A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell Page A

highway. She was driving down Fodderstack Mountain on a narrow two-lane and had drifted over to the shoulder of the road. Her tires crunched in the gravel, veering to the edge of a fifty-foot drop. She jerked the steering wheel in the opposite direction, only to hear the angry blast of a horn. She looked up to see a red semi chugging up the mountain in low gear. She turned the wheel again and zoomed by the truck with only inches to spare, garnering another blast of the horn and a fleeting glance of the driver’s angry, cursing face.
    â€œMama, are you okay?” Zack’s voice was shaky.
    â€œI’m fine, honey.” She felt weak, her hands tingling now, thick and useless on the wheel.
    â€œYou want me to drive?” he asked, laughing.
    â€œNo, but thanks for offering.” Zack had never driven. She kept her car keys hidden, to make sure he never would. She took a deep breath and tried to stop trembling. “Want to go to Hornbuckle’s?”
    â€œSure!”

    Hornbuckle’s had been part of their lives since Zack was a baby. One of the curious little Tsalagi shops that sold everything from tomahawks to hunting licenses, Fred Hornbuckle scooped up ice cream from behind a small counter in the back of the store. At two years old, Zack had eaten his first bowl of ice cream here, shivering at the sudden cold, then grinning as the sweetness melted in his mouth. By four, Zack’s speech was still garbled, but he could gurgle “ice cream!” when they pulled up in the parking lot. By six, they’d gotten the official diagnosis of autism and Zack had settled on his dish of choice— Bear Tracks in Snow, chocolate ice cream with marshmallow sauce, topped with chocolate sprinkles. For nearly forty years, Hornbuckle had brought Zack a Bear Track and a tall glass of water, ice cream spoon placed precisely on a paper napkin perpendicular to the table. As Hornbuckle had gone from a middle-aged man to a senior citizen, Grace figured Zack’s lifetime total for Bear Tracks in the Snow was around two thousand.
    She came off the twisty mountain road and took a right, pulling up in Hornbuckle’s small parking lot. Zack hurried into the store, heading straight for the ice cream counter in the back. Grace followed more slowly, nodding to the wizened Fred Hornbuckle, who stood behind the cash register wearing a tattered straw cowboy hat.
    â€œSheeoh,” he greeted her in Cherokee . “Doehuhduhnay.”
    â€œFine, thanks. How are you?”
    He gave a noncommittal Cherokee grunt as he cut his eyes toward Zack. “A Bear Tracks in Snow and a caramel sundae?” Though their order never varied, he always checked, to be sure.
    Grace smiled. “Same as always.”
    She threaded her way through the tight aisles to the little counter and took a seat next to Zack. As Hornbuckle scooped their ice cream, she noticed Zack frowning.
    â€œAre you okay, honey?” Never did Grace know what Zack was ruminating about. Sometimes it was a bit of overheard conversation, sometimes the way someone had looked at him, sometimes a bird in the sky or the sequence of numbers on a license plate.
    He shook his head, his eyes downcast.
    â€œWhat’s the matter? You got so many new tapes today.”
    He cracked his knuckles, a habit reminiscent of his father. “I miss Salola Street.”
    â€œYou do?”
    He nodded. “I had fun there.”
    â€œWhat was fun about it?” she asked, wondering what he would say.
    â€œPlaying with Adam. But Teresa was fun too. When she didn’t squeal.”
    Zack’s hypersensitive hearing had always been an issue. Certain noises—high-pitched sounds, loud voices—would send him either running away with his hands over his ears, or into a rage, where he screamed Smackertalker and lashed out at whoever was speaking. With a chill Grace looked at her son’s big hands, now folded on the table. Had he bashed Teresa