sleepy. I like this place. This old Mountain. It feels good here. Sort of free and wide-open and simple. I like feeling that way with Nancy, too.

Feel free as you want, the voice interrupted, but while you're at it, try to remember the little girl with the cute smile and bony knees is your cousin. Right, I remember thinking, before falling asleep.

The next morning I was sitting sleepy in front of a country breakfast of scrambled eggs, biscuits & gravy, thick slabs of bacon, pear preserves and cold milk. It was Granny's turn to sit with Nancy and me and she sat there mixing a pool of sorghum syrup with hot butter for her biscuit. On the Mountain, they called the biscuits "cathead" biscuits because of how huge they were.

Granny looked over at me and adjusted her spectacles. "You look tard," she said, taking a nibble on a crisp bacon slice.

I opened one biscuit and spooned milk gravy over both sides. "I guess the crickets kept me up."

"They're not bashful, not up here on the Mountain," Granny said. She took a gulp of buttermilk to wash down her biscuit. I cringed. This was the best food in the world, I thought, but there are three of my mother's old-time traditions that I could never swallow: buttermilk, sorghum and chitlins.

GO FORWARD TO 1963 (part four)

GO BACK TO 1963 (part two)

"You can if you want to."

"You're my cousin, you know."

"I know. Haven't you ever heard of kissin' cousins?"

"No. Not in any books I ever read."

"Kiss me just once. I want to see what happens when you kiss me."

One thing that was happening in the area of my crotch made it uncomfortable to have her lying on me. It felt bad but it felt good too. She pressed against me and grabbed the sleeves of
my tee shirt.

"Just a little kiss. But on the mouth."

"No."

"Just a tiny kiss on the lips, cousin."

Quickly, I rolled her over and under me. Then I gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

Nancy pulled me down by the shirt and kissed me on the mouth, hugging me on top of her.

"Quit it," I said. "You're crazy."

I got up as fast as I could, pulled Nancy to her feet and brushed the grass from her hair.

"Go over to that spigot," I said. "Wash your hands and face because they're still sticky."

She did as I told her and we walked over the hill to Aunt Mattie's. By the time we got there supper was on the stove and as far as I could tell Nancy was acting normal again.

* * * *

I lay in my bed that night thinking about Nancy and the way she made me feel. Maybe she was acting normal, I thought. Maybe my reaction was normal. The thing was, the part I didn't understand was, why couldn't I control how I felt? It was out of control. My body was acting on its own. I liked the way it felt, too, except when it made me feel guilty. When the good feeling started it started like a warm glow and it seemed natural and innocent and powerful. It felt right as long as you didn't think aboutit too much. But if you kept thinking about it the whole idea somehow began to feel selfish and dirty.

Outside my bedroom window, the crickets strummed their trusty serenade. I liked the sound of them. The sound usually put me to sleep but tonight my mind was busy.

Jeez, Dad, you should have told me about this, I thought. What? a voice said. Tell you about a boner? You know what a boner is. You're practically thirteen years old for crying out loud. You've just never had one when you didn't expect it.

I shifted closer to the window and listened to the night sounds. A soft breeze came through and swirled Aunt Mattie's lace curtains. It was finally cooling off outside. But the voice kept talking.

What do you expect from your father? He's busy. He's got a job to think about and bills to pay and your stepmother to worry about. She's first, isn't she? That's been made clear for a long time. So what if he doesn't have much time after he takes care of all the grown-up stuff that needs taking care of. You can't blame him for not wanting to talk about growing-up problems when he has so many grown-up problems to begin with.

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