Sleepy-looking, he trudged upstairs and into the kitchen and sat himself at the table.
Mama said, “Is the boy okay?”
My daddy shook his head. “No, he isn’t.”
“Is he dead?” McCall asked.
“Yes,” Daddy said softly. “Yes, son, the boy died about an hour ago.”
My mama was quiet before she asked, “Do they know what illness he had?”
“Yeah, it was very obvious,” Daddy told her.
“What?”
“Well, to put it straight, he was beat to death.”
“Oh, my land,” Mama said to herself, studying the tabletop.
I stared down at my breakfast.
After a few moments, McCall declared, “Mr. Dunn did it. I heard some —”
“McCall!” Daddy cut him off. “Listen up. I don’t want you saying that to anyone. You don’t know what happened except for the boy died. I’m warning you right here and now.”
Hurt from getting scolded so hard, McCall answered, “Yes, sir.”
But I felt sure McCall was right. Mr. Turpin Dunn had killed the boy because the boy had tried to snatch a chicken. I’d heard Mr. Dunn talk about it in my daddy’s store. I wanted the sheriff to come and take him to jail. I even said, “Is Sheriff McDonnell gonna come, Daddy?”
Daddy took a tiny bite from the plate of food Annie Jane had just set in front of him. “No, he won’t. Reason is, it was just a black boy.” He looked smack into Annie Jane’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told her, “but it’s the truth. The sheriff won’t look into that type of thing.”
On the morning that the black boy died, I went to school feeling like my brain was dangling above my head instead of being inside of it. I was so mad at Mr. Dunn that I didn’t want to think about him or the little boy, who I kept picturing lying dead at the doctor’s office. It seemed like the worst thing that could ever happen to a kid . . . getting beat to death.
Later, even though I didn’t feel excited anymore, I skipped lunch and went down the street to the
Bennettsville Times
to show Mr. Salter my story about Great-Uncle Harvey. Pushing through the half-glass front doors, I went in slow.
Mr. Salter looked up, and said, “If it isn’t Darby Carmichael, Bennettsville’s favorite writer!”
“Hello, Mr. Salter.”
He motioned for me to sit in a chair near his desk. “All of Bennettsville liked your article,” he told me, ramming a stainy hand through his funny hair, hair as black as night.
“Thank you, Mr. Salter.”
Spying my newspaper notebook, he said, “I hope that’s another one. Is it?”
I said, “Yes, sir, it is. It’s about my Great-Uncle Harvey, who’s blind from the measles.”
Mr. Salter sat on the edge of his gigantic desk. “I’m interested in the sound a that. Is it as good as the last?”
I smiled. “I think. You wanna see?”
He lifted a hand for my newspaper notebook, and I gave it to him.
I explained, “It’s at the end.”
Turning to the last page, he read it, then started over and reread it. Unlike my story on toads, he didn’t smile once.
Finally, I asked, “You don’t like it, sir?”
He looked at me. “Did you write this?”
“Yes, sir.”
Studying it again, he said, “It’s an altogether different type of story.”
“I couldn’t think of anything else to say about toads, is why.”
He placed my notebook on one of his legs. “What I mean is, it’s written real well. I mean, sure, it’s got problems that I’ll fix if I take it, but it’s good. It’s touching, even.”
“You don’t think it’s cute, Mr. Salter?”
“Well, not so much.” He handed my notebook to his helper, instructing him to read it. Turning back toward me, he said, “It’s cute in that you care so much for your uncle, that’s clear. But it’s not cute like the other story.” He stared at me. “To be honest, it’s so different from the last story, Darby, it . . . it makes me worried that you didn’t write it yourself.” He gave me the kind of look that makes me squirm, the kind that my mama can
Mama said, “Is the boy okay?”
My daddy shook his head. “No, he isn’t.”
“Is he dead?” McCall asked.
“Yes,” Daddy said softly. “Yes, son, the boy died about an hour ago.”
My mama was quiet before she asked, “Do they know what illness he had?”
“Yeah, it was very obvious,” Daddy told her.
“What?”
“Well, to put it straight, he was beat to death.”
“Oh, my land,” Mama said to herself, studying the tabletop.
I stared down at my breakfast.
After a few moments, McCall declared, “Mr. Dunn did it. I heard some —”
“McCall!” Daddy cut him off. “Listen up. I don’t want you saying that to anyone. You don’t know what happened except for the boy died. I’m warning you right here and now.”
Hurt from getting scolded so hard, McCall answered, “Yes, sir.”
But I felt sure McCall was right. Mr. Turpin Dunn had killed the boy because the boy had tried to snatch a chicken. I’d heard Mr. Dunn talk about it in my daddy’s store. I wanted the sheriff to come and take him to jail. I even said, “Is Sheriff McDonnell gonna come, Daddy?”
Daddy took a tiny bite from the plate of food Annie Jane had just set in front of him. “No, he won’t. Reason is, it was just a black boy.” He looked smack into Annie Jane’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told her, “but it’s the truth. The sheriff won’t look into that type of thing.”
On the morning that the black boy died, I went to school feeling like my brain was dangling above my head instead of being inside of it. I was so mad at Mr. Dunn that I didn’t want to think about him or the little boy, who I kept picturing lying dead at the doctor’s office. It seemed like the worst thing that could ever happen to a kid . . . getting beat to death.
Later, even though I didn’t feel excited anymore, I skipped lunch and went down the street to the
Bennettsville Times
to show Mr. Salter my story about Great-Uncle Harvey. Pushing through the half-glass front doors, I went in slow.
Mr. Salter looked up, and said, “If it isn’t Darby Carmichael, Bennettsville’s favorite writer!”
“Hello, Mr. Salter.”
He motioned for me to sit in a chair near his desk. “All of Bennettsville liked your article,” he told me, ramming a stainy hand through his funny hair, hair as black as night.
“Thank you, Mr. Salter.”
Spying my newspaper notebook, he said, “I hope that’s another one. Is it?”
I said, “Yes, sir, it is. It’s about my Great-Uncle Harvey, who’s blind from the measles.”
Mr. Salter sat on the edge of his gigantic desk. “I’m interested in the sound a that. Is it as good as the last?”
I smiled. “I think. You wanna see?”
He lifted a hand for my newspaper notebook, and I gave it to him.
I explained, “It’s at the end.”
Turning to the last page, he read it, then started over and reread it. Unlike my story on toads, he didn’t smile once.
Finally, I asked, “You don’t like it, sir?”
He looked at me. “Did you write this?”
“Yes, sir.”
Studying it again, he said, “It’s an altogether different type of story.”
“I couldn’t think of anything else to say about toads, is why.”
He placed my notebook on one of his legs. “What I mean is, it’s written real well. I mean, sure, it’s got problems that I’ll fix if I take it, but it’s good. It’s touching, even.”
“You don’t think it’s cute, Mr. Salter?”
“Well, not so much.” He handed my notebook to his helper, instructing him to read it. Turning back toward me, he said, “It’s cute in that you care so much for your uncle, that’s clear. But it’s not cute like the other story.” He stared at me. “To be honest, it’s so different from the last story, Darby, it . . . it makes me worried that you didn’t write it yourself.” He gave me the kind of look that makes me squirm, the kind that my mama can
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