Home Fires by Margaret Maron Page B

tobacco was strong on the air and wilted pink blossoms littered the ground between the rows.
    We came up to Andrew’s house from the rear and his rabbit dogs announced our coming. By the time Daddy pulled into the yard and cut off his motor, my brother had turned on the back porch light and was standing there waiting for us, barefooted and shirtless.
    It wasn’t much past ten o’clock, but most farmers are up at first light during barning time. Andrew yelled at the dogs and they hushed barking before I had my door open.
    “Something wrong?” he asked.
    “Where’s A.K.?” said Daddy.
    “In bed, I reckon. Why?”
    “You want to wake him up?”
    Of all the boys, Andrew’s the one who favors Daddy the most, especially now that streaks of gray are appearing in his thick dark hair. He nodded curtly and stepped back into the house.
    Daddy flicked one of those wooden kitchen matches with his thumbnail to light his cigarette and I smelled the familiar pungent blend of sulphur and tobacco smoke that always conjures up a hundred random memories. Into the silence came the lonesome call of a chuck-will’s-widow from the woods down by the barns. That lopsided moon was caught in the branches of the pecan trees beyond the pumphouse.
    Several minutes later, a sleepy A.K. stumbled out to the porch in his underwear, all arms and gangly legs now, but a man’s height and starting to fill out. “Granddaddy?”
    “Where was you this evening, boy?” His voice was stern.
    “Right here.” A.K. glanced uneasily at his father, who took a seat on the edge of the porch. “I been grounded till August.”
    “You didn’t sneak out somewhere?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Talk on the phone with them two friends of your’n?”
    “I might’ve with Raymond Bagwell for a minute.”
    Andrew gave him a sharp look. “Didn’t you hear me say I didn’t want y’all talking together anytime soon?”
    “That’s why I called him,” A.K. said sullenly. “I needed to tell him not to call over here for a while.”
    “ ’Bout what time was that?” asked Daddy.
    A.K. shrugged. “Right after supper. Around seven maybe? Jeopardy was just coming on.”
    “What’s happened?” asked April, pushing open the screen door and joining us on the porch. Her short sandy brown hair stood up in tufts because she was forever running her fingers through it when worried or distracted. She has a small neat body and good legs, but I knew that she wore that oversized T-shirt because middle age was thickening her waist in spite of all she could do to stop it. “Is it more trouble?”
    “Somebody set fire tonight to that colored church over at Starling’s Crossroads,” Daddy said.
    A.K. straightened indignantly. “Me? You asking if I did it? You think I’d do a thing like that?”
    “Didn’t think you’d tear up a graveyard neither,” Daddy said mildly.
    “There!” said Andrew. “Now you see what I mean? Once you lose your good name, you don’t get it back just because you say you’re sorry.”
    April nudged him with the toe of her sneaker and he subsided.
    “Who did most of the spray-painting at the graveyard?” I asked A.K. “Raymond or Charles?”
    “They was both about equal.” (“Were both,” April murmured.) “Why?”
    “Because there was writing at the church, too, and it looks like the same sort of printing as was on the Crocker grave-stones,” I said.
    “Well, it won’t me,” he said huffily. “Wasn’t me,” he added before April could correct him.

8
    A man’s heart deviseth the way,
But the Lord directeth his steps.
    —Riverview Methodist
    The fire—now called the “burning”—made the late news that night. It also led the seven o’clock news the next morning as I was stoically resisting Aunt Zell’s hot buttered biscuits and breakfasting on an unbuttered English muffin and black coffee. (If they don’t hurry up and finish my house, I’m not going to fit through the door frame.)
    Not surprisingly, every channel